Wednesday was my dad's birthday. I called his cell phone and sang happy birthday into his voicemail. He didn't call me back until today.
Dad is sixtysomething -- early sixtysomething. I've talked before about his badassitude. I am everyone's favorite cocktail trivia friend, as my dad has a crazy job. He's an electrical engineer -- he has a company that makes radio and television towers. This company was founded by my grandfather.*
So, my dad, he climbs towers. Like, the tower on top of the Empire State Building or the one on top of the Hancock Building here in Chicago. He's been doing this my whole life. I don't think too much about the potential dangers, here -- probably for the same reason people don’t think about the potential dangers of splattering on the highway or getting electrocuted by your toaster. You’re not going to stop driving or toasting, so as long as you’re doing it safely, it’s best not to ponder the worst possible consequences.
Once, a few years ago, I was in NYC for business, and I got an email saying something about dad being in the New York Times. Huh. I went out and found the paper, where my dad's picture took up the entire top half of the metro section, in full color. I've since seen that picture in a lot of places, including in a random email forward. That's my dad in the second picture. With the big, bald, unprotected melon head. I suppose his story caught the imaginations of a lot of people -- he's since been featured there three times. He was also, among other places, featured on 20/20, NPR, Ripley's Believe it or Not (are you completely impressed?), some Discovery Channel special, and some weird game show on Lifetime. He was photographed for National Geographic -- the photograph of my father was the last photo in the magazine that included the twin towers in the background. His photo is in this book, and this one (where you can actually look inside the book and see his pic -- but because Amazon is lame I can't link to it).
So, right. Here's what happens if your dad is a big bad macho tower climbing maniac:
- people think you're cool at cocktail parties. (mentioned above)
- people think your dad is super cool. producers and photographers and writers and such call him.
-your dad starts thinking he is the total fucking bomb. You get some killer anecdotes, like this one:
Dad and I go see "The Ring" together. After the movie, dad provides this review:
Dad: You know, the press often accuses me of being an adrenaline addict. . . but that movie had more adrenaline than even I like!
Me: Was that out loud? Dad, shut up.
- your dad enters his fifties, his late fifties, his early sixties, and he's still climbing towers. You enter your twenties, your late twenties, your early thirties and start to think about your father as someone who will -- who is -- aging.
Imagine you're a man who has literally climbed to the top of his field. You're someone who is notorious for doing things that even freak out Barbara Walters. You regularly climb on the tower on top of the Empire State Building. That's what you live for.
Some people have to face telling their parents that they can no longer drive. I have to suggest to my father that he give up climbing towers on top of buildings. I once had this conversation with my father, a few years ago. He was 58.
Dad: It's the strangest thing. My knee keeps going out, falling out from under me.
Me: Dad. That scares me. What if that happens while you're climbing?
Dad: (completely logically) Oh, it doesn't happen then.
Me: Dad, have you thought that you might have to give up climbing at some point?
Dad: I figure I have at least ten more years.
Me: Dad, I don't think you're going to be able to climb until you're 70.
Dad: 68!
Me: Right.
My dad was gone -- working -- out of town -- more than he was around when I was growing up. He has been traveling and climbing and working nonstop my entire life. He thoroughly identifies himself with his job. He is that guy who climbs towers.
For years I have been quietly worrying about what is going to happen when he can't climb anymore. I have this fear that he'll have no coping mechanism in place when this happens -- that he won't know how to identify himself anymore -- that he won't be able to find reasons to live anymore.
He and my stepmom, Sally**, got a dog last year. This dog has transformed them, in a way. It is their child, their focus. I think this dog has been the catalyst for my dad to start to look at life differently, to transition from king kong to something else, something more earthbound.
A few weeks ago, Dad and Sally bought two horses. Buddy and Bandit. I had no idea, until he casually mentioned the horses, that he even had an interest in the equine arts. Apparently, Dad is now planning on retiring to a ranch, where he will rope cattle.
While I find this surprising, I am also pleased. This is the first time I've seen him even consider retirement. I think it's exciting that he's envisioning a life for himself beyond his current one.
However, I am still really amused at his approach.
Apparently, the reason he didn't call me back all week is because he was in Arizona, taking some sort of ranching class.
He called me this morning to tell me about it:
Me: Dad. Why didn't you call me back?
Dad: I was at a ranch in Arizona! I didn't have cell phone access!
Me: What were you doing?
Dad: I was learning ranch roping and riding technique.
Me: What is ranch roping?
Dad: Well, it's similar to team roping, but it's about caring for the individual cow. It’s the technique you use if you want to give shots to cattle or care for them on the prairie without hurting yourself or the cow.
Me: Right. On the prairie.
Dad: I did get to observe an advanced class, they're doing more advanced cattle roping. The key is to wind a double hitch knot around the blahdy blah -insert many technical terms I cannot accurately reproduce here without doing some internet searching - my goal is someday to do some ranch hand work for a couple of weeks. Maybe in Wyoming or Montana.
Me: How do you do that? Can you, like, do that as a vacation?
Dad: I need to meet some people with a ranch. Then get invited.
Me: Right.
Dad, happy birthday.
I'm kind of confused, but in a good way. I'm excited to meet your horses and I hope that someday you will get that ranch. I’ll totally come visit and learn how to tie a hitch knot or something.
*My dad has three sisters. I have one sister. The fact that my dad had no sons and the subsequent impact on the business is a post for another time.
**Technically, they're not married, but have been together for the last 17 years. She does wear an engagement ring. She’s had it since 2001 or so. A few weeks ago, they were in town and my friend Sarah (god bless her) said, “So, are you getting married?” Sally said, “Yes, we were thinking we would this summer!” That was total news for me. That’s all I’ve heard of it. I guess that's a story for another day, too.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Dear Heavier Than Heaven:
Let me tell you something.
Acoustic emo in a bar -- that's one thing.
But your acoustic emo cover of "In Da Club" -- now that's genius.
Well done.
RJ
Let me tell you something.
Acoustic emo in a bar -- that's one thing.
But your acoustic emo cover of "In Da Club" -- now that's genius.
Well done.
RJ
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
DeePly Disturbing
Hey, everybody! It's time for the daily DeeP! (or, at least, biweekly.)
DeeP: So what you're talking about here, is breaking down some habits so you can build them back up again.
Me: Exactly!
DeeP: (Jokingly) Maybe you should join the military.
Me: Right. Because Iraq is so beautiful this time of year.
DeeP: (Suddenly staring, wide-eyed) Did you just say your rack is beautiful this time of year?
Me: . . .
Me: BWAHHHHH HAHAHAHAHA!
But seriously, folks, it is a lovely time of year for my cleave.
DeeP: So what you're talking about here, is breaking down some habits so you can build them back up again.
Me: Exactly!
DeeP: (Jokingly) Maybe you should join the military.
Me: Right. Because Iraq is so beautiful this time of year.
DeeP: (Suddenly staring, wide-eyed) Did you just say your rack is beautiful this time of year?
Me: . . .
Me: BWAHHHHH HAHAHAHAHA!
But seriously, folks, it is a lovely time of year for my cleave.
Why are the robots being fake to us?
Maybe because they're planning an uprising.
Thank goodness, now you have the penultimate guide to surviving the inevitable robot rebellion, here.
Some favorite excerpts:
And
Thank goodness, now you have the penultimate guide to surviving the inevitable robot rebellion, here.
Some favorite excerpts:
DON'T BOTHER WITH KARATE
Unless you can punch through sheet metal.
And
STAY ALERT
Pay attention to your robotic staff (they may be beneath your contempt as well as beneath your eye level). Watch for the following telltale signs in the days and weeks before your robots run amuck:
Sudden lack of interest in menial labor.
Unexplained disappearances.
Unwillingness to be shut down.
Repetitive 'stabbing' movements.
Constant talk of human killing.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Thanks, ABC News!
For reinvigorating my ever-so-charming obsession with Bird Flu that I was all about earlier this year. I forgot about how I'm totally going to die from bird flu.
DeeP Thoughts.
Me: So, I made it all week without drinking.
DeeP: That's amazing! How did it feel?
Me: (scrunching eyes a bit, because, like, it's not like I'm Meg Ryan in When A Man Loves A Woman and, like, hiding vodka in the bottom of the laundry hamper and such. I just like my wine, people.) Good? I guess? I did drink on the weekend.
DeeP: How much did you drink on the weekend?
Me: It was pretty normal.
DeeP: So, you were totally binge drinking?
Me: I guess so, yeah.
***
DeeP: So, what are you going to tell people when you go out with them during the week and you don't drink? Because, people are going to ask.
Me: Well.
DeeP: (Lingering theraputic regard.)
Me: I was just. . . afraid I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF! I'm GOING TO DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH!
DeeP: Huh. I don't think they'll take that so well.
Me: I guess that's not what I would tell them. That's just what I was thinking.
DeeP: Right.
Me: Right.
***
DeeP: You do have to consider your genetics, here. You might be someone who has a need to seek physical thrills.
Me: Uh, yeah, you remember my dad, right?
DeeP: (making ladder-climbing motions with his hands) Right! The guy who climbs poles!
Me: Which is different from smoking pole.
DeeP: (cocking his head quizzically) Is that slang for a blow job?
Me: (starting to giggle uncontrollably) Yes. And I think it's hilarious. SMOKING POLE!
DeeP: (throwing his bald bearded little head back and cackling) HA! HA! You are pretty funny! (He shakes his head a bit.) So, are we done with the distractions for today?
Me: Jerk.
(Just in case you're one of the three people who read this blog who are not people I talk to everyday, I should tell you I have a therapist named DeeP, I hang with him twice a week. I've talked about him here and, in mind-numbing detail, here. There's my attempt to de-nonsesify.)
DeeP: That's amazing! How did it feel?
Me: (scrunching eyes a bit, because, like, it's not like I'm Meg Ryan in When A Man Loves A Woman and, like, hiding vodka in the bottom of the laundry hamper and such. I just like my wine, people.) Good? I guess? I did drink on the weekend.
DeeP: How much did you drink on the weekend?
Me: It was pretty normal.
DeeP: So, you were totally binge drinking?
Me: I guess so, yeah.
***
DeeP: So, what are you going to tell people when you go out with them during the week and you don't drink? Because, people are going to ask.
Me: Well.
DeeP: (Lingering theraputic regard.)
Me: I was just. . . afraid I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF! I'm GOING TO DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH!
DeeP: Huh. I don't think they'll take that so well.
Me: I guess that's not what I would tell them. That's just what I was thinking.
DeeP: Right.
Me: Right.
***
DeeP: You do have to consider your genetics, here. You might be someone who has a need to seek physical thrills.
Me: Uh, yeah, you remember my dad, right?
DeeP: (making ladder-climbing motions with his hands) Right! The guy who climbs poles!
Me: Which is different from smoking pole.
DeeP: (cocking his head quizzically) Is that slang for a blow job?
Me: (starting to giggle uncontrollably) Yes. And I think it's hilarious. SMOKING POLE!
DeeP: (throwing his bald bearded little head back and cackling) HA! HA! You are pretty funny! (He shakes his head a bit.) So, are we done with the distractions for today?
Me: Jerk.
(Just in case you're one of the three people who read this blog who are not people I talk to everyday, I should tell you I have a therapist named DeeP, I hang with him twice a week. I've talked about him here and, in mind-numbing detail, here. There's my attempt to de-nonsesify.)
Monday, March 13, 2006
The P Stands for PEEE-YAAAAMMMP!
Susan brought this bottle of wine for Sunday night dinner last night.
A wine so hip it has a jaunty nickname.
I roasted a chicken with quartered lemons stuffed up its butt on a bed of sliced sweet onions. Then I served it over croutons made of a nice rosemary-garlic boule.
I made a lovely pan of roasted asparagus with parmesan and a pan of sautéed carrots with thyme.
It was the total bomb. A great accompaniment to many delicous glasses of wine.
Jason and Mark came over with Jason's mom, who is always a pleasure, outspoken and sweet and fun. She was wearing a cute little top in honor of her birthday, which was about to usher her into her forties. She was not going to allow it to take her without a fight.
Ellen came, too, and we all partook of the delicious foods and beverages and yelled at the TV while watching the season finale of Project Runway on the (magical) Tivo. Chloe is still a point of controversy. Yes, she had some fabulous constructions, that brown suit, for example, that everyone agreed was divine. But the boys yelled loudly about BUTT UGLY STIFF SHINY PINK FABRICS! and we all still love Daniel very much. And, you know, Santino.
Today I stuck the chicken carcass in a pot with some onions, carrots, celery, salt, pepper and bayleaves and I'm boiling that effer up for a nice stock to stick in the freezer.
And there are still dirty dishes in the sink. This doesn't deter at all from the pimposity, though. Don't you worry!
A wine so hip it has a jaunty nickname.
I roasted a chicken with quartered lemons stuffed up its butt on a bed of sliced sweet onions. Then I served it over croutons made of a nice rosemary-garlic boule.
I made a lovely pan of roasted asparagus with parmesan and a pan of sautéed carrots with thyme.
It was the total bomb. A great accompaniment to many delicous glasses of wine.
Jason and Mark came over with Jason's mom, who is always a pleasure, outspoken and sweet and fun. She was wearing a cute little top in honor of her birthday, which was about to usher her into her forties. She was not going to allow it to take her without a fight.
Ellen came, too, and we all partook of the delicious foods and beverages and yelled at the TV while watching the season finale of Project Runway on the (magical) Tivo. Chloe is still a point of controversy. Yes, she had some fabulous constructions, that brown suit, for example, that everyone agreed was divine. But the boys yelled loudly about BUTT UGLY STIFF SHINY PINK FABRICS! and we all still love Daniel very much. And, you know, Santino.
Today I stuck the chicken carcass in a pot with some onions, carrots, celery, salt, pepper and bayleaves and I'm boiling that effer up for a nice stock to stick in the freezer.
And there are still dirty dishes in the sink. This doesn't deter at all from the pimposity, though. Don't you worry!
The Birthplace of the Pit
It's comin' around again! Where it all began, the ultimate in hipster heaven, Intonation Fest, motherfuckers!
Highlights from last year include:
- sweatbands galore! In 100 degree heat!
- dust, dust and more dust!
- women in white shorts with neon pumps! Why? I don't know!
- no beer lines. miles of lines for water. lots of people staring in wonder at inanimate objects like waterguns. Or their own ironic tshirts.
- an impromptu hipster softball game. the shortstop, a tall man with a sandy blonde mop, looked fetching in a hot pink sheath dress with a white lace peter pan collar.
- tshirts with ironic messages! Including tshirts that said, "insert ironic message here!" METAIRONY! Holy fuck!
- weird crafts!
- bad sound!
This year, the headliners are actually two of my current faves, the Streets and Block Party, so in addition to the incredible opportunities to make copious fun of people, I'll also be able to enjoy bands I like!
Huzzah!
Highlights from last year include:
- sweatbands galore! In 100 degree heat!
- dust, dust and more dust!
- women in white shorts with neon pumps! Why? I don't know!
- no beer lines. miles of lines for water. lots of people staring in wonder at inanimate objects like waterguns. Or their own ironic tshirts.
- an impromptu hipster softball game. the shortstop, a tall man with a sandy blonde mop, looked fetching in a hot pink sheath dress with a white lace peter pan collar.
- tshirts with ironic messages! Including tshirts that said, "insert ironic message here!" METAIRONY! Holy fuck!
- weird crafts!
- bad sound!
This year, the headliners are actually two of my current faves, the Streets and Block Party, so in addition to the incredible opportunities to make copious fun of people, I'll also be able to enjoy bands I like!
Huzzah!
Nice Knives.
how to tell you've been spending too much time on the internot
Last night I had an elaborate dream that I met Heather Armstrong. We hung out with her daughter, and went to her mother's house. In my dream, her mom had 14 dogs. Which I thought was a little excessive, but I didn't say anything. In the end, we had dinner with her parents and I somehow offended them. Then Heather and her husband swung away like Tarzan on downed power lines.
Yeah. So.
Right.
Yeah. So.
Right.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Links-a-Daisy!
I was just sitting on my couch, getting pissed because there is something blocking the infared of the tivo reciever that I'm too lazy to get up and move, so I have to LIFT MY ARM to fast forward through the commercials on last night's Simpsons rerun (are you, like, crazy jealous of my life right now?) SO, I decided to post some fun Friday links for you to enjoy!
oooooh. . . sweet Jesus
An excellent reason to feel okay about not paying down your massive credit card balance.
Could Jake Gyllenhaal BE any classier??
Okay, people, I gotta go do some work or take a nap or something. Peace.
LINDSAY LOHAN: You're...just saying the word "cooter" really loud.
And of course, "Stab me, rip, stab, stab"
oooooh. . . sweet Jesus
An excellent reason to feel okay about not paying down your massive credit card balance.
We All Came on Our Birthdays
Black chick #1: You know what's the funniest birthday card I ever read?
Black chick #2: What?
Black chick #1: "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, happy birthday to you, I hope you bust a nut."
Black chick #2: Yeah, on your birthday you gotta cum.
--Duane Reade, Penn Station
Could Jake Gyllenhaal BE any classier??
Okay, people, I gotta go do some work or take a nap or something. Peace.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
DeeP Thoughts (mostly nonsensical)
Discussion with my therapist:
RJ: So, I haven't had a drink in three days, now.
DeeP: Are you shaking?
RJ: No. Not yet.
DeeP: That's good.
RJ: I've decided not to drink on weeknights, anymore. Or, at least, when I'm alone.
DeeP: That's a big step for you.
RJ: Yeah.
Momentary silency while DeeP nods at me theraputically.
RJ: I've decided to take up smoking pot, instead.
Theraputic regard.
DeeP: Really?
RJ: No. Unfortunately.
RJ: So, I haven't had a drink in three days, now.
DeeP: Are you shaking?
RJ: No. Not yet.
DeeP: That's good.
RJ: I've decided not to drink on weeknights, anymore. Or, at least, when I'm alone.
DeeP: That's a big step for you.
RJ: Yeah.
Momentary silency while DeeP nods at me theraputically.
RJ: I've decided to take up smoking pot, instead.
Theraputic regard.
DeeP: Really?
RJ: No. Unfortunately.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Poor Hoff.
SLAPPED with domestic violence allegations. First he gets estranged, then he gets slapped. I just hope he can kick back a few beers with Kit and calm down a bit until this blows over.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Snippy Snippets (doesn't that sound like a column name for a newsletter in a retirement home?)
Ah, more blathering about urban life.
Most of us women -- especially if you work on Michigan avenue -- have been accosted by them. They sneak up behind you on their stealth stilettos, shiny cell phone pressed to their ear clutched in well-manicured hands encrusted in clunky gold jewelry. They snap the phone closed as they match your pace, and say, "LOVE your shoes/bag/haircut/bracelet/banana clip/whatever!"
You wake out of your walking-to-work fugue, and proceed to graciously step right into their trap. "Thanks. I just bought them/they're totally old/um, do I know you?"
Well, I do, anyway. You might be smarter, and braver, and you might say, "get the fuck away from me, freakshow!" But, like, I'm not usually that quick.
Their pink lips curl into a shiny smile and they say, "You know, I'm a consultant for successful business women and I'm looking for someone like you! Do you have a card?" If you're me, you back away slowly, hands patting your pockets for potential weapons. Then they whip out their pink business cards, complete with lipstick shades on the back. That's right, people, it's the modern day incarnation of the Mary Kay lady.
You realize, in retrospect, that you should have known that anyone that well-made up would be one of the cosmetic giant's minions.
This morning, I was accosted in the least expected moment. Coming out of my home, stepping into the gated courtyard, I saw one of my well-coiffed neighbors teetering to the gate at the same time. I held the door for her, and she said, "Love your bag!"
(Small confession -- Okay, well, I recently accidentally bought this bag, which I can't take back because I love it. So, like, she hit me right in my achilles heel, there.)
ANYWAY, I said, "Oh, thanks, I just got it," and she said, "how long have you lived in the building," and blah blah and "What do you do?"
I said, "I'm in marketing."
She said, "I used to do that. Now I do training and coaching for professional women!"
Huh.
She said, "I work for Mary Kay, and I love it!"
Me: "Do you have a pink Cadillac?"
Her: "I'm getting it in May!"
Me -- backing across the street to the safety of my car -- : "that'll be fun! Can't wait to see it!"
Her -- lunging toward me -- : "I should give you my card!"
Me -- diving into the front seat of the Civic: "That's okay! I know where you live!"
At this point I take a moment to breathe slowly, gripping the steering wheel for support, before I peel the hell out of there.
Fuck, people, the city is a dangerous place.
Most of us women -- especially if you work on Michigan avenue -- have been accosted by them. They sneak up behind you on their stealth stilettos, shiny cell phone pressed to their ear clutched in well-manicured hands encrusted in clunky gold jewelry. They snap the phone closed as they match your pace, and say, "LOVE your shoes/bag/haircut/bracelet/banana clip/whatever!"
You wake out of your walking-to-work fugue, and proceed to graciously step right into their trap. "Thanks. I just bought them/they're totally old/um, do I know you?"
Well, I do, anyway. You might be smarter, and braver, and you might say, "get the fuck away from me, freakshow!" But, like, I'm not usually that quick.
Their pink lips curl into a shiny smile and they say, "You know, I'm a consultant for successful business women and I'm looking for someone like you! Do you have a card?" If you're me, you back away slowly, hands patting your pockets for potential weapons. Then they whip out their pink business cards, complete with lipstick shades on the back. That's right, people, it's the modern day incarnation of the Mary Kay lady.
You realize, in retrospect, that you should have known that anyone that well-made up would be one of the cosmetic giant's minions.
This morning, I was accosted in the least expected moment. Coming out of my home, stepping into the gated courtyard, I saw one of my well-coiffed neighbors teetering to the gate at the same time. I held the door for her, and she said, "Love your bag!"
(Small confession -- Okay, well, I recently accidentally bought this bag, which I can't take back because I love it. So, like, she hit me right in my achilles heel, there.)
ANYWAY, I said, "Oh, thanks, I just got it," and she said, "how long have you lived in the building," and blah blah and "What do you do?"
I said, "I'm in marketing."
She said, "I used to do that. Now I do training and coaching for professional women!"
Huh.
She said, "I work for Mary Kay, and I love it!"
Me: "Do you have a pink Cadillac?"
Her: "I'm getting it in May!"
Me -- backing across the street to the safety of my car -- : "that'll be fun! Can't wait to see it!"
Her -- lunging toward me -- : "I should give you my card!"
Me -- diving into the front seat of the Civic: "That's okay! I know where you live!"
At this point I take a moment to breathe slowly, gripping the steering wheel for support, before I peel the hell out of there.
Fuck, people, the city is a dangerous place.
Hipster Party Part Deux
By the way, Johnny and Susanne, this song has been in my head ever since Saturday. And, looking at the pictures, it seems apropos.
Also, am I evil for laughing hysterically at this video?
Greenskeepers- It Rubs The Lotion On It's Skin on Transbuddha
Also, am I evil for laughing hysterically at this video?
Greenskeepers- It Rubs The Lotion On It's Skin on Transbuddha
Monday, March 06, 2006
Happy Birthday Susanne!
Welcome to the club. . . old bitches in our thirties.
I suppose, given this picture, I should make some comment about how we're all feeling our way blindly through life or something, but, that would be lame.
Anyhow, your party was fun. And you're right. It was a total hipster pit.
And, could there be a more hipster gift than a Kewpie Doll Mask? No. Unless it is a pinata stuffed with weird dried fish and other freaky treats from the Asian market.
Just saying.
I love you, thank you for setting my Johnny straight and for being such a fabulous match for him. Not to mention, thank you for being a fabulous girl (and a fabulous cook) in your own right.
Whole party set can be enjoyed here.
I suppose, given this picture, I should make some comment about how we're all feeling our way blindly through life or something, but, that would be lame.
Anyhow, your party was fun. And you're right. It was a total hipster pit.
And, could there be a more hipster gift than a Kewpie Doll Mask? No. Unless it is a pinata stuffed with weird dried fish and other freaky treats from the Asian market.
Just saying.
I love you, thank you for setting my Johnny straight and for being such a fabulous match for him. Not to mention, thank you for being a fabulous girl (and a fabulous cook) in your own right.
Whole party set can be enjoyed here.
am I wack?
Okay, so, I feel kind of like an old woman who is finding out what the kids are doing these days -- but, is this newfangled, creepy advertising on the subway walls thing new? Or have they been doing it for the last couple of years while I was stuck in traffic? Anyone?
Urban Family Ties (What Would We Do, Baby, Without Us. . . )
Categories: melrose
Categories: friends
I just ordered this book, as it seems to have everything to do with me.
I am most definitely part of an urban tribe -- probably several extended families I rely upon for support, love, laughter, and drinking partnership. I have my Susan, my baby sister in name if not in blood. My Ellen, my Sarah (and Chad), all people who I need and love.
I am also a part of the tight-knit group of bitches we call Melrose Place -- two couples, one straight, one gay and one me. Guess I count double.
Melrose place met when we all lived in the same six flat building in Wicker Park. We developed a habit of spending a lot of time together eating, drinking wine (or, in the summer, beer on the front steps), and talking. We're a diverse group, a five-person odd couple. On the surface, JP is handsome and cocky, Rita is beautiful and sweet, Mark is smart and sardonic, Jason is flamboyant and loving.
Underneath, JP is fiercely loyal and searching for connections. Rita is smart, curious and unwavering in her basic principles, Mark is wise, caring, and will never dish you any shit. Jason is a pure soul. Together we've woven a complex tapestry of urban family ties. We have our traditions -- every Sunday night we have dinner together. Once a year we try to go on vacation (most recently, to Mexico for JP and Rita's wedding).
We have been through major life events together -- starting, probably, when I decided to buy a condo, sending shockwaves through the sixflat. We were there when JP and Rita got engaged, we were having Sunday night dinner when the offer on their house was accepted. We're all homeowners now.
When Rita was making a decision about her wedding dress, she took Mark aside. She said, "I bought this dress, and I am not sure if I love it. Please be honest with me." She tried it on, and came into the room.
Mark saw her wearing this white confection, looking radiant (as always), and said, "I wouldn't wear it."
She took it back.
She ultimately found the dress she loved.
Melrose guards me closely -- they don't like it too much when I try to date people, to bring newbies into the mix. They narrow their eyes and ask lots of questions. I find this both endearing and incredibly exasperating. My last relationship Melrose did not approve of. This resulted in my having a teary confrontation at the dinner table, insisting that, "YOU GUYS DON'T GET TO CHOOSE!" Lucky for them, I chose to end that relationship. BUT IT WAS MY CHOICE! MINE! MINE!
It was made clear then that I am the adolescent in this group.
Melrose recently got a new addition -- a little baby boy named Willis. He's JP and Rita's first child -- a black pointer/lab mix. We met him last night and he was duly doted upon. I don't have pictures yet, because I'm a moron and didn't bring my camera to dinner, but I assure you there will be billions in the future. Welcome, Willis.
Categories: friends
I just ordered this book, as it seems to have everything to do with me.
I am most definitely part of an urban tribe -- probably several extended families I rely upon for support, love, laughter, and drinking partnership. I have my Susan, my baby sister in name if not in blood. My Ellen, my Sarah (and Chad), all people who I need and love.
I am also a part of the tight-knit group of bitches we call Melrose Place -- two couples, one straight, one gay and one me. Guess I count double.
Melrose place met when we all lived in the same six flat building in Wicker Park. We developed a habit of spending a lot of time together eating, drinking wine (or, in the summer, beer on the front steps), and talking. We're a diverse group, a five-person odd couple. On the surface, JP is handsome and cocky, Rita is beautiful and sweet, Mark is smart and sardonic, Jason is flamboyant and loving.
Underneath, JP is fiercely loyal and searching for connections. Rita is smart, curious and unwavering in her basic principles, Mark is wise, caring, and will never dish you any shit. Jason is a pure soul. Together we've woven a complex tapestry of urban family ties. We have our traditions -- every Sunday night we have dinner together. Once a year we try to go on vacation (most recently, to Mexico for JP and Rita's wedding).
We have been through major life events together -- starting, probably, when I decided to buy a condo, sending shockwaves through the sixflat. We were there when JP and Rita got engaged, we were having Sunday night dinner when the offer on their house was accepted. We're all homeowners now.
When Rita was making a decision about her wedding dress, she took Mark aside. She said, "I bought this dress, and I am not sure if I love it. Please be honest with me." She tried it on, and came into the room.
Mark saw her wearing this white confection, looking radiant (as always), and said, "I wouldn't wear it."
She took it back.
She ultimately found the dress she loved.
Melrose guards me closely -- they don't like it too much when I try to date people, to bring newbies into the mix. They narrow their eyes and ask lots of questions. I find this both endearing and incredibly exasperating. My last relationship Melrose did not approve of. This resulted in my having a teary confrontation at the dinner table, insisting that, "YOU GUYS DON'T GET TO CHOOSE!" Lucky for them, I chose to end that relationship. BUT IT WAS MY CHOICE! MINE! MINE!
It was made clear then that I am the adolescent in this group.
Melrose recently got a new addition -- a little baby boy named Willis. He's JP and Rita's first child -- a black pointer/lab mix. We met him last night and he was duly doted upon. I don't have pictures yet, because I'm a moron and didn't bring my camera to dinner, but I assure you there will be billions in the future. Welcome, Willis.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
It's not exactly Lazy Sunday. . .
But when Natalie Portman says, "all the kids that look up to me can suck my dick!" Well -- that's a very good moment. Well played, Natalie. I think I might be in love with you. Also, Adam. Nice viking outfit. Totally makes sense within the context. Totally.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
paradigm shift (warning, navel gazing to ensue)
Chicago is a fabulous city.
Anyone who tells you otherwise is wrong. (Mahk, that includes you.) My city is metropolitan yet accessible, diverse, huge, proud, friendly and beautiful, among other things.
As I am adjusting to my recent paradigm shift, I am slowly putting together my perspective, fitting in bits and pieces to make a landscape of the last couple of years, lending to a deeper understanding of, well, me. And what influences me and such.
First, let me back up and say, freelancing for my old agency is incredibly comforting. I liken this career move to moving back in to my parent's basement. It's safe and comfortable, I come and go as I please, and they feed me and do my laundry. Metaphorically, that is. From this safe place I can focus energies on figuring some things out.
One thing: I missed working downtown. We've already covered that in some ways, in a sort of giddy "yeah! that too!" sort of way. But I'm only now realizing that what Melrose Mark said was true. I was losing my edge, in a weird sort of way.
Chicago is a city that has a clear central location for commerce -- our entire public transportation system is based on this. The El is a wheel with spokes that radiate from downtown (well, to the West. To the East it is only lake). This physical setup dictates a lot of how we young urban professionals view our lives -- downtown bars are for post-work, lunchtime is for shopping, life is car-free, a little difficult but a lot fun.
When I no longer rode a train every day I missed out on so much -- speculation about the secrets of other passengers, the dank tunnel between the red and blue lines at Washington where homeless men sit splayed-legged, surrounded by scattered litter and suspicious piles of unidentified dirt. I missed the street performers, the sharp-dressed urbanites, the movies and cocktail gatherings and shop windows. I missed seeing my friends at lunchtime, I missed being in the thick of it.
All that was replaced by traffic and suburban sprawl and stodgy midwestern corporate culture.
I missed my city. I missed getting to see the evening light bathing the sides of buildings as I walk to the train, I missed listening to music as I walked and walked and pretended, in my own mind, to be in a music video. (Don't tell anyone I told you that.)
My city, the experience of it, is like a long-lost friend. How did I let us get out of touch? I promise not to let it happen again. Pinkie swear.
Anyone who tells you otherwise is wrong. (Mahk, that includes you.) My city is metropolitan yet accessible, diverse, huge, proud, friendly and beautiful, among other things.
As I am adjusting to my recent paradigm shift, I am slowly putting together my perspective, fitting in bits and pieces to make a landscape of the last couple of years, lending to a deeper understanding of, well, me. And what influences me and such.
First, let me back up and say, freelancing for my old agency is incredibly comforting. I liken this career move to moving back in to my parent's basement. It's safe and comfortable, I come and go as I please, and they feed me and do my laundry. Metaphorically, that is. From this safe place I can focus energies on figuring some things out.
One thing: I missed working downtown. We've already covered that in some ways, in a sort of giddy "yeah! that too!" sort of way. But I'm only now realizing that what Melrose Mark said was true. I was losing my edge, in a weird sort of way.
Chicago is a city that has a clear central location for commerce -- our entire public transportation system is based on this. The El is a wheel with spokes that radiate from downtown (well, to the West. To the East it is only lake). This physical setup dictates a lot of how we young urban professionals view our lives -- downtown bars are for post-work, lunchtime is for shopping, life is car-free, a little difficult but a lot fun.
When I no longer rode a train every day I missed out on so much -- speculation about the secrets of other passengers, the dank tunnel between the red and blue lines at Washington where homeless men sit splayed-legged, surrounded by scattered litter and suspicious piles of unidentified dirt. I missed the street performers, the sharp-dressed urbanites, the movies and cocktail gatherings and shop windows. I missed seeing my friends at lunchtime, I missed being in the thick of it.
All that was replaced by traffic and suburban sprawl and stodgy midwestern corporate culture.
I missed my city. I missed getting to see the evening light bathing the sides of buildings as I walk to the train, I missed listening to music as I walked and walked and pretended, in my own mind, to be in a music video. (Don't tell anyone I told you that.)
My city, the experience of it, is like a long-lost friend. How did I let us get out of touch? I promise not to let it happen again. Pinkie swear.
I'd like to thank my PR firm. . .
It's that time of year again -- the days get longer, the temperature inches up, we find ourselves inexplicably more optimistic, energetic, planning and scheming for the warm days of summer ahead. It's also the time of year for endless speculation and pointless discussion about that ultimate Hollywood pagent of self-congratulation -- the Oscars.
My favorite part, though, is behind the carpet -- it's the showers of extravagant crap rained down upon the nominees -- thousands and thousands of dollars worth of merchandise given away to the most wealthy and priviledged, just for the opportunity to use the glamour of celebrity proximity to sell product.
What, maybe, not everyone who isn't a marketer knows, is that companies pay dearly -- to the tune of up to $20,000 -- just for the opportunity to include their product in the mix. The New York Times chronicles some items for delivery to the losers alone:
Certainly, I can see the value for goods and services to bathe themselves in the sparkly light of celebrity posession, especially in the case of certain luxury wearable items like watches or jewelry. The equation is clear -- give watch to celeb, celeb wears watch, InStyle publishes picutre of celeb and watch, prints watch name and price, consumers take cue to consume luxury item in order to somehow be more like celeb.
But, Lasic eye surgery? Sheets? The connection isn't as straightforward here. Even when you're somehow getting press, as Moonstruck Chocolates has been, the equation seems murky at best.
Look at it this way: Moonstruck, in this article, claims to be participating in this year's frenzy in order to "expand to a national brand." So, they participate in the Oscar basket and invest in a subsequent public relations and merchandising program in order to leverage it. So, some speculative math (Note: I am basing this on my knowledge of what it takes to run a program, and I have NO CLUE what Moonstruck is really doing):
- 10K = cost of entry.
- 10K = cost of product
- 50K = merchandising POS development and implementation
- 80K = PR program
$140K or so to be given the priviledge of perhaps having Heath Ledger eat your chocolates. Or, more likely, to give them to his housekeeper. Google news tells me that you have about, um, three articles, including the one on local CBS affiliate in South Florida.
Moonstruck may feel differently, but I would be worried about a return on my investment if I were the marketing exec on this job.
I know that many marketers still consider any chance to rub elbows with (or, in the case of Revlon, lipstick and blusher on) the stars to be "simply good marketing", as this CNN article calls it. Perhaps for Revlon, who has enormous budgets and a widely-distributed, affordable product, it makes sense. Create the association to luxury and glamour, and everyday women are far more likely to shell out a few bucks for lipstick. But I do believe it may be a dangerous gamble for a small company to attempt to hitch a ride to national fame in the Oscar gift baskets.
Not to mention, what we're talking here about borders on disgusting -- people who make millions upon millions of dollars each year. People who have grown accustomed to getting everything free, people who cannot possibly be placing value on things they don't have to pay for or even acknowledge. People who accept and embrace the idea that they should be the recipients of the type of luxuries even well-off people only dream of. All in the name of making more money off of people who should know better.
I love my celebs (especially you, Linds! I LOVE YOU!) just as much as the next gal, but I have to say, this topic still has me cringing. Not just as a frugal marketer, but as a person who would love got get 100K worth of free crap. Then I could sell it and pay off my mortgage or something.
My favorite part, though, is behind the carpet -- it's the showers of extravagant crap rained down upon the nominees -- thousands and thousands of dollars worth of merchandise given away to the most wealthy and priviledged, just for the opportunity to use the glamour of celebrity proximity to sell product.
What, maybe, not everyone who isn't a marketer knows, is that companies pay dearly -- to the tune of up to $20,000 -- just for the opportunity to include their product in the mix. The New York Times chronicles some items for delivery to the losers alone:
Scheduled for delivery a day after the March 5 telecast, it will include a three-night stay at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas, a coupon for Lasik eye surgery and a set of high-thread-count bed linens. (The academy does not permit companies to reveal their participation in the official gift basket until the end of the month, but it is similarly extravagant.)
Certainly, I can see the value for goods and services to bathe themselves in the sparkly light of celebrity posession, especially in the case of certain luxury wearable items like watches or jewelry. The equation is clear -- give watch to celeb, celeb wears watch, InStyle publishes picutre of celeb and watch, prints watch name and price, consumers take cue to consume luxury item in order to somehow be more like celeb.
But, Lasic eye surgery? Sheets? The connection isn't as straightforward here. Even when you're somehow getting press, as Moonstruck Chocolates has been, the equation seems murky at best.
Look at it this way: Moonstruck, in this article, claims to be participating in this year's frenzy in order to "expand to a national brand." So, they participate in the Oscar basket and invest in a subsequent public relations and merchandising program in order to leverage it. So, some speculative math (Note: I am basing this on my knowledge of what it takes to run a program, and I have NO CLUE what Moonstruck is really doing):
- 10K = cost of entry.
- 10K = cost of product
- 50K = merchandising POS development and implementation
- 80K = PR program
$140K or so to be given the priviledge of perhaps having Heath Ledger eat your chocolates. Or, more likely, to give them to his housekeeper. Google news tells me that you have about, um, three articles, including the one on local CBS affiliate in South Florida.
Moonstruck may feel differently, but I would be worried about a return on my investment if I were the marketing exec on this job.
I know that many marketers still consider any chance to rub elbows with (or, in the case of Revlon, lipstick and blusher on) the stars to be "simply good marketing", as this CNN article calls it. Perhaps for Revlon, who has enormous budgets and a widely-distributed, affordable product, it makes sense. Create the association to luxury and glamour, and everyday women are far more likely to shell out a few bucks for lipstick. But I do believe it may be a dangerous gamble for a small company to attempt to hitch a ride to national fame in the Oscar gift baskets.
Not to mention, what we're talking here about borders on disgusting -- people who make millions upon millions of dollars each year. People who have grown accustomed to getting everything free, people who cannot possibly be placing value on things they don't have to pay for or even acknowledge. People who accept and embrace the idea that they should be the recipients of the type of luxuries even well-off people only dream of. All in the name of making more money off of people who should know better.
I love my celebs (especially you, Linds! I LOVE YOU!) just as much as the next gal, but I have to say, this topic still has me cringing. Not just as a frugal marketer, but as a person who would love got get 100K worth of free crap. Then I could sell it and pay off my mortgage or something.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Linsay Lohan Wants To Kick Your Ass
You better watch out, everybody, because Lins is ANGRY.
Old girl has mastered the looks of death in these snapshots with her coked-out buddies.
Either she is totally paranoid on dope (see bong in pic 5, nestled right beneath Linsay's scowl), or she really, seriously, is one hell of a hater.
See you in Hell, Lohan.
Old girl has mastered the looks of death in these snapshots with her coked-out buddies.
Either she is totally paranoid on dope (see bong in pic 5, nestled right beneath Linsay's scowl), or she really, seriously, is one hell of a hater.
See you in Hell, Lohan.
Where can I hire your Illustrator, Gawker?
Well played. All I have to say is:
I'd like to titty fuck a Gyllenhall, it doesn't matter which one!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY IRA GLASS
I love you. Susan loves you. Even though it is your birthday, I'm still pissed you're moving to New York. I'm a Chicago girl and I can't help feeling that this is a blow. But today is your birthday so I'll stop giving you a hard time about it. Just for today.
Hot as a Pistol
I know this story about the autistic kid who played some killer ball is everyone's current favorite heartwarmer, but my favorite part is the video, wherein these kids go progressively more bananas with each subsequent basket, culminating in an ecstatic moment where they pour down upon this kid like they're charging to war. I can just hear all of America clapping, laughing and wiping away a grateful tear from their eyes. I can just see dollar signs popping up in the pupils of movie producers as they rush into town to try to get rights to this story. I think Leonardo DiCaprio is probably calling his agent right now, saying, "I think I'm ready to play another retarded kid, Jerry. . . "
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Does the idea that just looking at something can get your kid suspended from school seem a little gestapo-esque to anyone but me? It's not just the idea that a school can punish their students for the simple act of clicking on a link -- it's the idea that anyone's meandering about the Internet can have such devestating consequences. This brings to mind the This American Life episode* where the guy becomes obsessed that maybe he's downloaded child porn somehow, on accident -- I think about that all the time. Have I accidentally clicked on something that might indict me?
Do I have too much time on my hands?
*Note -- if you really want to hear that episode, search for "job interview pervert."
(I really hope someone googles that phrase and finds this page. Because that? Would be awesome.)
Do I have too much time on my hands?
*Note -- if you really want to hear that episode, search for "job interview pervert."
(I really hope someone googles that phrase and finds this page. Because that? Would be awesome.)
chicago-centric moment
Abby Ryan, watch out, girl. There's gonna be a lot more for you to sigh about in the next two years.
UPDATE: In an effort to illuminate my mini rant for my non-Chicago Public Radio listeners, Abby Ryan is our traffic reporter. Each morning she morosely doles out the bad news to commuters, sharing the delays with repidation, and saying things like, "It's just not pretty out there today. . . "
And, I thought, I'll find a picture of her or something! And link to it! And, people, OMG, this is a smoking gun moment -- she has a most amazing web page. Chicago NPR geeks, I present you with the nutty, blonde, jewelry making voice of your commute -- Abby Ryan! Abby makes mardi-gras themed zipper pulls! YOU CAN BUY THEM! Abby was an alarming OOMPA LOOMPA for Halloween!
Hold on. I've got to reorder my entire perception of the universe. This may take awhile.
UPDATE: In an effort to illuminate my mini rant for my non-Chicago Public Radio listeners, Abby Ryan is our traffic reporter. Each morning she morosely doles out the bad news to commuters, sharing the delays with repidation, and saying things like, "It's just not pretty out there today. . . "
And, I thought, I'll find a picture of her or something! And link to it! And, people, OMG, this is a smoking gun moment -- she has a most amazing web page. Chicago NPR geeks, I present you with the nutty, blonde, jewelry making voice of your commute -- Abby Ryan! Abby makes mardi-gras themed zipper pulls! YOU CAN BUY THEM! Abby was an alarming OOMPA LOOMPA for Halloween!
Hold on. I've got to reorder my entire perception of the universe. This may take awhile.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Unmasking . . . something. . .
I was on the plane today reading this bizarre fashion news in the New York Times and I made a jarring connection to the story about Immet St. Guillen I read just minutes before.
Okay, I ask you to stay with me here. Because even as I write this I find myself trying to check my assumptions -- which makes me want to explore them even more.
First, there's this imagery of obscured faces marching down the runway to misogynistic music, and then there's this:
Hooded, chained, silenced -- it says right there, the most disturbing word: OBLITERATED. It has the effect of dehumanizing these women , which is so flippantly explained away:
At this point, I am contemplating a tangential rage about objectification of women and models as the case in point, but, back to my earlier jarring juxtaposition -- about the woman who was found slain last week -- brutally. It was this detail that really made me cringe:
In the meantime, designers are creating these binding, chained garments that are a stylized, fashion-forward representation of a this violence, the act of binding, blindind, and muting women. And we are consuming it still, accepting, ignoring, coveting, turning a blind eye to disturbing signifiers:
Just, real quick, that thing in the parens? "Straps that pinned the wearer's arms to her side?!" I'm pretty sure that this has very little practical significance -- at least not to the wearer. Unless, you know, she needed to be bound up for easy storage somewhere.
Okay, I ask you to stay with me here. Because even as I write this I find myself trying to check my assumptions -- which makes me want to explore them even more.
First, there's this imagery of obscured faces marching down the runway to misogynistic music, and then there's this:
Out came models with their faces obliterated altogether, wrapped inside eyeless cloth hoods. Little metal punk chains were draped between where a nose would be and where an ear might be buried.
Hooded, chained, silenced -- it says right there, the most disturbing word: OBLITERATED. It has the effect of dehumanizing these women , which is so flippantly explained away:
"It was a kind of a joke," Mr. Takahashi said afterward. "I didn't want any distraction from the line."
At this point, I am contemplating a tangential rage about objectification of women and models as the case in point, but, back to my earlier jarring juxtaposition -- about the woman who was found slain last week -- brutally. It was this detail that really made me cringe:
Ms. St. Guillen's unclothed body was found inside a quilt. Her mouth was sealed with packing tape, and her head, feet and hands were bound with more tape, officials said.
In the meantime, designers are creating these binding, chained garments that are a stylized, fashion-forward representation of a this violence, the act of binding, blindind, and muting women. And we are consuming it still, accepting, ignoring, coveting, turning a blind eye to disturbing signifiers:
As the Undercover show ended and people filed out into the twilight, post-mortem chatter ran to the beautiful tailored strapped trousers, the sturdy boots, the nice fur coats (although it seems worth mentioning that a number of the coats came equipped with straps that pinned the wearer's arms to her side).
Just, real quick, that thing in the parens? "Straps that pinned the wearer's arms to her side?!" I'm pretty sure that this has very little practical significance -- at least not to the wearer. Unless, you know, she needed to be bound up for easy storage somewhere.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Power Coffee
We met the host of one of those home SURPRISE I MADE OVER THE HOUSE shows at a coffee shop in Manhattan. While we were waiting this guy was conducting business on his pop tart/blackberry.
Quote:
"My man, I have never objected to the opportunity to make money, DUDE!!"
This smacked of fear and the mistaken logic that imitating your fourteen year old son will make you sound more hip/trustworthy to investors.
Quote:
"My man, I have never objected to the opportunity to make money, DUDE!!"
This smacked of fear and the mistaken logic that imitating your fourteen year old son will make you sound more hip/trustworthy to investors.
NEW YORK CITY
Today was a beautiful day in New York, the perfect day to embark on the fabulously glamorous journey that we PR people call the DESKSIDE MEDIA TOUR!
We haul bags of crap from office to office and try to convince editors they MUST write about our prouduct. Today we were at some blue chip publications with (per my previous post) often quite posh offices.
But what a beautiful day in Manhattan, as was somehow captured by my shitty cell phone camera.
We haul bags of crap from office to office and try to convince editors they MUST write about our prouduct. Today we were at some blue chip publications with (per my previous post) often quite posh offices.
But what a beautiful day in Manhattan, as was somehow captured by my shitty cell phone camera.
TOP SECRET
This picture was taken this afternoon in the offices of the WSJ.
Even the toilet seats at the Wall Street Journal are descreet. -- Insert anal retentive WSJ joke here --
Even the toilet seats at the Wall Street Journal are descreet. -- Insert anal retentive WSJ joke here --
Monday, February 27, 2006
Black History Month Dinner
Melrose Place had a very special episode last night. Our token black man, Jason, made us a fabulous black history month dinner. Some choice quotes:
Rita: "Are these collard greens?"
JP: "RITA! They're not COLORED GREENS! God!"
Rita: "Shut up, JP, I'm so excited to be eating collard greens!"
Jason: "Those aren't collard greens."
Rita: "What are they, then?"
Jason: "Green beans."
Rita: "Are these collard greens?"
JP: "RITA! They're not COLORED GREENS! God!"
Rita: "Shut up, JP, I'm so excited to be eating collard greens!"
Jason: "Those aren't collard greens."
Rita: "What are they, then?"
Jason: "Green beans."
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Kato!
Yo, what are you doing on my grandma's couch? Whatever, those bandaids are hot. You know what else would be awesome? Just, like, sprinkle some, like, cash on yourself. Just do it. So hot.
I can't stop. . .
Flickr is seriously amazing.
Like, this shot.
"OMG, Julie! You know what would be totally hot? Like, strip down to your panties and, like, crawl out of this refrigerator box! I'll totally take your picture!
"Oh! Babe! Wear this belt, too! But just, like, let it dangle! So. Hot."
Like, this shot.
"OMG, Julie! You know what would be totally hot? Like, strip down to your panties and, like, crawl out of this refrigerator box! I'll totally take your picture!
"Oh! Babe! Wear this belt, too! But just, like, let it dangle! So. Hot."
More Flickr Random Captioning
Listen, Jill, I told you that pink is MY color. Now go back upstairs and change.
By the way, loved you in the muppet movie.
PS: I accidentally used magic marker for eyeliner. At least it matches these party lights.
By the way, loved you in the muppet movie.
PS: I accidentally used magic marker for eyeliner. At least it matches these party lights.
Well. That was fun.
Hello, my friends.
Welcome to the post-SAD party wrap-up. The party that takes your SAD. . . seasonal affective depression . . . and replaces it with PDD. . . post drunk depression.
Luckily, PDD is temporary.
Just like my pounding headache and the waves of nausea I'm enjoying today.
We had much fun, many laughs, many dances, and many, many, many drinks.
And perhaps did things that surpirsed even ourselves.
But I'm not mentioning any names. Not that I really could remember them. Just kidding, Chris. God. Whatever.
Click here to see the full beer-soaked set of photographic evidence.
Welcome to the post-SAD party wrap-up. The party that takes your SAD. . . seasonal affective depression . . . and replaces it with PDD. . . post drunk depression.
Luckily, PDD is temporary.
Just like my pounding headache and the waves of nausea I'm enjoying today.
We had much fun, many laughs, many dances, and many, many, many drinks.
And perhaps did things that surpirsed even ourselves.
But I'm not mentioning any names. Not that I really could remember them. Just kidding, Chris. God. Whatever.
Click here to see the full beer-soaked set of photographic evidence.
The Second Coming
This is ominous news.
That's right, now, not only is New York Magazine declaring the return of the stirrup pant, but they're also claiming that ANKLE ZIPPERS ARE BACK.
Men, don't feel that you're immune -- stirrup trousers have been spotted in Milan.
Gotta go.
If you need me, I'll be retching in the bathroom sink.
That's right, now, not only is New York Magazine declaring the return of the stirrup pant, but they're also claiming that ANKLE ZIPPERS ARE BACK.
Men, don't feel that you're immune -- stirrup trousers have been spotted in Milan.
Gotta go.
If you need me, I'll be retching in the bathroom sink.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
apologies to yawnshire, whomever you are
okay, so, I'm effing about merrily on the Internot this morning, visiting the emails and the blogs and the Flickr, and this random photo caught my eye.
Whoa.
From the left:
Svetlana. Totally annoyed at her boyfriend, fake Harry Connick Jr., for hiring this chef. Because, sure, hippie blackface Jesus makes a fine Tang punch, but he brought along one of the lost boys who is freaking out the rest of the guests.
Whoa.
From the left:
Svetlana. Totally annoyed at her boyfriend, fake Harry Connick Jr., for hiring this chef. Because, sure, hippie blackface Jesus makes a fine Tang punch, but he brought along one of the lost boys who is freaking out the rest of the guests.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Oy. Avich.
Okay.
Where do I start with this?
Some thoughts:
- As a professional publicist, I would like to invite my Governor to call me. Because, as part of what I do (as weird as this may sound), when I book clients on interviews, I find out what show the interview is for. Then -- get this -- I BRIEF THEM ON IT. Weird huh? I know that may seem, like, over the top. . .especially for POLITICS, but, what can I say?
- Rod, we live in the same town. I use Comcast (despite my distaste for them, different story) as my cable provider. I bet they wire up your house, too. Come out from under the rock and call them. Might help you stay in touch with things that are going on in the world. Like, the show that informs the majority of voters 18-25. Just a thought.
- By the way, Rod -- I still love you.
- See the wreck footage here.
(via ellen)
Where do I start with this?
Some thoughts:
- As a professional publicist, I would like to invite my Governor to call me. Because, as part of what I do (as weird as this may sound), when I book clients on interviews, I find out what show the interview is for. Then -- get this -- I BRIEF THEM ON IT. Weird huh? I know that may seem, like, over the top. . .especially for POLITICS, but, what can I say?
- Rod, we live in the same town. I use Comcast (despite my distaste for them, different story) as my cable provider. I bet they wire up your house, too. Come out from under the rock and call them. Might help you stay in touch with things that are going on in the world. Like, the show that informs the majority of voters 18-25. Just a thought.
- By the way, Rod -- I still love you.
- See the wreck footage here.
(via ellen)
UNITE AND TAKE OVER!
Okay, first, I was a little concerned that our government maybe wasn't as worried as they should be about National Security.
But today's news has me comforted that the FBI is kicking the crime of this world in the crotch, dear!
That's right, we SHOULD be concerned by a man who has claimed to be celebate for so many years. That cannot be good. He is the one busy creating crime rings.
But today's news has me comforted that the FBI is kicking the crime of this world in the crotch, dear!
That's right, we SHOULD be concerned by a man who has claimed to be celebate for so many years. That cannot be good. He is the one busy creating crime rings.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
I swear I once worked for this guy.
God, woman, what is your problem?
Your husband just wants what he wants.
He's being very clear and I think you should just do it. Clearly, by resisting, you've somehow driven him to get involved in child porn.
But seriously, the whole situation does raise some questions for me. Like, Did this just come up? You've been married for nine years. And, did you decide to go with the paper option for tracking your GBDs, or go for the modern-day computer mode? I totally would have gone for the computer. It's so much easier to just, like, put a little flag on your calendar to track them. Or something.
Your husband just wants what he wants.
He's being very clear and I think you should just do it. Clearly, by resisting, you've somehow driven him to get involved in child porn.
But seriously, the whole situation does raise some questions for me. Like, Did this just come up? You've been married for nine years. And, did you decide to go with the paper option for tracking your GBDs, or go for the modern-day computer mode? I totally would have gone for the computer. It's so much easier to just, like, put a little flag on your calendar to track them. Or something.
I love you, Bill. But only for about five more minutes, because then you won't be cool anymore.
This article in Harper's is a beautiful thing. Written by the man who claims to have invented flash mobs. As a way to fuck with Hipsters. SO FUN. (via Gawker)
Especially designed for the guys in dresses playing softball in the dirt this summer.
Such a beautiful academic deconstruction of the ludicrious collection of reverse-mullet haircuts and vintage church softball league t-shirts. Yes, yes, your neon legwarmers make you totally individual. They totally make you fit in with the cool crowd. Oh, Bill -- as you say, 'Have so many self-alleged aesthetes ever been more (in the formulation of Festinger et al.) “submerged in the group”?'
What a perfect time to start fucking with people!
PURE SCENE, MAN!
At this point, I will give you exactly fifteen seconds of applause, for YOU! And then I will abandon this blog altogether.
Especially designed for the guys in dresses playing softball in the dirt this summer.
Consider the generational cohort that has come to be called the hipsters—i.e., those hundreds of thousands of educated young urbanites with strikingly similar tastes.
Such a beautiful academic deconstruction of the ludicrious collection of reverse-mullet haircuts and vintage church softball league t-shirts. Yes, yes, your neon legwarmers make you totally individual. They totally make you fit in with the cool crowd. Oh, Bill -- as you say, 'Have so many self-alleged aesthetes ever been more (in the formulation of Festinger et al.) “submerged in the group”?'
What a perfect time to start fucking with people!
The basic hypothesis behind the Mob Project was as follows: seeing how all culture in New York was demonstrably commingled with scenesterism, the appeal of concerts and plays and readings and gallery shows deriving less from the work itself than from the social opportunities the work might engender, it should theoretically be possible to create an art project consisting of pure scene—meaning the scene would be the entire point of the work, and indeed would itself constitute the work.
PURE SCENE, MAN!
At this point, I will give you exactly fifteen seconds of applause, for YOU! And then I will abandon this blog altogether.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
PRORO
So, Project Runway, very important show. Very quick liveblog notes from the Reunion Special:
- John Wade, first man eliminated, designer who shares my love of imbibing, is a mere shadow of his former self. And I love the fact that he is SO ANNOYED that everyone keeps telling him how great he looks. A lovely exchange with pretty boy Nick:
Nick: This is an absolute transformation! It's like Star Jones!
John: I'm gonna CHOKE A BITCH!
John, my friend, I'm with you. Shut up, everyone.
- Guadalupe goes off on some sort of crack-addled tyrade, and My Lovely, Tim Gunn, says, "This is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've heard in weeks." Love you, Tim. See you at Red Lobster.
- They revisit Andre's breakdown on the runway and have a timer going at the bottom, "elapsed time, 9:51. . . " so. bitchy. I LOVE IT.
- Zulema exhibits some intense dual personality FUN CLIPS that happened to not make it into the original show. Maybe because they were too effing schizophrenic.
- Even though everyone (except 'Lupe, who is clearly on crack) expresses some form of hate for Santino, he exhibits no visible discomfort.
- EXCELLENT weird moment when Gunn quips, "Daniel Franco, maybe we'll see you season three."
Daniel: I might. I just might
Everyone: Stares in uncomfortable silence.
I love how they edit these shows.
- John Wade, first man eliminated, designer who shares my love of imbibing, is a mere shadow of his former self. And I love the fact that he is SO ANNOYED that everyone keeps telling him how great he looks. A lovely exchange with pretty boy Nick:
Nick: This is an absolute transformation! It's like Star Jones!
John: I'm gonna CHOKE A BITCH!
John, my friend, I'm with you. Shut up, everyone.
- Guadalupe goes off on some sort of crack-addled tyrade, and My Lovely, Tim Gunn, says, "This is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've heard in weeks." Love you, Tim. See you at Red Lobster.
- They revisit Andre's breakdown on the runway and have a timer going at the bottom, "elapsed time, 9:51. . . " so. bitchy. I LOVE IT.
- Zulema exhibits some intense dual personality FUN CLIPS that happened to not make it into the original show. Maybe because they were too effing schizophrenic.
- Even though everyone (except 'Lupe, who is clearly on crack) expresses some form of hate for Santino, he exhibits no visible discomfort.
- EXCELLENT weird moment when Gunn quips, "Daniel Franco, maybe we'll see you season three."
Daniel: I might. I just might
Everyone: Stares in uncomfortable silence.
I love how they edit these shows.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
What the hell happened to Josh Charles ?
I had such high hopes for that kid. I mean, I remember in 1989 when Sassy magazine named him One To Watch. When I was in ninth grade, that was, like, the source. I had total faith in him. I tore out his sexy, asymmetrical-haired picture and posted it on my wall. When he told that kid in the Dead Poet’s Society that he shouldn’t worry about his totally fascist dad, I totally believed him. I guess I should have known, when that kid totally killed himself in his totally gay actor’s outfit, that he wasn’t convincing enough to really, like, make it. I mean, I didn’t know it then, but that was totally not about a career choice, that suicide. It was all about being gay. Probably for Josh Charles. Cause he was so hot.
I want to implore Hollywood to give Josh another chance.
Unless he’s ugly now. Or gay.
I had such high hopes for that kid. I mean, I remember in 1989 when Sassy magazine named him One To Watch. When I was in ninth grade, that was, like, the source. I had total faith in him. I tore out his sexy, asymmetrical-haired picture and posted it on my wall. When he told that kid in the Dead Poet’s Society that he shouldn’t worry about his totally fascist dad, I totally believed him. I guess I should have known, when that kid totally killed himself in his totally gay actor’s outfit, that he wasn’t convincing enough to really, like, make it. I mean, I didn’t know it then, but that was totally not about a career choice, that suicide. It was all about being gay. Probably for Josh Charles. Cause he was so hot.
I want to implore Hollywood to give Josh another chance.
Unless he’s ugly now. Or gay.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Sneering ladies
Two things to miss about the Glass Microphone Palace -- two most excellent coworkers. How could anyone resist this most delicious attitude?
Friday, February 17, 2006
UNNECESSARY CONDIMENTS!
Overheard at the Star of
Small Thai man (to couple sitting next to us): What this I hear about your fried rice?
Unsatisfied, somewhat angry lady: This fried rice is no good.
Small Thai man: What wrong with the fried rice? There's nothing wrong with the fried rice!
Angry Lady: This rice is not good. I've been to other places where the rice was browner and better. This rice is unsatisfactory to me!
Thai man: Look around you! My restaurant is full for lunch! It has been packed for 20 years! No one around here thinks the rice is not good but you!
Angry Lady: I am the customer. And I say, some of these condiments are completely unnecessary.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Ten Reasons To Love Ellen
1. Her laugh. It is loud and joyous and unrestrained, it's hilarious in and of itself. If she thinks something is funny, you will think it is funny. Just because she's laughing. This is very good if you like to make people laugh. She's a nice laughter wingman.
2. Her voice. It's all smoky and raspy and ravaged-sounding, sometimes like she's some road-hardened ninety-year-old in a cute little twenty-something's body.
3. Her old lady car. With a big dent in the side.
4. She's generous, and she'll cry with you and stick by your side when you need her.
5. She is totally willing to go for drinks at the drop of a hat. These people are very important to keep close. Sometimes, you need a drink and you want someone to go with you. Especially someone with the above (and below) qualities. A GEM, I TELL YOU.
6. She drives an old lady car and loves it.
7. She has the same cute cheeks as she did as a kid. I didn't know her then, but I've seen pictures.
8. Total Irish girl. As if you couldn't tell.
9. Smart as a WHIP.
10. Because you just can't help it. So, when she says, "I think it's time to give me props on your blog," you do it. Because that's the kind of girl she is.
Now, E -- call me, let's get a drink.
XO
RJ
2. Her voice. It's all smoky and raspy and ravaged-sounding, sometimes like she's some road-hardened ninety-year-old in a cute little twenty-something's body.
3. Her old lady car. With a big dent in the side.
4. She's generous, and she'll cry with you and stick by your side when you need her.
5. She is totally willing to go for drinks at the drop of a hat. These people are very important to keep close. Sometimes, you need a drink and you want someone to go with you. Especially someone with the above (and below) qualities. A GEM, I TELL YOU.
6. She drives an old lady car and loves it.
7. She has the same cute cheeks as she did as a kid. I didn't know her then, but I've seen pictures.
8. Total Irish girl. As if you couldn't tell.
9. Smart as a WHIP.
10. Because you just can't help it. So, when she says, "I think it's time to give me props on your blog," you do it. Because that's the kind of girl she is.
Now, E -- call me, let's get a drink.
XO
RJ
carving out my path
This morning I met with a former agency of mine and brainstormed potential new products.
I got a thrill as I said, "I would love to work with you on business development, carving out new markets," and I got wide-eyed, enthusiastic nods.
I love the freedom to do what I want and the credibility to sell myself and my services.
I like to think of this last week as a trip, a free-fall tumble, follwed by a beautiful landing on both feet.
Or, perhaps a nice jackie chan move - quick kicks to the obstacles in my way, flying around in the rain-soaked nighttime alley, perhaps landing on a fire-escape and shooting a snotty grin behind me.
That's right, motherfuckers. Eat my dust.
I got a thrill as I said, "I would love to work with you on business development, carving out new markets," and I got wide-eyed, enthusiastic nods.
I love the freedom to do what I want and the credibility to sell myself and my services.
I like to think of this last week as a trip, a free-fall tumble, follwed by a beautiful landing on both feet.
Or, perhaps a nice jackie chan move - quick kicks to the obstacles in my way, flying around in the rain-soaked nighttime alley, perhaps landing on a fire-escape and shooting a snotty grin behind me.
That's right, motherfuckers. Eat my dust.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
White Girls Can't Jump
Dad, Sally. What does the dog have that I don't have? I mean, besides this lovely bomber jacket?
Sure, she can catch a frisbee in the air and gets lots of complements in the dog park.
Sure, her coat is glossy and is white AND black.
So what? She doesn't even speak! I mean, she barks high-pitched barks when she loses her ball under the couch, but that's just ANNOYING!
Yeah, she's purebred! So what! Does she pay her own bills?
DOES SHE?
DAD???
Sure, she can catch a frisbee in the air and gets lots of complements in the dog park.
Sure, her coat is glossy and is white AND black.
So what? She doesn't even speak! I mean, she barks high-pitched barks when she loses her ball under the couch, but that's just ANNOYING!
Yeah, she's purebred! So what! Does she pay her own bills?
DOES SHE?
DAD???
Money
So, talking to a potential employer -- I quote my outrageous hourly rate. She says, "oh, we can pay you more than that."
MONEY.
MONEY.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Happy St. Bloggy Day.
This is when susan says, "I think maybe you should leave the decorating up to me and just concentrate on spreading the white icing."
Kiss my Tulips.
Okay, people -- my friends and family have gone out of their way to prove that I. am. incredibly. blessed.
First -- the flowers from momma. Then -- these gorgeous tulips from my Casey, who says, "Freedom is an opportunity. Stop and smell the flowers."
Then -- more lovely tulips from Sarah and Tchad. My home is like an incredible spring garden right now. I could not love it more.
And so many supportive calls and emails and whathaveyou, including one that made me teary from Melrose Mark -- Who wrote this awesome insight:
I must say that I love that you will not be working in the suburbs anymore
(right?)..For some reason it always really bugged me that you, and only you,
worked in the suburbs..You know I'm very geo-centric and I felt like you may be
losing the edge I so dear love by working out there..That and I won't have to
listen to travel times on the Edens anymore and worry that it would just be
stressing you out more..I know right.
I know, RIGHT? I was thinking of that as I was walking into my downtown
office building this morning. I was thinking that I love being downtown. I love
being free. I love not struggling to conform to someone's expectations.
And, have I mentioned? I love tulips.
Happy Valentine's Day
Still scrambling for that perfect gift?? Vincent Gallo has some excellent suggestions.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Day One -- Deja Vu
Today begins my new career as a freelance marketer/bitch for hire.
Today is also the day that, after almost three years, I walk back into the agency I worked for from 1998 - 2003 -- five years of insane personalities, crazy stories, laughter, tears, and many, many designer handbags.
This is the agency of The Handbag Girls, where I was once told, "You've got all the skills -- now you just need to get a look." Where I was once handed a nail file and a bottle of nail polish and told, "Tricks of the trade!"
Also, the agency where I met some people who I will be linked to for life. Including my old boss (Who, strangely, has the same first name as the man who terrorized me at my last job) -- who had several projects ready for me when I called him last week.
Last night I dreamed that I was here, a strange combination of homecoming and fear, the fear that I just took a step back in time. The fear of being a young, impressionable, insecure woman again, subject to the insecurities and judgement of other women. I felt that a little when I walked inside. While people were hugging me left and right, some with a genuine affection, some with suspicion, some with a little schadenfreude -- or was that just me? They pointed out a place on the wall where, "there was a picture of you, and a cut up credit card, I swear, until just last week."
The thing is, I am older, smarter, more confident, less afraid today than I have maybe ever been. What is there left to be afraid of?
Besides a bad manicure, I mean.
Today is also the day that, after almost three years, I walk back into the agency I worked for from 1998 - 2003 -- five years of insane personalities, crazy stories, laughter, tears, and many, many designer handbags.
This is the agency of The Handbag Girls, where I was once told, "You've got all the skills -- now you just need to get a look." Where I was once handed a nail file and a bottle of nail polish and told, "Tricks of the trade!"
Also, the agency where I met some people who I will be linked to for life. Including my old boss (Who, strangely, has the same first name as the man who terrorized me at my last job) -- who had several projects ready for me when I called him last week.
Last night I dreamed that I was here, a strange combination of homecoming and fear, the fear that I just took a step back in time. The fear of being a young, impressionable, insecure woman again, subject to the insecurities and judgement of other women. I felt that a little when I walked inside. While people were hugging me left and right, some with a genuine affection, some with suspicion, some with a little schadenfreude -- or was that just me? They pointed out a place on the wall where, "there was a picture of you, and a cut up credit card, I swear, until just last week."
The thing is, I am older, smarter, more confident, less afraid today than I have maybe ever been. What is there left to be afraid of?
Besides a bad manicure, I mean.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Blossoming Things -- more thoughts on being canned.
The socialist flower shop down the street called me and said, "We have a delivery for you. Are you home?"
I knew it was a socialst flower shop, because that's where The Socialist bought flowers that convinced Sarah to marry him.
I cried a little in Hallmark-style "aren't my friends THE BEST godIdon'tdeservethem" sort of way. I wiped the tears from my eyes like a starlet and stood in the doorway when the flowers came wrapped in butcher paper, smiling in glassy-eyed delight at the scruffy socialist guy who handed them to me.
Turns out, according to the block-lettered socialst-style gift card, they were from my mom. "Just to brighten your day."
My mom said, "We pass that shop all the time, and you always say you love it."
She's the best.
So, mom sends flowers.
Other reactions:
Dad said, "I would like to go down and punch that guy." Personally, I love the mental image of my big, burly, 60-yr-old leather-vest clad badass dad pounding on that swaggering frat boy.
But that wouldn't be very, like, legal.
My friends at work have been righteously indignant, those little angels.
Except for the director of marketing, who has been incredibly uncomfortable and clearly feels guilty and, perhaps, a bit judgemental. But probably guilty about being judgemental. I assured her I would be fine and asked her to be a reference. I believe she was relieved to be of use.
People have been calling, coming out of the woodwork, because word travels fast. What I've noticed is that so many of them call me and complain about their own lives.
I spoke last night to a friend in New York who spent about an hour dissecting her own career woes. It was about 8PM. I was in pajamas. She was at work. This, more than anything, I find soothing.
If I don't really warrant enough sympathy to require a lot of listening to, it must not be that bad.
I knew it was a socialst flower shop, because that's where The Socialist bought flowers that convinced Sarah to marry him.
I cried a little in Hallmark-style "aren't my friends THE BEST godIdon'tdeservethem" sort of way. I wiped the tears from my eyes like a starlet and stood in the doorway when the flowers came wrapped in butcher paper, smiling in glassy-eyed delight at the scruffy socialist guy who handed them to me.
Turns out, according to the block-lettered socialst-style gift card, they were from my mom. "Just to brighten your day."
My mom said, "We pass that shop all the time, and you always say you love it."
She's the best.
So, mom sends flowers.
Other reactions:
Dad said, "I would like to go down and punch that guy." Personally, I love the mental image of my big, burly, 60-yr-old leather-vest clad badass dad pounding on that swaggering frat boy.
But that wouldn't be very, like, legal.
My friends at work have been righteously indignant, those little angels.
Except for the director of marketing, who has been incredibly uncomfortable and clearly feels guilty and, perhaps, a bit judgemental. But probably guilty about being judgemental. I assured her I would be fine and asked her to be a reference. I believe she was relieved to be of use.
People have been calling, coming out of the woodwork, because word travels fast. What I've noticed is that so many of them call me and complain about their own lives.
I spoke last night to a friend in New York who spent about an hour dissecting her own career woes. It was about 8PM. I was in pajamas. She was at work. This, more than anything, I find soothing.
If I don't really warrant enough sympathy to require a lot of listening to, it must not be that bad.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Hipster Internet Cafe
My new office is so cozy! They have coffee, tons of plastic-rimmed glasses, Tom Waits blasting, and this guy.
Sitting on the low-slung couch in his lumberjack outfit, complete with flannel shirt, red doc martens, and a certain unwashed charm. He's sporting a smart black ski cap, just in case he needs to rob someone later.
Wait, is that Tom Waits? He's got Tom Waits glasses on! What's he DOING over there? He's got earphones on. Does he know they're playing his music?
Sitting on the low-slung couch in his lumberjack outfit, complete with flannel shirt, red doc martens, and a certain unwashed charm. He's sporting a smart black ski cap, just in case he needs to rob someone later.
Wait, is that Tom Waits? He's got Tom Waits glasses on! What's he DOING over there? He's got earphones on. Does he know they're playing his music?
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Props
Dear Susan:
Thank you for being my generous, beautiful, honest and caring friend.
Thank you for letting me use your Internet connection today while Comcast is totally dicking around. Did I mention Comcast sucks? Cuz they do.
Per our conversation -- PROPS!
Rebecca
PS: Now you're totally famous.
Thank you for being my generous, beautiful, honest and caring friend.
Thank you for letting me use your Internet connection today while Comcast is totally dicking around. Did I mention Comcast sucks? Cuz they do.
Per our conversation -- PROPS!
Rebecca
PS: Now you're totally famous.
Some fine suggestions.
Guys: Skip the jewelry this year! Your Girl is dying for a lizard! She's jonesing for the sweet fragrance of hampster cage!
Perspective
I took this from the plane window, during a trip to St. Louis to visit my friend Maria.
I am always struck, while on flights, with the way cloud cover turns into a surreal landscape, mounds of soft buttercream frosting, a sea of texture and colors made only from air.
Perched up there, the roar of engines create a pleasing wall of white noise that helps force out nagging doubts and paralyzing fears to be replaced by simple wonder.
The sun pours through the double-paned glass, which is still cold to the touch, and warms my face. I squint at the horizon.
I think about all the other people on the plane today -- the man in the white polo sitting next to me, reading a magazine and checking his clunky metal watch every few minutes -- the young family with a curious blonde child who keeps popping his head above the seat to check everyone out -- and I think about their lives. So many strangers on the same plane for a brief hour or so, only to scatter and live their lives, perhaps never to see each other again. So many relationships, connections, dramas, pains, joys -- so, so many stories. Each head containing brains pondering their own conflicts.
Eight million people in this city alone, most of them blissfully unaware of dramas going on mere feet from them on the train or the elevator.
Why should I wring myself dry over my own?
I am always struck, while on flights, with the way cloud cover turns into a surreal landscape, mounds of soft buttercream frosting, a sea of texture and colors made only from air.
Perched up there, the roar of engines create a pleasing wall of white noise that helps force out nagging doubts and paralyzing fears to be replaced by simple wonder.
The sun pours through the double-paned glass, which is still cold to the touch, and warms my face. I squint at the horizon.
I think about all the other people on the plane today -- the man in the white polo sitting next to me, reading a magazine and checking his clunky metal watch every few minutes -- the young family with a curious blonde child who keeps popping his head above the seat to check everyone out -- and I think about their lives. So many strangers on the same plane for a brief hour or so, only to scatter and live their lives, perhaps never to see each other again. So many relationships, connections, dramas, pains, joys -- so, so many stories. Each head containing brains pondering their own conflicts.
Eight million people in this city alone, most of them blissfully unaware of dramas going on mere feet from them on the train or the elevator.
Why should I wring myself dry over my own?
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
More things to do on your first day on the job OF LIFE
Make rules. Some examples:
- No daytime TV. Nothing is more horrifying than watching advertisements for trucking school and thinking, 'they mean me. When they say, 'feeling desparate?' they. mean. me." Turn 'er off. No, it doesn't matter that you have Tivo. Shut up, inner voice of pure laziness! No TV before 6PM!
- Get out of bed in the morning. Do it.
- Get the hell out of the house. I SAID GO! This is especially easily done when Comcast has been dicking about and your Internet is on the fritz. Hipster Internet Cafe, here you come! Que up the Death Cab, motherfuckers!
- Eat your veggies. Take pictures. Don't resort to selling off your posessions, just yet. Technically, you just hit 24 hours of unemployment. Technically.
- Walk around. Notice details. Pretend you are a starving artist. Write things in your head. Carry around notebooks for scribbling. Try not to be irritable. You Bitch.
- No daytime TV. Nothing is more horrifying than watching advertisements for trucking school and thinking, 'they mean me. When they say, 'feeling desparate?' they. mean. me." Turn 'er off. No, it doesn't matter that you have Tivo. Shut up, inner voice of pure laziness! No TV before 6PM!
- Get out of bed in the morning. Do it.
- Get the hell out of the house. I SAID GO! This is especially easily done when Comcast has been dicking about and your Internet is on the fritz. Hipster Internet Cafe, here you come! Que up the Death Cab, motherfuckers!
- Eat your veggies. Take pictures. Don't resort to selling off your posessions, just yet. Technically, you just hit 24 hours of unemployment. Technically.
- Walk around. Notice details. Pretend you are a starving artist. Write things in your head. Carry around notebooks for scribbling. Try not to be irritable. You Bitch.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Monday, December 05, 2005
Balls!
More and more, I'm confronted with weddings and engagements and the like, and more and more I'm finding the whole thing weird.
More than anything, I'm thinking it's the wedding thing that is the oddest bit. I'm down with lifelong commitment and partnership. I mean, you've got to have someone to share the mortgage and pick the kids up from soccer practice. And I get the idea of making a promise, maybe even making it legally binding, like a business decision, so there are reprecussions if someone doesn't hold up his or her end of the bargain.
And, no doubt, I'm totally down with the party part. I'm all about events that are all about drinking and dancing. And eating. And did I mention drinking?
The whole ceremony thing slightly creeps me out. The purposeful public declaration of undying love, people staring at you while you lay that whole thing bare in a way that is sort of uncharacteristic in our modern lives. I mean, how often do you really perform ceremonies? Especially if you don't church it that much. Everyone all decked out and crying about your love while babies scream in the pews. . .
But the true evil of the wedding thing is what brides do -- make all their girlfriends wear identical ugly outfits -- that is at the crux of the creepiness. A parade of differently-shaped bodies all attempting to look identical in some sort of heinous purple strapless crepe piece of ill-fitting crap. Holy shit, that's evil. Inevitably, one of the bridesmaids looks like she's smuggling watermelons and has to have tape applied to her underarms while her counterpart is forced to stick socks in her bra. They usually look angry or as if they were weeping not five minutes ago in front of a mirror as they walk down the aisle. Usually, the hairstyles inflicted upon them are similarly cruel -- and are applied with enough hairspray to ensure that it will talk many, many applications of shampoo before their hair has retained its original consistency.
All with the priveledge of having to spend $300 to do it.
Why must women be so very cruel to one another? WHY?
More than anything, I'm thinking it's the wedding thing that is the oddest bit. I'm down with lifelong commitment and partnership. I mean, you've got to have someone to share the mortgage and pick the kids up from soccer practice. And I get the idea of making a promise, maybe even making it legally binding, like a business decision, so there are reprecussions if someone doesn't hold up his or her end of the bargain.
And, no doubt, I'm totally down with the party part. I'm all about events that are all about drinking and dancing. And eating. And did I mention drinking?
The whole ceremony thing slightly creeps me out. The purposeful public declaration of undying love, people staring at you while you lay that whole thing bare in a way that is sort of uncharacteristic in our modern lives. I mean, how often do you really perform ceremonies? Especially if you don't church it that much. Everyone all decked out and crying about your love while babies scream in the pews. . .
But the true evil of the wedding thing is what brides do -- make all their girlfriends wear identical ugly outfits -- that is at the crux of the creepiness. A parade of differently-shaped bodies all attempting to look identical in some sort of heinous purple strapless crepe piece of ill-fitting crap. Holy shit, that's evil. Inevitably, one of the bridesmaids looks like she's smuggling watermelons and has to have tape applied to her underarms while her counterpart is forced to stick socks in her bra. They usually look angry or as if they were weeping not five minutes ago in front of a mirror as they walk down the aisle. Usually, the hairstyles inflicted upon them are similarly cruel -- and are applied with enough hairspray to ensure that it will talk many, many applications of shampoo before their hair has retained its original consistency.
All with the priveledge of having to spend $300 to do it.
Why must women be so very cruel to one another? WHY?
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Happy BIRTHDAY TO ME! WITH BUTTERCREAM!
moments from my birthday party
- The Socialist copped to owning a copy of Kelly Clarkson's CD.
- Attempting to start a rumor that Todd was once on The Real World Seattle.
- Not being successful, since pretty much everyone there knows Todd was never on The Real World Seattle.
- Except Val. Who somehow believed it.
- Select random Todd overheard moments, including, ". . . so, as it turns out, she was only dressing like a slut so she could get laid!" and, "Man, JP, so much has happened since you've been on vacation. . . I banged, like, six girls.
- Laughing about the beautiful people convention at my party with Sarah. How did that happen?
- Having to threaten Johnny so he'd get his ass to the party.
- Playing 50 cent and Justin Timberlake at a notorious hipster bar. Pissing off the hipsters, who don't like being confronted with music they like but claim to hate.
- Buttercream cupcakes. Fucking yum.
- The afterparty at my house, me, Mark, Jason, Ellen, Sus, and C1, Tivo, Real Sex, and plenty of snark and giggles. And pizza. And beer. And passing out.
- The Socialist copped to owning a copy of Kelly Clarkson's CD.
- Attempting to start a rumor that Todd was once on The Real World Seattle.
- Not being successful, since pretty much everyone there knows Todd was never on The Real World Seattle.
- Except Val. Who somehow believed it.
- Select random Todd overheard moments, including, ". . . so, as it turns out, she was only dressing like a slut so she could get laid!" and, "Man, JP, so much has happened since you've been on vacation. . . I banged, like, six girls.
- Laughing about the beautiful people convention at my party with Sarah. How did that happen?
- Having to threaten Johnny so he'd get his ass to the party.
- Playing 50 cent and Justin Timberlake at a notorious hipster bar. Pissing off the hipsters, who don't like being confronted with music they like but claim to hate.
- Buttercream cupcakes. Fucking yum.
- The afterparty at my house, me, Mark, Jason, Ellen, Sus, and C1, Tivo, Real Sex, and plenty of snark and giggles. And pizza. And beer. And passing out.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Let's Play Us Weekly!
This makes me tremble with white hot desire.
I must have it.
Because, honestly, it is not enough to amass a weekly barrage of celebrity gossip on my coffee table (if I had a coffee table, but, that's a different story). I want to be able to play out the fabulous, gucci-soaked dramas of celebrity lives. I want to load up Linday's SUV party limo with MK and Ashley, send them off to some hott club opening, and perhaps see what happens if they happen to run into Hillary Duff or Paris*.
Ah, to crouch around a tiny red carpet, marching plastic starlets up and down, seeing them eye each other jealously, trade snide remarks, stumble a little from too much xanex or pre-premier champagne. Fabulous.
Would any woman not secretly long to have a mini closet full of miniature coture gowns, perhaps a few fashion mistakes to sneer at? If the powers that be at toy companies would listen to me, I would suggest that they partner with Us Weekly or Star Magazine in order to create an Amazing Celebrity Empire -- not just settling for soothing the masses with celebrity antics, they would be able to raise children completely dependent upon the celebrity machine for entertainment -- picture it:
- Create a line of children's toys branded with your gossip source of choice -- in this example, I will be using Us Weekly. The dolls will be created in the likeness of the stars of the day -- each week's cover story would bring on another drama to be enacted by little plastic Jessica Simpsons or Nicole Richies (In the case of Nicole, I would suggest some sort of inflatable version that could be plumped up or emaciated easily).
- The Us weekly web site and print version would feature the dolls for easy ordering on a weekly basis -- as new celebrities rise in fashion, so do the profits for the toymaker.
- Us Weekly would print a toy companion -- much like a sleazy version of the ever-popular American Girl Dolls. Little magazines would proclaim, "THIS WEEK, SOURCES SAY, LINSAY LOHAN HAD A PUBLIC CAT FIGHT WITH NEMISIS HILLARY DUFF!" They would include instructions for recreating the scene in playrooms across America. Children across the countr would seize up their Aaron Carter dolls to sneer on the sidelines as Hillary and Lindsay dolls grabbed at their plastic hair with little manicured plastic hands.
- As these children grow up, steeped in the sweet brew of Celebrity Culture, they will be primed for voracious consumption as adults.
My plan is totally brilliant and completely fun! Some desparately needed accessories include:
- Paparazzi, of course, complete with real digital cameras! Take shots of your scene and load them on to the Us Weekly web site! Share with your friends!
- Sources. As in this week's Star Magazine's screaming headline -- "JESSICA SIMPSON PREGNANT! - sources say." These would be shady, homely dolls that would ride on the sidelines and report back to the magazine all about the inside story -- is there really trouble in Brangelina land? Sources say yes.
- Feather Boas. Because, d'uh. Sequins, too.
- Little coke mirrors. Tiny 10 Carat diamonds. Little celebrity gift baskets full of Keihl's products and certificates for elaborate vacations.
- Blackberries, sidekicks, and little pink flip phones that really ring! (or vibrate).
- Hulking bodygaurds with real bat-swinging action arms!
- Tiny oversized Dior sunglasses! Itty bitty Hermes Birkin Bags!
I am hoping to develop this plan into a cross merchandising orgy. Perhaps this can morph into entire cable channels full of stop-action cartoons, miniture coture during fashion week, entire warehouses of tiny limosines just waiting to act out this week's excursion to Nobu.
Sigh. . . until next time, I'll be dreaming of tiny Sushi, tiny bottles of Crystal, and little, itty bitty toilets for regurgitation.
* Note that Google didn't turn up any mass marketed Paris Hilton collectible dolls.
There are plenty of sad, dirty-minded alternatives. I do admit to finding the barbie version of the Paris Hilton Sex video pretty effing hilarious. I love the details -- bed, infared, creepy reflections in the eyes. Is it sad to be Paris, so scandalous that no one will fashion a plastic doll out of you in order to cash in on vast amounts of whining kid money?
I must have it.
Because, honestly, it is not enough to amass a weekly barrage of celebrity gossip on my coffee table (if I had a coffee table, but, that's a different story). I want to be able to play out the fabulous, gucci-soaked dramas of celebrity lives. I want to load up Linday's SUV party limo with MK and Ashley, send them off to some hott club opening, and perhaps see what happens if they happen to run into Hillary Duff or Paris*.
Ah, to crouch around a tiny red carpet, marching plastic starlets up and down, seeing them eye each other jealously, trade snide remarks, stumble a little from too much xanex or pre-premier champagne. Fabulous.
Would any woman not secretly long to have a mini closet full of miniature coture gowns, perhaps a few fashion mistakes to sneer at? If the powers that be at toy companies would listen to me, I would suggest that they partner with Us Weekly or Star Magazine in order to create an Amazing Celebrity Empire -- not just settling for soothing the masses with celebrity antics, they would be able to raise children completely dependent upon the celebrity machine for entertainment -- picture it:
- Create a line of children's toys branded with your gossip source of choice -- in this example, I will be using Us Weekly. The dolls will be created in the likeness of the stars of the day -- each week's cover story would bring on another drama to be enacted by little plastic Jessica Simpsons or Nicole Richies (In the case of Nicole, I would suggest some sort of inflatable version that could be plumped up or emaciated easily).
- The Us weekly web site and print version would feature the dolls for easy ordering on a weekly basis -- as new celebrities rise in fashion, so do the profits for the toymaker.
- Us Weekly would print a toy companion -- much like a sleazy version of the ever-popular American Girl Dolls. Little magazines would proclaim, "THIS WEEK, SOURCES SAY, LINSAY LOHAN HAD A PUBLIC CAT FIGHT WITH NEMISIS HILLARY DUFF!" They would include instructions for recreating the scene in playrooms across America. Children across the countr would seize up their Aaron Carter dolls to sneer on the sidelines as Hillary and Lindsay dolls grabbed at their plastic hair with little manicured plastic hands.
- As these children grow up, steeped in the sweet brew of Celebrity Culture, they will be primed for voracious consumption as adults.
My plan is totally brilliant and completely fun! Some desparately needed accessories include:
- Paparazzi, of course, complete with real digital cameras! Take shots of your scene and load them on to the Us Weekly web site! Share with your friends!
- Sources. As in this week's Star Magazine's screaming headline -- "JESSICA SIMPSON PREGNANT! - sources say." These would be shady, homely dolls that would ride on the sidelines and report back to the magazine all about the inside story -- is there really trouble in Brangelina land? Sources say yes.
- Feather Boas. Because, d'uh. Sequins, too.
- Little coke mirrors. Tiny 10 Carat diamonds. Little celebrity gift baskets full of Keihl's products and certificates for elaborate vacations.
- Blackberries, sidekicks, and little pink flip phones that really ring! (or vibrate).
- Hulking bodygaurds with real bat-swinging action arms!
- Tiny oversized Dior sunglasses! Itty bitty Hermes Birkin Bags!
I am hoping to develop this plan into a cross merchandising orgy. Perhaps this can morph into entire cable channels full of stop-action cartoons, miniture coture during fashion week, entire warehouses of tiny limosines just waiting to act out this week's excursion to Nobu.
Sigh. . . until next time, I'll be dreaming of tiny Sushi, tiny bottles of Crystal, and little, itty bitty toilets for regurgitation.
* Note that Google didn't turn up any mass marketed Paris Hilton collectible dolls.
There are plenty of sad, dirty-minded alternatives. I do admit to finding the barbie version of the Paris Hilton Sex video pretty effing hilarious. I love the details -- bed, infared, creepy reflections in the eyes. Is it sad to be Paris, so scandalous that no one will fashion a plastic doll out of you in order to cash in on vast amounts of whining kid money?
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
This post is just your imagination.
This just made me cry a little -- partly, given, this is because I am currently a cheerfully bubbling pot of emotion stew these days. However, it hits home. I'm a fat girl. I've always been a fat girl, even when I was a skinny girl (which, when you're really a fat girl, can be an incredibly confusing thing).
Fat girls know that the very last thing a fat girl wants to do is call attention to her fat. However, it is pretty much the predominant thing in her life. As a fat girl, you are preoccupied with trying to simultaneously hide and prove your worth. That's why fat girls tend to be very funny. We tend to be pretty competent, and, unlike the imaginary fat girls, we're usually not lazy.
At least not in front of other people.
We are always watching these images of the "imaginary fat people." I don't know anyone else who would talk about it, but I think we're all thinking the same thing. "I'm not like that." And, as an inevitable subext, "Why do they think I'm like that?"
As I've changed my body over the years, back and forth, the world has changed the way it treats me. I have a theory, formed at my fattest, that people don't want to look at me when I'm fat.
The mere existence of the "imaginary fat people" makes me think -- they don't see me, after all.
Of course, sad but true, the fat girl in me is a little relieved.
Fat girls know that the very last thing a fat girl wants to do is call attention to her fat. However, it is pretty much the predominant thing in her life. As a fat girl, you are preoccupied with trying to simultaneously hide and prove your worth. That's why fat girls tend to be very funny. We tend to be pretty competent, and, unlike the imaginary fat girls, we're usually not lazy.
At least not in front of other people.
We are always watching these images of the "imaginary fat people." I don't know anyone else who would talk about it, but I think we're all thinking the same thing. "I'm not like that." And, as an inevitable subext, "Why do they think I'm like that?"
As I've changed my body over the years, back and forth, the world has changed the way it treats me. I have a theory, formed at my fattest, that people don't want to look at me when I'm fat.
The mere existence of the "imaginary fat people" makes me think -- they don't see me, after all.
Of course, sad but true, the fat girl in me is a little relieved.
Monday, November 21, 2005
The Art Of Paranoia
1. Assume everyone is talking about you. Strain to hear them. Pretend you have business by the copier or at your mailbox or at the waterfountain so you can surrepticiously eavesdrop to your colleagues.
2. Be especially suspicious of closed doors. Find reasons to walk past offices with closed doors in order to find out who is behind them. Peer inside, scan faces, imagine reasons the individuals in question could possibly be discussing you. Sweat.
3. Assume They Know. They Know you are writing on your blog right now. They are monitoring your keystrokes and have found ways to intercept your thoughts.
4. You are in deep shit.
2. Be especially suspicious of closed doors. Find reasons to walk past offices with closed doors in order to find out who is behind them. Peer inside, scan faces, imagine reasons the individuals in question could possibly be discussing you. Sweat.
3. Assume They Know. They Know you are writing on your blog right now. They are monitoring your keystrokes and have found ways to intercept your thoughts.
4. You are in deep shit.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Good for What Ails Ya
So, what to do when you've humiliated yourself professionally, when you're feeling about as unattractive as you ever have felt, when you're too lazy or overwhelmed to do the dishes piling up in the sink?
Well, yes, drinking an entire bottle of wine (or two) by yourself is always a good option.
However, I chose to take it to the next level.
The answer, my friends, lies in the contacts menu of your cell phone -- that's right, people, it's time for the old booty call.
Ex boyfriend to the rescue!
I've spent the last 20 or so hours rubbing bodies with the ex, stirring up a host of conveniently distracting emotions, drinking copious amounts of wine, eating crappy delivery pizza, and having bone-shaking (no pun intended) orgasms.
Do I regret it yet?
Nah. Let's wait a few weeks, perhaps tease out some kind of fantasy that we'll get back together -- AGAIN -- perhaps send out a few green tendrils of possibility. Let's be lovers and friends and then we'll set ourselves up for yet another spectacularly devestating breakup. THIS is what I choose.
I choose life.
Unless, god forbid, I end up pregnant. . .
Well, yes, drinking an entire bottle of wine (or two) by yourself is always a good option.
However, I chose to take it to the next level.
The answer, my friends, lies in the contacts menu of your cell phone -- that's right, people, it's time for the old booty call.
Ex boyfriend to the rescue!
I've spent the last 20 or so hours rubbing bodies with the ex, stirring up a host of conveniently distracting emotions, drinking copious amounts of wine, eating crappy delivery pizza, and having bone-shaking (no pun intended) orgasms.
Do I regret it yet?
Nah. Let's wait a few weeks, perhaps tease out some kind of fantasy that we'll get back together -- AGAIN -- perhaps send out a few green tendrils of possibility. Let's be lovers and friends and then we'll set ourselves up for yet another spectacularly devestating breakup. THIS is what I choose.
I choose life.
Unless, god forbid, I end up pregnant. . .
Saturday, November 19, 2005
The Sands of Mine
I have a theory. It is about denying my own shame.
I cultivate these crystals of negative thought. These little self-contained notions -- hard and possibly sharp-edged, tiny but numerous. They have gathered, throughout my life, into a sediment that cushions the bottom of my conscious. They are sublty building themselves into an undeniable majority.
Sometimes I have fantasies, as I lie in bed in the dark, that I can carve a hole in my skull and pour them out into a pile of white on the living room floor, I can watch them skitter away, little pieces of self loathing, under the couch, under the chair, let them be ground into the weave of the carpet. Hold them up in handfuls, watch them pour through my fingers.
Maybe vaccuum them up, perhaps using one of those long thin attachments designed to help you suck dirt from small places.
They'd still be there, though.
The specific chemical makeup inside my head would still combine to precipitate them, filtering like snow until I am a shuddering, capital-a-anxiety-filled mess again.
Hence, the therapist.
His name is Dan but I call him DeeP. This has to do with my own personal amusement -- a shortening of his initials (DP) into a little jibe at his chosen profession.
He accepts this with little comment. I believe he is secretly pleased at garnering a nickname. One of the sick, sick aspects of therapy is how therapists love to vivisect your relationship with them as part of "the process." You are constantly forced to analyze your own analysis of the situation, creating a sort of MC Escher effect that, occassionally, I consider to be fucking annoying.
Of course, when I say, "DeeP, you are being FUCKING ANNOYING," He seizes upon this moment to say something like, "I seem to have hit a nerve." He usually does this while arching an eyebrow in a coy manner.
Well, I like the guy, anyway. Trust him, even. Which makes me, I suppose, a very lucky girl. There is a possibility he can help me manage my in-scull beach situation.
He is not the first therapist I've tried. Only the first I liked.
About four years ago, I was having trouble keeping my sand-filled head above water, and a friend refered me to her therapist.
This woman, I'll call her Dr. Friend, (ironically, this really is her name. Don't tell anyone, okay?) shares a huge modern loft space with her husband, who is also a therapist. They had a receptionist who sat at a massive oak desk with a phone, a lamp, a rolodex, and a vacant smile.
Dr. Friend came out and ushered me into her office, which contained a desk, a couple of large, overstuffed chairs, and massive bookcases filled with books. During my first and last appointment with Dr. Friend, she peered at me over her stern half-glasses, underneath her perfectly coiffed hair helmet, and nodded silently over her notebook as I articulated my pain -- recent suicide in the family, fucked up divorce, fucked up relationships, etc. and on and on.
At the end of the session she cut me off mid-rant. "Well, we're out of time," She said, closing her notebook and tucking the pencil into a drawer. "I want to say that you definitely need therapy. But I can't be your therapist."
That's right, people. I was rejected by the therapist.
Turns out, my friend was too close of a friend for me to see Dr. Friend. She might have had some sort of conflict inherent.
She said, "I will connect you with my husband."
Dr. Friend is married to a man I simply refer to as Dr. Chuckles. Dr. Chuckles had an office full of objet d'art behind glass, artfully lit. He would sit in his uncomfortable wooden chairs and chat. Dr. Chuckles would sit at a slouch, his long legs sprawled in front of him, and slide his sock-clad feet in and out of his tasseled loafers. Dr. Chuckles and I didn't have too much chemistry, but, in the end, it was his loafers that drove me away. I just couldn't take the way he would slide his feet in and out of his shoes while I paid him to do just that.
Next, I was referred to a severe older jewish woman in a ritzy neighborhood. She had an office filled with piles. Piles of books, piles of papers, piles of magazines, piles of files. She had a space carved out of the piles for a couch and a lamp, where we would sit together during our sessions.
At first, I felt like I might be able to handle this one, the pile lady.
But then I noticed she had a tendency to forget what I would tell her from session to session -- I would have to fill her in again and again on the most basic of details. Then, I noticed that she began to make strange, sweeping diagnoses -- on the fourth visit, she suggested that, perhaps, was I a compulsive, chronic masturbator?
What?
Lady, I hardly know you.
Now, good people, I may, on ocassion, enjoy a nice release now and again. Not that I particularly want to share this with anyone, even, sometimes, my own lovers. It's, well, kinda private.
Point being, I wasn't sure pile lady even remembered my name. Why on earth was she making me wonder if my self-pleasure was an unhealthy indulgence?
Nonetheless, I persevered. Over the next several weeks, I:
-was told to go out and buy this book. Yes, I am easily distracted, I am an American Child of MTV. People, yes, I have my moments. But, as I read this book, I knew that this was absolutely not me. Strike two, pile lady.
The final strike, the eventual out, happened at my final session -- I was describing a situation with a friend. Now, there is no denying that my friendship with Johnny is, at times, somewhat unhealthy. But, ultimately, he is like my brother. He's with me to the end. Some other time I'll tell some stories about Johnny -- in the meantime, I cannot get driven to distraction -- as I wound down my description, she eyed me with alarm. "I think this friendship is unhealthy," she said, after hearing me describe it for exactly 50 minutes. "You must cut off this friendship altogether. Until you do this, I suggest you don't come back here."
Now, to me, this seemed somewhat irresponsible of pile lady.
I'm still friends with Johnny, but I didn't go back.
I found DeeP when, in a apopolectic depression, I dialed one of those 1-800 lifelines you always have as part of your benefits package. I dialed the lifeline at 3AM on a Saturday morning, weeping uncontrollably.
They sent me to DeeP.
Ah, DeeP, with your smart mouth and sweet mannerisms. Thank goodness for you.
I cultivate these crystals of negative thought. These little self-contained notions -- hard and possibly sharp-edged, tiny but numerous. They have gathered, throughout my life, into a sediment that cushions the bottom of my conscious. They are sublty building themselves into an undeniable majority.
Sometimes I have fantasies, as I lie in bed in the dark, that I can carve a hole in my skull and pour them out into a pile of white on the living room floor, I can watch them skitter away, little pieces of self loathing, under the couch, under the chair, let them be ground into the weave of the carpet. Hold them up in handfuls, watch them pour through my fingers.
Maybe vaccuum them up, perhaps using one of those long thin attachments designed to help you suck dirt from small places.
They'd still be there, though.
The specific chemical makeup inside my head would still combine to precipitate them, filtering like snow until I am a shuddering, capital-a-anxiety-filled mess again.
Hence, the therapist.
His name is Dan but I call him DeeP. This has to do with my own personal amusement -- a shortening of his initials (DP) into a little jibe at his chosen profession.
He accepts this with little comment. I believe he is secretly pleased at garnering a nickname. One of the sick, sick aspects of therapy is how therapists love to vivisect your relationship with them as part of "the process." You are constantly forced to analyze your own analysis of the situation, creating a sort of MC Escher effect that, occassionally, I consider to be fucking annoying.
Of course, when I say, "DeeP, you are being FUCKING ANNOYING," He seizes upon this moment to say something like, "I seem to have hit a nerve." He usually does this while arching an eyebrow in a coy manner.
Well, I like the guy, anyway. Trust him, even. Which makes me, I suppose, a very lucky girl. There is a possibility he can help me manage my in-scull beach situation.
He is not the first therapist I've tried. Only the first I liked.
About four years ago, I was having trouble keeping my sand-filled head above water, and a friend refered me to her therapist.
This woman, I'll call her Dr. Friend, (ironically, this really is her name. Don't tell anyone, okay?) shares a huge modern loft space with her husband, who is also a therapist. They had a receptionist who sat at a massive oak desk with a phone, a lamp, a rolodex, and a vacant smile.
Dr. Friend came out and ushered me into her office, which contained a desk, a couple of large, overstuffed chairs, and massive bookcases filled with books. During my first and last appointment with Dr. Friend, she peered at me over her stern half-glasses, underneath her perfectly coiffed hair helmet, and nodded silently over her notebook as I articulated my pain -- recent suicide in the family, fucked up divorce, fucked up relationships, etc. and on and on.
At the end of the session she cut me off mid-rant. "Well, we're out of time," She said, closing her notebook and tucking the pencil into a drawer. "I want to say that you definitely need therapy. But I can't be your therapist."
That's right, people. I was rejected by the therapist.
Turns out, my friend was too close of a friend for me to see Dr. Friend. She might have had some sort of conflict inherent.
She said, "I will connect you with my husband."
Dr. Friend is married to a man I simply refer to as Dr. Chuckles. Dr. Chuckles had an office full of objet d'art behind glass, artfully lit. He would sit in his uncomfortable wooden chairs and chat. Dr. Chuckles would sit at a slouch, his long legs sprawled in front of him, and slide his sock-clad feet in and out of his tasseled loafers. Dr. Chuckles and I didn't have too much chemistry, but, in the end, it was his loafers that drove me away. I just couldn't take the way he would slide his feet in and out of his shoes while I paid him to do just that.
Next, I was referred to a severe older jewish woman in a ritzy neighborhood. She had an office filled with piles. Piles of books, piles of papers, piles of magazines, piles of files. She had a space carved out of the piles for a couch and a lamp, where we would sit together during our sessions.
At first, I felt like I might be able to handle this one, the pile lady.
But then I noticed she had a tendency to forget what I would tell her from session to session -- I would have to fill her in again and again on the most basic of details. Then, I noticed that she began to make strange, sweeping diagnoses -- on the fourth visit, she suggested that, perhaps, was I a compulsive, chronic masturbator?
What?
Lady, I hardly know you.
Now, good people, I may, on ocassion, enjoy a nice release now and again. Not that I particularly want to share this with anyone, even, sometimes, my own lovers. It's, well, kinda private.
Point being, I wasn't sure pile lady even remembered my name. Why on earth was she making me wonder if my self-pleasure was an unhealthy indulgence?
Nonetheless, I persevered. Over the next several weeks, I:
-was told to go out and buy this book. Yes, I am easily distracted, I am an American Child of MTV. People, yes, I have my moments. But, as I read this book, I knew that this was absolutely not me. Strike two, pile lady.
The final strike, the eventual out, happened at my final session -- I was describing a situation with a friend. Now, there is no denying that my friendship with Johnny is, at times, somewhat unhealthy. But, ultimately, he is like my brother. He's with me to the end. Some other time I'll tell some stories about Johnny -- in the meantime, I cannot get driven to distraction -- as I wound down my description, she eyed me with alarm. "I think this friendship is unhealthy," she said, after hearing me describe it for exactly 50 minutes. "You must cut off this friendship altogether. Until you do this, I suggest you don't come back here."
Now, to me, this seemed somewhat irresponsible of pile lady.
I'm still friends with Johnny, but I didn't go back.
I found DeeP when, in a apopolectic depression, I dialed one of those 1-800 lifelines you always have as part of your benefits package. I dialed the lifeline at 3AM on a Saturday morning, weeping uncontrollably.
They sent me to DeeP.
Ah, DeeP, with your smart mouth and sweet mannerisms. Thank goodness for you.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Conde Nast Wedding in Paradise and other Hellish Outings
I just returned from here. Where I was to attend a conference for beautiful people . I mean, my friends' wedding.
These are my beautiful friends. The type of shining, flawless people you stare at when they are sitting in restaurants because, wait, are those people famous? Are they emitting some sort of ethereal light? The type of people who you really anticipate that you'll thoroughly dislike, because, people that pretty are incapable of identifying with those of us who get pimples and could never wear a bikini. The type of people who shock you by being sweet and kind and flawed and overall fabulous.
This wedding, it was on the beach. I mean, it was literally on a cliff surrounded by a cove of splashing surf under a blue sky awash with sunlight. His mother married them. Then she gave a speech that made everyone weep into their napkins.
They had tables on a ledge over the water.
We ate gourmet food and drank thousands of pina coladas.
I asked my friend Susan -- do weddings like this sometimes make you feel lonely?
She said, "Oh, no! They mostly just make me glad it's not me!"
I got home and my best friend ccalled to tell me she's engaged.
I told my mother. She said, "Oh, well, that's a low blow."
That woman gets me.
These are my beautiful friends. The type of shining, flawless people you stare at when they are sitting in restaurants because, wait, are those people famous? Are they emitting some sort of ethereal light? The type of people who you really anticipate that you'll thoroughly dislike, because, people that pretty are incapable of identifying with those of us who get pimples and could never wear a bikini. The type of people who shock you by being sweet and kind and flawed and overall fabulous.
This wedding, it was on the beach. I mean, it was literally on a cliff surrounded by a cove of splashing surf under a blue sky awash with sunlight. His mother married them. Then she gave a speech that made everyone weep into their napkins.
They had tables on a ledge over the water.
We ate gourmet food and drank thousands of pina coladas.
I asked my friend Susan -- do weddings like this sometimes make you feel lonely?
She said, "Oh, no! They mostly just make me glad it's not me!"
I got home and my best friend ccalled to tell me she's engaged.
I told my mother. She said, "Oh, well, that's a low blow."
That woman gets me.
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