3:29 a.m. Watching a movie about a long distance relationship that kind of broke my heart when I saw it the first time at the theater. It has been several months since I've seen it and so I thought that I'd rip the band aid off.
She's in San Francisco, and he's in New York. Seeing that dramatic sweep of red iron over the deep blue always makes my heart seize. And it transports me back in time to a few days in late April 2009. Halcyon days when hope was the best thing. When I believed in magic, that I was on that elusive road to happily ever after...my at last, at last....Silly not-so-little girl...
Her favourite movie is the Shawshank Redemption, which she tells him on the night that they might cute at a bar and bonded over a shared love of Centipede and bar trivia. After she reveals that Shawshank is her favourite movie, he immediately does Morgan Freeman's "I hope" speech..."I hope the Pacific is as blue it has been in my dreams....I hope, I hope." Except he does Red's voice and knows the whole speech cold.
And it has the happy ending that follows the meet cute beginning as sold by Hollywood. Except, it's a bait and switch. At least in real life. I, of course, know this logically. An I know it practically. And I know it by experience. Fuck, I
am a veteran, a gold-card member of this bait and switch.
Yet, I still cannot give up the ghost, The illusion of one day...
Monday, June 27, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Day 39: At the Duck or a progress report
At the Duck wishing that I was really in Margaritaville instead of listening to barely legal frat boys singing about it.
It's been a long while since I've been to the Duck or here to write about my bold and glorious experiment. Of becoming blonde and getting my act together. The blonding is going well. The rest is one step up and one step back to quote Bruce. Still broke. Even broker. Even more broken. In nearly every way that I vowed to fix before I turn 40.
So perhaps, this should be called a lack of progress report?
It's been a long while since I've been to the Duck or here to write about my bold and glorious experiment. Of becoming blonde and getting my act together. The blonding is going well. The rest is one step up and one step back to quote Bruce. Still broke. Even broker. Even more broken. In nearly every way that I vowed to fix before I turn 40.
So perhaps, this should be called a lack of progress report?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Day 38: Booty calls
I absolutely detest being called to court for a hearing that was adjourned due to the closure of the courthouse without any notice that today was the new date. it's like being on-call for a judicial booty call; the assumption being that I am always available.
Adding insult to injury is that the clerk told me: "we're ready for you." So not only am I "that" girl, I have been waiting for 30 minutes. I showed up for a booty call and my "date" is late.
As I explained recently (Saturday night) to a former booty caller, I have outgrown my booty call, beck-n-call girl days. I was so proud of myself but was it all for naught if I always at the beck-n-call of the court?
Of course, if I resist the judicial booty call, the Judge could hold me in contempt of court and throw my booty into the hoosegow. Which would make me a legend but the hoosegow is icky and I am a girl about things like bugs and filth and sharing close quarters with hardened criminals.
So, here I sit in the courtroom. In Lawyers Row. Waiting, waiting, always waiting like a refugee in Casablanca trying to procure an exit visa. Now, my wait approaches an hour and cuts into lunch. I am wedged between two male lawyers who apparently bathed in and then dipped themselves into vats of cologne. The cologne is so thick that I can taste it.
Am back in my office and can still taste it. How does one remove the taste of cologne from one's mouth?
Adding insult to injury is that the clerk told me: "we're ready for you." So not only am I "that" girl, I have been waiting for 30 minutes. I showed up for a booty call and my "date" is late.
As I explained recently (Saturday night) to a former booty caller, I have outgrown my booty call, beck-n-call girl days. I was so proud of myself but was it all for naught if I always at the beck-n-call of the court?
Of course, if I resist the judicial booty call, the Judge could hold me in contempt of court and throw my booty into the hoosegow. Which would make me a legend but the hoosegow is icky and I am a girl about things like bugs and filth and sharing close quarters with hardened criminals.
So, here I sit in the courtroom. In Lawyers Row. Waiting, waiting, always waiting like a refugee in Casablanca trying to procure an exit visa. Now, my wait approaches an hour and cuts into lunch. I am wedged between two male lawyers who apparently bathed in and then dipped themselves into vats of cologne. The cologne is so thick that I can taste it.
Am back in my office and can still taste it. How does one remove the taste of cologne from one's mouth?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Day 37: The art of letting go
Half-awake, wishing that I would have not hit the snooze button so many times that it was impossible to stop for coffee without being late for my appointment. Sleep or liquid crack? Talk about a Hobson's choice....
Sitting in the parking lot, appointment over, wondering if it is strange to take pleasure in the ultrasound technician deeming my wardrobe choice perfect for the procedure. Am I the only woman who prefers to wear her own clothes pushed up as opposed to being naked from the waist down, covered by a crinkly sheet of paper? Smiling a bit to myself as I thought how easy access is important for the lady parts' doctor and certain other types of appointments. Appointments that generally involve drinks and much more pleasurable probing.
.
Now, I have returned to my own personal den of iniquity. One of them. Sipping my liquid crack; the hot, caramelized bitterness a benediction to my still-sore throat. Thinking how hard it is to let go. At least for me. Certain people, especially those in my orbit, seem to have mastered the art of letting go. At least letting go of me.
"...I am not the kind of girl who gives up just like that, oh no....the tide is high but I am holding on. I am gonna be your number one....".
Sitting in the parking lot, appointment over, wondering if it is strange to take pleasure in the ultrasound technician deeming my wardrobe choice perfect for the procedure. Am I the only woman who prefers to wear her own clothes pushed up as opposed to being naked from the waist down, covered by a crinkly sheet of paper? Smiling a bit to myself as I thought how easy access is important for the lady parts' doctor and certain other types of appointments. Appointments that generally involve drinks and much more pleasurable probing.
.
Now, I have returned to my own personal den of iniquity. One of them. Sipping my liquid crack; the hot, caramelized bitterness a benediction to my still-sore throat. Thinking how hard it is to let go. At least for me. Certain people, especially those in my orbit, seem to have mastered the art of letting go. At least letting go of me.
"...I am not the kind of girl who gives up just like that, oh no....the tide is high but I am holding on. I am gonna be your number one....".
Monday, June 6, 2011
Day 36: Confusion is nothing new
"Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick, and think of you. Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new
Flashback--warm nights-- almost left behind. Suitcases of memories, time after time."
Oh, what are we doing? Marching through our days to the dull beat of routine. Going through the motions, turning our backs on the things that make us feel alive, gloriously alive. Because we are afraid. Because it will make waves. Because it is unconventional. Because it means risking our hearts. Or shattering those masks, facades that we have struggled for so long to perfect, to maintain, especially to ourselves. For fucks sake, what are we doing?
Motion for the sake of motion is not movement. I know this to be true. But how do you know when it's time to move? That you won't be left behind, fall behind? That movement is progress and not just white noise that will lead to the same revolving cycle of bullshit that got you in the stuck position in the first place? Why? Where? How? When? Who?
Frustrated. Confused. Weary. Head aches, heart longings in this lonely wilderness of the soul. And yet, sort of alive again after feeling half-dead inside, after my self-induced coma of comfortable numbness. Wound up. Feeling over-caffeinated, even though I am drastically under-caffeinated today. Listening to Cyndi Lauper sing Time after Time over and over again and wondering how in the hell anyone can get wound up listening to Time after Time.
Goosebumps and the chills. Like someone just walked over my grave. What the fuck am I doing?
“Sometimes you picture me-- I'm walking too far ahead. You're calling to me,
I can't hear what you've said-- Then you say--go slow-- I fall behind-- the second hand unwinds”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1VlRqeTkE0
Flashback--warm nights-- almost left behind. Suitcases of memories, time after time."
Oh, what are we doing? Marching through our days to the dull beat of routine. Going through the motions, turning our backs on the things that make us feel alive, gloriously alive. Because we are afraid. Because it will make waves. Because it is unconventional. Because it means risking our hearts. Or shattering those masks, facades that we have struggled for so long to perfect, to maintain, especially to ourselves. For fucks sake, what are we doing?
Motion for the sake of motion is not movement. I know this to be true. But how do you know when it's time to move? That you won't be left behind, fall behind? That movement is progress and not just white noise that will lead to the same revolving cycle of bullshit that got you in the stuck position in the first place? Why? Where? How? When? Who?
Frustrated. Confused. Weary. Head aches, heart longings in this lonely wilderness of the soul. And yet, sort of alive again after feeling half-dead inside, after my self-induced coma of comfortable numbness. Wound up. Feeling over-caffeinated, even though I am drastically under-caffeinated today. Listening to Cyndi Lauper sing Time after Time over and over again and wondering how in the hell anyone can get wound up listening to Time after Time.
Goosebumps and the chills. Like someone just walked over my grave. What the fuck am I doing?
“Sometimes you picture me-- I'm walking too far ahead. You're calling to me,
I can't hear what you've said-- Then you say--go slow-- I fall behind-- the second hand unwinds”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1VlRqeTkE0
Friday, June 3, 2011
Day 35: 2:45 a.m.
Still awake and highly susceptible to what I am reading, often believing that the book was written for me, that somehow the author has some unique insight into my soul, my mind, my heart. When really she or he has the magic to translate those discordant feelings, desires, fears, thoughts, and longings universal to humankind into relatable readability.
(Are there really any new stories or are all stories just a variation on themes universal to the human condition? Updated with technological advances and modern conveniences to make them palatable, understandable to a new generation of readers? This leads me to dangerous ground because one might ask aren't those faux books another medium for expressing the plight of the universal condition to a new generation? After all, ancient men inscribed their stories in pictures and symbols on cave walls and slaves sang their stories disguised in songs passed down through the generations, and the elders passed down their stories orally. And yet, there is no substitute for the feeling of the thickness of the book in your hand, the excitement of turning those first pages to get to that first sentence that leads you into another world, allows you to see the universal condition through other viewpoints, genders, situations, through another's eyes. Tangents. This entire paragraph is a tangent.)
Anyway, back to my literary susceptibility. It is almost a form of hypnosis. I am worn down as my body fights off an infection. My elevated white blood cells valiantly fighting against alien invaders aided by their antibiotic ally. I slept hard and woke up and could not fall back to sleep. So I returned to my book---the Thirteenth Tale--which is a story within a story within a story. It is a story about the power of storytelling that pays homage to power of the story, to words, paper and ink books.
The heroine, who works in a bookstore with her father and has a troubled relationship with her mother and who prefers books to life and who measures the timing of the resolution of the story by the thickness of the pages remaining to be read, cannot sleep. By the time that I reach this part of her story, I have been awake and reading in my own story for a bit. I know that I need to be up early, that I have to wash my hair, that I am sick and need the healing power of sleep when I read Margaret's words:
"I rubbed my tired eyes and knew I ought to go to bed. But I was too tired to sleep. My thoughts, if I did nothing to stop them, would go around in circles all night long. I decided to have a bath."
So, I had a bath. While I waited for the tub to fill with hot water, I read the book just as Margaret tried to work out a clue in her story as she waited for her own tub to fill. Except that the water filling her tub thundered in the background, while the sound of my tub filling in the background was muffled by the thick silence of mounds of opalescent bubbles. Ivory bodywash transformed into airy bits of magic.
Like Margaret, I give myself to the steamy hot water and read several pages as the water cools while she continues to solve the mystery of her story.
Back to Margaret's story which has about a 1/4 of an inch left. And then to sleep, perchance to dream? For about a 1/4 of an inch....
,
(Are there really any new stories or are all stories just a variation on themes universal to the human condition? Updated with technological advances and modern conveniences to make them palatable, understandable to a new generation of readers? This leads me to dangerous ground because one might ask aren't those faux books another medium for expressing the plight of the universal condition to a new generation? After all, ancient men inscribed their stories in pictures and symbols on cave walls and slaves sang their stories disguised in songs passed down through the generations, and the elders passed down their stories orally. And yet, there is no substitute for the feeling of the thickness of the book in your hand, the excitement of turning those first pages to get to that first sentence that leads you into another world, allows you to see the universal condition through other viewpoints, genders, situations, through another's eyes. Tangents. This entire paragraph is a tangent.)
Anyway, back to my literary susceptibility. It is almost a form of hypnosis. I am worn down as my body fights off an infection. My elevated white blood cells valiantly fighting against alien invaders aided by their antibiotic ally. I slept hard and woke up and could not fall back to sleep. So I returned to my book---the Thirteenth Tale--which is a story within a story within a story. It is a story about the power of storytelling that pays homage to power of the story, to words, paper and ink books.
The heroine, who works in a bookstore with her father and has a troubled relationship with her mother and who prefers books to life and who measures the timing of the resolution of the story by the thickness of the pages remaining to be read, cannot sleep. By the time that I reach this part of her story, I have been awake and reading in my own story for a bit. I know that I need to be up early, that I have to wash my hair, that I am sick and need the healing power of sleep when I read Margaret's words:
"I rubbed my tired eyes and knew I ought to go to bed. But I was too tired to sleep. My thoughts, if I did nothing to stop them, would go around in circles all night long. I decided to have a bath."
So, I had a bath. While I waited for the tub to fill with hot water, I read the book just as Margaret tried to work out a clue in her story as she waited for her own tub to fill. Except that the water filling her tub thundered in the background, while the sound of my tub filling in the background was muffled by the thick silence of mounds of opalescent bubbles. Ivory bodywash transformed into airy bits of magic.
Like Margaret, I give myself to the steamy hot water and read several pages as the water cools while she continues to solve the mystery of her story.
Back to Margaret's story which has about a 1/4 of an inch left. And then to sleep, perchance to dream? For about a 1/4 of an inch....
,
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Day 35:1:48 a.m.
Asleep. Deeply. Awake. Abruptly. Sleep. Elusive. Chocolate ice cream. Creamy, icy sweetness soothing my sore throat. Wine. Crisp, tart coolness soothing my mind. Book. Black words written in ink from deep inside soothing my soul. Peace?
Still Day 34: Media support for curly-haired girls
Please do not judge but I enjoy reading fashion magazines, including Glamour.* Here is one of their bloggers' blog entry in favour of curly hair:
"So there's a funny thing about red carpets and Hollywood events in general: You see wavy hair, sure. But curly hair? Curly hair is a rare thing to spot. OK, you've got Taylor Swift—she wears hers with pride—and maybe a handful of others. And yesterday Emmy Rossum let hers out for all the world to see...
Well, not so much all the world but the people and photographers at the P.S. ARTS Bag Lunch Sponsored By Dior Beauty. And I appreciate it.
You see, it's not that only straight-haired ladies become famous. No, it's that most of the curlies blow out their coils for a few reasons. The first is that straighter styles often reflect more light, so they look shinier in pictures. The second is the frizz factor--easier to control when you blow-dry smooth. And the third is that you've got more hairstyle options if you're not working around curls. But I'd argue that curls are an adorable hair option, and more Hollywood ladies should let theirs show. And therefore I'd like to take a sec to applaud Emmy for showing her spirals off yesterday. Bravo.
Have you ever noticed this before--that there isn't a lot of very curly hair on the red carpet? Are you a curly who wears hers with pride? Discuss."
Hi, it's me again. Bravo to the Girls in the Beauty Department.**
*Because this seems to be the day for Seinfeld references, I include this bit of trivia. Glamour was the magazine that George's mother caught him pleasuring himself to in the infamous masturbation episode aka "The Contest." In addition to bringing masturbation to prime time television, it also introduced the following euphemisms for masturbation abstention: "Master of my domain"; "Lord of the Manor"; Queen of the Castle." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkklW7VEBHA
**http://www.glamour.com/beauty/blogs/girls-in-the-beauty-department/2011/05/id-like-to-give-props-to-emmy.html?mbid=beautytipsnl
"So there's a funny thing about red carpets and Hollywood events in general: You see wavy hair, sure. But curly hair? Curly hair is a rare thing to spot. OK, you've got Taylor Swift—she wears hers with pride—and maybe a handful of others. And yesterday Emmy Rossum let hers out for all the world to see...
Well, not so much all the world but the people and photographers at the P.S. ARTS Bag Lunch Sponsored By Dior Beauty. And I appreciate it.
You see, it's not that only straight-haired ladies become famous. No, it's that most of the curlies blow out their coils for a few reasons. The first is that straighter styles often reflect more light, so they look shinier in pictures. The second is the frizz factor--easier to control when you blow-dry smooth. And the third is that you've got more hairstyle options if you're not working around curls. But I'd argue that curls are an adorable hair option, and more Hollywood ladies should let theirs show. And therefore I'd like to take a sec to applaud Emmy for showing her spirals off yesterday. Bravo.
Have you ever noticed this before--that there isn't a lot of very curly hair on the red carpet? Are you a curly who wears hers with pride? Discuss."
Hi, it's me again. Bravo to the Girls in the Beauty Department.**
*Because this seems to be the day for Seinfeld references, I include this bit of trivia. Glamour was the magazine that George's mother caught him pleasuring himself to in the infamous masturbation episode aka "The Contest." In addition to bringing masturbation to prime time television, it also introduced the following euphemisms for masturbation abstention: "Master of my domain"; "Lord of the Manor"; Queen of the Castle." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkklW7VEBHA
**http://www.glamour.com/beauty/blogs/girls-in-the-beauty-department/2011/05/id-like-to-give-props-to-emmy.html?mbid=beautytipsnl
Still Day 34: How to save books
"We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don't have books, don't fuck them." - John Waters
This, I believe, is how we stop the spread of that devil's tool, the Kindle and all its variants. No slap-and-tickle. No me-love-you-a-long-time. No hand jobs or blow jobs or any kind of jobs. Unless you have books. Real books with paper and ink words on shelves. To paraphrase Sir-Mix-a-Lot: You don't get none unless you got books hun.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4he79krseU
This, I believe, is how we stop the spread of that devil's tool, the Kindle and all its variants. No slap-and-tickle. No me-love-you-a-long-time. No hand jobs or blow jobs or any kind of jobs. Unless you have books. Real books with paper and ink words on shelves. To paraphrase Sir-Mix-a-Lot: You don't get none unless you got books hun.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4he79krseU
Day 34: Stalled
The blonding went well. My sunshine girl was delighted that her mommy has yellow hair like her.
But the jumpstart that I was hoping for has yet to materialize. Of course, I have been felled by a sinus infection and what turns out to be a bladder infection. Relationship Rule #27: Do not get a ten-year birth control device implanted in your uterus until he has proven himself long-term-birth-control-device-worthy.* Even if he says exactly the right things, like I will always fight for you or I am proud of you or I like emotionally high-maintenance women. Take it from me--no foreign bodies in your sensitive lady parts. Just don't do it!
So, not only have I failed miserably at my goals since the blonding but I also have not been able to collect empirical data on whether or not blondes really do have more fun. Of course, I can report fairly confidently that being blonde did not make sick being more fun.
*Elaine Bennis adopted "sponge-worthy" as her measuring device as to whether she would sleep with a man after learning that her preferred birth-control device, the Today Sponge, had been taken off the market and that she would have to ration those that she had left. (Watch the clip below. Bonus the fellow is Luke from Gilmore Girls).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FjmbRParcc&feature=related
**"Just do it!" being Nike's (the shoe, not the Goddess of Victory) slogan for many, many years.
But the jumpstart that I was hoping for has yet to materialize. Of course, I have been felled by a sinus infection and what turns out to be a bladder infection. Relationship Rule #27: Do not get a ten-year birth control device implanted in your uterus until he has proven himself long-term-birth-control-device-worthy.* Even if he says exactly the right things, like I will always fight for you or I am proud of you or I like emotionally high-maintenance women. Take it from me--no foreign bodies in your sensitive lady parts. Just don't do it!
So, not only have I failed miserably at my goals since the blonding but I also have not been able to collect empirical data on whether or not blondes really do have more fun. Of course, I can report fairly confidently that being blonde did not make sick being more fun.
*Elaine Bennis adopted "sponge-worthy" as her measuring device as to whether she would sleep with a man after learning that her preferred birth-control device, the Today Sponge, had been taken off the market and that she would have to ration those that she had left. (Watch the clip below. Bonus the fellow is Luke from Gilmore Girls).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FjmbRParcc&feature=related
**"Just do it!" being Nike's (the shoe, not the Goddess of Victory) slogan for many, many years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)