Thursday, March 06, 2008
Popcorn Soaked Tears
Be Kind Rewind (BKR), a film starring Mos Def, Danny Glover and Jack Black has received mixed reviews reviews at the box office. I loved it. It made me cry.
Very few movies make me cry happy tears. Actually – I take that back – that is total and complete horse shit. I’ve teared up watching Hallmark commercials. I cried watching this commercial, hearing this song, observing the finale of this tv show and telling this story.
Many Hollywood films try to pull out all the stops to get you to leak salt water into your popcorn. They orchestrate and manipulate, add music, throw in a kid and bring together all the elements of a formula guaranteed to evoke sobbing. Take Kite Runner for example, a recipe for wailing: Fold in two parts little boy, mix vigorously with a voiceover, sprinkle a pinch of child rape, bake under the heat of swelling music, garnish with the kite, flying in the air = Instant Cry.
But BKR isn’t the orchestrated Hollywood formula created with the sole interest of coaxing a cry. No, BKR is an organic and lovely little twinkle of the heart. It’s a celebration of mediocre people with individually few charms – but collectively capable of making a great movie. Discovering BKR filled me with the same unexpected joy received upon stumbling into a dingy New York Diner that turns out to be an undiscovered gem of the city. I thought I would hate it – turns out I love it and kind of want to keep everyone else from discovering its charms.
Synopsis:
A small community video shop owner (played by Danny Glover) is told that his business and home are condemned and that without expensive improvements, his building will be soon be replaced by a fancy new condominium complex. Determined to save his home and livelihood, he sets out to investigate the competition and leaves his adopted son (played by Mos Def), to watch over the store. Mos Def is renting the occasional 1 video for $1 until the arrival of his BFF Jack Black. BFF Black has been magnetized through a freak accident and as he touches all the videos in the shop they are erased. Threatened by demanding neighborhood renters and fearful Glover will be disappointed with them both, Def and Black come up with the idea to re-shoot each film using a dusty old camera - playing all the parts themselves. Herein lies the heart of the film. In order to make the low-budget films – Black and Def employ the help of the local community and soon there is a line around the block of people wanting to see their town and their friends in the low-budget remakes of their favorite films. In a last ditch effort to make enough money to save the shop and keep the condos from going up, the entire town participates in a mockumentary film that recreates the town as the home of a historical hero.
In the end – the shop folds to progress – but you get the warm feeling that the community rallied together and were closer for their efforts. It makes me wonder if this is what the first few Hollywood films were really about. In the start of all the craziness, before the money and rehabbed actresses, before DVD’s and internet piracy – perhaps a movie was about bringing a community together to laugh and bond and share in the spirit of creating something together.
Things I Didn’t Like:
• Movies love to make “progress” evil, casting static cities as unlikely heroes. This film follows the Hollywood trap of trying to make it look like chain stores and DVDs are killing real art. The concept that VHS could be worthy of preserving is more unbelievable to me than the idea that Jack Black could become magnetized enough to wipe videos but not stick to cars and then demagnetize within the course of 48 hours.
• I wanted to see more home made movies!! This was really the best part – watching two people on a $5 budget recreate scenes from our favorite films. I think reality TV proves that while Hollywood makes the big blockbuster films – in the end, it’s the films shot in your own back yard that make people feel warm and fuzzy. Even better if they can quickly be uploaded to YouTube to share with friends and family.
Things I Did Like:
• Watch for the film-within-the-film scene of Fat’s playing the organ. The low budget effects of the trumpets leaping from the church organ brought out my first Kleenex.
• The fact that this film was likely shot in Passaic New Jersey with actual Passaic locals playing bit parts and working as extras makes the film extra special. Indeed, while there were several big name actors in the credits, the true stars of the show were the people of Passaic. This point is best illustrated in the films final three minutes when community members appear in the home made film-within-the-film giving the most natural and spirited performances of the flick.
• The movie doesn’t bother with painting the town, the people or the condemned building as anything more than junk – but it does make the point that with spirit, cooperation and creativity, one man’s junk can be another man’s treasure.
This is what she said, click here to see what he said. Same date, two different perspectives
Labels: film review, He Said She Said, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Thursday, May 24, 2007
“Single Anxious Females”
Our last presidential election recognized the power of the internet, will this election harness the power to pinpoint a specific demographic?
An interesting piece in New York magazine today identifies the ’08 election power demographic as “Single Anxious Females”.
“She’s youngish (between 18 and 44), white (64%), unanchored (36% move every two years), unaffluent (earning $30,000 or less a year), relatively uneducated (only 14% are college grads), and thoroughly pissed off about the direction of America (Iraq, health care, equal pay, and education are top issues).”
Well look at that! This demographic description draws a similarity to the most frequent readers of “She” blogs. You know, blogs written by women for women that have been growing in numbers and intensity in the last few years. Not the typical political blogs like Wonkette, but the personal Chick Lit blogs like This Fish Needs a Bicycle or Belle in the Big Apple. These are the new battlegrounds for politics. So how long will it take for these “She” blogs to be exploited in the upcoming race for the White House?”
Infiltrating blogs with paid marketing messages is the next wave of subliminal advertising. What started with Reese’s Pieces in the movie ET led to a major product placement industry in Hollywood. It followed naturally for marketers to begin their assault on the blogoshpere by getting away from paid advertising in exchange for strategically placed puff pieces and more obvious hawking of products and clients on blogs such as Perezhilton.com.
And who does Perezhilton.com appeal to with his five million hits a day?
She’s youngish (between 18 and 44), white (64%), unanchored (36% move every two years), unaffluent (earning $30,000 or less a year), relatively uneducated (only 14% are college grads), and thoroughly pissed off about the direction of America (fashion, the ever-fluctuating weight of Nicole Ritchie, the latest sale at Barneys, which Hollywood hunk is Lindsay Lohan hooking up with and what happened last night on the American Idol finale are top issues).
If only Hilary Clinton, the Economist pick for the Democratic nomination, could be sexed up and packaged in a YouTube video link, pre-HTML coded for wide blog release, then perhaps the SAF demographic could be motivated to vote in the next election.
Hey, I’m just glad that young single women will finally be courted to get out and vote. And I can’t wait to see what kind of tricks those marketing geniuses are hiding up their sleeves to capture the attention of SAF’s everywhere.
Labels: New York Magazine, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Politics
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Revolution
I wish I could tell you that I went to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia in that winter of 2003 because I wanted to help make the world safe for democracy, but that would have only been one third of the story. I went to escape the boredom of a serious relationship, and I went because I needed to be bad. I managed to accomplish all three.
That winter, I wanted to be Laura Croft, Tomb Raider. I wanted to leap out of buildings and shoot automatic weapons. I wanted to smoke cigarettes one right after the other, lighting one with the next. I wanted to have an excuse to not shower, stay up late, curse and be politically incorrect. In a boring existence where I was always striving to be good and do the right thing, I wanted-no needed-an excuse to feel naughty. And naughty I was.
This is the BBC and these are today's top headlines... polling stations open today in Georgia... could this be the end for Shevarnaze?
The vintage car radio carried the broken British accent of a BBC reporter through the one functioning speaker of a rusty red Peugeot speeding East through the snow dusted hills of Turkey towards Adjara. I focused on the crackle of the voice to deter the vomit rising in the back of my throat caused by the sort of driving one would experience on a Disneyland attraction. But at Disneyland, because of an ever rising litigious nation I can pretty much assume I wont die. But there is no such knowledge of safety on the backroads of a nation fighting for their freedom and poised on the edge of revolution. Little Ms. Adventurous gripped the door and prayed.
I wanted to save my accidental over seas death for something exciting, like being shot admidst a rush on Parliament. I would rather not die lying in a ditch, gripping my recently amputated left leg, waiting for another driver to happen by and stop to help. My efforts to slow the driver resulted in a 30 second reprieve of the foot against the gas. But as soon as my grip on the car door loosened and the blood returned to my fingers, the assault on the gas continued. I closed my eyes. I could hear my driver change the radio station and I could make out the local dialect reporting on the election.
Polling station number 168 has been.... masked gunmen…. Ballot Boxes have been removed….
Without turning my head, I addressed Henrik in the seat next to me.
“Did you hear that?”
The aging Austrian diplomat was silent. I risked an eye and looked over to see Henrik’s head dipping into his chest and then bolting upright with every turn of the cars wheel.
How the hell could Henrik sleep with this driving? He was pretty old, perhaps he was closing his eyes to concentrate on maintaining his breath. A retired member of the Austrian Parliament, Henrik had signed on to this mission to do some Baltic sightseeing. He preferred lunches and tours of the botanical gardens to primary school buildings filled with smoke, turned into make shift local polling stations.
This sucks! While the other observers are getting action, all we get is closed polling stations and people voting twice. The others are being overtaken by masked gunmen and my greatest thrill is watching Henrik try not to fall asleep in a position undignified to a National Diplomat.
I sulked in the back of the car.
But before long, I had a plan. I pushed myself up into the front seat, between my driver and my translator and used a little broken Georgian.
“Any suspect polling stations where we might find a little corruption?”
My driver looked sideways at the pretty young translator and then back at me through the rearview mirror. He turned down the radio.
"We are instructed to take you to station no. 34."
"Where would you like to take me?"
He paused and continued to stare at the road.
"Down in no.13 they stuff the ballot box. You can find a staff in the back office just checking off names and stamping ballots valid.”
“Ooh, that’s good. Let’s go there.”
My driver snuck a smile and traded a look with the translator. She flashed a grin back and our driver pressed his foot down on the gas sending me abruptly back into my seat, jostling the arm of poor Henrik and causing him to wake from his peaceful slumber.
"Is it time to eat? Or is it the faster we drive, the faster we arrive in the next town, and the faster our driver gets to smoke another cigarette?"
Henrik wrinkles his brow. "Please Tell him that I would rather he break the rules and smoke a cigarette in the front seat then kill us en route to his certain lung cancer."
But instead, I used my limited grasp of the Georgian language to ask the driver who sings the song playing on the radio.
Henrik turned his body and tried to rest his head against the window. And I got ready to uncover a little corruption. But had I known what I know now, about the sort of corruption I would discover at polling station 13, I would have asked the driver to keep on going until we got to Adjara.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Travels
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Stuff That Makes You Cringe
Hi, remember me? I know, I know, it's been a while. Love can be very distracting. But I'm back. So many newsworthy moment, so many world events that merited a snarky remark, so many Britney Spears debacles that passed without my commentary. You know you have been away a while, when Brangelina adopts a new baby and Paris is sentenced to prison in your absence. I want you to know that I thought about all these historic passings, and I even tried to write about them. But something totally out of my control happened. The keyboard just lay there under my fingers unwilling to take the notes being dictated in their direction.
It's true! I suffered from three months of finger paralysis. I thought at first that my fingers were just cold. But rigorously rubbing the hands together did nothing for my troubles. Hot baths only made me sleepy. And you can't wear gloves while you type. I wept over the computer, refusing to believe my predicament. I dropped to my knees and prayed to my HP, "God, why have you forsaken my blog." Nothing. Just more useless thinking. And we bloggers know - our thinking means nothing without the sound of fingers furiously tapping across our keyboards.
I went to the doctor and begged for a prescription to give me back even the use of my thumb on the space bar. He told me to drink a cup of coffee every four hours until 6:00 in the evening. I rushed to my URL every morning to see if it worked, but nothing new would be posted.
I was ready to give up, throw in the towel, accept my fate as a nobody corporate zombie and then, a miracle.
Last night Chuck Palahniuk read a story to me as I sat sweetly smiling in the front row of the Philly Free Library auditorium. I twirled my pearls and straightened my skirt and thought about how lovely my life was in every way. But then he looked me in the eye, staring down from a podium carved out of an old Maple tree and everything changed.
"Everybody has a story to tell. Other writers tell stories about the every day man, but what about the other guy. Who is going to tell his story? Who is going to shed the light on the dark parts of mankind. Even the sickest and most twisted stories have a message for us. And it's our mission to gather up our guts and go out and tell those sick and twisted stories."
He said a lot of other good stuff and he told a lot of really cool stories too. Then he tied it all together and the 500 strong crowd felt as if the three hour wait in the rain to hear him speak was all worth it.
That's right, 500 people waited in line for him to read some fan mail, tell a few short stories and answer questions about his craft. 500 people! To hear an author!! He ended the event by dispersing a large box of fake severed body parts through the crowd. Sitting in the front row, I had my pick of appendages but decided I needed none of the bloody limbs to remind me of the experience.
Now I'm not sure if it was Chuck, the warmth of an auditorium filled with 500 twisted readers, or that the coffee was finally kicking in, but when I got home I could feel my fingers starting to tingle a little. I laid them out over some blank pages in my journal this morning and they were able to grip a pen. I wrote a short piece about how much work I had waiting for me in the office and how I needed to get my ass to work and stop pussy footing around at the kitchen table. Miraculous! Amazing!! Chuck heals! Coffee cures!
I decided right then and there, that one day, I wanted to be one of those writers to inspire 500 people to wear wedding dresses and veils through the crowded streets of a bustling city in the hopes I would autograph their book. I have too many nasty stories to tell, too many dating horror tales to lament, too many pop culture casualties to report, to be letting my pen have a rest.
So, I better get cracking. Oh yeah, and today on CBSnews.com, I got a little reminder that it is the most painful stuff to write about that makes the biggest impression on others. Check it out (printed below).
The year was 1987, the boy's name was Rob, and 13-year-old Ingrid Wiese had some pressing concerns.
"He kisses weird," she wrote in her diary. "I just hope it doesn't stick and I don't end up kissing like that forever."
Twenty years later, Wiese hauled the diary out of storage and read it to a bar full of strangers just for laughs.
"Cringe readings," these exercises are called, and they are growing in popularity around the country.
Groups in New York and elsewhere convene to relive what most would rather forget: the depths of their teenage angst. Participants get up on stage with their ragged, old diaries and are instructed to read only material embarrassing enough to make them cringe.
It turns out that embarrassing is also funny. When Wiese appeared at the reading, held monthly at a Brooklyn bar, the room was packed beyond capacity. The 33-year-old fundraiser may have been cringing, but her audience was cheering.
"When most people hear about it they think, 'Oh, God, that would be just absolutely humiliating, I would never do that,' " said Blaise Kearsley, another reader. "But I think there's something so universal about your adolescent diaries and your poems and your school assignments. It's just stuff that everyone can relate to."
Indeed, as readers spoke about zits and boys, sex and death, they heard plenty of knowing laughter.
Perhaps only teenagers or former teenagers could follow this diary entry, written by a 14-year-old Kearsley in 1987:
"When we got to the dance, Erin was depressed because she likes John and he spent the whole night dancing with Ada. But Ada was upset because at the end of the dance John frenched her. And number one: she likes him but she doesn't know if she likes him in THAT WAY. And number two: John is good friends with Dan, her ex, and she knows that Dan will have something to say to John about this."
Ah, young love.
The Brooklyn event was started by a local administrative assistant, Sarah Brown, who in a momentary, drunken lapse started reading her old diaries to friends — and discovered they had finally become more funny than painful.
The monthly cringe reading has since landed Brown a book deal and a pilot for cable television's TLC, allowing the 29-year-old to quit her day job. Similar events are happening around the country in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Milwaukee and Seattle.
"When you're a teenager, everything is the same level of intensity," Brown said. "They read about boys, or girls, or their parents, or their friends, or school, or something serious like, you know, a divorce — but ... there's no change of tone."
While the readers try to keep it light, plenty of the material in their diaries is dark, heart-wrenching stuff.
"Why? Why do you think someone could really love you?" a now-grown Ingrid Wiese reads to the crowd.
"You're fat, out of shape, covered with zits. You can just feel how your body is GOING. Your arms, your wrists, your calves. You're insecure, immature, and" — she lowers her voice to a whisper — "your grades reflect your intelligence."
The 33-year-old Wiese says it's enough to make her wish she could somehow give that insecure girl a hug.
"I just want to go back and tell that kid so many things, but mostly that 'you're just all right the way you are,' " Wiese said after the reading.
These days, Wiese's emotions are less heightened, and she carries herself confidently as she walks from the stage. Still, some things never change.
"Of course!" she says when asked if she still obsesses over boys. "And I write all about it on my blog."
It's true! I suffered from three months of finger paralysis. I thought at first that my fingers were just cold. But rigorously rubbing the hands together did nothing for my troubles. Hot baths only made me sleepy. And you can't wear gloves while you type. I wept over the computer, refusing to believe my predicament. I dropped to my knees and prayed to my HP, "God, why have you forsaken my blog." Nothing. Just more useless thinking. And we bloggers know - our thinking means nothing without the sound of fingers furiously tapping across our keyboards.
I went to the doctor and begged for a prescription to give me back even the use of my thumb on the space bar. He told me to drink a cup of coffee every four hours until 6:00 in the evening. I rushed to my URL every morning to see if it worked, but nothing new would be posted.
I was ready to give up, throw in the towel, accept my fate as a nobody corporate zombie and then, a miracle.
Last night Chuck Palahniuk read a story to me as I sat sweetly smiling in the front row of the Philly Free Library auditorium. I twirled my pearls and straightened my skirt and thought about how lovely my life was in every way. But then he looked me in the eye, staring down from a podium carved out of an old Maple tree and everything changed.
"Everybody has a story to tell. Other writers tell stories about the every day man, but what about the other guy. Who is going to tell his story? Who is going to shed the light on the dark parts of mankind. Even the sickest and most twisted stories have a message for us. And it's our mission to gather up our guts and go out and tell those sick and twisted stories."
He said a lot of other good stuff and he told a lot of really cool stories too. Then he tied it all together and the 500 strong crowd felt as if the three hour wait in the rain to hear him speak was all worth it.
That's right, 500 people waited in line for him to read some fan mail, tell a few short stories and answer questions about his craft. 500 people! To hear an author!! He ended the event by dispersing a large box of fake severed body parts through the crowd. Sitting in the front row, I had my pick of appendages but decided I needed none of the bloody limbs to remind me of the experience.
Now I'm not sure if it was Chuck, the warmth of an auditorium filled with 500 twisted readers, or that the coffee was finally kicking in, but when I got home I could feel my fingers starting to tingle a little. I laid them out over some blank pages in my journal this morning and they were able to grip a pen. I wrote a short piece about how much work I had waiting for me in the office and how I needed to get my ass to work and stop pussy footing around at the kitchen table. Miraculous! Amazing!! Chuck heals! Coffee cures!
I decided right then and there, that one day, I wanted to be one of those writers to inspire 500 people to wear wedding dresses and veils through the crowded streets of a bustling city in the hopes I would autograph their book. I have too many nasty stories to tell, too many dating horror tales to lament, too many pop culture casualties to report, to be letting my pen have a rest.
So, I better get cracking. Oh yeah, and today on CBSnews.com, I got a little reminder that it is the most painful stuff to write about that makes the biggest impression on others. Check it out (printed below).
The year was 1987, the boy's name was Rob, and 13-year-old Ingrid Wiese had some pressing concerns.
"He kisses weird," she wrote in her diary. "I just hope it doesn't stick and I don't end up kissing like that forever."
Twenty years later, Wiese hauled the diary out of storage and read it to a bar full of strangers just for laughs.
"Cringe readings," these exercises are called, and they are growing in popularity around the country.
Groups in New York and elsewhere convene to relive what most would rather forget: the depths of their teenage angst. Participants get up on stage with their ragged, old diaries and are instructed to read only material embarrassing enough to make them cringe.
It turns out that embarrassing is also funny. When Wiese appeared at the reading, held monthly at a Brooklyn bar, the room was packed beyond capacity. The 33-year-old fundraiser may have been cringing, but her audience was cheering.
"When most people hear about it they think, 'Oh, God, that would be just absolutely humiliating, I would never do that,' " said Blaise Kearsley, another reader. "But I think there's something so universal about your adolescent diaries and your poems and your school assignments. It's just stuff that everyone can relate to."
Indeed, as readers spoke about zits and boys, sex and death, they heard plenty of knowing laughter.
Perhaps only teenagers or former teenagers could follow this diary entry, written by a 14-year-old Kearsley in 1987:
"When we got to the dance, Erin was depressed because she likes John and he spent the whole night dancing with Ada. But Ada was upset because at the end of the dance John frenched her. And number one: she likes him but she doesn't know if she likes him in THAT WAY. And number two: John is good friends with Dan, her ex, and she knows that Dan will have something to say to John about this."
Ah, young love.
The Brooklyn event was started by a local administrative assistant, Sarah Brown, who in a momentary, drunken lapse started reading her old diaries to friends — and discovered they had finally become more funny than painful.
The monthly cringe reading has since landed Brown a book deal and a pilot for cable television's TLC, allowing the 29-year-old to quit her day job. Similar events are happening around the country in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Milwaukee and Seattle.
"When you're a teenager, everything is the same level of intensity," Brown said. "They read about boys, or girls, or their parents, or their friends, or school, or something serious like, you know, a divorce — but ... there's no change of tone."
While the readers try to keep it light, plenty of the material in their diaries is dark, heart-wrenching stuff.
"Why? Why do you think someone could really love you?" a now-grown Ingrid Wiese reads to the crowd.
"You're fat, out of shape, covered with zits. You can just feel how your body is GOING. Your arms, your wrists, your calves. You're insecure, immature, and" — she lowers her voice to a whisper — "your grades reflect your intelligence."
The 33-year-old Wiese says it's enough to make her wish she could somehow give that insecure girl a hug.
"I just want to go back and tell that kid so many things, but mostly that 'you're just all right the way you are,' " Wiese said after the reading.
These days, Wiese's emotions are less heightened, and she carries herself confidently as she walks from the stage. Still, some things never change.
"Of course!" she says when asked if she still obsesses over boys. "And I write all about it on my blog."
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Press Mentions, Sober
Thursday, March 29, 2007
“In a relationship”
Pumping my bike tires at the 6th Avenue Bike Shop this Sunday, a man leaned over my handlebars to ask if he could assist. While he aligned my tires and adjusted my breaks, he pushed a baby and stroller up against the nearest wall. “It’s not my kid. I’m watching him for my friend inside. My buddy. He’s a guy.” After he corrected my seat, he asked me out. And as I heard myself giving out my number, I suddenly realized that I probably should not. That I was now "in a relationship".
Last week, before Cole and I had ‘the talk’, an attractive man gripping the leather of my seat would have been rewarded with a number and possible coffee date. But now that I have changed my MySpace status to “in a relationship” I need to gather some research on what that means.
It’s been awhile since a man called me his girlfriend in public. It’s been since 2003. A lot has changed in the past four years. What has not changed, is the fantastic feeling of acceptance and appreciation when a man introduces me for the first time as his girlfriend.
“Hey Juan, this is my girlfriend Jane.” Tingles. Really. But a moment of short lived jubilance barely had time to register before being replaced by a creeping fear.
Oh shit. Wait. What did I just accept? Have I been labelled. Do I really like that? And it’s been so long, what does it even mean to be someone's girlfriend?
So far, it means regular phenomenal sex, an assured date on Saturday night, someone to talk to on the way home from dinner parties, an excuse to order three entrees and two desserts, an increase in text messaging charges, not having to shave my legs, a regular receptacle for tales of my daily resentments, and a reason to lay in bed on Saturday until noon. But in my joy of all the things you get from being "in a relationship", I had completely forgotten about the things you lose.
My friend Max has sworn off sex for the last year in order to avoid an accidental relationship. He despises the thought of being tied to someone, a label or his own lust. Max thinks a relationship is being denied access to an independent life, the punishment of copious amounts of restriction. He reminds me every time we get together that if he were in a relationship then we could probably not be friends.
“Does that mean that when you are in a relationship you can no longer be friends with the opposite sex?” I ask him over Panini at Vesuvio’s on a Saturday afternoon stroll through Soho.
“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is, only if they are grandfathered in.” He continues, “The social rule seems to allow you to maintain your current opposite sex friends, but limit your ability to make new ones.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If your partner is worried that your friendships will tempt you to cheat, then wouldn’t your partner be more concerned about your long standing opposite sex friendships.”
Max sips from the small Espresso cup in front of him.
“Listen Jane, it doesn’t make any sense. It merely reveals the human frailty of insecurity. Two confident individuals should be able to make and maintain true friendships with others as well as each other. To be quite frank, it is exactly these types of ridiculous rules that drive me to abhor sexual relationships.”
A few weeks ago, Cole and I went to see a friends band at Iriving Plaza and afterwards my friend introduced me to the bass player. Cole and I cracked jokes and traded stories with Mr. Bass, but the next day, the married bass player sent me a MySpace message.
“You and I should get coffee some time.”
The single Jane wondered what his wife would think of the request, but then the “in a relationship” Jane thought maybe he just enjoyed my company and wanted to be friends. We do have common interests and he is really hot. Does being married mean he can no longer make friends with the opposite sex? Am I allowed to pursue new friendships with hot bass players?
When I told Cole the story he just sort of shrugged his shoulders. Was that the protocol? Am I supposed to tell the boyfriend? Won't that hurt his pride? Does being "in a relationship" means I have to think about these solicitations with more care?
My Souther artist friend Bella has a boyfriend that lives in Upstate New York and she was recently asked to a gallery opening by a gorgeous male model/art collector.
“I love my boyfriend, but it would be so wonderful to go out to dinner with this guy.”
Bella and I are catching a late Sunday brunch at Cafeteria in Chelsea.
“Well, why don’t you just tell him that you have a boyfriend and see if he wants to be friends?”
She leans in and lowers her voice, because our waiter has sat someone directly next to us and Bella's southern sensibility makes her cognizant that the table next to us can hear just about everything we are saying. “But what if he does just want to be friends? Then I’ve insulted him by insinuating that he has romantic interests in me."
I lean into her, “That’s crap Bee. You don’t want to tell him you have a boyfriend because you are afraid he will cancel.”
She falls back into the chocolate booth and sighs. “Oh God, you are right. It’s just that this guy is so great. He’s interesting and funny and talented. And Jack is so far away and I’m starting to wonder if he will ever propose. I really want to be this guy’s friend Jane.”
Bella has demonstrated what the boyfriend label does not mean. It does not mean security. It does not mean that your girlfriend will stop dating other men. It does not mean that your boyfriend is ready to get married. And I am right back to questioning what it means to be "in a relationship".
I’m not going to over think it. I’m not going to let my OCD brain develop a list of bullet points, format it into a power point and present it to Cole over our next dinner date. Now I wouldn't do that, right? But one has to wonder, why I, an independent and self-professed professional single, was so eager for the false security of this clearly bogus label. Is it too late to take it away? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy being "in a relationship". But, if we just take away the label, can I go out with the bicycle guy?
Why was I in such a rush to get here? And while honestly, there is simply no other man with whom I want to spend my time, perhaps Cole was right and we don't need a label. You see, like most benchmarks in a relationship, once you pass them there is no going back. There is no such thing as a second first kiss.
The truth is, I really don't want to go backward. I'm just scared of going forward. Scared and confused. I haven't been here in a while.
Last week, before Cole and I had ‘the talk’, an attractive man gripping the leather of my seat would have been rewarded with a number and possible coffee date. But now that I have changed my MySpace status to “in a relationship” I need to gather some research on what that means.
It’s been awhile since a man called me his girlfriend in public. It’s been since 2003. A lot has changed in the past four years. What has not changed, is the fantastic feeling of acceptance and appreciation when a man introduces me for the first time as his girlfriend.
“Hey Juan, this is my girlfriend Jane.” Tingles. Really. But a moment of short lived jubilance barely had time to register before being replaced by a creeping fear.
Oh shit. Wait. What did I just accept? Have I been labelled. Do I really like that? And it’s been so long, what does it even mean to be someone's girlfriend?
So far, it means regular phenomenal sex, an assured date on Saturday night, someone to talk to on the way home from dinner parties, an excuse to order three entrees and two desserts, an increase in text messaging charges, not having to shave my legs, a regular receptacle for tales of my daily resentments, and a reason to lay in bed on Saturday until noon. But in my joy of all the things you get from being "in a relationship", I had completely forgotten about the things you lose.
My friend Max has sworn off sex for the last year in order to avoid an accidental relationship. He despises the thought of being tied to someone, a label or his own lust. Max thinks a relationship is being denied access to an independent life, the punishment of copious amounts of restriction. He reminds me every time we get together that if he were in a relationship then we could probably not be friends.
“Does that mean that when you are in a relationship you can no longer be friends with the opposite sex?” I ask him over Panini at Vesuvio’s on a Saturday afternoon stroll through Soho.
“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is, only if they are grandfathered in.” He continues, “The social rule seems to allow you to maintain your current opposite sex friends, but limit your ability to make new ones.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If your partner is worried that your friendships will tempt you to cheat, then wouldn’t your partner be more concerned about your long standing opposite sex friendships.”
Max sips from the small Espresso cup in front of him.
“Listen Jane, it doesn’t make any sense. It merely reveals the human frailty of insecurity. Two confident individuals should be able to make and maintain true friendships with others as well as each other. To be quite frank, it is exactly these types of ridiculous rules that drive me to abhor sexual relationships.”
A few weeks ago, Cole and I went to see a friends band at Iriving Plaza and afterwards my friend introduced me to the bass player. Cole and I cracked jokes and traded stories with Mr. Bass, but the next day, the married bass player sent me a MySpace message.
“You and I should get coffee some time.”
The single Jane wondered what his wife would think of the request, but then the “in a relationship” Jane thought maybe he just enjoyed my company and wanted to be friends. We do have common interests and he is really hot. Does being married mean he can no longer make friends with the opposite sex? Am I allowed to pursue new friendships with hot bass players?
When I told Cole the story he just sort of shrugged his shoulders. Was that the protocol? Am I supposed to tell the boyfriend? Won't that hurt his pride? Does being "in a relationship" means I have to think about these solicitations with more care?
My Souther artist friend Bella has a boyfriend that lives in Upstate New York and she was recently asked to a gallery opening by a gorgeous male model/art collector.
“I love my boyfriend, but it would be so wonderful to go out to dinner with this guy.”
Bella and I are catching a late Sunday brunch at Cafeteria in Chelsea.
“Well, why don’t you just tell him that you have a boyfriend and see if he wants to be friends?”
She leans in and lowers her voice, because our waiter has sat someone directly next to us and Bella's southern sensibility makes her cognizant that the table next to us can hear just about everything we are saying. “But what if he does just want to be friends? Then I’ve insulted him by insinuating that he has romantic interests in me."
I lean into her, “That’s crap Bee. You don’t want to tell him you have a boyfriend because you are afraid he will cancel.”
She falls back into the chocolate booth and sighs. “Oh God, you are right. It’s just that this guy is so great. He’s interesting and funny and talented. And Jack is so far away and I’m starting to wonder if he will ever propose. I really want to be this guy’s friend Jane.”
Bella has demonstrated what the boyfriend label does not mean. It does not mean security. It does not mean that your girlfriend will stop dating other men. It does not mean that your boyfriend is ready to get married. And I am right back to questioning what it means to be "in a relationship".
I’m not going to over think it. I’m not going to let my OCD brain develop a list of bullet points, format it into a power point and present it to Cole over our next dinner date. Now I wouldn't do that, right? But one has to wonder, why I, an independent and self-professed professional single, was so eager for the false security of this clearly bogus label. Is it too late to take it away? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy being "in a relationship". But, if we just take away the label, can I go out with the bicycle guy?
Why was I in such a rush to get here? And while honestly, there is simply no other man with whom I want to spend my time, perhaps Cole was right and we don't need a label. You see, like most benchmarks in a relationship, once you pass them there is no going back. There is no such thing as a second first kiss.
The truth is, I really don't want to go backward. I'm just scared of going forward. Scared and confused. I haven't been here in a while.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Fourteen
Today, I am fourteen years sober.
And I feel fourteen.
Many changes since last year, but there is one that makes me the most grateful.
Acceptance.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, sobriety
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Cringe
. . . Come here me read stories from my 10 year old diary . . .
What: March Cringefest
When: Wednesday, March 07, 2007 at 8:30 PM.
Where: Freddy’s Bar & Backroom, located at Dean Street & 6th Avenue in Brooklyn.
Subway: 2/3 to Bergen, any train to Atlantic/Pacific
Why: Because humility is a stunning spectacle.
Cringe is a monthly reading series hosted by Sarah Brown at Freddy’s Bar & Backroom in Brooklyn. On the first Wednesday of each month, brave souls come forward and read aloud from their teenage diaries, journals, notes, letters, poems, abandoned rock operas, and other general representations of the crushing misery of their embarrassing adolescence. It’s better and cheaper than therapy.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
My Breasts
In the dressing room of the breast imaging center today, I looked carefully at what had become of my once legendary breasts. Back when they were young, when they were mere blooms of there current saggy status, they brought me more attention than any other girl at Charles Wright Academy. It was there, that they made their debut on the first day of seventh grade. I wore a navy blue tank top, no idea yet what a bra was, and a pair of jeans I had probably outgrown in fourth grade. I wasn’t known for my style, but from that day forward I was known for ‘my girls’. The boys of CWA kept me abreast of their ever changing size, shape and propensity to perkiness. Periodically they would post growth reports on random blackboards, lockers or bathroom mirrors.
Jane's tatas are bigger than watermelons
Janey Parton = Poster butt and melon boobs
The locker for Jane’s Boobies
The boys liked to rub their hand down my back to verify that I wasn't wearing a bra and then cheer to one another in victory at their discovery. But I had no idea about bras. I only began to wear one because Kyra Mahoney did, and she was the most popular girl in school
Bertha and Louise were so cute back then. They were my little pointy oilwells. When I finally began to wear a bra, it really wasn’t necessary. But it was probably good training for the upcoming lifetime of breast restraint.
Throughout high school, the little volcanoes erupted into majestic mountains the like of Kilamanjaro. By Senior year, the talk on campus was that I had gone somewhere to get them done. Unable to keep up with the growth, my breasts quadrupled over bras that didn't fit, and squeezed under sweaters no longer meant for certain shaped women. Whenever I tried to wear what was fashionable, it just ended up making me look like a straight up slut. V-neck Lacoste sweaters never looked so dirty.
Yes, the awkward years were confusing. Why so many boys eyes widened with delight while staring below my line of vision was as confusing as why so many men suddenly seemed interested in taking me out on Friday night.
"Once you let a boy touch them, they will be coming for miles around." I still recall my father telling my sister Kirsten in the car one day while we waited for mother to emerge from Safeway.
And he was right.
By the time I was twenty, I had learned the power of The Breast and was well on my way to using it to my advantage. They were mightier than your average chest. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bounce. Capable of reducing men to boys with a few twists of the hip. Once there power was mastered they were wicked weapons. Yes, the girls served me well in my twenties. They brought me through five years as a Budweiser girl and made a decade of cocktail waitressing tremendously lucrative.
But then, something happened. Staring at them today in the mirror, it is clear they have seen their glory days. Nipples decidedly larger than in their youth, girth gone like the air slowly draining from a balloon, and length. Well, should breasts really ever be discussed by their length?
I still recall mom showing Kay the pencil test in the bedroom mirror one night. "Cosmo says, stick a pencil under your breast and if in one hop it doesn't fall..." Well back then you didn't want it to fall. Now six hops and I'm wondering if I'm going to need see a doctor to go in and extricate the pencil from the cavernous underside of my magnanimous mammary glands.
They seem to have the sag. I'm not quite sure when it happened. But they no longer stick up under my chin like the old days. Yes, they fall against my skin and into my armpits when I lie on my back.
When they call my name in the lobby, I decide it's time to stop analyzing the sag and get ready to say goodbye to all the adventures they have afforded me. I look one last time and decide that if they discover something wrong with my tests today - it will be a brilliant excuse to get a lift.
As I pass through the lobby in my wrap gown, I think about how cute they will look when I have them reconstructed into cute little ski jump B's with dime size nipples.
Inside the pink room with the vanilla scented air spray, I let the nice woman with the ice cold fingers put stickers with metal pin tips over my nipples and over the lump. I stand up and raise my right hand in the air while she adjusts a glass shelve so that my right breast comes to rest on it. She brings another glass plate down on top that flatten me out like a pancake. Once she has me situated, she steps behind a wall and takes a picture. Thanks to advancements in digital technology, I can see the inside of my right breast immediately. It looks like little round air pockets.
She does the other breast and then she goes in for the lump. We do a few special angles of the lump area. I have to hold my arms over my head and this time she spreads me out over the glass with a smaller piece of top glass. We look at the picture together and she points to something totally undistinguishable to the untrained eye.
"Right there. I can see something."
I breathe in and hold it.
"Probably just dense tissue. But that must be your lump. Let's see what the doctor says."
I try to breathe out. I sit in the waiting room and wait for the lady who does the ultrasound.
She calls my name, and before I can take another breath, they have me lying on my side with my arm up over my head, cold jelly smeared across my breast and a roller going over my skin in small movements.
"Just a second." The technician says. And she leaves me there in the dark and cold room. I sit in silence. A silent gap that widens with every minute it takes her to return.
But she doesn’t. Instead, another woman has entered and taken her place at the machine. I can see she is a doctor by her white lab coat, but I can tell by her confident bedside manner.
"I'm Dr. Chow, I'm going to just do a few more swipes here. Yes. Just as I thought."
And I swallow hard, suddenly deciding that breast cancer is not worth the reconstructive surgery. A montage of precious moments provided by my breasts passes through my revelry like love story snippets woven together in a movie.
First bra, first boy, first tight sweater- First suck, first nibble, first turtleneck- First boyfriend, first silhouette, first balcony bra, first strapless gown - First time I saw a photo of my shape, first weight loss when everything but their size shrunk, first bikini, first tank top, first-and-last halfsie top.
First sag, first push-up bra, first realization that no matter the outfit I wore I could never really hide them - First wish they were smaller, first Wacoal old lady bra, first time I wore a one piece with support to the beach - First time I looked in the mirror and wanted them to look different - First consideration of a reduction.
All these moments blended together over the murmur of the machine and the pause in Dr. Chow’s sentence.
"Yes, I want you to see this. Can you turn? You see this?" And she points at a mound of light yellow flesh on the screen.
"This is just dense breast tissue. It's nothing. Nothing to worry about now. Studies show that breast cancer risk is higher in women with dense breast tissue. But for today, you are fine."
'Nothing?" I say, leaping up from the table. I feel a little giddy and a little light.
"Nothing."
"That's great.'
“Well of course, you want to keep on top of these things, you will want to come in every year and make it a routine. Likely, yada yada. Yada yada yada, yada. Yada. Appointment. Yada, yada. Front desk. Yada yada. Next time."
But I can't hear her anymore. I'm too busy tightly hugging my beautiful, wonderful, delightful breasts. Like old friends, they may have lost the charms of their newness, but they bring the comfort of an old pair of worn in jeans, softened from several cycles in the dryer. They are my cultured and experienced breasts and I'm just so pleased that for now, we have a lifetime left together.
My breasts and I dress quickly, in case the Doctor changes her mind and calls me back into the room with the discovery of something new. We stand 'em up tall and sashay together out into the lobby. I’m careful to avoid the glances of all the women in the waiting room. Those women and their breasts still don’t know how much more time they will have together and I don’t want to interrupt the possibility of their last words.
Jane's tatas are bigger than watermelons
Janey Parton = Poster butt and melon boobs
The locker for Jane’s Boobies
The boys liked to rub their hand down my back to verify that I wasn't wearing a bra and then cheer to one another in victory at their discovery. But I had no idea about bras. I only began to wear one because Kyra Mahoney did, and she was the most popular girl in school
Bertha and Louise were so cute back then. They were my little pointy oilwells. When I finally began to wear a bra, it really wasn’t necessary. But it was probably good training for the upcoming lifetime of breast restraint.
Throughout high school, the little volcanoes erupted into majestic mountains the like of Kilamanjaro. By Senior year, the talk on campus was that I had gone somewhere to get them done. Unable to keep up with the growth, my breasts quadrupled over bras that didn't fit, and squeezed under sweaters no longer meant for certain shaped women. Whenever I tried to wear what was fashionable, it just ended up making me look like a straight up slut. V-neck Lacoste sweaters never looked so dirty.
Yes, the awkward years were confusing. Why so many boys eyes widened with delight while staring below my line of vision was as confusing as why so many men suddenly seemed interested in taking me out on Friday night.
"Once you let a boy touch them, they will be coming for miles around." I still recall my father telling my sister Kirsten in the car one day while we waited for mother to emerge from Safeway.
And he was right.
By the time I was twenty, I had learned the power of The Breast and was well on my way to using it to my advantage. They were mightier than your average chest. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bounce. Capable of reducing men to boys with a few twists of the hip. Once there power was mastered they were wicked weapons. Yes, the girls served me well in my twenties. They brought me through five years as a Budweiser girl and made a decade of cocktail waitressing tremendously lucrative.
But then, something happened. Staring at them today in the mirror, it is clear they have seen their glory days. Nipples decidedly larger than in their youth, girth gone like the air slowly draining from a balloon, and length. Well, should breasts really ever be discussed by their length?
I still recall mom showing Kay the pencil test in the bedroom mirror one night. "Cosmo says, stick a pencil under your breast and if in one hop it doesn't fall..." Well back then you didn't want it to fall. Now six hops and I'm wondering if I'm going to need see a doctor to go in and extricate the pencil from the cavernous underside of my magnanimous mammary glands.
They seem to have the sag. I'm not quite sure when it happened. But they no longer stick up under my chin like the old days. Yes, they fall against my skin and into my armpits when I lie on my back.
When they call my name in the lobby, I decide it's time to stop analyzing the sag and get ready to say goodbye to all the adventures they have afforded me. I look one last time and decide that if they discover something wrong with my tests today - it will be a brilliant excuse to get a lift.
As I pass through the lobby in my wrap gown, I think about how cute they will look when I have them reconstructed into cute little ski jump B's with dime size nipples.
Inside the pink room with the vanilla scented air spray, I let the nice woman with the ice cold fingers put stickers with metal pin tips over my nipples and over the lump. I stand up and raise my right hand in the air while she adjusts a glass shelve so that my right breast comes to rest on it. She brings another glass plate down on top that flatten me out like a pancake. Once she has me situated, she steps behind a wall and takes a picture. Thanks to advancements in digital technology, I can see the inside of my right breast immediately. It looks like little round air pockets.
She does the other breast and then she goes in for the lump. We do a few special angles of the lump area. I have to hold my arms over my head and this time she spreads me out over the glass with a smaller piece of top glass. We look at the picture together and she points to something totally undistinguishable to the untrained eye.
"Right there. I can see something."
I breathe in and hold it.
"Probably just dense tissue. But that must be your lump. Let's see what the doctor says."
I try to breathe out. I sit in the waiting room and wait for the lady who does the ultrasound.
She calls my name, and before I can take another breath, they have me lying on my side with my arm up over my head, cold jelly smeared across my breast and a roller going over my skin in small movements.
"Just a second." The technician says. And she leaves me there in the dark and cold room. I sit in silence. A silent gap that widens with every minute it takes her to return.
But she doesn’t. Instead, another woman has entered and taken her place at the machine. I can see she is a doctor by her white lab coat, but I can tell by her confident bedside manner.
"I'm Dr. Chow, I'm going to just do a few more swipes here. Yes. Just as I thought."
And I swallow hard, suddenly deciding that breast cancer is not worth the reconstructive surgery. A montage of precious moments provided by my breasts passes through my revelry like love story snippets woven together in a movie.
First bra, first boy, first tight sweater- First suck, first nibble, first turtleneck- First boyfriend, first silhouette, first balcony bra, first strapless gown - First time I saw a photo of my shape, first weight loss when everything but their size shrunk, first bikini, first tank top, first-and-last halfsie top.
First sag, first push-up bra, first realization that no matter the outfit I wore I could never really hide them - First wish they were smaller, first Wacoal old lady bra, first time I wore a one piece with support to the beach - First time I looked in the mirror and wanted them to look different - First consideration of a reduction.
All these moments blended together over the murmur of the machine and the pause in Dr. Chow’s sentence.
"Yes, I want you to see this. Can you turn? You see this?" And she points at a mound of light yellow flesh on the screen.
"This is just dense breast tissue. It's nothing. Nothing to worry about now. Studies show that breast cancer risk is higher in women with dense breast tissue. But for today, you are fine."
'Nothing?" I say, leaping up from the table. I feel a little giddy and a little light.
"Nothing."
"That's great.'
“Well of course, you want to keep on top of these things, you will want to come in every year and make it a routine. Likely, yada yada. Yada yada yada, yada. Yada. Appointment. Yada, yada. Front desk. Yada yada. Next time."
But I can't hear her anymore. I'm too busy tightly hugging my beautiful, wonderful, delightful breasts. Like old friends, they may have lost the charms of their newness, but they bring the comfort of an old pair of worn in jeans, softened from several cycles in the dryer. They are my cultured and experienced breasts and I'm just so pleased that for now, we have a lifetime left together.
My breasts and I dress quickly, in case the Doctor changes her mind and calls me back into the room with the discovery of something new. We stand 'em up tall and sashay together out into the lobby. I’m careful to avoid the glances of all the women in the waiting room. Those women and their breasts still don’t know how much more time they will have together and I don’t want to interrupt the possibility of their last words.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Today on the bus...
It's cold outside, snow is falling and Bus 33 pumps up the heat as it rolls down Market Street towards Love Park. The bus stops at the Courthouse and picks up an old man waving his cane. He is slow. There is shaking from the change in temperature and from the fact he is old. It takes him three minutes to ascend the stairs and slide gently into the first seat. As he flashes his senior citizen pass, the unusually patient driver finally jerks away from the curb.
I watch him from my side of the bus. His eyes are watering from the cold, his chest is pounding from the exertion of his climb. He can barely see me through the folds around his eyes, but he manages to look vacantly across the bus at where I'm sitting. His hands, covering the cane are covered with age spots, bulging veins and cartilage build up.
When the bus driver pulls right onto 20th street, another aged man rises up in the back of the bus. He bumbles towards the front and taps the driver on the shoulder.
"We missed my stop."
"Oh man. You gotta move fast mistah. I can't wait around all day for you to make your way to the front of the bus."
She steps on the breaks and opens the door. We aren't anywhere near the curb when the old man carefully steps down the stairs of the bus and onto the fresh snow. He takes a step, and he falls.
"Aw man. Damn. He fell, " she says to those of us remaining in the bus. I try to avoid eye contact with the old man with the cane.
She opens the door of the bus.
"Can you get up?"
The bus leans West as everyone peers out their windows to see the man lying in the snow. He's flat on his back, as if he is about to make a snow angel. He's flapping his arms but not making any progress. I start to get up towards the door to help the man up, but someone beats me. A middle aged man wearing a puffy jacket that is unzipped to reveal a Philly's sweatshirt, reaches an un-gloved hand down to help the old man up. He takes the aging hand in his, and then he slips and comes to lie next to the old man. There they lie, like two frozen gingerbread men waiting to go into the oven.
Again, I rise. But someone else has already stepped out of the bus and he's helping both men to their feet.
"Take the old guy to the curb," yells the bus driver.
"Damn" The bus driver looks over her shoulder to a woman wearing a ski hat sitting next to me.
"What are these people doing out on a day like this?"
I wince.
The two helpers get back on the bus, laughing and patting each other on the back. The bus driver closes the door and continues her chat with the woman on my left.
"I mean, don't they have someone to take care of them? Really, they shouldn't let these people out alone. Look at him just out there alone."
"Well, I guess they gotta get out. They gotta get groceries."
And the woman and the driver share a laugh.
I wonder if the driver can see that behind her sits "one of them". I close my eyes from embarrassment and hope that the old man with the cane can't hear the chatter. But when I open them, I see that he has. He stares at me, with soft eyes that seem to be pleading for me to understand him.
The bus pulls to a stop in front of my work. I stand up to leave.
"Thanks so much. Have a good day. Happy Valentines Day."
And I step down out of the bus. The doors shut, and the bus moves on, up the hill, towards the next stop.
Labels: Philadelphia, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Happy Valentines Day!
For as long as I can recall, I have hated Valentines day.
I hate the pink. I hate the hearts. I hate the obscene feeling of obligation, the stench of rotten Valentines past lingering in the air, the sound of broken hearts crunching beneath my tepid sensitivities. I hate watching the cash register continue to tally the cost of $7.50 cards that will arrive late, be opened in haste and passed over in anticipation of the one from ‘him’. Since I was twelve years old comparing the number of M'n'M's that Lucy glued on Bethy's card versus mine, I have been shaking my box of valentines, unappreciative of what I've received and mourning what I’m missing.
I've ended 80% of my relationships before the impending doom of Valentines Day as a pre-emptive strike against inevitable disappointment. And the other 20% were miserable. My first love took me to the Keg restaurant for bottomless cokes and all-you-can-eat Caesar salads. My last love gave me a card. You see, Valentines Day celebrates all the things I hate about relationships. He reads a magazine that tells him he should take me to dinner, pick out a card, and buy chocolates. But I hate chocolate, the card isn’t his words, and this isn't his idea of a fun night. The truth is that if he had it his way, we would be watching football at home in front of the TV eating pizza from the box. I hate Valentines day.
Out of a relationship, the pressure is removed but Valentines still sucks. It’s a reminder to singles everywhere that, according to society, we have failed. I have failed. I, who have always striven for perfection..., I, who have always pushed for the A+... I, who will only play if I can win... I, have failed at love.
Not all love. Just the kind that involves an intimate partner. I've always capitalized on the holiday, by focusing on making my friends and family feel noticed and appreciated. But this year, something is different.
This year, I have a Valentine.
And he is the kind of Valentine that doesn't need a special day to be utterly romantic. He is thoughtful and kind, makes dramatic gestures, likes art, writes poetry, plans dates, always walks between me and traffic, is humble and sincere, pays for my meals, instead of meeting me at restaurants he picks me up for dinner, notices little things about me and makes me feel like there is no need to race because he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. Yes, something is really different about this one. Suddenly I want to read poetry and listen to R & B.
Now, I'm a realist and who knows how long this infatuation will last or how much longer my Valentine and I will hold one another’s attention. By this time next week I may be hating John Mayer tunes and cursing at happy couples on the street. But for today, on Valentines Day, I have a Valentine. And just maybe, this year, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.
I hate the pink. I hate the hearts. I hate the obscene feeling of obligation, the stench of rotten Valentines past lingering in the air, the sound of broken hearts crunching beneath my tepid sensitivities. I hate watching the cash register continue to tally the cost of $7.50 cards that will arrive late, be opened in haste and passed over in anticipation of the one from ‘him’. Since I was twelve years old comparing the number of M'n'M's that Lucy glued on Bethy's card versus mine, I have been shaking my box of valentines, unappreciative of what I've received and mourning what I’m missing.
I've ended 80% of my relationships before the impending doom of Valentines Day as a pre-emptive strike against inevitable disappointment. And the other 20% were miserable. My first love took me to the Keg restaurant for bottomless cokes and all-you-can-eat Caesar salads. My last love gave me a card. You see, Valentines Day celebrates all the things I hate about relationships. He reads a magazine that tells him he should take me to dinner, pick out a card, and buy chocolates. But I hate chocolate, the card isn’t his words, and this isn't his idea of a fun night. The truth is that if he had it his way, we would be watching football at home in front of the TV eating pizza from the box. I hate Valentines day.
Out of a relationship, the pressure is removed but Valentines still sucks. It’s a reminder to singles everywhere that, according to society, we have failed. I have failed. I, who have always striven for perfection..., I, who have always pushed for the A+... I, who will only play if I can win... I, have failed at love.
Not all love. Just the kind that involves an intimate partner. I've always capitalized on the holiday, by focusing on making my friends and family feel noticed and appreciated. But this year, something is different.
This year, I have a Valentine.
And he is the kind of Valentine that doesn't need a special day to be utterly romantic. He is thoughtful and kind, makes dramatic gestures, likes art, writes poetry, plans dates, always walks between me and traffic, is humble and sincere, pays for my meals, instead of meeting me at restaurants he picks me up for dinner, notices little things about me and makes me feel like there is no need to race because he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. Yes, something is really different about this one. Suddenly I want to read poetry and listen to R & B.
Now, I'm a realist and who knows how long this infatuation will last or how much longer my Valentine and I will hold one another’s attention. By this time next week I may be hating John Mayer tunes and cursing at happy couples on the street. But for today, on Valentines Day, I have a Valentine. And just maybe, this year, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Overheard
"If you were going to drive all that way, wouldn't you have to stop for gas? And couldn't you just use the bathroom when you stopped for gas?"
-- clearly, a man
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Recent News, Sober
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
One lump? or two?
"You have a lump."
"A what?"
"A lump."
The Gynecologist has a toy poodle that she has dressed in plum colored scrubs and is cradling in one arm so the pooch can lick the outer rim of her gold wire frame glasses while she tells me this potentially life-altering news.
She places the dog on the floor next to her, pulls back my mocking paisley paper gown worn only for the veil of modesty, looks down her nose, and begins poking her fingers along the outside of my right breast .
"It's here, on the outer part of the breast."
She takes my left hand, still cold from the chill of the February morning, and guides my fingers until I feel something like a small pebble.
“It's rather pronounced. Could be a fibroid. But I'm going to ask you to get it looked at right away. Considering the family history.”
She sits down on a stool facing me, tells me to “scootch your bum to the end of the chair” and lean back.
I would be lost in useless thought about the cost of prosthetic bras, if precious wasn’t awkwardly licking at my toes while he rests on the Doctors shoulder.
“Oh my little precious. Oh my little sweetie. No Precious. Precious, no!”
Dear Lord, what was that dog doing while I lay with my feet in the air, my genitals exposed to the world, my heart racing at the thought of a life alone with my one boob in some nursing home for the constitutionally incapable of long term relationships.
“There is a good little baby.” And her words are muffled with wet doggy kisses and the remnants of my toe jam.
“All done here.”
She releases me from the prison of the metal foot clamps, pulls the rubber gloves off her bony fingers, opens the garbage lid with one clog and drops the gloves with little precision.
“So, about the lump. My Mom and my Grandma, they both had breast cancer.”
"Yes, you had mentioned that already. Another reason to not wait too long.”
For a minute, I wished I wasn’t single. I wished there was someone waiting for me at home that would take care of me, wouldn’t leave when I lost my hair and knew how beautiful my breasts were before the mastectomy.
My reckless revelry was banished by the Doctor’s high pitched shriek. “Precious. Put that down precious. Precious. I said no.”
Precious had found a finger of the wayward glove that only moments before had gone where no man had gone before. Or at least in a very long time. And precious was now cavorting around the exam room with Dr. Bony hands in quick pursuit.
I just want to put my clothes on, escape and find a place to cry. A bad week, bad news and now a bad headache coming on – but instead I am laughing.
The Doctor catches Precious and a charade ensues where precious pretends to limp to gain the Doctor’s sympathy.
“She is so dramatic. She just wants constant attention.”
The doctor sighs, rolls Precious onto her back and scratches her belly.
“I keep telling her that someday she will really be hurting and I wont be able to tell. Isn't that right my little faker. Oh yes Princess Dramatic, my 'lil Ms. Oscar worthy, Mommy doesn't have enough sympathy to fill your pity pot.”
I clear my throat. I really want to take off the paper smock and put back on my wool tights.
“Okay then. I’ll see you when your results come back. Good day.”
And she swoops up Precious and backs out of the room, firmly shutting the door behind her.
I decide not to cry.
I’ll go back to work. I’ll call a few friends. I’ll go on my date tonight. I’ll wait for the results before I determine the poetry I would like read at my funeral.
For now, it is just a lump.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Beirut
This is the blaze that has left me living on a street that vaguely resembles Beirut.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Photo
Friday, February 02, 2007
Green
“You know, you are adopted.”
My brother took wicked delight in taunting me as we watched television in the basement of my parents house on Edgewater drive.
“Why would you say that?”
He was seventeen to my my seven years old, and age is how he explained that he had rights to the entire corduroy couch to stretch out upon and I should sit quietly on the floor.
“Well, you are the only one with green eyes in the entire family. So that means you are adopted.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. And you know that means that you will always be less loved. You know, because you aren’t really part of the family.”
My green eyes narrowed.
“That’s mean Gunther. You are just trying to be mean.”
“Okay. You can think that. But until you are sure, you should be extra nice to me and I’ll try to include you a little more.”
“Gee. Thanks Gunther.”
“And you could start by giving me all the candy you have sitting there in your Easter Basket.”
“The candy that the Easter Bunny left for me?”
Gunther used the remote to flick through the channels on the TV.
“Yeah. About that. There really isn’t an Easter Bunny. It’s candy from Mom and Dad. Well, from my Mom and Dad.”
“Oh.”
“And I only want the black jelly beans, so pick those out for me. No green ones. The green ones are gross. The color green is gross. Gross.”
"I like Green"
"Well, you are weird. Nobody likes green."
"I guess I'm different."
"Well, I think we have established that."
My brother took wicked delight in taunting me as we watched television in the basement of my parents house on Edgewater drive.
“Why would you say that?”
He was seventeen to my my seven years old, and age is how he explained that he had rights to the entire corduroy couch to stretch out upon and I should sit quietly on the floor.
“Well, you are the only one with green eyes in the entire family. So that means you are adopted.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. And you know that means that you will always be less loved. You know, because you aren’t really part of the family.”
My green eyes narrowed.
“That’s mean Gunther. You are just trying to be mean.”
“Okay. You can think that. But until you are sure, you should be extra nice to me and I’ll try to include you a little more.”
“Gee. Thanks Gunther.”
“And you could start by giving me all the candy you have sitting there in your Easter Basket.”
“The candy that the Easter Bunny left for me?”
Gunther used the remote to flick through the channels on the TV.
“Yeah. About that. There really isn’t an Easter Bunny. It’s candy from Mom and Dad. Well, from my Mom and Dad.”
“Oh.”
“And I only want the black jelly beans, so pick those out for me. No green ones. The green ones are gross. The color green is gross. Gross.”
"I like Green"
"Well, you are weird. Nobody likes green."
"I guess I'm different."
"Well, I think we have established that."
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Family
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Internet Dating Audio Blog
Want to hear my groggy, early morning responses to internet dating questions posed by Sara Goo, from the Washington Post?
And did I mention how much I love my Washington Post friends?
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Press Mentions, Sober, Sober Audio, Washington Post
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Christmas Memories
With each passing year, the memory of those magical Christmas morning of my childhood, dims like the slowly flickering flame of a once magnificent fire. What was magical, has slowly burned to the mere light of glowing embers of sensory recall.
It has become increasingly more difficult to paste together the memories of sleepless Christmas Eves anticipating the arrival of Santa Clause, eyes full of wonder when a friend opens the gift I bought at the 99 cent imports store, and the pure joy on Christmas day of playing with my newest Strawberry Shortcake doll.
Bittersweet is the realization that on Christmas morning, I am no longer a little girl.
Instead, Christmas has evolved into something entirely foreign to the eyes of a seven-year old child. Christmas has faded from a burst of color, to the blend of a new pastel thread in an already rich tapestry.
Wrapping paper and crumbs from a batch of Christmas cookies still litter my floor, but now the smell of pine evokes an image of last minute Christmas shopping down 5th Avenue, girlfriends in short dresses navigating the bite of a New York winter, clutching scarves and skipping through ice puddles on their way to a cocktail and gift exchange at Pastis.
This year, Christmas Eve’s warmth was provided by the vision of my mother reading a book by the light of the Christmas tree, my father preparing Honeybaked ham on the good plates, and my brother whistling Christmas carols in the shower.
On Christmas day, Mom put on all her diamonds and pulled a velvet coat over her satin nightie, sat down at the dining room table, drank a bottle of wine, and assembled a puzzle. Dad buzzed around her with a rag in one hand, clutching a can of Endust in the other. As he worked his way through all the various rooms in the house, I heard him rouse Georg from a deep sleep in front of the television. Low muffles gave away to exchanged laughter. I just hovered in the moment, capturing the sounds, sights and nasal singe of lemon Endust in my memory. I wanted to preserve it for a day I hoped was long off. A day when I wouldn't have them anymore.
Christmas to this maturing woman has become girlfriends calling when I have the time to listen, heavy wool sweaters pulled over rounding belly’s, pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, dusty board games seeing the light of day, reasons for old friends to see one another, an abundance of activities to bring you closer to one another. And the gifts of new, brilliant, blazing memories.
Still warm. Still cozy. Just different.
It has become increasingly more difficult to paste together the memories of sleepless Christmas Eves anticipating the arrival of Santa Clause, eyes full of wonder when a friend opens the gift I bought at the 99 cent imports store, and the pure joy on Christmas day of playing with my newest Strawberry Shortcake doll.
Bittersweet is the realization that on Christmas morning, I am no longer a little girl.
Instead, Christmas has evolved into something entirely foreign to the eyes of a seven-year old child. Christmas has faded from a burst of color, to the blend of a new pastel thread in an already rich tapestry.
Wrapping paper and crumbs from a batch of Christmas cookies still litter my floor, but now the smell of pine evokes an image of last minute Christmas shopping down 5th Avenue, girlfriends in short dresses navigating the bite of a New York winter, clutching scarves and skipping through ice puddles on their way to a cocktail and gift exchange at Pastis.
This year, Christmas Eve’s warmth was provided by the vision of my mother reading a book by the light of the Christmas tree, my father preparing Honeybaked ham on the good plates, and my brother whistling Christmas carols in the shower.
On Christmas day, Mom put on all her diamonds and pulled a velvet coat over her satin nightie, sat down at the dining room table, drank a bottle of wine, and assembled a puzzle. Dad buzzed around her with a rag in one hand, clutching a can of Endust in the other. As he worked his way through all the various rooms in the house, I heard him rouse Georg from a deep sleep in front of the television. Low muffles gave away to exchanged laughter. I just hovered in the moment, capturing the sounds, sights and nasal singe of lemon Endust in my memory. I wanted to preserve it for a day I hoped was long off. A day when I wouldn't have them anymore.
Christmas to this maturing woman has become girlfriends calling when I have the time to listen, heavy wool sweaters pulled over rounding belly’s, pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, dusty board games seeing the light of day, reasons for old friends to see one another, an abundance of activities to bring you closer to one another. And the gifts of new, brilliant, blazing memories.
Still warm. Still cozy. Just different.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Family, Sober Photo
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
2007
The year I write my novel.
The year I run a mini-marathon.
The year I pay off my AMEX.
The year I spend less, and save more.
The year I fall in love.
The year I finish all my steps.
The year I find a job where all my talents are appreciated.
The year I listen more, speak less.
The year I go to Cuba.
The year I celebrate my birthday by throwing a party for myself.
The year I keep the same core group of friends.
The year I give more than I take.
The year I learn to accept my path.
The year I let go of the dream
that things would be better,
if only I were a little different.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Reflections
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
rejection
I have this theory that whatever happens in the first few moments of the new year sets a tone for the rest. So imagine my disappointment when the first few moments of 2007 were spent feeling the barbs of rejection. Rejection, followed by the childish desire to pout. Pouting that pushed away my friends and made me look like a ten year old child throwing a tantrum at the grocery store when Mom wouldn't buy me a pack of Bubblicious.
Sometimes I feel like Veruca Salt. I want what I want, when I want it. And I want it now.
What does that say about 2007?
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Monday, January 01, 2007
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Gifts From My Mother's Friends
The Packaging:
"Sober! Oh sweetie how are you? So what are you doing now? Still working for the same firm? That's nice. Where are you living? Same place. That's nice. Are you seeing anyone? No one? Oh. Well that's nice. Well you remember my little Jimmy? You were his favorite babysitter. Well he's married now. He's having a baby. Can you believe it? That makes all the little kids you once babysat now married with kids of their own. Well if things don't work out in New York, you could babysit their kids now. Wouldn't that be fun? Good to see you. Best of luck in the New Year."
Directions for use:
Rinse. Lather. Repeat. About 300 times between December 20th and January 1.
If swallowed:
Remind self that while Jimmy works a job he hates to support the same woman he has to have sex with for the rest of his life while a baby screams in the next room, you are likely lying on a beach in the Caribbean, sipping virgin 'tinis with your girlies whilst reviewing the previous evenings debauchery and scanning the beach for tonight's conquest.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober