I am finally, a bit excited about my birthday.
I think it's because I was wondering if I should get a cake, and found these online:
TRUTH.
That's my almost name! And almost age! Almost perfect!
You could even leave off the "Happy Birthday" part, this is so damn funny.
Yes, simply by Googling images of parties, party favors, cakes, fairy lights and fireworks (none of which will be present for my birthday) I have managed to get a little bit excited about this weekend.
This morning, I was running late (quelle suprise!) and had to pick up my Dunkin Iced Coffee at the kiosk off the F train (which is exactly as glamorous as it sounds) instead of near my apartment.
I ordered my favorite.
And it rang up as 15 cents less than at my regular place!!! Very exciting.
I was so pleased I left an extra tip, in a feeble attempt to "pay it forward".
Then I took a sip of my coffee.
And it was totally not what I ordered at all.
{sigh}
I stood in the corner, by the napkins, and pondered my next move. Should I politely let them know this wasn't the correct coffee, and ask for a new one? The kiosk is SO busy. Hundreds and hundreds of 9-5ers like me hurriedly get and go from this Dunkin every morning. It's frantic. People bark orders and grab and don't say thank you. I'm sure it's not really a place to work where one feels appreciated. And I don't want to be an asshole. It's just coffee, right?
I took another sip.
Hazlenut. Not my favorite, but pretty tasty, and maybe a nice change of pace. Gotta mix it up every once in a while.
So I decided to keep this coffee and consider myself "shaking things up."
I really hate confrontation. I mean, HATE it. P used to kind of bully me about how strenuously I worked to avoid fighting with him. And when he did manage to finally pick a fight with me, he was completely shocked. I thought maybe our relationship might be healthier if we discussed things like adults, or simply agreed to disagree on things of lesser importance. This doesn't mean I'm not passionate, or that I don't care about certain things. I care very deeply. I enjoy political discourse. I support both human and animal rights organizations. I'm pro-choice, pro-marriage equality, and care deeply about men and women in uniform. BUT I also acknowledge there are always other sides to every disagreement and think they should at least be heard. I don't have to agree, but I think it's my obligation to at least know where the other side is coming from, so my opinion can be informed as possible.
Sometimes, though, there are battles you cannot step away from. And when I choose to throw down, like Cee-Lo Green suggests, I fight to win.
(I have this outfit at home.)
During grad school, there was an instance where I had to fight to win. And in most cases, I think "fight to win" simply translates as "stand up for yourself." In grad school, we had a guest lecturer who was supposed to help us learn the finer points of script evaluation. She gave us a film script, and told us to write a 2 page summary of the plot, and then our opinion of if the script were marketable - is it something a studio would want to produce?
The script was ABYSMAL. A schmaltzy, offensive, harlequin romance set in Africa. My summary was too long - that I freely admit. I found it hard to not mention so many of the terrible plot points! What about when they made love in the rain on the rocks! (ouch.) I also said, no, a movie studio would not be interested in producing this movie. The script is maudlin. The romance is laughable and forced. The action is unrealistic AND historically wobbly at best. The characters are barely fleshed out, and you'd never get a good actor to sign on. Historical romance can work! Just not this script. No way, no how.
"Well" huffed the guest lecturer "At one point Angelina Jolie was interested."
"I think you could star-fuck this into the ground and it would still bomb." I answered, truthfully.
There was a cold silence.
"A friend of mine wrote it, and there was great interest from many parties." she huffed, and our meeting was over.
HOLY UNPROFESSIONAL, BATMAN!!!
So you're telling me that you brought a script you obviously have a very personal attachment to, and told me to judge it? What's your damage?!? I couldn't believe it. It was the greatest academic DUH on planet earth. And because I didn't like it, she was coming after me.
She failed me on the assignment and I went on academic probation.
I met with my advisor the next afternoon. At that point I realized that even though they'd never fail me out of school entirely, this horrible guest lecturer had just deep-sixed my chances of getting honors for my degree. And I was mad.
"THIS IS BULLSHIT!" I screamed before my advisor, a little man who looked like an egg with glasses, could get a single word out. He opened his mouth...
"NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME!!" I stopped my shouty capitals "She gave me a script and asked for my opinion. I gave it to her. The fact that she brought something that was obviously very personal is unprofessional on her part. I can't be failed for an opinon. I will not back down. I will fight you all tooth and nail until someone realizes that this is a crock of shit."
"May I speak?" squeaked the egg with glasses. I nodded. "I understand that what she did was very unprofessional. I've come to a compromise. Write another script summary for her. Yours was too long last time. Keep it to 2 pages, and we'll get you back on the right track."
I was handed yet another script and sent on my way. THIS ONE WAS EVEN WORSE THAN THE FIRST ONE!!!!! Oh my God. I remember laughing so hard and reading excerpts of it to friends in disbelief. It was about a father who lost his favorite son to an auto-erotic asphyxiation accident (fun for the whole family, right? Studios LOVE these kind of movies) and...oh it's just too bad. I can't even. So bad.
But I did it. I wrote a 2.5 (so much badness to cram in!) page summary of the script, and my scathing evaluation. I would not say the script was good when it wasn't. She might not like it, but when I need to be a professional, I call the shots like I see 'em. I believe in discourse. I believe in compromise. But I also believe that sometimes you need to stand your ground and tell your opposition that they suck.
After all that? I was taken off academic probation (and got smashed that night and hilariously drunk-dialled my mom long distance in celebration) and graduated on time, though without honors.
You know what else?
She was never asked back as a lecturer to that school again.
I reconnected with an old friend online recently. And it's going to cost me a lot of money! No, it wasn't one of those "Your classmate is looking for you!" scams that pop up online from time to time. Though I really do wonder who the hell does those.
No, this old friend isn't a person. It's a store. And her name is Dorothy Perkins. DP is a women's clothing and accessory shop, filled to the brim with pretty, affordable items. The clothes, shoes and accessories I've bought there have always been among my favorites. I really, really love their product. And it's only just now that I've discovered I can order online and have things shipped to me in New York. My credit card hemmorhaged when I pulled it from my wallet. It knows it's about to get some serious usage.
Dorothy Perkins and I have been friends since my first trip to the United Kingdom, when I was 16 years old. It was my junior year of high school, and I was doing what was essentially a "nerd exchange" program with Oxford University. The nerdiest nerds got to attend nerd classes at the most beautiful school on the planet. It was a life-changing summer, in that kind of hazily-shot movie with voiceover and a great soundtrack way. I could tell a lot of funny stories from that summer. My first time clubbing (in Europe! With hilariously bad music and awkward dancing!). My new-found love of architecture!
(Check out these photos from when I went back as a grown-up. Still so breath-takingly beautiful.) We've got an artsy street-shot, and a nice snap of the famous Radcliffe Camera.
So, being in Oxford was a really great and important experience. Being with a bunch of other smart kids my own age was really exciting. And this was the first time I had been in the UK, and I don't know about them, but for me it was love at first sight.
At the end of the summer they threw us hormonal nerdballs a dance, where we could dress up, sip punch, and be sad that we'd most likely never see each other again. Now, before I get to the part about Dorothy Perkins, I need to do a quick recap of the fact that I was awkward and ugly as hell during high school. It's ok. I can handle the truth.
(Yes I can! Yes I can!)
It was true. Boys weren't exactly falling at my feet. Add to the fact that my roommate during this program was a living Barbie doll with expensive designer clothes, and the guy I liked ended up falling for (and dating on-off for years) my close friend, and you can see that I wasn't really rolling with the self-esteem of a baller.
For the dance, I decided to make a bit of an effort. Go out with a bang. I went to Dorothy Perkins in town and purchased the first lovely dress I'd ever bought for myself. Until then, I'd always shopped with my mom, had someone else's opinion to help me. This was the first time ever I'd shopped for a dress alone. The one I found was lovely, a deep burgundy dress with red accents, nipped in at the waist, with a bit of flutter at the hem and sleeves. I also bought some pretty hair clips with roses on them. It was (for a 16 year old) a lot of money and a big deal.
I remember that night I showered, and gently tied my hair back, and clipped back strays with the roses. Then I put on the dress, and I felt....so pretty. And I know in the grand scheme that's not a big deal, but I hadn't ever really felt that way about myself before. I knew I was smart, and funny, and (usually) a nice kid, but I didn't think I could feel pretty, or be admired like my smaller, thinner, blonder compatriots. As I joined my artsy crew in the courtyard outside the dance, my very first gay husband, a tall drink of water named Mickey, wolf-whistled and spun me around in a slow circle. He beamed at me and said: "Girl, you clean up real good!"
And that was it. A male friend (who granted, wasn't into ladies, but whose opinion I trusted) thought I looked pretty. And while more compliments (from guys who were into ladies) came, that first one meant the most. Because Mickey was my friend, but he was honest and very passionate about style. If I looked like a hot mess (which was often) he'd let me know (aaand he did).
The light switched on.
Hey, I'm pretty.
I'm pretty.
And I feel it, inside and out.
That night, in the moment, the dress was the catalyst for realizing I could feel something new about myself. I'm not saying that fancy clothes and hairclips are the only hope for plain women. It's about finding what makes you feel beautiful. For me, it was a simple dress from a chain store. For someone else it could be a necklace, or a sweatshirt. It's not the clothing, but how wonderful you feel wearing it. It's letting something simple bring out the luminescence within.
So Dorothy Perkins, thank you. My Visa doesn't thank you, but the memory of a shy 16 year old does.
I would like to start off this Sunday by saying Thank You.
This blog has been viewed over 2,000 times since it began, and I'm very honored (and a bit overwhelmed, honestly) at all the lovely comments and support that my writing has received. I appreciate it so much.
Ok. Now on to the nonsense. I'm writing whilst watching the Olympics, so there might be intermittent bursts of "GO GO! NOOOO! WHAT?!?! USA! USA! OOH, THAT GUY IS CUUUUTE." And other such nonsense. But would you expect any less from me at this point?
When I was growing up, I thought that I would be really good at picking music to accompany movie trailers. This is, of course, only after I realized that I was too big to be a ballerina, and too scared of being murdered to be Batman. But for a third choice career option, it seemed like the perfect job, mixing two things I love, music and film, (and accepting my limited attention span) into a perfect storm of a job. This is that kind of useless skill - manipulating emotions through well placed snippets of pop music - that I dream of using to make money.
The first CDs I ever owned were all soundtracks. I loved them. Coneheads, The Mask, Dirty Dancing, Back to the Future....this was my music library. And I loved it. You might go "Ick" at such a selection, but the music on the discs is actually really fun and spectacular. There's variety and fun! It's pretty much like they made you a mix tape.
And I loooooove a good mix tape.
I call them mix tapes even though I haven't dealt with tapes in any form since I was about 13. Whatever the medium, I think a mix tape is really special. It's a whole bunch of feelings expressed together in one place.
If I have made you a mix tape at any point, it means I think you are really great, and want to connect with you even further through music. Maybe one of the songs reminds me of something we did together. Or I think you'll like it as much as I do.
A few years ago, back in the HeyDay of MySpace, there were all sorts of silly time-killer quizzes, but there was one I quite liked, about treating your life as a movie to be scored! I love that shit. And I think being a bit older, and wiser, I could give more informed answers that would reflect accurately on my life to this point. So imagine that you've asked me to make you a mix tape, but one that comes purely from my heart. You never know. You might even find some jams that you really like. It's really just an excuse to pour through my iTunes, and fall in love with some tracks all over again.
(Ok, there are nearly 4,000 songs. This is a very very small sampling. I'll go with 10 tracks)
Track 1: "Fakin' It" - Simon & Garfunkel
My father's taste in music is eclectic to say the least. But some of my favorite memories involve driving to school with him, and singing the entire "Bookends" album.
Track 2: "Rio" - Duran Duran / "And We Danced" - The Hooters
I've always had an enormous soft spot for 80s music. While it's nearly impossible to whittle down to favorite tracks, these two always get cranked up! I love how they just make my face break into a giant smile. I can't help but dance when I hear them.
Track 3: "You Oughta Know" - Alanis Morisette
But I had a "rebellious" streak as well. I remember buying this disc at Sam Goody in the mall (win!) and trying to hide the "explicit lyrics" sticker from my mom. But I was in junior high. I had angst. Alanis had angst. We were made for each other!
Track 4: "Invisible Touch" - Genesis
This could have been placed with "80s favorites" but the reason I really love this song is that my brother did an AMAZING lip-sync to it when he was 10 for school show and he wore a DOPE jacket that made him look like the missing member of Miami Vice. I'm sure he'd agree (probably not) that it was the height of cool. But from then on (remember, when someone is your hero, you love everything they do) it was one of my favorite songs.
Track 5: "Mr. Rock N' Roll" - Amy MacDonald / "Green Eyes" - Coldplay
These were my "walking around London" songs. Happy memories.
Track 6: "Since U Been Gone" - Kelly Clarkson
This song was the anthem of tour. It just happened that it was all over the radio that year, and by the time we'd driven across the country multiple times, we all knew it by heart, and sang along.
Track 7: "Laid" - James / "Oo-oh Child" - The Five Stairsteps / "Annie Waits" - Ben Folds
These were songs that I knew I liked, but I never knew what they were called or who sang them until much later down the road. Thank God for Google and Shazam, so I could own them for myself!
Track 8: "Geraldine" - Glasvegas
When you break up with someone (or in my case, when you are unceremoniously dumped by IM) you keep and lose certain things. D had introduced me to Glasvegas and we loved listening to it together. I'd even scouted tickets for an upcoming gig for us. When we were over, I decided I was keeping the band in the breakup, and that hearing the music would make me feel empowered, not sad. So I did.
Track 9: "Our Day Will Come" - Jamie Cullum
I really like this cover. I know Jamie Cullum gets a bad rap, but I enjoy this music. If I get married, I'd like to dance to this at my wedding. It doesn't have to be a first dance, but the song is just so hopeful and chilled out, I can't help but adore it.
Track 10: "I Can't Stay" - The Killers A favorite song by my favorite band. I find myself playing this on repeat during times of transition, or saying goodbye. It's the song that has gotten me through starting over, time and time again.
I've got 40 more tracks earmarked as ones I wish I could talk about. There is so much great, fun, interesting music in the world!! But that's probably a separate blog in and of itself. The point is, I love music. So many emotions and experiences are forever laced into music for me. Sharing music means sharing my life.
Today, on this great and glorious July 28th many moons ago, my older brother was born, forged from the fires of Mount Doom, the motorcycle parts of Honda, and the spicy burritos of Lucha Libre.
I can say without hesitation that my brother, five years and one week my senior, (enjoy this week, sucka, come Saturday next I'm gunning for you) is my best friend in the world. He is my rock, my common sense, the one who reminds me to work hard every day. He keeps secrets, lets me cry on his shoulder, and only slightly ridicules me when I can fit my whole head inside a giant bag of Doritos - NAILED IT. (there is a photo of said experience, and maybe if you play your cards right, I'll show you someday.)
Sibling closeness for us was a long road. In our youthful rough-housing, there was a great deal of getting my ass kicked. I remember Brother read my pink Lisa Frank (word!) diary when I was about 9 years old, and in a righteous rage (my privacy! Now he knows the boys I like! I'm ruined!) I slapped him hard in the face. The minute my hand connected, and I saw the murder in his eyes, I thought "Now I am dead." And then there was lots of running, and screaming and punching. He dead-legged me like it was going out of style. Poor parents. We were kind of a handfull. So many times I would remember mom screaming "SEPARATE!" in order to pry us apart from trying to smack each other.
(Here's a picture of us fighting. It's during that period of life we were X-Men toys. We don't like to talk about it that much. Obviously I'm Havok.)
Because really, he is cool older brother, and I'm little sister just trying to crib his style. I followed him, then and now, in a desire to be close, to emulate the person I love most in the world. There is no other shadow I am so honored to be in.
Now, in our grown-up lives, do I think we've kind of returned to the sweetness of our childhood relationship, except this time I don't fall for stupid-ass tricks like "under this blanket is that toy you want ha ha ha." Brother has always been very protective of me, doing his best to keep me away from bad decisions, stupid ideas, and his handsome friends. He looks out for me.
We aren't perfect. We still fight and don't talk from time to time, but now as adults we are better equipped with the tools to talk our way back into each other's good graces. The distance put between us by school and geography has helped us appreciate more the rare times when we are together. And of course, our father's illness was a far-too-early insight into the fact that later on down the road, it will be just us, family wise. So we'd better not piss each other off too much! I don't think we will. I think from this point on, we're going to be great. Really, truly great. I believe in his talent, and will always be there to cheer for him.
So friends, please raise your Slurpee (or coffee from Victory Donuts in Van Nuys) in a toast to my brother. To my perfectly imperfect hero, my favorite friend. To Diet Dr. Pepper, In-N-Out Burgers, single pieces of cake from Ralphs, and other bizarre and hilarious ways in which we've celebrated your birth. I'm sorry I couldn't make it out west this year. Consider this a raincheck until next time.
I love you, Brother.
Happy Birthday.
I didn't realize until I was watching the news this morning that this Summer Olympics are the games of the XXX Olympiad! These are not the scandalous sex olympics (though I'm sure they exist) but XXX is actually the Roman numeral for...30. Like I almost am. Maybe I'm looking too desperately for signs, but I take this as a really positive omen. Friendly competition that unites the world, held in my favorite city, that is the same number I am about to be.
Super cool.
On the train this morning, sippin' on my Dunkin Iced coffee, I felt very nostalgic. I'm sure a lot of it has to do with seeing London everywhere in the press now. It's hard to gaze lovingly at something you miss desperately from so far away. I ache for the city. I miss my friends terribly. I'd give anything to be there, with them, now. I am also thinking of P a lot today, because he is very much a follower of sports, and I wonder if he'll be watching. And with my birthday coming up...yeah. It's hard. Actually, I don't think it is P himself I miss, but the feeling of when we were good. That's all. I miss feeling loved like that.
And sometimes I get scared that I will never feel as happy as I did, either in London, or with P. More often than I'd like to admit, I am struck by the fear that I'll never find those kinds of joy again.
When I find myself feeling this way, the same six words do a frantic line dance through my mind...
WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?
(Guys, if you're not listening to Doves, and this classic track, the only thing you have to fear is the giant musical hole in your life that only this can fill)
What am I afraid of? I think the list needs to be split in two.
Inconsequential (but still freaky to me) Fears
* Spiders (they are evil. Why people keep them as pets is beyond me)
* Flying insects that sting (bees, wasps etc.)
* Rejection (in jobs and relationships)
Big Important Fears
* Death / Pain - this one is a bit trickier, because death is inevitable. I don't know what happens after we die, but I don't really get much say in it. However, I think what causes the most fear is the potential pain we could experience on our way to death. Be it accident, illness, or God forbid, murder or natural disaster, none of us wants to experience the physical trauma of it. What hurts so much that you die? None of the greatest pain we know is quite there, and the thought that it could be worse....well there is pure fear. That is probably why most people hope they die in their sleep at the age of 100. To just go to sleep and pass away seems like the best way to make your exit from planet Earth. I suppose that gets filed under the massive, thesis-and-books-and-more-than-a-silly-blog heading of "Fear of the Unknown."
* Failure - this is tied to the smaller fear of rejection, and in a way embarassment as well. No one wants to fail. Nobody says "I'm so glad none of my dreams panned out, and I'm depressed and lonely." The thought that we can't do something, that we might try our best and still come up short, hurts. It hurts a great deal. I think fear of failure is the biggest thing that holds people (myself very much included) back in life. Why not submit your play? Tell that boy you're nuts about him? Because they might reject you, which means you failed, which (incorrectly but we think it) means we suck and don't deserve good things. But honestly, I'd rather be true to myself and alone, than living an unsatisfactory life. Even though the thought of being alone forever is also a pretty depressing one! I need to be better at practicing what I preaching, acting (rather than simply pontificating) upon what I know is true.
(Uhm, sorry this post is such a downer, all. Here, check out this kitten.)
(That was supposed to take one minute, and I browsed "kittens" and "adorable kittens" on Google for an obscene amount of time. #alone4eva)
Fears exist our entire lives, in different forms and manifestations. We can work to conquer many of them, but there are some fears that might only be kept at bay, not eradicated entirely. Every human being, even the bravest, has things that make him or her afraid.The important thing is to try. And when you fail, as will often happen, to keep trying.
Acknowledge you are scared and uncertain.
Try your best.
Try harder.
Repeat.
Two of our greatest super heroes, Iron Man and the Incredible Hulk, are scientists. And to think, humanity would now be ruled by Loki if some great teachers hadn't helped Tony Stark and Bruce Banner become the geniuses they are today. Science also made Steve Rogers Captain America. Just think about it.
When I think about the educational opportunities my parents provided for me, I am eternally grateful. I have had more than my fair share of exceptional teachers, and now that many of my friends have made it their profession, I have even more respect for it. Teaching is not some walk in the park. It's not a ticket to three months off every year. It is hard. It can be thankless. And you sure as hell aren't in it for the money. Remind me why teachers make less than coaches at some schools? Oh, because life is CRAZY. I have never wanted for role models (my mother being chief amongst them) but the majority of my teachers really helped shape me into the awesome, intelligent, ball of sassamafrass that I am today.
My grade school teachers were brilliant, kind, patient women. Each one of them deserves a big reward and a hug, because they took classrooms of crazy, rambunctious, and sometimes cripplingly shy and awkward children (cough*me*cough) and worked with them. It was there I learned lessons that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Doubt it? I can still spell veterinarian and talk about Greek mythology. My cursive handwriting is off the chain. I've got my times tables down. I still like whales. And I know how to share, when to be quiet, and innovative ways to sculpt Play-Doh. Information that stays with you over 20 years obviously made a great impact. And I have beautiful, incredible teachers to thank for it.
High school was a bit more hit-and-miss, but there were some real gems. Mr. Marvin, a darling elf of a man who encouraged our love for the arts. A real champion of every one of his students. Ms. Hunt, who made art so fascinating that I still remember most of what I learned in that class, and can still rattle off facts during museum visits. The late, great Mrs. Jones, who taught me Latin in her own unique and wonderful style (like Yoda by way of Tennessee Williams). To help us remember the phrase "anaphora" she would wave enthusiastically to her own gigantic wig of curly hair. "Like an afro!" she'd shout and then we'd all be on the same page. I was so sad when she died. And of course, Dr. Brent. When I first met Dr. Brent as a freshman, she scared the ever-living shit out of me. Because Dr. Brent didn't like freshman, and I had made the mistake of existing in the same hallway as she stood. But as I grew up, and was clever enough to sneak into her AP English class, she noticed me, and encouraged me to speak up, to write more, and to go for goals that I just assumed were out of my reach. With her help, I won fellowships. With her help, I graduated very high up in my class. With her help, I received the school medal, one of the greatest honors bestowed on graduating seniors. Because she pushed me hard, wouldn't let me deliver anything but my best, and backed me up every step of the way, I did more and better than I ever thought possible.
I was similarly lucky in college. Last year, when I visited the theatre department, the amazing Dave still remembered my first and last names, and greeted me like a prodigal daughter. He was funny and smart and completely off his rocker, and it was a real joy to learn the finer points of theatre tech from him. To be in a close-knit department, in a small-ish school, you really do become a family. My advisor, Alma, took chances on me just like Dr. Brent had. She showed me that beauty and comedy weren't mutually exclusive. She pushed me to work harder, and think Each of my professors are distinguished artists in their own right, and the fact that they cared enough about us to take the time and share some knowledge, to help us grow and think and be challenged....it's humbling.
WARNING: The following post contains a lot of opinions, from a person still struggling to figure out ideas both big and small and summarize them in (relatively interesting) sentences. That is all they are. If you don't like them, that's fine, and you're welcome to stop reading. I'm not looking to pick fights, or spark debates on my Facebook wall. Just putting that out there now. But I think the fact that I've struggled so much writing this means it's a topic worth exploring.
Sometimes, I HATE stuff. And I know now that's ok. Truly. Hate is a sometimes deeply unsettling reminder that we are in fact, flawed human beings. If you love everything I don't think you're real. But I think it's more productive to consider why you hate stuff, and if it's possible - and it's not always - to seek out something positive. I know lots of people will say something like "Why hate? It holds you down!" But honestly, learning that it's ok to hate things set me free. Realizing that I don't have to like everything and everyone has helped cut a lot of dead weight from my life, and put the focus back on the people and things I really care about, and not just the ones I thought I was supposed to. Now look, I'm not talking hate like the shootings in Colorado, or any kind of hate crime. I don't, nor will I ever, condone aggression or violence against a person, because you "hate" them. That is unforgivable, and most frequently stems from a place of ignorance and intolerance.
What I'm talking about is realizing you dislike something strongly enough that you don't want any part of it in your life, and being adult enough to accept that.
Let's take three light and fluffy examples to flesh out this weighty topic.
1.) Julie Taymor films.
Her movies are TERRIBLE. They are poorly directed pieces of crap. Now, to her credit, I will say she is a visual GENIUS. This is the positive. No doubt about it. The way her mind puts together a picture is marvelous. Take another one of her super shitty films, Across the Universe and behold this sequence. It's very clever, and dark.
However, the rest of the film is boring and blows. It makes no sense and the pacing, story and direction are rubbish. How do you make the music of The Beatles into a schmaltzy shitshow? Blech. Take another example, her recent adaptation of Shakespeare's The Tempest. She's got Shakespeare's beautiful story and words, as well as some of my favorite actors (Alfred Molina, Helen Mirren, Ben Whishaw, Alan Cumming) and the movie still sucks. Like, it sucks a lot. I turned it off, which I never do, because I love Shakespeare. How can she take things I love and make them suck?!? And I never saw her Broadway production of Spider Man: Turn Off the Dark (still the most laughably stupid title in Broadway history) but I hear it's same thing. Visually sumptuous, but narratively bankrupt. Apparently, she took it upon herself to re-write the Spider Man mythology and make up some major new characters of her own. Uhm...how dare she? It's not like fans of the comics came out to see what Julie Taymor thinks Spider Man should be like. They came to see the stories they love brought to life on stage!
Mergh. Now I'm getting fiesty! Rarh! Keep it rolling, it feels good to blow off some steam...
2.) Chick From Kickboxing
CFK (Chick From Kickboxing, or Chicken Fried Kentucky, whichever you prefer) is the worst. I cannot stand her and almost walked out of class yesterday because I had the misfortune of being paired with her.
She's not a bad person. I can see certain qualities within her (enthusiasm!) that others might find endearing. But I loathe her and will go out of my way to avoid ever seeing her again. But she's ALWAYS there! I've come at all hours and seen her there. And heard her. God, it's impossible not to hear her. Because anything Sensei has to say, after every sentence, she screams "YES, SENSEI!" like a stupid bastard. She does not stop. She thinks she's adorable, and I'm 99% sure I'm not the only one who would like her to shut up. Yesterday, we were paired together, which was unfortunate. Sensei was having us focus on technique and the clarity of our movements. But stupid CFK was all about showing off that she's fast! Soooo fast! So fast that her movements suck and are incredibly sloppy! Even Sensei tells her to slow her roll. He firmly instructs "let the bag settle before you make contact." BUT NO! CFK obviously knows better than this black belt. Because the minute I hit the bag, while it's still wobbling, she's on it. Every. Single. Time. She even hits it before I can a few times, like I'm not even there. I cannot even explain how infuriating it was that she was not only sucking, but messing me up as well, and defying Sensei's instruction. FUCK HER. I hate her so much. And I'm really, very, healthily and happily all right with that. Because I accept it, and understand there's nothing I can do besides avoid her. Avoid her like the plague.
3.) A few weeks back, I was casually making fun of the 50 Shades of Grey books, because they seem incredibly stupid. BDSM Twilight fan fiction? Wasn't Twilight bad enough!?!Why was this not deep-sixed on a publishers desk immediately?? A friend reading them told me to essentially put my money where my mouth was, because I was trash-talking something I knew nothing about, which puts me at fault. Called out, she loaned me the books. Oh, good, I was right. THEY ARE HORRIBLE. THEY ARE EMBARASSING. They set women's rights back about 60 years. I'm disheartened that good, smart friends of mine like these books. And this is pure opinion, but it's how I feel. I hate them. Because it's a "love story" (what they have is not love, it's Stockholm Syndrome) between a WEAK, pathetic woman, and a controlling, revolting waste of space. The writing is abysmal and repetitive. I've seen better sex on the Discovery Channel (nothin' but mammals...). The female protagonist thinks she can "fix" or "save" the man. His desire to "protect" her is absolutely stalking and obsession. There is nothing redeeming about it. It is deeply upsetting to read because it's being presented as a great love story, and it simply is not.
Closing thoughts. Feelings of hate are unavoidable. It shows we are alive and react to the world around us. How we handle our hateful thoughts, our actions and reactions is what's important.Because we still need to try to be decent people, and live peacfully in society. Accepting that there are things and people we don't like but simply have to deal with is half the battle.
In the words of that wise man, Stevie Wonder, isn't she lovely?
For those who don't know their Great American Ballparks, this amazing (but damn near empty) place is Camden Yards, home of the Baltimore Orioles! Look at that glorious industrial skyline, lined with ominous clouds! Of course it's Baltimore! You saw The Wire. You know what's up.
(Side note: Favorite B'More story. Charm City has branded itself "the city that reads" an optimistic slogan which I saw inscribed on a public bench....riddled with bullet holes. I can laugh at these things though. I am a born Marylander. Everyone loves DC's Canada. Because it's not Virginia. Which is DC's Mexico.)
Anyways, I digress. I love baseball. Growing up a tomboy, Daddy's little sports fan, I was ALL ABOUT the Orioles. Looking back now, I see it was how we connected. There isn't much that a 40something Naval officer and a seven year old girl have in common, but we could share this. And maybe that's why I love it so much. Because it was really special for Dad and me. And though we will never get back there, just the two of us, it's a cherised memory. As an Oriole fan, I had the hat (autographed by my birthday twin, BJ Surhoff) and the jersey, and even a beach towel that was a game giveaway that I'm pretty sure is still at my mom's house. This was in the days before the Nationals, and I had to cheer for the other hometown worst team. But it was good to be a young O's fan in the 90s. There was so much to love!
The Bird:
(I love this picture, because the Bird has clearly been watching a lot of RuPaul's Drag Race, and is giving sass to ALL of the Nationals Mascots, including the glorious and terrifying giant-headed Presidents. Roosevelt looks gobsmacked.)
And of course, the Ripkens.
I know Cal is the big name for showing up to work every day for....well, forever, but I was totally taken with the idea that you could go to work at the coolest job in the world, with both your dad and brother. And they seemed nice. Like they really loved each other, even when Billy had an error, or Cal left men on base. I even have a Cal Ripken autographed baseball, a gift from my Dad. It was the culmination of us collecting baseball cards together.That seems like a million years ago. Another life.
Growing up and moving to different places, you find other teams. It's not quite your hometown heroes, but you adapt and adopt. Now living in NYC, I enjoy going to both Yankee Stadium and Citi Field for games. Though I don't carry a particular torch for either team (much to several friends dismay) I really love the experience. It's so much goddamn fun! If you can find a better summer activity that involves sitting in the sun with your friends, watching amazing athletes, whilst enjoying beer and hot dogs, I've yet to hear it!
I've been to baseball games for birthdays, with friends visiting New York, for date nights, and just for the fact that we wanted to! But this year....I am shamed and saddened to think I haven't been out to a single game this year. Between work and other commitments, there hasn't been a day that panned out. And that saddens me so much. The last time I went was with P. And while it was a perfect night (a very kind man thought we were a cute couple and handed off some $300 seats by the first base line) I'd like to make some new memories. Because the joy of being at a game is too precious to let go of, just because I've shared it with an ex-boyfriend.
So...let's go. I'm ready, you guys. I want a game under the lights. And fireworks. I want to bring a glove even though we're in the nosebleeds. I'll buy YOU the requisite peanuts and cracker jacks (even though I'd much prefer popcorn, I can be flexible). I want to root for the home team, and if they don't win it's a shame. Can we go? I feel like my summer has been incomplete without this. I need it. I crave it. Will you take me out? Please?
Boom. Again.
New York is beautiful and hideous. A perfect puzzle and an industrial slag-heap. Tetris on crack. Frogger in a K-hole.
It is incredible and terrifying.
After taking several years off for grad school/family issues, I came back to this concrete playground wasteland. And I've done so much. Had a play on. Moved up and fallen off corporate ladders. Lived with every nut Craigslist has to offer. Got my heart shattered. Started over, time and again.
Like the art-deco building facades I've come to love so much, I am constantly in a state of repair and restoration.
And now, on the cusp of 30, I find myself in a good place.
I have excellent friends.
A good, stable job with a grown-up salary and healthcare.
A beautiful apartment with a wonderful friend.
And yet...I'm not sure at all what the next 3-5 years will bring. Do I want to stay in New York? Maybe. If my job goes well and I keep moving upward. I really like this job, and the people I work with are awesome. But my company has other locations I could theoretically explore, both in the midwest and on the west coast.
The past two times I've recently been out of the city (Vermont and Ohio) it was really tough to come back. Because even though I love the asphalt jungle, I also love driving. And mountains. And big open fields and sunshine and fresh air and bold blue bodies of water. If we can drive through these places so much the better! Once you've driven through farm country, with the windows down and the sight and smells of a thunderstorm bearing down on you, it's hard to revisit a small apartment surrounded on all sides by hot, sticky blacktop. The genius of mass transit seems less than wonderful. For a city of millions, New York can be lonely and the hardest place to find privacy.
But I love urban spaces, urban skylines!
Is there no happy medium?
I feel like I grew up in that elusive happy medium. 15 minutes in one direction, and you're in downtown Washington DC. 15 minutes in another direction, and you're on a small, historic farm. My folks picked a great spot (well, we were stationed here, but all things considered...). I see why so many of my highschool classmates chose to stay close, to come back right after college. I couldn't do that, nor would I have wanted to. I needed to see other places. Even now, I don't think I will ever call that place home again. Too much happened.
But where is home going to be, further on down the road? Could I ever be financially solid enough to have more than one home?!? The thought of having several places to live - different bases, vacation hideaways....oh it seems like such a great dream. A place in the city, and one by the sea. Somewhere where I can drive. Where I can do some hiking, go to baseball games. There needs to be a great coffee shop too. A place where we can be together, but alone when we need it. Where we can see the stars. And be happy.
Yesterday, I had what was truly a magical experience....in a thrift store. Follow me.
I went to my favorite thrift store in my old neighborhood - the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It's important to know that this hood houses two types of people:
1. Old money white people from rich dynasty families
2. Young white hipsters looking for fun (which at the time, I admittedly was)
(It's like living in a Tommy Hilfiger print ad)
I go to this thrift store because it is where the Old Money White People love to get rid of their designer clothes that they don't want anymore. It's not unusual to see Jimmy Choo shoes, Ralph Lauren blazers, or Tahari dresses. High quality goods that young white hipsters like me sometimes covet, but can't afford. I even saw Chanel shoes once, and damned if I didn't try to stuff my big old flipper feet into the dainty and beautiful ballerina shoes. It didn't work.
But yesterday, during my perusal of the dress rack, pushing through rows of taffeta and sequined monstrosities (mostly likely worn to schmancy charity galas) I found a simple, beautiful brown dress from J.Crew. I recognized it, because I'd bought one similar to it about a decade ago. It's a classic.
"Oooh!" I thought excitedly. I flipped the price tag - $10! Hooray! Then I peeked at the size....6.
I haven't been a size 6 since junior high school. And when I was a 6 (then a 4, then a 2) it was because I was in the throes of a really horrible depression. My grandmother who lived with us had been sick for a while, and her death was devastating to our whole family, particularly my mother. Seeing my mother so sad, and trying to adjust to this new, grandparent-less life, I needed to focus elsewhere. So I became obsessed with my weight. Having been a chunky kid, who'd been mercilessly ridiculed by boys in her class for it, it made sense. Here was a problem, and now I was going to fix it. I just went overboard, with too much exercise and obsession with calories. By the time I got a grip and realized this behavior had to change, I was 5'9" and 120 pounds. I'd lost a lot of hair, messed up my circulatory system (to this day) and done damage to my reproductive system.
From high school through college and beyond, my weight went up and down. This is pretty typical for a lot of women. Not like a ground-breaking story. But I'd been pretty consistently like a size 10-12, with bumps up or down.
Having found kickboxing, and a lot of common-sense growing up (I'm not hungry? Ok, I'll stop eating) has led me to make a lot of positive changes to my diet and exercise. I'm active in some way every day, whether it's class, or the gym, or just walking for an hour or so. And I eat smarter. I still eat (holy God I can eat) but I think about it in a smarter way. It's not obsessing over little things. It's like big-picture thinking. I ate pasta, salad, and cupcakes at dinner Friday night, at the AWESOME party we threw at our apartment. So the next day I worked out a lot and ate protein. Ta-Dah.
So, back to the dress. I thought "worth a shot" and tried it on....and it fit. Like a freaking sexy glove. The top shows off my nice clavicle and shoulders, and the fabric skims lightly over my hips and emphasizes my waist. It's perfect. And, $10 later it was all mine.
It's not about the number. Granted, I'm tickled pink to be wearing a J.Crew size 6 dress. But what matters is I'm in good shape and look really nice in a dress that I wasn't sure I'd fit in. It's a boost of confidence for all the right reasons. It makes me want to continue to be smart and healthy and good. I don't want to be smaller, I just want to keep being me...the healthiest, strongest, happiest version of me.
During my most extended period of flux, I was under the delusion that signing a lease for an apartment in New York would ruin my life. It would hold me hostage, weigh me down, and become the kind of situation it would be impossible to extricate myself from. I'd never be able to get back to my parents (4.5 hours away) if Dad had another emergency. I'd never get home to London if I was saddled with a New York apartment!
Long story short, for whatever reason, I was delusional. And it led to me living for at least a month (or at least meeting with) with every freakshow and nutjob that Craigslist could pony up under the guise of "Short Term Sublet."
I'm not sure what led me down this path of insanity. I'd had such a wonderful roommate for my first 2 years (as previously mentioned) that you'd think I would just find another good friend to live with. But by the time I was back in NY, most of my friends had their lives and apartments sorted out. I crashed on couches (such. generous. friends) for quite some time, but when it came to my situation, permanence was the furthest thing from reach. So I ended up sharing my precious space, and wasting my precious time with a revolving door of crazy. Some of the best? Keep reading...
Hall of Famers:
* 2 girls and a French Weirdo: This apartment was so odd, because there was one nice bedroom, and 2 storage closets that she rented out to desperate people like me....and Pierre. Pierre, who couldn't really speak English, stayed out all night, and didn't understand the concept of personal space. It was a miserable month of sleeping on an air mattress and shouting "Pierre! Please shut up!" through the thin wall that separated our closet living spaces. The culmination? I got locked out at 3am the day I was due to move out and STILL had to pay $200 for a locksmith to get back into the apartment.
*Banker Girl: This was undoubtedly the swankiest apartment I ever stayed in, on the 21st floor of a swishy building near Times Square. My roommate was an air-headed young lady who worked high up for Bank of America, yet had no common sense (I'm pretty sure she shares a large responsibility for the economic collapse). The most uncomfortable thing ever was when she flaunted bringing home a man who was not her boyfriend (who had been so sweet in helping her move in). When they came out of her bedroom the next morning, it was all I could do to not smack her in the face. Stupid AND a cheater? Damn, I can pick 'em.
* The Couch Potato: I lived in this apartment for 2 months. The teacher with whom I lived was firmly planted on the couch for the majority of that duration. Morning and night I would open the door to find her there. I understand teachers work really REALLY hard during the school year, but to spend the whole summer on the couch watching Bravo is a giant waste of your life.
* Drama Club: I couldn't live with this girl. She was like if Miley Cyrus and Anne Hathaway had been cross-bred in a horrible experiment to produce the most hyper drama club nerd of all time. She started singing within 5 minutes of meeting me. Deal Breaker.
* Stoner McBro: I couldn't live with him either. Because he introduced himself....and then his bong, which sat on the kitchen table next to the Frosted Flakes.
* Religious Zealots: I lived with two intense church-goers for a few months while my play was in production. They were unfortunately the kind of church-goers who don't really follow the teachings of the Bible. You know. They're full of judgement, and hypocrisy (I actually told off the young man, for referring to something he saw on TV as "super faggy.") I truly think he might have been gay, and bashing things that he was scared he saw in himself. Ideas beyond their own understanding of the world were outright sneered at. I eventually started to (and I know, this was immature on my part) come home later and louder. I was their "artist subletter" regarded with the same fear as a wild animal. They would be playing cards with their church friends, and I would come in, with lots of makeup and stories of a crazy night. The men were goggle-eyed, the women scowled and pulled them closer. It was too easy. But I was tired of judgement. Weren't they supposed to leave that to Revelations?
* Cat sitting: This was actually a wonderful sublet...watch over a beautiful studio apartment, complete with piano, and take care of a snuggly, neurotic cat. Done and Done! This was during my relationship with P, the last place I lived before he and I moved in together. That apartment was like our trial home. Most nights, I'd cook dinner, and he'd play songs for me on the piano, then we'd snuggle up with the cat in front of the TV. It was like playing perfect house, in someone else's home.
I guess the lesson that came out of the experience is to really treasure those with whom I spend my time. Home isn't where your rump rests (thanks Pumbaa, I need to stop taking my life lessons from The Lion King) but a culmination of comfort and happiness in your surroundings. My current roommate is an amazing woman, and we really love spending time together in our home. We do all the fun silly things girls do....drink margaritas, watch Downton Abbey, talk about boys, and drink more margaritas.
I remember one summer evening, during a particularly fun and scandalous year of summer stock, when our adorable sound technician looked me square in the eye (as much as you can when you've had too much to drink) and said,
"You only get true love three times in your life. And I've already used up two. The next one's gotta count."
(Granted: we also discussed tigers, plastic fencing, and baseball. It was really kind of all over the place that night.)
Why that resonated so soundly with me remains a bit of a mystery. Why would I take advice on love from drunk, single sound guy? What makes three the magic number of times you could get true love? Isn't that an insane pressure to put on yourself?
Obviously, being single, I am not currently in love. I have a crush on a guy who lives far away, and a slight infatuation with a co-worker I am 95% sure is gay, (Batting 1,000!) but nothing on the scale of 1 in 3 shots at true love!
In the words of those sage troubadors, Alphabeat, "I was looking for a decent boy / For a tender glance / For a Safety Dance." Which basically means I need a good guy who appreciates my completely bonkers tastes in music, and Men Without Hats references.
I used to have a joke (with myself...the best, funniest, and ultimately most pathetic kind) that I was dating down the alphabet. The names of the first guys I thought I'd been in love with went A, B, C and D, in correct order. A through C were really more like growing up experiences. I cared for them enormously, but it wasn't love. As for D, I really did think that was love. It was fast and intense and left me completely shattershocked when it was over, but it was the first time that I felt it was possible to find someone you could want to be with for all your days on earth.
I read an article about turning 30 a few years ago in some women's magazine. Jennifer Garner was promoting 13 Going on 30 which I love and will probably Netflix this weekend (along with The Little Mermaid.....yes), but on her list of things every woman has had before 30 was "devastating heartbreak and the knowledge that you will be ok." When I read it, I figured that this obviously applied to D. I'd been very sad when it was over. Lots of staying in bed and sad little emo walks in the rain around Hampstead Heath.
I didn't understand devastating heartbreak, until I lived it (and died it) when I fell in deep, delirious, disastrous love with P. Using those words, being cute with alliteration, doesn't hide the fact that I thought this was the man I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, and for whom a small crime scene in my heart will be forever roped off. I wish I could talk about it with any kind of insight or eloquence. There are some things, that even when they are over, you need to keep for just the two of you. Moments are sacred. We both made so many mistakes. But he's a good man with a dear and generous heart, I would never refute that. He saw me through some very tough times, and gave me the love and companionship that I desperately needed.
Being in love with me isn't easy. I know that.
Maybe it was the wrong time, and there were too many outlying factors we couldn't control. But that is how it happened. For a while, I had thought he was the Johnny to my June, and despite our problems, our fights, we would always find our way back to each other. But we weren't.
(Oh, irony. One of my favorite songs, U2's cover of "Everlasting Love" just popped up on my Pandora. Sigh.)
Through all the unbelievable pain of these experiences, I do think I came out of these relationships with a better idea of who I am, what I want and deserve in a loving relationsip, and what I offer. It's important to know your value as one-half of a partnership.
I forget where I heard it, but there was a great bit of advice, that said "True love is finding the person you want to sit next to for the rest of your life"
We get a lot of chances in life, and the only way we get that shot at grabbing the brass ring is to open up and take risks. A lot of times we'll fail, spectacularly! But hopefully, at least three or so times, we will find that great, beautiful connection.
Getting hurt should never change the way we love.
2012 started out as poorly as any year possibly could. Appropriate I guess for the time pegged as the end of the world. It felt like it.
My serious relationship ended poorly and abruptly, my father's condition continued to deteriorate, my work was unsatisfying and underpaying, and I wasn't writing. Time passed alternately in a somewhat zombified state, filled with rage, or broken down in tears. I wasn't suicidal, but I certainly wasn't enjoying being alive either. Days blended together into months, with little joy found in anything.
At the urging of concerned friends and family, I entered therapy. I found a guy who took my insurance and happend to bear a striking physical and vocal resemblance to Tim Gunn from Project Runway.
I've been told that finding a therapist is like dating, which now brings the list of "Activities I Am Terrible At" to three:
1. Dating
2. Finding a therapist
3. Basketball
TG therapist was a nice man, but we didn't mesh at all. I sat on his couch, sobbing and trying to explain why I felt that everything important to me was gone or broken. Whenever I thought "this surely must be rock bottom, things cannot possibly get worse" they always did. He stared back at me silently, his eyes without feeling, his lips set into a straight line. "Make it work" his demanor seemed to say. I was so frustrated with this man looking at me silently while I lost my shit time and time again that I finally exploded "Why the fuck am I wasting my time here?!"
So I broke up with that therapist.
He didn't seem to give a damn.
Being a private person who needs help sucks. Because reaching out, admitting there is a problem I can't solve, is quite a low. I'm sure it's some special blend of ego, pride, the way I was raised, and general anxiety.
Leaving TG therapist's office for the last time, I was walking down the street, tear-stained and dejected as usual, when I saw a sign (literally and figuratively!)
Free Trial MMA Class.
Gloves Included.
And in a rare moment of clarity, I thought "Meh, why not?"
That's how I moved away from therapy and became a part-time ninja. The nice people at the school (oh yes, it's ninja school) gave me some gloves, a t-shirt, and white pants (which I hate, because I can never keep them clean, and lady ninjas get their period, which just adds to the anxiety!) and I was off. From the first class, I was pleased to discover that I'm much stronger and in better shape than I ever realized. I could go 10 rounds of intense cardiovascular exercise and still breathe! I was sweating, pumped up....and feeling so much better.
In class, we spar with a bag. And during the following months, that bag became a symbol of everything that upset me, and I wailed on it. It was my ex-boyfriend. The guy who bought out my company. It was anybody I was grumpy with.
And it was me.
"Grow up!"
"Get over yourself!"
"Stop eating cookies!"
The teacher I train with, Sensei Hall, has in more ways than I can thank him for, saved my life. (He has no idea). In his class he pushes us to give our all, to take time to focus on ourselves, and clear our heads of the clutter that weighs us down. He is funny, dedicated, smart, and a total badass who can throw punches that kind of freak me out with their beauty. They are clean, sharp, powerful blows, full of grace and technique. Don't believe me? Check it out.
(Sensei is the guy in the orange pants, the one kicking some serious ass)
And after class?
We talk. And relax. Sensei talks us through stretching, encouraging us to open up both mind and body. We focus, we work, we laugh. This is the best kind of release I have found yet. After class I am tired, but kind of thrilled that I've lived to fight another day. I am happy. I am strong. The next day I still feel good, this is a slow-release type of medicine.
I don't always want to go to class (seriously, those white pants are a royal pain) but I know I'll be happy that I did. Kickboxing doesn't get rid of your troubles, but it gives you a new way of approaching them, and tapping into a strength within yourself. And you get mad ninja cred.
Ugh. After further perusal, I realize the title of this post sounds like the rejected name for a children's book, or some gruesome HBO series about murder! Yeesh. Oh well. Unless I think of something better, it stays. I didn't want this entry to contain the phrases "anglophilia" or "London Calling" or any of that other shit that's been done to death.
With the Olympic games upon us in 9 days (I'M SO EXCITED! I'M SO FREAKING EXCITED!) I can't wait to watch swimming (Ryan Lochte!) track, and volleyball the most. The eyes of the world are once again on London, the city where (I think) the brightest and most interesting parts of culture are being created daily. As a New Yorker, I've got to say, London's got a better deal going on. Call me (a traitor), maybe.
First of all, before I delve into personal stories, I need to talk about the Olympics briefly. I hear the city is buzzing now. I would give anything to be there. Formerly dodgy parts of town have been completely made over, often to the detriment of the lower income people who live(d) there. It's very interesting and thought provoking - is it good the city has been given a facelift? Who really benefits, once the games are over? It'll be interesting to see.
Even more important than that are these two questions:
1.) Who designed the fucking Olympic mascots?!?! These are the stuff nightmares are made of! Why would I be excited about coming to an event hosted by two giant, terrifying cyclops?! Why can't we just have some kind of friendly English bear, in the style of Paddington? Or even a cute little crafty fox? Not this anime clusterfuck of fear.
2.) Who designed the Olympic logo??!? This is almost as bad as the mascots. For a city with remarkable contributions to art and architecture, these Olympics seem to be kind of shameful in terms of public relations and design. I mean look at this. It's no inkblot test, but when I look at it, I see a cubist rendition of Lisa Simpson performing *ahem* inappropriate acts. Do you see it? It's like a lowbrow Magic Eye!
Ta-Da. Now I ruined the logo for you too.
I love the United Kingdom, and the years spent there were hands down the happiest I have ever been. So many things about the state of living there were well-suited to me. In London, you can keep all the best aspects of city living - museums, pubs, culture, theatre, beautiful architecture, mass transit- and still enjoy a less hectic pace of life. I never felt as rushed there as I do in New York. There was time to stop and smell the gorgeous English roses.
My favorite part of town was, and still remains the South Bank. Many, many happy hours were spent wandering up and down the waterfront, enjoying the view, and just thinking. I graduated down here, got drunk with my mom and my closest friends here, ate the best food in the world, saw the most incredible plays I've ever seen, and been on the best first date of my life. Seriously. An evening of good conversation and beers, capped off with kissing a ridiculously attractive guy under trees strung with lights, whilst looking out at this view?!? It was fantastic.
What does the area have that makes it so great? Where do I start?
*Water view! Houses of Parliament! Big Ben! Bridges! It's an architectural feast for the eyes
*The path - good for exercise, slow moseys, or romantic strolls
*The National Theatre - producing the best shows I've ever seen. Play Without Words remains a production that changed my life forever. The best, most creative and well-done stuff is coming out of here. Also inside? The National Bookshop, a must for any theatre lover looking to track down the newest and greatest manuscripts for reading. Spent hours there. Dying to go back.
*The British Film Institute (BFI). Not only a remarkable source for both mainstream and off-the-beaten-path cinema, but there's a bar and cafe inside with delicious food and drink. A favorite hang out spot with friends, or to write.
*THE GLOBE THEATRE. Speaks for itself!
*Wagamama....whatever. Don't judge me. It's my favorite.
London meant everything. The place itself is like pure comfort for me. It's the only place that I ever feel like I've come home, and I can never get enough.
Why am I not there now? The explanation is a sad and simple one. When my dad got sick, I was finishing up my thesis for grad school, intent on staying after graduation. But my family was struggling to care for him, so I flew back the USA, figuring I would apply to extend my visa from there in a few months, after I had helped Mom settle Dad in recovery a bit more.
When you apply for a post-grad visa, there are some certain prerequisites...and I met them all...except for a slight miscalucation of money (yes, they want to make sure you have enough money, and aren't some poor person looking to make a better life for themself). Due to a ripple in the ever fluctuating dollor-to-pound ratio, I was about $8 short of the required funds in my bank account. So my request was denied. I wrote everyone and called all the phone numbers at the embassy, consulate, visa processing centers. I sobbed. I said I had the money and could fix it easily. I tried to explain the only reason I was filing in America was due to a sick parent. No one gave a fuck. Get out, stay out was the message, loud and clear. Even now, flying back for a rare and precious visit, I am held at the airport for extensive periods and interrogated as persona non grata, an unwelcome interloper who wanted to stay in the country she loved, but was just a few bucks shy.
This morning, after 12+ hours of glorious, back-from-the-dead sleep....I was late to work. And I hate being late. It makes me so anxious, puts my stomach in knots, and causes curse words to explode from my mouth like lava from Dante's Peak (but my mood is never so sour that I can't slip in a sweet 90s disaster flick reference- just don't leave grandma in the acid water).
Time got away from me, and I ended up having to take a cab and still being 15 minutes late. Thank God my co-workers are totally awesome and acknowledged that this kind of nonsense happens to everybody at some point.
I hated to be late not only because it makes me feel awful, but because I really love my new job and don't want to mess anything up! It's been a long time since I've felt that way too.
During tax time, it's not unusual for people in the arts to sudden have a dozen W-4s show up at their door. We move and travel, take lots of small gigs for long or short periods of time in order to make our lives work, to pursue our passions.
I am nearly 30 years old. And I have held over 30 jobs.
I'm not going to list them here. For those stories you'll have to purchase the book (when it gets published, of course) that my friend A and I are writing together. Maybe it will even start as a blog. Isn't that how she did it in Julie & Julia? Obviously I take all my life cues from Meryl Streep films.We're figuring it out, but it's going to be super awesome! Shameless publicity for a product that doesn't even exist in completed form yet! Hooray!
But when people ask "What do you do?" The answer is something in the ballpark of "I'm an artist and a clockpuncher. Only one of them pays my electric bill." Then I go on to explain whatever my most recent clockpunching gig is. It's been retail management. Teaching. Waitressing. Reception. Executive Assisting. Visual merchandising. And so on (buy the book that's not done yet!) Not all the jobs were rough - some were great! I loved teaching in the summer. Even though I don't think of myself as a teacher, it was an awesome time. Probably because the kids weren't used to having someone tell them like it is, which is my big mouth at work specialty. For example I had a really troubled student who was disruptive, explosively tempered with his classmates, and just wanted to mess around and not actually learn. He turned in what was supposed to be a 1-page reflection on something we had done in class, but was instead 3 lines on ripped, dirty paper. During our student-teacher conference, I silently pulled out the assignment, showed him what it was, and crumpled it into a ball in front of him.
"This is garbage." I said. "Never turn in something like this to me again."
The other students, on the whole, were terrific. Really great, smart young people who were psyched to learn about theatre. I've kept in touch with a bunch of them, and it's very rewarding to hear about the schools they're going to, the plays they're in, and how much they're loving high school. It's great.
For years and years I thought I could be ok doing anything, as long as I had time to write or perform. I did a lot of shitty jobs for slaves wages. I lived paycheck to paycheck, frequently walked everywhere to avoid buying a Metrocard, and more times than I'd like to admit, had a ketchup sandwich (it's exactly what it sounds like) for dinner. I was never on the verge of being homeless or anything, and my parents have always had my back should emergency strike (and it did) but I wasn't exactly rolling in the dough. I'm a very thrifty person, and I'm continually working to accrue savings, and be careful with my expenditures.
But this year, the perfect storm of instances caused me to take a long hard look at how I was living the majority of my life. The company I had been working for was bought out by thoroughly unpleasant people, and those of us with higher salaries were forced out via cuts and a miserable work environment. Suddenly, I was back to square one, two years and a plan down the drain. Along with a large number of my peers, I was unemployed. And I was scared sick. I pounced on the first offer that came to me, which turned out to be assisting a washed up alcoholic millionairess from the claustrophobic pen of her apartment. That lasted 2 weeks. Back to sheer terror. Not eating much. Staying home most of the time.
And then I woke up.
And I got very, very lucky due to the generosity of friends, real dear people who watch out for me.
I realized that I didn't want to do crappy jobs for bad money. That freedom of time suddenly didn't matter, because I wasn't getting any writing done. The hustle of working all those jobs had left me with no time to persue my passions anyway. I wanted stability. And security. The rest of it I would figure out in time, but I wanted, and desperately needed, to grow the fuck up.
Friends heard of a job in their office and passed it along to me. And that is where I have found my grown up job, and a new happiness. I have a big-girl paycheck, with health, dental and a 401k to back it up. I am not going to work with dread or fear. I adore my colleagues, enjoy the projects I am given, and am grateful beyond words. Apparently, there is even room to grow in this company! And it's not all in New York, should I need to seek out new places. It's a whole world of possibility and I'm really excited for all of it. Fingers crossed. And the best part is now....I am writing again. Suddenly, the 9-5 isn't a trap, it's the new freedom I was looking for.
Yesterday, I was honored to become the "official" godmother of one of my best friend's two young sons. The emotional weight of such a great honor didn't really hit me until this morning, when I just beamed like a doofus on the train into work. Because although I don't consider myself religious, this was pretty much a guarantee that these kids, who I love so freaking much, will be a part of my life forever.
Being a godparent is essentially promising that you will try to be a positive influence in the child's life. You'll look out for them like a parent would...a super-cool guardian who only reports to Jesus! HA. Considering these boys have phenomenal parents I doubt there's much else I can offer them, besides the potential for buying toys their folks don't approve of when they get a bit older.
Standing up in this church, and vowing to be a spiritual advisor/guide for these two boys was kind of a surreal experience for me. Maybe because the church itself was hot as hell? (Truth. There were fans but they weren't on! What the freak is that all about?) I was as grumpy and fussy as the children were! Maybe it was the fact that the "body of Christ, the bread of heaven" was a bit on the dry side? (Jesus was ashy). Or perhaps it was the fact that I have a strange and unusual (and continually evolving) relationship with my faith.
Here's the rundown. My father is an ambivalent Episcopalian. My mother is a practising (but more liberal-minded) Catholic. Their powers combined....created kind of a funky upbringing. My brother was baptised in my dad's church, and me in Mom's. It was like choosing teams for dodgeball. The Episcopalians were quicker, but the Catholics could take a hit. So technically, I should have a big "C" for Catholic stamped under my "Made in USA" label. Growing up, I attended both Mass and Church with my folks. Switching back and forth wasn't too confusing. It was really only a difference in wording and chuch location. My dad's church is this beautiful historic Southern building, and the nearest Catholic mass was in an unappealing little box on the base (remember: military). So I obviously preferred the prettier one. THEN....I got sent to an Episcopal school. For a very long time. Where I was required to dress nicely and attended services every Wednesday. So when you consider that I was going to church twice a week for about 10 years I think I chalked up enough churchin' for a lifetime. And because I'd been attending both services, I didn't really identify as one or the other denomenation anymore.
My feelings are thus: I believe (and if you don't that's fine, this is just me here) that your faith is a private thing between you and God. My behavior, my joy, my fears and concerns are for us alone. I don't feel the need to involve others. It's not their business. Some have said "but what about the need for community?" and while I understand that, it's not a hole in my life I need to fill. I have a family I love fiercely, friends I love like family, even work colleagues I am crazy super fond of. I'm already a part of several communities. I don't really need more. I'm all good. So when I stood up there yesterday and promised to do my best to create a community of faith with the boys, I promised (in my heart) that I would let them find their own way, figure out what they do and don't believe for themselves, and just be there if they wanted to talk about it.
I think I still believe in God. There have been times when I'm so enraged and disheartened by life that I doubt God is real. But I know so many good, smart, people of stalwart faith. How can they be so sure? Maybe they just have their heads screwed on straighter than I do?
I don't know. Faith is too big a thing for me to have figured out at this point in the game. I'll just stick to the Church of Friday Night Lights....Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can't Lose. Not bad words to live by.
Please forgive this late posting. I was too busy having fun in Ohio yesterday to publish this (even though it was ready to go) then my plane got delayed and then cancelled and my phone died, and blogging just slid down the priority list. I guess that means today will be a DOUBLE POST!!! Oooh fancy.
This is going to sound trite, but when you go to school for something, and work really hard to make it happen, THEN IT DOES, you are still kind of surprised and delighted that you pulled it off.
I had a play on, here in New York. Being a writer, a playwright, that is kind of a huge deal to me. To find my place in the New York theatre community is a lifelong dream.
(Elephant in the room: Have I had a play on since? Honestly, no. But I have about six working manuscripts, long and short, that are being tinkered with and dusted off after a long hiatus. I am starting again. My family situation, and the depression with which I have struggled, culminated in the most God-Almighty writers block. All my stories have been ones of loss, grief and anger, because that's all I could wrap my brain around. I just needed time. And the curtain, the haze, is slowly lifting. I am coming back to literary life.)
I wrote the play as my final thesis for graduate school. The plot revolves around a bullied student who, for his high school English class, writes a play about a Columbine-esque school massacre. The play becomes a tug of war between the school's principal (who wants the boy expelled) and his English teacher (who claims that the play is just a way to express himself) with the student caught in the middle. Not to toot my own horn, but I really do think it's good. It's honest and tries to tackle some pretty big (and still, sadly very relevant) issues, such as bullying, freedom of speech, and the atmosphere of fear and violence in schools. It received a warm reception in performance, and many other theatres were interested, but because I am no one of note, it didn't find another audience. I hope that changes. I think it could really have a very positive impact. When people leave, they talk about it, debate the issues, which is exactly what I want to happen with my work. In fact, at the end of one performance, my friend overheard an old man exclaim (because you know the elderly have no idea how loud they speak, and that cracks me up) "I'm really worried about the guy who wrote that play!" God, if we had more money for publicity I would've loved that quote splashed across the poster!
The team for the show - director, cast and production was stellar. We were very lucky to get them. The actor we had playing the student - I maintain he is going to be a big deal and I'll get to brag he was in my play - blew my mind and broke my heart every single time. It was funny, because when he came in for the audition, I just muttered "that's our guy" because I felt it. It was instinct, and in this case, it was spot on.
My brother flew all the way out from LA to see the show. I was completely blown away by this gesture, the willingness to travel so far to support me. It meant so much, especially because our parents couldn't make it, due to my dad's illness. Having missed my graduation, I shouldn't have been surprised he was too sick to come to New York, but not having your parents see your first big show is hard. I know how much they wanted to be there too. Sometimes, life is in fact just a bitch.
