"Don't forget to wear something green tomorrow," Danny said last night. But that is not my color, and so the only suitable thing in my closet is a pair of forest green stacked-heel oxfords. (Purchased in Nolita, $50, 2004.) Instead, I will wear my old MBV shirt. This is how I imagine things going:
SCENE - POST STREET, DAYTIME
ANNIE is trudging to the office in jeans and her MBV tee. She has made an attempt to not look completely unkempt; she has washed her hair and everything. While walking to his office, FAKE RYAN GOSLING spots her out of the corner of his eye.
FRG: Oh hello, Fake Natalie Portman!
ANNIE: Hi, Fake Ryan Gosling. I don't get Natalie Portman very much anymore. Last time it was Sarah Jessica Parker, and before that, Rumer Willis. All things considered, I think I preferred Natalie Portman.
FRG: Technically, she would look like you, since you are older. Everyone knows you had the cheek mole first, too. She is totally biting your style.
ANNIE: Thank you.
FRG: You are welcome. I was kind of clueless when you were talking about my bicycle panniers at the farmer's market, you know.
ANNIE: It's okay. I told myself that maybe you were gay, and that was why you showed so little interest in conversation. Doing so allows me to avoid examining the reasons behind my failure to charm you even slightly.
FRG: Oh, I am not gay (although if I were, that is OK, too). I am just clueless. Your feminine wiles are indeed irresistible, my pet, and what's that you're wearing? A faded, cut-up My Bloody Valentine t-shirt?
ANNIE: Why, yes. Yes, it is.
FRG: I surmise that you are wearing it because My Bloody Valentine are an Irish band, and today is St. Patrick's Day. What sartorial brilliance! Everybody will get the allusion and nobody will harass you about not wearing green — which, as we all can see, is really not your color. What are you doing after work? May I buy you a drink — say, at House of Shields?
ANNIE: Only if we can call it House of Kevin Shields.
FRG: That is clever! Even if nobody else has ever seemed to think so.
ANNIE: Why are we using so few contractions?
FIN
In reality, this is what is likely to unfold:
SCENE - POST STREET, DAYTIME
ANNIE walks to the office and nearly avoids being peed on by a muttering vagrant. LOITERING BIKE MESSENGER DUDES give her the staredown, which makes her want to point at their patches and tell them that Amebix was really a crap band.
ANNIE: Not wearing green does not mean I am an anti-celebratory grouch.
EVERYBODY ELSE IN THE WORLD: Yuh-huh! It does!
ANNIE: But I am wearing an Irish band's shirt. Isn't that enough?
EEITW: No! Commence the pinching!
As a crowd hopped up on Lucky Charms and Shamrock Shakes advances, ANNIE attempts to escape. Unfortunately, she is no match for their crabby fingers, and she is slowly pinched to death. Her last words are a gasped telling of a holiday-appropriate joke that she always finds funny despite only one other person EVER laughing at it.
FIN
ANNIE is trudging to the office in jeans and her MBV tee. She has made an attempt to not look completely unkempt; she has washed her hair and everything. While walking to his office, FAKE RYAN GOSLING spots her out of the corner of his eye.
FRG: Oh hello, Fake Natalie Portman!
ANNIE: Hi, Fake Ryan Gosling. I don't get Natalie Portman very much anymore. Last time it was Sarah Jessica Parker, and before that, Rumer Willis. All things considered, I think I preferred Natalie Portman.
FRG: Technically, she would look like you, since you are older. Everyone knows you had the cheek mole first, too. She is totally biting your style.
ANNIE: Thank you.
FRG: You are welcome. I was kind of clueless when you were talking about my bicycle panniers at the farmer's market, you know.
ANNIE: It's okay. I told myself that maybe you were gay, and that was why you showed so little interest in conversation. Doing so allows me to avoid examining the reasons behind my failure to charm you even slightly.
FRG: Oh, I am not gay (although if I were, that is OK, too). I am just clueless. Your feminine wiles are indeed irresistible, my pet, and what's that you're wearing? A faded, cut-up My Bloody Valentine t-shirt?
ANNIE: Why, yes. Yes, it is.
FRG: I surmise that you are wearing it because My Bloody Valentine are an Irish band, and today is St. Patrick's Day. What sartorial brilliance! Everybody will get the allusion and nobody will harass you about not wearing green — which, as we all can see, is really not your color. What are you doing after work? May I buy you a drink — say, at House of Shields?
ANNIE: Only if we can call it House of Kevin Shields.
FRG: That is clever! Even if nobody else has ever seemed to think so.
ANNIE: Why are we using so few contractions?
In reality, this is what is likely to unfold:
ANNIE walks to the office and nearly avoids being peed on by a muttering vagrant. LOITERING BIKE MESSENGER DUDES give her the staredown, which makes her want to point at their patches and tell them that Amebix was really a crap band.
ANNIE: Not wearing green does not mean I am an anti-celebratory grouch.
EVERYBODY ELSE IN THE WORLD: Yuh-huh! It does!
ANNIE: But I am wearing an Irish band's shirt. Isn't that enough?
EEITW: No! Commence the pinching!
As a crowd hopped up on Lucky Charms and Shamrock Shakes advances, ANNIE attempts to escape. Unfortunately, she is no match for their crabby fingers, and she is slowly pinched to death. Her last words are a gasped telling of a holiday-appropriate joke that she always finds funny despite only one other person EVER laughing at it.
Labels: music
I had no interest in reading the Twilight books. Sabs told me they were awful but addictive, yet I have this thing called the Faulkner Theory of Reading Priority. See, there are only so many reading hours left in my life, and there's a lot of Faulkner left to read (and you have to read Faulkner more than once). So if it comes down to reading a book about a sparkly vampire or a dysfunctional Southern family, I go for the Compsons over the Cullens. Especially because I can go see the Twilight movies, which feature Robert Pattinson in foundation two shades too light for him.
But then Jen gave me the four-book Twilight series, and I was still on crutches so I was happy to have any sort of entertainment possible. The books are enjoyably awful, with clunky prose and cliché dialogue and typos galore. I read the first in an afternoon, the second the next, and went through the third the following weekend. Unfortunately, the glee of reading Twilight passages out loud to my roommate and her boyfriend began to fade. And then I could walk again, so the final book remains unread. (From what I have been told, Edward uses his fangs to do an impromptu c-section on Bella, who gives birth to a TALKING BABY.) I hope this guy sticks with his reading-the-books project, because I cannot wait to see what he has to say about that.
But then Jen gave me the four-book Twilight series, and I was still on crutches so I was happy to have any sort of entertainment possible. The books are enjoyably awful, with clunky prose and cliché dialogue and typos galore. I read the first in an afternoon, the second the next, and went through the third the following weekend. Unfortunately, the glee of reading Twilight passages out loud to my roommate and her boyfriend began to fade. And then I could walk again, so the final book remains unread. (From what I have been told, Edward uses his fangs to do an impromptu c-section on Bella, who gives birth to a TALKING BABY.) I hope this guy sticks with his reading-the-books project, because I cannot wait to see what he has to say about that.
Labels: Robert Pattinson
An old friend (let's call him Redacted) is in town from Southern California. He's here because he is head over heels for a girl in San Francisco. As it turns out, I don't know her but I know who she is. She works at _____ and I go to _____ a lot, and when he described her I knew exactly who he was talking about.
When you are in love, you want to tell the whole world about the person you adore. It's like you've stumbled upon some amazing secret that everybody needs to know, and you are the messenger. So I asked Redacted about his special ladyfriend.
Their story is a good one, but it is not my story to share. I will share this, though. I asked him to tell me about her, and this is what has me smiling hours later. "She has the most beautiful laugh," he said. "I could listen to her laugh for the rest of my life."
Redacted had better be careful when he goes back to Hollywood, because some dodgy scriptwriter is going to lift that line for a movie. Then it will join the ranks of "You had me at hello," a phrase that can never feel genuine because it's been used in a Tom Cruise movie. For now, though, Redacted is safe from thieves of sentiment. Redacted is sincere with his words. Redacted is in love, and that makes me very happy.
When you are in love, you want to tell the whole world about the person you adore. It's like you've stumbled upon some amazing secret that everybody needs to know, and you are the messenger. So I asked Redacted about his special ladyfriend.
Their story is a good one, but it is not my story to share. I will share this, though. I asked him to tell me about her, and this is what has me smiling hours later. "She has the most beautiful laugh," he said. "I could listen to her laugh for the rest of my life."
Redacted had better be careful when he goes back to Hollywood, because some dodgy scriptwriter is going to lift that line for a movie. Then it will join the ranks of "You had me at hello," a phrase that can never feel genuine because it's been used in a Tom Cruise movie. For now, though, Redacted is safe from thieves of sentiment. Redacted is sincere with his words. Redacted is in love, and that makes me very happy.
Labels: emo spice
My maternal grandfather was an immigrant, and that side of the family is thoroughly German. After cooking bacon, my grandmother would pour the grease into a coffee can, saving it for, well, I don't know what. But she was saving it. My grandfather kept every rubber band, bank statement, scrap of twine. "You never know when you might need it," he'd say. Living through both World Wars — the first as a child, the next as a young man — created a lifelong habit of frugality.
I know it's not right to generalize, but it is rare to see a messy German. My mom's side of the family, and the vast majority of their countrymen, have a uniquely Teutonic dedication to order and cleanliness. My grandmother's home was always sparkling; I remember her hands glowing pink from cleaning with diluted bleach. (It is a wonder that my mother ever developed proper immunity, because the home held so few germs for her body to fight.) Before we left his house after a visit, my grandfather would rush out to clean our car windows even if he had taken it through a car wash that day. Everything in my grandparents' home was tidy, there was never any dust or disorder, and god forbid you leave a dirty dish in the sink for a moment or two.
Betty is her parents' daughter. I'll clean my apartment before she visits, but while I'm in the shower or running to the store for a minute, she'll make it shine. I ask her not to do this, because it makes me feel like a filthy sow who is being silently judged. (Also, she should just rest and stop working so much.) My take on tidiness is a blend of my father's controlled-chaos clutter and my mother's fastidious and spotless organization.
Yesterday's cold, rainy afternoon made me happy because it meant I could clean the apartment. This probably doesn't sound like fun, but it is so satisfying to zone out with an old toothbrush and dirty tiles. There's a kind of zen-lite focus that develops when all there is to do is disinfect and organize. I like to clean because doing so leads to tangible, visible results. So before an unusually social evening began, while the sky whipped rain against the windows, I was rearranging the contents of my dresser drawers. This probably sounds like the most tedious chore, but like they say, if it makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone, go ahead and do it. Especially if your socks wind up arranged by color in the process.
I know it's not right to generalize, but it is rare to see a messy German. My mom's side of the family, and the vast majority of their countrymen, have a uniquely Teutonic dedication to order and cleanliness. My grandmother's home was always sparkling; I remember her hands glowing pink from cleaning with diluted bleach. (It is a wonder that my mother ever developed proper immunity, because the home held so few germs for her body to fight.) Before we left his house after a visit, my grandfather would rush out to clean our car windows even if he had taken it through a car wash that day. Everything in my grandparents' home was tidy, there was never any dust or disorder, and god forbid you leave a dirty dish in the sink for a moment or two.
Betty is her parents' daughter. I'll clean my apartment before she visits, but while I'm in the shower or running to the store for a minute, she'll make it shine. I ask her not to do this, because it makes me feel like a filthy sow who is being silently judged. (Also, she should just rest and stop working so much.) My take on tidiness is a blend of my father's controlled-chaos clutter and my mother's fastidious and spotless organization.
Yesterday's cold, rainy afternoon made me happy because it meant I could clean the apartment. This probably doesn't sound like fun, but it is so satisfying to zone out with an old toothbrush and dirty tiles. There's a kind of zen-lite focus that develops when all there is to do is disinfect and organize. I like to clean because doing so leads to tangible, visible results. So before an unusually social evening began, while the sky whipped rain against the windows, I was rearranging the contents of my dresser drawers. This probably sounds like the most tedious chore, but like they say, if it makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone, go ahead and do it. Especially if your socks wind up arranged by color in the process.
Labels: neuroses
I used to think I had secret powers. A sampling:
Sadly, I am now a flightless failed mentalist who has one-sided conversations with babies. Now the only magic power that remains is dreaming. I feel sorry for people who can't remember their dreams, because having mine come back to me is one of my favorite daily rituals.
In the last couple of years, a strange new pattern has developed. Right before I fall asleep, exactly as I take that first step into slumber, an intense shock of fear jolts me awake. I often sit up in bed with tremendous force, gasp for air, feel my heart race, feel a shiver run through my body. I never know why I am so petrified, because there's never anything to remember.
This happened last night, as it does most nights, but it was different this time. I bolted awake, opened my eyes, and saw a tall, thin woman standing at the foot of my bed. She had sallow skin and angular curls spiraling out of her head. She was wearing a thin maroon cardigan over a dress the color of institutional light green, and her malicious grin broadened as she crept forward. She had it out for me.
It was a horrible vision, easily as bad as the childhood fever dream in which I had to save my grandfather's life by singing the Tyson chicken jingle ("Tyson's fee-ding you / like fam-i-leeee") to Bob Barker, who was hosting a game show in my clothes closet. Last night I snapped out of it and escaped that awful woman, but the whole thing felt uncomfortably real.
So now, on the cusp of bedtime, I'm trying to decipher what the scary lady is all about. Why, for the first time in all these years of bizarre jolt-awakes, did I hallucinate her? Just thinking of it is making my heart beat faster, giving me chills. I have no idea why I was so scared of her, or what she might represent.
My childhood self would be disappointed by my lack of special powers. But I feel very fortunate to have a strong subconscious that, for whatever reason, plays tricks on my me. It never runs out of things that make me wonder, which may be the reason we dream in the first place. The subconscious mind is such an exciting mystery, even (especially?) when it makes us see things that don't exist. So maybe that is a secret power that we all have. And with that, I am going to brush my teeth, slip into bed, and see if that harpy dares wake me up tonight.
- As a toddler, I believed that I could understand the cries and gurgles of babies in a secret language indecipherable to adults. As I got closer to kindergarten, I quietly panicked because this special ability was slipping away.
- I had recurring dreams of flying. I could feel the strain of flapping my arms, pushing down to soar up to the top of the maple tree at the property line. I took this as a sign that my dreams could come true. If you had looked at our front lawn during the summer of 1987, you would have seen a bird-legged little girl frustratedly waving her arms up and down.
- Around the fifth grade, I was convinced that I could read minds, which led me to track down magic books that would refine my skills. Ladies and gentlemen, the not-so-amazing Kreskin!
Sadly, I am now a flightless failed mentalist who has one-sided conversations with babies. Now the only magic power that remains is dreaming. I feel sorry for people who can't remember their dreams, because having mine come back to me is one of my favorite daily rituals.
In the last couple of years, a strange new pattern has developed. Right before I fall asleep, exactly as I take that first step into slumber, an intense shock of fear jolts me awake. I often sit up in bed with tremendous force, gasp for air, feel my heart race, feel a shiver run through my body. I never know why I am so petrified, because there's never anything to remember.
This happened last night, as it does most nights, but it was different this time. I bolted awake, opened my eyes, and saw a tall, thin woman standing at the foot of my bed. She had sallow skin and angular curls spiraling out of her head. She was wearing a thin maroon cardigan over a dress the color of institutional light green, and her malicious grin broadened as she crept forward. She had it out for me.
It was a horrible vision, easily as bad as the childhood fever dream in which I had to save my grandfather's life by singing the Tyson chicken jingle ("Tyson's fee-ding you / like fam-i-leeee") to Bob Barker, who was hosting a game show in my clothes closet. Last night I snapped out of it and escaped that awful woman, but the whole thing felt uncomfortably real.
So now, on the cusp of bedtime, I'm trying to decipher what the scary lady is all about. Why, for the first time in all these years of bizarre jolt-awakes, did I hallucinate her? Just thinking of it is making my heart beat faster, giving me chills. I have no idea why I was so scared of her, or what she might represent.
My childhood self would be disappointed by my lack of special powers. But I feel very fortunate to have a strong subconscious that, for whatever reason, plays tricks on my me. It never runs out of things that make me wonder, which may be the reason we dream in the first place. The subconscious mind is such an exciting mystery, even (especially?) when it makes us see things that don't exist. So maybe that is a secret power that we all have. And with that, I am going to brush my teeth, slip into bed, and see if that harpy dares wake me up tonight.
Labels: sleep
