Day Twenty-Six: And Then There Was Weekend...

Fingers crossed (and I have super long fingers, so obviously all my wishes come true*) that I get released from work early today for the Labor Day long weekend.

*Uhm, like 1 in 24 of my wishes come true.

That being said, I'm feeling pretty good heading into the weekend. Lots to be feeling cheerful and grateful for. "Other Fam" seems to be doing much much better, I totally nailed my Gluten-free week (going to attempt to expand into next week) and dodged a bullet (Bang! Don't Bang!) avoiding the advances of a guy who was not worth the time.

I suppose this week's theme could be described as "staying true to ____."
Staying true to my loyalties.
Staying true to my healthier-living resolution.
Staying true to myself by holding out for something real with someone worth it.

Now. Reality check. I will inevitably falter.

I will be totally thoughtless.
I will gorge on pizza until I'm like Pizza the Hut.
(I Google-Imaged "Pizza the Hut" from Spaceballs but was still so totally grossed out I can't bring myself to post his picture. Subsequently, I will instead give you a shot of delicious pizza, which I am craving so much it's kind of embarrassing.)

Half an hour later.....

Now that I'm done drooling over pixel images of pizza, where was I? Oh yass.
I'm really holding firm on the last one. Something real with someone worth it.  This doesn't mean all my decisions will suddenly be perfect, but I hope they'll be smarter.

Last but not least, guys...I'm struggling. I don't mind that Clint Eastwood is a Republican. I don't. He's a very talented man who's had an extraordinary life and career. But can we all agree that the "talking to the chair" bit at the RNC was SUPER embarrassing? I'm pretty sure most of America was a bit uncomfortable. Like "Grandpa, I'm sitting over here. Nobody is in that chair."

Day Twenty-Five: Putting the "No" in Nostalgia

Yesterday, I had a big 90s throwback kind of day. Lots of boy-band nonsense music, awkward white girl dancing, and reminiscing about how cool (and frequently hideous) it was to attend junior high and high school at the end of the milennium.

 My head swirled with stupid, happy memories. Pogs, NO SCRUBS! the macarena, Fresh Prince, ring pops, that hilarious garbage that cluttered young heads. It's kind of a miracle not all of us turned out to be completely useless, with Slurpees for brains. It was a lot of fun to think about. I had a big goofy grin on my face the whole day. How could I not?

We were chatting about how life seemed "so much better" in the 90s....well of course it did. I didn't pay rent because I lived at home. I went to school. My parents paid for food, clothes, everything. Of course it was easier! I frequently think (and I don't think I'm the only one) how amazing it would be to put my 30 year old mind into my 15 year old body, just for a few days. Oh God. I would LIVE. IT. UP.
If only to be that much more intelligent and confident. To know that junior high is in fact, not the end of the world. I'd re-write the book.

Maybe in another 15 years (gulp) 45 year old me will look back at me now and think the same thing. And that gives me pause. I hope I'm living it up right now as much as I can. Granted, I have a lot more responsibilities! I pay rent, and underwrite for my own food, clothes, and transportation. I pay taxes, for God's sake! There's emotional differences too. I'm packin' degrees. I've been in and out of love. I vote. I get drunk (sometimes). I get mad (sometimes). Ha - I'd say I curse but I knew all those words by 2nd grade! I make tougher decisions now....much harder than "does this Trapper Keeper truly express how cool I am?"

Guys, I HAD this Trapper Keeper. Yes. A Catwoman Trapper Keeper. And I would give anything to still have it. But I used it (5th Grade!) til it turned to dust.

I think the freedoms and priveledges of being an adult far outweigh the tough stuff. It's fun to think about kid things (like how great and weird the movie Dick Tracy was), but I wouldn't go back, unless it was to tell 15 year old me to relax, enjoy it, you're going to be ok. Will 45 year old me look back and say the same? Hope not. But considering how far I've come in the last 15 years, I can only imagine that 45 year old me is going to be part cyborg. Neat.

Day Twenty-Four: Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

We go together cuz opposites attract!

Seriously, though, if you re-watch the "Opposites Attract" video, I think you might be as weirded out as I was. This sexually aggressive lothario of a cartoon cat is basically like "Oh Paula, you so fine" and then they dance. Is that how cartoon-human courtship was back in the olden days? Oh come on. We've all had crushes on cartoons before, right? It's the ultimate can't have...the crush on the person who's not even real.

As far as I was concerned, this was the most romantic thing ever in the world. (sigh.)

Today was the first day that really felt like autumn while I was walking to work. About 70 degrees, crisp and sunny with a light breeze. My favorite. I'm pretty crazy about the fall, and the tiniest hint that it's on the horizon puts me in an excellent mood. The smells (fresh air! leaves! pumpkin things!) and feels are the best. It's like comforting sense overload! I know I'm getting a bit ahead of myself here - I think it's going back up to 93 degrees on Friday - but I'm ready to snuggle up and enjoy the fall.

I can snuggle up by myself but admittedly, it would be more fun with two. You know what I mean? Single snuggles just aren't as fun. I took a look through my phone. Nobody I really should call. Is revisiting a good idea? It hasn't really seemed to work for me before. Ok, it's actually never worked for me. Why revisit spending time with someone who obviously wasn't invested in you? How many 2nd, 3rd, 4th chances do we give it? It can be fun...but in the long run?

For every two steps forward, sometimes I take two steps back too. How can I find the right guy if I keep revisiting the old ones out of some kind of fear/laziness hybrid? Getting to know people, especially as someone kind of shy (don't laugh, jackass, it's true - I fake extrovert like a pro) is really hard. Maybe I'm making it more of an ordeal than it actually is, but sometimes even simple questions feel like they have difficult answers. Sigh. I'm working on it. I'll keep working on it. Moving Forward. I remember that was a big recurring theme, and nobody said it was going to be easy (can't ONE goddamn thing just be easy?!?)

Two steps forward. Two steps forward.

Day Twenty-Three: Feeling Helpless

Few things in the world make a person as miserable as the feeling of utter, useless, helplessness. That no matter how passionately we care and want to contribute constructively, there's nothing we can do to change the situation. We just have to live with it.

Yesterday, one of my best friends (and her entire family, whom I love and refer to as "my other fam") was having an incredibly tough day, filled with hospital time, long-distance phone calls, muttered prayers to higher powers, and anxiety. The type of day you wouldn't wish on anybody, but it pains you particularly to see happening to ones you care deeply for.

So I sat at my desk, sending texts and messages of love and support, unable to help in any other way, shape or form. It sucked and I hated it. Does that make sense? I wish there was more I could have done. I mean, I know messages are "comforting" in a sense, but having been through similar situations myself, I just wish there were more I could do, to be supportive without getting in the way. We don't live in the same state, so I couldn't even be like "stay at the hospital as long as you need, I'll walk your dog" or whatever.

As I had these thoughts and stewed in my own sadness and anxiety, I wondered why I felt this deep desire to help. The answer seems simple at first "you care about this family, and you want to support them during a hard time." But then the more I think about it, the bigger and more important that idea feels to me. We cannot fix things that are beyond us. I can't cure disease, change history, or fly. All I have to offer is my heart and shoulder, and I will always give it freely to the people I love. The sensible part of my brain knows there's nothing I can personally do, short of my good wishes. I can't leave work and hop on a plane, and frankly, even though they feel like family, it's not my place to do so. Can you go too far for friends? I'd like to think the answer is no, but I'm not certain. You have to figure out where you fit in and contribute in the way that's most appropriate for you. In my case, it was supportive messages, and the offer of help if needed. I hope Other Fam knows they can call me if they really do need me.

I'm like Ghostbusters..if you need me, call...and I'll be even more likely to answer if this cake makes an appearance....look at the Slimer detail! Awesome!

Makes you long for the days of Hi-C Ecto Cooler, amiright??

But truly, as for my friend...even though I don't name names for privacy's sake, keep the good people in your thoughts today. I haven't really prayed in a long time, but I keep friends in my heart, and hope that today you'll do the same.

Day Twenty-Two: Creative Lighting

Monday. Despite starting the day off with a delicious cup of coffee, smugly healthy breakfast, and exercise, I am super tired. I remain stuck on my script, and not really inspired by anything. This is ok. I'm not freaking out, I'm just kind of...meh. Meh happens. I think Meh becomes worse as the summer ends, so I'm confident I'll get my stride back in the next week or so. Fingers crossed.

So...since my creative writing seems to still be a bit stuck, I'll delve into...Creative Lighting. I told you a while back I have a huge appreciation for it, for reasons I can't quite put into words. To make art with light and shadow? To shape and manipulate something that can't be touched? Maybe it seems odd to be so effusive about the topic, but I think it plays out on the same field as questions like why do we like sunsets? Why do we like fireworks? Christmas lights - variations on the use of light and color. I think it's partially a primal reaction....namely one of "oooh, shiny."

One of my most favorites is the clever winding of white lights, often called "fairy lights."

I think what makes them so interesting to use is the fact that they can be wound around something to emphasize an unusual shape (like tree branches) and draw attention to the object in a great and beautiful way. In this photo alone, the trees looks like huge lightening strikes. How. Cool. Is. That.


Another thing I like is displaying a lightbulb like a piece of art itself, and not shielding it with a lampshade. This is helped if the bulbs are not uber-bright to begin with, otherwise it'll just give you a massive headache. Lightbulbs hung from the ceiling in a kind of industrial, mad-laboratory syle make the end result, to me, like homemade stars in the sky.

In a similar vein, putting candles in hung jars is like a rustic version of the hanging lightbulbs. I love this one too. It's crazy romantic.

Sparklers: The controlled explosion on a stick.

Genius.

Last, but most certainly not least, I really admire the way that many of our National monuments are lit at night. Obviously a great deal of thought and care went into the designs, and it shows. To make marble seem to glow from within?!? That takes freaking TALENT, man! Lots of careful back and under-lighting, to compliment and underscore legendary architecture. Seriously, most cities (but DC has some of the greatest) take time to light their pride at night, it might be worth taking the car out some evening and just driving around. I think you may be really pleasantly surprised at how awesome and beautiful it looks.

Day Twenty-One: The Early Bird Sits and Waits

Before we begin, I need to explain that I am typing this on my phone at a Starbucks in the outer reaches of Queens way too early for a Sunday morning. Subsequently, typos should be blamed on exhaustion, my clumsy fingers, and Queens itself (just because).

I am due to meet friends at 10:30, yet I've been here since 9:30. Why was I an hour early? Because I hate being late. Running late, holding up plans, greatly upsets me. As a kid I had the fear of God put into me about being late. I was told its rude (which is true) and felt like being late meant you had screwed up the plans (maybe) and everyone would be upset with you. The solution of course was to be early! But for some reason my family doesn't seem to deal in regular early, like 5-10 minutes ahead of schedule....we always seem to be 40+minutes ahead of the game. Dad used to drop me at school about 45 minutes before other students began to show up. And frankly it sucked. And I kind of hate that it's become so deeply embedded in my psyche that if I think I might be late, I get super anxious and upset. Blech. I need de-programming. Punctual is fine, but stupidly early is not. Because the early bird does NOT really get "the worm." The early bird gets "a" worm but so does the bird who had the good sense to chill out and sleep in a bit.

Surprisingly, this took longer to type than usual (oh fingers, y u so slow?) and I can't properly upload a funny photo, so I shall simply bid you adieu and wish you a Happy Sunday. X

Day Twenty: Seeing Ghosts

Grabbing a quick moment to write, in between grocery shopping, errand running, and cleaning up the domestic. Sitting on the couch drinking V8 and munching on kale chips like a massive, health-conscious yuppie tool. But OK with it for now. The kale is so damn good.

This is what I'm eating right now. For realsies. 9-Year-Old Me is so dismayed.

Yesterday I had TWO instances where I thought I saw people I used to know. I was absolutely living that Gotye song. They're not dead (I've had those moments too and they freaked me the fuck out) but the people are "ghosts" from my life, as in they are not present anymore. And I know that genetic makeup limits how many variations of "looks" there are, but geez man, two ghosts in one day?

*I thought I saw P. I was sitting outside having lunch with C, when a guy walked by who looked just like him, down to the hair (color AND style) and aviator sunglasses. And while in the moment I "knew" it wasn't him, now I'm second guessing myself. There's no way P would be in this part of town, dressed in business attire. He works uptown and wears jeans and plaid button-downs. Also, he hates businessmen. It wasn't him. But I guess what mattered was my reaction - startled, for sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to throw up or pass out. I felt a bit sad for a moment, then just said to myself "It's not him" and refocused on my conversation with C. Good, I think. Good.

*Later on that evening, I went out with C and B (visit more often, B!) and thought I saw a girl I haven't spoken to in years. We used to be very close friends. I adored her. She wasn't without her flaws, even during our friendship I knew that, but I had such happy memories of our time together - mix tapes, coffees, and long talkative drives - that I didn't mind. And then, to make a very long story short, everything fell apart, she referred to someone I love as "the devil" and I was done. But then the person I'd be breathing much too shallowly behind turned around and it wasn't her. Deep sigh of relief. One day. Two bullets dodged.

Last thought, not on ghosts...

*I don't think Robert Pattinson (OF COURSE I HAVE OPINIONS ON THIS) should get back together with Kristen Stewart. He can forgive her, that's his choice or no, but sometimes a person is simply a cheater. And it's best not to continue to be with them. I really do believe that there's no such thing as "getting lost in the moment" with infidelity. I had an opportunity to cheat once in a relationship. And I was sorely tempted. But I didn't, because I have been cheated on myself, and would never do that to my partner, even if my feelings and desires to stray were a clear indication we were heading towards our conclusion. I strongly believe we owe a modicum of respect to at least the memory of what the relationship was. You want out? Then get out. After that you're free to do whatever you want with others. Cheating sucks.

*I am somewhat alarmed that all I've talked about today are my eating habits, disdain for cheaters, and fear of running into people I used to love. I am so lame. Argh. Hmph. Here is a picture of Kool-Aid Man.

Sweet, fruity anarchy! Oh Yeahhhh! Happy Saturday. x

Day Nineteen: Coming Un-Glu-tened.

I was reading a really interesting article in Men's Journal (yes) last weekend - an interview with a physician who re-tooled his practice by paying more attention to what his patients were eating and drawing (often correct) conclusions between what they consumed and how frequently they felt ill. I mean, when you think about it, it's common sense. Eat crap. Feel like crap. But in this instance, walking the walk seems to be much more difficult than talking the talk. I'll use myself as an example. Sugar isn't good for you. When consumed in abundance on a daily basis, it leads to a myriad of health problems.

I know this. I do.

But if you were my doctor and you told me I couldn't get sugary delicious iced coffee every morning anymore, I would smile politely and then punch you in the throat and run for my life. You'll have to pry this latte out of my cold, dead hands! Of course, because I consume too many of these lattes, I'd probably get down the street before I start wheezing and complaining about the stitch in my side.

That's a very roundabout way of saying I have no intention of giving up caffeine or sugar, both of which I know aren't good for you. In my 20s, I developed a bit of a fussy stomach, largely due to poor habits and lack of stress management skills. Often it feels like my stomach is a washing machine, but instead of churning and whirling soapy water, it's throwing acid violently around my insides.

So back to the article. The doctor said that the first thing he does with new patients is to remove sugar (no fucking way) and gluten from their diets. I didn't really know much about Gluten-free eating. Apparently, even those without Celiac disease can sometimes experience inflamation and discomfort from consumption of foods containing gluten, because wheat and grains have been so cross-super-bred to resist bugs and weather that it's like a foreign body our system doesn't understand how to digest. Interesting.

I think fad diets are stupid. I hope that someday the Atkins diet is credited with a generation's worth of heart disease, because it is so goddamn illogical. Was it really possible, that everyone thought "I'm eating all this cheese and bacon, I'm sure my arteries are free and clear." I think the Paleo diet sounds incredibly dull, and nobody really wants to consume 2 Slim Fasts or bowls of Special K every day for the rest of their lives. So how can I at least try to eat better? Inspired by the doctor in this article, I'm going to try eating Gluten free next week. Just to see how it makes me feel. I don't think it's going to be some kind of huge lifestyle overhaul, but hopefully it will inspire me to find a few new creative ways of ingesting things that are better for me. The only part that sucks is my grocery bill is going to be so much bigger now. Sigh. Well, it's only a week-long experiment. We'll see how it goes. I'll keep you posted.

Goodbye for now, my delicious, life-shortening friends.

Guys, my work crush looks SO HANDSOME today and he just held the door (like he does) for a bunch of ladies. Viva Gentlemen. Viva Chivalry. Viva Work Crushes.

Day Eighteen: This Is Why We Vote

The other day I came home late after the Mets game, to my roommate and Australian houseguest (who is 21 and so cute and so young that my mind plays "Pretty Young Thing" just looking at him) and found an incredibly important piece of correspondance perched precariously above the mailboxes. It was a piece of paper confirming that I am now a registered New York state voter.

I've voted in every presidential election in which I have had the great priveledge to partake, and will of course do it again this November. I believe that if you don't get out there and vote, then I don't have to listen to you complain when the elected official does something you don't like. Because you didn't even try to change things for the better. You had the chance to be counted, and you stayed home.

Fun story about Election night 2008. Spent the night at "The American Bar" in a fancy London hotel, flanked by an Australian guy, an Irish guy, and a dude from LA. (He's a dude. I think he'd agree.) Pretty much the best, most intelligent and hilarious company a girl could ask for, even though it sounds like the setup for a terrible joke. We drank overpriced beer, ate spicy bar snacks, and waited for history to be made. I was most nervous watching the votes come in from Virginia, the state I was still a registered voter from. A ballot is always special, but in that moment, I felt like my absentee ballot from a swing state just contributed to something important, something much bigger than I'd ever be. When the announcement was official - Mr. Barack Obama was the President-Elect of the United States of America, it was like the kickoff to the happiest night on earth. The guys and I all hugged. "Way to not fuck this up!" the Irishman congratulated me. "We can actually go home again," said the dude from LA. "This guy from Texas won't stop hitting on me" said the Australian. It was a pretty perfect night. Then I rode the tube with the Irishman at 5am and he smeared newspaper all over my face, like you do when you're friends. So I arrived home that morning, tired, happy and hopeful, with newsprint on my face and a tiny American flag clutched in my hands.

Going into this election, 2008 seems like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way with the passage of time between elections. There are a lot of important issues, and while I try to watch the news and read a few papers a day, I'm not as up on the issues as I'd like to be. I'm thinking a lot about gun legislation, the armed forces overseas, marriage equality and the creation of jobs. Those are my big picture thoughts. But the one that is currently scaring the ever-living crap out of me is the closest to my body, the abortion debate.

WARNING: Again, as always, the following is a collection of thoughts and opinions.
This is a blog. 

Akin, the Republican nominee to gain a US Senate seat in Missouri, made some mind-meltingly ignorant (both scientifically and emotionally) statements about abortion and rape. I'm sure you've heard it before, but here's the bullet point recap:

• “It seems to me, first of all, from what I understand from doctors, that’s really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.” - Akin
• "To suggest there are different categories of rape — some real and awful and others that are not — is loathsome....stunning in its stupidity and insensitivity...in a long-running effort to downplay the horror of rape as a way to restrict access to abortion.  " -Washington Post
• Further evidence of a GOP effort to minimize rape came earlier this year when Congress considered whether to rewrite the rape exception in federal abortion funding bans by including the phrase “forcible” ahead of "rape." RAPE IS RAPE. Among the bill’s 227 co-sponsors was Paul Ryan, Mitt Romney’s running mate.

I personally believe Akin meant and holds everything he said to be true. Abortion has been a core issue for his campaign. It wasn't a slip of the tongue. There have been beautifully written articles, penned by men and women alike (most notably Eve Ensler), reacting to Akin's words. What little I can contribute to an already monumental argument, is this:

Mr. Akin, I have three close friends (that I know of) who have been raped. And the thought that a.) you have no idea how science actually works and b.) you would dare trivialize ANY of these traumas, or have the indecency to refer to them as "illegitimate" breaks my heart and makes me want to make sure you never hold political office again. Have you ever comforted someone after a rape? You can't. You can hold them, and tell them you'll do anything to keep them safe. You can tell them there will be justice against the one who hurt them. You can say a lot of things. But you can never take away the searing agony that they are living through. You can't make them feel safe. You can't help them trust people. You can't help them on the anniversary of the day, because that's one they'll never forget. How can you, a man with a wife and daughters, feel...nothing towards women who live through this? "Violated" isn't even the tip of the iceberg. Would you really rebuff your own daughter, should she get pregnant by a rapist? Would a tiny piece of your mind think "she must have led him on, or she really enjoyed it, because there's no way she'd have a baby otherwise." Would you insist she keep it, and "make the best out of a bad situation?" Would you be content to look at your grandchild's face, and see parts of a man who forced himself upon the most private aspects of her body? Can you really live like that? I know it's not the child's fault, not at all. But that doesn't mean a woman should be forced to carry it to term. There is no mercy in that, none whatsoever.
When I think about the chance that this could happen to me, I lose my breath. These politicians who want to hold the highest seats of power might potentially force me to give birth to my rapists child.
Doesn't matter that I'm not sure I want kids.
Doesn't matter that I don't make nearly enough money to provide for a child.
Doesn't matter the physical ordeal that pregnancy and childbirth is - the toll it takes on ones body.
None of it matters, because to Akin and an alarming number of people who think like him, my body didn't deploy it's magical baby-repellant in time, so I've got live with the consequences of being near the wrong person at the worst possible time.

HOW FUCKING DARE YOU.

This is my body.
You are not welcome.
You have no power here.
And God help me, armed with my ballot, I'll do my best to ensure you never have any right to dictate what happens to it.

And you know what else? You (yes, you) have the right to completely disagree with me. And you've got a ballot too.
This is Why We Vote.

Day Seventeen: Going on Eighteen...

If you don't get that's a reference to The Sound of Music, then you are dead inside and the terrorists have won. Poor Rolfe. Talk about the other shoe dropping in a relationship. One minute you're dancing in the rain, and the next thing you know your boyfriend is a Nazi. Sadzilla.

Yesterday's post was heavy. Why do serious things happen on Tuesdays? But thank you for the outpouring of positive response. It took a long time to be ready to write/publish that, so to have many others say it meant something to them was a great relief.
For today, I'd like to take things in an entirely different direction, to lighten up a bit for humpty-hump day, I'm going to share with you a few awesome things about myself.
Happy Narcissist Wednesday!

1.) I can go en pointe in Converse.

2.) I attended Latin conventions in high school.
And not Latin like Hispanic culture. That would have at least been useful. Latin, like Junior Classicists who were all about amo, amas, amat and carpe-ing the diem like whoa. We travelled to Richmond to take Latin tests, wear bedsheet togas, and meet other nerds who, like us, would have to wait many years for a sexual encounter. They were SO MUCH FUN.

3.) I have a permanent lower retainer.
In order to maintain some semblance of order once the braces came off, my beloved orthodontist straight up fused a retainer to my lower teeth, because they are very affectionate and want to be way too close together. Bits of apple are the most easily stuck. And it has definitely startled the crap out of a makeout buddy. Sometimes it's incredibly irritating. But then I think that it's a lot better than the headgear and rubber bands that used to occupy my poor teeth. Nothing says sexy like headgear. (Between the headgear and Latin conventions, I think I'm painting a pretty clear picture of exactly why I was such a late bloomer - but I have great teeth and an impressive vocabulary, so I think I came out ahead of the game).

4.) I won't tell anybody the perfume I wear because I am jealous and paranoid.
It's just that I've never met anyone else who wears it, so I like to think that I'm the only person in the world who smells so damn good.

5.) Last summer I got so sunburned you can still see it.
Oh man. By the time I got to LA last year, I was clamoring for a trip to the beach. All I wanted was to sit by the ocean and forget my troubles. I made sure to apply plenty of sunscreen to my face, arms and back, but figured my legs could stand to get a bit of color. (The worst part is that I've totally made the same mistake before and obviously learned nothing. Idiot.) We sat out for hours, the cool breeze on my skin making it feel like the perfect temperature. It was only when I got inside that I realized my legs, specifically the top of my thighs, were RED. Not pink, not blush, but straight up blood in the water RED. And it hurt. Like a motherfucker. I could barely lie down. Clothes hurt. We bought aloe. We used ice. Why am I so stupid?
Eventually, I went back east, and the pain faded away. But the burns didn't. It peeled, and then the skin stayed darker. The reason I will obviously die from my own stupidity is that a year later you can still see the line of distinction between my real skin and the skin that fried. It looks like I am always wearing some kind of fleshtone thigh-highs. Sexy? Maybe?
A girl can hope.

5 1/2.) This exists. Totally getting it. *Dunk Dunk*

Day Sixteen: Out of Body, Out of Mind

With difficulty, he rises from his chair for the first time in hours and slowly paddles into the kitchen. I don’t bother to look. What could be so appealing as to pry him away from yet another marathon of NCIS? He’s hungry. I hear the drawer open and close. Crinkling plastic. And even though we just fed him dinner an hour ago, he can’t remember it, doesn’t feel it, and is on a quest to eat enough healthy snacks to render them useless.
    He’s seen this episode. In fact, he’s seen them all, at least five times. And I wish I were exaggerating, but I’m not. He spends all day sitting there, struggling to catch enough breath to rise from the chair and move to the bathroom or kitchen. Unpaid bills lie buried beneath piles of unread magazines, and unread correspondence from friends. His world is the television. If it’s not NCIS, it’s Law & Order, or House. He doesn’t remember what he’s watched, and he talks to the characters like they can hear him. He knows their backgrounds, what makes them tick, and speaks of them with a reverence that he only used to speak about people he really knew and cared about. He will sit all night in front of the mindless glow. 
This was the cycle of our lives for several years.
    My dad has dementia. He is 67 years old.

Dementia is an irreversible, degenerative loss of brain function, of which Alzheimer’s is the most common. Memory, thought, speech and behavior are the most noticeably affected. Though some medicines can potentially ease symptoms, there is no cure or treatment. According to the Alzheimer’s Association, over 60 percent of family caregivers report high levels of stress due to the prolonged duration of the illness and 33 percent report symptoms of depression. I spent my 29th birthday listening to a neurologist tell my father that his condition was growing rapidly worse, and his lost memories weren’t coming back. Dad didn’t understand a word of it. That night, as we cut the cake, he said “Thank you for breakfast.”

Birthdays have been unfortunate milestones of this journey. Three days after I turned 26 was his first heart attack. Mom didn’t even tell me immediately when it happened, because she knew I was neck-deep in my thesis, and though her intentions were good, the fact that she kept it quiet let me know just how severe it was. Dad had stints put in to open up the arteries in his heart, and was given new diet and exercise instructions. Thousands of miles away, through a wavering phone connection, her voice was tired, but optimistic. She said “we’re going to come through the other side of this stronger, and better than ever.”

       What happened in the short time since that hopeful long-distance phone call was a rapid degeneration of both body and mind, a fast and furious meltdown brought upon by causes both intangible and entirely preventable. How long were the signs there?  When we were growing up, sometimes we would be out to eat in a restaurant, or watching a DVD at home, and Dad would ask “Do I like this?” We’d laugh and say “of course you do, silly.” Because it was funny. We were joking. At least I thought we were.


Most people who survive a heart attack see it as a second chance, a new lease on life with their families. Dad ignored the doctor’s advice. Actually, he flaunted it. He refused to use an ordered sleep apnea machine, ate whatever he wanted, and sat in front of the TV all day. Boxes of papers and books from his old job sat untouched in the spare room for months. I finally just put them in the basement because he adamantly refused to address it. He rarely changed clothes or showered. We suggested he speak to a therapist and he angrily dismissed us. And then... he forgot. The names of people he’d worked with. He couldn’t remember directions to places he went every week. In the car, his anger would rise quickly and often, yelling at other drivers, speeding, cutting them off. He repeated stories and jokes he’d told only a few minutes before. Before we could switch our primary appointments from cardiology to neurology,  his heart failed again. Instead of seeing my first play produced in New York, he had a metal valve inserted  into his heart, along with a double bypass, and a small hole sewn closed. He was on the operating table for well over six hours.

In more self-pitying moments, I freely admit to feeling so completely screwed over. Why am I dealing with this now, while so many of my peers have healthy parents, successful careers, supportive partners, and happy lives? There is no answer. When I was young, and my grandfather was dying, Dad half-jokingly said “When I get to the point that I can’t take care of myself, I want you to take me out back and shoot me.” Granted, that’s a fucked-up thing to say to a nine year old, but it comes to mind frequently as I put on his jacket for him, or wheel his chair into the next doctor’s appointment. I wonder if he remembers having ever said it. I look at Dad, and think “He’s had so many chances to change his behavior for the better; to eat well, follow through with the physical therapy, heed the doctor’s orders, and he refuses to. I just struggle to keep in mind when his demeanor oscillates rapidly between frightening and heart-breaking that this isn’t the man who raised me. It’s all that’s left of him.

This is such a personal, frightening experience, it’s easy to cut off contact and move into isolation. Friends are too busy starting their careers or falling in love to understand what you’re going through, so you feel this is something that can only be dealt with alone. Bringing a new person into my life is daunting. Who would ever want to be part of this mess?  It is so easy to close yourself off. Isolation conjures up a terrifying darkness I never knew I had inside of me. In this instance, being solitary is no longer synonymous with independence, it is with fear and loneliness When I met P, I was so thrilled that someone wanted to come home to me at night, and hold me when I slept that I overlooked huge red flags in his behavior, simply because I was so desperate for support. I’d wanted someone who would take care of me every once in a while.

Today, Dad lives in an assisted living facility. There was no other choice. And it is slaughtering us every single day, emotionally and financially. It's only been for a few months, and it hurts every time - going home without him feels wrong. As for his mind, the tape loop is shorter. Now he has on average about two minutes before he begins to repeat the same phrases, questions, outbursts that make no sense. The deep laugh I once loved to hear now puts me on edge- he laughs too long, too loud, at situations that aren't funny. It scares me. I doubt it will ever feel ok, but it's our lives now. I can't change it, so I will keep on.

I think it is impossible to feel ready for this. You can't really prepare for it. The strain is great, and more often than not we find ourselves dealing with situations far beyond our years. We are going through hell. We are trying our best.
   
And we are most certainly not alone.

Day Fifteen: Up in Smoke

Yesterday, my mom studied me silently from across the dining table as I greedily shovelled breakfast into my face. How could one seemingly normal sized mouth take down a blueberry muffin so quickly she must have thought. Finally she looked at me and spoke
"I'm going to take a time out from reading your blog."
WHAT?!? Oh no! What did I say?
Seeing the concern in my face she continued "Not because I don't love reading it because I do. It's funny and important and cathartic. But I think you're holding back because of me and I'm going to give you a little space, to say whatever you need to."

Didn't I tell you I have the most spectacular mother?

My mind abruptly raced with the stories that were too scandalous for maternal consumption. Such as the time my clumsy, goody two-shoes accidentally licked a line of the bad shit off my fingers at a party because I hadn't been paying attention and thought it was salt. (Sorry I ruined your drugs!)  Yeesh. I'm the most harmless, clean-living doofus you'll ever meet. I used to worry this made me dull, but no longer. I like knowing my limits, not waking up sick, and looking relatively healthy. Now if only I knew how to knit or actually enjoyed running...and I didn't from time to time desperately miss cigarettes.

                     I said smoked crab, damn it!

I learned about cigarettes from my paternal grandfather, who also introduced me to bourbon and taught me to play (5-card stud) poker all before I was ten years old. We crammed a lot of living into our very short time together. Grandfather was an epic smoker, to the point where the smell of cigarettes and toast, (which we had for breakfast every morning) has become this hugely comforting sense-memory trigger for me. My old roommate, F, was a heavy smoker and also liked to have toast in the mornings. This is probably why he couldn't get me to leave his room, not only because I loved sitting on his sofa, drinking coffee and talking, but the room smelled like my childhood summer.

I was never a heavy smoker, ever. I listened to the warnings in school, and went in fully armed with the facts. I know cigarettes are bad, they are gross, they will cut your life span dramatically. At this point, the knowledge is out there, and anyone who chooses to pick up a cigarette does so at their own risk.

But then I close my eyes, and I can remember everything. Cigarette smell mixed with toast in the morning. Cigarette deeply ingrained into woolly, scratchy, flannel shirts as I hug him goodnight. Cigarettes and leather riding in his car. Cigarettes and sea air as we go on trips around Rhode Island. I was so young when he died, there weren't real adult things to cling to, so it was basic senses, feelings and smells that I held dear.

I smoked occaisonally through school, before giving it up for good. I loved the social aspect of it, but not the fact that it affected my participation in sports. It's hard to balance the cigarette-and-coffee part with the classic-American-sporty-girl side of myself. It doesn't mean that on agonizingly stressful days I don't ache for a cig, or that someone else's won't smell like a happy memory, but I made a choice (I choose air!) and it was the right one for me.

Day Fourteen: Is That How Fourteen Is Spelled?

That was the first thought through my head as I typed "fourteen" and prepped this next entry. It looked wrong. Didn't look the way I say it, which is possibly a dialect issue on my part, but I say "fort teen" (sounds like an Army base in the upcoming bomb "Red Dawn") and I don't think I'm alone in this. But then I opened a new tab, consulted Lord Googleton, and realized that I was in fact, correct. The peasants rejoiced.

I'm a spelling and grammar asshole. Not a snob, but a full-on, raining down judgement like it's apocalypse asshole about it. And I should probably stop. But I won't. At least, not with my peers. Because we are in our 30s, friends. And it's time we learned to spell things properly - or at least have the good sense to deploy spellcheck. You should also know the difference between your (possession) and you're (you are). Also good to clear up two, to and too. Might as well knock out accept and except while we're doing it.

I'm being such a dick. And I've had friends say "Well, I never learned because my school sucked." Sorry to hear it. But there are colleges, both in-person and online, as well as writing centers and public libraries with books. Computers can now tell us that something is wrong, by deploying a squiggly red line. There is really no excuse for presenting yourself poorly in writing. And when you do, you are judged, not only by me, but everyone who reads the email and wonders how such a huge idiot has managed to not bring a toaster into the bathtub. If you try to communicate in "text speak" you automatically want the person receiving the message to think less of you. The only text speak I like is the "y u no" guy. He makes me laugh. And his questions are completely legit.

Nobody is perfect, I know that. Sometimes a little mistake will slip through the cracks, such as a typo that is actually another word. I've nearly sent work emails "he ass" rather than "he has" and I always want to follow it up with "typo and IT STAYS" but of course I am a professional so I won't. I guess my argument is simply why wouldn't you want to always present the best version of yourself in the written word? Making a good impression is important in any medium, and at least in print we have the slight advantage of possibly not putting our collective feet in our mouths.

Ok. Short entry today. I'm handling some family stuff. Gotta run. Happy Sunday.

Day Thirteen: Gratitude

A few days ago I was enjoying a glass of wine with M and CA, when we started talking about macaroni necklaces, which are very much in vogue and EXACTLY what 30 year old women around America are all about right now*

*No.

Being a jackass, I said we should get a bunch of Tiffany's boxes and put macaroni necklaces in them to give as gifts. Can you imagine?!?! The thrill of seeing that beautiful blue box, only to discover some kind of pasta nightmare inside. But then CA made the valid point "What kind of first world bullshit craft is that? Oh no, we've got so much food, we're going to string it on necklaces or glue it to construction paper."

 Are you fucking kidding me?

And you know what? She's right. It does seem pretty silly that we the fortunate have so much excess food we glue it on things or wear it around our necks, when there are people going hungry. This got my brain over-working (as per usual) and thinking two distinct lines of thought.

1.) Ok. I want to start re-doing all the crafts of childhood and like, ACE them. I want to trace my hand and make it into a turkey. Like dis:

I want to paint a pumpkin, and make a potholder out of loops. I'll make a clay pot, and some cottonball snowmen. But I want to make them AMAZING, because now I am adult and these things should not be done half-assed!! So that's going to be a little crafty side-project for me this fall. Doing my own grown-up renditions of grade-school crafts. I'll make them, and share the photos with you. If I decide to display them on my desk, maybe I'll even get some co-worker reactions. I think this will make for an exceptionally fun and stupid autumn.

2.) Going back to that ever popular hashtag #firstworldproblems I think it is important to kind of put my own silly problems in perspective and be grateful for most of the stuff I take for granted on a regular basis. For example, that same day I got caught in a thunderstorm and my shoes got soaking wet, all melty. But then I thought, well at least I've got shoes. And I can change into a dry pair at home. So be cool. I try to think about that with most things that make me irritated. Most times it works. Bummed about being single? Well, I was never forced into marriage! Hooray. Broke? Not really. I've got a good job with a nice salary and if I want to buy something I can adjust my budget (Yes, I make a budget and you should too) and set aside savings. I want to travel back to the UK in early 2013, so I'm going to start setting aside a bit of every paycheck. It might take a bit of time, but it will happen, and I'm being proactive, rather than just being a whiny brat about not being able to drop $700 on a plane ticket. Boom. Done. So I think with a bit of perspective and a grateful for what we DO have mindset, life's a lot easier to navigate. You know? I don't mean to sound like Oprah, mostly because Oprah is a terrifying megalomaniac, but I think little changes in attitude can go a long way.

Day Twelve: Show and Tell

Before I delve into the topic I actually wanted to write about today, I just had this earth-shattering thought. On Facebook, the new "timeline" format allows you to have a "cover banner" picture in addition to your profile picture. At first I thought this was kind of useless and silly, why have two pictures? If they are both pictures of you, are you a super egomaniac? What is the point of the cover photo? And then I realized, while I was Google imaging pictures of lights (I am strangely obsessed with creative lighting, as I'm sure I'll blog about at some point) like fairy lights, sparklers, etc. and it struck me that the cover photo is really made for those of us who like to express ourselves visually, but don't have a front yard to decorate.

The Facebook cover photo is for people who live in apartments. So thanks Facebook. Now I'm really excited to decorate my virtual front yard for the coming autumn and winter holidays!

But seriously. Let's focus up. Look at this. Now back at me. And back at this.

Now. I would like to go to this place. Any takers?

Anybody?

Just me?

Ok...

Too bad I am not the owner of that winning lotto ticket...

This picture looks like the setting for perfect happiness.

(Assuming of course, we're about to eat something really delicious in this paradise locale.) But I mean...beach, dusk, firelight....it seems kind of like the PERFECT STORM of things I like. 

I can't imagine anyone doing this for me. I would blush so hard my face would burst into flames. (Side note: my work crush came to my desk to talk the other day and I could actually feel the flush and heat creeping up my pale face like it does in cartoons. I'm 100% sure he noticed. But considering he's the only person in the NY area I'm interested in - my real infatuations are long-distance - you can understand why I look forward to our little discourses)

My face during our chat.

The handful of relationships I've been in during my 30 years on the planet haven't really prepared me for the possibility that someday, someone could do such a romantic gesture as a candlelit beach dinner for me. I mean, I've had friends do amazing things (surprise parties, buy plane tickets etc.) but never a partner. I'm a great believer in both big and little, spoken and silent signs of affection. It's harder in the beginning stages, for sure (I have the worst time with crushes, as I'm sure you can tell with my stories of blushing and bumbling) but once you are with someone, it shouldn't be so hard to show and tell them your feelings. It's important to let someone know - in a way that both of you are comfortable - just how much you care about them.

What is the greatest thing someone has done for you, or you for someone else? I've flown thousands of miles for a few days with friends, and driven through the night for a less than an hour of time with a former boyfriend. You've got to let people know you acknowledge them, and they mean a lot to you. Because there will come a day when for whatever reason, you can't. It's as simple as that.

On a much less grand scale, I think daily check-ins, be it a kiss, or a putting a song they like on the radio, reminds our loved ones that we've been watching, we've been listening. Listening is the greatest gesture of love I can think of. I will spend the better part of this weekend on a train just to spend Saturday with my mom. And I wouldn't have it any other way. It's an easy decision to make, simply because I love and miss her so much.

Safe weekend to all, including my fellow travellers

TGIF

x

Day Eleven: I Hate You, Manic Pixie Dream Girl

I have been ready, for about 10 years now, for the reign of terror of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl to end.

The MPDG, a term first coined by Onion film critic Nathan Rabin, described her as a “bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.”  This girl always looks cute, even in the rain. She's ready to skinny-dip on a dime, and dance like no one is watching (but everyone is, and of course, they love her). She's a free spirited fairy type. Her eccentricity never comes off as creepy, but always slightly cute, sexy, and utterly harmless. In addition to this upsettingly spot-on description, Rabin provided examples, such as Kirsten Dunst’s character in Elizabethtown and Natalie Portman in Garden State. I thought about this the other day, when UPN re-aired Garden State, a movie I had loved at the time, largely for its soundtrack, that I now found to be kind of ridiculous and indulgent. And Natalie Portman, who is an actress I really do like, annoyed the shit out of me. But maybe that's just what coming-of-age films are? Is telling the story of how we grew up indulgent? How we became adults? If I write the movie script of my life, would someone say the same thing? Probably. But my soundtrack would be just as good, (if not better) than Braff's. Y'all would listen to that in your car all the time! As for the movie... I don't know. I was surprised how much I no longer identified with something I'd once adored. And if men think that every time we fail or fall is cute, then what chance do we have of ever being really accepted at face value?

There is a new film out, Ruby Sparks, that I'm interested in seeing (after The Campaign and The Bourne Franchise Reboot with Mr. Adorable Jeremy Renner of course). In the trailers, Zoe Kazan (who also wrote the script, props where they are due) plays Ruby like a page from the MPDG textbook (which is obviously doodled with hearts in a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper) but according to critics "is seeking to critique the archetype more than indulge it. “Quirky, messy women whose problems only make them endearing are not real,” one observer tells Dano’s character, adding later, “You haven’t written a person. You’ve written a girl.”

I could not agree with that statement more.
Quirky, messy women whose problems only make them endearing are not real

I've met the real MPDG. More often than not, she's depressed. Like seriously, importantly depressed. She has strained or imagined relationships. She doesn't like herself much at all. Her facade, the mania is a front for all the unhappiness. This girl creates situations far removed from her actual life so she doesn't have to go there. And it's not cute. It's sad, and really uncomfortable.

I yearn for the day when Manic Pixie Dream Girl meets her arch-nemesis, Level-Headed Stable Reality Lady. Can we write about her? Where is her star vehicle? Growing up is messy and ugly. I may write about a lot of the cute and funny shit I do, but there are moments of real horror, things I'm ashamed of and would rather not revisit - but these are many of the cornerstones and experiences that make me a real woman - not some dream manifest who's always in a good mood, or can dance in the rain in some floaty white dress and look freaking absurd. I am deeply flawed. And I worry that if this is the woman, the girl, who is being presented in media, that young women will think that it is in fact they who have to put their dreams on hold so their man-child boyfriend can learn something about himself. If she's not on her cutest, most adorable behavior, maybe her man will leave her. Why rock the boat, when you can be docile? Why doesn't her life matter? Doesn't she have something better to do than teach her man about the joys of living? Maybe she should get out and do some living herself.

Day Ten: Walk A Mile in My Plastic Shoes

I'm a cheap Scot. This is God's honest truth. If there is a less expensive way to go about doing something, then count me in. I'll pioneer. I'll make like Oregon Trail and cross the river until all my oxen expire. 

This is probably one of the many reasons I have always had a bizarre affinity for plastic shoes....namely, jellies. It makes perfect sense, really. Why would any parent pay a ton of money for shoes their kids are going to outgrow in a few months anyway? AND (bonus!) when plastic shoes get dirty, you turn the hose on them and voila - good as new. So I grew up in jellies. Ones that looked like this:

Jellies were great shoes for adventuring. I spent many a summer day (and night) playing on the swing set in our back yard (which was charmingly ridiculous - rickety and rusty and I loved it so much). I pretended I was She-Ra. I pretended I was working with Willow and Val Kilmer to save that baby. I even stopped a few kidnappings, robberies, and other dastardly things with my chubby child gymnastic skills. The world was kept safe because I had comfortable, inexpensive shoes. It's that simple.

As I got older it became more difficult to find jellies in my size - which really should have been the hint to quit while I was ahead - but one day, in junior high, I found a pair. They looked just like the kind I had grown up with.....strappy, glittery, gold. But this time, they had this giant disco-ass platform too, like some great 70s Elton John cast-offs.

Mom, knowing that I had searched high and low for jellies, said I could get them under one condition - that I could not wear them to school. And for some reason, that struck me as TOTALLY UNFAIR and ARGH MOM and WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN and tears and whining and nonsense so absurd that if I had a time machine I'd go back and punch myself. Can you imagine? Remember that I told you how ugly and awkward I was in my tween years? Can you imagine adding disco platform jelly sandals to that ensemble? I would have looked like a refugee from "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo." Luckily, I didn't get the shoes. And I'm still so sorry that I was such an asshole to my mother. 

Every once in a while, I'll troll the internet to see if they make jellies for grown up ladies. Urban Outfitters did recently, but I have a strange love-hate relationship with them and couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't think they'd look too cute on a 30 year old anyway. Now I need support for my old, damaged feet. Shoes can't rub my heels, or catch me at my weirdly high arches. I've gotten to the age where I look at sexy hooker shoes and sigh, because as much as I love them, there is no way in hell I will ever wear them. 

It doesn't matter though. THESE are my favorite comfy-ugly-love shoes now.

This is what it means to grow up. When your taste in comfy-ugly-love shoes evolves from disco drag queen to "old man and the sea". Shoes do not get cheaper and lazier than this. All you have to do is aim your foot in the general direction of the shoe, and you'll put them on. I'm starting to think I should stockpile them in case, God forbid, RocketDog stops designing them. Because I'm not getting any younger. I'm going to be wearing old man shoes forever. And I'm so fine with that. So fine it's crazy.

Day Nine: Can You Cultivate Sex Appeal?

This is a question I like to debate with friends both male and female. Is sex appeal - whatever makes you attractive to those you are seeking to be with - something that is innate, or something that is reflected in your attitude about yourself and those around you? I go with the latter. Here is an excellent example of why I know I wasn't born with that kind of allure. Whenever my parents had friends over for dinner, Brother and I came around to say hello and "make our manners" (God, it sounds like we grew up in a Tennessee Williams play).
SO MANY TIMES the exchanges went like this:
"Oooh look at him! That skin! That smile! He is so handsome!"
"And her! She is so....tall."

Every time I tell that story I laugh, because while it's true, it never hurt my feelings or anything. Brother IS super handsome. The lady-folk love him. And I am tall. People frequently ask me to get stuff off high shelves for them. Not coming off the starting blocks as a mega-hottie, as I grew up, I reinforced positive thoughts about myself and cultivated my own brand of sex appeal.
Smart is sexy.
Strong is sexy.
Funny is sexy.
Sincerity is sexy.
Young women, if there's a snowball's chance in hell you're reading this, I encourage you to spend some time falling in love with yourself, both physically and emotionally. Once you love you, the rest of the world will inevitably catch up.

I've already spoken about some of my real-life, legitimate role models...my mother, teachers, and some very sage friends. While these are the women I obviously look to for reality checks, it's impossible not to look at women in media and sigh "I wish I could be like them."

This is what women do from childhood on. Some call it the "girl crush" but I think of it as piecing - taking qualities both physical and innate that I admire in famous women I don't know, and trying to apply them to myself, most often for the better. I don't think it's realistic to paste my head over Katy Perry's body and be like "Beach Bod Summer 2013" because all that does is make me feel less awesome because I don't have a carefully cultivated, trained, and professionally-made up exterior. Don't get me wrong. I think there's actually a lot to admire about Katy besides her enviable figure! I admire her confident, playful sexuality, and want to crib a bit of that attitude for my everyday life. And if she'd let me know where to get that bra that shoots fireworks, I'd be ever so grateful.

That being said, here are some of my favorite famous ladies, the reasons I love them, and what I get out of this one-sided affair.

Marion Cotillard

Academy-Award winning French actress Marion Cotillard embodies, in my mind, the best qualities of European women. She is obviously gorgeous, but in a mysterious way that leaves a great deal to the imagination. I never really understood the whole "French Women just have IT" but with her I totally do. She presents herself as an interesting, educated, classy woman, who might also have a secret wild side. You'd have to really work to win her over. I love that.

Michelle Obama

I'm sure it's wildly inappropriate to scream with excitment at the mere mention of the First Lady, but more often than not, I do. I LOVE YOU MRS. O! I could write many blogs explaining why I think she's the greatest ever, but here's the rundown: she's smart as hell, she stands both up to and beside her husband, she loves her children, she throws herself fully into worthy causes like health and education, and she happens to be beautiful. I want to be like her so much. She approaches her job with the perfect mix of dignity and humor. She never steals the spotlight, but manages to radiate one all her own. And she totally went in for the hug with the Queen of England.

Katniss Everdeen

Won The Hunger Games. Saved Panem. Scored hottie Peeta.

The end.

Gwen Stefani

Gwen has been a longtime hero of mine and millions of other women purely for her fashion sense. How can one woman look so at ease in both skater-ska punk ass clothes, as well as Dior gowns? It takes a really special personality to walk the line, and Gwen has it in spades. She's always true to herself and her vision of self-expression is genuine. Also, uh, she's a boss. In interviews, when asked about her insane body, she's honest about how hard she works to maintain her figure. It's not like "Oh I magically dropped 80 pounds breastfeeding" she's like "I hit the gym HARD and I work for it." That honesty is key. Because she's a mother of two, who judging by photos, loves spending time with her kids. She's 42 for God's sake and she looks like THAT. 

Rashida Jones

I adore Rashida Jones. She inspires me. Though she was born into a famous family, chock with good looks and talent to spare, she consistantly carves her own path through the world, be it actress, singer, writer-producer, or comic-book creator. She is the ultimate in smart (Harvard!) meets beautiful (that face!) meets hilarious and real. She cultivates projects that matter to her, and turns even the smallest part into something memorable. In interviews, she comes across as funny, lovely, humble and grateful for all the opportunities life has afforded her.

Comparing yourself to other women - I wish I had her face/breasts/boyfriend/life - will only get you down and close your eyes to the great things YOU'VE got going on. Instead of pining for someone you admire's life, I suggest integrating the feelings that they inspire within you into your own life. And if it feels unnatural, then fake it til you make it kid. I'm no Marion, Michelle, Katniss, Gwen or Rashida, but I like to try and carry myself as if I am. With enough time maybe I can make their grace, elegance, strength and spirit part of my own.

Day Eight: The Comedown

Last night, watching the closing ceremony of these incredible 2012 Summer Olympics, I wept openly. Like, had some big ugly sobs, clutching my sloshing glass of Pimms. I cried for many reasons. First, I'm going to have to rejoin normal society. "I can't, I'm watching the Olympics" isn't an excuse anymore - now I have to socialize and discuss things other than track & field, gymnastics, and swimming. I can't mention "Usain, Gabby and Missy" like they're old friends. I will have to partake in life, and our DVR is going to once again be filled with stupid shit like "Say Yes to the Dress" (my guiltiest sin), and not amazing feats of athleticism and stories of triumph and sportsmanship. Even the recap show "London Gold" had me tearing up before the actual party got started. So many emotions! What a great and truly remarkable games.
"The disco at the end of the wedding" as the ceremony was referred to, was a fun bit of nonsense to celebrate a thrilling, fascinating, and thank God, safe games. A lot of people thought London couldn't pull off hosting duties, and I'm very glad to see that was not at all the case. In fact, it seems like the UK threw the party of the year this summer. I mean, they played "West End Girls" for God's sake!!! That takes BALLS. And the fact that the kids from One Direction looked panicked they might fall off the lorry (that's truck, gringos) gave me a chuckle and a break from my waterworks. But then the athletes started walking in, looking joyous and united and full of hope and I went back to soggy square one. The world looking (pretending?) to unite, even for one night, is pretty inspiring. It's like the Christmas feeling - why can't it last all year? And why can't the Spice Girls just accept the fact that the world wants them together?? I'm sure I wasn't the only Googling "Spice Girls T-Shirts" after their set. Right? RIGHT?!

Why the tears? I think it was honestly a mixture of joy, pride, sadness the games was over, and real, seething, jealousy. I wish to God I could have been there. Not just at the arena (though that would have melted my brain with greatness) but I think watching London these past two weeks has been a tough reminder of the life I thought I was going to have after grad school, before my father's illness and our family affairs usurped my life for the better part of four years. I had planned to stay in London. I worked so hard to lay foundations, make professional connections, and plans for the future. I'd extend my Visa, and get to work in the thriving theatre community of London. Of course there would be day jobs and tough times, but I was so excited.

And then things changed. Nothing ever works out the way that we plan.

A therapist said I was grieving, for the life I had planned and worked for. I suppose that is correct. Aborted life plans. The friends left behind. The city I love that makes getting back hell. Oh, yes, the times I've passed through Heathrow since I am always stopped and grilled, because I have an expired Visa and a failed renewal. They treat me very much like persona non grata, after all that. It breaks my heart and enrages me every time. I'm not going to sneak back in. I'm there to see friends, and I have to pack an extensive array of papers to prove it. The same thing happened to my friend L, who was straight-up refused re-entry after a trip to Paris. To be suddenly unwelcome in your home is a shock and hurt I wouldn't wish on anyone (but especially anyone as sweet and good as L, one of the genuine nicest men on planet Earth). This isn't at all how things were supposed to be. It's hard not to be jealous of those who remained, or are there for other reasons. My life is essentially four years behind most everyone else's in terms of professional and personal growth. I derailed, and only recently have begun laying track again.

It also gets you thinking about the next go round....Rio. (Yes, I'm psyched as all get-out for Sochi 2014! But let's focus on summer here. It is August after all.) I'll be 34. Jesus. I wonder where I'll be living, what I'll be doing. Maybe I'll have a super awesome job that I love! Maybe I'll be married, and watching the games with my husband! Maybe my life will be so awesome, I'll be IN Rio! (Dream big!) 4 years, as I've told you (and lived) can completely change your life. We can only wait and see.

Day Seven: A Funny and Great Story About My Dad

When my dad relayed this story many years ago, even though I was there when it happened, it was like hearing it for the first time, because he told it to me like a friend and fellow adult, rather than his little girl. Considering I was about 7 or 8 at the time the story takes place, it makes sense.

Ok, so I grew up in a safe and beautiful neighborhood located off a sometimes dodgy, and frequently trashy stretch of road. (parents driving friends for sleepovers frequently flinched when we gave directions to our house- "turn left at the sign that says 'Guns Gold Pawn'! Take a right, if you hit the trailer park you've gone too far...")

Further up the highway, when I was about 7, a carnival sprang up, complete with dubious games and rickety rides. Most likely staffed by vagrant carnies...but a child like me didn't see that. I saw pure joy! Rides! Toys! I made Dad and Brother take me on everything. Whenever Dad rode on a coaster, he'd have one hand around me, and the other holding his glasses firmly to his face. Every time. For years and years. Always with the glasses. But it makes sense, a lot of those rides were fast! I even remember Dad turning to a ride operator on a very fast and twirly ride and say "how often you have to hose this thing down?" and the guy just shake his head resignedly. 

(Like this, but even more low-budget)

After getting our fill of rides, we went to play some games. Brother and I became obsessed with one game in particular, whose goal was to win by throwing darts at a bunch of posters on the wall, and whichever one the dart hit, we got a nice new version to take home. Dad later said:

"My heart was in my throat because more than half of those posters were...they were ladies in various states of undress. Mostly undressed. I knew your mother would kill me if I took you kids to the fair and came home with THAT. I closed my eyes and prayed your dart would hit those superhero posters you and your brother seemed so focused on. But then I figured if you  DID hit one of those other ones, then I would just quietly "forget" it somewhere before we got home"

Oh God. I laugh so hard just thinking of my poor dad sweating the possibility of us winning some hilarious 90s pin-up poster. 7 year old me never saw any of that. I was too much in the zone. All I saw was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle poster and I knew it was destined to be mine (and I totally got it, booya!). 

Our G-rated outing had somewhat lasciviously backfired. Poor Da. But we came home with only appropriate posters, and Mom never had to worry.

Friends, I encourage you to talk to your family and get all the stories you can out of them. They might be new ones, or a classic you've never heard from a grown up perspective. But listen, even if you think you've heard them all before, because they're all worth your time and remembrance.