I wish Jim Halpert (The Office) were real. Because I am so in love with him - so in love, I would move to Pennsylvania (my least favorite state).
What makes him so perfect? He's real (ironic, huh?).
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Merrry Christmas -- or You'll Go to Hell
Currently I am on my way to visit family in Florida (a.k.a. God's waiting room). I'm only half-way there and I'm already annoyed. (layover in Charlotte at 3AM my time...hate you, red-eye) I so don't want to be here. I want to get back on the plane and go home, but guilt is plastering me to my seat. Guilt bought my ticket. And guilt drove me to the airport.
My main hesitation of the trip is my mother. She is crazy. And she is old. Although I'm attempting to appreciate the fact that she will not be around forever, and that I should enjoy spending time with her while I still can... I cannot help but think that this "well spent" time might lead to her untimely demise ...because I might actually kill her.
My mother is Jesus-crazy. Before I go off on this tangent, let me say that I am a huge fan of the first amendment and I whole-heartedly believe that everyone is entitled to the free exercise of his or her religious beliefs. However, the first amendment also extends to me and my choice for you to shut the fuck up and not shove said beliefs down my non-believing throat.
Perhaps the reason this makes me so angry is the fact that Jesus (Santa too) was used as a weapon while growing up in my household. Here's an example (we'll start with Santa...because it's Christmas): I was 4 years old and kicking my feet as my mother was attempting to dress me for preschool. Rather than asking me to stop, she suddenly snapped, "I saw Santa looking in the window when you did that. You're not getting any presents this year." (...see why I've been in therapy since age 19?) This applied to anything religious as well. I remember asking at age 8, "Mom how do you know the bible is right? Wasn't it written by men, not God?" ...Her response? "You're going to hell!"
My mother's inappropriate use of Jesus resulted in me trying to be perfect until college. Then I said, "fuck it." The fear had not entirely worn off, but since I could not live up to the impossible expectations, I stopped trying. Unfortunately, Mom's behavior has not changed, because I heard her tell my three year old neice (who was running around the house naked asking, "Where's my mom? Where's mom?") that if she didn't put some clothes on, her mother was going to leave her and never come back. Zero to 60. No filter. No thought as to the affect of her words on little hearts and minds.
As I learned in therapy, my mother's behavior won't change. I can only change my reaction to it. After close to 40 years, I think I finally get this. As a result, this Christmas I bought my mother a track suit and some Nikes - so that she can take advantage of the next opportunity to join a cult. And for myself? This will be the last family Christmas for me. Next year -- some Mexican resort...a 23 year old...English optional.
My main hesitation of the trip is my mother. She is crazy. And she is old. Although I'm attempting to appreciate the fact that she will not be around forever, and that I should enjoy spending time with her while I still can... I cannot help but think that this "well spent" time might lead to her untimely demise ...because I might actually kill her.
My mother is Jesus-crazy. Before I go off on this tangent, let me say that I am a huge fan of the first amendment and I whole-heartedly believe that everyone is entitled to the free exercise of his or her religious beliefs. However, the first amendment also extends to me and my choice for you to shut the fuck up and not shove said beliefs down my non-believing throat.
Perhaps the reason this makes me so angry is the fact that Jesus (Santa too) was used as a weapon while growing up in my household. Here's an example (we'll start with Santa...because it's Christmas): I was 4 years old and kicking my feet as my mother was attempting to dress me for preschool. Rather than asking me to stop, she suddenly snapped, "I saw Santa looking in the window when you did that. You're not getting any presents this year." (...see why I've been in therapy since age 19?) This applied to anything religious as well. I remember asking at age 8, "Mom how do you know the bible is right? Wasn't it written by men, not God?" ...Her response? "You're going to hell!"
My mother's inappropriate use of Jesus resulted in me trying to be perfect until college. Then I said, "fuck it." The fear had not entirely worn off, but since I could not live up to the impossible expectations, I stopped trying. Unfortunately, Mom's behavior has not changed, because I heard her tell my three year old neice (who was running around the house naked asking, "Where's my mom? Where's mom?") that if she didn't put some clothes on, her mother was going to leave her and never come back. Zero to 60. No filter. No thought as to the affect of her words on little hearts and minds.
As I learned in therapy, my mother's behavior won't change. I can only change my reaction to it. After close to 40 years, I think I finally get this. As a result, this Christmas I bought my mother a track suit and some Nikes - so that she can take advantage of the next opportunity to join a cult. And for myself? This will be the last family Christmas for me. Next year -- some Mexican resort...a 23 year old...English optional.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
San Diego, I Salute You
San Diego is a weird little place. I'm not talking mere differences from the east coast, but things that make yah go hhhmmmm....did not expect that. The main thing that still freaks me out is all the white people. Nothing wrong with white people; I am one. I just never saw so many in one place. ... Going to the Gap, treating their pets like children, attending farmer's markets in droves.... Washington DC is a little more diverse. And living this close to Mexico, I did expect to see Mexicans.... I've seen two. I'm not even kidding - two Tijuana license plates since moving here. I've since learned that upon entering the US, Mexicans go to LA because it is larger and diverse (a.k.a. ...not so many white people). No one speaks Spanish here - not the way Spanish is required in South Florida (try ordering coffee in English in Miami...I dare you). I've seen a handful of African Americans. Apparently they live in LA as well. ....I mention the homogeneous factor, merely because it's completely. freaking. me. out.
I've previously mentioned that every female dresses like Charo (cuchi, cuchi!), but in addition to physical looks, everyone is also very brand conscious. I went on a friend-date recently and the woman actually asked me what brands I wore. I didn't even know any so that I could feebly attempt to appear cool in front of her. (Is Old Navy a brand?) Clothing, cars, implants...you name it, you will be judged on it.
But despite it all, I truly could not be happier. It's always sunny. It's always in the 70s. People are nice (unless they're in their cars. Then all bets are off.) Every time I drive past Miramar, Danger Zone begins to play in my head. I eat fish tacos at least three times a week. I can surf, hike, mountain bike or doing nothing at all - because, hey! tomorrow will be sunny as well. And, yes, Anchorman is a lot more accurate than I care to admit (there is a cat fashion show this week), but I realize that I'm not caring all that much. Few people read The Economist or listen to NPR, and no one is discussing who they work for or the best way to solve the national debt crisis. This was a fear I had before I moved - a lack of smart people discussing worthwhile issues. Now I see why...it's hard to focus on the serious when the beautiful (mountains, oceans and otherwise) is right in front of you. In DC, not too many beautiful days came my way, so I sat on a couch with a bottle (not a glass) of wine and debated what I could change -- because the weather I could not. Now that the weather has granted me my every desire, what do I care if we solve the national debt crisis? ...Because there is an entire ocean in front of me with the potential of fish tacos.
I've previously mentioned that every female dresses like Charo (cuchi, cuchi!), but in addition to physical looks, everyone is also very brand conscious. I went on a friend-date recently and the woman actually asked me what brands I wore. I didn't even know any so that I could feebly attempt to appear cool in front of her. (Is Old Navy a brand?) Clothing, cars, implants...you name it, you will be judged on it.
But despite it all, I truly could not be happier. It's always sunny. It's always in the 70s. People are nice (unless they're in their cars. Then all bets are off.) Every time I drive past Miramar, Danger Zone begins to play in my head. I eat fish tacos at least three times a week. I can surf, hike, mountain bike or doing nothing at all - because, hey! tomorrow will be sunny as well. And, yes, Anchorman is a lot more accurate than I care to admit (there is a cat fashion show this week), but I realize that I'm not caring all that much. Few people read The Economist or listen to NPR, and no one is discussing who they work for or the best way to solve the national debt crisis. This was a fear I had before I moved - a lack of smart people discussing worthwhile issues. Now I see why...it's hard to focus on the serious when the beautiful (mountains, oceans and otherwise) is right in front of you. In DC, not too many beautiful days came my way, so I sat on a couch with a bottle (not a glass) of wine and debated what I could change -- because the weather I could not. Now that the weather has granted me my every desire, what do I care if we solve the national debt crisis? ...Because there is an entire ocean in front of me with the potential of fish tacos.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Strippers
I am a woman who believes in tangents. It's very easy for me to go completely OCD on the most random of subjects -- ancient Rome, Ann Boleyn, the Food Network, Glee -- but this time it has taken the form of ... (wait for it) Strippers. Over Thanksgiving, I went to a strip club for the first time ever. I was absolutely fascinated. And as my friend Amber stated, "It's comforting to know that a flat chest and a pooch can feed a family of four."
But here's where my real enthrallment lies: these women are not the most attractive I've ever seen. In fact, the ugliest person in San Diego is still more attractive than these women (please refer to my September 2010 entry on being hot). And not all of them can dance very well (please note that I was on my college dance team (Division 1, thank you very much) and therefore am in a position to judge. And even if I wasn't, we all know damn well that I will). Nevertheless, men pay them...and they can't touch them...and they can't fuck them. ...so -- what am I missing here?
This whole exercise in stripper-dom does not seem to have a purpose. Because if a man is interested in sex without a willing partner, why not just pay for a hooker? (And then you get a tv show on CNN. It's totally win, win.) Cut to the chase, people. Why sit around in a darkish room to watch naked women, especially when people like me walk in with the sole purpose of mocking you. Ever heard of pay-per-view? Skin-a-max? Why do you need to join other gawkers? And what's this back room thing about anyways? Does she jerk you off back there or something? That would make more sense to me, because again -- you can't fuck her. You can't even touch her. And yet you pay extra for this....
I have become so engrossed in this stripper issue that I begun pole dancing classes - and if this writing gig does not work out, it might be my Plan B. From the stripper's point of view I totally get it -- and respect it even. I exercise, some jack-ass gawks at me (which already happens at the gym), I have to be nice to him (this is the part I'm not sure I can do), he gives me money, and I pay the mortgage. But for him?
I understand men are more visual, but aren't they also less emotional and more practical? So again, I raise the hooker alternative. ...I blame the Puritans for this enigma. And your mother. As a society we are so oppressed about sex that we can't talk about our desires with a real partner ... so we go watch naked women that we know we can't have?
But here's where my real enthrallment lies: these women are not the most attractive I've ever seen. In fact, the ugliest person in San Diego is still more attractive than these women (please refer to my September 2010 entry on being hot). And not all of them can dance very well (please note that I was on my college dance team (Division 1, thank you very much) and therefore am in a position to judge. And even if I wasn't, we all know damn well that I will). Nevertheless, men pay them...and they can't touch them...and they can't fuck them. ...so -- what am I missing here?
This whole exercise in stripper-dom does not seem to have a purpose. Because if a man is interested in sex without a willing partner, why not just pay for a hooker? (And then you get a tv show on CNN. It's totally win, win.) Cut to the chase, people. Why sit around in a darkish room to watch naked women, especially when people like me walk in with the sole purpose of mocking you. Ever heard of pay-per-view? Skin-a-max? Why do you need to join other gawkers? And what's this back room thing about anyways? Does she jerk you off back there or something? That would make more sense to me, because again -- you can't fuck her. You can't even touch her. And yet you pay extra for this....
I have become so engrossed in this stripper issue that I begun pole dancing classes - and if this writing gig does not work out, it might be my Plan B. From the stripper's point of view I totally get it -- and respect it even. I exercise, some jack-ass gawks at me (which already happens at the gym), I have to be nice to him (this is the part I'm not sure I can do), he gives me money, and I pay the mortgage. But for him?
I understand men are more visual, but aren't they also less emotional and more practical? So again, I raise the hooker alternative. ...I blame the Puritans for this enigma. And your mother. As a society we are so oppressed about sex that we can't talk about our desires with a real partner ... so we go watch naked women that we know we can't have?
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Gilligan Island's Affect
When I was a little girl, Gilligan's Island was my FAVORITE show. I loved the tropical island setting and thought that if I broke the screen of the tv, I could jump inside and join the island cast. The show was soooo funny! For hours, I would watch sexy Ginger use her magic powers to make men on the island bend to her will; I'd watch the Professor create brilliant inventions to provide creature-comforts to the castaways; and I'd laugh hysterically at the witty banter between Gilligan and the Skipper.
When I grew up and discovered the show again, I sat in shock...the witty show of my childhood...fucking blew. Like, really blew. I could not believe that this love (LOVE) from my childhood was the same as the campy, sad performance before me. It was a tragic disappointment that has stuck with me my entire adult life. Yes, I realize how pathedic this sounds, and I own it. ...disappointment unequalled ... my entire adult life.
Whenever I rediscovered childhood loves that do not live up to my adult expectations, I refer to them as The Gilligan Island's Affect. Sadly, the Affect has reoccurred, but this time with a friend I loved and admired. Many years ago, yours truly was a broken-hearted twenty-something recovering from a break-up with her college boyfriend. I met the sweetest boy I'd ever known. Of course, because I was still in love with college-guy, I could not do anything but be a complete bitch (that's always my default standard). I was not as kind as I wanted to be. He would call; I would ignore. He'd call again...and I never called him back. I felt horrible but justified the situation as a blimp...a mere crush sweet-boy had on me and I would never see him again.
Years later, sweet-boy found me and we reconnected. And I immediately wanted to (and did) fuck his brains out. But quite surprisingly we really connected. My affection for him and attraction to him was wratched up several knotches -- like, 700 notches. I unexpectedly fell for him. I knew it would never work. For as much as we had in common, we had double the differences (and it would never --never, ever, ever, ever -- have worked). But as previously discussed, emotions and common sense are two distinct, unequal entities in my brain, and the emotions overrode the common sense portion. He moved on with someone else. And when that happened, nasty things were said by both parties; we were childish and we did not speak.
More years later, we both realized that we were being stupid. We had dinner recently, and as he kept talking all I could think to myself was, "I can't believe I ever fucked his guy." Let alone fell for him. The evening was awkward . I attempted to clear the air and bring up our disconnect, but he became defensive and would not take responsibility for his part. My attempt to clear the air was promptly thrown back in my face.
It is such a shock to discover that once upon a time I actually fell for...Gilligan himself. I was not only disappointed in the the person (or lack there of) he had become (...up close and personal view of the fact that aging and maturing are two distinct and different things) but the fact that I had put him on a pedestal all these years as super-fantastic-sweetest-boy-in-the-world. I had dreamed of him. I had fantasized about him. I wasted hours thinking about him. I threw away relationships comparing other men to him. And he's a silly moron on an island that wears the same outfit every day.
And although I wish I could get a refund on all the wasted time and effort ...instead, I'll simply take comfort that I now know better than to break the tv and jump inside.
When I grew up and discovered the show again, I sat in shock...the witty show of my childhood...fucking blew. Like, really blew. I could not believe that this love (LOVE) from my childhood was the same as the campy, sad performance before me. It was a tragic disappointment that has stuck with me my entire adult life. Yes, I realize how pathedic this sounds, and I own it. ...disappointment unequalled ... my entire adult life.
Whenever I rediscovered childhood loves that do not live up to my adult expectations, I refer to them as The Gilligan Island's Affect. Sadly, the Affect has reoccurred, but this time with a friend I loved and admired. Many years ago, yours truly was a broken-hearted twenty-something recovering from a break-up with her college boyfriend. I met the sweetest boy I'd ever known. Of course, because I was still in love with college-guy, I could not do anything but be a complete bitch (that's always my default standard). I was not as kind as I wanted to be. He would call; I would ignore. He'd call again...and I never called him back. I felt horrible but justified the situation as a blimp...a mere crush sweet-boy had on me and I would never see him again.
Years later, sweet-boy found me and we reconnected. And I immediately wanted to (and did) fuck his brains out. But quite surprisingly we really connected. My affection for him and attraction to him was wratched up several knotches -- like, 700 notches. I unexpectedly fell for him. I knew it would never work. For as much as we had in common, we had double the differences (and it would never --never, ever, ever, ever -- have worked). But as previously discussed, emotions and common sense are two distinct, unequal entities in my brain, and the emotions overrode the common sense portion. He moved on with someone else. And when that happened, nasty things were said by both parties; we were childish and we did not speak.
More years later, we both realized that we were being stupid. We had dinner recently, and as he kept talking all I could think to myself was, "I can't believe I ever fucked his guy." Let alone fell for him. The evening was awkward . I attempted to clear the air and bring up our disconnect, but he became defensive and would not take responsibility for his part. My attempt to clear the air was promptly thrown back in my face.
It is such a shock to discover that once upon a time I actually fell for...Gilligan himself. I was not only disappointed in the the person (or lack there of) he had become (...up close and personal view of the fact that aging and maturing are two distinct and different things) but the fact that I had put him on a pedestal all these years as super-fantastic-sweetest-boy-in-the-world. I had dreamed of him. I had fantasized about him. I wasted hours thinking about him. I threw away relationships comparing other men to him. And he's a silly moron on an island that wears the same outfit every day.
And although I wish I could get a refund on all the wasted time and effort ...instead, I'll simply take comfort that I now know better than to break the tv and jump inside.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Children Will Listen
This Thanksgiving I had the distinct privilege of watching my two nieces, ages 5 and 3 respectively. Let us all give thanks that I am barren and without children. Because I think my 48 hours with them will cost about $20k with a shrink. Here are the top three incidents that confirmed the girls’ spot in psychotherapy:
First of all, the five year old was sick. Kids are always sick, that’s to be expected. The little germ factory was hard at work so I bought cold medicine. The first dose went down without a problem. That evening when it was time for round 2, Susy told me she did not like it. I was in no position to argue so I went straight to Plan B. “Well, you’ve got to do it like a shot.” This received a puzzled look (as it should since she’s five), so I attempted to clarify: “Let’s do it like a grown up – go get your juice.” And I then demonstrated how to down a shot of Benadryl with an apple juice chaser. She followed and then it was bedtime. As I returned to the living room, I wondered if this was the first step to her future as an alcoholic.
The next day Elizabeth, the baby, wanted to play princess and had lots of questions about royalty (naturally I am the family authority on the subject). “Are all fairies queens?” she asked. Ignoring my respective audience, I responded, “No baby, but all queens are fairies. We’ll go to Hillcrest when you come visit and I will show you.” Hillcrest as you may already know is the gay neighborhood in San Diego; and as you’ve probably also ascertained, this response did not answer the question of a three-year old. …but I couldn’t help it…I was a theatre major…
Before leaving for the airport this morning, the crazy basset hound (named Penny. And Penny, if you’re reading this…I hate you.) that my sister thought was “too cute” when she joined the family (not bitter) began barking AGAIN. It barked all weekend – at dinner, when we tried to watch The Wonder Pets, when I wanted to sleep…. And since I have the patience of a Nazi solider, the dog and I had “words” previously over the weekend. As I started to leave, she went nuts. “PENNY!” I snapped. And - on cue - the five year old yelled, “SHUT THE HELL UP!” I turned with a startled looked on my face which she (of course) read. “Is that right? Shut the hell up?” she asked.
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