My wedding song.
Related:
Showing posts with label Self-Indulgence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Self-Indulgence. Show all posts
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
I'm totally famous, y'all!
Okay, not at all. But still, a girl can dream, right?
It's funny how I don't talk about the stuff I've been doing for g14 because I'm crazy self-conscious and David loves putting me in uncomfortable situations and making me embarrass myself all over the internets.
However, when he told me that g14 had been featured on blip TV, I was excited for them. They spotlighted The 80s Son video as well as Stone & McGregor, in which I play Miss (don't call me crazy) Parker. So here you go. G14 is featured about two thirds of the way in and there's a 3-second clip of me with the camera practically up my nose on a website that isn't run by my friends.
It's funny how I don't talk about the stuff I've been doing for g14 because I'm crazy self-conscious and David loves putting me in uncomfortable situations and making me embarrass myself all over the internets.
However, when he told me that g14 had been featured on blip TV, I was excited for them. They spotlighted The 80s Son video as well as Stone & McGregor, in which I play Miss (don't call me crazy) Parker. So here you go. G14 is featured about two thirds of the way in and there's a 3-second clip of me with the camera practically up my nose on a website that isn't run by my friends.
Dina Kaplan, a co-founder and Chief Operating Officer of blip.tv, reviews cool picks of the week the The Ointment, Sweaty Robot, and g14 Productions. (3 minutes).
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Another site for me not to update
Part of the reason that I've had such a difficult time updating this site is because I can't write. The other part is that I spend too much letting celebrity news chew holes in my brain like syphilis. So, as part of my therapy, I present to you, The Hollywood Flash. It's basically a place where I can get all of this stuff out of my head; It's taking up too much room and I'd really like to be able to remember how to do long division.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Crying, sometimes over you, sometimes not.
As I was shoved up against a man's knees and breathing in a mixture of sweat and stale urine on the 1 train last week, I noticed something that should have been more unusual: the woman standing next to me was crying. Our eyes accidentally met in that awkward shared-commute kind of way, and I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. The look on her face wasn't one of embarrassment, as you might think, but one of resignation. It was a look that said, "Yeah. I'm on a subway, it's rush hour, and I'm crying. What're you gonna do?" I liked that look because it was a look I understood.
For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.
I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.
I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.
I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.
Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.
When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.
As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"
For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.
I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.
I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.
I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.
Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.
When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.
As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"
Friday, December 01, 2006
Awkward...
I didn't write a lot of notes in high school, or very much bad poetry in middle school, but it's always fun to come across what I've saved from that time. The notes are good for nostalgia purposes, and the poetry, while horrible, was never made public, so it doesn't really bother me. There was, however, this one time in elementary school...
This is a case in which the writing itself is unimportant, because what really mattered was the subject matter. This isn't some pathetic poetry that I put into a notebook and never showed to anyone or a painful love-letter, it's something I thought was so amazing that I needed to share it with the entire 5th grade at Cool Spring Elementary.
I moved around a lot when I was little. I went to 9 elementary schools by the time my parents divorced when I was in the third grade. The combination of constantly being the new kid and my parents seeing no need to actually put me around children my own age basically made me into a social retard. I couldn't identify with other kids and was painfully shy.
I discovered early on that reading was a great way to stay busy and not talk to people (not to mention that it looked like you didn't care that they weren't talking to you). My parents loved the fact that I read a lot because it kept me out of their hair. I had no problem getting money to buy more books.
One day, in the 5th grade, I'm at a bar with my dad and I ask him for book money. He orders another beer and gives me a ten. I go around the corner to the drug store and buy a book. I go back to the bar, sit back on my stool and start reading. The book is really good.
Around the same time, we have a project in school. We have to pick a book and write a short play based on it. This was elementary school, so the "play" was only supposed to be a page or two long. My friend Steve did his on Freckle Juice.
Well, the book I was reading was so amazing that I had to use it. I started writing. And I couldn't stop. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I held casting sessions with confused-looking classmates during recess. I made copies of what turned into an 11-page epic and gave them their scripts. Then it was performance day.
We performed our scenes in front of not only our class, but the neighboring 5th grade class as well. I was excited. My play was amazing and I knew everyone would love it.
We started the play. The main character was Missy, a pretty, popular high schooler. She had a dreamy boyfriend and great friends with whom she had giggly sleepover parties. Then Missy was murdered.
My attention to detail in my writing meant that one of my 11-year-old classmates enacted putting a log onto another of my classmates to ensure that she would drown in five inches of water. Steve Chose a Judy Blume book. I chose Missy's Murder, a true crime book about a girl who was beaten and drowned by her best friend.
I remember looking around and seeing the uneasy, fearful looks on my teacher's and classmates faces. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that I had been so caught up in my own head that I had completely misjudged the situation. This was clearly not my time to shine.
This is a case in which the writing itself is unimportant, because what really mattered was the subject matter. This isn't some pathetic poetry that I put into a notebook and never showed to anyone or a painful love-letter, it's something I thought was so amazing that I needed to share it with the entire 5th grade at Cool Spring Elementary.
I moved around a lot when I was little. I went to 9 elementary schools by the time my parents divorced when I was in the third grade. The combination of constantly being the new kid and my parents seeing no need to actually put me around children my own age basically made me into a social retard. I couldn't identify with other kids and was painfully shy.
I discovered early on that reading was a great way to stay busy and not talk to people (not to mention that it looked like you didn't care that they weren't talking to you). My parents loved the fact that I read a lot because it kept me out of their hair. I had no problem getting money to buy more books.
One day, in the 5th grade, I'm at a bar with my dad and I ask him for book money. He orders another beer and gives me a ten. I go around the corner to the drug store and buy a book. I go back to the bar, sit back on my stool and start reading. The book is really good.
Around the same time, we have a project in school. We have to pick a book and write a short play based on it. This was elementary school, so the "play" was only supposed to be a page or two long. My friend Steve did his on Freckle Juice.
Well, the book I was reading was so amazing that I had to use it. I started writing. And I couldn't stop. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I held casting sessions with confused-looking classmates during recess. I made copies of what turned into an 11-page epic and gave them their scripts. Then it was performance day.
We performed our scenes in front of not only our class, but the neighboring 5th grade class as well. I was excited. My play was amazing and I knew everyone would love it.
We started the play. The main character was Missy, a pretty, popular high schooler. She had a dreamy boyfriend and great friends with whom she had giggly sleepover parties. Then Missy was murdered.
My attention to detail in my writing meant that one of my 11-year-old classmates enacted putting a log onto another of my classmates to ensure that she would drown in five inches of water. Steve Chose a Judy Blume book. I chose Missy's Murder, a true crime book about a girl who was beaten and drowned by her best friend.
I remember looking around and seeing the uneasy, fearful looks on my teacher's and classmates faces. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that I had been so caught up in my own head that I had completely misjudged the situation. This was clearly not my time to shine.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Exposed
Some people are afraid of public speaking. To them the experience is akin to standing in front of a crowd completely naked. Exposed. And all eyes are on you.
To overcome this fear, the most common piece of advice is to picture your audience naked. Apparently, it doesn't matter so much if they're judging you if you're judging them right back. I don't know. I've never tried this trick, but I am quite skeptical of any relaxation technique that involves me picturing my mother in the nude.
Luckily, I am not called upon to speak in public very often, and when I am, it doesn't frighten me. It's talking. I do it every day. Whether it's in front of one person or a hundred, it's still the same act.
I'm a natually nervous person. Virtually any interaction with people is unsettling. So I talk. Babble, really. The more I talk, I reason, the more my audience will be focused on my words. The more they're focused on my words, the less they're focused on my nervous tics, or my hair, or what I'm wearing, or the fact that I really need to visit my eyebrow lady. The more I talk, the less they focus on me. The more I say, the less exposed I am.
It doesn't work if you just talk, though. You have to have something else; you need a hook. The truly successful talkers have intelligence. They use what they know in an engaging and non-condescending way. They can throw out interesting facts and clever anecdotes. They are the cocktail party talkers. I am not one of these people.
Instead of intelligence, I use humor, and more often, inappropriateness. If I throw out a funny enough one-liner, or an especially colorful curse word (I find that "fucktard" works especially well in this situation. "Fucktard" is a word that naturally draws attention to itself) people will focus on it instead of you.
I don't know if this can be considered a science or an art. Maybe both. Probably neither. Personally, I lean towards art. This is mainly because any time I get going on a talking jag, I have a very clear mental image of me tap dancing. As fast as I can.
Public speaking doesn't scare me. What scares me is public not speaking. If I'm in front of a group of people and I can't talk to cover myself? That's frightening. Of course, this is something I never realized or even thought about until I was wearing a cute dress and standing in uncomfortable shoes in a vinyard while somebody thrust a bouquet into my hands. My little sister was getting married and I was in the wedding.
I've never been a bridesmaid before. I've only been to three or four weddings in my life. I performed my dad's wedding, but my job was to talk. And stand behind a lectern. This time, I have to walk--slowly--which goes against every instinct I have, and I don't get to say a word as people just stare at me. Now, the situation isn't that dire, as there are other people to look at. Namely the bride. If I can just hold it together until she makes it down the aisle, I'll be fine. Nobody will even notice me. Walk slowly, don't trip, hold the bouquet, just stand there. No problem. Until there was a problem.
For various reasons, we are unable to have an actual rehearsal until about an hour before the wedding. The bridesmaids and groomsmen are all dressed and ready to go, and my sister was in her I Love Lucy pajamas so her soon-to-be husband won't see her in her wedding dress too early.
The mood is light as we walk down the aisle and take our places. We're cracking jokes and laughing at how funny my sister looks in her flannel pajamas and veil. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. Replace the actual veil with a bath towel veil and she'll be six years old.
Dad comes down the aisle and practices giving away his youngest child. He gets teary. I laugh. Dad always cries. I always find it amusing. I lean over to one of the bridesmaids,
"Dad's going to lose his shit during the ceremony. He'll cry more than anyone else" I predict.
As dad takes his seat in the front row, I notice that the mothers are getting a little teary as well. This I find unsettling. I'm not a big fan of emotions in general, of people expresisng their feelings. It makes me uncomfortable. And crying? Crying I find fucking terrifying. I don't like it when it happens in front of me. If someone starts crying, I immediately become like a caged animal, trying to find any means of escape. I have contemplated gnawing off my own arm on more than one occasion.
Crying is something I don't even like to do by myself in the privacy of my own home. I don't find it cathartic. Crying just makes me feel dirty and a little bit sick.
And crying in public? Okay, you know how those people who are afraid of public speaking feel naked? For me, public crying is like being naked in front of a crowd. While having sex. With a relative. And people are videotaping it. While everything dirty or embarrassing I've ever done in my life is being shown on a jumbotron behind me. As all of my deepest, innermost shameful thoughts are being broadcast over a loudspeaker. And there's a woman interpreting it into sign language.
There's a definite feeling of exposure.
It's time for the ceremony. Somebody shoves a bouquet into my hands and I take my cute dress and uncomfortable shoes down the aisle as slowly as I possibly can. I take my place up front, acutely aware of all of the people who have been watching me. I take a shaky breath. The music changes and I see my sister walking down the aisle. This is when the problems start.
She looks absolutely stunning in her wedding dress. Dad looks so handsome in his suit, so...fatherly. The groom has such a look of excitement and joy as he welcomes his bride. The family is beaming with pride. This is going to be a beautiful wedding.
And I lose it.
Nobody has even started talking; the guests are still standing. And I cannot keep it together. I do not look beautiful and noble. I am not the proud sister, with a sheen of tears accenting the green in my eyes, fighting valiantly through the emotions. No, I am full-out crying. Sobbing, really. Complete with snot and shoulder shaking. It is taking every ounce of strength I possess to remain quiet. I'm even holding my breath at times to keep everything at bay.
"Holy shit. What am I doing? Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying. People are looking. Stop crying. This has got to end soon."
It doesn't.
It doesn't end during the vows, it doesn't end during the ring exchange, it doesn't end during the kiss. It doesn't even end as we are all filing out.
As we're lining up for the reception line, people are patting me on the arm and giving me more tissues. I'm still crying.
Guests are coming down the reception line. They are shaking hands. I alternate between crying and sniffling pathetically. When people get to me, they talk about my crying. I stop crying. I try to laugh. I start crying again. This continues until we're ready to leave the vinyard and go to the reception. I don't think I've ever cried for this long in my life. I want to crawl under the covers and hide.
We get to the reception. Adonilia is there. This is the first time I've seen her since she abandoned me to move back to Virginia.
"Everybody's talking about how you cried," she says. "Shut the fuck up. They are not," I say as I pour my first of many drinks. "Okay," she replies, "except...they are."
I hate her.
I was hoping that the change of venue would help everybody forget about what I had done. It did not. All afternoon, family, friends, aquaintences and strangers come up to me to talk about my crying. I'm beginning to wish I had just gone up there and shit myself instead. It would have been just as humiliating, but people would have been too uncomfortable to come up to me and talk about it afterwards.
I am basically living my worst nightmare. I have progressed from wanting to hide out in bed to wanting to walk blindfolded onto a busy highway.
Then it's time for the toasts. The best man and the maid of honor give lovely, brief toasts. Then my dad decides he wants to say a few words. He finishes and calls on my brother to say something. None of this is planned. He gives a nice speech anyway, and dad calls on my older sister, who says a few terrified words. Then he tells me to say something. Once again, everybody is looking at me. I can see the pity in their eyes.
"Oh, the poor crying girl has to make a speech. Bless her heart, I hope she can say something."
I take a deep breath. My speech is about as long as everybody else's put together. It is touching and funny. People are laughing. I start talking faster and faster, my hands flying. I'm picking imaginary clothes out of the air. I am covering myself. For the first time all day, I do not feel exposed.
To overcome this fear, the most common piece of advice is to picture your audience naked. Apparently, it doesn't matter so much if they're judging you if you're judging them right back. I don't know. I've never tried this trick, but I am quite skeptical of any relaxation technique that involves me picturing my mother in the nude.
Luckily, I am not called upon to speak in public very often, and when I am, it doesn't frighten me. It's talking. I do it every day. Whether it's in front of one person or a hundred, it's still the same act.
I'm a natually nervous person. Virtually any interaction with people is unsettling. So I talk. Babble, really. The more I talk, I reason, the more my audience will be focused on my words. The more they're focused on my words, the less they're focused on my nervous tics, or my hair, or what I'm wearing, or the fact that I really need to visit my eyebrow lady. The more I talk, the less they focus on me. The more I say, the less exposed I am.
It doesn't work if you just talk, though. You have to have something else; you need a hook. The truly successful talkers have intelligence. They use what they know in an engaging and non-condescending way. They can throw out interesting facts and clever anecdotes. They are the cocktail party talkers. I am not one of these people.
Instead of intelligence, I use humor, and more often, inappropriateness. If I throw out a funny enough one-liner, or an especially colorful curse word (I find that "fucktard" works especially well in this situation. "Fucktard" is a word that naturally draws attention to itself) people will focus on it instead of you.
I don't know if this can be considered a science or an art. Maybe both. Probably neither. Personally, I lean towards art. This is mainly because any time I get going on a talking jag, I have a very clear mental image of me tap dancing. As fast as I can.
Public speaking doesn't scare me. What scares me is public not speaking. If I'm in front of a group of people and I can't talk to cover myself? That's frightening. Of course, this is something I never realized or even thought about until I was wearing a cute dress and standing in uncomfortable shoes in a vinyard while somebody thrust a bouquet into my hands. My little sister was getting married and I was in the wedding.
I've never been a bridesmaid before. I've only been to three or four weddings in my life. I performed my dad's wedding, but my job was to talk. And stand behind a lectern. This time, I have to walk--slowly--which goes against every instinct I have, and I don't get to say a word as people just stare at me. Now, the situation isn't that dire, as there are other people to look at. Namely the bride. If I can just hold it together until she makes it down the aisle, I'll be fine. Nobody will even notice me. Walk slowly, don't trip, hold the bouquet, just stand there. No problem. Until there was a problem.
For various reasons, we are unable to have an actual rehearsal until about an hour before the wedding. The bridesmaids and groomsmen are all dressed and ready to go, and my sister was in her I Love Lucy pajamas so her soon-to-be husband won't see her in her wedding dress too early.
The mood is light as we walk down the aisle and take our places. We're cracking jokes and laughing at how funny my sister looks in her flannel pajamas and veil. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. Replace the actual veil with a bath towel veil and she'll be six years old.
Dad comes down the aisle and practices giving away his youngest child. He gets teary. I laugh. Dad always cries. I always find it amusing. I lean over to one of the bridesmaids,
"Dad's going to lose his shit during the ceremony. He'll cry more than anyone else" I predict.
As dad takes his seat in the front row, I notice that the mothers are getting a little teary as well. This I find unsettling. I'm not a big fan of emotions in general, of people expresisng their feelings. It makes me uncomfortable. And crying? Crying I find fucking terrifying. I don't like it when it happens in front of me. If someone starts crying, I immediately become like a caged animal, trying to find any means of escape. I have contemplated gnawing off my own arm on more than one occasion.
Crying is something I don't even like to do by myself in the privacy of my own home. I don't find it cathartic. Crying just makes me feel dirty and a little bit sick.
And crying in public? Okay, you know how those people who are afraid of public speaking feel naked? For me, public crying is like being naked in front of a crowd. While having sex. With a relative. And people are videotaping it. While everything dirty or embarrassing I've ever done in my life is being shown on a jumbotron behind me. As all of my deepest, innermost shameful thoughts are being broadcast over a loudspeaker. And there's a woman interpreting it into sign language.
There's a definite feeling of exposure.
It's time for the ceremony. Somebody shoves a bouquet into my hands and I take my cute dress and uncomfortable shoes down the aisle as slowly as I possibly can. I take my place up front, acutely aware of all of the people who have been watching me. I take a shaky breath. The music changes and I see my sister walking down the aisle. This is when the problems start.
She looks absolutely stunning in her wedding dress. Dad looks so handsome in his suit, so...fatherly. The groom has such a look of excitement and joy as he welcomes his bride. The family is beaming with pride. This is going to be a beautiful wedding.
And I lose it.
Nobody has even started talking; the guests are still standing. And I cannot keep it together. I do not look beautiful and noble. I am not the proud sister, with a sheen of tears accenting the green in my eyes, fighting valiantly through the emotions. No, I am full-out crying. Sobbing, really. Complete with snot and shoulder shaking. It is taking every ounce of strength I possess to remain quiet. I'm even holding my breath at times to keep everything at bay.
"Holy shit. What am I doing? Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying. People are looking. Stop crying. This has got to end soon."
It doesn't.
It doesn't end during the vows, it doesn't end during the ring exchange, it doesn't end during the kiss. It doesn't even end as we are all filing out.
As we're lining up for the reception line, people are patting me on the arm and giving me more tissues. I'm still crying.
Guests are coming down the reception line. They are shaking hands. I alternate between crying and sniffling pathetically. When people get to me, they talk about my crying. I stop crying. I try to laugh. I start crying again. This continues until we're ready to leave the vinyard and go to the reception. I don't think I've ever cried for this long in my life. I want to crawl under the covers and hide.
We get to the reception. Adonilia is there. This is the first time I've seen her since she abandoned me to move back to Virginia.
"Everybody's talking about how you cried," she says. "Shut the fuck up. They are not," I say as I pour my first of many drinks. "Okay," she replies, "except...they are."
I hate her.
I was hoping that the change of venue would help everybody forget about what I had done. It did not. All afternoon, family, friends, aquaintences and strangers come up to me to talk about my crying. I'm beginning to wish I had just gone up there and shit myself instead. It would have been just as humiliating, but people would have been too uncomfortable to come up to me and talk about it afterwards.
I am basically living my worst nightmare. I have progressed from wanting to hide out in bed to wanting to walk blindfolded onto a busy highway.
Then it's time for the toasts. The best man and the maid of honor give lovely, brief toasts. Then my dad decides he wants to say a few words. He finishes and calls on my brother to say something. None of this is planned. He gives a nice speech anyway, and dad calls on my older sister, who says a few terrified words. Then he tells me to say something. Once again, everybody is looking at me. I can see the pity in their eyes.
"Oh, the poor crying girl has to make a speech. Bless her heart, I hope she can say something."
I take a deep breath. My speech is about as long as everybody else's put together. It is touching and funny. People are laughing. I start talking faster and faster, my hands flying. I'm picking imaginary clothes out of the air. I am covering myself. For the first time all day, I do not feel exposed.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
You can call me Mary Poppins. Or asshole. Really, either one would be appropriate.
You know that you have truly become a ridiculous individual and your life has reached a brand-new level of asinineness when this is your purse...
...This is everything that is in your purse...
...and you are making up words like "asinineness."
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I make big days extra-special
I’ve mentioned it in passing, but last weekend was a pretty big weekend. My dad, the eternal optimist, got married for the fourth time. Sometime in February, when the family was visiting me in New York, we were at a bar and somebody had the bright idea of having me perform the ceremony. Everything sounds like a good idea when you’re listening to Merle Haggard on the jukebox and working on your third pitcher of Coors Light.
I had two months to prepare for the big day, so what did I do? I went on the internet two days before the wedding and downloaded some stuff which I glanced over and printed out. I actually read it for the first time while standing in the church during the rehearsal. A lot of it was really lame, so I decided I needed to do some editing. So I put the papers in my purse and didn’t look at them again that day.
The next morning, we had to pick the hippy contingent up from the airport, so I decided to start editing. I continued to edit and rewrite as we got to Dad and Holly’s to carpool to the church. I edited some more on in the car on the way to the church. I read over the entire thing and made the final changes as I was waiting for Holly to come down the aisle. I was starting to realize that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
I took a deep breath and glanced up, trying to find someone to look at to help steady my nerves. In the back of the church, was my 81-year-old grandfather whom I hadn’t seen since my grandmother’s funeral nearly five years ago. He was pretty far away, but I could see that he was getting a little teary. Because he was laughing. At me. I looked to the left, and saw my sister and mother laughing and pointing at me as well. Before the whole Carrie-ness of the situation was fully able to sink in, it was time for everybody to take their seats.
I started the ceremony, still terrified because I’ve only been to like, three weddings in my life, so I really didn’t even know how this was supposed to go. I just kept on blah-blahing about whatever and managed to get through it pretty well. The one biggish hitch came during the exchange of the rings. I said what dad was supposed to say, but I guess I didn’t break it up enough, because he had trouble remembering what he was supposed to repeat, leading to the vow of, “and I promise…to…love you, whatever.”
Finally, the rings are exchanged, the very long, uncomfortable kiss was given, the music came up, and the wedding party left, leaving me standing up there with everybody staring at me. I looked over at David, the piano player, hoping for some kind of a cue. Nothing. I looked at the back of the church and saw Holly gesturing to me, like, “come on, get these people out of here.” But they just sat there, looking at me. So, with the class and grace that I am renowned for, I looked around, shrugged, and said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”
I had two months to prepare for the big day, so what did I do? I went on the internet two days before the wedding and downloaded some stuff which I glanced over and printed out. I actually read it for the first time while standing in the church during the rehearsal. A lot of it was really lame, so I decided I needed to do some editing. So I put the papers in my purse and didn’t look at them again that day.
The next morning, we had to pick the hippy contingent up from the airport, so I decided to start editing. I continued to edit and rewrite as we got to Dad and Holly’s to carpool to the church. I edited some more on in the car on the way to the church. I read over the entire thing and made the final changes as I was waiting for Holly to come down the aisle. I was starting to realize that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
I took a deep breath and glanced up, trying to find someone to look at to help steady my nerves. In the back of the church, was my 81-year-old grandfather whom I hadn’t seen since my grandmother’s funeral nearly five years ago. He was pretty far away, but I could see that he was getting a little teary. Because he was laughing. At me. I looked to the left, and saw my sister and mother laughing and pointing at me as well. Before the whole Carrie-ness of the situation was fully able to sink in, it was time for everybody to take their seats.
I started the ceremony, still terrified because I’ve only been to like, three weddings in my life, so I really didn’t even know how this was supposed to go. I just kept on blah-blahing about whatever and managed to get through it pretty well. The one biggish hitch came during the exchange of the rings. I said what dad was supposed to say, but I guess I didn’t break it up enough, because he had trouble remembering what he was supposed to repeat, leading to the vow of, “and I promise…to…love you, whatever.”
Finally, the rings are exchanged, the very long, uncomfortable kiss was given, the music came up, and the wedding party left, leaving me standing up there with everybody staring at me. I looked over at David, the piano player, hoping for some kind of a cue. Nothing. I looked at the back of the church and saw Holly gesturing to me, like, “come on, get these people out of here.” But they just sat there, looking at me. So, with the class and grace that I am renowned for, I looked around, shrugged, and said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
The only difference is you have integrity, I don't.
Okay, so let's just go ahead and get this out of the way: I am not a repressed homosexual--but I may as well be. What I mean is, you know how people say that homophobes only go after gay people because they are full of fear and self-loathing because they themselves are gay? Well, I'm like that--except with privacy; not so much with the gay.
I've always been secretive. Ever since I can remember, I've kept things to myself. I don't like people knowing things about me. If I thought about it hard enough, I could probably pinpoint the reason behind this, but I'm not interested in any of that touchy-feely Dr. Phil/Oprah "Remember your spirit-"type claptrap. Besides, the why isn't what's important. The point is, I compartmentalize. I have separate groups of friends with whom I have different roles. Sometimes I'm the shy one, or the loud one, or the drunk, or the prude. Regardless, I have a tendency to be kind of squirrelly.
I've kept entire relationships secret for ridiculous amounts of time for no particular reason, other than the fact that I didn't feel like talking about it (Hi Harrisonburg guy!) So basically, you get it. I like to keep things close to the vest. Privacy is one of the most important things to me. My privacy, that is, not yours.
Like the guy who calls everybody else a fag and is secretly sneaking peeks in the locker room, I tell you to stop asking me questions while trying to learn everything about you. I want to know who you're dating, who you used to date, what your job is like, who your favorite band is, the last book you read, everything. No matter how seemingly pointless. And sure, most of this is pretty innocuous, and I could probably find out most, if not all, of this information by talking to you. But if I do, then you'll know that I know these things; you'll know that I care, and I don't wnat you to know that about me.
So I'm an e-stalker. Instead of actually talking to people, I look them up on the internet. I learn little things from your messageboard posts or your blogs. I learn these things and I keep them to myself. I'm J. Edgar Hoover-ing your life, one Google search at a time.
And then there was MySpace. MySpace is something I've been struggling to understand ever since the more photographed of the Digico guys introduced it to me all, "Rivers Cuomo has his Harvard admission essays up there." MySpace simultaneously repulsed and tantalized me. MySpace pages were like blogs, but unbelievably, they had even less of an actual purpose. Some of these people didn't say anything at all. They were just kind of...there, all posting pictures of themselves in their underwear. It was basically an entire community of e-whores and stalkers; a virtual Disneyland for the self-obsessed. It was right up my alley. Unfortunately, no one I actually knew was on MySpace and Rivers' academic exploits could only hold my interest for so long.
I stayed away for a couple of years, as it's popularity continued to grow. Any time someone would talk about MySpace, I would feel kind of old, and sad, and a little bit nauseous. Then I randomly went on a few months ago and made an amazing discovery--suddenly everyone I know is on this thing. Hell, their companies have MySpace pages now.
I eagerly caught up with people I haven't seen since high school, kept tabs on guys I dated, visited the pages of friends of friends I will never meet, all without their knowledge and without telling them anything about myself--just the way I like it.
But after a while, I started to feel kind of skeevy, which surprised me, as my threshold for self-skeeviness is extremely high. I started to look at MySpace in a different light. Instead of just crouching outside in the proverbial bushes, spying on these people, what if I actually talked to them? What if I used this as a tool to keep in touch with those friends I keep on meaning to call but never do? It's the lazy man's way of giving a shit!
So here it is: The just created holy-shit-I-honestly-thought-I'd-jump-on-the-"become-a-cokehead-"
bandwagon-before-I'd-jump-on-the-MySpace-bandwagon MySpace page. Feel free to mock me. I'd do the same to you--and for some of you I already have.
I've always been secretive. Ever since I can remember, I've kept things to myself. I don't like people knowing things about me. If I thought about it hard enough, I could probably pinpoint the reason behind this, but I'm not interested in any of that touchy-feely Dr. Phil/Oprah "Remember your spirit-"type claptrap. Besides, the why isn't what's important. The point is, I compartmentalize. I have separate groups of friends with whom I have different roles. Sometimes I'm the shy one, or the loud one, or the drunk, or the prude. Regardless, I have a tendency to be kind of squirrelly.
I've kept entire relationships secret for ridiculous amounts of time for no particular reason, other than the fact that I didn't feel like talking about it (Hi Harrisonburg guy!) So basically, you get it. I like to keep things close to the vest. Privacy is one of the most important things to me. My privacy, that is, not yours.
Like the guy who calls everybody else a fag and is secretly sneaking peeks in the locker room, I tell you to stop asking me questions while trying to learn everything about you. I want to know who you're dating, who you used to date, what your job is like, who your favorite band is, the last book you read, everything. No matter how seemingly pointless. And sure, most of this is pretty innocuous, and I could probably find out most, if not all, of this information by talking to you. But if I do, then you'll know that I know these things; you'll know that I care, and I don't wnat you to know that about me.
So I'm an e-stalker. Instead of actually talking to people, I look them up on the internet. I learn little things from your messageboard posts or your blogs. I learn these things and I keep them to myself. I'm J. Edgar Hoover-ing your life, one Google search at a time.
And then there was MySpace. MySpace is something I've been struggling to understand ever since the more photographed of the Digico guys introduced it to me all, "Rivers Cuomo has his Harvard admission essays up there." MySpace simultaneously repulsed and tantalized me. MySpace pages were like blogs, but unbelievably, they had even less of an actual purpose. Some of these people didn't say anything at all. They were just kind of...there, all posting pictures of themselves in their underwear. It was basically an entire community of e-whores and stalkers; a virtual Disneyland for the self-obsessed. It was right up my alley. Unfortunately, no one I actually knew was on MySpace and Rivers' academic exploits could only hold my interest for so long.
I stayed away for a couple of years, as it's popularity continued to grow. Any time someone would talk about MySpace, I would feel kind of old, and sad, and a little bit nauseous. Then I randomly went on a few months ago and made an amazing discovery--suddenly everyone I know is on this thing. Hell, their companies have MySpace pages now.
I eagerly caught up with people I haven't seen since high school, kept tabs on guys I dated, visited the pages of friends of friends I will never meet, all without their knowledge and without telling them anything about myself--just the way I like it.
But after a while, I started to feel kind of skeevy, which surprised me, as my threshold for self-skeeviness is extremely high. I started to look at MySpace in a different light. Instead of just crouching outside in the proverbial bushes, spying on these people, what if I actually talked to them? What if I used this as a tool to keep in touch with those friends I keep on meaning to call but never do? It's the lazy man's way of giving a shit!
So here it is: The just created holy-shit-I-honestly-thought-I'd-jump-on-the-"become-a-cokehead-"
bandwagon-before-I'd-jump-on-the-MySpace-bandwagon MySpace page. Feel free to mock me. I'd do the same to you--and for some of you I already have.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Lou Bega---Yes, Lou Bega. Or reason #849 why I'm going to die alone.
I have a brand new job that I'm completely digging and a really nice apartment--by New York standards anyway. The trade off though is that I have a retarded commute. I live in the boonies of New York City, otherwise known as the Bronx. My office, on the other hand, is on the very bottom tip of Manhattan. Meaning that I start from halfway up in The Bronx, and travel down through the entire island of Manhattan to get to work. I leave the house around 7:30 and get to my office around 9. What keeps me from killing people is my Ipod. I listen to music from the time I leave my house to the time I arrive in my office. At which point I unplug my headphones and plug my computer speakers in so I can listen the entire time at work. When I leave, I plug the headphones back in and listen until I get home. When I get home, the Ipod stays in my purse, but if I'm on the computer, like I am now, I've got Itunes going. The point is, I've been thinking about music a lot lately.
I had the Ipod on shuffle the other day on the train, and "Hands Down" came on (I know...shut up.) The first thing that came into my mind when this song started playing was sitting in the Herald Square subway station at around 1 in the morning after the Rockafeller tree lighting. The boy I was seeing and I were sitting on the bench. He was getting ready to go down to Brooklyn and I was getting ready to go up to The Bronx. It was that typical stalling because we didn't want to go home yet thing, but we had to work in the morning and blah, blah, blah. He got this really serious look on his face and started to recite the lyrics to this song in this ridiculous faux-heartfelt way and the abject lameness of the song combined with his undeniable dorkiness just cracked me up.
So I'm listening to this song and remembering that night, and I got to thinking about all of the other songs that for one reason or another remind me of boys that I dated. So I made a list. Then I looked at it and came that much closer to really understanding why none of these relationships worked out. Because...Lou Bega. Seriously.
1. Far Behind--Candlebox
2. Smooth--Santana f/Rob Thomas
3.Barracuda--Heart
4. Can't Take My Eyes off of You--Frankie Valli
5. Everything to Me--Liz Phair
6. Come Together--The Beatles
7. La Vida Loca--Ricky Martin
8. Wonderful Place--N.E.R.D
9. Mother Mother--Tracy Bonham
10. Hands Down--Dashboard Confessional
11. Johnny Feelgood--Liz Phair
12. I Got a Girl--Lou Bega
13. Any Fall Out Boy song
I don't know who I'm kidding. I should really just buy like, ten cats right now and call it a day.
I had the Ipod on shuffle the other day on the train, and "Hands Down" came on (I know...shut up.) The first thing that came into my mind when this song started playing was sitting in the Herald Square subway station at around 1 in the morning after the Rockafeller tree lighting. The boy I was seeing and I were sitting on the bench. He was getting ready to go down to Brooklyn and I was getting ready to go up to The Bronx. It was that typical stalling because we didn't want to go home yet thing, but we had to work in the morning and blah, blah, blah. He got this really serious look on his face and started to recite the lyrics to this song in this ridiculous faux-heartfelt way and the abject lameness of the song combined with his undeniable dorkiness just cracked me up.
So I'm listening to this song and remembering that night, and I got to thinking about all of the other songs that for one reason or another remind me of boys that I dated. So I made a list. Then I looked at it and came that much closer to really understanding why none of these relationships worked out. Because...Lou Bega. Seriously.
1. Far Behind--Candlebox
2. Smooth--Santana f/Rob Thomas
3.Barracuda--Heart
4. Can't Take My Eyes off of You--Frankie Valli
5. Everything to Me--Liz Phair
6. Come Together--The Beatles
7. La Vida Loca--Ricky Martin
8. Wonderful Place--N.E.R.D
9. Mother Mother--Tracy Bonham
10. Hands Down--Dashboard Confessional
11. Johnny Feelgood--Liz Phair
12. I Got a Girl--Lou Bega
13. Any Fall Out Boy song
I don't know who I'm kidding. I should really just buy like, ten cats right now and call it a day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)