"I have a number of irrational fears," as the great Rivers Cuomo once said, "that I'd like to share with you." No rules about goats though, and no comparisons to goats, but I'll let you in on a secret: I love goats.
Because we humans tend to be the tip-top of the food chain, we sometimes forget how fragile and impermanent our lives are. Or at least I do.
OK, except for when I am stressing about how everyone and everything I know and love will die eventually, and how that could be tomorrow AND OMG whatifitistomorrow, and then I'm squeezing my cat hoping she'll make me feel better and it's all just this ugly mess.
So, yea, I personally only forget about death for small bursts between long periods of being fixated on mortality.
But my best guess is that other, more normal folks, don't necessarily spend a lot of time thinking about all the things that could kill, maim or otherwise harm them.
Allow me to enumerate (some of) my fears, circa the California Era (1985-2011)
1. Anesthesia: I know that once I go under, I'm not coming back.
2. Mountain Lions: I've never seen one, but I know that hey have bloodlust, and it's for my blood in particular.
3. Being on a Bridge During an Earthquake: Self explanatory. I know the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge is just waiting to collapse it's ass on my car, trapping me. OR WORSE … somehow knock me into the water, where I WILL DROWN SLOWLY inside my car.
4. Ticks: They all carry Lyme's Disease, and they all want to share it with me. Also, I NEED ALL MY BLOOD, which brings me to…
5. Having Blood Drawn: I NEED ALL OF MY BLOOD. Plus, I start to imagine the needle being *inside* my vein, and then I think HOLY HELL NOTHING BUT BLOOD AND BODY STUFF SHOULD BE IN THERE.
Now, those fears have not gone away in the year (!!) since I moved to Baltimore, MD.
Living out here has, however, changed me.
I am now terrified of a variety of NEW and DIFFERENT things that I never before realized I was terrified of!
1. Trees: Particularly large trees. Particularly large trees located near buildings and cars. In California, our natural disasters come in two basic forms: earthquakes and wildfires. The former are relatively infrequent, and are very rarely large enough to do much more than jostle the wall-mounted dildos you decorate your home with. The latter is likely to warn you that it's coming by sending out smoke signals (HA) and also BURNING HEAT and FLAMES of FIRE, so you have ample time to escape unscathed.
Out here though? WEATHER HAPPENS. 50 plus mph winds happen. Lightning strikes (a lot). Torrential rains pour (so much rain). And all the while? IT IS 114 degrees outside. It's the temperature of Satan's ASSHOLE and it's RAINING and BLOWING and the old man is SNORING and A TREE JUST FELL DOWN AND CRUSHED YOU BENEATH IT'S MAJESTIC GNARLED BRANCHES. Terrorist trees.
2. Power Outages: Apparently A/C is necessary to survival. After NEVER HAVING IT for 26 years, I just kinda didn't expect it to be such a BIG DEAL. But it turns out that, when it's the TEMPERATURE OF SATAN'S ASSHOLE, and a TERRORIST TREE falls and knocks down power lines, and your POWER GOES OUT… you die. Because human's aren't meant to sit around boiling in that kind of heat, period. Let alone for DAYS ON END. So, at the end of that weird Drogo or Dingo or whatever that storm was, I definitely tongue kissed the little box where you adjust the room temperature. Later on, we had a civil ceremony performed by a lesbian officiant from the Unitarian Universalist Church, because I'm from CALIFORNIA and that's HOW WE ROLL.
3. Poisonous Water Snakes: HOLY FUCK PEOPLE. THERE ARE SNAKES IN THE WATER. You know that movie, Snakes on a Plane? Well, it's like that, BUT WORSE. Fresh water snakes. Ocean snakes. Have you heard of this Water Moccasin motherfucker? It's a swimming, poisonous viper, and it's the CHUCK NORRIS of reptiles. It has one purpose: kicking your ass. OK -- so apparently this particular snake doesn't exist in MD -- but it DOES in VA and that shit is RIGHT NEXT DOOR. I'm going swimming in a steel wetsuit.
The moral of all this?
Just don't go outside.
Or be in your house.
Or car.
Or on a bridge.
Or in the wilderness.
Or near or in water.
Basically, you should probably just give up.
EDITED to add:
4. Oil Fires: Today I did something that few people will ever be able to say that they have done. I almost lit my shit on fire while trying to cook popcorn. Luckily, I escaped with just a few singed arm hairs and none of my dignity. The whole reason I was cooking popcorn on the stove top was to a. save money and b. avoid processed poison popcorn. Because I am a vain person and would rather die of cancer from microwave popcorn than lose my face in an oil fire, I will no longer be cooking popcorn on my stove top. Or anything on my stove top. I think pop tarts have all essential vitamins and minerals...right? Shit...I'll just take 2 multi vitamins and live on ice cream.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Adult Swim
Adult swim. Two words that, during youthful days of imaginative play and endless hope, were as soul crushing as any you could ever dream up.
Have you ever accidentally stepped on a firefly, only to watch it crumble and sparkle as it dies it's elegant ass death? Fireflies, summer manifest in an insect: glorious, beautiful, free, shiny and short-lived.
Well, adult swim felt like someone was stepping on a firefly on purpose. And you were the firefly, crumbling beside your purple fun-noodle, glowing with the white-hot heat of rage.
Adults were always allowed in the pool, so why did they also get an appointed time where you weren't? Begrudgingly, you would pull yourself up the side of the pool, feeling the hot stones of the concrete sink into your palms, and scratching your knees against the pool's fiberglass side. Moping, you would drag your feet over to the patch of grass where your family had set up for the day, all the while tugging at your persistent bathing suit wedgie. Sorrowfully, you would sit down on your Little Mermaid towel and stare down at the pool full of adults with eyes of Pure Hatred.
And then, at some point, we all grow up (or at the very least, we age) and become part of the "adult swim" demographic. And, if you're anything like me, you're desperate to go take a dip in the public pool. But you're not so desperate that you would dare brave the throngs of small children in order to do so. And there are small children in mind-boggling numbers; they form sticky-fingered mobs, pee in the pool, and glare at you with Pure Hatred when it's time for "adult swim." It's frightening and unhygienic.
What about if the pool has swim lanes, you might ask? Bitch. Please. Do I look like I want to exercise right now? It's 90-190 degrees outside, it might even be too much effort for me to get to the pool, let alone to get there and decide I'm going to swim 50 laps because HEALTH and WELLNESS. No. I want to float about at my leisure with a goddamn margarita in hand. I will also accept a pina colada. If I wanted to exercise, I'd dance around to some Wii Fitness game in my living room. With the blinds drawn, because I'm too fat from all those margaritas and all that time not doing lap swims. Neighbors do not want to see that.
So clearly, while I was driving around in my hoopty with no A/C, I started to think about "adult swim." I also started to hallucinate because HOLY GOD it gets hot out here on the Atlantic Seaboard, and I am a Bay Area girl who can only tolerate temperatures up to around 80 degrees before slipping into a coma.
Where was I ? Ah yes... Adult swim is a metaphor for the entire crap-ass situation we call adulthood. I mean, some people call it that. I don't. I call it: pretending to have my shit together, despite not even knowing what that means. The adult world is like this massive pool, spanning continents, full of awesome stuff like: waterfalls, castles, legal prostitution, you name it! And we, the adults of the world, only get a few measly minutes of "adult swim" time in that pool. The rest of the time, we're responsible for making sure the pool stays clean, feeding the inhabitants of the pool (self included), and paying all the goddamn water bills for the pool.
When you're a kid, life is all about riding atop ice cream clouds on sugar ponies, and even when life sucks: it's still your time to swim, 90% of the time. As an adult, your moments of joy are meted out to you in small doses. You work 40, 50, 60 hours a week and your reward? 30 minutes of "adult swim" (e.g.: watching the Real Housewives of Bombay Beach cook meth on their camping stoves). Also: hemorrhoids. So the truth is, ADULT SWIM SUCKS as a kid, and it sucks as an adult. No matter what age you are, you feel like you're a sparkly little lightning bug being stepped on by a a thousand feet.
SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.
What I wouldn't give right now for 10 delicious tacos and a private pool/cabana.
But I'm in Baltimore, so I'll have to settle for some crappy tacos and my cat-hair-covered couch.
Have you ever accidentally stepped on a firefly, only to watch it crumble and sparkle as it dies it's elegant ass death? Fireflies, summer manifest in an insect: glorious, beautiful, free, shiny and short-lived.
Well, adult swim felt like someone was stepping on a firefly on purpose. And you were the firefly, crumbling beside your purple fun-noodle, glowing with the white-hot heat of rage.
Adults were always allowed in the pool, so why did they also get an appointed time where you weren't? Begrudgingly, you would pull yourself up the side of the pool, feeling the hot stones of the concrete sink into your palms, and scratching your knees against the pool's fiberglass side. Moping, you would drag your feet over to the patch of grass where your family had set up for the day, all the while tugging at your persistent bathing suit wedgie. Sorrowfully, you would sit down on your Little Mermaid towel and stare down at the pool full of adults with eyes of Pure Hatred.
And then, at some point, we all grow up (or at the very least, we age) and become part of the "adult swim" demographic. And, if you're anything like me, you're desperate to go take a dip in the public pool. But you're not so desperate that you would dare brave the throngs of small children in order to do so. And there are small children in mind-boggling numbers; they form sticky-fingered mobs, pee in the pool, and glare at you with Pure Hatred when it's time for "adult swim." It's frightening and unhygienic.
What about if the pool has swim lanes, you might ask? Bitch. Please. Do I look like I want to exercise right now? It's 90-190 degrees outside, it might even be too much effort for me to get to the pool, let alone to get there and decide I'm going to swim 50 laps because HEALTH and WELLNESS. No. I want to float about at my leisure with a goddamn margarita in hand. I will also accept a pina colada. If I wanted to exercise, I'd dance around to some Wii Fitness game in my living room. With the blinds drawn, because I'm too fat from all those margaritas and all that time not doing lap swims. Neighbors do not want to see that.
So clearly, while I was driving around in my hoopty with no A/C, I started to think about "adult swim." I also started to hallucinate because HOLY GOD it gets hot out here on the Atlantic Seaboard, and I am a Bay Area girl who can only tolerate temperatures up to around 80 degrees before slipping into a coma.
Where was I ? Ah yes... Adult swim is a metaphor for the entire crap-ass situation we call adulthood. I mean, some people call it that. I don't. I call it: pretending to have my shit together, despite not even knowing what that means. The adult world is like this massive pool, spanning continents, full of awesome stuff like: waterfalls, castles, legal prostitution, you name it! And we, the adults of the world, only get a few measly minutes of "adult swim" time in that pool. The rest of the time, we're responsible for making sure the pool stays clean, feeding the inhabitants of the pool (self included), and paying all the goddamn water bills for the pool.
When you're a kid, life is all about riding atop ice cream clouds on sugar ponies, and even when life sucks: it's still your time to swim, 90% of the time. As an adult, your moments of joy are meted out to you in small doses. You work 40, 50, 60 hours a week and your reward? 30 minutes of "adult swim" (e.g.: watching the Real Housewives of Bombay Beach cook meth on their camping stoves). Also: hemorrhoids. So the truth is, ADULT SWIM SUCKS as a kid, and it sucks as an adult. No matter what age you are, you feel like you're a sparkly little lightning bug being stepped on by a a thousand feet.
SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.
What I wouldn't give right now for 10 delicious tacos and a private pool/cabana.
But I'm in Baltimore, so I'll have to settle for some crappy tacos and my cat-hair-covered couch.
Monday, June 4, 2012
ME.
Indefatigable.
Loving.
Curious.
Creative.
Querulous.
Passionate.
Introspective.
Humorous.
Languorous.
Spastic.
Inconsistent.
Reflective.
Nostalgic.
Friendly.
Worrisome.
Paranoid.
Alert.
Nervous.
Ashamed.
Hopeful.
Hopeless.
Spirited.
Inertial.
Humble.
Unconfident.
Spiritual.
Irreligious.
Unmotivated.
Inconspicuous.
Conspicuous.
Driven.
INDEFATIGABLE.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Calistoga
Cross posted on my Tumblr:
The devil was headed to Calistoga; his mare’s chestnut belly, full with foal, near dragging through the rocks and dirt. Straining under the weight of man and child, she plods slowly, kicking up a veil of dust. The man’s left eye twitches as a fat, summer fly breezes past his crusted eyelashes; it is a queer eye, the color undefinable and always changing, yet it is constant in its coldness. The man’s spurs dig into the mare’s flesh and she brays in pain, but the sound is attenuated by the thick foam around her lips. Had she brayed much louder, the man thinks, I would have cut into her with more than just my spurs.
Live oaks, stout and wide, reach out with many gnarled arms and cast misshapen shadows over golden grasses. The man casts a disinterested glance about with his strange, cruel eyes. Nearby, a beetle scuttles through burrs and weeds, looking for dew to drink. Spittle, brown and grainy with the juice of tobacco leaves, trembles behind the man’s lower lip. Like a tumor, the sluice shifts from side-to-side before it is expelled onto the dry, cracked ground. Swept up in the fluid, the unfortunate beetle’s quest for refreshment concluded.
The beetle’s legs hammer out a startled rhythm. With each successful withdrawal of limb from the gelatinous ooze, another is subsumed beneath. The man carries on, leaving the beetle to struggle as if trapped in quicksand: hopelessly. A mirage on the horizon, both the beetle and the scum will burn off quickly in the Indian Summer heat. Somewhere, a small bird hears the beetle’s helpless flailing: a carrion call on the wind.
The devil was headed to Calistoga; his mare’s chestnut belly, full with foal, near dragging through the rocks and dirt. Straining under the weight of man and child, she plods slowly, kicking up a veil of dust. The man’s left eye twitches as a fat, summer fly breezes past his crusted eyelashes; it is a queer eye, the color undefinable and always changing, yet it is constant in its coldness. The man’s spurs dig into the mare’s flesh and she brays in pain, but the sound is attenuated by the thick foam around her lips. Had she brayed much louder, the man thinks, I would have cut into her with more than just my spurs.
Live oaks, stout and wide, reach out with many gnarled arms and cast misshapen shadows over golden grasses. The man casts a disinterested glance about with his strange, cruel eyes. Nearby, a beetle scuttles through burrs and weeds, looking for dew to drink. Spittle, brown and grainy with the juice of tobacco leaves, trembles behind the man’s lower lip. Like a tumor, the sluice shifts from side-to-side before it is expelled onto the dry, cracked ground. Swept up in the fluid, the unfortunate beetle’s quest for refreshment concluded.
The beetle’s legs hammer out a startled rhythm. With each successful withdrawal of limb from the gelatinous ooze, another is subsumed beneath. The man carries on, leaving the beetle to struggle as if trapped in quicksand: hopelessly. A mirage on the horizon, both the beetle and the scum will burn off quickly in the Indian Summer heat. Somewhere, a small bird hears the beetle’s helpless flailing: a carrion call on the wind.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
I Don't Do Shit
This is a blog about friendships, insecurities, and living in the moment. What it is NOT is an excuse. I am trying to improve myself by understanding myself; so while that does necessitate a degree of explanation in order to establish the *why* of my behaviors, it doesn't propose that the why in any way excuses them.
I am a huge Debbie Downer. On Friday, I am already dreading Sunday. Why? Because Monday follows Sunday, which means work, getting up early, going to sleep early, and generally not being able to do Whatever The Hell I Want (WTHIW). Honestly? I sometimes check out of my work week on Wednesday, because its basically Thursday, which is BASICALLY Friday, which is the first day of the weekend. So, as long as I work hard Monday and Tuesday, it's TOTALLY cool to slack off and be a lazy douche for the rest of the week. Logic.
However, even when I have unlimited time to pursue my interests and pleasures, I mostly sleep and zombie wander through life; if I don't have plans, why should I get up? Maybe you see the inherent contradiction in what I have laid out here, and maybe you don't. For those of you who do not, allow me to explicate further: I live my life dreading pre-planned time where I cannot do whatever I please, and when I have free time, I don't do shit. Contradiction, I has it.
For whatever reason, I procrastinate on living because there is always tomorrow; but by tomorrow, there's never enough time. I am perpetually worrying about tomorrow at the loss of today. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I'm nostalgic for yesterday. For some, this might not be more than a simple personality quirk, but for me it has had devastating repercussions.
When I see the voicemail symbol on my Android phone, I panic. The voicemail symbol indicates that in this moment someone is expecting me to be present. Nine times out of ten, I can't even bring myself to listen to the voicemail because the act of listening makes it real. Once I've listened, I can't excuse my delayed response by saying "I didn't listen to my voicemail until […]" because I'll know that I have. Being that I am so thoroughly afraid of living in the moment, of follow through today, of being held responsible for *anything*, the act of returning a call is about as daunting as traveling over Niagra Falls in a wooden tub.
I feel so insecure when I talk to people on the phone, so instead of calling them back, I tell myself I'll call them "tomorrow." Tomorrow becomes a week from tomorrow, becomes a month, becomes several months, and then it's just too awkward to bridge the gap. My delayed response results in no response, which is very damaging to a friendship, because no friend wants to reach out if you're never there for them. For me, there is no today because I am afraid of being present, and tomorrows are infinite.
Some of this insecurity can be traced back to the integration of technology into my social life. Beginning with AOL 3.0, I discovered the confidence that comes with conversational prep time. I could chat or e-mail without any feelings of insecurity, because I had the time and space to properly think through all of my inquiries and responses! None of the stress of one-on-one conversation, of responding in time, of "sounding" stupid. Of course, none of this occurred to me in 1994 when I was 9 years old; but it definitely occurs to me now, and has been apparent for many years.
When I am writing, I am confident in my intellect and wit. I can delete, I can re-word, I can take my time. There is no need to put off until tomorrow, because there's no stress in performing today. For the most part, I am able to live my electronic life in the moment.
So much about this is problematic. The most problematic aspect? My friends are geniuses. My best friend, J, is not only a genius: she is the most gorgeous genius I know. Over time, I came to feel more and more that I could not match the intellect of the folks I had surrounded myself with. I became increasingly withdrawn, dwelling more on my relative inadequacies than the awesomeness of our friendships. This fit well with my inability to live in the moment; I pushed things away, farther down the road, to avoid facing my own pain. Of course, when I actually talked to any of my friends, it was never awkward or weird: it has always been mostly in my head. I wanted more than anything to "be there" for my friends, whenever, wherever they needed me. In reality, I spent most of my time thinking about this and little of my time acting on it. Huge, painful changes happened in J's life, and they were exceptionally frightening to me. I put off phone calls, I ignored voicemails, and I hoped I could communicate my love telepathically. For future reference: no, I am not a telepath. That shit didn't work.
And it still doesn't work.
This year, I want to try and overcome my insecurity and my low self-esteem. Moreover, I want to be present and communicative with my friends. Year after year I have allowed us to grow apart in order to avoid thinking about today and thinking about my lack of confidence.
Eventually, though…there are no tomorrows. Eventually, there are no friends. All the positive energy in the world can't replace being present.
And so I vow to stop thinking about how great our friendships were, and to start thinking about how to make them incredible now.
No. Not to start *thinking* about how to make them incredible: to start DOING what it takes to be a real friend.
Here's to today!
I am a huge Debbie Downer. On Friday, I am already dreading Sunday. Why? Because Monday follows Sunday, which means work, getting up early, going to sleep early, and generally not being able to do Whatever The Hell I Want (WTHIW). Honestly? I sometimes check out of my work week on Wednesday, because its basically Thursday, which is BASICALLY Friday, which is the first day of the weekend. So, as long as I work hard Monday and Tuesday, it's TOTALLY cool to slack off and be a lazy douche for the rest of the week. Logic.
However, even when I have unlimited time to pursue my interests and pleasures, I mostly sleep and zombie wander through life; if I don't have plans, why should I get up? Maybe you see the inherent contradiction in what I have laid out here, and maybe you don't. For those of you who do not, allow me to explicate further: I live my life dreading pre-planned time where I cannot do whatever I please, and when I have free time, I don't do shit. Contradiction, I has it.
For whatever reason, I procrastinate on living because there is always tomorrow; but by tomorrow, there's never enough time. I am perpetually worrying about tomorrow at the loss of today. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I'm nostalgic for yesterday. For some, this might not be more than a simple personality quirk, but for me it has had devastating repercussions.
When I see the voicemail symbol on my Android phone, I panic. The voicemail symbol indicates that in this moment someone is expecting me to be present. Nine times out of ten, I can't even bring myself to listen to the voicemail because the act of listening makes it real. Once I've listened, I can't excuse my delayed response by saying "I didn't listen to my voicemail until […]" because I'll know that I have. Being that I am so thoroughly afraid of living in the moment, of follow through today, of being held responsible for *anything*, the act of returning a call is about as daunting as traveling over Niagra Falls in a wooden tub.
I feel so insecure when I talk to people on the phone, so instead of calling them back, I tell myself I'll call them "tomorrow." Tomorrow becomes a week from tomorrow, becomes a month, becomes several months, and then it's just too awkward to bridge the gap. My delayed response results in no response, which is very damaging to a friendship, because no friend wants to reach out if you're never there for them. For me, there is no today because I am afraid of being present, and tomorrows are infinite.
Some of this insecurity can be traced back to the integration of technology into my social life. Beginning with AOL 3.0, I discovered the confidence that comes with conversational prep time. I could chat or e-mail without any feelings of insecurity, because I had the time and space to properly think through all of my inquiries and responses! None of the stress of one-on-one conversation, of responding in time, of "sounding" stupid. Of course, none of this occurred to me in 1994 when I was 9 years old; but it definitely occurs to me now, and has been apparent for many years.
When I am writing, I am confident in my intellect and wit. I can delete, I can re-word, I can take my time. There is no need to put off until tomorrow, because there's no stress in performing today. For the most part, I am able to live my electronic life in the moment.
So much about this is problematic. The most problematic aspect? My friends are geniuses. My best friend, J, is not only a genius: she is the most gorgeous genius I know. Over time, I came to feel more and more that I could not match the intellect of the folks I had surrounded myself with. I became increasingly withdrawn, dwelling more on my relative inadequacies than the awesomeness of our friendships. This fit well with my inability to live in the moment; I pushed things away, farther down the road, to avoid facing my own pain. Of course, when I actually talked to any of my friends, it was never awkward or weird: it has always been mostly in my head. I wanted more than anything to "be there" for my friends, whenever, wherever they needed me. In reality, I spent most of my time thinking about this and little of my time acting on it. Huge, painful changes happened in J's life, and they were exceptionally frightening to me. I put off phone calls, I ignored voicemails, and I hoped I could communicate my love telepathically. For future reference: no, I am not a telepath. That shit didn't work.
And it still doesn't work.
This year, I want to try and overcome my insecurity and my low self-esteem. Moreover, I want to be present and communicative with my friends. Year after year I have allowed us to grow apart in order to avoid thinking about today and thinking about my lack of confidence.
Eventually, though…there are no tomorrows. Eventually, there are no friends. All the positive energy in the world can't replace being present.
And so I vow to stop thinking about how great our friendships were, and to start thinking about how to make them incredible now.
No. Not to start *thinking* about how to make them incredible: to start DOING what it takes to be a real friend.
Here's to today!
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