Hilarious Childhood Mixup

First let me say thanks so much for the warm reception Wednesday's post about feminism was greeted with. It's good to get feedback, and when people tell me they are thinking about what I've written, and talking about it, I am humbled.

Now a pause for something decidedly less important....

Tuesday, when I logged onto Gawker, I was greeted with an AMAZING picture of a screaming child and the following brief article....

Children Flee Movie Theater in Terror After Madagascar 3 Accidentally Replaced with Paranormal Activity 4

Employees at the Cineworld in Nottingham claim a "technical error" caused Paranormal Activity 4 to be screened accidentally to a theater full of formerly happy-go-lucky kids who were there to watch the third Madagascar film.
"It opens on the most terrifying scene in the first film - where a body shoots full pelt towards the camera," said parent Natasha Lewis, whose eight-year-old son was in attendance. "It's enough to make grown men jump, so you can imagine the terror in these young faces."
Lewis said the 25 or so families in the the theater quickly grabbed their screaming children and headed for the door. "It was only about two minutes worth of the film but it was enough to scar them for life," she said.
A Cineworld spokesperson apologized to the families and said all theatergoers were given refunds as well as complimentary tickets." Families were also invited to attend a later showing of Madagascar 3 free of charge.
No word on financial assistance for years and years of therapy.

After I stopped bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ing from laughter I thought:
"Those kids will be fine."
"Nobody needs therapy."
"This will make for a great story for them to tell as they get older."

I had a very similar experience, and I turned out fine. Totally fine. I'm...(sniff) I mean I'm ok, right? (sob) Everybody's got some problems...

What happened to me, you might ask? The year was 1993. A fine year for film. It was the end of the school year, and as it was HOT AS BALLS where I grew up, the "end of year party" for my class was usually held at one of two places.
1.) The water park (swimming is refreshing!)
2.) The movie theatre (movies are air-conditioned!)

As there had been a kerfuffle last year at the water park, when a kid got the wind knocked out of him after a poor dive, it was off to the movies for us. A bunch of kids, the teacher, and a handful of parent chaperones piled into buses on our way to see....oh yes....The Sandlot.

 If you haven't seen The Sandlot, you're crazy. It's really fun and silly and great (I mean, not The Mighty Ducks great, but still pretty terrific, and if you feel the same then you're a big nerd and marry me.) It's basically this sweet, funny homage to coming-of-age, friendship, and baseball. You really don't need more than that for a classic movie. We were all so excited!

Once they herded us into the theatre (and got us popcorn and whatnot....oh man, now I totally want some popcorn and a soda at my desk RIGHT NOW) we eventually stopped giggling and the lights went down. Dramatic music began! And the screen suddenly lit up with:

For those of you who never saw it, The Crying Game, unlike The Sandlot, is a psychological thriller with a graphic, full-frontal sexual twist (20 year old spoiler: Lady is a Dude.) Needless to say, at that point in our lives, we wouldn't have been ready for lots of IRA violence and a big penis on screen.

Thankfully, we had parents and teachers who read movie reviews in newspapers, so the minute the title card appeared on-screen, like bolts of lightning adults were running up the aisle and out of the theater to alert this manager that this WAS NOT OK!! It still took about five minutes for the movie to stop, and we didn't know what the fuss was about. Why would we want to watch a movie about crying? Crying's not a game. There's no crying in baseball. We came here for baseball, and a dog. And after what I'm sure were some choice words to manager from our teacher, we got it. But I'll remember how funny that was now in my adulthood. I'll remember it "foreeeeevvvveerrrrr." (Sandlot joke. It's funny. Trust me.)

This Piece Would Rock in 1997, or Why I Proudly Call Myself A Feminist

What I'm about to say has been said before, and sadly, I'm sure this isn't the last time. It's been written by authors far more skilled than I, in publications much more illustrious. It deserves better treatment than I can give it. But....because it's still coming up in conversations from political to artistic, it can't be ignored. Why this is still an issue, especially with women in my own generation, remains a mystery....but we've got to sit down and have a "girl, what up?" conversation.

Because for reasons remaining murky, not once, but THRICE today have I read articles in which modern American women (some of whom are famous) are quoted as saying....

"I mean, I'm not like a feminist or anything, but (insert desire for equal treatment here)."

Uhm, GURL.You think women deserve to be treated with respect? That makes you a feminist!!!
Ta Daaaa! I wrote it in pink just to fuck with you. Why don't you like being a feminist? Are you not proud to be a lady? Do you not enjoy being treated like a decent human being? Is the thought of equal pay repulsive to you? Should I tell you what to do with your body, specifically your reproductive rights? Or (my goodness) do you think equality has been reached?

The most basic, internet-y definition of feminism/feminist is as follows:

Feminism is a collection of movements and ideologies aimed at defining, establishing, and defending equal political, economic, and social rights for women^. In addition, feminism seeks to establish equal opportunities for women in education and employment. A feminist is "an advocate or supporter of the rights and equality of women"

So why is feminist still a word that many women are scared to associate with? Just for funzies, I Google-Imaged (my source for all things truth) "feminist" and got a whole bunch of cartoons and some pictures of Rosie the Riveter.

Rosie: Crazy Old and STILL a total smokeshow!

Here's what I think (and remember folks, these are just opinions and observations).
*Sadly, many modern women assume if you call yourself a feminist, stupid idiots will think you are uber-butch man-haters, who hate males and are repulsed by the idea of sex with them. OR you're a big free-wheeling slut. It's a lose-lose situation, when people are being horrible.
("stupid idiots" refers not to everyone of course, but a rather large portion of society, who, judging by the barrage of cruel and uneducated shit I read on the internet, don't deserve my understanding and leeway. I'm talking to you, internet bullies! The type of people who torment insecure teenage girls! The ones who said horrible things about Adele's weight the moment she delivered her baby. You're scum. I'm talking about you.) Say you're a feminist and some cowardly tool with an abysmally unfunny user name is calling you a fat dyke. That is (in my opinion) why women are shying away from calling themselves feminists. Words can hurt, and nasty people (maybe some of whom are women themselves) say hateful, ignorant nonsense. Take the higher road. Behaving with an iota of basic human decency you'll end up there anyway, eventually.

Taylor Swift writes songs to shame guys who did her wrong but won't call herself a feminist.
Kelly Clarkson is voting Obama because she defends her gay friends right to love, but won't call herself a feminist.
Ashley Judd is awesome and totally embraces the fact that she's a feminist.

Intelligent. Gorgeous. Feminist.

Ryan Gosling (he totally loves this) is a feminist icon! Feminism (like bow ties) is cool.

Ladies, famous or no, it's important to realize that feminism is great. Why wouldn't we want to embrace our social, political and economic rights?!? Why would we let anybody tell us what we can or can't do WITH OUR OWN BODIES??
WOMEN are great.
Supporting women is a great idea! It's not a dirty word, and you shouldn't be put off by it.
See? Super simple. Would Ryan Gosling lie to you?

Eat. Clean. Ruminate.

Hello all. Happy Monday.

I had such a weird weekend. The weather was beautiful, perfect cool autumn sunshine. Blue skies and fiery leaves and just enough sun to never feel too cold. I walked everywhere. I got so much done, as I'd hoped to. But for the love of God or money I couldn't turn off my brain and the crazy thoughts that burned through it non-stop.

It all began Saturday night when I made the (somewhat controversial) choice to stay home, cook dinner and watch Eat, Pray, Love. I acknowledge that this movie has nothing spectacular going for it, other than excellent cinematography and in-depth exploration of all the delicious food on offer in Italy. It's a story (true, apparently) about a woman's round-the-world journey to reignite her own spark and enjoy life again after going through a terrible divorce. For those of us who cannot afford to suddenly drop everything and take off on a global quest of self-discovery, it's a nice dream.
But...
I think it caught me at such a crazy time that I ended up watching the entire thing, and having legitimate emotional reactions to some of the things characters were saying. (Except James Franco. God I cannot put into words how much I loathe James Franco. He is the worst. The. Worst.)

My favorite exchange was between Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem (who is sometimes very regal, and other times bears a striking resemblance to an Easter Island statue).

After all the sassy village ladies of Bali kept telling her to find a lover, Julia snaps.
"I'm sick of people telling me that I need a man."
To which Javier Bardem (hoping to secure a spot as said lover) replies calmly,
"You don't need a man, Liz. You need a champion."

You need a champion. What a wonderful idea. Not merely a lover, or a friend, or a companion.
A champion. I suspect if more women held out for champions...there would be a great deal more single women! (But lucky for Javier, this line totally worked.)

Even after the credits rolled, parts of the film stayed with me, because I spent the next day cleaning out my apartment, and sorting through ghosts of my own.When you watch a film about examining your life, then spend the next day doing just that (as well as dusting, killing huge scary bugs, and unclogging the tub) one cannot help but hark back to the other.

I keep correspondence. Most of it anyways. Re-reading cards and letters was good. Some I kept, while others I could let go. I found photographs. Articles I'd cut out of magazines. Things that meant so much and nothing. I found P's Christmas card. Tore it up. Threw it away. Found the letters I had written but never mailed to him post-breakup. I read through my stages of grief. You could actually map out each stage, letter-to-letter. At first I crumpled them up to throw them out as well, but I changed my mind. Because as the letters went on, I got stronger. I called him out (in writing anyways) on a lot of things I wish I'd said to his face. But I am glad the letters exist. I put them in a manila envelope, wrote P's full name on the front, and tucked them back onto the shelf. Maybe I'll be ready to throw them out when I clean it again. Maybe I'll use them to get through the next breakup. Maybe someone will give them to P in the event I get hit by a cab (not what I'm hoping, but with NYC cabs, you can never really be sure.) When Julia says goodbye to her ex in this stupid dream-sequence (NOTHING IN REAL LIFE CAN BE SOLVED IN A DREAM SEQUENCE) she tells him "So, miss me. Send me love and light every time you think of me... Then drop it. It won't last forever. Nothing does." I do still miss him. Don't know about the love & light. But then I drop it. Because I have to. There is no other choice.

Looking through photographs, I thought back again to the movie, this time where Julia Roberts is tapping into her spiritual, meditation-loving side in India. Her young Indian friend has just been married off and Julia is telling her that she dedicated her daily prayers to the girl's happiness. (I like that too. Whatever. It's nice.) Julia tells the girl that she pictured her happy, to which she says:

"What did I look like when I was happy?"

Takes the wind out of your sails. I think about the photos I have just gone through. I'm a kid. My cheeks are so chubby. Everything is so chubby! HA. I've got adorable short hair. College photos. Still trying to figure out my eyebrows, but my eyes look greener like Mom's every day. And since? Thinner face. Nailed the eyebrows. Know my angles. Some of the smiles are real and others aren't. I think I look harder. Older for sure. Happy? I don't know. Photo to photo, I suppose. Two photos on my bulletin board where I know I was happy, and in them I'm confident that I'm beautiful. I haven't taken pics like that in ages. Talking with my mom this weekend, she said "you sound great" and it caught me by surprise. I said "Ups and downs" which is the honest answer. Now she was the one caught off guard. But sounding upbeat one day doesn't mean that everything else cancels out. With my mind running fast and furious this weekend (it took hours to get to sleep every night because I couldn't turn off) I had all these crazy thoughts and some nightmares. In one, I likened my current situation to being in a harness raised just slightly off the ground, so that my feet didn't touch. I sprint, because in my mind I sprint like Usain Bolt, but obviously I don't go anywhere, I just sort of swing back and forth a bit from the exertion. Does that make any sense? It's like I am hustling the fuck out of this, but I am in a harness just about the ground. I don't move forward in anything. Dad never gets better or worse, my plays are good but not good enough, and whatever it is that I need to get my life back into place is seemingly out of my reach, but always in the eye line.

Lessons? Fewer Julia Roberts movies. More sleep aids. Clean only when necessary.

Radio Silence

Crazy cleaning lady (the one who calls me "pumpkin" and "baby") stopped by my desk this morning and pointed over my shoulder.

Sigh.

"Yah see that building cross tha street?"

"Yup." (I did not turn around)

"See tha grates on it?"

(Oh for fuck's sake - I turn around for a second) "I do."

"They look like a' old radio. That's how radios use ta look. Radio is tha best. They used to be this high (she demonstrates) and I'd lie on tha floor an' listen to tha radio. Radio is tha best. TV sucks."
(She did say "radio" that many times. I do not fib.)

(Of course, as she rambles on, I am reading an article about a TV show, and I wish to myself that she would either burst into flames or get transferred to another floor. Seeing as my skin is kind of sensitive to heat, I suppose the latter. Then she creepily rubs my back and skulks off. Later she will come back and ask me (while I am up to my ass in invoices) what "my real job is." After that I would be willing to tolerate a bit of irritated skin if she'd just go away.)

I don't know about you, but as long as I've lived in an urban area, and especially since we sold my car (RIP Luddite - that was the name of my last chariot...that sexy gold '97 tank) I don't listen to the radio. Every once in a while I'll pop on Pandora while at work, or out on a walk, but even then I'm just not tuned in. Now I have NO IDEA what the kids are listening to nowadays! Gah! My only real exposure anymore comes from renting a car for a trip. Even then I scan somewhat in frustration. I don't know how stations really work anymore! All I ever seem to land on is Latin pop (sick beats, but I like to sing along) or intense Bible yelling (a one-sided conversation about faith? Pass.) NPR is cool, but in small bursts. I can handle maybe one or two stories before I need to switch it up. So not much radio for me.

I've always been a big believer in the practice of "going radio silent." Giving in to my most private and misanthropic tendencies. Before my dad got sick I used to do it more frequently, but now keeping my phone off for more than a day or so isn't really a great idea. But starting Friday night and going through Saturday, I'm going to simply unplug. Might check Facebook but not much else. It's going to be SWEET. I'm going to clean and write and catch up on things! I'm going for walks! I might even buy a new pair of shoes for work! Things are gonna get WILD.

Also, I really like these shoes. I used to hate them. Am I growing up, or turning into my Dad?

Reader's Remorse

When asked what I did at work on any given day, the answer is usually thus:

"Did my job. Wrote some plays. Read the internet."

Now, while I acknowledge that no I do not read the entire internet whilst a work, I sure do read a lot. It's good and bad. Yes, I am filling my brain with information. And yes, probably 9 out of 10 articles I read are clutter, hoarding valuable RAM and keeping me too closely adhered to the goings-on of the cultural zeitgeist. Even worse, I haven't been able to focus on a proper book in nearly a year. What happened to my attention span....well, whatever. (Ha. See what I did there? Wakka Wakka.) I've got all these books I've been wanting to finish for ages (The Fault in Our Stars, Cloud Atlas, Londoners, The Graveyard Book) that I simply can't focus on. I've been spoiled by bite-size reading material, articles filled with pictures that frequently last about 3-4 pages. I'm ruined, I tell you. Ruined.
But I know a lot of (useless) stuff! About (stupid) things!

To give you an idea, here's a list of some of my most frequently visited sites - and feel free to judge. I judge myself:

Entertainment Weekly
The New York Times
People
New York Post
Huffington Post
Jezebel
The Hairpin
Us Weekly
Rolling Stone
The Guardian
The Telegraph
The Daily Mail
The Washington Post

When I read The Washington Post (a holdover from my precocious high school days, now the journalism is somewhat washed-out in my opinion) I tend to scope out the headlines, the opinions section, sports (until the Nationals fucked everything up and confirmed this is indeed a desolate and Godless world) and Carolyn Hax.

That's odd, some might interject. What's a Carolyn Hax? Ms. Hax is a long-running advice columnist who regularly dishes out hard truths, let-downs, come uppers, and some wisdom in her column. I really like it. Sometimes you read it and think "at least my family isn't a bunch of assholes like that poor guy" or "girl, if you want to get married, stop being so crazy." It makes me feel like I've got some insight into the human condition, you know? And I am, admittedly, the last person in the world who should be handing out advice to anyone. I mean, you read this. You know.

This all started last week when I read a Carolyn Hax column with a query submitted by someone who sounds as if they've been rattling around in the darkest recesses of my soul. The question was this:

From a reader: “Some friends have had a massive string of good luck lately. I’ve celebrated every single blessing with them and am honestly happy for them. While they have had the string of good luck, I’m having the mediocre to bad luck. I’m starting to get tired of putting on the happy face and celebrating...I don’t want to become bitter because they are great people and they do deserve everything they are receiving. But ‘WHY NOT ME!’ keeps popping into my head. Any suggestions on how to fight the jealous/bitter monster?”


The majority of responses were in the vein of "Cheer up, your time to shine will come when you least expect it!" Like every other idiot with an opinion, I wanted to chime in too. (Though I didn't, because it meant creating a user name and log-in, and GOD DAMN IT I am so sick to death of doing that.)

I wanted to say this to the reader.

Reader, life sucks. I (and a whole bunch of other people I suspect) will vouch for it. More often than not, we lose. We fail. We are spurned. We fuck up. Evil wins. The people we love leave us, in one way or another. The hurt never fully goes away. Our bodies rot before our very eyes. The kids who bullied us in school grow up to be rich and happy CEOs. That is just the way it is.

(Real life side note: I smell maple syrup. Am I having a stroke?)

Play the Debbie Downer (waaah-waaaaah) if you want to, but that is just some cold hard truth. Rarely do we get to live our dreams. Not everyone finds true love. Sometimes we just have to slug it out on Planet Earth by going into survival mode. This is nobody's fault. Especially not your friends. Your friends are people whom you love and admire. So it's OK to feel horrible about your situation, and pissed off, and left out. Feel your feelings, because they are legit. But don't blame others for having the hand you don't. Because somebody somewhere feels the same about you.

I hope things get better for you, Reader. I really do. I want to believe that they will, but until the day that I am pleasantly surprised, the armor that holds people like us together can't have any cracks of sentimental bullshit in it. So buck up, kiddo, and go be that single drunk friend with the mediocre job and myriad of problems at the wedding. Here's hoping it's an open bar. 

One last thing. These are the three responses to reality checks that make EVERYONE shake their head in dismay. Feel free to slap someone when they say them to you.

1. "Put out positive energy and good things will come back to you." Blatantly false. People will appreciate your cheerful nature (and the fact they can walk all over you), but that's about it.

2. "Once you stop looking you find love." No. You find 30 extra pounds and possibly a cat or two.

3. Pretty much every "life mantra" I've seen on Pinterest. Is that what you exist for, Pinterest? Adorable ideas for cupcakes and crafts, as well as bumper stickers?
Concession: I did quite like this one.

 

State of the Union: Presented by Microsoft Paint

When we last left our heroine....she was very flattered her blog had received over 7,000 views.....but still, she was having a hard time focusing, and was instead enjoying the rewards of playing with Microsoft Paint...

It was October, the wonderful autumn season. Her roommate had brought home a carved jack-o-lantern, and she wanted to get in on the fun...

Her self-esteem was suffering due to mosquito bites making her look like that poor tribute who got stung to death by tracker jackers in The Hunger Games....

Also she seemed on track for a solid Bad Hair Month....

The man she pined for at the office continued to be wonderful but clueless....

All you need to understand the following picture is thus:
The brown cube hiding my lower half is my desk.
His legs are blue lines because they are skinny jeans.
Yes, that IS a lightning bolt.



And the writing was slow. She's working on some projects. But her focus is off. Except for this blog. You're welcome, I guess?

Tabula Rasa

After taking Latin in school for about seven years, I can read most diplomas and the sides of old buildings. Every once in a while I can even drop a phrase like I am some kind of wise old owl with a little extra insight into the goings-on of the world. Yeah. I'm like the most useless member of the Avengers. I don't just veni vidi vici you guys, I amo amas amat like a boss, and when that gets old, I jump on my bike and am like ad astra, per aspera bitches! I'm like episodes of "Rome" and "New Girl" got together and had a baby.

This was my textbook in sixth grade. No jokes.

(Yes. Kids who took Latin are just that cool.)
(Perhaps not. I image searched "Latin is cool" and got a bunch of pictures of young hispanic dudes making obscene gestures and scantily clad ladies. Then I searched "Ancient Latin is cool" and was offered images of old, broken rocks. Damn it.)

Quick, everyone look over there!

I've been ruminating on a particular phrase lately...Tabula Rasa, or the "clean slate."

If you run and Google "tabula rasa" you'll find a lot of interesting writing on the idea of the mind as a clean slate ready to be imprinted with ideas and the origins of modern psychology. But what I'm focused on is more of a clean slate, as in starting over...beginning again.

About an hour ago I asked the interwebs what the best cities for "starting over" are. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting. But I know how I currently feel, which is utterly shattered and exhausted, and ready for life to suck a lot less. I'm thinking that change - big, mega, awesome change - could be just the catalyst I need. Interestingly, a lot of people have also been interested in cultivating their own clean slates, and multiple articles popped up, pegging cities with high rates of employment, nice atmosphere, low crime, and single people (which I, who basically have the mindset of a romantic comedy, didn't even think of). Places in Maine, Virginia, New Hampshire, Nebraska and the Dakotas popped up. Some looked very pretty. But....I think New York and London have ruined me a bit. Even though I am feeling very very very ready for a new life (I'm on the verge!) nothing on those lists seem quite as good. For me anyways. Where the dickens am I supposed to go? San Diego sounds better by the day. I can envision myself heading west, which I couldn't years ago. Maybe Nashville, even? I hear good things. Or like a small coastal town. Downsize everything. I've stayed East so long for my parents, but I'm pretty sick and tired of it. Obviously I'd love to head back to Europe, but nobody is ponying up any visas for my mad Latin skillz, so that seems to be a dream on the perpetual back burner. I wish I had more answers, but right now there seem to be only questions.

durate et vosmet rebus servate secundis - Virgil

Carry on, and preserve yourself for better times.