Showing posts with label read watch listen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label read watch listen. Show all posts
Four Score--Seasons--or One Year Ago
Since eighth grade, I've kept a diary fairly regularly. After I write down the super-intriguing details of my incredibly exciting existence I often enjoy flipping back to the same day the year before to see what I was up to. Usually, I rediscover how dumb I used to be. Looking back is something I do often, not just in my journal because I like to make myself feel better knowing I'm slightly less idiotic today than I was a year ago, but more due to the occupational hazard that memoir writing depends on my ability to go back to the past and try to make sense of it.
This fall, however, I've been watching the show Flash Forward (by myself, no one else I know tunes in), and I find it fascinating in how the show's main concept reverses my whole "looking back" thing. The basic premise is the world blacks out for a couple minutes, everyone sees where they will be in six months, and some of them freak out because they don't want these futures to come true. And in worrying, the characters change and in effect turn their visions into self-fulfilling prophecies. For example, we see one husband and wife begin to drift apart because of insecurities that develop within their relationship. The wife's vision? She was in bed with another man. Oooh ... drama ...
And, since I attempt to analyze anything and everything with little more than pop-cultural significance, I think it's interesting how the show relates to the principle of manifestation: if you believe you'll do or be something, your thoughts will inevitably influence your actions, putting you on a path toward whatever course your mind has set for you. While I do believe in the power of positive thinking and having a good attitude, catching a specific glimpse of what supposedly will be would totally throw me off. Like, if one year ago someone told me that, today, I would be living by the beach, surrounded by a great group of friends who live either in my apartment (roommate) or mere blocks away, and in love with an amazing guy--who I hadn't even met yet--I'm sure I would've called bullshit. Actually, knowing then that I would be so happy now probably would have terrified me because I'm cool like that.
If I'd been better at regularly journaling one year ago, I would look back to see that, at this time last year, I was supposedly celebrating my anniversary with the ex-boyfriend. I say supposedly because we had been fighting like crazy and deliberating our relationship for weeks--so much so I'd suggested we not make a big deal out of our four-year-milestone. And, had we stayed together, today would have made five. Back then I was so confused about what I wanted--about what I was supposed to want, really--and, frankly, I was miserable. And, true to form, when I look back at who I was 365 days ago, that version of me was sublimely idiotic. (Mainly because I was already infatuated with a new guy and thought embarking on a pseudo-relationship with him would make everything all better. Uh, nope.)
So here's to another lap around the sun, the imminent coming of the year two-thousand-ten. I expect to be much, much cooler by this time next year. (But happier? Not possible.)
The Definition of Crazypants
God or god or evolution or whatever-higher-power gave women three gifts:
1. Childbirth. (Can't wait!)
2. Periods. (Thanks!)
3. Insanity. (Awesome!)
This morning I decided I needed some Whitney Houston in my life as I drove to campus. I'd recently acquired a CD of hers from my grandma's collection and recognized most of the songs--or so I thought. Upon putting on the track "Saving All My Love For You", (a song I'd heard before, at least in part), I was somewhat horrified that this reminiscently awesome love song was really about some asshole married dude. So, in my utter coolness, I found myself talking back at Whitney as she sang. Look at the lyrics:
A few stolen moments is all that we share
You've got your family, and they need you there
Though I've tried to resist, being last on your list
But no other man's gonna do
So I'm saving all my love for you
(Why? I'm not following...)
It's not very easy, living all alone
My friends try and tell me, find a man of my own
But each time I try, I just break down and cry
Cause I'd rather be home feeling blue
So I'm saving all my love for you
(Wait. Okay he's married. And she's still saving all her love for him. This is a bad plan.)
You used to tell me we'd run away together
Love gives you the right to be free
You said be patient, just wait a little longer
But that's just an old fantasy
(Hold up, Whitney. No, no, no. He's not leaving his wife. He's using you. Red. Flag.)
Still, I'm saving all my love for you.
(Noooooooooo. Bad call.)
Someone-really-smart-who's-name-I-can't-remember said something like, "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome." By that distinction, Whitney is freakin' crazypants. But, perhaps we (woman, me) are all crazypants. My roommate Meagan and I were talking about--what else?--boys last Friday, and from that conversation, I came to some conclusions (or temporary musings, I can't think the same thing about anything longer than about ten minutes before deciding it's probably bullshit or me just being overly dramatic--shocker, I know):
First of all, happiness is terrifying. Because you just never know when it's going to end. I'm a little suspicious of happiness, in fact, and feel the need to analyze it. How happy am I? Have I ever been this happy? What kind of happiness is this? Where--exactly--is it coming from?
Second, and I'm pretty sure this is related to the first, I think it's almost natural for us (women, me) to gravitate toward people (men) and situations (relationships) we know won't make us happy. Maybe it's the drama or the challenge we enjoy, or maybe it's that being unhappy is somewhat easier. We know what to expect. We know how to cope. We know exactly how we will feel tomorrow, next week, etc. (Like shit.) There is a certain comfort in dissatisfaction because it's familiar. (Or at least has been for me.) Which is, yes, crazypants.
So maybe Whitney's plight in that song isn't so abnormal. Maybe I kinda get it. Maybe it's easier for her to save all her love for some douche who's cheating on his wife with her and making all sorts of promises he can't keep. Maybe she doesn't really expect him to get divorced and whisk her away. Maybe it would be more terrifying to imagine her life without him, no matter how difficult the situation is, because it's at least predictable.
And, clearly, I am not at all crazy for reading way too into some 90s power-ballad and thinking it may have some kind of deeper meaning.
I Refuse to See this Movie
Driving down Bundy to get on the 10 this afternoon, I saw a billboard for the film Couple's Retreat and contemplated risking my life taking a picture of it with my shitty Blackberry camera phone. The premise of the movie, from what I gathered by half-paying-attention to the preview and from said billboard, is four couples go to an island to rekindle their relationships. Vince Vaughn is in it--playing himself as usual I presume--as well as some other fairly big names (Kristen Bell, Jason Bateman).
I wanted to snap a picture because, well, look at the actors' faces, pained with crinkled foreheads and misery. Take note of the forced hand-holding, the despondently slouched stances. It's like someone in the movie-marketing meeting was like, "Okay I got it--we'll have the actors stand knee-deep in water and look like they want to kill themselves." Or maybe the execs know the movie is terrible, and the posters are supposed to discourage people from going to see it. While they were at it, though, they should have given the film a better title, like Marriage Sucks.
Billboard aside, who wants to watch married people fights for two hours, anyway? Sounds like a blast to re-live similar scenarios we've had with our significant others, only these people are better looking and on a beach. And I really don't need to watch them go to therapy and "work" on their "issues." Whoever came up with this idea should be fired. And then forced to watch the movie on repeat forever.
All I know is, I will not be partaking.
Eternal Analysis of My Striving-to-be-Deep Mind
Here’s how it begins: His text messages give you butterflies. (Or are they chills? It doesn’t matter, does it? Because, whatever they are, you love not just the texts but the rush you get seeing them.) You’re still a bit nervous (excited) while you wait downstairs for him to come out of his building’s elevator. You shave your legs every day—even on days you don’t see him because maybe you might (you hope). Yet, you know he doesn’t care if your legs are stubbly because he tells you there is nothing he doesn’t like about you. You feel so yourself you could go so far to say you've perhaps evolved into the best version of yourself—and don’t forget, you're insanely happy at that—but somehow you can’t imagine being any other way. It's twofold: You can't imagine the relationship being any other way either. You can’t imagine you being another way.
If only there was a way to sustain that beginning-of-a-relationship feeling, the pessimist in me says. You hear of those couples who stay in love seemingly forever, who make-out in front of their kids while washing dishes, slow-dance on their 50th wedding anniversaries. Are we supposed to believe this ideal is possible and risk potential disappointment of its discontinuance, or just blindly enjoy right now?
Okay, confession-time: when I see a deep, artsy movie I think way too hard about it. Especially when it's about people falling in or out of love. Tonight I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time, (yes, I’m a little late on this one), and it sparked my curiosity about the stages of a relationship.
What hit me most about the movie, and I’m assuming many people who’ve seen it might agree, was the part at the end where Clementine and Joel, who think they’ve just met, listen to tapes of each other listing all the things they can’t stand about the other person. The tapes were made as part of the process to have each other erased from their memories when they broke up and each person hears the most horrible opinions the other has about him or her very early, while they're still in that glowy-first-part-of-a-relationship phase. This shakes up what many of us experience as the typical progression of love, presumably for Clem and Joel's benefit. In acknowledging their capacity to hurt and disappoint each other, they can hopefully avoid doing so.
For me, the end of a relationship is often punctuated with a feeling of being trapped, of not knowing who I’d become or who the person I thought I was with had become. Certainly, I didn’t start those relationships annoyed by everything the guy said to me, or wishing I could just be single again. I wasn't a nagger or too tired to have sex, or not even wanting to have sex, or argumentative, or mean. I couldn’t even imagine being those things.
While watching Eternal Sunshine I thought, on the one hand, knowing what will annoy you or piss you off about the person you’re dating could be helpful—get it out of the way, you know? But, on the other, perhaps in not knowing there is still that hope to be that perpetually-happy couple. Of course, there are more than just these two roads (misery or true love) because relationships aren’t so simple. (No matter how happy people are, there are certainly gripes, misunderstandings, and fights eventually right?)
I used to be the type of person who wanted to be prepared for anything. I would explore all the potential outcomes of a relationship just in case it didn’t work out, better to be safe than sorry, might as well protect myself and not get blindsided or hurt or disappointed and all that self-conscious crap. However, I think I rather like the idea of simply imagining--hoping for--happiness. Especially because, right now, I can’t think of a time when I’ve been happier.
If only there was a way to sustain that beginning-of-a-relationship feeling, the pessimist in me says. You hear of those couples who stay in love seemingly forever, who make-out in front of their kids while washing dishes, slow-dance on their 50th wedding anniversaries. Are we supposed to believe this ideal is possible and risk potential disappointment of its discontinuance, or just blindly enjoy right now?
Okay, confession-time: when I see a deep, artsy movie I think way too hard about it. Especially when it's about people falling in or out of love. Tonight I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time, (yes, I’m a little late on this one), and it sparked my curiosity about the stages of a relationship.
What hit me most about the movie, and I’m assuming many people who’ve seen it might agree, was the part at the end where Clementine and Joel, who think they’ve just met, listen to tapes of each other listing all the things they can’t stand about the other person. The tapes were made as part of the process to have each other erased from their memories when they broke up and each person hears the most horrible opinions the other has about him or her very early, while they're still in that glowy-first-part-of-a-relationship phase. This shakes up what many of us experience as the typical progression of love, presumably for Clem and Joel's benefit. In acknowledging their capacity to hurt and disappoint each other, they can hopefully avoid doing so.
For me, the end of a relationship is often punctuated with a feeling of being trapped, of not knowing who I’d become or who the person I thought I was with had become. Certainly, I didn’t start those relationships annoyed by everything the guy said to me, or wishing I could just be single again. I wasn't a nagger or too tired to have sex, or not even wanting to have sex, or argumentative, or mean. I couldn’t even imagine being those things.
While watching Eternal Sunshine I thought, on the one hand, knowing what will annoy you or piss you off about the person you’re dating could be helpful—get it out of the way, you know? But, on the other, perhaps in not knowing there is still that hope to be that perpetually-happy couple. Of course, there are more than just these two roads (misery or true love) because relationships aren’t so simple. (No matter how happy people are, there are certainly gripes, misunderstandings, and fights eventually right?)
I used to be the type of person who wanted to be prepared for anything. I would explore all the potential outcomes of a relationship just in case it didn’t work out, better to be safe than sorry, might as well protect myself and not get blindsided or hurt or disappointed and all that self-conscious crap. However, I think I rather like the idea of simply imagining--hoping for--happiness. Especially because, right now, I can’t think of a time when I’ve been happier.
Maybe it's just me...
...but watching Sex and the City makes me hate men. A little. Not actually hate but strongly dislike. And distrust.
I was watching the episode where Carrie catches Big on a date with another woman (she thought they were dating exclusively...she thought wrong). After that happens, they go to a party together and one of his friends calls Carrie the wrong name--one which belongs to another woman Big's been dating (no, not the one she saw him on a date with, a different one). So she gets all pissed and ends up hanging out with another guy instead and then pathetically calls Big and pretty much begs him to meet her at 3 a.m. in a park.
No one wants to date that guy. And no one wants to be that girl because of him.
Of course, I don't know if Carrie and Big had had "the talk" at that point in the show. For the record, I hate "the talk." I hate wondering when "the talk" might occur. I hate the fact that I am (as the woman) not supposed to initiate "the talk," however the guy typically won't do so unless he is pressed into it, which puts me in a really bad spot because, and I hate this too, "the talk" is necessary for my mental sanity and relationship-self-esteem.
Anyway. Big sucks. I think I must have been the only girl on earth not happy watching the SATC series finale. Aiden was a much, much better choice.
I was watching the episode where Carrie catches Big on a date with another woman (she thought they were dating exclusively...she thought wrong). After that happens, they go to a party together and one of his friends calls Carrie the wrong name--one which belongs to another woman Big's been dating (no, not the one she saw him on a date with, a different one). So she gets all pissed and ends up hanging out with another guy instead and then pathetically calls Big and pretty much begs him to meet her at 3 a.m. in a park.
No one wants to date that guy. And no one wants to be that girl because of him.
Of course, I don't know if Carrie and Big had had "the talk" at that point in the show. For the record, I hate "the talk." I hate wondering when "the talk" might occur. I hate the fact that I am (as the woman) not supposed to initiate "the talk," however the guy typically won't do so unless he is pressed into it, which puts me in a really bad spot because, and I hate this too, "the talk" is necessary for my mental sanity and relationship-self-esteem.
Anyway. Big sucks. I think I must have been the only girl on earth not happy watching the SATC series finale. Aiden was a much, much better choice.
MJ, You're Just Another Part of Me.
It was a sad day in my childhood when the beloved 3-D movie Captain EO was removed from Disneyland. And, yes, I am one of those people turning a blind eye to the allegations against Michael Jackson in the wake of his death.
Anyway. Back to the sad day. I don't know what I loved most about Captain EO...Was it MJ's sweet moves complete with weird little ff-fft noises? His soothing voice? The claymation? Fuzzball? (I did have a stuffed animal of him at one point, and whatever day he was lost was also a sad one I'm sure.)
When I'd get a little tired from spending the day at Disneyland, I imagine, my parents would take me into Tomorrowland and we would get our purple plastic glasses that didn't fit anyone's face. I'd sit in a cushy chair in the dark, anticipating the show. No matter how long the lines were for the rides, or how much I had walked around that day, it was impossible to not dance myself out of the theater's automatic doors as the song "Another Part of Me" resonated through the speakers. Rejuvenated, I could go back out into Disneyland feeling peaceful and exquisitely happy.
Which is probably why I downloaded both "Another Part of Me" and "We Are Here to Change the World" when I was in high school and still have both tracks on my workout playlist on my iPod.
Watching Captain EO again today (an ex-boyfriend scored me the DVD from eBay some years ago) I get that same childhood excitement to watch MJ moonwalk like a champ and save the evil queen from her hideousness. (Somehow, this film is so powerful I am able to ignore how it conforms to the common narrative that strong, ugly women need to be transformed into beautiful, man-adoring ladies. Thus is the power of EO).
This is the way I will remember Michael Jackson--young, cool, without a tainted reputation, and the proud owner of a nose. I wonder if Disneyland will consider bringing EO back for a short run...I will certainly pay the steep $60-something fee just to get to hang with that rag-tag space crew one more time.
Anyway. Back to the sad day. I don't know what I loved most about Captain EO...Was it MJ's sweet moves complete with weird little ff-fft noises? His soothing voice? The claymation? Fuzzball? (I did have a stuffed animal of him at one point, and whatever day he was lost was also a sad one I'm sure.)
When I'd get a little tired from spending the day at Disneyland, I imagine, my parents would take me into Tomorrowland and we would get our purple plastic glasses that didn't fit anyone's face. I'd sit in a cushy chair in the dark, anticipating the show. No matter how long the lines were for the rides, or how much I had walked around that day, it was impossible to not dance myself out of the theater's automatic doors as the song "Another Part of Me" resonated through the speakers. Rejuvenated, I could go back out into Disneyland feeling peaceful and exquisitely happy.
Which is probably why I downloaded both "Another Part of Me" and "We Are Here to Change the World" when I was in high school and still have both tracks on my workout playlist on my iPod.
Watching Captain EO again today (an ex-boyfriend scored me the DVD from eBay some years ago) I get that same childhood excitement to watch MJ moonwalk like a champ and save the evil queen from her hideousness. (Somehow, this film is so powerful I am able to ignore how it conforms to the common narrative that strong, ugly women need to be transformed into beautiful, man-adoring ladies. Thus is the power of EO).
This is the way I will remember Michael Jackson--young, cool, without a tainted reputation, and the proud owner of a nose. I wonder if Disneyland will consider bringing EO back for a short run...I will certainly pay the steep $60-something fee just to get to hang with that rag-tag space crew one more time.
Driving Under the Influence (of Sweet Music)
I absolutely love driving.
You see, a car is not meant for merely getting from one place to another. Especially in L.A. when actually getting from one place to another often proves to be tedious, lengthy, and irritating. So, instead of playing close attention to how horrific traffic is or calculating how late I will be to a given destination, I simply pretend my car is my own private karaoke bar/dance studio. Enjoy the free show, fellow drivers, and prepare to be serenaded.
I do this by first putting at least one window down, as well as the sunroof if the temperature is over 75 degrees. Then, I plug my iPod in (just in case I can't find a good song on the radio and have to rely on my sure-thing stand-bys). Lastly, I pull out my sweet moves and vocal talents (I mean, did you see those karaoke videos?) and just let the magic happen.
But, said magic is only possible with the right music. In no particular order, here are my official Top Ten Best Driving Songs. If they don't get you busting out the white-girl fist maracas, I don't know what will. (Oh, and yes, I do have the best taste in music. Thank you for noticing.)
"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston
"To Live and Die in L.A." by Tupac
"Womanizer" by Britney Spears
"The Way I Am" by Eminem
"Juicy" by Notorious B.I.G
"Disturbia" by Rihanna
"Out Tonight" from the Rent soundtrack
"Love in This Club" by Usher
"Here I Go Again on My Own" by Whitesnake
"Like a Rollin Stone" by Bob Dylan
"M79" by Vampire Weekend
"Man I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain
(Okay, okay, that's twelve. And, actually, I could keep going. But, I won't in the interest of time, space, and fear of being judged for my erratic taste.)
Now, if you hear one of these songs on full blast while you're deadlocked on the 10, take a look around, you just may see me bust a move.
You see, a car is not meant for merely getting from one place to another. Especially in L.A. when actually getting from one place to another often proves to be tedious, lengthy, and irritating. So, instead of playing close attention to how horrific traffic is or calculating how late I will be to a given destination, I simply pretend my car is my own private karaoke bar/dance studio. Enjoy the free show, fellow drivers, and prepare to be serenaded.
I do this by first putting at least one window down, as well as the sunroof if the temperature is over 75 degrees. Then, I plug my iPod in (just in case I can't find a good song on the radio and have to rely on my sure-thing stand-bys). Lastly, I pull out my sweet moves and vocal talents (I mean, did you see those karaoke videos?) and just let the magic happen.
But, said magic is only possible with the right music. In no particular order, here are my official Top Ten Best Driving Songs. If they don't get you busting out the white-girl fist maracas, I don't know what will. (Oh, and yes, I do have the best taste in music. Thank you for noticing.)
"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston
"To Live and Die in L.A." by Tupac
"Womanizer" by Britney Spears
"The Way I Am" by Eminem
"Juicy" by Notorious B.I.G
"Disturbia" by Rihanna
"Out Tonight" from the Rent soundtrack
"Love in This Club" by Usher
"Here I Go Again on My Own" by Whitesnake
"Like a Rollin Stone" by Bob Dylan
"M79" by Vampire Weekend
"Man I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain
(Okay, okay, that's twelve. And, actually, I could keep going. But, I won't in the interest of time, space, and fear of being judged for my erratic taste.)
Now, if you hear one of these songs on full blast while you're deadlocked on the 10, take a look around, you just may see me bust a move.
Whoa. Seriously Guys.
I would just like to proclaim that I, the incomparable Miss Natasha Burton, have been single for an entire month. I have kissed no boys. I have shown no legit interest in a boy. I have not pined for a boy and, while I would say I have not whined over a boy either, that is a lie, because I have. (If you can't be honest with yourself, who can you be honest with? Oh, that's right. Nobody. Ugh...fine. I pined. A little.)
But! I feel very accomplished. And so to celebrate said singleness, I think you should head over to my friend Carrie's blog and read/watch her post commemorating various tributes to Beyonce's "Single Ladies." (I particularly love The Dan Band's version.)
Because, really guys, if you wanted this, then you shoulda put a ring on it. (Now put your hands up...Oh oh oh...oh oh oh..oh...oh oh)
And, yes, I really do get a kick out of myself over here. Besides, you had your turn and now you're gonna learn what it really feels like to miss me... Can't. Stop. The. Singing.
But! I feel very accomplished. And so to celebrate said singleness, I think you should head over to my friend Carrie's blog and read/watch her post commemorating various tributes to Beyonce's "Single Ladies." (I particularly love The Dan Band's version.)
Because, really guys, if you wanted this, then you shoulda put a ring on it. (Now put your hands up...Oh oh oh...oh oh oh..oh...oh oh)
And, yes, I really do get a kick out of myself over here. Besides, you had your turn and now you're gonna learn what it really feels like to miss me... Can't. Stop. The. Singing.
On Relationship Writing
Romance and relationships are often seen as overwritten subjects. Because my thesis has turned from an almost-completely-straight-non-fiction endeavor to memoir, about these two very subjects, I am particularly drawn to how other writers have created universality through introspective voice, prioritizing not their happily-ever-afters (or, in my case, lack-of), but how they’ve made sense of their experiences.
Writers like Sam Dunn inspire female camaraderie in their work by making their subject matter more than just about men, romance, and sex, but what it means to be women, and, ultimately, human. In candidly chronicling their stories, these women give me the courage, and the permission, to write about my own humiliations, pain, and shortcomings. They remind me that women really can emerge from the shadow of men, jump off our pedestals, and burst through that glass ceiling, as well as escape from these reinforced clichés and stereotyped roles that infiltrate much of women’s literature, as well as our lives.
While the world seems over-saturated with silly love stories, it's because, when these stories are well-written, they reveal something important to us about ourselves. Eckhart Tolle, in his book The Power of Now, describes a situation with a psychologist who counseled women recently emancipated from a war-torn country. Instead of discussing the perils of war in their one-on-one sessions, the psychologist reported that most of these women began with something along the lines of, “So, there’s this guy...”
For many of us, there will always be that guy. It’s what we discover from (and of) ourselves as a result of him, and how brave we are on the page in disclosing what we’ve learned that determines the value of the experience, as well as the work that comes from it.
A woman might pick up a book like Sam Dunn’s Faith in Carlos Gomez because she is enticed by the subject matter, but she comes away with a valuable experience that calls upon her to reflect about her own life. As narrator/catalyst for the reader’s personal exploration, Sam Dunn is especially skilled in establishing herself as a layered character we love and care about. In Carlos Gomez, I don’t root for her relationship with a particular man; it’s Dunn’s journey in which I’m invested, and this is what makes the book more than chick-lit. In characterizing herself as endearing, vulnerable, and imperfect, Dunn’s journey somehow feels like my own. To create this intimacy, Dunn establishes herself as character with self-deprecation and humor, and her ability to make fun of herself exudes a charm so infectious I knew her—and loved her—by the fifth page.
By contrast, comedienne Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life, which relies on shocking sex details and laugh-out-loud unexpected humor, is a good read, but does not inspire me to write. Dunn temps me to try my hand at writing my story by showing me how powerful fierce honesty and disclosure can be. Her ability to texurize her story with humiliation, even pain, adds a layer over the superficial gloss humor leaves on the page, which is why Handler entertains but can’t truly connect.
I learned from Dunn (and, in contrast, Handler) that it’s not enough to be funny or to even have a strong voice. Besides, cleverness doesn’t translate on the page if it is not paired with depth—it just becomes self-righteously annoying. In re-reading pages I workshopped last Fall (enduring Janet Fitch’s notes when I passed my pages off as fiction in her class), I see I was in Handler territory. Janet especially did not like the “character” I wrote about—me—saying this girl was superficial, unwilling to get dirty. She was absolutely right. I wrote wryly about the perils of sorority-induced hook-ups, yet, lucky me had my own fairytale ending (a long-term boyfriend), and I was on my way to produce a feel-good, throw-away, chick-lit, beach read. When the semester ended, and the boyfriend became an ex, I drastically changed my tune, for the better. I need to get gritty and uncomfortable. I want to be the type of writer Sam Dunn is, one whose female readers exclaim to themselves as they flip each page that they too have felt or experienced what she had, for better and for worse. I have to stop worrying if people like me or not (as Natasha the writer who sits in class) and commit to creating a character on the page who is real.
In order to do this, I must stop merely skimming the surface of my life in my writing. Sure, embarrassment is great material, but I can plunge deeper into even less inviting waters. I have seen changes in my work as I test my bravery. Not surprisingly, I am told my writing is better the more I recount events that are uncomfortable for me to describe. I know now I must allow vulnerability to seep into my work if I want to live up to the standard set by the women writers I so admire.
As Dunn says in Carlos Gomez, “There is no more soothing balm than female conversation, because, no matter who comes and goes, another women is there to listen, and in this way we talk our way through life.” Writers like Dunn create the type of hushed conversational bond we have with our girlfriends over coffee using the medium of literature, proving that writing about men and relationships needn’t be trivial, glib, or cutesy. In revealing their experiences through the lens of love these writers create a dialogue with their readers about what it means to be women, fostering community beyond the page. These women bravely tell the truth. They get dirty. And as a reader, I love them for it. As a writer, I’m inspired. I picture myself three months ago as my ideal reader—a young woman eager to reach a deeper place but too scared to take the leap. I am continually inspired to, as my teacher Dinah Lenney often says, “do better.”
After all, I already have.
Writers like Sam Dunn inspire female camaraderie in their work by making their subject matter more than just about men, romance, and sex, but what it means to be women, and, ultimately, human. In candidly chronicling their stories, these women give me the courage, and the permission, to write about my own humiliations, pain, and shortcomings. They remind me that women really can emerge from the shadow of men, jump off our pedestals, and burst through that glass ceiling, as well as escape from these reinforced clichés and stereotyped roles that infiltrate much of women’s literature, as well as our lives.
While the world seems over-saturated with silly love stories, it's because, when these stories are well-written, they reveal something important to us about ourselves. Eckhart Tolle, in his book The Power of Now, describes a situation with a psychologist who counseled women recently emancipated from a war-torn country. Instead of discussing the perils of war in their one-on-one sessions, the psychologist reported that most of these women began with something along the lines of, “So, there’s this guy...”
For many of us, there will always be that guy. It’s what we discover from (and of) ourselves as a result of him, and how brave we are on the page in disclosing what we’ve learned that determines the value of the experience, as well as the work that comes from it.
A woman might pick up a book like Sam Dunn’s Faith in Carlos Gomez because she is enticed by the subject matter, but she comes away with a valuable experience that calls upon her to reflect about her own life. As narrator/catalyst for the reader’s personal exploration, Sam Dunn is especially skilled in establishing herself as a layered character we love and care about. In Carlos Gomez, I don’t root for her relationship with a particular man; it’s Dunn’s journey in which I’m invested, and this is what makes the book more than chick-lit. In characterizing herself as endearing, vulnerable, and imperfect, Dunn’s journey somehow feels like my own. To create this intimacy, Dunn establishes herself as character with self-deprecation and humor, and her ability to make fun of herself exudes a charm so infectious I knew her—and loved her—by the fifth page.
By contrast, comedienne Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life, which relies on shocking sex details and laugh-out-loud unexpected humor, is a good read, but does not inspire me to write. Dunn temps me to try my hand at writing my story by showing me how powerful fierce honesty and disclosure can be. Her ability to texurize her story with humiliation, even pain, adds a layer over the superficial gloss humor leaves on the page, which is why Handler entertains but can’t truly connect.
I learned from Dunn (and, in contrast, Handler) that it’s not enough to be funny or to even have a strong voice. Besides, cleverness doesn’t translate on the page if it is not paired with depth—it just becomes self-righteously annoying. In re-reading pages I workshopped last Fall (enduring Janet Fitch’s notes when I passed my pages off as fiction in her class), I see I was in Handler territory. Janet especially did not like the “character” I wrote about—me—saying this girl was superficial, unwilling to get dirty. She was absolutely right. I wrote wryly about the perils of sorority-induced hook-ups, yet, lucky me had my own fairytale ending (a long-term boyfriend), and I was on my way to produce a feel-good, throw-away, chick-lit, beach read. When the semester ended, and the boyfriend became an ex, I drastically changed my tune, for the better. I need to get gritty and uncomfortable. I want to be the type of writer Sam Dunn is, one whose female readers exclaim to themselves as they flip each page that they too have felt or experienced what she had, for better and for worse. I have to stop worrying if people like me or not (as Natasha the writer who sits in class) and commit to creating a character on the page who is real.
In order to do this, I must stop merely skimming the surface of my life in my writing. Sure, embarrassment is great material, but I can plunge deeper into even less inviting waters. I have seen changes in my work as I test my bravery. Not surprisingly, I am told my writing is better the more I recount events that are uncomfortable for me to describe. I know now I must allow vulnerability to seep into my work if I want to live up to the standard set by the women writers I so admire.
As Dunn says in Carlos Gomez, “There is no more soothing balm than female conversation, because, no matter who comes and goes, another women is there to listen, and in this way we talk our way through life.” Writers like Dunn create the type of hushed conversational bond we have with our girlfriends over coffee using the medium of literature, proving that writing about men and relationships needn’t be trivial, glib, or cutesy. In revealing their experiences through the lens of love these writers create a dialogue with their readers about what it means to be women, fostering community beyond the page. These women bravely tell the truth. They get dirty. And as a reader, I love them for it. As a writer, I’m inspired. I picture myself three months ago as my ideal reader—a young woman eager to reach a deeper place but too scared to take the leap. I am continually inspired to, as my teacher Dinah Lenney often says, “do better.”
After all, I already have.
Dear Beyonce...
Just like those dramatic ex-heroine junkie types say, music really gets me through those hard time in life, man. Lately, I've been listening to a great deal of "power music" a.k.a. "I'm the shit and you're not music," and the greatest song of this genre is, hands-down, Beyonce's "Irreplaceable."
With lyrics that include statements such as, "You must not know 'bout me/You must not know 'bout me/I could have another you in a minute/Matter fact he'll be here in a minute," and questions like, "If I can't be your everything, how 'bout I be nothing?," this song can be sung ballad-style, or shouted, as Meagan and I practiced in the car yesterday afternoon coming home from the Lyon Center after some much-needed Precor-age.
Little does Beyonce know that when M and I are feeling a little (or very) crappy about our love lives (or lack of), or start foolishly reminiscing about a guy who broke (or pureed) our hearts, one of us flips on the iPod, connects the speakers, and the familiar guitar strum fills the apartment. Beyonce's crisp voice seeps into our ears as she begins the song with what has become the Pine Street mantra: To the left, to the left... A dance party ensues and somehow, all seems right in life.
Filled with hope for the future, and utilizing that good ol' 50/50 hindsight, after those glorious four minutes and eleven seconds, we believe that yes, we could totally get another you in a minute. Not that we'd want another you per say, but we are hot, sexy, young, fun, and, um, hello, hilarious, so if anyone should be worried about ending up alone, it's certainly not us.
Anyway. I wish Beyonce could know the role she has played in our lives. That despite such musical blunders as "Single Ladies" (which is a good song in theory but really super annoying to listen to), other tracks like "Irreplaceable," and, let's not forget, "If I Were a Boy," can literally shift my mood from teary to fuck you in a couple minutes flat. If I ever do get the random chance to meet Ms. Knowles, I will surely tell her that her music makes my world a better place.
In the mean time, I'll be humming to myself, to the left, to the left.
...Dunn-da-Dunn-Dunn-DUNN!
Okay Guys. So. This weekend I'm going to the L.A. Times Festival of Books and my amazing memoir teacher Dinah Lenney is sitting on a panel with none other than Samantha Dunn. I know. I. Know. This is almost Britney-serious.
Oh, wait, you don't know of this Samantha Dunn? Let me explain. Ms. Dunn is both a fiction writer and memoirist, totally hot, and cool, but self-deprecating so you know she's down-to-earth. She describes herself as a "guy's gal," a "tell-her-your-problems, gee-you're-a-great-pal-and-it's-just-a-bonus-that-you've-got-big-boobs, let's-watch-the-Tyson-fight-on-pay-per-view kind of woman." She talks about her tactic of "strategic perfume placement" as one of the getting-ready steps before a date. Her MySpace page quote is Mae West's adage: "Those who are easily shocked should be shocked more often."
Needless to say, I love this woman. I believe that we would get along famously, swimmingly, amazingly, as in I feel like, when I read her work, that she is reciting to me my own thoughts.
Which reminds me, Sam Dunn wrote some great books, which is why I get to *maybe* actually talk with her this weekend. She wrote a fantastic memoir called Faith in Carlos Gomez: A Memoir of Salsa, Sex, and Salvation, which made me laugh out loud many, many times in public places, as well as Not by Accident: Reconstructing a Careless Life, and the exquisite novel Failing Paris. Oh, and she's also written for the Los Angeles Times, O (Oprah's mag), Ms., and Glamour. If there was a person whose career I would want to follow, exactly, it would be hers.
What does one say to such a cool individual such as Samantha Dunn? Here are some choices:
Regretfully polite: Hi, I'm Natasha and [mumbles inarticulately about Faith in Carlos Gomez and how it changed my life]. Nicetomeetyou! [runs away]
Professional: Hello, my name is Natasha Burton and I am getting my Master's in Professional Writing at USC, concentrating in non-fiction. I quite enjoy your mastery of vivid imagery in your fiction, as well as your candid reflection in your memoirs. Barf.
Hard-to-get: Say nothing. But look intently at her as she talks on the panel so she will spot me as an active listener and look at me often.
Over-the-top: OH MY GODDDDDD. I LOVE YOU. PLEASE ADOPT MEEEEEE. SERIOUSLY. LIKE YOU AND I ARE LIKE THE SAME. PERSON. SOMETIMES WHEN I'M WITH A GUY, I FEEL LIKE THE SAME WAY YOU DID WITH THE STABLE DUDE. I HATE THAT GUY. YOU ARE WAAAAY TOO GOOD FOR HIM. AND I'M ALSO REALLY CLUMSY. LIKE REALLY. I EMBARRASS MYSELF IN PUBLIC ALL THE TIME. YOU KNOW IN DIRTY DANCING WHERE SHE SAYS SHE 'CARRIED A WATERMELON'? I LIKE SAY THAT PHRASE ALL THE TIME AS LIKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT OF MY EMBARRASSMENT.
Brave: Hey Sam, I'm Natasha. We have a couple mutual friends who think we would get along, so sweet of them to say. Dinah recommended I read your book because my writing style is somewhat similar, though clearly not as expert as yours. Want to grab coffee with me sometime? And tell me all your secrets?
Oh, wait, you don't know of this Samantha Dunn? Let me explain. Ms. Dunn is both a fiction writer and memoirist, totally hot, and cool, but self-deprecating so you know she's down-to-earth. She describes herself as a "guy's gal," a "tell-her-your-problems, gee-you're-a-great-pal-and-it's-just-a-bonus-that-you've-got-big-boobs, let's-watch-the-Tyson-fight-on-pay-per-view kind of woman." She talks about her tactic of "strategic perfume placement" as one of the getting-ready steps before a date. Her MySpace page quote is Mae West's adage: "Those who are easily shocked should be shocked more often."
Needless to say, I love this woman. I believe that we would get along famously, swimmingly, amazingly, as in I feel like, when I read her work, that she is reciting to me my own thoughts.
Which reminds me, Sam Dunn wrote some great books, which is why I get to *maybe* actually talk with her this weekend. She wrote a fantastic memoir called Faith in Carlos Gomez: A Memoir of Salsa, Sex, and Salvation, which made me laugh out loud many, many times in public places, as well as Not by Accident: Reconstructing a Careless Life, and the exquisite novel Failing Paris. Oh, and she's also written for the Los Angeles Times, O (Oprah's mag), Ms., and Glamour. If there was a person whose career I would want to follow, exactly, it would be hers.
What does one say to such a cool individual such as Samantha Dunn? Here are some choices:
Regretfully polite: Hi, I'm Natasha and [mumbles inarticulately about Faith in Carlos Gomez and how it changed my life]. Nicetomeetyou! [runs away]
Professional: Hello, my name is Natasha Burton and I am getting my Master's in Professional Writing at USC, concentrating in non-fiction. I quite enjoy your mastery of vivid imagery in your fiction, as well as your candid reflection in your memoirs. Barf.
Hard-to-get: Say nothing. But look intently at her as she talks on the panel so she will spot me as an active listener and look at me often.
Over-the-top: OH MY GODDDDDD. I LOVE YOU. PLEASE ADOPT MEEEEEE. SERIOUSLY. LIKE YOU AND I ARE LIKE THE SAME. PERSON. SOMETIMES WHEN I'M WITH A GUY, I FEEL LIKE THE SAME WAY YOU DID WITH THE STABLE DUDE. I HATE THAT GUY. YOU ARE WAAAAY TOO GOOD FOR HIM. AND I'M ALSO REALLY CLUMSY. LIKE REALLY. I EMBARRASS MYSELF IN PUBLIC ALL THE TIME. YOU KNOW IN DIRTY DANCING WHERE SHE SAYS SHE 'CARRIED A WATERMELON'? I LIKE SAY THAT PHRASE ALL THE TIME AS LIKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT OF MY EMBARRASSMENT.
Brave: Hey Sam, I'm Natasha. We have a couple mutual friends who think we would get along, so sweet of them to say. Dinah recommended I read your book because my writing style is somewhat similar, though clearly not as expert as yours. Want to grab coffee with me sometime? And tell me all your secrets?
Video: Making Love in this Chuck E. Cheese Club
Happy Friday!!!!
This video has been cracking me up all week. Enjoy :)
This video has been cracking me up all week. Enjoy :)
O.M.F.G. Levi Johnston Needs to Grow a Pair
Well, here's yet another GMA gem, this time of Levi Johnston, the poor kid stupid enough to get Sarah Palin's daughter Bristol pregnant.
Typically, anything having to do with Sarah Palin floats past my consciousness along with other topics that shouldn't be given any attention whatsoever, like hate crimes against Neo-Nazis or endangered pigeons, but I could not ignore this one. Levi, apparently, has decided he is not ready to be a dad. Hmm. That's funny, considering he ALREADY HAS A KID, WHO WAS BORN IN DECEMBER. Anyway, this interview isn't particularly revealing, mostly because Levi seems to have donated most of his brain cells to hockey, but it really pissed me off and I felt compelled to share.
This is just another way young women get completely f-ed over. More so, how we can't avoid being f-ed over simply because of our biology. Bristol, while clearly responsible for sleeping with Levi and having their baby, is now a single mom and can't do anything about it. She is unable to leave her baby, as the child depends on her for nourishment. Levi, on the other hand, was found by GMA on his way to the gym, just living his life. Both teens made some huge mistakes (forgetting a condom would be number one, I think), yet Bristol is the one who's paying for them. No one said life was fair, but I feel for the girl. Even if she is Palin's daughter.
Oh, and I like how Levi says he wants to marry Bristol "some day." What does that mean? When he feels old enough to be a dad? When the kid's out of diapers and is easier to take care of? Hopefully Bristol has the good sense to tell that boy to get a life.
Ungrateful Wife Slams Mr. Mom Hubby on GMA
In a moment of procrastinatory weakness this afternoon, I went over to Jezebel.com to get my media/feminist fix and came upon this clip from Good Morning America about a couple experiencing a role reversal due to the financial crisis. And I realized why I can't read Jezebel because then I get all huffy and have to climb up on my soap box.
Basically, the clip demonstrates why couples get divorced. Or why they kill each other. The husband lost his job and now plays the "Mr. Mom" role of taking care of their child, while his wife works long days in sales and comes home after the kid is in bed. The couple now sleeps in separate bedrooms because of this arrangement.
However, while the husband says he is grateful to be at home, to spend time with their daughter, etc, the wife disclosed that she has lost respect for her husband (especially when she comes home to find him donning "her apron") because she always dreamed of a life where a man put a roof over her head and took care of her.
When I watched this, I wanted to freakin' strangle this woman. First of all, hello, it's 2009. Roles of men and women are changing to accommodate the new views of masculinity and femininity that the women's movement in particular works tirelessly to advocate. In fact, when we put men and women into binary roles (men are the breadwinners, women are the housewives), people become extremely dissatisfied and anxious, according to some studies. Part of living in an egalitarian society is that the gender roles are flexible and, as a result, men and women can operate on a more even ground.
While I understand that the heinous woman in the clip was just being honest, I can't help but hate her. How dare she put that kind of pressure on her husband, who is doing the best he can. The guy probably feels awful enough already having lost his job. And then to belittle him for being fulfilled by his role of a caretaker/stay-at-home Dad? This woman's warped perception of the way things "should" be sends a horrible message to her daughter (who clearly isn't benefiting from her mother's inability to get with the program and realize that she's the problem, not her husband), and it perpetuates a system that divides men and women based on out-dated, gender-centric stereotypes.
Anyway. Watch the clip. Interested to hear what other people think about this. I, for one, will gladly take a husband who enjoys being a dad and can cook/clean/do laundry. But maybe that's just me...
Basically, the clip demonstrates why couples get divorced. Or why they kill each other. The husband lost his job and now plays the "Mr. Mom" role of taking care of their child, while his wife works long days in sales and comes home after the kid is in bed. The couple now sleeps in separate bedrooms because of this arrangement.
However, while the husband says he is grateful to be at home, to spend time with their daughter, etc, the wife disclosed that she has lost respect for her husband (especially when she comes home to find him donning "her apron") because she always dreamed of a life where a man put a roof over her head and took care of her.
When I watched this, I wanted to freakin' strangle this woman. First of all, hello, it's 2009. Roles of men and women are changing to accommodate the new views of masculinity and femininity that the women's movement in particular works tirelessly to advocate. In fact, when we put men and women into binary roles (men are the breadwinners, women are the housewives), people become extremely dissatisfied and anxious, according to some studies. Part of living in an egalitarian society is that the gender roles are flexible and, as a result, men and women can operate on a more even ground.
While I understand that the heinous woman in the clip was just being honest, I can't help but hate her. How dare she put that kind of pressure on her husband, who is doing the best he can. The guy probably feels awful enough already having lost his job. And then to belittle him for being fulfilled by his role of a caretaker/stay-at-home Dad? This woman's warped perception of the way things "should" be sends a horrible message to her daughter (who clearly isn't benefiting from her mother's inability to get with the program and realize that she's the problem, not her husband), and it perpetuates a system that divides men and women based on out-dated, gender-centric stereotypes.
Anyway. Watch the clip. Interested to hear what other people think about this. I, for one, will gladly take a husband who enjoys being a dad and can cook/clean/do laundry. But maybe that's just me...
When Harry Met Sally
God I love this movie.
I have to watch movies on fast-forward for Janet's class (to understand the rhythm and variation of scenes) but I knew if I put this one on I would actually watch it and I'm glad I did.
Interestingly, I never thought my state of relationship would affect the way I watch romantic comedies. I don't think I've seen this movie without having a serious boyfriend or being in an officially-determined relationship. Watching it this morning made me both deliriously happy and sad simultaneously.
Harry and Sally fall in love over a period of a decade, which sounds like a lifetime to me, but this aspect of their courtship actually fills me with complete and utter hope. I like the idea of taking my time. Conversely, on the way there, both characters go through moments of despair, embarrassment, and confusion, reinforcing what I already know, that interacting with the opposite sex is full of those difficult moments, hard-to-read signals, game-playing, withheld feelings, lies, fights, and other completely awful things. I mean, Harry compares Sally to a dog at one point.
In a relationship, those not-so-fun aspects of love are dealt with together. You can, for example, easily call your boyfriend and find out exactly what he meant by some comment he made. He's obligated to listen. When one of you hangs up on the other person, you don't feel weird calling back. You, presumably, love each other. You have a safety net.
In the purgatorial waters of dating, that security doesn't exist. Watching the movie, I saw Sally going to her girlfriends for dissection and interpretation (which is almost always a bad idea, I've discovered). She's scared. And so am I. Scared of getting hurt, saying or doing the wrong thing, completely embarrassing myself (which I've learned at this point in my life is unavoidable so I just have to live with the fact that, yes, I will live in a perpetual state of mild humiliation).
Anyway, it was cathartic to watch the characters suffer and struggle. And it was purely delightful to get to the end and see Harry and Sally finally happy with themselves and each other. Life doesn't work so perfectly, of course, but I can't help but wish for the day when a man I love says to me something along the lines of that speech Billy Crystal delivers towards the end of the film:
I've been doing a lot of thinking and the thing is...I love you...I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
*Sigh*
Now that's worth waiting ten years for, in my opinion.
I have to watch movies on fast-forward for Janet's class (to understand the rhythm and variation of scenes) but I knew if I put this one on I would actually watch it and I'm glad I did.
Interestingly, I never thought my state of relationship would affect the way I watch romantic comedies. I don't think I've seen this movie without having a serious boyfriend or being in an officially-determined relationship. Watching it this morning made me both deliriously happy and sad simultaneously.
Harry and Sally fall in love over a period of a decade, which sounds like a lifetime to me, but this aspect of their courtship actually fills me with complete and utter hope. I like the idea of taking my time. Conversely, on the way there, both characters go through moments of despair, embarrassment, and confusion, reinforcing what I already know, that interacting with the opposite sex is full of those difficult moments, hard-to-read signals, game-playing, withheld feelings, lies, fights, and other completely awful things. I mean, Harry compares Sally to a dog at one point.
In a relationship, those not-so-fun aspects of love are dealt with together. You can, for example, easily call your boyfriend and find out exactly what he meant by some comment he made. He's obligated to listen. When one of you hangs up on the other person, you don't feel weird calling back. You, presumably, love each other. You have a safety net.
In the purgatorial waters of dating, that security doesn't exist. Watching the movie, I saw Sally going to her girlfriends for dissection and interpretation (which is almost always a bad idea, I've discovered). She's scared. And so am I. Scared of getting hurt, saying or doing the wrong thing, completely embarrassing myself (which I've learned at this point in my life is unavoidable so I just have to live with the fact that, yes, I will live in a perpetual state of mild humiliation).
Anyway, it was cathartic to watch the characters suffer and struggle. And it was purely delightful to get to the end and see Harry and Sally finally happy with themselves and each other. Life doesn't work so perfectly, of course, but I can't help but wish for the day when a man I love says to me something along the lines of that speech Billy Crystal delivers towards the end of the film:
I've been doing a lot of thinking and the thing is...I love you...I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
*Sigh*
Now that's worth waiting ten years for, in my opinion.
Maybe, Maybe, Maybe
So...maybe being an optimist is okay after all.
In fact, maybe being an optimist is actually braver. When I hope for the best, I take a pretty scary risk. Someone might actually disappoint me. I might actually get hurt or feel something unpleasant. But maybe that's just part of life. Besides, being a sucker for love and romance (oh, yes, I conceal it well, I'm about 90% mush under these thick scales), I have always believed in the adage that it's better to have loved than lost, than, well, you know the rest.
Yesterday I was ready to throw in the towel on optimism all together. Who needs it? It is much safer to always see the glass half-empty. It's easy to complain, to commiserate. But is it as fulfilling? Perhaps getting the stars when you wanted the moon isn't so bad. If you don't shoot for anything at all, you're left empty-handed. I'll take the stars, thank you.
Maybe optimism itself isn't the problem, I am. I'm too scared, too worried, too anxious, too (I hate to admit) insecure to believe someone will amaze me. Maybe by closing myself off, I don't give anyone a chance to even try.
Maybe it's not that I have to stop "wearing my wishbone where my backbone outta be." Maybe it's that I need to nurture my wishbone and my backbone at the same time. Who said they had to be mutually exclusive anyway?
In fact, maybe being an optimist is actually braver. When I hope for the best, I take a pretty scary risk. Someone might actually disappoint me. I might actually get hurt or feel something unpleasant. But maybe that's just part of life. Besides, being a sucker for love and romance (oh, yes, I conceal it well, I'm about 90% mush under these thick scales), I have always believed in the adage that it's better to have loved than lost, than, well, you know the rest.
Yesterday I was ready to throw in the towel on optimism all together. Who needs it? It is much safer to always see the glass half-empty. It's easy to complain, to commiserate. But is it as fulfilling? Perhaps getting the stars when you wanted the moon isn't so bad. If you don't shoot for anything at all, you're left empty-handed. I'll take the stars, thank you.
Maybe optimism itself isn't the problem, I am. I'm too scared, too worried, too anxious, too (I hate to admit) insecure to believe someone will amaze me. Maybe by closing myself off, I don't give anyone a chance to even try.
Maybe it's not that I have to stop "wearing my wishbone where my backbone outta be." Maybe it's that I need to nurture my wishbone and my backbone at the same time. Who said they had to be mutually exclusive anyway?
"A Victim of My Own Optimism"
Like millions of American women, I have fallen in love with Elizabeth Gilbert, after being the last one of us on earth to finally get around to reading her book, Eat, Pray, Love.
I love Liz ("Liss," as the old guy in Bali calls her, and yes, I am on a first-name, nickname base with this woman) for purely narcissistic reasons--she's me. Sure, I'm not blond, nor a famous writer (working on it), nor divorced, nor formerly suicidal, nor at a point in my life where I could take a whole year just to, well, eat, pray, and love, but Liz and I both have the same problem. Yet, while she seems to have solved hers, having found an older Brazilian lover, I'm over here flailing around in a void.
I've always considered myself an optimist. I’m quite cheerful. I'm peppy. I earned the nickname of "Energizer Bunny" in college due to these qualities. But being an optimist comes with a burden of disappointment. If you shoot for the moon, you'll land among the stars, the phrase goes. But I never understood what good that did me when I wanted wanted the moon.
Liz says in the India section of her book that she has been a "victim of my own optimism," which describes me perfectly. Finding myself disappointed easily, I tried pessimism out for a while. Low expectations rewarded me with happy surprises when situations, people, or even I exceeded the squat benchmarks I’d set. Everything good that happened in my life, I examined, tore down, looked for the thunderclouds about to strike. I called this being honest with myself, being realistic.
Then, something changed and I started with the damn optimism again. And with dating, optimism is the worst. I want men to be wonderful. I want them to amaze me. I believe they can ascend whatever red flags or major emotional blockage I've detected in them, because, after all, I also see the greatness the lies beneath. My expectations shoot sky-high—not in the form of hurdles I set forth for a guy, I don’t come off as overbearing or demanding. Instead, I stupidly believe that the man in question already has reached my expectations, that he already is wonderful, forgetting reality and myself.
As Liz says in her book, I, “fall in love more times that I can count with the highest potential of a man.” This potential just needs time to unfurl.
In typical martyr form, I decide it is my job to unfurl the man in question, to lift a man’s burdens from him so he can grow into the amazing person I know is lurking underneath his aloofness or anxiety or whatever. Like Liz, I tend to lose myself in men, forgetting that perhaps not every guy I find myself infatuated with even has potential. Maybe it’s my own insecurity or perhaps I don’t have a strong sense of myself so I try to uncover someone else’s, but I’m not sure either of those are it exactly. I do know that Liz described me when she described herself: “If I love you I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts, I will protect your from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities you’ve never actually cultivated…until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover this energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else.”
Awesome. Thankfully, as I live and read and learn, I am discovering so much about myself and the way my mind works. I can catch patterns like this one before I am divorced, suicidal, and in my 30s. Now, I must move forward in my life as a more careful optimist, carrying the wariness of a pessimist with me as I navigate single life. As Liz’s friend Richard from Texas says to her in the India ashram, I gotta stop wearing my wishbone where my backbone outta be. That’s my new mantra.
Resolution Number One
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I have an addiction.
It's a vice that kills my brain cells, takes up my precious time, and ultimately leaves me unfulfilled. Yes, I am talking about only one thing: celebrity gossip.
People.com, UsMagazine.com, Perez, Pink is the New Blog, Superficial, Jossip, Yahoo OMG, these are the sites I frequent instead of writing (or staring at a blank word doc). Jennifer, Paris, Angelina, Katie, Victoria, Penelope, Nicole, these are the women whose lives I watch unfold, instead of working on my own career. Who wore what to the event last night? Who is dating who? Is so-and-so pregnant?
Does it matter?
When I worked for People, it mattered greatly. I was paid to scan these sites, to click on the links hourly looking for updates, glimmers of gossip, inside into, leads to check out.
But now that I'm not compelled to know the ages of Heidi Klum's three children (Leni, Henry, and Johan--I'm telling you, this affliction is out of control), I need to pull away. I'm quitting cold turkey.
Gossip magazines and websites fulfill certain needs we have--to feel in the loop, to fantasize about ideal lifestyles, to escape. They affirm that we can be just a beautiful as these Hollywood femmes, with the right tools and tricks, while also showing us that even the beautiful fall hard (Heather Locklear is good recent example of this). Yet, if I turn to my writing, I can escape, I can fantasize, I can create a world of my own. I can feel good about myself without buying $100 an ounce face cream. Or take pride in my own life instead of feeling better about my short-comings after reading about Tara Reid's decision to go to rehab. (Though, hers was a very necessary step in reclaiming the broken pieces of her D-list career.)
It's not going to be easy, but I've already taken the first step: deleted the gossip site links from my Firefox tool bar. I know I'll miss my pals Victoria and Katie the most. But I can do without them. I've gone about three days. Staying strong.
Andy Samberg is Kinda Hot...Right?
First came "Dick in a Box." Now the would-be-completely-unattractive (except that he is funny, confident, and talented, and therefore--dare I say--sexy) Andy Samberg has created a new digital short just in time for the pre-holiday crunch time, during which many of us are perusing the Internet with fleeting will to attend to the growing piles of work that land on our desks and in our inboxes. If you haven't already, please enjoy the video (I would give you the title, but, like in DIAB, the reveal of the title is one of the best parts):
***If the video doesn't work, click here.
I think DIAB will prevail in terms of classic-ness than this digital short in that it was more creative in theory and highly effective in parody of the early 90s music videos it referenced. This short is more shocking and outlandish, which puts it in a different league. It plays on male insecurity in an over-the-top way without alienating men, while also giving women who have experience with premature men a good laugh as well. And, seriously, I think Andy Samberg (when he isn't making awkward faces) is kinda hot in this one.
Which digital short do you like better: DIAB or JIMP?
***If the video doesn't work, click here.
I think DIAB will prevail in terms of classic-ness than this digital short in that it was more creative in theory and highly effective in parody of the early 90s music videos it referenced. This short is more shocking and outlandish, which puts it in a different league. It plays on male insecurity in an over-the-top way without alienating men, while also giving women who have experience with premature men a good laugh as well. And, seriously, I think Andy Samberg (when he isn't making awkward faces) is kinda hot in this one.
Which digital short do you like better: DIAB or JIMP?
What I'm Thankful For
Instead of figuring out what I was thankful for pre-holiday, I found many reasons to give thanks after the weekend ended. Here are my top turkey day 2008 moments (in no particular order):
Cooking with Bridget Jones. Thanksgiving means my mom and I spend about two days in the kitchen slicing, baking, sweating, making messes, greasing pans, cleaning, you get the idea. This year, we decided to put on a movie and for some reason Bridget Jones' Diary seemed most appropriate. The reindeer jumper, the massive undies, Colin Firth (mmm), and the best kiss-off ever: "If staying here means working within 10 yards of you, frankly, I'd rather have a job wiping Saddam Hussein's ass" (burn). Though, I am always a little offended by the Natasha character who snaps her fingers at Mark Darcy, giving my name a bad name. It's always the go-to for villainous women...But I love this movie and it made me happy.
Trying stuffing for the first time. As a terribly picky eater, stuffing never made the cut on Thanksgiving. Soggy bread? No way. Nondescript meat? Please. Celery? Wrong, wrong, wrong. But this year my mom's new recipe smelled too good to not try an itty bitty bite. Now, only one question remains: Italian sausage, where have you been all my 24 years?
Conrads. This little deli/old-people joint in Pasadena makes the best patty melts ever. The pre-Thanksgiving meal bar has just been raised.
Sleeping. I'm still coming to terms with the fact that I woke up at 11 a.m. this past Saturday. After going to be at 10:30 p.m. the previous night. Instead of feeling like a total loser (which I assume is the appropriate response to this type of comatose behavior) I am rather proud. And I no longer have gray shadows under my eyes. Which is fabulous.
BFFs. Contrary to some misguided assumptions, I don't need much in life. But I do need three people: Alana, Ciji, and Jenn. And we got to spend the holiday together for the first time ever, which was (as The Cars would say) just what I needed, especially since living in different cities and schedules rarely allow this. Pouring over middle school photo albums post-dessert made the evening even more reminiscent of how important these women have been in my life (having known them since I was 4, 7, and 8, respectively).
Middle school photos. To piggyback on that last, I am thankful that, at some point, I learned how to properly blow-dry my bangs, that mid-drifts are not cute, and that brownish-red lipstick is super unflattering. My younger self is reassured now that, yes, I did turn out pretty-much okay.
Scattergories. This is one of my favorite games but I think I went through the directions too fast with my family because, on the first round, my Mom thought that we were supposed to just come up with any word matching the category. (In Scattergories, you pick a letter and have to come up with words starting with that letter to fit the clues in each round.) As Manny, Eric and I went around with our lists beginning with "M", Mom would crack up and say her "non-M" word. For Things Under the Sea Eric said, "mollusk," Manny passed, I said "mongrel" (which did not count), and Mom blurted out "plankton" in between gasping for air. We haven't hung out just the four of us in a long time, so laughing together was a pretty awesome capper to the weekend.
My parents. On the family note, even though I live at home (and complain about it/discuss my plans to move out ASAP with anyone who will listen), I really loved spending time with my Mom and Manny. Without the stress of school and work, just getting to veg, eat, and repeat for the past four days, I've found that I shouldn't be anything by thankful for my current roommates.
I hope everyone had a great holiday and enjoyed time spent with family and friends as much as I did. :)
Cooking with Bridget Jones. Thanksgiving means my mom and I spend about two days in the kitchen slicing, baking, sweating, making messes, greasing pans, cleaning, you get the idea. This year, we decided to put on a movie and for some reason Bridget Jones' Diary seemed most appropriate. The reindeer jumper, the massive undies, Colin Firth (mmm), and the best kiss-off ever: "If staying here means working within 10 yards of you, frankly, I'd rather have a job wiping Saddam Hussein's ass" (burn). Though, I am always a little offended by the Natasha character who snaps her fingers at Mark Darcy, giving my name a bad name. It's always the go-to for villainous women...But I love this movie and it made me happy.
Trying stuffing for the first time. As a terribly picky eater, stuffing never made the cut on Thanksgiving. Soggy bread? No way. Nondescript meat? Please. Celery? Wrong, wrong, wrong. But this year my mom's new recipe smelled too good to not try an itty bitty bite. Now, only one question remains: Italian sausage, where have you been all my 24 years?
Conrads. This little deli/old-people joint in Pasadena makes the best patty melts ever. The pre-Thanksgiving meal bar has just been raised.
Sleeping. I'm still coming to terms with the fact that I woke up at 11 a.m. this past Saturday. After going to be at 10:30 p.m. the previous night. Instead of feeling like a total loser (which I assume is the appropriate response to this type of comatose behavior) I am rather proud. And I no longer have gray shadows under my eyes. Which is fabulous.
BFFs. Contrary to some misguided assumptions, I don't need much in life. But I do need three people: Alana, Ciji, and Jenn. And we got to spend the holiday together for the first time ever, which was (as The Cars would say) just what I needed, especially since living in different cities and schedules rarely allow this. Pouring over middle school photo albums post-dessert made the evening even more reminiscent of how important these women have been in my life (having known them since I was 4, 7, and 8, respectively).
Middle school photos. To piggyback on that last, I am thankful that, at some point, I learned how to properly blow-dry my bangs, that mid-drifts are not cute, and that brownish-red lipstick is super unflattering. My younger self is reassured now that, yes, I did turn out pretty-much okay.
Scattergories. This is one of my favorite games but I think I went through the directions too fast with my family because, on the first round, my Mom thought that we were supposed to just come up with any word matching the category. (In Scattergories, you pick a letter and have to come up with words starting with that letter to fit the clues in each round.) As Manny, Eric and I went around with our lists beginning with "M", Mom would crack up and say her "non-M" word. For Things Under the Sea Eric said, "mollusk," Manny passed, I said "mongrel" (which did not count), and Mom blurted out "plankton" in between gasping for air. We haven't hung out just the four of us in a long time, so laughing together was a pretty awesome capper to the weekend.
My parents. On the family note, even though I live at home (and complain about it/discuss my plans to move out ASAP with anyone who will listen), I really loved spending time with my Mom and Manny. Without the stress of school and work, just getting to veg, eat, and repeat for the past four days, I've found that I shouldn't be anything by thankful for my current roommates.
I hope everyone had a great holiday and enjoyed time spent with family and friends as much as I did. :)
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