I just watched the "Neda" video. I won't post it here because it's incredibly disturbing, and it's easy to find on youtube or facebook if you are so inclined, but if you haven't heard about her, Neda was a young Iranian woman killed while watching a protest. She died in the street. Shot in the heart. The video shows her bleeding out her chest and mouth before she goes blank-eyed.
When all this mess started going down, I felt like a lot of my peers were being overly romantic about the revolts, talking about how we are all Iran and calling them brothers and sisters sort of seemed like folks were just looking for the next Che t-shirt. And maybe most of them are, but I started to read up on the situation. Something like 70% of Iranians are under 35. Most of the protesters are college students. Then I read this article on Jezebel and articles referenced therein about the election's huge effects on women, and the huge effects they are having on the protests. Then I watched the much talked about Neda video and saw someone brutally martyrd just for being there.
It's overwhelming. I just can't wrap my head around the situation. Women my age are being beaten and killed on the other side of the world. It doesn't make me feel romantic, it makes me wonder if I'd be brave enough to lay it on the line for what I believe in, to fight for my basic rights. It's a luxury to have that as a thought instead of reality.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
my history, via my lack of history
I'm not shy about discussing the fact that I'm adopted. I understand that it's part of who I am and it's interesting to people. But lately it's come up more often, I'm not sure why. Maybe because I'm reading The Girls Who Went Away so it's been on my own mind lately. The book is full of heartbreaking stories about young women, most sheltered and uneducated about sex, who found themselves pregnant and sent away by their parents. Some of the parents were supportive but had to do what was done at the time, others were monstrous and made their daughters out to be evil.
A few weeks ago, my cousin and I were talking about the circumstances around my adoption. Well, what little circumstances I actually know. I know my mom was 26 and a college graduate and that my dad was tall and moved to Colorado before I was born. It just sounds like a shit situation and I've always been afraid to seek more details. Records show she had little prenatal care and I went into foster care instantly. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, ya know? But this cousin of mine, she points out that I have a college education, am nearing 26 years old, and am not in a serious relationship and asks the question: what would you do if you got pregnant right now?
I'd live. It'd suck and not be ideal, but it wouldn't devastate my life. My parents support me through every ridiculous thing I do and would nowhere near dessert me (especially with my mom's baby fever). I have an incredible group of friends. I have a giant web of cousins, cousin's cousins, and cousin-in-laws. None of those people are incredibly conservative, and none would disown me for being an unwed mom. Quite the opposite. Lots of people don't get that lucky with their adoptive family. And maybe she wasn't that lucky with her family. Though 1983 is well out of the era of the girls who went away, her parents may have still been in that frame of mind. Or maybe she didn't even tell them. Or maybe she didn't have parents. Maybe she just didn't have the means to raise a child on her own and couldn't ask for help. I'm the undisputed queen of foolish pride, could it be hereditary?
The first time I ever put in any real thought about her was on my brother's birthday, probably 5 or so years ago. A product of an open adoption, he got a birthday card from his birth mom and pictures of his young half-brother. It came addressed from the adoption agency and to my parents' name. And though I'd not consciously been thinking of her, my first thought was that my mom was trying to contact me. I fervently opened the card and started crying, I mean sobbing, when I saw what it was. I cried first because I'd invaded my brother's privacy, and then because I was jealous that he knew so much, and then because of course it wasn't her. I told my mom I wanted to find my birth mom. That afternoon I spent hours on the phone with my caseworker, the same caseworker who did my brother's adoption and remembered me showing off my halloween costume on a home visit. I got all the info, contacted all the sources, obtained all the paper work and did not go through with it. Wasn't there, wasn't ready.
In the past couple years, I've started to think of her with empathy. It took almost 25 years, but empathy is not easy. I've written a lot about her. "Someone Else" is about her. "The History of Your Life, Page One" tongue-in-cheek as it is, is about her and my father. I used to think about what if she doesn't want to meet me or what if she doesn't like me. Those are possibilities, but I don't think of her in terms of what our relationship would be like. I don't need that.
I have a knack for noticing shared family features. I laugh to myself when people say I look like my parents or brother. At a cousin's wedding last summer, a friend pointed out how alike the girls in my family look when you see us all standing together. I've always wondered who I look like, always noticed women who'd be around her age who vaguely resembled me. At the same time, I'll be okay if I only ever look like myself.
A few weeks ago, my cousin and I were talking about the circumstances around my adoption. Well, what little circumstances I actually know. I know my mom was 26 and a college graduate and that my dad was tall and moved to Colorado before I was born. It just sounds like a shit situation and I've always been afraid to seek more details. Records show she had little prenatal care and I went into foster care instantly. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, ya know? But this cousin of mine, she points out that I have a college education, am nearing 26 years old, and am not in a serious relationship and asks the question: what would you do if you got pregnant right now?
I'd live. It'd suck and not be ideal, but it wouldn't devastate my life. My parents support me through every ridiculous thing I do and would nowhere near dessert me (especially with my mom's baby fever). I have an incredible group of friends. I have a giant web of cousins, cousin's cousins, and cousin-in-laws. None of those people are incredibly conservative, and none would disown me for being an unwed mom. Quite the opposite. Lots of people don't get that lucky with their adoptive family. And maybe she wasn't that lucky with her family. Though 1983 is well out of the era of the girls who went away, her parents may have still been in that frame of mind. Or maybe she didn't even tell them. Or maybe she didn't have parents. Maybe she just didn't have the means to raise a child on her own and couldn't ask for help. I'm the undisputed queen of foolish pride, could it be hereditary?
The first time I ever put in any real thought about her was on my brother's birthday, probably 5 or so years ago. A product of an open adoption, he got a birthday card from his birth mom and pictures of his young half-brother. It came addressed from the adoption agency and to my parents' name. And though I'd not consciously been thinking of her, my first thought was that my mom was trying to contact me. I fervently opened the card and started crying, I mean sobbing, when I saw what it was. I cried first because I'd invaded my brother's privacy, and then because I was jealous that he knew so much, and then because of course it wasn't her. I told my mom I wanted to find my birth mom. That afternoon I spent hours on the phone with my caseworker, the same caseworker who did my brother's adoption and remembered me showing off my halloween costume on a home visit. I got all the info, contacted all the sources, obtained all the paper work and did not go through with it. Wasn't there, wasn't ready.
In the past couple years, I've started to think of her with empathy. It took almost 25 years, but empathy is not easy. I've written a lot about her. "Someone Else" is about her. "The History of Your Life, Page One" tongue-in-cheek as it is, is about her and my father. I used to think about what if she doesn't want to meet me or what if she doesn't like me. Those are possibilities, but I don't think of her in terms of what our relationship would be like. I don't need that.
I have a knack for noticing shared family features. I laugh to myself when people say I look like my parents or brother. At a cousin's wedding last summer, a friend pointed out how alike the girls in my family look when you see us all standing together. I've always wondered who I look like, always noticed women who'd be around her age who vaguely resembled me. At the same time, I'll be okay if I only ever look like myself.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
ring
(better title soon)
At first, I just liked the feel of the ring on my finger. I liked to nonchalantly place my hand on any flat surface just to see it, just to watch it shine. I liked the feel of it. I would spin it around, first to see the angles it could take on and later out of mindless habit. When I was a kid I would put my hand on the sidewalk and rotate my shoulder until I couldn't anymore, just to see my arms from those angles. The ring was an appendage at that point, I wanted to see what it could do.
I kept pushing. When spinning became old hat, I started taking the ring off, moving it from finger to finger. It felt like a secret, like my ring did something special. I would roll it across my knuckles, carry it around the house in my palm, put it on upside down. I concentrated hard on not making it a habit, but a special ritual I did only in private. Who knows what could happen if I took that ring off out in the world. I could drop it in a sewer grate. A criminal could catch me off guard and snatch it from my hand. It'd be much easier than snatching it from my finger. My phone could ring and, startled, I could drop it on the concrete while reaching to answer and not even realize it. The ring could slip right though my hands. I did it anyway. I started taking off my ring randomly, in and outside of our home.
Sometimes I took it off and set it next to me. It'd been years since I'd seen my finger without the ring. It looked naked, slender, clean, maybe a little aged. I'd never really looked at that finger before the ring. My finger had angles, too. And was lighter without the ring. No one could take that finger, and I couldn't drop it.
I was having lunch in the park one afternoon, watching the pond and thinking about how the ring could slip off while I was feeding the ducks and sink to the bottom of the murky water. I didn't want to think about the ring anymore. It was dull, didn't shine like it used to. Didn't look right on my finger anymore, wasn't worth the worry anymore. So, in the end, it didn't slip through my hands. I threw it.
At first, I just liked the feel of the ring on my finger. I liked to nonchalantly place my hand on any flat surface just to see it, just to watch it shine. I liked the feel of it. I would spin it around, first to see the angles it could take on and later out of mindless habit. When I was a kid I would put my hand on the sidewalk and rotate my shoulder until I couldn't anymore, just to see my arms from those angles. The ring was an appendage at that point, I wanted to see what it could do.
I kept pushing. When spinning became old hat, I started taking the ring off, moving it from finger to finger. It felt like a secret, like my ring did something special. I would roll it across my knuckles, carry it around the house in my palm, put it on upside down. I concentrated hard on not making it a habit, but a special ritual I did only in private. Who knows what could happen if I took that ring off out in the world. I could drop it in a sewer grate. A criminal could catch me off guard and snatch it from my hand. It'd be much easier than snatching it from my finger. My phone could ring and, startled, I could drop it on the concrete while reaching to answer and not even realize it. The ring could slip right though my hands. I did it anyway. I started taking off my ring randomly, in and outside of our home.
Sometimes I took it off and set it next to me. It'd been years since I'd seen my finger without the ring. It looked naked, slender, clean, maybe a little aged. I'd never really looked at that finger before the ring. My finger had angles, too. And was lighter without the ring. No one could take that finger, and I couldn't drop it.
I was having lunch in the park one afternoon, watching the pond and thinking about how the ring could slip off while I was feeding the ducks and sink to the bottom of the murky water. I didn't want to think about the ring anymore. It was dull, didn't shine like it used to. Didn't look right on my finger anymore, wasn't worth the worry anymore. So, in the end, it didn't slip through my hands. I threw it.
Friday, May 15, 2009
when life gets hard, you have to change
I've been utterly frustrated with myself and every single aspect of my life lately. I don't think that's a secret. This morning, I've been listening to this song and thinking there's a good point: when life gets hard, you have to change. So, maybe I need to work on changing. Maybe if I change my idea of success, I won't be so beat down by the job market outlook and economy. Maybe if I change my eating and exercise habits, I can lose weight and be happier about how I look. Maybe if I change my selfish streak and proverbial foolish pride, I can have better relationships with people, even dudes. That's what the song gave me: a sense of how to rid these feelings of defeat and near-hopelessness.
But, wait: am I taking my life lessons from a song written by Shannon Hoon? Shannon Hoon the drug addict who died of an overdose in his late 20s?
And that, my friends, is the real kick in the ass. There's no one to take any comfort or advice from, because everyone is knee-deep in their own shit. We, especially those of us in our 20s, are in a horrible position. We've come of age in a pretty chaotic world and everything we thought was coming to us just isn't. Maybe you can rely on your parents, unless they're losing their jobs or being foreclosed. Maybe you can go to school, but good luck getting a job when you're done. And good luck paying back student loans on minimum wage.
Every blog, website, magazine, etc. has their list of pointers and advice to the young person trying to make it. Just like every women's publication has it's bible for finding and keeping a man, every lifestyle outlet has the most effective diet and exercise program. I'd wager it's almost all B.S. Most of those people are probably broke free-lance writers who are single and fat.
Since I'm just as unqualified as anyone else to give advice, I'll say this: get out of bed in the morning, get through the day, get to be safely at night. If you can do that, you're on the right track.
If all else fails, listen to some Blind Melon.
But, wait: am I taking my life lessons from a song written by Shannon Hoon? Shannon Hoon the drug addict who died of an overdose in his late 20s?
And that, my friends, is the real kick in the ass. There's no one to take any comfort or advice from, because everyone is knee-deep in their own shit. We, especially those of us in our 20s, are in a horrible position. We've come of age in a pretty chaotic world and everything we thought was coming to us just isn't. Maybe you can rely on your parents, unless they're losing their jobs or being foreclosed. Maybe you can go to school, but good luck getting a job when you're done. And good luck paying back student loans on minimum wage.
Every blog, website, magazine, etc. has their list of pointers and advice to the young person trying to make it. Just like every women's publication has it's bible for finding and keeping a man, every lifestyle outlet has the most effective diet and exercise program. I'd wager it's almost all B.S. Most of those people are probably broke free-lance writers who are single and fat.
Since I'm just as unqualified as anyone else to give advice, I'll say this: get out of bed in the morning, get through the day, get to be safely at night. If you can do that, you're on the right track.
If all else fails, listen to some Blind Melon.
Monday, April 27, 2009
a word on Bea Arthur
"Golden Girls" is one of my all-time favorite shows. I spent many an afternoon during college watching hours of reruns. Not only was the show hilarious, it was one-of-a-kind. Where else in pop culture do you see women of a certain age portrayed as anything but loony cat ladies or sexless grandmas? Dorothy and company lived it up well past the age most television characters even make it to.
And if you yourself are of a certain age, or are a television historian, you know that Ms. Arthur played Maude on the series of the same name. Killing two taboos with one stone, Maude got pregnant late in life AND decided to have an abortion. If you think that's controversial now, imagine how it played in the mid-seventies.
Truly irreplaceable.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
coming soon
I'm going to write and post something here very very soon. I've been spending all my writing energy working on a convincing essay for grad school. It's being sent out Monday, so I hope I did a satisfactory job.
Oh, and I've been working on a couple new things for First Friday. A small step toward infecting the world with my writing. Recent compliments from well-respected (by me, anyway) cohorts have inspired me. Also, I got a lot of shit for convincing writer friends to read and not ever reading myself. So, here I go.
I'm pretty sure people have been looking at this since my photo got posted on Sexy People. Sort of weird, but worth. That blog is my favorite thing in the entire world, I couldn't be happier to be a Sexy Person. Seriously. That's how sad things are for me right now.
Oh, and I've been working on a couple new things for First Friday. A small step toward infecting the world with my writing. Recent compliments from well-respected (by me, anyway) cohorts have inspired me. Also, I got a lot of shit for convincing writer friends to read and not ever reading myself. So, here I go.
I'm pretty sure people have been looking at this since my photo got posted on Sexy People. Sort of weird, but worth. That blog is my favorite thing in the entire world, I couldn't be happier to be a Sexy Person. Seriously. That's how sad things are for me right now.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
god loves ugly
I'm not beautiful.
Despite however many times I've told you I am, or walked into a room like I think I'm the female Tyra Banks or something, I know I am not beautiful.
A partial list of things I'd need to change to be beautiful:
whiter teeth, smaller boobs, longer legs, no beer gut, skin that tans and doesn't break out when touched by anything, bluer eyes, straighter hair, a straighter nose, no bags under my eyes, skinnier thighs, no freckles.
But, so what? Who cares? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is just a social construct. Beauty is only skin deep. I am smart and sassy and beautiful on the inside. The right man will love me not only in spite of my flaws, but because of them. He'll be like, "naw, baby, that spare tire 'round your waist is sexy."
But see, I've been hearing all this stuff about science 'n shit and how that's how attraction really happens. Like, pheromones that you don't even realize are attractive are attracting you. And there are other weird things, like how there are certain scents women release during ovulation that make you extra attractive, and the testosterone levels go up, so you are extra hot at the same time you are extra hot-to-trot. Seriously, it was on Oprah.
So if sexual attraction is science, and love supposedly occurs in the land of the heart beyond all logic, where do the two meet? And if it's a genetic crapshoot, what's the point of the mascara and the hair dye and a the calf implants and the hours in the gym?
Sort of.
Our dumbass human will, that romantic self-defeat I wrote about before, it's powerful shit. It'll over come all the science. It has to. How do hot bimbos end up with ugly rich dudes? A person's will for money or status or sex or compatibility or stability will outweigh pheromones every single time.
What does that mean for me with the asymmetrical face and the questionable pheromones? I guess keep pretending to be clever and wearing control top underwear.
Despite however many times I've told you I am, or walked into a room like I think I'm the female Tyra Banks or something, I know I am not beautiful.
A partial list of things I'd need to change to be beautiful:
whiter teeth, smaller boobs, longer legs, no beer gut, skin that tans and doesn't break out when touched by anything, bluer eyes, straighter hair, a straighter nose, no bags under my eyes, skinnier thighs, no freckles.
But, so what? Who cares? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is just a social construct. Beauty is only skin deep. I am smart and sassy and beautiful on the inside. The right man will love me not only in spite of my flaws, but because of them. He'll be like, "naw, baby, that spare tire 'round your waist is sexy."
But see, I've been hearing all this stuff about science 'n shit and how that's how attraction really happens. Like, pheromones that you don't even realize are attractive are attracting you. And there are other weird things, like how there are certain scents women release during ovulation that make you extra attractive, and the testosterone levels go up, so you are extra hot at the same time you are extra hot-to-trot. Seriously, it was on Oprah.
So if sexual attraction is science, and love supposedly occurs in the land of the heart beyond all logic, where do the two meet? And if it's a genetic crapshoot, what's the point of the mascara and the hair dye and a the calf implants and the hours in the gym?
Sort of.
Our dumbass human will, that romantic self-defeat I wrote about before, it's powerful shit. It'll over come all the science. It has to. How do hot bimbos end up with ugly rich dudes? A person's will for money or status or sex or compatibility or stability will outweigh pheromones every single time.
What does that mean for me with the asymmetrical face and the questionable pheromones? I guess keep pretending to be clever and wearing control top underwear.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
a self-defeatist's guide to romance
A few years ago I met a guy who struck up a conversation by telling me, "I just have to tell you that you are cute as a kangaroo, maybe even cuter than a kangaroo." At the time, I was strict about giving out my phone number, but he earned it on that line alone. I mean, a kangaroo? Are kangaroos even cute? It was weird, he was weird, I liked it. We hung out a few times and then I started making excuses to not hang out. Then I stopped returning his phone calls. No real reason, he was cool and we had a lot in common. He was a decent bit older than me, but it only bothered me in theory; the age gap didn't make a difference. The last time we talked, he told me he liked me a lot but wasn't going to put up with that kind of bull shit and that I'd have to give it up if I was ever going to get anywhere with anyone. I was already talking to another guy who'd struck up a conversation by throwing me, fully-clothed, into the pool at a friend's house and would invite me to parties at his house and not talk to me. It didn't take long for me to stop returning his calls, too.
How's that for self-defeating behavior? I didn't choose the jerk over the nice guy, I chose both and then promptly dropped both. But don't be too quick to judge, friend; you do the same thing.
I'm not saying you have the same commitment and attention span problems I have, but I'm willing the bet the cash in my pocket (all $0.56 of it) that if you aren't in a happy and relatively stable relationship right now, it's your own fault. You get a new crush every week, or you are a serial monogamist and get too serious too quickly. You only date jerks because you let dudes treat you like crap or girls mess with your mind be messed with. (A quick disclaimer: none of these theories apply to abusive relationships. Abuse is a power and control issue and a whole other ball of wax.) I know what I do: I complain that only weirdos like me, but I only like weirdos, I judge flaws too harshly, I get skittish and standoffish when I genuinely like someone...the list could continue. It doesn't take any sort of abnormal self-awareness to figure this stuff out, just a couple hours, a couple glasses of wine or bottles of beer, and a good friend who will hash out all your missteps.
So there's step one: figuring out where you've been going wrong. Ideally, you start putting your new knowledge of self into practice and at the very least if your relationships fail, you can legitimately blame the other person because they haven't figured out their issues the way you've figured out yours. No such luck, though. All the introspection is easy, the follow through is nearly impossible. I described it to someone as an addiction, maybe a more minor strain of addiction, where you know you shouldn't, but you do it anyway. It's that self-defeating business I mentioned earlier; it's cheating on your diet or driving drunk. You CHOOSE to do it. We CHOOSE to keep messing up relationships. Why? I don't know. Some of us are sadistic and the prospect of failure is easier to swallow than the prospect of success. Maybe some of it happens for the same reasons I still go to Steamers all the time even though it almost always sucks: it's familiar and I'd rather not learn how to do anything else. Maybe the question of why needs to come before the question of what in the case of this behavior. Maybe it's just because love/lust is so intoxicating and dizzying that no one can think straight, if they can think at all.
But people have good relationships (good relationships, not just long-lasting relationships. Lots of those are awful) so it's possible to work through the problems or around them, right? Love each other regardless, like Juno's dad suggested? Probably. I'll let you know.
How's that for self-defeating behavior? I didn't choose the jerk over the nice guy, I chose both and then promptly dropped both. But don't be too quick to judge, friend; you do the same thing.
I'm not saying you have the same commitment and attention span problems I have, but I'm willing the bet the cash in my pocket (all $0.56 of it) that if you aren't in a happy and relatively stable relationship right now, it's your own fault. You get a new crush every week, or you are a serial monogamist and get too serious too quickly. You only date jerks because you let dudes treat you like crap or girls mess with your mind be messed with. (A quick disclaimer: none of these theories apply to abusive relationships. Abuse is a power and control issue and a whole other ball of wax.) I know what I do: I complain that only weirdos like me, but I only like weirdos, I judge flaws too harshly, I get skittish and standoffish when I genuinely like someone...the list could continue. It doesn't take any sort of abnormal self-awareness to figure this stuff out, just a couple hours, a couple glasses of wine or bottles of beer, and a good friend who will hash out all your missteps.
So there's step one: figuring out where you've been going wrong. Ideally, you start putting your new knowledge of self into practice and at the very least if your relationships fail, you can legitimately blame the other person because they haven't figured out their issues the way you've figured out yours. No such luck, though. All the introspection is easy, the follow through is nearly impossible. I described it to someone as an addiction, maybe a more minor strain of addiction, where you know you shouldn't, but you do it anyway. It's that self-defeating business I mentioned earlier; it's cheating on your diet or driving drunk. You CHOOSE to do it. We CHOOSE to keep messing up relationships. Why? I don't know. Some of us are sadistic and the prospect of failure is easier to swallow than the prospect of success. Maybe some of it happens for the same reasons I still go to Steamers all the time even though it almost always sucks: it's familiar and I'd rather not learn how to do anything else. Maybe the question of why needs to come before the question of what in the case of this behavior. Maybe it's just because love/lust is so intoxicating and dizzying that no one can think straight, if they can think at all.
But people have good relationships (good relationships, not just long-lasting relationships. Lots of those are awful) so it's possible to work through the problems or around them, right? Love each other regardless, like Juno's dad suggested? Probably. I'll let you know.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
sometimes, someone else's words say it better
This song, "My Bedroom is Like for Artists" by Latterman, sums up a lot of things I've been thinking about lately. I'm posting it in lieu of a long-winded poorly constructed rant.
(Sadly, the band isn't together anymore. Check out the back catalog for some good old fashioned socially conscious punk rock. I never got to see them play, but I did get to listen to a show via Scott Heisel's cell phone, which is probably a more interesting story, anyway.)
May your music break my ear drums
and your pavement scrape my knees,
and the next time i get up and try leaving town
shoot my fucking plane to the ground.
I saw new things in the same old town that year
after I decided being dead inside wasn't an option.
I think I can be too romantic.
yeah, I think I was just too romantic.
streets gentrified like it's no problem.
boys in bands still singing about killing their girlfriends.
people leave communities while their still struggling.
come on everybody sing along
we're to blame.
punks start dealing with their own white privilege.
we tell all the boys to stop being so aggressive.
actually giving a shit about the place we live in.
I see life alive in so many peoples eyes.
let's hope we won't be dead inside.
even though it's warm down here,
don't let it lull us to sleep.
(Sadly, the band isn't together anymore. Check out the back catalog for some good old fashioned socially conscious punk rock. I never got to see them play, but I did get to listen to a show via Scott Heisel's cell phone, which is probably a more interesting story, anyway.)
May your music break my ear drums
and your pavement scrape my knees,
and the next time i get up and try leaving town
shoot my fucking plane to the ground.
I saw new things in the same old town that year
after I decided being dead inside wasn't an option.
I think I can be too romantic.
yeah, I think I was just too romantic.
streets gentrified like it's no problem.
boys in bands still singing about killing their girlfriends.
people leave communities while their still struggling.
come on everybody sing along
we're to blame.
punks start dealing with their own white privilege.
we tell all the boys to stop being so aggressive.
actually giving a shit about the place we live in.
I see life alive in so many peoples eyes.
let's hope we won't be dead inside.
even though it's warm down here,
don't let it lull us to sleep.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
the culture of giant accesories
[This is the latest installment of BLOG WARS. This rounds topic is "Storage of Your Daily Shit: Guys vs. Girls" In my usual fashion, I had a hard time staying on topic. Feel free to see how Nick and the newly recruited Schanz treated the topic.]
On our way to the grocery store one afternoon, my friend’s four-year-old looked at my purse and asked, “why is your bag so small?” I replied, “because I don’t have much to carry.” He looked at me for a second, looked at the purse again, looked back at me, and shrugged.
It’s a novel idea, isn’t it, carrying a bag only large enough for what you need, and paring down the idea of what you need to mean what you need?
On a normal outing, say shopping or dinner, all I really need on me are my wallet, my cell phone, keys, chap stick, and maybe gum or candy, maybe my iPod. If I’m going out to the bar, my load is even lighter: I.D., some cash, cell phone, and keys, all of which I’ll shove in my pockets (if I’m wearing something with pockets). If I’m going to work or school, I’ve got a messenger bag in which I carry all the above essentials plus books and food. Still, most of the space goes unused. Maybe I’m just a minimalist at heart, but I have yet to figure out why anyone (other than mothers of small children) would need to carry around a purse big enough to moonlight as a body bag. And when I see them, I get dizzy from all the questions and confusion: what’s in there? A small dog? A rack of barbecued ribs? A portal to another dimension? How do you find things? Are you ever afraid of what you might find? Are you concerned you will pick up your purse one day to find a homeless midget squatting next to your lip gloss? Well, you should be. I would be.
Most ladies don’t think about these things, and it’s because fashion trumps function. We need to have at least one ridiculous en vogue item on hand at all times, and since high heels, the perennial favorite of the fashion over function rule, have been shunned as of late in favor of the much safer and more practical flat (safe and practical until you drunkenly slip out of and trip over one on your way down the stair at The Filmore and sprain your ankle. Hypothetically speaking of course.) the giant purse comes into our lives. And just like high heels trick you into thinking you are tall and glamorous when most of us really look strained and awkward, giant purses make you think you look fashionable and important (look at that lady’s giant bag! She must be transporting many important documents and artifacts and is much too busy to make multiple trips! How I admire her!) when really most of us just look like a child playing dress up with her mom’s accessories.
Don’t snicker too hard, fellas. Ladies certainly do not have a lock on clothing hyper-functional in appearance yet wasteful in use. Remember cargo pants? In any of the many many times I’ve seen dudes in cargo pants, I’ve never seen any of them with the pockets filled (unless said pants were being worn by a soldier or survival expert). Why all the pockets if you aren’t even going to pretend to fill them? It’s worse than carrying a man-purse. It’s like carrying 6 or 7 tiny man-purses.
For the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that I’ve worn my share of ridiculous clothing…platform sneakers, pants with fake pockets, ginormous sunglasses, and on and on. It’s our right as Americans. In fact, in some ways, cargo pants and giant purses are commentary on the culture. A loosely related aside: sometimes when I’m working in Frankenmuth, I play this game in which I guess where people are from before they tell me (people from out of town always tell, whether you ask or not). People from Detroit dress like rappers, people from Canada wear sensible layers, people from Southern states dress like they are in the Iditarod. Then there are foreigners, mostly from Europe or Asia (specifically China or Japan). The dead giveaways are the slim figures and stylish, stream-lined outfits. There are no superfluous accessories or unused space. Are our accessories and the ways we carry our daily products a reflection of our inflated egos and waistlines? Is there room for cargo pockets or giant purses in the midst of economic depression?
I’m not sure those are question that need answers. I’m not sure those are even questions that need to be asked. You can wear whatever you want. But I will ask you to consider this: Sunday night at the 211, I got whacked across the head by a giant purse on the should of a very tiny and very careless hipster. Two days later, I got violently ill and have only just left my bed in the past two hours or so. I’m not saying the two are related, but I also can’t prove they’re not.
On our way to the grocery store one afternoon, my friend’s four-year-old looked at my purse and asked, “why is your bag so small?” I replied, “because I don’t have much to carry.” He looked at me for a second, looked at the purse again, looked back at me, and shrugged.
It’s a novel idea, isn’t it, carrying a bag only large enough for what you need, and paring down the idea of what you need to mean what you need?
On a normal outing, say shopping or dinner, all I really need on me are my wallet, my cell phone, keys, chap stick, and maybe gum or candy, maybe my iPod. If I’m going out to the bar, my load is even lighter: I.D., some cash, cell phone, and keys, all of which I’ll shove in my pockets (if I’m wearing something with pockets). If I’m going to work or school, I’ve got a messenger bag in which I carry all the above essentials plus books and food. Still, most of the space goes unused. Maybe I’m just a minimalist at heart, but I have yet to figure out why anyone (other than mothers of small children) would need to carry around a purse big enough to moonlight as a body bag. And when I see them, I get dizzy from all the questions and confusion: what’s in there? A small dog? A rack of barbecued ribs? A portal to another dimension? How do you find things? Are you ever afraid of what you might find? Are you concerned you will pick up your purse one day to find a homeless midget squatting next to your lip gloss? Well, you should be. I would be.
Most ladies don’t think about these things, and it’s because fashion trumps function. We need to have at least one ridiculous en vogue item on hand at all times, and since high heels, the perennial favorite of the fashion over function rule, have been shunned as of late in favor of the much safer and more practical flat (safe and practical until you drunkenly slip out of and trip over one on your way down the stair at The Filmore and sprain your ankle. Hypothetically speaking of course.) the giant purse comes into our lives. And just like high heels trick you into thinking you are tall and glamorous when most of us really look strained and awkward, giant purses make you think you look fashionable and important (look at that lady’s giant bag! She must be transporting many important documents and artifacts and is much too busy to make multiple trips! How I admire her!) when really most of us just look like a child playing dress up with her mom’s accessories.
Don’t snicker too hard, fellas. Ladies certainly do not have a lock on clothing hyper-functional in appearance yet wasteful in use. Remember cargo pants? In any of the many many times I’ve seen dudes in cargo pants, I’ve never seen any of them with the pockets filled (unless said pants were being worn by a soldier or survival expert). Why all the pockets if you aren’t even going to pretend to fill them? It’s worse than carrying a man-purse. It’s like carrying 6 or 7 tiny man-purses.
For the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that I’ve worn my share of ridiculous clothing…platform sneakers, pants with fake pockets, ginormous sunglasses, and on and on. It’s our right as Americans. In fact, in some ways, cargo pants and giant purses are commentary on the culture. A loosely related aside: sometimes when I’m working in Frankenmuth, I play this game in which I guess where people are from before they tell me (people from out of town always tell, whether you ask or not). People from Detroit dress like rappers, people from Canada wear sensible layers, people from Southern states dress like they are in the Iditarod. Then there are foreigners, mostly from Europe or Asia (specifically China or Japan). The dead giveaways are the slim figures and stylish, stream-lined outfits. There are no superfluous accessories or unused space. Are our accessories and the ways we carry our daily products a reflection of our inflated egos and waistlines? Is there room for cargo pockets or giant purses in the midst of economic depression?
I’m not sure those are question that need answers. I’m not sure those are even questions that need to be asked. You can wear whatever you want. But I will ask you to consider this: Sunday night at the 211, I got whacked across the head by a giant purse on the should of a very tiny and very careless hipster. Two days later, I got violently ill and have only just left my bed in the past two hours or so. I’m not saying the two are related, but I also can’t prove they’re not.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
On Nick on friends
This is a response to a blog post by my dear friend, Nick. So go read that first and give some context to the following.
Done? Ok. Here's my answer to his questions:
I change who I talk to based on what I'm talking about and what sort of comfort I'm seeking. In return, I expect friends to do the same when seeking comfort from me.
I don't think it's a secret that the friend mentioned in Nick's original post is me, and I also don't think it's a secret that I've got a bit of an ice queen reputation (a friend said to me once in the middle of a semi-public somewhat alcohol induced meltdown, "at least people can see you have a heart"). Referring to my personality as "not touchy-feely" may be an understatement. . My reception of bad news goes like this: have a total freak out meltdown, take a nap, wake up and figure out how to deal with and possibly laugh about it. In rare occasions that my system doesn't cut it (extreme heartbreak, jail, death of a loved one) I tend to retreat to myself for awhile, maybe take a few more naps. For all my creative tendencies and interests, I'm realistic and analytical when it comes to affairs of the heart/emotions. So if you come to me with relationship troubles or confusion about your life's purpose or a fight with your roommate, I might not literally suggest we go drink it off, but I will give you a no-nonsense opinion, possibly some tough love, and then move on. That certainly doesn't make me the most nurturing or emotionally available companion, and it's a hopelessly unromantic way to function, but it doesn't make me a bad friend, either.
Like Shrek, I and my friendships have onion-like layers. Different friends fulfill different functions and, likewise, you fulfill certain functions in their life. Real friends know what those functions are, and don't seek out anything other than what a person is capable of/willing to give. What I mean is, you can't expect a friend to be everything to you all the time. People are unique and show their love in different ways. If you're a Hallmark movie watcher, you can't expect your friend with a robot heart to scrutinize your boyfriend and cry with you for four hours. Likewise, if your the analytical type, don't expect your "let's talk about feeeeeeelings" friend to sit down and pore over the details of your color coded pro/con lists every time you have a decision to make.
I have friends who I talk to about relationships. I have friends who I talk to about writing. I have friends who I talk to over beers. I have friends who share celebrity gossip. I have friends who share music. I have friends who literally let me cry on their shoulder. I have friends who'd prefer we keep things on the surface. I have friends who span several categories. A person concerned with being a good friend will recognize and appreciate the differences of the people in their life and, in turn (hopefully), that understanding will be reciprocated.
So say a friend comes to me with some sort of conundrum about a significant other or another friend or a co-worker. I comiserate about what a jerk that person is for a minute. Then I start asking questions in my annoying analytical way, and try to make said friend think about things in a more rational way. And then I usually suggest we go get drunk. Does my method work for everyone and every problem? No. But I'm lucky enough to have smart friends who know how I operate, and will go elsewhere to find different consolation without feeling abandoned. It's about knowing your friends. And if you are at the point in your life I am right now and still don't know the important people in your life well enough for everything I said to apply, you should probably rethink your relationships.
Done? Ok. Here's my answer to his questions:
I change who I talk to based on what I'm talking about and what sort of comfort I'm seeking. In return, I expect friends to do the same when seeking comfort from me.
I don't think it's a secret that the friend mentioned in Nick's original post is me, and I also don't think it's a secret that I've got a bit of an ice queen reputation (a friend said to me once in the middle of a semi-public somewhat alcohol induced meltdown, "at least people can see you have a heart"). Referring to my personality as "not touchy-feely" may be an understatement. . My reception of bad news goes like this: have a total freak out meltdown, take a nap, wake up and figure out how to deal with and possibly laugh about it. In rare occasions that my system doesn't cut it (extreme heartbreak, jail, death of a loved one) I tend to retreat to myself for awhile, maybe take a few more naps. For all my creative tendencies and interests, I'm realistic and analytical when it comes to affairs of the heart/emotions. So if you come to me with relationship troubles or confusion about your life's purpose or a fight with your roommate, I might not literally suggest we go drink it off, but I will give you a no-nonsense opinion, possibly some tough love, and then move on. That certainly doesn't make me the most nurturing or emotionally available companion, and it's a hopelessly unromantic way to function, but it doesn't make me a bad friend, either.
Like Shrek, I and my friendships have onion-like layers. Different friends fulfill different functions and, likewise, you fulfill certain functions in their life. Real friends know what those functions are, and don't seek out anything other than what a person is capable of/willing to give. What I mean is, you can't expect a friend to be everything to you all the time. People are unique and show their love in different ways. If you're a Hallmark movie watcher, you can't expect your friend with a robot heart to scrutinize your boyfriend and cry with you for four hours. Likewise, if your the analytical type, don't expect your "let's talk about feeeeeeelings" friend to sit down and pore over the details of your color coded pro/con lists every time you have a decision to make.
I have friends who I talk to about relationships. I have friends who I talk to about writing. I have friends who I talk to over beers. I have friends who share celebrity gossip. I have friends who share music. I have friends who literally let me cry on their shoulder. I have friends who'd prefer we keep things on the surface. I have friends who span several categories. A person concerned with being a good friend will recognize and appreciate the differences of the people in their life and, in turn (hopefully), that understanding will be reciprocated.
So say a friend comes to me with some sort of conundrum about a significant other or another friend or a co-worker. I comiserate about what a jerk that person is for a minute. Then I start asking questions in my annoying analytical way, and try to make said friend think about things in a more rational way. And then I usually suggest we go get drunk. Does my method work for everyone and every problem? No. But I'm lucky enough to have smart friends who know how I operate, and will go elsewhere to find different consolation without feeling abandoned. It's about knowing your friends. And if you are at the point in your life I am right now and still don't know the important people in your life well enough for everything I said to apply, you should probably rethink your relationships.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
been thinking a lot today
Again, I go unfocused. I should be writing and looking for financial aid and applying to 10 more jobs since the last 10 got me nowhere and vaccuming up doggie hair. Blogging/ranting will get me back on track. Shall we?
First, a few words on this whole Rihanna/Chris Brown thing. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you must not have television or internet or human contact. And you know what I think? I think you SHOULD be hearing about it everywhere. I think it's an important story to tell, if it's handled right. We're overloaded with information, especially about celebrities, but this is a time it might do some good. If the public is going to get outraged and plaster Michael Phelps all over the place as an attempt to prove what a horrible role model he is for hittin' the bong for a minute, put Chris Brown's face on billboards.
I'm not saying the kid needs to be crucified. Plenty of stories have come out about the abuse in his past and who really knows what kind of life he's led up to this point, but there is no excuse for abuse. Like it or not, these people are role models, especially to kids, so this whole situation should be a cautionary tale for young men to face the demons of their past (and present), man-up and get some help and for young women to be wary of the signs of abuse and get out before things escalate. Remember back in the 80s when there was that all-star cartoon special about saying no to drugs? They did that because they realized kids would listen to Winnie The Pooh before they would listen to Nancy Reagan. I'd like to see out of this some attention brought to the problem by someone hip explaining what happened and what to do if it happens to you. So far, it's typical sensationalism from the media (some other girl was texting Brown! Rihanna gave him herpes!) and machismo from other celebs (Jay-Z wants to hunt Brown down! T.I. supports Brown!). But, we'll see how it plays out.
P.S. If you've got a few minutes to spend on the subject, check out Kevin Powell's essay on his own experience, especially if you are a dude.
Secondly, Lily Allen's new album, "It's Not Me, It's You" came out and I'm digging. Surprised?
And lastly, I realized yet again that I not only have terrible gaydar, I have terrible this-boy-likes-me-dar. I mean, terrible, sitcom-worthy. It's not that I desperately and instantly cling to any boy who speaks to me, it's just that I seem to have a problem misunderstanding the difference between a boy thinking I'm cool and a boy wanting to date me. Like, I think I'm getting on with a boy and we have, like oh my god, so much in common, and then he asks my twin sister to the dance. Not literally, of course, I don't have a twin sister, but I do experience similar hilarity. It's not all bad. I am always good for a laugh when friends are feeling down and identifying with Liz Lemon has its own sick amusement, but I can't help feel a bit of fear that I am slowly turning into a delusional cat lady who thinks the mail carrier is into her because he comes over to the house every day, even in rain and sleet.
Ok, thanks for listening. Back to productivity :)
First, a few words on this whole Rihanna/Chris Brown thing. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you must not have television or internet or human contact. And you know what I think? I think you SHOULD be hearing about it everywhere. I think it's an important story to tell, if it's handled right. We're overloaded with information, especially about celebrities, but this is a time it might do some good. If the public is going to get outraged and plaster Michael Phelps all over the place as an attempt to prove what a horrible role model he is for hittin' the bong for a minute, put Chris Brown's face on billboards.
I'm not saying the kid needs to be crucified. Plenty of stories have come out about the abuse in his past and who really knows what kind of life he's led up to this point, but there is no excuse for abuse. Like it or not, these people are role models, especially to kids, so this whole situation should be a cautionary tale for young men to face the demons of their past (and present), man-up and get some help and for young women to be wary of the signs of abuse and get out before things escalate. Remember back in the 80s when there was that all-star cartoon special about saying no to drugs? They did that because they realized kids would listen to Winnie The Pooh before they would listen to Nancy Reagan. I'd like to see out of this some attention brought to the problem by someone hip explaining what happened and what to do if it happens to you. So far, it's typical sensationalism from the media (some other girl was texting Brown! Rihanna gave him herpes!) and machismo from other celebs (Jay-Z wants to hunt Brown down! T.I. supports Brown!). But, we'll see how it plays out.
P.S. If you've got a few minutes to spend on the subject, check out Kevin Powell's essay on his own experience, especially if you are a dude.
Secondly, Lily Allen's new album, "It's Not Me, It's You" came out and I'm digging. Surprised?
And lastly, I realized yet again that I not only have terrible gaydar, I have terrible this-boy-likes-me-dar. I mean, terrible, sitcom-worthy. It's not that I desperately and instantly cling to any boy who speaks to me, it's just that I seem to have a problem misunderstanding the difference between a boy thinking I'm cool and a boy wanting to date me. Like, I think I'm getting on with a boy and we have, like oh my god, so much in common, and then he asks my twin sister to the dance. Not literally, of course, I don't have a twin sister, but I do experience similar hilarity. It's not all bad. I am always good for a laugh when friends are feeling down and identifying with Liz Lemon has its own sick amusement, but I can't help feel a bit of fear that I am slowly turning into a delusional cat lady who thinks the mail carrier is into her because he comes over to the house every day, even in rain and sleet.
Ok, thanks for listening. Back to productivity :)
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
there comes a time...
...when you're going to have to choose what you're going to throw yourself behind.
I think everyone should have one thing: a hobby, a person, a song, a painting, a vegetable, a pair of shoes, an idea, a deity, a profession, a pet, a book that they love more than anything. And that one thing will be enough to get you through all the heartbreak and the loneliness and the strife and struggle of everyday life. And you'll always have it to turn to, even in memory, when you feel like you are at your last moment of sanity.
It's your safety net.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But if you have it, please, don't ever let it go. Don't ever take it for granted. Don't ever let someone take it away. Don't ever believe it's not worth the fight.
Those are my thoughts for the night.
Coming soon: BLOG WARS with Nick and Schanz on how gals and dudes carry their belongings, and some thought on women in art that have been kicking around my head and various blogs I've been reading.
I think everyone should have one thing: a hobby, a person, a song, a painting, a vegetable, a pair of shoes, an idea, a deity, a profession, a pet, a book that they love more than anything. And that one thing will be enough to get you through all the heartbreak and the loneliness and the strife and struggle of everyday life. And you'll always have it to turn to, even in memory, when you feel like you are at your last moment of sanity.
It's your safety net.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But if you have it, please, don't ever let it go. Don't ever take it for granted. Don't ever let someone take it away. Don't ever believe it's not worth the fight.
Those are my thoughts for the night.
Coming soon: BLOG WARS with Nick and Schanz on how gals and dudes carry their belongings, and some thought on women in art that have been kicking around my head and various blogs I've been reading.
Monday, February 9, 2009
they show up to the party, but they're never asked to dance
I've always been a bit of an outsider. I've never really been shunned and I wouldn't call myself an outcast, but I tend to exist just outside any clean parameters.
I was too smart to be a normal kid, but not smart enough to be prodigal.
I wasn't cool enough for the cool crowd or weird enough for the weird crowd.
I'm cute but not beautiful, talented but not exceptional.
I'm not a part of any crowd or movement, but I hover in the peripheries.
And those things have never bothered me. I tend to be a loner at heart and sometimes I'm even a little intimidated by the prospect of acceptance. I still don't get invited to all the hip parties, but I'm well-liked enough that I'm certainly not in danger of becoming a hermit.
But here's what I do wonder: As an adult, what does it mean to belong? How does acceptance play into adulthood? Does it matter? Should it matter? I truly don't know my thoughts on this yet, which is why I ask. Things I've been considering in regards to this question: career vs. social life, networking, relationships (the functional, adult kind), grown-up friendships.
Maybe I'll think more on this and have more to say once I get some opinions.
I was too smart to be a normal kid, but not smart enough to be prodigal.
I wasn't cool enough for the cool crowd or weird enough for the weird crowd.
I'm cute but not beautiful, talented but not exceptional.
I'm not a part of any crowd or movement, but I hover in the peripheries.
And those things have never bothered me. I tend to be a loner at heart and sometimes I'm even a little intimidated by the prospect of acceptance. I still don't get invited to all the hip parties, but I'm well-liked enough that I'm certainly not in danger of becoming a hermit.
But here's what I do wonder: As an adult, what does it mean to belong? How does acceptance play into adulthood? Does it matter? Should it matter? I truly don't know my thoughts on this yet, which is why I ask. Things I've been considering in regards to this question: career vs. social life, networking, relationships (the functional, adult kind), grown-up friendships.
Maybe I'll think more on this and have more to say once I get some opinions.
Monday, February 2, 2009
In defense of my temporary stagnation
[This is the second installation of BLOG WARS. BLOG WARS is an ongoing series of intense competitive blogging between my dear friend Nick and I. We muse on the same topic, and our responses fight to the death. Actually, it's not competitive at all. It just sounds cooler to say it is. It's really just us being nerds. Anyway, onward.]
Nick sez: Kim told me once that it's incredibly difficult to look for a job when you have one full time.
I sez: I wouldn't know the first thing about having a full-time job, but I'd argue that looking for a job when you don't have one is incredibly difficult for a whole other set of reasons.
Allow me to wax autobiographically for a moment, so you can understand where I'm coming from with this argument: In May of 2008, I graduated from SVSU with a major in English (professional and technical writing, specifically. PTW people get weird about calling it an English major) and minors in graphic design and communication. I had spent 2 years working for the campus fine arts publication, Cardinal Sins, first as a lowly editorial staff member, then as editor-in-chief, and then demoting myself back to a general staff member.
On paper, that lady looks like she's on the fast track to success. But then I throw a wrench in things by telling you that I was completely uninterested by everything involved in my chosen major and minors. I'm not saying they aren't good programs, lots of my cohorts were busy learning great things and producing quality work, I was just clearly not programmed to do the same. Creative writing courses gave me a reprieve (at least I was studying/writing things that interested me) and folks started bring up the possibility of grad school, but it was too little too late. And then, about a week before I would graduate with a degree I'd spent months already regretting, I got arrested. And though the hammer of justice certainly did not come down as hard as it could have, I was fragile enough that it didn't take much force to crush me emotionally and financially.
Thus began my painful bout of temporary stagnation.
I’d never felt more than a brief moment of self-doubt in my life, and experiencing it at such a crucial time was, to put it lightly, not easy. Just so I’m not a hypocrite, in regards to my previous rant about people thinking they are special: I don’t think I’m special. I think most people my age are just getting past the point of being handed participation ribbons instead of rejections. It’s easy to start thinking you suck. My generation is, for the most part, extremely coddled. It’s not easy to leave the Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood of college or high school or the job you’ve been in forever. It’s familiar and you know what to expect. Even if it’s horrible at times, you can foresee those horrible times and usually have people around to commiserate. But starting over…building a career, going to grad school…you are on your own with no idea what to expect. It’s easy to doubt that things will ever get rolling. And the worst thing is that self-doubt is even more powerful than self confidence. Confidence can let you move the proverbial mountains, doubt will turn you into one. I know it did me.
So, maybe, just maybe, sometimes we don’t try that hard to look for jobs. Maybe when we should be searching Monster we are trolling Facebook. And there have probably been a few nights where we could have studied a little harder instead of staying for one last beer, and maybe that would have given us a leg up in the long run. But if there’s anything I’ve learned during my stagnation period (and, in fact, I’ve learned a lot) it’s that nobody is perfect, for crying out loud. We could spend all day every day chasing the holy grail of the perfect job, but when we get there will we be living in a place we enjoy? Will we have time for our hobbies? Will we keep au fait on our loved ones, or let relationships fade? These things are important. Having a beer with an old friend is important. There, I said it. And I don’t feel guilty when something fun gets in the way of being productive. You know how when someone goes on a diet and cuts themselves off from every food they like, and then is either miserable or slips up and gorges? That’s sort of how I feel about the whole moving on thing. It’s been in those moments of frivolity and vice that I’ve figured out some important things. I’ve had the time to attend and help out with events that have solidified my ideas about art and community. I’ve gotten some of my most encouraging words concerning grad school from text exchanges while I’m bored at my crappy retail job. So, I mean, maybe goofing off has its strong points. Or maybe I’m justifying my nonsense. That’s certainly up for debate.
Ok, so let me try to summarize my rambling. Let me break it down, for your sake and mine: the world outside your comfort zone is mean and scary. You have to face it. But maybe you don’t have to face it right this second, and maybe you don’t have to face it every day. Maybe you can find the small beautiful moments even when your life feels lost in transition. I think, at least I speculate, that this might be something you never stop struggling with.
As for me, my wheels are starting to turn.
Nick sez: Kim told me once that it's incredibly difficult to look for a job when you have one full time.
I sez: I wouldn't know the first thing about having a full-time job, but I'd argue that looking for a job when you don't have one is incredibly difficult for a whole other set of reasons.
Allow me to wax autobiographically for a moment, so you can understand where I'm coming from with this argument: In May of 2008, I graduated from SVSU with a major in English (professional and technical writing, specifically. PTW people get weird about calling it an English major) and minors in graphic design and communication. I had spent 2 years working for the campus fine arts publication, Cardinal Sins, first as a lowly editorial staff member, then as editor-in-chief, and then demoting myself back to a general staff member.
On paper, that lady looks like she's on the fast track to success. But then I throw a wrench in things by telling you that I was completely uninterested by everything involved in my chosen major and minors. I'm not saying they aren't good programs, lots of my cohorts were busy learning great things and producing quality work, I was just clearly not programmed to do the same. Creative writing courses gave me a reprieve (at least I was studying/writing things that interested me) and folks started bring up the possibility of grad school, but it was too little too late. And then, about a week before I would graduate with a degree I'd spent months already regretting, I got arrested. And though the hammer of justice certainly did not come down as hard as it could have, I was fragile enough that it didn't take much force to crush me emotionally and financially.
Thus began my painful bout of temporary stagnation.
I’d never felt more than a brief moment of self-doubt in my life, and experiencing it at such a crucial time was, to put it lightly, not easy. Just so I’m not a hypocrite, in regards to my previous rant about people thinking they are special: I don’t think I’m special. I think most people my age are just getting past the point of being handed participation ribbons instead of rejections. It’s easy to start thinking you suck. My generation is, for the most part, extremely coddled. It’s not easy to leave the Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood of college or high school or the job you’ve been in forever. It’s familiar and you know what to expect. Even if it’s horrible at times, you can foresee those horrible times and usually have people around to commiserate. But starting over…building a career, going to grad school…you are on your own with no idea what to expect. It’s easy to doubt that things will ever get rolling. And the worst thing is that self-doubt is even more powerful than self confidence. Confidence can let you move the proverbial mountains, doubt will turn you into one. I know it did me.
So, maybe, just maybe, sometimes we don’t try that hard to look for jobs. Maybe when we should be searching Monster we are trolling Facebook. And there have probably been a few nights where we could have studied a little harder instead of staying for one last beer, and maybe that would have given us a leg up in the long run. But if there’s anything I’ve learned during my stagnation period (and, in fact, I’ve learned a lot) it’s that nobody is perfect, for crying out loud. We could spend all day every day chasing the holy grail of the perfect job, but when we get there will we be living in a place we enjoy? Will we have time for our hobbies? Will we keep au fait on our loved ones, or let relationships fade? These things are important. Having a beer with an old friend is important. There, I said it. And I don’t feel guilty when something fun gets in the way of being productive. You know how when someone goes on a diet and cuts themselves off from every food they like, and then is either miserable or slips up and gorges? That’s sort of how I feel about the whole moving on thing. It’s been in those moments of frivolity and vice that I’ve figured out some important things. I’ve had the time to attend and help out with events that have solidified my ideas about art and community. I’ve gotten some of my most encouraging words concerning grad school from text exchanges while I’m bored at my crappy retail job. So, I mean, maybe goofing off has its strong points. Or maybe I’m justifying my nonsense. That’s certainly up for debate.
Ok, so let me try to summarize my rambling. Let me break it down, for your sake and mine: the world outside your comfort zone is mean and scary. You have to face it. But maybe you don’t have to face it right this second, and maybe you don’t have to face it every day. Maybe you can find the small beautiful moments even when your life feels lost in transition. I think, at least I speculate, that this might be something you never stop struggling with.
As for me, my wheels are starting to turn.
Friday, January 30, 2009
a poorly developed argument about why I don't care about you
I have this troublesome steaming pile of energy inside me that is just not being useful. I can't reign it in to get anything done. I can focus it enough to make it productive. I'm just waiting to explode. Even my creative outlets are failing me. Troublesome, indeed.
The other day I was hanging First Friday fliers around SVSU and ended up visiting an old prof's creative writing class. They were discussing what legitimate literature (art) is and how to determine what is and isn't and whatnot, and the talk turned to folks who write super personal pieces, what to do with that? Not that all art isn't personal in a sense, but some certainly verges on Dear Diary territory, stuff about break-ups and feeling oh so alone. The prof asked me, "You write professional pieces, but you also write personal ones, like the White's Bar poem [referring to a poem I wrote in class called "I Fucking Hate White's Bar" which I won't share, because it's not that good, but was basically about hating that place because it reminded me of too many horrible love/hate relationships. It almost got me laughed out of the room, and a classmate compared it to a Bob Seger song.] Can you do that?" My response, barely missing a beat, was, "You can do it, but no one has to care."
And why SHOULD anyone care? I have a hard time backing memoirs and even a lot of creative non-fiction because I feel like I'm overwhelmed with life stories every day via social networking, reality television, cell phones, etc. I can follow the careers, relationships, and everyday details of my friends, famous people, fictional characters, and total strangers via blog, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Flickr, Tumblr, Livejournal, and on and on. It's beyond a crave for attention, it's not enough for people to notice, people need to be interested. Self-involvement and self-reflection and self-absorbtion has so permeated every aspect of culture, that I just don't think it's interesting.
That's not to say I'm not 100% guilty of everything I've just ranted against. I have profiles on Myspace and Facebook with way more "friends" than I would ever go out of my way to talk to in real life. I text people for reason other than my own boredom, despite whatever may be going on in their own lives. I have a blog (obviously) which is the highest form of imposing your self-involvement onto other people. I mean, it's essentially your brain and your day for everyone to see. It's like tacking your journal pages onto street lamp posts (to varying degrees, of course. The degrees of which people share themselves online is a whole other rant). But if I take it back to the literature argument, I think it gives me an even stronger case against people who write poems and stories about shit in their lives and expect it to be received as art.
The other day I was hanging First Friday fliers around SVSU and ended up visiting an old prof's creative writing class. They were discussing what legitimate literature (art) is and how to determine what is and isn't and whatnot, and the talk turned to folks who write super personal pieces, what to do with that? Not that all art isn't personal in a sense, but some certainly verges on Dear Diary territory, stuff about break-ups and feeling oh so alone. The prof asked me, "You write professional pieces, but you also write personal ones, like the White's Bar poem [referring to a poem I wrote in class called "I Fucking Hate White's Bar" which I won't share, because it's not that good, but was basically about hating that place because it reminded me of too many horrible love/hate relationships. It almost got me laughed out of the room, and a classmate compared it to a Bob Seger song.] Can you do that?" My response, barely missing a beat, was, "You can do it, but no one has to care."
And why SHOULD anyone care? I have a hard time backing memoirs and even a lot of creative non-fiction because I feel like I'm overwhelmed with life stories every day via social networking, reality television, cell phones, etc. I can follow the careers, relationships, and everyday details of my friends, famous people, fictional characters, and total strangers via blog, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Flickr, Tumblr, Livejournal, and on and on. It's beyond a crave for attention, it's not enough for people to notice, people need to be interested. Self-involvement and self-reflection and self-absorbtion has so permeated every aspect of culture, that I just don't think it's interesting.
That's not to say I'm not 100% guilty of everything I've just ranted against. I have profiles on Myspace and Facebook with way more "friends" than I would ever go out of my way to talk to in real life. I text people for reason other than my own boredom, despite whatever may be going on in their own lives. I have a blog (obviously) which is the highest form of imposing your self-involvement onto other people. I mean, it's essentially your brain and your day for everyone to see. It's like tacking your journal pages onto street lamp posts (to varying degrees, of course. The degrees of which people share themselves online is a whole other rant). But if I take it back to the literature argument, I think it gives me an even stronger case against people who write poems and stories about shit in their lives and expect it to be received as art.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
feelin' good, breakin' promises
When I changed my preferred blogging venue from Myspace to Blogger, I promised several times that I would use less of my time mentioning Shia LaBeouf. Well, I lied. It only took 3 entries to break my promise.
Here's the thing about Shia: I have a rainbow of celebrity crushes because, 1. I am pop culture obsessed and 2. They are better looking than any real boys I know and 3. I don't have to get to know them, but he is by far my current #1. I get a lot of shit for this for a myriad of reasons like the fact that he used to be on Even Stevens or that he's sort of a drunken douchebag. Nice tries, but Even Stevens was an awesome show and everyone loves drunken douchebags (also, I'd like to point out that maybe if you really wanted to talk me out of it, you should use some sort of argument like "um, he doesn't know you and you'll probably never meet him" instead of feeding my delusions. Although, if you don't feed my delusions, I won't want to be your friend. Classic catch-22). Not that I need to explain our romance to any of YOU, but for the sake of argument, let me justify my love.
1. He's very self-deprecating. If you didn't hear about the Walgreen's incident, let him tell you.
2. He's beautiful.
Notice how I made that my #2 justification. It should be #1, but I'm trying to appear less shallow.
Adorable.
Even in his MUGSHOT!
I guarantee most mugshots are not that adorable.
3. His movies sort of suck, but I'm okay with that. Eagle Eye was kind of cool, and Transformers had it's moments, but they aren't exactly Oscar-worthy. Even Stevens was hilarious, but that was another life time. So what? A person's career does not define them. If I fell in love with a McDonald's employee, I wouldn't dismiss him just because he uses too much salt on the fries. I'm just saying.
4. He's funny. I realize he didn't write this, but he plays creepy very well.
Wearing a paper bag to evade the paprazzi is pretty funny. I wish I'd have thought it up first.
5. He skateboards.
I think that's reason enough. I mean, people have fell in love over less. And I'm sure I've dated worse boys. My next step is to write a blog on reasons Shia LaBeouf should be in love with me. After that, track him down and show it to him. And after that, figure out how to circumvent the restraining order.
It's a classic love story, kids. Sit back and enjoy.
Here's the thing about Shia: I have a rainbow of celebrity crushes because, 1. I am pop culture obsessed and 2. They are better looking than any real boys I know and 3. I don't have to get to know them, but he is by far my current #1. I get a lot of shit for this for a myriad of reasons like the fact that he used to be on Even Stevens or that he's sort of a drunken douchebag. Nice tries, but Even Stevens was an awesome show and everyone loves drunken douchebags (also, I'd like to point out that maybe if you really wanted to talk me out of it, you should use some sort of argument like "um, he doesn't know you and you'll probably never meet him" instead of feeding my delusions. Although, if you don't feed my delusions, I won't want to be your friend. Classic catch-22). Not that I need to explain our romance to any of YOU, but for the sake of argument, let me justify my love.
1. He's very self-deprecating. If you didn't hear about the Walgreen's incident, let him tell you.
2. He's beautiful.
Notice how I made that my #2 justification. It should be #1, but I'm trying to appear less shallow.
Adorable.
Even in his MUGSHOT!
I guarantee most mugshots are not that adorable.
3. His movies sort of suck, but I'm okay with that. Eagle Eye was kind of cool, and Transformers had it's moments, but they aren't exactly Oscar-worthy. Even Stevens was hilarious, but that was another life time. So what? A person's career does not define them. If I fell in love with a McDonald's employee, I wouldn't dismiss him just because he uses too much salt on the fries. I'm just saying.
4. He's funny. I realize he didn't write this, but he plays creepy very well.
Wearing a paper bag to evade the paprazzi is pretty funny. I wish I'd have thought it up first.
5. He skateboards.
I think that's reason enough. I mean, people have fell in love over less. And I'm sure I've dated worse boys. My next step is to write a blog on reasons Shia LaBeouf should be in love with me. After that, track him down and show it to him. And after that, figure out how to circumvent the restraining order.
It's a classic love story, kids. Sit back and enjoy.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
those dying dreams
When you get older, and we are all getting older, you start to take stock of your life and what you have/have not accomplished. Lucky for me, a lot of the dreams I've had over the year have died of natural causes before I got too much chance to try and fail to achieve them. Here are some highlights:
Become a successful children's book author
I wrote constantly when I was a kid. I had an overactive imagination and always made up stories and as soon as I could write, I started putting them down on paper. Obviously, I still do write often, so this dream isn't too far off. Until you read the stuff I've written in the past few years. I've developed a distinct style that involves a lot of profanity, drug references, and dark humor. So unless kids think death is as funny as I seem to think or there's a market for "Baby's First F-Bomb" type kid lit, I'm probably not the next superstar of pre-adolescents.
Marry a Greek boy
I wanted this before "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." Greek people are awesome. In high school, I knew this Greek kid...well, I didn't really know him, he was a friend of a friend's boyfriend, but I knew him enough that I tagged along to his graduation party. As with most open houses, the food is the real draw, so our first stop was the buffet. I sort of poked around the weird looking Greek stuff until the grad's grandpa came over and snatched the paper plate from my hands. "You want some of this?" he asked, scooping a giant spoonful of something I couldn't pronounce if I tried. "Uh, no thanks," I replied, except he had already plopped it on my plate. "You eat it. You like it. It's Greek" and we repeated that routine until my plate was buckling under a massive pile of Greek weirdness. Well, that weirdness turned out to be delicious and even though I had to throw about half of it away (I weight 110 pounds at the most back then. Where was I going to put it all?) I've got mad love for any culture who loves food that much. Also, Greek people are really loud. I decided I wanted to be Greek. Unfortunately, the grad was the only Greek kid I knew (and I think he's gay...Elaine, is he gay now? Seems like we decided he was) and I haven't met any since. So, I guess this dream doesn't really have to die, I just have to figure out where Greek people hang out.
Fall in love with Jonathon Taylor Thomas/Ben Affleck/Travis Barker
Trav got a little too ghetto fabulous for me, Ben got married to Jennifer Garner, and I'm pretty sure JTT is gay. Whatever, Shia LaBeouf and I are very, very happy.
Be the first woman in the NBA
I don't think too many people realize how much I love basketball and even fewer know how much I obsessed over basketball in my pre-teen years. I literally spent hours watching, playing, or talking about basketball. I could rattle off stats for Seattle's starting lineup and most of the bench (the Sonics were my team), plus I could school yo' ass on the court, so while most girls were starting to daydream about the cute boy in math class, I was daydreaming about setting up plays and alley-ooping to Shawn Kemp. Yeah, I was that good. In my head. Then the WNBA came along and killed that dream. You would think a professional women's league would have been the dream come true, but I didn't want to be one of the hundreds of women in a league, I wanted to be the woman in the league. No one becomes a folk hero for doing want a billion other ladies can do. Soon after I begrudgingly decided to be a superstar of the stupid WNBA, and for a myriad of reasons I don't entirely remember, I quit playing basketball. The last time I remember picking up a ball was about 4 or 5 years ago when I used to play with some Japanese guys in Ryder (Asian folks are obnoxiously polite. These dudes would apologize after stealing the ball or scoring on someone. Takes a lot of the fun out of trash talk). I've haven't even watched any b-ball lately, maybe 5 or 6 games in the past year. And when I do catch a game, I get this feeling of guilt, like running into an old friend you haven't bothered to call since the last time you randomly met up.
Be a rock star
This dream has been the hardest to let go. I love music more than anything, but my attempts to make a career out of that feeling have been consistently disappointing. My high school "band", The Seemonkies, is legendary, but never really went anywhere. I had a guitar that I swear I tried to play, but the only songs I learned were "Maggie May" and one Jewel song. I've overcompensated for my failures by falling madly in crush with any boy I see playing guitar/bass/drums/ukulele, etc. etc. Those have also been consistently disappointing. I guess I could have gone the route of music journalism, or management or something like that, but being so close yet so far seems like it'd be even worse.
It's weird to think how things you might have wanted so badly at one point seem completely ridiculous now. Weird and depressing, but sort of puts a few things in perspective, like looking at photographs of yourself with really bad hair.
Anyone out there have any nutball dreams to share? Or photos of yourself with really bad hair?
Become a successful children's book author
I wrote constantly when I was a kid. I had an overactive imagination and always made up stories and as soon as I could write, I started putting them down on paper. Obviously, I still do write often, so this dream isn't too far off. Until you read the stuff I've written in the past few years. I've developed a distinct style that involves a lot of profanity, drug references, and dark humor. So unless kids think death is as funny as I seem to think or there's a market for "Baby's First F-Bomb" type kid lit, I'm probably not the next superstar of pre-adolescents.
Marry a Greek boy
I wanted this before "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." Greek people are awesome. In high school, I knew this Greek kid...well, I didn't really know him, he was a friend of a friend's boyfriend, but I knew him enough that I tagged along to his graduation party. As with most open houses, the food is the real draw, so our first stop was the buffet. I sort of poked around the weird looking Greek stuff until the grad's grandpa came over and snatched the paper plate from my hands. "You want some of this?" he asked, scooping a giant spoonful of something I couldn't pronounce if I tried. "Uh, no thanks," I replied, except he had already plopped it on my plate. "You eat it. You like it. It's Greek" and we repeated that routine until my plate was buckling under a massive pile of Greek weirdness. Well, that weirdness turned out to be delicious and even though I had to throw about half of it away (I weight 110 pounds at the most back then. Where was I going to put it all?) I've got mad love for any culture who loves food that much. Also, Greek people are really loud. I decided I wanted to be Greek. Unfortunately, the grad was the only Greek kid I knew (and I think he's gay...Elaine, is he gay now? Seems like we decided he was) and I haven't met any since. So, I guess this dream doesn't really have to die, I just have to figure out where Greek people hang out.
Fall in love with Jonathon Taylor Thomas/Ben Affleck/Travis Barker
Trav got a little too ghetto fabulous for me, Ben got married to Jennifer Garner, and I'm pretty sure JTT is gay. Whatever, Shia LaBeouf and I are very, very happy.
Be the first woman in the NBA
I don't think too many people realize how much I love basketball and even fewer know how much I obsessed over basketball in my pre-teen years. I literally spent hours watching, playing, or talking about basketball. I could rattle off stats for Seattle's starting lineup and most of the bench (the Sonics were my team), plus I could school yo' ass on the court, so while most girls were starting to daydream about the cute boy in math class, I was daydreaming about setting up plays and alley-ooping to Shawn Kemp. Yeah, I was that good. In my head. Then the WNBA came along and killed that dream. You would think a professional women's league would have been the dream come true, but I didn't want to be one of the hundreds of women in a league, I wanted to be the woman in the league. No one becomes a folk hero for doing want a billion other ladies can do. Soon after I begrudgingly decided to be a superstar of the stupid WNBA, and for a myriad of reasons I don't entirely remember, I quit playing basketball. The last time I remember picking up a ball was about 4 or 5 years ago when I used to play with some Japanese guys in Ryder (Asian folks are obnoxiously polite. These dudes would apologize after stealing the ball or scoring on someone. Takes a lot of the fun out of trash talk). I've haven't even watched any b-ball lately, maybe 5 or 6 games in the past year. And when I do catch a game, I get this feeling of guilt, like running into an old friend you haven't bothered to call since the last time you randomly met up.
Be a rock star
This dream has been the hardest to let go. I love music more than anything, but my attempts to make a career out of that feeling have been consistently disappointing. My high school "band", The Seemonkies, is legendary, but never really went anywhere. I had a guitar that I swear I tried to play, but the only songs I learned were "Maggie May" and one Jewel song. I've overcompensated for my failures by falling madly in crush with any boy I see playing guitar/bass/drums/ukulele, etc. etc. Those have also been consistently disappointing. I guess I could have gone the route of music journalism, or management or something like that, but being so close yet so far seems like it'd be even worse.
It's weird to think how things you might have wanted so badly at one point seem completely ridiculous now. Weird and depressing, but sort of puts a few things in perspective, like looking at photographs of yourself with really bad hair.
Anyone out there have any nutball dreams to share? Or photos of yourself with really bad hair?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
An introduction to my sick attachment to pop culture
(Nick, I apologize. This is not even remotely the topic I chose for BLOG WARS. But you've known me long enough to realize I have the attention span of a 3-year-old and am not so great at following rules.)
Let me take you back, back to a year we called 2000. Turn on the radio in 2000, and you were smack dab in the middle of the teeny-bop and crap rock boom when "artists" like pre-breakdown Britney Spears and pre-rehab Creed ruled the charts. It was a year of monumental artistic achievements like Will Smith's "Willenium" and Lou Bega's "A Little Bit of Mambo." I was 15 years old and listening to mostly punk rock and its various wussy incarnations. I spent most of my time listening to bands like The Vandals or the much wussier New Found Glory and causing innocent mayhem with my two best friends. At some point, we formed a band called The Seemonkeys (after a teacher walked by the three of us sitting in the hallway and called us the "see no" monkeys. You can see already how painfully clever we were). The band's artistic vision was to be a combination of Blink 182 and Josie and the Pussycats, which mostly meant that we wanted to play music with minimal difficulty and lots of sex and fart jokes, but also to look pretty doing it. Sure, we didn't actually own instruments and couldn't actually play them if we did, but we wrote several songs full of entendre and swear words and had a fan club who gave us money to support our shows that never happened.
Also in the year 2000, No Doubt released “Return of Saturn” named for the astrological theory of Saturn’s return: your 29th year, the year you become a productive adult. What sort of stake did I, in my mid-teens have in that sort of album? Not much, except that I religiously listened to “Tragic Kingdom” and not so secretly wanted to be exactly like Gwen Stefani. I didn’t take to it immediately. I think I, like most No Doubt fans (I assume other fans felt the same, the album wasn‘t nearly as popular as the band‘s previous…or maybe even latter. But who exactly were No Doubt fans? I imagine them all as teenage girls, but that’s only because I was a teenage girl. The wonderful/horrible thing about adolescence is that you don’t notice any demographics outside your own. I’m not sure if at 15 I even noticed anyone other than myself and the occasional cute skater boy) expected “Tragic Kingdom 2.” What I got was a different Gwen-slowed down, smoothed out musically, and lyrically introspective, conflicted, and maybe a little depressing. There were no girl power anthems like “Just a Girl” or songs about Disneyland. Instead, Gwen had turned into a pop-rock Sylvia Plath, singing about the perceived dichotomies of womanhood: can you be a badass independent lady and still want to get married? Can you be pretty without using it as a shield? Can you admire other women without turning into a jealous bitch? Why do the good girls always want the bad boys? She begged the questions I wasn’t prepared to ask at 15.
I can’t pinpoint the moment I returned to the album, or the moment it clicked in my consciousness, but I’m sure it was some time post-high school, post-9/11, likely around the first time a boy put a dent in my heart, but well before my Saturn return. I started to feel the relevance of lyrics like:
If you bore me then I'm comfortable
If you interest me I'm scared
My attraction paralyzes me
No courage to show my true colors that exist
But I want to be the real thing
But if you catch my eye can't be authentic
The one's I loath are the one's that know me the best
The sort of anxiety you can only feel when relationships start to last and be meaningful. Holding hands at the football game is easy, bearing your soul is excruciating. And the closer you get to knowing the real you, the harder you are to share. Or:
Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life
How'd I get so faithful to my freedom?
A selfish kind of life
The contradiction all women face growing into adulthood. If the Saturn return theory is right, I still haven’t made it to functional adulthood. Maybe the key word there is functional. I’m past the age of thinking I know everything, but not quite to an age where I can prove I know anything. For a woman, that moment in time is particularly difficult because it‘s one more gap in a life defined by gaps. At 15, I would have told you I was a fiercely independent woman who never needed a man for anything and would be a dynamo in any field I so chose to rule. At 25, I will tell I am a fiercely independent woman who realizes aspirations take work and worries that I’m not up to the challenge, and worries even more that the hours and dedication will ruin any chance of love or children or all those things I can’t ever be sure I want. At 25, I struggle more with my identity than I ever have. At 25, I take the time to contemplate where my relationships go wrong. At 25, this album is indispensable for me.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about how music/film/books/what have you sort of trace the course of our lives and I’ve also been thinking a lot about what it means to be a 25 year old female college grad with a blank slate of a future. Expect to read more on both.
Let me take you back, back to a year we called 2000. Turn on the radio in 2000, and you were smack dab in the middle of the teeny-bop and crap rock boom when "artists" like pre-breakdown Britney Spears and pre-rehab Creed ruled the charts. It was a year of monumental artistic achievements like Will Smith's "Willenium" and Lou Bega's "A Little Bit of Mambo." I was 15 years old and listening to mostly punk rock and its various wussy incarnations. I spent most of my time listening to bands like The Vandals or the much wussier New Found Glory and causing innocent mayhem with my two best friends. At some point, we formed a band called The Seemonkeys (after a teacher walked by the three of us sitting in the hallway and called us the "see no" monkeys. You can see already how painfully clever we were). The band's artistic vision was to be a combination of Blink 182 and Josie and the Pussycats, which mostly meant that we wanted to play music with minimal difficulty and lots of sex and fart jokes, but also to look pretty doing it. Sure, we didn't actually own instruments and couldn't actually play them if we did, but we wrote several songs full of entendre and swear words and had a fan club who gave us money to support our shows that never happened.
Also in the year 2000, No Doubt released “Return of Saturn” named for the astrological theory of Saturn’s return: your 29th year, the year you become a productive adult. What sort of stake did I, in my mid-teens have in that sort of album? Not much, except that I religiously listened to “Tragic Kingdom” and not so secretly wanted to be exactly like Gwen Stefani. I didn’t take to it immediately. I think I, like most No Doubt fans (I assume other fans felt the same, the album wasn‘t nearly as popular as the band‘s previous…or maybe even latter. But who exactly were No Doubt fans? I imagine them all as teenage girls, but that’s only because I was a teenage girl. The wonderful/horrible thing about adolescence is that you don’t notice any demographics outside your own. I’m not sure if at 15 I even noticed anyone other than myself and the occasional cute skater boy) expected “Tragic Kingdom 2.” What I got was a different Gwen-slowed down, smoothed out musically, and lyrically introspective, conflicted, and maybe a little depressing. There were no girl power anthems like “Just a Girl” or songs about Disneyland. Instead, Gwen had turned into a pop-rock Sylvia Plath, singing about the perceived dichotomies of womanhood: can you be a badass independent lady and still want to get married? Can you be pretty without using it as a shield? Can you admire other women without turning into a jealous bitch? Why do the good girls always want the bad boys? She begged the questions I wasn’t prepared to ask at 15.
I can’t pinpoint the moment I returned to the album, or the moment it clicked in my consciousness, but I’m sure it was some time post-high school, post-9/11, likely around the first time a boy put a dent in my heart, but well before my Saturn return. I started to feel the relevance of lyrics like:
If you bore me then I'm comfortable
If you interest me I'm scared
My attraction paralyzes me
No courage to show my true colors that exist
But I want to be the real thing
But if you catch my eye can't be authentic
The one's I loath are the one's that know me the best
The sort of anxiety you can only feel when relationships start to last and be meaningful. Holding hands at the football game is easy, bearing your soul is excruciating. And the closer you get to knowing the real you, the harder you are to share. Or:
Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life
How'd I get so faithful to my freedom?
A selfish kind of life
The contradiction all women face growing into adulthood. If the Saturn return theory is right, I still haven’t made it to functional adulthood. Maybe the key word there is functional. I’m past the age of thinking I know everything, but not quite to an age where I can prove I know anything. For a woman, that moment in time is particularly difficult because it‘s one more gap in a life defined by gaps. At 15, I would have told you I was a fiercely independent woman who never needed a man for anything and would be a dynamo in any field I so chose to rule. At 25, I will tell I am a fiercely independent woman who realizes aspirations take work and worries that I’m not up to the challenge, and worries even more that the hours and dedication will ruin any chance of love or children or all those things I can’t ever be sure I want. At 25, I struggle more with my identity than I ever have. At 25, I take the time to contemplate where my relationships go wrong. At 25, this album is indispensable for me.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about how music/film/books/what have you sort of trace the course of our lives and I’ve also been thinking a lot about what it means to be a 25 year old female college grad with a blank slate of a future. Expect to read more on both.
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