1. This is completely inappropriate, but I feel somewhat at unease when I go to a Chinese or Thai or Japanese restaurant and my server is not Asian. It just doesn't feel right when a 14-year-old pasty white boy is serving me sushi.
2. I made a pact with sushi. For real. I said, "Sushi. Today is the day I put aside my thing with texture in my mouth and we make this thing work." Sushi owned up. I owned up. We made up. Then we cried. Baby steps. Baby steps.
3. I voiced disdain towards bathroom attendants this week. However, I am now undecided. I am not a fan of bathroom attendants whatsoever, they make me feel a bit uncomfortable, but let's face it: They have AWFUL jobs. They have to stand in a smelly bathroom while everyone outside is having fun. They have to stay there ALL night, help gross drunk girls, hand people paper towels, and they are all depending on our tips. I may not like them, but when you think about it, bathroom attendants are heroes. They deal with a lot of shit.
4. Chelsea Clinton is getting hitched in a few days. Good for her. With all of the world watching her during her awkward growing up phase, god bless the poor kid. And God Bless America, godammit.
5. The rivers of Dublin sing. And the mudslide shall live forever. Dublin Mudslide stands in its own category. Competitors like Mud Pie (God forbid, what IS that anyway?) and even fancy Gelato brands are bastard impostors.
6. Does anyone remember the movie "Hocus Pocus?" I do. I had an unexplainable urge to watch Hocus Pocus today. And have a fist-fight with Bette Midler. And put a spell on you.
7. My apple tasted suspiciously like a pear yesterday. I looked at it, thinking it was a pear for a moment, but it was an apple. Remain confused by this odd trick of nature.
8. Overheard on the street: "I don't have enough years left to learn how to play a good game of golf."
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
100 Fireflies
*Most names have been changed to protect the innocent*
I laced up my running shoes and stepped out of my old front door, leaving the house I had grown up in as a child. “This will be a long one,” I told my Mom on my way out. “Don’t worry if I’m gone an hour or so.”
The humidity was overwhelming. Sweat dripped down my brow and I wished I had worn a tank top and shorts instead of a t-shirt and leggings. I had no music. Just myself and the road and my thoughts. And around every bend, I found myself lost in a myriad of imagery and memories.
My feet hit the pavement and I ran along the creek down the street where I had spent many beautiful minutes throwing bread to ducks with my sister and brother and my Mom and Dad. I kept along Rock Creek, reminded of my childhood friend, Sally, who had once lived in the same subdivision. I jogged down the street, and as I passed her house, I saw her Dad outside talking to a neighbor. He looked the same as I remembered, though I hadn’t remembered what he looked like until I saw him standing there. I thought of how Sally was now married and living in Florida and how when we were in high school I had gone to senior prom in the same group as her, thoroughly overwhelmed to be in the ‘popular’ prom group. How long ago all of that seemed. Another world ago.
Every corner held a different memory. I passed Eldridge Lane and I remembered my childhood friend, Jane. She and I had been the best of friends from 3rd grade until about 6th grade. We’d had sleepovers when we were kids and I remembered her having a waterbed that was swooshy and her buying me the Paula Abdul tape cassette, Vibeology, as a birthday present back in the day. She'd had a Slip and Slide in her backyard and I recalled eating drumstick ice cream cones on her porch in the heat of summer. And then one day, all of a sudden, she decided not to sit with me in the middle school cafeteria at lunch. I marveled at the unexplained rejection and I held a grudge until we graduated high school. How silly, I thought to myself, as I passed her old house, that we allow ourselves to be so affected by childhood friends and foes. If only I was 11 again I just would have asked Jane why she didn’t want to sit with me at lunch anymore and we would have had a calm, unheated discussion about it. I have no idea where she lives now. But I know she is married. Her younger sister is married too, and somehow she is a mutual friend of an actor I just did a show with in Chicago. Our worlds are so small. I passed her house and silently wished Jane and her sister well, wherever they were.
Onwards, and I remembered Thalia and Mariah and Jackie and running around on the playground in elementary school. A memory of hand-clapping games and jump rope and making Barbie dolls kiss Ken dolls flashed through my mind. I passed another house and the vintage green car out front made me think of the boy to whom it belonged, a guy I’d once been friend’s with in high school. He and his brother had both been counselors with me at Super Summer Day Camp. I was the official Rocketry counselor, as well as the Lego counselor. My memories drifted to this gorgeous group-leader at Super Summer named Norm. I was 16 and awkward and had braces but I remember having the biggest crush on Norm. Then came that fateful day when the braces came off, and Norman, seeing my huge metal-free smile for the first time, asked me out. I was gleeful until I freaked myself out that Norman was actually a junior in college and a police officer already, and I felt so young and unsure, I ended up turning him down a few days later.
I kept running and I thought of how sometimes I would see this football linebacker, Damon, driving through the neighborhood in high school. I’d had a monster crush on him and I somehow got up the nerve to ask him to a Sadie Hawkins Dance my junior year. And he had said yes! We would talk on the phone in the weeks leading up to the dance, and I was always pleased to talk to him, except he always seemed to call me on Wednesdays when “Felicity” was being aired on the (now defunct) WB. This was the only show I ever watched, and though I was irritated I had to miss Felicity in order to talk to him, I still dieted for days in order to get into a tiny little black dress with slits up both sides. In the end, the football player had only wanted to be friends. I was disappointed but at least I had gone to the dance with a gorgeous linebacker who'd made me laugh.
I kept passing houses of people I’d once known and all of the memories hit me…. ice cream after class with Lindsey, and movies with a now fellow Chicago actress, Cate. I passed Julie’s house who had played Audrey with me in Little Shop of Horrors in high school, and I remembered Nikka and how I should call her up because I hadn’t seen her since her wedding a few years ago. I thought about beautiful Lia and being thoroughly sad I had missed her California wedding just a few weeks ago.
I thought, my goodness, SO many people are getting married.
I remembered the Cranbrook Swim Club and splashing water around with my sister. I remembered falling off my bike and cutting my lip during a block party when my brother and I had been racing our bikes very irresponsibly. I passed my friend Adam’s house, remembering playing basketball with him one random day when I’d bumped into him on a run much like this one and how he’d always made me smile, even when he was making fun of me. I passed Alicia’s house that used to have the “Beware of the Dog” sign on the lawn, and I passed Serina’s house, reminded of talking to her broadcaster Aunt intensely one day because I was convinced I wanted to be a broadcaster.
And then came the fireflies.
I was about 30 minutes into the run, inundated by imagery and heat, my mind swirling, unsure if I could run much longer.
And then I saw a firefly. Out of the corner of my eye.
I was ready for the memories to stop, but a new string of firefly memories hit me in the face. I joyfully recalled my British friend, Riley, being over the moon that she had seen her first firefly EVER. She had never seen one in Britain before. We were 19 and summer camp counselors in Cheboygan, MI, making a midnight trek to the campsite a mile away where the counselors would go to drink and have bonfires and make out in the woods. Her face had lit up like magic and I'd felt honored to be there for her first firefly. That made me think of Ben, who I’d also met at camp. He was British and beautiful and I was crazy surprised he was beguiled by ME. He broke my heart years later. My mind kept spinning and I remembered meeting a cousin for the first time in Youngstown, OH and being petrified that this little girl would catch fireflies in a jar and then violently tear off the glowing torsos of their bodies.
So many thoughts, too many thoughts, all unbridled and restless, all of them coming to me quickly and suddenly, some of them welcome, some unwelcome. The fireflies kept lighting up.
And it wasn’t just one firefly, but an infinite amount of fireflies.
I thought to myself, I’ll count up to 15 for fun and then I’ll head home, but the fireflies kept lighting up all around me. I made it to 31 just for kicks because I was born on the 31st, and then up to 50 and then 75 all within a matter of 10 minutes or so. The fireflies wouldn’t stop. But they did slow down. Sometimes the light storm would cease and I would think the game was over, but then, no WAIT, there they would go again!
I decided to keep going. Why not keep going until I had counted ONE HUNDRED FIREFLIES.
I would see these brilliant flashes of light in front of me and to the sides, my peripheral vision going off like firecrackers, my whole mind and breath acutely aware of my surroundings. For these few moments I felt as though I had never been this aware of my environment in all my life. My vision and my heart and my mind and all of my senses pushing towards this one trivial, albeit magical goal. And in this quest, as my feet hit the pavement, I somehow found a type of much needed peace and well-being.
98…
I saw a bunny hop across someone’s front lawn. My stomach knotted up in amazing anticipation, as I knew I was about to hit 100 fireflies.
A minute or two passed. The fireflies seemed to stop, the night sky barren of glowing light… And then, much like popcorn kernels reaching their threshold as they heat up during their last seconds on a stovetop, popping in a glorious finish…
99…
100!
On the 100th firefly, I saw a man walking a dog across the street and I decided to wave at him. A friendly moment commemorating 100. He did not know who I was. I did not know who he was. He waved back anyway.
I had lost all track of time and location. And when I finally stopped counting around 108, I realized I had no idea where I was, somehow lost in the maze of roads and twists in my old subdivision, unable to navigate which way was north or south or east or west, just using landmarks to get myself back home.
The web of memories had all stopped while I counted the fireflies, my mind had quieted, and I felt a sense of calm as I walked back to my childhood house.
I opened my front door and found my father watching TV in the den.
“We were beginning to worry,” he told me.
“I know, I got lost,” I replied, sitting down besides him on the couch.
“But I’m home now,” I breathed. “I’m home now.”
I laced up my running shoes and stepped out of my old front door, leaving the house I had grown up in as a child. “This will be a long one,” I told my Mom on my way out. “Don’t worry if I’m gone an hour or so.”
The humidity was overwhelming. Sweat dripped down my brow and I wished I had worn a tank top and shorts instead of a t-shirt and leggings. I had no music. Just myself and the road and my thoughts. And around every bend, I found myself lost in a myriad of imagery and memories.
My feet hit the pavement and I ran along the creek down the street where I had spent many beautiful minutes throwing bread to ducks with my sister and brother and my Mom and Dad. I kept along Rock Creek, reminded of my childhood friend, Sally, who had once lived in the same subdivision. I jogged down the street, and as I passed her house, I saw her Dad outside talking to a neighbor. He looked the same as I remembered, though I hadn’t remembered what he looked like until I saw him standing there. I thought of how Sally was now married and living in Florida and how when we were in high school I had gone to senior prom in the same group as her, thoroughly overwhelmed to be in the ‘popular’ prom group. How long ago all of that seemed. Another world ago.
Every corner held a different memory. I passed Eldridge Lane and I remembered my childhood friend, Jane. She and I had been the best of friends from 3rd grade until about 6th grade. We’d had sleepovers when we were kids and I remembered her having a waterbed that was swooshy and her buying me the Paula Abdul tape cassette, Vibeology, as a birthday present back in the day. She'd had a Slip and Slide in her backyard and I recalled eating drumstick ice cream cones on her porch in the heat of summer. And then one day, all of a sudden, she decided not to sit with me in the middle school cafeteria at lunch. I marveled at the unexplained rejection and I held a grudge until we graduated high school. How silly, I thought to myself, as I passed her old house, that we allow ourselves to be so affected by childhood friends and foes. If only I was 11 again I just would have asked Jane why she didn’t want to sit with me at lunch anymore and we would have had a calm, unheated discussion about it. I have no idea where she lives now. But I know she is married. Her younger sister is married too, and somehow she is a mutual friend of an actor I just did a show with in Chicago. Our worlds are so small. I passed her house and silently wished Jane and her sister well, wherever they were.
Onwards, and I remembered Thalia and Mariah and Jackie and running around on the playground in elementary school. A memory of hand-clapping games and jump rope and making Barbie dolls kiss Ken dolls flashed through my mind. I passed another house and the vintage green car out front made me think of the boy to whom it belonged, a guy I’d once been friend’s with in high school. He and his brother had both been counselors with me at Super Summer Day Camp. I was the official Rocketry counselor, as well as the Lego counselor. My memories drifted to this gorgeous group-leader at Super Summer named Norm. I was 16 and awkward and had braces but I remember having the biggest crush on Norm. Then came that fateful day when the braces came off, and Norman, seeing my huge metal-free smile for the first time, asked me out. I was gleeful until I freaked myself out that Norman was actually a junior in college and a police officer already, and I felt so young and unsure, I ended up turning him down a few days later.
I kept running and I thought of how sometimes I would see this football linebacker, Damon, driving through the neighborhood in high school. I’d had a monster crush on him and I somehow got up the nerve to ask him to a Sadie Hawkins Dance my junior year. And he had said yes! We would talk on the phone in the weeks leading up to the dance, and I was always pleased to talk to him, except he always seemed to call me on Wednesdays when “Felicity” was being aired on the (now defunct) WB. This was the only show I ever watched, and though I was irritated I had to miss Felicity in order to talk to him, I still dieted for days in order to get into a tiny little black dress with slits up both sides. In the end, the football player had only wanted to be friends. I was disappointed but at least I had gone to the dance with a gorgeous linebacker who'd made me laugh.
I kept passing houses of people I’d once known and all of the memories hit me…. ice cream after class with Lindsey, and movies with a now fellow Chicago actress, Cate. I passed Julie’s house who had played Audrey with me in Little Shop of Horrors in high school, and I remembered Nikka and how I should call her up because I hadn’t seen her since her wedding a few years ago. I thought about beautiful Lia and being thoroughly sad I had missed her California wedding just a few weeks ago.
I thought, my goodness, SO many people are getting married.
I remembered the Cranbrook Swim Club and splashing water around with my sister. I remembered falling off my bike and cutting my lip during a block party when my brother and I had been racing our bikes very irresponsibly. I passed my friend Adam’s house, remembering playing basketball with him one random day when I’d bumped into him on a run much like this one and how he’d always made me smile, even when he was making fun of me. I passed Alicia’s house that used to have the “Beware of the Dog” sign on the lawn, and I passed Serina’s house, reminded of talking to her broadcaster Aunt intensely one day because I was convinced I wanted to be a broadcaster.
And then came the fireflies.
I was about 30 minutes into the run, inundated by imagery and heat, my mind swirling, unsure if I could run much longer.
And then I saw a firefly. Out of the corner of my eye.
I was ready for the memories to stop, but a new string of firefly memories hit me in the face. I joyfully recalled my British friend, Riley, being over the moon that she had seen her first firefly EVER. She had never seen one in Britain before. We were 19 and summer camp counselors in Cheboygan, MI, making a midnight trek to the campsite a mile away where the counselors would go to drink and have bonfires and make out in the woods. Her face had lit up like magic and I'd felt honored to be there for her first firefly. That made me think of Ben, who I’d also met at camp. He was British and beautiful and I was crazy surprised he was beguiled by ME. He broke my heart years later. My mind kept spinning and I remembered meeting a cousin for the first time in Youngstown, OH and being petrified that this little girl would catch fireflies in a jar and then violently tear off the glowing torsos of their bodies. So many thoughts, too many thoughts, all unbridled and restless, all of them coming to me quickly and suddenly, some of them welcome, some unwelcome. The fireflies kept lighting up.
And it wasn’t just one firefly, but an infinite amount of fireflies.
I thought to myself, I’ll count up to 15 for fun and then I’ll head home, but the fireflies kept lighting up all around me. I made it to 31 just for kicks because I was born on the 31st, and then up to 50 and then 75 all within a matter of 10 minutes or so. The fireflies wouldn’t stop. But they did slow down. Sometimes the light storm would cease and I would think the game was over, but then, no WAIT, there they would go again!
I decided to keep going. Why not keep going until I had counted ONE HUNDRED FIREFLIES.
98…
I saw a bunny hop across someone’s front lawn. My stomach knotted up in amazing anticipation, as I knew I was about to hit 100 fireflies.
A minute or two passed. The fireflies seemed to stop, the night sky barren of glowing light… And then, much like popcorn kernels reaching their threshold as they heat up during their last seconds on a stovetop, popping in a glorious finish…
99…
100!
On the 100th firefly, I saw a man walking a dog across the street and I decided to wave at him. A friendly moment commemorating 100. He did not know who I was. I did not know who he was. He waved back anyway.
I had lost all track of time and location. And when I finally stopped counting around 108, I realized I had no idea where I was, somehow lost in the maze of roads and twists in my old subdivision, unable to navigate which way was north or south or east or west, just using landmarks to get myself back home.
The web of memories had all stopped while I counted the fireflies, my mind had quieted, and I felt a sense of calm as I walked back to my childhood house.
I opened my front door and found my father watching TV in the den.
“We were beginning to worry,” he told me.
“I know, I got lost,” I replied, sitting down besides him on the couch.
“But I’m home now,” I breathed. “I’m home now.”
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Traitor to my gender
I love women. I AM one. We are shiny and lacy and pretty and opinionated.
But I also find some women awful. Sometimes I wish I were a man. Sometimes.
And I feel like a snot for thinking this about certain women, but I do.
Particular women.
These are some women I find particularly troublesome and/or annoying:
1. Women who wear shoes they can't walk in.
Why would you do this to yourself? The truth is, if it doesn't fit in the store, it's not going to fit at home. Don't waste your time trying to break it in. Do you realize you look dumb with 3 band-aids on your ankle? Look at it this way. Would you buy a shirt that left gashes on your stomach? No. Then why do you think it's okay to buy a shoe that leaves gashes on your toes. Exactly. You should not buy shoes you can't walk in. You do not look sexy. You look like you are about to topple over. Take off your stilettos and your 6-inch platforms and own up to a nice pair of sensible flats.
2. Women with east coast Manhattan accents.
I'm sorry, I just think you sound silly.
3. Women who look like hookers.
I know that I am guilty of fashion errors, I did wear far too many mismatched socks up until...well, okay, I still wear mismatched socks (I blame Punky Brewster for this undying habit) but I do not dress like a hooker. There is a classy way to show off your goods. I'm all for a plunging neckline and a short short skirt. Just usually not at the same time. We have friends and mirrors to let us know when we look ridiculous. Let's use them.
4. Arm candy women hanging from the arms of rich men.
We all know women like this. They dress the part, say yes, like money, flashy cars, parties, and Flirtinis. Any woman who orders a Flirtini should just....okay, back to the real matter. These women are beautiful. You secretly want to look like them. And I will preface this by saying some loving couples just happen to BE rich and beautiful. They are lovely and blessed. Seriously, they will have beautiful families and lovely stories and tender happy lives. But there are some couples where this is blatantly not the case. There are some women who use their men. Men buy these women breast implants, cars, jewelry, pay their rent, take them to villas, etc. Some women know they can get what they want. They are sorceresses divine. These women are beautiful and dangerous. They are the sirens of the world and what makes them dangerous is that they are quite aware of their beauty and how to use it for evil.
And for rent.
But I also find some women awful. Sometimes I wish I were a man. Sometimes.
And I feel like a snot for thinking this about certain women, but I do.
Particular women.
These are some women I find particularly troublesome and/or annoying:
1. Women who wear shoes they can't walk in.
Why would you do this to yourself? The truth is, if it doesn't fit in the store, it's not going to fit at home. Don't waste your time trying to break it in. Do you realize you look dumb with 3 band-aids on your ankle? Look at it this way. Would you buy a shirt that left gashes on your stomach? No. Then why do you think it's okay to buy a shoe that leaves gashes on your toes. Exactly. You should not buy shoes you can't walk in. You do not look sexy. You look like you are about to topple over. Take off your stilettos and your 6-inch platforms and own up to a nice pair of sensible flats.
2. Women with east coast Manhattan accents.
I'm sorry, I just think you sound silly.
3. Women who look like hookers.
I know that I am guilty of fashion errors, I did wear far too many mismatched socks up until...well, okay, I still wear mismatched socks (I blame Punky Brewster for this undying habit) but I do not dress like a hooker. There is a classy way to show off your goods. I'm all for a plunging neckline and a short short skirt. Just usually not at the same time. We have friends and mirrors to let us know when we look ridiculous. Let's use them.
4. Arm candy women hanging from the arms of rich men.
We all know women like this. They dress the part, say yes, like money, flashy cars, parties, and Flirtinis. Any woman who orders a Flirtini should just....okay, back to the real matter. These women are beautiful. You secretly want to look like them. And I will preface this by saying some loving couples just happen to BE rich and beautiful. They are lovely and blessed. Seriously, they will have beautiful families and lovely stories and tender happy lives. But there are some couples where this is blatantly not the case. There are some women who use their men. Men buy these women breast implants, cars, jewelry, pay their rent, take them to villas, etc. Some women know they can get what they want. They are sorceresses divine. These women are beautiful and dangerous. They are the sirens of the world and what makes them dangerous is that they are quite aware of their beauty and how to use it for evil.
And for rent.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Profile of a Man
He had one arm.
His shirt sleeve flapped lightly in the wind as he sat there scribbling gibberish on a lonley sheet of crumpled white computer paper. His handwriting looked haphazard and fantastical. Perhaps he was a genius. Perhaps he was homeless. Perhaps he simply was once right-handed and now had to scrawl with his left hand due to whatever took away his right.
He looked sad. And alone.
He looked very much alone in this world.
And as I walked past the outdoor cafe seating, watching this old man shift uncertainly in his chair on the side of the street, I felt for him very deeply. His weathered face told a story I desperately wanted to know. His eyes were shiny and for a moment I saw his life flash before my eyes. I saw this white-haired man as a son and then a husband and then a father, I saw one white hot crisp moment that changed his life, and then I saw him lose it all....his family, his name, his honor.
He traveled the world. He wrote stories. He found literature. He found drugs. He talked to strangers. He talked to himself.
He existed in the tropics and rode horses.
He saw war. He saw death. He reminisced. He missed his wife, he missed his children.
He had no choice but to imagine a new reality for himself.
Our eyes met for a chance moment and I looked down, continuing on my way, feeling as though I had oddly trespassed or seen too much.
He kept on writing. His face was a still marvel of expression.
For better or worse, maybe this was just a crazy man scribbling on a sheet of paper.
And yet, I felt myself silently hoping that at one point in this old man's life, he had ridden wild horses in the tropics.
I smiled. And then I walked away.
His shirt sleeve flapped lightly in the wind as he sat there scribbling gibberish on a lonley sheet of crumpled white computer paper. His handwriting looked haphazard and fantastical. Perhaps he was a genius. Perhaps he was homeless. Perhaps he simply was once right-handed and now had to scrawl with his left hand due to whatever took away his right.
He looked sad. And alone.
He looked very much alone in this world.
And as I walked past the outdoor cafe seating, watching this old man shift uncertainly in his chair on the side of the street, I felt for him very deeply. His weathered face told a story I desperately wanted to know. His eyes were shiny and for a moment I saw his life flash before my eyes. I saw this white-haired man as a son and then a husband and then a father, I saw one white hot crisp moment that changed his life, and then I saw him lose it all....his family, his name, his honor.
He traveled the world. He wrote stories. He found literature. He found drugs. He talked to strangers. He talked to himself.
He existed in the tropics and rode horses.
He saw war. He saw death. He reminisced. He missed his wife, he missed his children.
He had no choice but to imagine a new reality for himself.
Our eyes met for a chance moment and I looked down, continuing on my way, feeling as though I had oddly trespassed or seen too much.
He kept on writing. His face was a still marvel of expression.
For better or worse, maybe this was just a crazy man scribbling on a sheet of paper.
And yet, I felt myself silently hoping that at one point in this old man's life, he had ridden wild horses in the tropics.
I smiled. And then I walked away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)