MIA

So...ambitious little me....

I have not been blogging lately...because I am trying to write a book.  I'm on Chapter 3.  I've been on Chapter 3 for four months.  I hate Chapter 3.  I took a week off work in the hopes of leaving Chapter 3 behind forever.  And yet, here I am -- on vacation -- procrastinating because I can't write Chapter 3.

What's my point?  Don't waste money on a working vacation.  Kidding -- no, that's not my point.  Drudging up the past is painful.  Reliving painful events on purpose sucks.  Why do it then?  Well, my goal (and granted - it's likely naive) is to tell my story in the hope that someone else will see themselves in it, and think, "Wow, what I did wasn't half that stupid.  ...I so got this."

So...anybody else out there ever have writer's block?  Because I'd love to come home to San Diego saying, "I so got this."

The Salad of Liberal Elitism

Tonight I was asked the most generic, uninspiring question:  what do you do for fun?  What a stupid question.  I feel as though  I am required to list athletic accomplishments, do-gooder volunteer tasks, or creative endeavors.  And I could.  But it's not necessarily fun.  If I'm surfing or training for a race, it's typically because it's a challenge.  I like a challenge.  Volunteering is important to my soul, but fun?  Not always.  And I write, which again, is mentally challenging...but the feedback is more fun than the endeavor itself.

The honest answer is: "I drink wine and judge others."  ...I am a Democrat.  (And we all know by now that I hate people.)  So yeah...that's my answer.  But it's an election year, so in the spirit of volunteerism, health, and creativity (and by "creative" I mean "smart-ass"), I wanted to share my recipe for the Salad of Liberal Elitism. 

The idea started last election cycle.  (But I didn't have a blog then.)  Let's jump right in.  First ingredient is arugula.  During the 2008 campaign, Obama made a remark regarding the price of arugula and FOX News jumped on the fact that Obama must shop exclusively at Whole Foods and therefore could not understand what the typical family experiences during an economic downturn.  Of course that's an extremely logical conclusion (it's not), and hence, the #1 ingredient is arugula.  Also...it's a salad.

The second ingredient is goat cheese.  This also sounds snotty because it comes from a mammal other than a cow.  Plus, I like it.

Next up, lemon vinaigrette, which is made of lemons, extra virgin olive oil and sea salt.  All of these ingredients come from Italy, which as we all know is associated with socialism because of Mussolini.  Lemons are used frequently throughout Italian cooking -- just ask Giada.  Olive trees are prominent in Italy.  And if I correctly remember the flocks of men following American women home during my study-abroad, virgins are also prominent in Italy.  Sea salt...of course liberals live on the coasts.  In Europe, but also stateside:  New York, Massachusetts, New Jersey, California, Washington, Oregon...go blue. (Landlocked states are red...to symbolize...beef, I guess.) 

And finally -- beets.  Which come from Russia.  Which is full of communists. 

Accompany with an Oregon pinot and there you have it.  (And note: all these foods are heart-healthy, because I don't plan on using Obamacare.)

White Trash Problems

I've been working with a life coach for about six months now.  It's a lot like therapy, but rather than just bitching, we actually try to change things.  Of course, in the midst of trying to make things better, you have to dig through your personal garbage and address what is not working.  If you've been to a therapist (and if you're reading this blog, I'm gonna assume that you have (and if not, you should probably go)), you know it's exhausting.  Lots of tears, stops and starts, shame spirals...you name it.  Parts of it are dark.  Super ugly, shameful... nasty dark.

The upside to discovering these dark parts -- that you much, much (much!) rather keep hidden away -- is that you realize what motivates your actions (rather than pondering, "why the hell would I do that?" ...which I do...particularly when alcohol is involved).  In fact, the "dark digging" has literally taken on a persona of its own -- and it struck a cord with me because I have so desperately tried to disassociate with this title... (wait for it)... the White Trash Orphan. 

As a grown-up, all I have tried to cultivate in my world involves sophistication. Some days I'm successful.  ...some days I'm not (lazy enough to go to leave the house in overalls -- or even better, socks and flip-flops --  equals "not"...  those are the days I pray Stacy and Clinton don't catch me).  But the "white trash" struck a deep, deep cord because it is definitely something I pretend I don't identify with -- and try to run from at all costs.  ...but it's there ... it's soooo there.  My mother's family is from Mississippi (yup) and my father is from Toledo -- so out of the gate, I definitely relate to white-trash.  In my baby-book, I learned that my first birthday was spent going to car races with someone named Emma Mae (and she's not even on the Mississippi side).  I've always run from this persona.  Even as a child I would explain that I was not actually from Indiana, but rather was born in Chicago.  But when I left for DC and a prestigious political internship, my roots and lack of sophistication were obvious.  I felt nothing but inadequate.  My JC Penney's wardrobe and my humble ignorance about politics, big cities, and summers in the Hamptons, did not a sophisticated grown-up make. 

I don't understand why we do this, but like most people, I have always looked at my own inadequacies rather than my strengths.  (Why do we do this?  As Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman, "it's easier to believe the bad stuff.")  I realized in the recent self-discovery process that I have a desperate, fearful, shameful persona inside of me that forever fears she is not enough (which maybe I should have explored a little more last summer during my divorce, but hell -- I'm a little slow on the uptake).  Then again...the other side of me -- the side I've tried to cultivate -- loves the theatre (I even majored in theatre), is drawn to uppity New Englanders (how I do enjoy the phrase, "We're staying with my husband's family in Brookline," or, better yet --  "at my boss's home on the Cape") and grew up to be a Democrat despite being raised in Dan Qualye's Congressional District.  (This is a large part of why I believe in past lives...I mean, seriously... how would I beat those odds otherwise?) 

I've forever felt like these pieces of me do not go together -- I sure as hell don't want them to go together.  I run -- flee, sprint -- from the fact that they do, in fact, go together and are able to exist in one person.  But I've realized, too, that one drives the other --who do you think clawed her way into that prestigious political internship and sent me to law school?  Not the uppity New Englander.  Yup...the insecure, white-trash girl desperately trying to prove that she could be so much more.

None of us are one-dimensional.  (...actually, let me take that back, because I'm in Southern California.)  I'm not one dimensional.  I can be a saint one day and a mean, mean selfish bitch the next.  Do I like that dark, bad side?  No.  I hate her.  She's gotten me in a lot of trouble and cost me much. But what I have learned is that one aspect of myself cannot exist without an opposite.  Where there's light there is dark.  Where there's good there is evil.  Where there is fear there is hope. And where there is an insecure, ashamed white trash hick from rural Indiana, there is a uppity, controlling New England ice queen waiting in the wings.  ...hopefully, most days...I meet somewhere in the middle. 

I'm human.  I'm three dimensional.  And I'm learning that in order to love myself, I have to love all of me -- failures, flaws, inadequacies, shame-spirals, alcoholic rampages -- the bad stuff, too.  Belief me, it's a tall order.  Some days I think I might fail at this task.  But I know deep down that the cliche is true -- you've got to love the one you're with.  And for me... well, I'm not goin' anywhere.

Ask Emily

So here's a question for which I cannot find an answer.  In California when we talk about the 99 percent, we're referring to boob jobs.  It's as common as driving -- everybody does it.  But a novel question arose this weekend from a girlfriend: do you tell a imminent sexual  partner that your jugs aren't real?  Would they know?  ...what's the protocol here?

Shockingly, Google had no answer to this question.  So I posed it to friends at dinner the other night (it's quite unfortunate that we were seated by a family of four, but these things happen...) and there was not a strong consensus either way.  ...he'd probably figure it out, but maybe not, and it was probably unnecessary to tell him ahead of time.   But there was a strong assumption by one particular member of the dinner table as to the motivations of a female who would elect such a surgery --  and whether it was motivated by insecurity or a real sense of self improvement.  According to my buddy (and I use that term loosely) this elective surgery constituted false advertising and pointed to a deeper character flaw: dishonesty.

I found this conclusion a little hypocritical -- I mean, we're talking about boob jobs here.  Who among us hasn't had a feature we wanted to change?  In fact, show me someone who has never had a self-critical thought and I'll show you a narcissist (hence the word "buddy" used loosely).  And maybe I'm a bit sensitive on this topic.  Full disclosure, I am not well-endowed and I still remember quite vividly being berated by mean, mean girls in junior high.  It certainly didn't help my self-esteem at a pivotal time.  And unlike other physical traits with which I am uncontent (my arms, my abs, etc.), my breast size I cannot change through sheer discipline and hard work (believe me - I've tried).  More than that, it's a physical trait directly associated with femininity.  ...so tied to our identity as women...we have no control over the trait...is it any wonder we're talking 99 percent here?

I wished we lived in a utopia where going under the knife to raise our self esteem wasn't a part of the equation, but it is.  And like men in skinny jeans, most of us have grown to accept it in recent times.  I'd love to be all deep and go off on a tangent regarding feminist theory, but I can't: I suffer the same insecurities we all do.  I'm not about to single-handedly change society's definition of beauty, but I do have the power to change my appearance in a variety of ways: make-up, exercise, clothing, botox, boob jobs...all tools in the arsenal of feminine splendor.  I guess what I would like to change (especially as my face begins to collapse like a dying star) is the fact that to a variety of people, my beauty is the most important contribution I bring to society. 

Don't get me wrong -- I like being a girl.  But in the most simple of terms, I do believe it's harder to be a girl than to be a boy.  ...I'm not sure I'd wish it on anybody.  And at the end of the day, I'm going to plant myself firmly in the Ann Boleyn camp and pray that if I ever do give birth, it's to a son.

Moneyball

My friend Greg has the greatest concept of the afterlife.  There's no heaven or hell; there's a barbecue.  When we die, we hang out on someone's deck and exchange stories about our latest adventures -- recounting the beautiful, the stupid and the crazy about our most recent life.  A series of doors surrounds the perimeter.  Friends consistently come and go, more stories are recounted and hilarity ensues.  Those of us present can view, comment, and sometimes even weigh-in on different situations through a series of big screen televisions. "Dude, did you see what Mike just did?!  ...what a jack-ass!"

So imagine the  predicament in which I found myself  last week when one of my asshole buddies opened my proverbial door, screamed "Catch!" and threw me this moneyball:  (...because I know shit like this is not merely happenstance.)  Scene--  my latest and greatest romantic interest had disappeared.  The disappearance coincided with some pretty suspect timing and once again I was left pondering the question, "Why do 40 year olds act like 19 year olds?"  I deleted his number from my phone and started forward.  A month passed.

Last week as I was running from account to account, I looked down to see that I had a "missed call" from Moneyball out of the blue (yes, I memorized his number...and his birthday too).  This shocks me, but due to the fact that the light I was at turned green, I could do nothing more than process until I arrived at my next destination.  By that point, I had a text.  The first line read, "I saw you called..."  ...no, I didn't call you, bitch.  I'm a Leo, I have a lot of pride, and I would NEVER call you....  So I checked my phone...and to my horror confirmed that yes, I had indeed dialed his number about an hour and a half earlier.  ...Apparently, while debating the merits of the song "Moondance" with a friend from Chicago via text, I had somehow left my phone unlocked, chucked it in my purse and -- on it's own -- it located a number from approximately a month earlier and decided to call it.  ..."Catch!"  ...of all the gin joints in all the mother-fucking world....

A lot had to align correctly for that remote possibility to become reality.  I learned from all my years watching Oprah, that when the universe gives you a sign -- a tap, if you will -- you should listen.  Because the next sign will be a shove.  And then a brick to the head.  And then a brick wall falling down on you.  And it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that my" brick wall" could come in the form of me being drunk in a public place months from now, still angry, screaming at him about what an asshole he was in front of important clients, and then vomiting on his shoes.  So I returned the phone call. 

I was hoping for closure, but I didn't really get it.  Instead, a couple of cutting comments were placed upon me and I quickly ended the scenario.  Once I hung up, I received a follow up text further explaining some suspect behavior.  Again, information not particularly helpful to me.  It took a few days to process, but after a while it occurred to me that the phone call ...had nothing to do with me.  He needed an outlet and I happened to be there.  I was a stand-in -- the lighting tech who is called onstage so that the main actor can run the scene until his co-star arrives.  The light tech stands there, out of her element, very ready to leave...but she's a team player and realizes this is what the eccentric actor needs in the moment.  So for the greater good, she takes one for the team.   ...it's part of her contract.

As a lawyer, I've studied contracts (and not to brag, but I even got an "A" in the class). I understand that the pay-off may sometimes be greater for one party than another.  I understand that the value of the agreement may not be readily apparent to some.  But overall,  I do believe in the bargaining process.  And in the game of life, I believe in soul contracts: agreements made long before I decided to arrive on the planet about what I would contribute to my fellow players.  For some, I've agreed to be a bitch.  For others, a doormat.  And sometimes, merely the lighting technician.  This is fine, because part of this contract includes other's contributions to my own development.  It might not pay off right away -- maybe not this decade. Maybe not even this lifetime. Hell, it might not involve those associated with the originally agreement - "If you just do this for John, the next round is on me."  Some people call this karma.  Some people think it's sacrilegious.  And some think it's crazy.  But I know for myself, I can stomach this reality a lot more than sitting with the fact that I chose to devote much time and attention to someone who turned out to be very selfish. 

A final thought to my friend at the barbecue -- when I get back, I am sooo gonna kick your ass.

Rush to Judgment

When I was 25, I was diagnosed with Adenomyosis.  Never heard of it?  Neither had I.  All I did know was that when my period came every month, I was in extreme pain.  So extreme that I literally could not walk.  I could not move.  Breathing was even difficult.  Each month I took enough pain killers to tranquilize a horse - but to no avail.  I remember one particularly bad episode in which my work cube-mate told me I should go home because my breathing was so strained and I was in such obvious pain.  Unfortunately, the pain was so bad that I could not drive.  And let me just say -- I own an epilady.  I know pain.  I can handle pain -- even in the extreme.  But I could not handle this.  So I curled myself into a fetal position  until the end of the day when another co-worker was able to drive me home.

After a laparoscopy and a diagnosis, I thought I would be able to receive treatment, control the pain - end scene.  Do you know what my doctor told me was the "standard treatment" for alleviating pain associated with Adenomyosis?  A hysterectomy.  Really.  At 25.  (And you thought we invested too much in women's health...that's precious.)  Second choice?  To take monthly birth control pills.  Ah-ha! -- see why I took the time to share my most private health concerns that are actually none of your goddamn business?

To anyone ignorant enough to judge another and call her a slut or prostitute without walking a mile in her shoes, a couple of things: 1) when experts (and by "experts" I mean doctors, not politicians and their pundits) state that birth control is part of a comprehensive health care plan for women, this would be an example of what they mean.  As would ovarian cysts of which Sandra Fluke spoke; 2) rather than judge me, I would welcome you to experience the pain I endured prior to taking monthly birth control.  To do so, simply stab yourself in the lower abdominal region and then go about your daily life -- drive, work, breathe, go to lunch with your boss...and come back and call me a slut to my face.

I'll be happy to twist that knife for you.

My Favorite Restaurant

Pinkberry is following ME on twitter...how cool am I?

The Home Depot

As much as I complain about my dating life and threaten to switch teams, in all honesty, I would make a horrible lesbian.  I hate ugly shoes.  I don't believe in polo shirts.  ...not to mention the fact that I have sex with men.  But in addition to these precursors, I consistently fail at the Home Depot.   "How does one fail at the Home Depot?" you may ask.  Allow me to enlighten you...

As previously noted, I am a smart woman, but I'm also lazy and prefer to stick to tasks at which I excel.  Home repair, as turns out, is not one of them.  But when one buys a house by herself, she will inevitably have to learn some new tricks.  And for many of these tricks, hardware stores are required.  For many months, I have found myself wondering aimlessly through aisle upon aisle, unable to locate anything.  I resemble a blindfolded kidnap victim dropped in the woods.  And if I do (with a lot of luck) locate the department I need, I am too stupid to understand what I need ("um...like a thing...so that my TV cords don't look messy...I don't know -- to like, hide them.") or how much of a product I need ("I think it's, like...as long as the closet.  ...Is that important?").   As you may know, there are always more than two products of any one item at a Home Depot...it's more like two thousand.  Last weekend, this resulted in me meandering through the light fixtures for three hours unable to reach a consensus... multiple Trudy Chase voices in my head becoming angrier and louder as I turned the corner and more choices were presented to me.  ...this would never have happened if I went to pick up a pair of (non-ugly) shoes. 

The dread I feel for Home Depot is not new.  It began when the now-ex and I purchased our first home, and about a month later chose to celebrate the discovery and mass genocide of the American Indian (also know as Columbus Day) with a trip to Home Depot.  Unfortunately we were not the only ones with that idea, as the store was overflowing with federal government employees who also had the day off.  In DC, any outing to a warehouse-type store on a holiday weekend is much like the Titanic: chaotic, crazy, crowded...and there's a very good chance you're not going to make it.

Before I go further, allow me to first explain that I have a problem with crowds.  And by "problem," I specifically mean "panic attacks."  ...like full-blown P.T.S.D. style.  This first began when the ex and I went to Australia for my post-bar examination trip, and a group of Japanese tourists descended on us without warning.  We were the only ones in line waiting to board a boat to take us on a chartered tour of the Great Barrier Reef, when a throng appeared out of nowhere.  Despite amble space on the platform, the group engulfed us like a flock of locusts.  (...I mean, for fuck's sake... there's an ENTIRE platform!)   And although I do try to be tolerant and open minded about the vastly different concept of personal space within other cultures, "claustrophobic in crowds" remains in full effect on the "Crazy Shit to Tolerate with This Chic" list.

So...The Home Depot.

There was an end of summer clearance sale on outdoor patio furniture.  We wanted to get a table set advertised, plus a few other things. We decided to divide and conquer.  I was tasked with the patio furniture and the husband went to kill the other items on the list  And for the record - he excels at killing tasks.

I made my way to the outdoor garden area and quickly found the bench and table we wanted, but I could not locate the four matching chairs.  I paused for a moment, because I knew the rest of the day was about to get ugly.  Fact #1: In DC (and the surrounding low lands), customer service is a complete oxymoron.  A cashier at Costco would sooner cut you than serve you, and the Home Depot was no different.  But after some diligent searching, I finally tracked down a Depot employee.  "Excuse me, where would I find these chairs?" I asked while pointing to the sales flyer.

Now while we pause for the answer, let me explain Fact #2: The sales force of the Greater DC Metropolitan Area consists of three types of employees: 1) the idiot.  This one's self-explanatory: clueless, incompetent...your basic nightmare; 2) the New Yorker. The New Yorker is rude, finds you incompetent, and is thoroughly disgusted that you wasted his time asking a question to which you should have already known the answer.  ...and did I mention condescending?  Because he's condescending too; and  3) the starer. The starer will - in a single glance - ask, "How is this my problem?" without saying a word.  She does not want you to bother her...and your question is bothering her.

I found the New Yorker.  Like a seventh grader, the New Yorker rolled his eyes as if to say "duh" and responded,   "It should be on the floor."  ...no, it's not on the floor.  Why would I ask where it was if I could plainly see it?  ...oh right...because I'm clearly stupid.  But I suppress my inner monologue and we walked over  to confirm, that the chairs  I needed were clearly not on the floor.  NY then stated, "It must still be in seasonal."  Naturally.  "Where is seasonal?" I ask in my most "I'd like to cut you, too" tone.   Can you guess this?  Yeah -- the front and opposite corner of the store.  I dart, dash, shimmy, and contort my way through the masses of people to the seasonal section.  After an additional 35 minutes stalking a seasonal sales associate -- who confirmed that the chairs would definitely be in the outdoor patio furniture section -- I once again made my way across the store.  At this point, my cell phone starts ringing, as the husband has already killed his said tasks and assumes the same of me.  ...Au contraire mon ami...au contraire....

I arrived back at outdoor patio.  I'm annoyed at this point.  I find the New Yorker.  He's clearly annoyed to see me, too.  At that same moment the husband joins us.  And since his tasks were already killed,  he's also (you guessed it) annoyed.  So there we were in this ridiculous circle, all fucking annoyed.  I'd done this song and dance with a service (or lack there of) provider one too many times.  And this time, I just snapped.  My instinct was to have a panic attack and sit down shaking on the overly crowded floor in patio garden.  But instead (much to my surprise) out of my mouth came quietly but firmly, "This needs to go away."

"Excuse me?" asked the New Yorker with the same hostility as if I just announced to Derek Jeter that I was a Red Sox fan.

"Let me say this once: I'm claustrophobic and you just sent me from one end of the store to another as though I'm Hemingway running with the bulls.  I need these chairs.  I don't have lots of money to buy something nice.  I just bought a house. I'll be eating ramon noodles until Christmas.  I want to buy these chairs and get out of this store."

"--ma'am, if the chairs aren't in seasonal --"

"MAKE IT GO AWAY!  I don't think you understand the magnitude of the situation.  Either get me these chairs, or I will have a full-on  panic attack -- Rain-man style -- IN YOUR PATIO SECTION!"

A pause.

"Let me see what I can do."

My husband was quite stunned at the episode of lashing anger...and probably quite relieved that it wasn't directed at him for once.  He looked at me for a moment, and then said,  "I think you totally asperger-ed that." I cocked my head like a confused little puppy.  "Did you just use 'Asperger' as a verb?"

"I think I did," he said.

"I'm so proud of you," I gushed.  ...can you believe we ever got a divorce?

And yes, by the way -- bad behavior was rewarded...and I did get my chairs.

Ru Paul for President

In honor of the Iowa Caucus, I decided to learn what the fuck a caucus is.  And mainly, how it differs from a primary.  ...so allow me to share my knowledge:

A primary is basically a mini-election.  The polls open early and close late; we go at a convenient time and cast an anonymous ballot and democracy continues as we know it.  A caucus on the other hand is a gathering of people on a specific date and appointed time -- so in other words, it's not particularly convenient to me and likely occurs at the same time as dinner - oh, excuse me, we're in Iowa -- supper.  In addition, what I decide is in no way secret, as I have to raise my hand or gather with my like-minded group in the corner of the gym for all to see -- and judge me at church on Sunday as well.

This new caucus knowledge bothers me more than is reasonable (especially since I've never been to Iowa).  But (despite this blog) I do like my privacy and I don't think it's anybody's business whether I vote for Herman Cain, or Ru Paul or the crazy bitch whose husband converts gay people.  Why can't I just get in, get out, and then share my vote with my smaller inner-click of friends who think like me?  I hate people.  I hate sharing.  And I hate leaving my house in the cold dark night of January.  ...reason #476 I'm grateful to not live in Iowa. (...the first 400 or so reasons go along the lines of 1) people are nice; 2) they speak to each other; 3) they check on their neighbors; 4) they're helpful....  Amateurs....)