I definitely rely on the internet for all manner of both news and distraction from what could be perceived as more worthwhile endeavors, tasks, or ahem - job duties. The devastation in Japan following the earthquake, tsunami, earthquake, and nuclear site explosions with threat of meltdown pending are omni-present on the internet, often in mind-blowing visual form as people captured water destroying a city on camera. What I cannot seem to wrap my head around is the seeming lack of distinction made between horrific news in the wake of a natural disaster and the same old same old celebrity b.s. and mindless internet filler that is usually on the top of major homepages. I guess I'm also finding myself having trouble confronting the reality that people are finding corpses wash ashore in Japan. Others are living in school gyms with no access to heat and running water. Others have been wiped off the face of the earth like they were never there. I know that's terrible, and this is not a "favorite things" entry, thematically, but it is hard to reckon with the seeming inability to reckon with something just happening like that. Like, that is reality. That is fact. There is now a pre/post 2011 earthquake distinction for Japan. And I am still thinking about the Real Housewives of Orange County and the Sister Wives of Utah and Bethanny in New York City and how they all might fare in feminist critique - but still watching! Yes, still watching. This is after thinking about whether or not I should buy pretzels and whether or not I should take netflix up on their free trial and whether or not I should consider a shirt I've worn 4 times sufficiently dirty to qualify for washing yet.
And it's not just me, which should be comforting, but is not. I think it's the opposite. The fact that there isn't a "HOLY SHIT" section of every media outlet prior to the "Usual Piffle" section, with distinctions of a similar grade, makes a curious study in our ability to process terrible news and, because it's not directly impacting us in the next 10 minutes, move right along to the next thing. As an example, i give you real Yahoo!.com headlines:
1. Japan Faces Potential Nuclear Catastrophe
2. Ways to Stop Static Cling
3. The Unhealthiest Energy Drinks
4. Japanese Village Vanishes
These stories do not have the same weight. They are not of the same importance. Static cling is probably not going to contain nuclear fallout for a generation of citizens, except fashion fallout- am'i right ladies? But they have the same billing! Maybe it's because considering the powerlessness of others in the face of natural disaster - really giving it some thought and brain space - is too terrifying because it highlights our own helplessness and vulnerability? Or maybe it's the feeling we can't help or change things? But it somehow seems amazing to me that the Kardashian news cycle continues, along with Bieber, Lohan, Gaga, as if really not that much new happened. Maybe this calmed Charlie Sheen's spotlight for 3 minutes, but I think I would feel better if - ok, not if there were public panic, but maybe some sort of pop culturally accepted O.M.G. moment. Ok no, that would be terrible too, and invariably lead to pandering.
I dunno. Obviously this is not a situation with a feel good ending and an easy fix. It's just tricky to evaluate how media examines and reacts to Japan, and, in turn, how I do the same. And while I'm mad at media avoidance, I actually also avoid.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
I might have ambitions for fun like the Irish, but my liver's a teetotaler
I learned yesterday that if you go to a beach town's St. Patrick's Day observed day of drinking, even if you are a bit late and just catch the tale end of the bagpipers, turns out you still have plenty of time to get drunk - drunker than you thought you were getting. Even after years of experience, I still might forget the eventual potency of large volumes of green beer. So much so, that today was really spent as a shame Sunday, where I was just kinda convinced I was not fit for consumption by the world at large as I probably hadn't been the night before, and that I should primarily stay on couch arrest and think about being a terrible person.
Somehow I find that a new incidence of drunken shame or the perceived need for shame based on a sense you did something wrong but don't quite remember (Emily Kite's genius phrase "douche chills" is called out here) often results in recall of past moments of shame - drunken or otherwise. Like, hey, it's 4 p.m. and you're still in your pajama pants and you've eaten a half a block of cheese and watched approximately 6.5 episodes of "Say Yes to the Dress" because it's a marathon and you just let yourself get hooked by the teaser for the "Sister Wives" marathon that starts in 5 minutes and they ARE about to show a whole season. Maybe we should talk about the shame you should be feeling now, when you realize your boob is itchy because there are chip crumbs down your shirt not just from a random itch, rather than the shame you felt in 8th grade when you think you alienated the new girl without even trying or the time you licked a dog on a dare in a bar.
But yeah. I did end up watching a lot of "Sister Wives." It's completely fascinating and very curious, especially from a woman's perspective (though I say that as a woman without any other perspective to call upon). These women spent a lot of time discussing the ways in which they felt jealous or angry, but then felt they were selfish when they were feeling that way because they had all these other great perks, like other wives to help mother their children. Very very interesting. Also, season two (I think) opened with them "outing" themselves on national t.v. by going on the Today Show. Or maybe it was GMA? Or both? I don't know. But I really wanted them to address the obvious question of "how are you not already out by being on a national t.v. show?" Like, if I happened to see those ladies at the grocery store, I'd definitely be like, hey Christine, did you get over your feelings of inadequacy and adjust to the fourth wife? And are you still afraid of toasters (really)? And how DO you make homemade hamburger buns? They look delicious. And you're so good with a curling iron! (She is!)
I just spent a hungover afternoon with them and feel like I know them, so are we to presume no one in their town has cable television?
And somehow I did want to see who went to the grocery store. And who paid bills. And what the teenage kids do when their parents aren't around. Oops! Fascinating television.
Also, they specifically said they did not want their children reading blogs about them and here I am blogging about them. Janelle, wife #2, said she'd rather these no-account bloggers tell her things to her face. Well, Janelle, I want to know where you work. You seem very busy and to have a demanding job, and I wanted to know what that job was. Thanks!
And as far as accountability, well, I guess I would just like you to know I'm acknowledging my time as a jackass yesterday. This little puppet grew donkey ears, and when today I turned back into a real boy, it hurt!
But now shame Sunday's close draws near. An hour earlier at that. Thank you to today's new reality friends for keeping me distracted from my own.
Somehow I find that a new incidence of drunken shame or the perceived need for shame based on a sense you did something wrong but don't quite remember (Emily Kite's genius phrase "douche chills" is called out here) often results in recall of past moments of shame - drunken or otherwise. Like, hey, it's 4 p.m. and you're still in your pajama pants and you've eaten a half a block of cheese and watched approximately 6.5 episodes of "Say Yes to the Dress" because it's a marathon and you just let yourself get hooked by the teaser for the "Sister Wives" marathon that starts in 5 minutes and they ARE about to show a whole season. Maybe we should talk about the shame you should be feeling now, when you realize your boob is itchy because there are chip crumbs down your shirt not just from a random itch, rather than the shame you felt in 8th grade when you think you alienated the new girl without even trying or the time you licked a dog on a dare in a bar.
But yeah. I did end up watching a lot of "Sister Wives." It's completely fascinating and very curious, especially from a woman's perspective (though I say that as a woman without any other perspective to call upon). These women spent a lot of time discussing the ways in which they felt jealous or angry, but then felt they were selfish when they were feeling that way because they had all these other great perks, like other wives to help mother their children. Very very interesting. Also, season two (I think) opened with them "outing" themselves on national t.v. by going on the Today Show. Or maybe it was GMA? Or both? I don't know. But I really wanted them to address the obvious question of "how are you not already out by being on a national t.v. show?" Like, if I happened to see those ladies at the grocery store, I'd definitely be like, hey Christine, did you get over your feelings of inadequacy and adjust to the fourth wife? And are you still afraid of toasters (really)? And how DO you make homemade hamburger buns? They look delicious. And you're so good with a curling iron! (She is!)
I just spent a hungover afternoon with them and feel like I know them, so are we to presume no one in their town has cable television?
And somehow I did want to see who went to the grocery store. And who paid bills. And what the teenage kids do when their parents aren't around. Oops! Fascinating television.
Also, they specifically said they did not want their children reading blogs about them and here I am blogging about them. Janelle, wife #2, said she'd rather these no-account bloggers tell her things to her face. Well, Janelle, I want to know where you work. You seem very busy and to have a demanding job, and I wanted to know what that job was. Thanks!
And as far as accountability, well, I guess I would just like you to know I'm acknowledging my time as a jackass yesterday. This little puppet grew donkey ears, and when today I turned back into a real boy, it hurt!
But now shame Sunday's close draws near. An hour earlier at that. Thank you to today's new reality friends for keeping me distracted from my own.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Friday: disaster control law order toilets
Today began with some text messages from friends and family on the east coast who were letting me know that there were tsunami warnings for the California coast as a result of Japan's gigantor and devastating earthquake and tsunami. The tsunami evacuation route signs are posted about 5-7 blocks inland from where my bed is situated, which was where I was when checking my phone to receive such notice. Once the internet I take for granted as existing and accessible from my home computer gave me sufficient knowledge to know that I was not in imminent danger, I proceeded to the next important order of business of the day, hiding clothing that needed to be put away under my comforter rather than putting it away, all so that the company tasked with replacing my impressively highly functional toilet with a low-flow, green toilet could tromp through my apartment to do so without knowing what a mess I truly was.
Which potentially disastrous event do you think caused me more repeated and intense stress throughout the day - confronting the realization that something similar to the devastation in Japan could happen to me at any day or any time and, despite assuring my father to the contrary, I didn't really know what I would do nor did I have backup batteries for my flashlight (where is my flashlight again?), OR pessimistically having no faith that my apartment's plumbing would be functional upon my return home this evening and believing with certainty that strangers would be knocking on my door to turn off my water (if it wasn't off already) and rip out an old toilet at 7 a.m. tomorrow to replace it with an eco-friendly toilet I was certain would not get the job done?
Yes. Door number two.
(I'm not going to even go with the obvious joke there...this entire post could get very scatological very fast).
Why am I full of indignant rage and outrage because of the tiniest of life's transgressions, yet actively avoidant about eh...what really matters?
To simplify, if only a touch - not having plumbing of any kind due to natural disaster or not having plumbing due to perceived incompetence of building management's inability to make demands of contract workers, my energies go off the charts to the latter.
I really actively spent time throughout the day trying to think positively about the plumbing and NOT assume that my apartment would be a mess (not by my own hand), without running water, and toiletless to boot. It was out of my control. I shouldn't worry about it. Every time I opened a web browser NEW photos of planes and cars heaped together haphazardly like children's toys were being shown. NEW shots of fires, crying people, and bodies in the street. NEW footage of waves overtaking buildings and everything else that we couldn't see below the water in Japan. Threat of a Nuclear Meltdown. I use caps there because, really. Nuclear. Meltdown.
Yet I was still working through my inability to control the likely (to my pessimist's mind) scenario in which the toilet left me, well...shit outta luck. I think I included my fears in 3 emails to friends? And a phone call. Yep. The one where I admitted I was avoiding going home because I was afraid of what I'd find. The same phone call where I assured my father I did indeed have a plan.
If I was freaking out this much over the potential of an inconvenience that would not be a disaster, what would I possibly do if it were truly a disaster? Happy thoughts...no idea. Best move on to the immediate and then try my best to exert control.
A relevant aside: hilariously, I did not realize I was a control freak until fairly recently in life, and still probably would try to answer dishonestly on an internet "Are you a control freak?" quiz if I thought the answers would peg me as one. (Thereby controlling the outcome, OF COURSE).
Today is a rare day when such an incredible, unbelievable, staggering event beyond control happens that it forces reflection, whether you want to or not, because you can't help feeling like everything you're doing throughout your day is ridiculous, insignificant, and really not that big a deal when compared to people who are suddenly stripped back to survival as the only goal for the day. For me, what was thrown into sharpest relief was my seeming inability not to be either fired up or outraged at the little things. Why?
Well, hm, too much time on my hands, perhaps? Too nosy about other people's lives/comments/driving habits/misuse of the word "literally"? I am not sure.
Rage point 2 of the day.
So, just after convincing myself this new low flow toilet mandate was a good thing because it actually got me to do the dishes and clean up some papers (and hide clothing) before going to work, I left and made my way to a McDonald's for a cup of coffee (oh goodness, I'm realizing now my email complaint to McDonald's about what amounted to giving drivers trick cups [lids that didn't fit the cup sizes] falls into this larger effort's theme). I was in a drive-thru line behind an individual with a disabled designation on the California license plate. The driver tried to throw some trash in the trash can that appears a few feet before the drive-thru ordering box. Deciding he could not reach, he proceeded forward a few feet, stopped short of the ordering area, and threw his pile of trash on the ground.
Now, this was not McDonald's trash or something that related to McDonald's, not that that would make it excusable. This was "hey I've slowed to a speed that is juuust a bit more than stopped, so why not clear my car of hindrances like a cardboard cracker box full of other crap hanging out the top before pulling ahead to ask a man behind a speakerbox for a mcmuffin?"
I wanted to beep. I wanted to shout. I wanted to tattle to the man behind the speakerbox. I wanted to pick up the trash and return it to her (oh yeah, surprise! by the 1st window I realized that the guy was actually a woman) and say "You dropped this," with faux sweetness. I wanted to tattle to the guy at the 1st window! I tried to find a way that the disabled person's license plate would make this ok, but no - my outrage won out, just like the California did on the license plate - a person in the state of me, worried about the state of me. I had my coffee, but I still wanted to confront this woman. I wanted to roll down my window in traffic and say "Hey, you're not allowed to litter! It's really pointless and lazy and unfair to everyone else who doesn't throw trash out the window but might like to." She turned a corner. She seemed disoriented. And elderly. And inoffensive.
Yet her offense haunted me. And even writing about it makes me pissed again. The need for justice in the face of the most minor societal infractions would seem to suggest I'd be the world's most unexciting super hero.
A small reward for taking the time to articulate rage - acknowledgment.
Much like sharing that I've taken the time to complain to McDonald's (WHO DOES THAT?) after having let my annoyance and frustration at a system that could be better had built to a point that was no longer sustainable, I found myself doing the same with the dirty towel return policy and procedures at the gym. Suffice to say, my long-standing, well documented frustration with the current system and its absolute lack of ease and efficiency have been the fodder for more than a few laughs and opportunities to make fun of my mania by friends. Rightfully so. So when I finally sent (in response to a related email the gym staff initiated to all members, by the way) a long response to their request that towels are returned properly that outlined in no uncertain terms the ways in which the system is currently inconvenient or could be improved, I felt great. I felt relieved of a burden. I felt certain that at least 3 offices' worth of employees were making fun of my email and labeling me crazy. I would have.
But receiving a polite, generic response that acknowledged my opinion WITHOUT acknowledging I'd probably been placed on an at-risk list in some database somewhere really made me feel better. Someone had pretended to hear even if they hadn't heard. Thank you.
Rage point 3 - Jerks.
This was valid rather than ridiculous. I watched some folks take the opportunity to repeatedly make someone new, young, and intimidated feel dumb and incompetent and unwanted in group activity. I wanted to yell. I wanted to pounce like Wolverine. I wanted there to be a societal gimme for 1 sucker-punch per person per day to spend with impunity on anyone who needed it so that I could use it. I wanted to lay on the horn the same way I did with the little old manly lady at McDonald's. I wanted to ask these people why they thought they could treat other people like shit? I was furious. And remained that way wee wee wee all the way home.
Speaking of shit...
The moment of truth was upon me.
A bit bedraggled, and eager to be done with the day and take my shoes off and open a beer, I came around the corner from where I'd parked to be confronted by the sight of two even lines of toilets and toilet-related paraphernalia waiting curbside.
At first I feared they were toilets waiting to be installed, standing together like it was ladies night at some toilet country line dance bar. But upon closer inspection I saw they were the toppled thrones of the inhabitants of my apartment building, all left to be taken to a dump of their own for once. The variety was striking. Some were clean. Some looked as though they'd been in the backrooms of mechanic's shops that had run out of Lava soap for the past 40 years. Some had 70s kitsch flowery toilet seat covers. One, a fake wooden seat. I did not stop try to find my own, but really did feel the obligation of wanting to thank a reliable piece of equipment for not quitting on me just because it would have been easier.
Inside, my new toilet sits surrounded by the crud of workboots and the remembrances of toilets past. My toilet paper roll was empty. It was also in the sink, where the roll holder had likewise been deposited for safe rusting.
This machine has 2 settings and I've yet to really test its mettle. I'm also still kind of scared of it. But at least it's there and running. And maybe even saving water.
Disaster averted, I settled into a few episodes of Law & Order - original (and best). My God, I love that show. I cheer at the television when especially cutting justice is delivered (often by the aptly named, Mike Cutter, if not the real Jack McCoy). It was only in having some self-satisfied smiles while looking for shoes I could wear into my dusty, dirty bathroom that I realized I like the show so much because it presents what does not exist in real life. Order. Justice. People being forced to be accountable for their actions (even if their actions are murder, not general jerkiness). And let's not forget, Jerry Orbach.
And now, a day out of my control over, I am thankful to be able to hit the reset button, and climb into bed with all of my partially dirty clothing. Littered everywhere. Like towels that weren't returned properly. I am my own jerk! And after all, the order is restored.
As so many have said, thoughts, prayers, love to Japan.
Which potentially disastrous event do you think caused me more repeated and intense stress throughout the day - confronting the realization that something similar to the devastation in Japan could happen to me at any day or any time and, despite assuring my father to the contrary, I didn't really know what I would do nor did I have backup batteries for my flashlight (where is my flashlight again?), OR pessimistically having no faith that my apartment's plumbing would be functional upon my return home this evening and believing with certainty that strangers would be knocking on my door to turn off my water (if it wasn't off already) and rip out an old toilet at 7 a.m. tomorrow to replace it with an eco-friendly toilet I was certain would not get the job done?
Yes. Door number two.
(I'm not going to even go with the obvious joke there...this entire post could get very scatological very fast).
Why am I full of indignant rage and outrage because of the tiniest of life's transgressions, yet actively avoidant about eh...what really matters?
To simplify, if only a touch - not having plumbing of any kind due to natural disaster or not having plumbing due to perceived incompetence of building management's inability to make demands of contract workers, my energies go off the charts to the latter.
I really actively spent time throughout the day trying to think positively about the plumbing and NOT assume that my apartment would be a mess (not by my own hand), without running water, and toiletless to boot. It was out of my control. I shouldn't worry about it. Every time I opened a web browser NEW photos of planes and cars heaped together haphazardly like children's toys were being shown. NEW shots of fires, crying people, and bodies in the street. NEW footage of waves overtaking buildings and everything else that we couldn't see below the water in Japan. Threat of a Nuclear Meltdown. I use caps there because, really. Nuclear. Meltdown.
Yet I was still working through my inability to control the likely (to my pessimist's mind) scenario in which the toilet left me, well...shit outta luck. I think I included my fears in 3 emails to friends? And a phone call. Yep. The one where I admitted I was avoiding going home because I was afraid of what I'd find. The same phone call where I assured my father I did indeed have a plan.
If I was freaking out this much over the potential of an inconvenience that would not be a disaster, what would I possibly do if it were truly a disaster? Happy thoughts...no idea. Best move on to the immediate and then try my best to exert control.
A relevant aside: hilariously, I did not realize I was a control freak until fairly recently in life, and still probably would try to answer dishonestly on an internet "Are you a control freak?" quiz if I thought the answers would peg me as one. (Thereby controlling the outcome, OF COURSE).
Today is a rare day when such an incredible, unbelievable, staggering event beyond control happens that it forces reflection, whether you want to or not, because you can't help feeling like everything you're doing throughout your day is ridiculous, insignificant, and really not that big a deal when compared to people who are suddenly stripped back to survival as the only goal for the day. For me, what was thrown into sharpest relief was my seeming inability not to be either fired up or outraged at the little things. Why?
Well, hm, too much time on my hands, perhaps? Too nosy about other people's lives/comments/driving habits/misuse of the word "literally"? I am not sure.
Rage point 2 of the day.
So, just after convincing myself this new low flow toilet mandate was a good thing because it actually got me to do the dishes and clean up some papers (and hide clothing) before going to work, I left and made my way to a McDonald's for a cup of coffee (oh goodness, I'm realizing now my email complaint to McDonald's about what amounted to giving drivers trick cups [lids that didn't fit the cup sizes] falls into this larger effort's theme). I was in a drive-thru line behind an individual with a disabled designation on the California license plate. The driver tried to throw some trash in the trash can that appears a few feet before the drive-thru ordering box. Deciding he could not reach, he proceeded forward a few feet, stopped short of the ordering area, and threw his pile of trash on the ground.
Now, this was not McDonald's trash or something that related to McDonald's, not that that would make it excusable. This was "hey I've slowed to a speed that is juuust a bit more than stopped, so why not clear my car of hindrances like a cardboard cracker box full of other crap hanging out the top before pulling ahead to ask a man behind a speakerbox for a mcmuffin?"
I wanted to beep. I wanted to shout. I wanted to tattle to the man behind the speakerbox. I wanted to pick up the trash and return it to her (oh yeah, surprise! by the 1st window I realized that the guy was actually a woman) and say "You dropped this," with faux sweetness. I wanted to tattle to the guy at the 1st window! I tried to find a way that the disabled person's license plate would make this ok, but no - my outrage won out, just like the California did on the license plate - a person in the state of me, worried about the state of me. I had my coffee, but I still wanted to confront this woman. I wanted to roll down my window in traffic and say "Hey, you're not allowed to litter! It's really pointless and lazy and unfair to everyone else who doesn't throw trash out the window but might like to." She turned a corner. She seemed disoriented. And elderly. And inoffensive.
Yet her offense haunted me. And even writing about it makes me pissed again. The need for justice in the face of the most minor societal infractions would seem to suggest I'd be the world's most unexciting super hero.
A small reward for taking the time to articulate rage - acknowledgment.
Much like sharing that I've taken the time to complain to McDonald's (WHO DOES THAT?) after having let my annoyance and frustration at a system that could be better had built to a point that was no longer sustainable, I found myself doing the same with the dirty towel return policy and procedures at the gym. Suffice to say, my long-standing, well documented frustration with the current system and its absolute lack of ease and efficiency have been the fodder for more than a few laughs and opportunities to make fun of my mania by friends. Rightfully so. So when I finally sent (in response to a related email the gym staff initiated to all members, by the way) a long response to their request that towels are returned properly that outlined in no uncertain terms the ways in which the system is currently inconvenient or could be improved, I felt great. I felt relieved of a burden. I felt certain that at least 3 offices' worth of employees were making fun of my email and labeling me crazy. I would have.
But receiving a polite, generic response that acknowledged my opinion WITHOUT acknowledging I'd probably been placed on an at-risk list in some database somewhere really made me feel better. Someone had pretended to hear even if they hadn't heard. Thank you.
Rage point 3 - Jerks.
This was valid rather than ridiculous. I watched some folks take the opportunity to repeatedly make someone new, young, and intimidated feel dumb and incompetent and unwanted in group activity. I wanted to yell. I wanted to pounce like Wolverine. I wanted there to be a societal gimme for 1 sucker-punch per person per day to spend with impunity on anyone who needed it so that I could use it. I wanted to lay on the horn the same way I did with the little old manly lady at McDonald's. I wanted to ask these people why they thought they could treat other people like shit? I was furious. And remained that way wee wee wee all the way home.
Speaking of shit...
The moment of truth was upon me.
A bit bedraggled, and eager to be done with the day and take my shoes off and open a beer, I came around the corner from where I'd parked to be confronted by the sight of two even lines of toilets and toilet-related paraphernalia waiting curbside.
At first I feared they were toilets waiting to be installed, standing together like it was ladies night at some toilet country line dance bar. But upon closer inspection I saw they were the toppled thrones of the inhabitants of my apartment building, all left to be taken to a dump of their own for once. The variety was striking. Some were clean. Some looked as though they'd been in the backrooms of mechanic's shops that had run out of Lava soap for the past 40 years. Some had 70s kitsch flowery toilet seat covers. One, a fake wooden seat. I did not stop try to find my own, but really did feel the obligation of wanting to thank a reliable piece of equipment for not quitting on me just because it would have been easier.
Inside, my new toilet sits surrounded by the crud of workboots and the remembrances of toilets past. My toilet paper roll was empty. It was also in the sink, where the roll holder had likewise been deposited for safe rusting.
This machine has 2 settings and I've yet to really test its mettle. I'm also still kind of scared of it. But at least it's there and running. And maybe even saving water.
Disaster averted, I settled into a few episodes of Law & Order - original (and best). My God, I love that show. I cheer at the television when especially cutting justice is delivered (often by the aptly named, Mike Cutter, if not the real Jack McCoy). It was only in having some self-satisfied smiles while looking for shoes I could wear into my dusty, dirty bathroom that I realized I like the show so much because it presents what does not exist in real life. Order. Justice. People being forced to be accountable for their actions (even if their actions are murder, not general jerkiness). And let's not forget, Jerry Orbach.
And now, a day out of my control over, I am thankful to be able to hit the reset button, and climb into bed with all of my partially dirty clothing. Littered everywhere. Like towels that weren't returned properly. I am my own jerk! And after all, the order is restored.
As so many have said, thoughts, prayers, love to Japan.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Oprah, Catholicism, Austria, Canned Tuna, Expiration Dates and Pee-Wee Herman
Oprah, Catholicism, Austria, Canned Tuna, Expiration Dates and Pee-Wee Herman.
Day 2 of Lent 2011! Woohoo!
These elements and how they fit together, at least in my mind.
Part of my resistance to Lent is that well, it's a total downer. Really. In addition to not wanting to be pushed to do something I should be doing like writing, I also kind of don't like the overall oeuvre of Lent. Yes, it signals the return of the filet o' fish and its like-reconstituted seafood fast food brethren, which in turn means there's a shamrock shake somewhere in there too, just by way of fast food calendar, but other than marking the passage of such "for a limited time" times, Lent is also when church gets real moany-like musically. You lose all the upbeat joy to the world of the Christmas season, and you've just settled into the good vibrations tunes of ordinary time when BANG!, the pre-dirges, the dirges, the reminders of just how sinful you are come out in every minor key known to man (and, if sung reverently, one presumes higher powers).
Lent. It's when you decide to give up cookies and the Girl Scouts are friggin' EVERYWHERE reminding you you've made the dumbest decision ever in self-denial. It's when every time you congratulate yourself for being able to abstain from a box of Thin Mints and instead eat an entire tub of ice cream as a reward for your asceticism you end up hanging out with someone who has given up swearing or caffeine or alcohol or dairy products or television or naps or all of the above. Something that just seems really above and beyond the call of duty. I mean, several of my family members gave up cheese one year. CHEESE. Come on. I do not believe God wants that. I just don't. Not the God I'm familiar with, a God who had the omnipotence to make a moldy cheese like bleu superior to so many other cheeses! I mean, that's a no-nonsense, no waste kind of God if even the funky stuff is good eatin'!
There are people in the world who think climbing K2 would be a really great challenge and SO worth the experience just to say they'd done it. Then there are those of us who think that just sounds like a terrible idea and about one of the least exciting ways to end up short of breath. The extreme self-denial inspired by Lent in some cases puts me in mind of the mountain climbers. And don't even get me started on people who use Lent as a diet plan.
So, speaking of climb every mountain, that's where Austria and Oprah come in. The Sound of Music made "My Favorite Things" a household tune, universally known for sharing a message of can-do optimism and comfort that puts everyone in mind of the Austrian pajama party we all wanted to be a part of. And if you actually think of the words, they are lovely images and favorite things. Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel. Yes! Those are nice thoughts! Pleasing for the mind to conjure. And lyrically pleasant as all hell! Poetry. All that "C" and "P" and then ending with "llll" on "apple" and "strudel." Yes. I like it. And when Julie Andrews sings it, YES. I love it.
Oprah took "favorite things" and consistently produced episodes of television with crowd shots of Americans losing their minds over material goods in a manner akin to evangelical healing. Yes, I too would be excited if Oprah gave me an iPad. But more so if Julie Andrews told me how to look as great in a signature haircut all my own. Though I'm no Oprah, I do think that maybe co-opting my favorite things for use during Lent might be a good idea for the moments when the dog bites, but inspiration does not. Also, in thinking about my favorite things and reflecting on the things that make me very happy (see yesterday: FRIENDS), maybe I'll be less inclined to ramble on about my own life and the imperfections and neuroses that dance across my mind like a traditional Austrian folkdance. (Please be aware that is not a promise. Just a mild goal. The hills are alive. The mountains are still pretty steep).
SO! The Sound of Music is one of my favorite things. Fact. Hard.
And while Lent is not, and well, it's not really designed to be a happy time as I understand it, but more one for super reflection and maybe some self-sacrifice, I think I can make it a bit more useful if I embrace it as a time of contemplative appreciation. Like that which I experience while eating cheese.
Let's see, is that everything? No.
Canned Tuna and Expiration Dates - the Lenten forced meat denial brings out the carnivore in me like Lymon brings out the Sprite in me. It was day ONE yesterday of being a day you're not supposed to go to Shorty's Rib Shack, and suddenly nothing was of culinary interest to me that did not involve meat. Never mind the canned tuna just sitting patiently on the shelf, ready for duty. And the expiration date on the eggs in the fridge seemed to be a bit too close to Groundhog Day for my comfort, so I felt myself hating on Lent and all its restrictions approximately 8.75 hours into Lent. So yeah, I still have some room for personal growth with the self-discipline/self-denial thing.
And finally, Pee Wee Herman was on Conan O'Brien's show last night, which was a strange pairing of someone I loved watching when i was 10 with someone I love watching now. The two together somehow merged my childhood t.v. with my adult t.v. in a way that was both amazing and vaguely off-putting. A show combo fit for the enterprising mind of Uncle Max.
Next year's folk festival? Maybe.
Or at least an appearance on Oprah.
So here's to climbing every mountain! Well, maybe not every mountain...
Day 2 of Lent 2011! Woohoo!
These elements and how they fit together, at least in my mind.
Part of my resistance to Lent is that well, it's a total downer. Really. In addition to not wanting to be pushed to do something I should be doing like writing, I also kind of don't like the overall oeuvre of Lent. Yes, it signals the return of the filet o' fish and its like-reconstituted seafood fast food brethren, which in turn means there's a shamrock shake somewhere in there too, just by way of fast food calendar, but other than marking the passage of such "for a limited time" times, Lent is also when church gets real moany-like musically. You lose all the upbeat joy to the world of the Christmas season, and you've just settled into the good vibrations tunes of ordinary time when BANG!, the pre-dirges, the dirges, the reminders of just how sinful you are come out in every minor key known to man (and, if sung reverently, one presumes higher powers).
Lent. It's when you decide to give up cookies and the Girl Scouts are friggin' EVERYWHERE reminding you you've made the dumbest decision ever in self-denial. It's when every time you congratulate yourself for being able to abstain from a box of Thin Mints and instead eat an entire tub of ice cream as a reward for your asceticism you end up hanging out with someone who has given up swearing or caffeine or alcohol or dairy products or television or naps or all of the above. Something that just seems really above and beyond the call of duty. I mean, several of my family members gave up cheese one year. CHEESE. Come on. I do not believe God wants that. I just don't. Not the God I'm familiar with, a God who had the omnipotence to make a moldy cheese like bleu superior to so many other cheeses! I mean, that's a no-nonsense, no waste kind of God if even the funky stuff is good eatin'!
There are people in the world who think climbing K2 would be a really great challenge and SO worth the experience just to say they'd done it. Then there are those of us who think that just sounds like a terrible idea and about one of the least exciting ways to end up short of breath. The extreme self-denial inspired by Lent in some cases puts me in mind of the mountain climbers. And don't even get me started on people who use Lent as a diet plan.
So, speaking of climb every mountain, that's where Austria and Oprah come in. The Sound of Music made "My Favorite Things" a household tune, universally known for sharing a message of can-do optimism and comfort that puts everyone in mind of the Austrian pajama party we all wanted to be a part of. And if you actually think of the words, they are lovely images and favorite things. Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel. Yes! Those are nice thoughts! Pleasing for the mind to conjure. And lyrically pleasant as all hell! Poetry. All that "C" and "P" and then ending with "llll" on "apple" and "strudel." Yes. I like it. And when Julie Andrews sings it, YES. I love it.
Oprah took "favorite things" and consistently produced episodes of television with crowd shots of Americans losing their minds over material goods in a manner akin to evangelical healing. Yes, I too would be excited if Oprah gave me an iPad. But more so if Julie Andrews told me how to look as great in a signature haircut all my own. Though I'm no Oprah, I do think that maybe co-opting my favorite things for use during Lent might be a good idea for the moments when the dog bites, but inspiration does not. Also, in thinking about my favorite things and reflecting on the things that make me very happy (see yesterday: FRIENDS), maybe I'll be less inclined to ramble on about my own life and the imperfections and neuroses that dance across my mind like a traditional Austrian folkdance. (Please be aware that is not a promise. Just a mild goal. The hills are alive. The mountains are still pretty steep).
SO! The Sound of Music is one of my favorite things. Fact. Hard.
And while Lent is not, and well, it's not really designed to be a happy time as I understand it, but more one for super reflection and maybe some self-sacrifice, I think I can make it a bit more useful if I embrace it as a time of contemplative appreciation. Like that which I experience while eating cheese.
Let's see, is that everything? No.
Canned Tuna and Expiration Dates - the Lenten forced meat denial brings out the carnivore in me like Lymon brings out the Sprite in me. It was day ONE yesterday of being a day you're not supposed to go to Shorty's Rib Shack, and suddenly nothing was of culinary interest to me that did not involve meat. Never mind the canned tuna just sitting patiently on the shelf, ready for duty. And the expiration date on the eggs in the fridge seemed to be a bit too close to Groundhog Day for my comfort, so I felt myself hating on Lent and all its restrictions approximately 8.75 hours into Lent. So yeah, I still have some room for personal growth with the self-discipline/self-denial thing.
And finally, Pee Wee Herman was on Conan O'Brien's show last night, which was a strange pairing of someone I loved watching when i was 10 with someone I love watching now. The two together somehow merged my childhood t.v. with my adult t.v. in a way that was both amazing and vaguely off-putting. A show combo fit for the enterprising mind of Uncle Max.
Next year's folk festival? Maybe.
Or at least an appearance on Oprah.
So here's to climbing every mountain! Well, maybe not every mountain...
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Lento n' Steady
Here's the real truth. I hadn't really given much consideration to blogging this Lenten season. The consideration I did give was basically - ugh, Lent's coming up? What should I do this year? What should I give up? I should really try to get myself to stick with something hard.
The ideas for new lifestyles, new devotions, and new means of sacrifice and denial were certainly numerous, ambitious, unrealistic, in some cases to the point of being laughable. Yet the one thing that is probably of the most use and in some ways the most obvious - turning the heat back on in the crockpot and having to write something more than zero words a day - was given the dedicated thought of a passing fancy or fart in the wind.
"Ooh some frozen yogurt would be nice...I wonder what Joyce DeWitt is doing right now... Did I ever get that oil change I was supposed to?" That kind of passing fancy. The kind you have when you're waiting for the dental hygienist to call you in to your appointment or watching the clock's seconds tick on your microwave when you'd really like to eat what it is cooking for you. That kind.
The real truth of that matter, and how the passing thought passed so easily? I kinda didn't think anyone would notice? That. And if they did, did not think they'd call me on it.
Whoops! I get by with a little help from my friends.
And I get called to task for not doing what I should be.
Which is why I am grateful for my fantastic friends, especially when they seem to know me better than I know myself (or at least am willing to admit to myself). I mean, I am grateful beyond words! But see, even that is me trying to get out of writing...
I should say, I am grateful to the point of words for my friends and their nudges.
So, I'm going all in on this pot.
I've been thinking about ways to try to create more cohesion or a through line here, and I've been thinking about relating the following: Oprah, Catholicism, Austria, Canned Tuna, Expiration Dates and Pee-Wee Herman.
Well then, tomorrow! Stop by, the soup should be on.
If not, I have every confidence a friend will let me know it's not.
Thank yaaaaa!
The ideas for new lifestyles, new devotions, and new means of sacrifice and denial were certainly numerous, ambitious, unrealistic, in some cases to the point of being laughable. Yet the one thing that is probably of the most use and in some ways the most obvious - turning the heat back on in the crockpot and having to write something more than zero words a day - was given the dedicated thought of a passing fancy or fart in the wind.
"Ooh some frozen yogurt would be nice...I wonder what Joyce DeWitt is doing right now... Did I ever get that oil change I was supposed to?" That kind of passing fancy. The kind you have when you're waiting for the dental hygienist to call you in to your appointment or watching the clock's seconds tick on your microwave when you'd really like to eat what it is cooking for you. That kind.
The real truth of that matter, and how the passing thought passed so easily? I kinda didn't think anyone would notice? That. And if they did, did not think they'd call me on it.
Whoops! I get by with a little help from my friends.
And I get called to task for not doing what I should be.
Which is why I am grateful for my fantastic friends, especially when they seem to know me better than I know myself (or at least am willing to admit to myself). I mean, I am grateful beyond words! But see, even that is me trying to get out of writing...
I should say, I am grateful to the point of words for my friends and their nudges.
So, I'm going all in on this pot.
I've been thinking about ways to try to create more cohesion or a through line here, and I've been thinking about relating the following: Oprah, Catholicism, Austria, Canned Tuna, Expiration Dates and Pee-Wee Herman.
Well then, tomorrow! Stop by, the soup should be on.
If not, I have every confidence a friend will let me know it's not.
Thank yaaaaa!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Dancing with the Stars - Suggested Canned Lines for the Judges
Since the new cast of “Dancing with the Stars” (DWTS) was announced it is safe to assume there are already people hard at work crafting “witty” remarks for the judges. It is likewise safe to assume that the writers of E!’s “The Soup” are also hard at work on jokes about Kirstie Alley and Wendy Williams, since both have signed up for the show.
Here are some guesses at repartee from the judges. Well, just Bruno, really. Or maybe no one. They’ll be tasteless. And horrible. But Bruno could make it work. I’ll leave the jokes to the pros and look forward to watching "The Soup’s" coverage of the show rather than the show itself. Though obviously I’ll be rooting for hometown favorite, Hines Ward. Also, if you haven’t seen clips of Bruno’s visit to "The Soup," you should. He takes his shirt off and stays a while. It was excellent enough for me to respect the heck out of him. And that was BEFORE I learned he was in the Elton John "I’m Still Standing" video dancing his buns off, which is amazing and perhaps the best use of body paint in the 80s entirety. I know! Bold statement.
Anyway...
Kendra Wilkinson
“Your husband might be a Baskett case watching you dance, but I don’t know why. You are one Playboy bunny who has mastered the bunny hop! It looks like you have two lucky rabbit’s feet with moves like that!”
Hines Ward
“Well it wasn’t the Super Bowl shuffle for you this year, but I still think you could hoist a trophy this season after all! You’ve got your first dance moves down and your partner is so good, you musn’t let anyone Steel’er! Touchdown.”
Ralph Macchio
I could wax on about your poise and posture all night! Clearly you haven’t lost all of your focus since you’ve certainly brought the mojo from the dojo! You might not sweep the leg, but you’ve certainly swept me off my feet tonight! Bravo, Ralph our Macho Macho Macchio man!
Sugar Ray Leonard
“That dance was a total knockout! Were you named after the band Sugar Ray? Because I just want to fly watching you float like a butterfly around the dance floor tonight!”
Kirstie Alley
Wendy Williams
Petra Nemcova
Chris Jericho
WWE? More like WW-we would love to see more of that! It's certainly raw in here! What have you been doing wasting your time wrestling? With moves like that, you should be pinned in the dance ring, not throwing yourself off of ropes. You’ve certainly got a body slam that makes me excited. Let's get ready to rhumba!
Li'l Romeo
Well this is one Romeo who is more of a star-crossed DANCER and I am certainly loving it! Romeo Oh Romeo Wherefore art thou cha-cha-cha? Tonight your fate and your partner's entwined for one romantic, SEXY dance! Can't wait to see a Li'l more!
Psycho Mike Catherwood
Chelsea Kane – Disney tween
Sunday, August 8, 2010
For Natalie, Who Said Even Rants Were Fine
Hello to anyone who might stumble here. Apologies. Regret. Reality television has sucked my brain and stolen my attention for quite a while, as well as lack of good ole' fashioned motivation, ambition, will, hmm...I could go on. All the stuff that makes one susceptible to reality television's whims. Distraction. Fear and loathing. Snack foods. etc.
I am in a terrible mood and have not been able to shake it for the majority of the day. This happens often on Sundays, but usually some sort of food treat, outdoor adventure, television pablum, or mindless task accomplishment can push me over the hump and into the week. Today, however, I have been stewing a bit. Why not stew like a fish in a crockpot? I don't even think the fish at the top of the page are interested any more! Anyway, I decided, presuming I'd be lying awake for a bit, to return to the crockpot. I give credit to Natalie Kranz who, upon seeing me recently at her gorgeous home with her gorgeous kids and gorgeous quiches where she was hosting a divine baby shower, suggested I write something as she was "sick of LA!" being the leftover post of this crock page.
How true. The Lakers aren't even the biggest story in the NBA anymore since the Heat set about making a boy band. Backstreet's back - all right! And so too, should I be.
Maybe I'm back because somehow my unease seems to have a need for reckoning at its thematic core. Today I felt as scattered as Waffle House hash browns and I don't quite enjoy it (though I enjoy hash browns, though not as much as cheese n' eggs), and I am certain that is due in no small part to having to replace my cellular telephone. Since arriving in Los Angeles, I have had three definite instances of phone loss or failure. All three have resulted in immediate and existential angst of varying degrees. It is interesting, however, that the angst has changed in its causation.
The first time I was cell phone-less, I had been thrown in a fountain while the phone was on my person. I had not been in L.A. for a quarter of a year yet. Though my brother and sister-in-law were visiting that weekend and physically in my presence, I felt panic as though I'd been irreparably severed from my life and loved ones on the east coast. Panic panic panic. I believe that entire weekend was a watershed "maybe I'm having adjustment issues" moment.
The second time I was cell phone-less, I dropped it at a concert venue when I'd switched to a new, smaller purse to have a non-bulky purse at a concert and believed I'd put it in a pocket of said purse. I'd put it on the outside flap of the purse. Ready to fall. Then, as with this most recent instance, my phone loss occurred when I was participating in a new and fun activity. Though both evenings in question were fantastic, the realization of phone loss the next day made me feel like I'd forgotten the penalty for new fun. Like, whoops - you can't go doin' that and not expect a tariff. The 2nd time I again had panic about not being able to contact, or be contacted, by people who might be trying to find me. But L.A. people too, not just east coasters. That had a happy ending and an "Oh L.A. does have fine and upstanding individuals" as both someone returned the phone to the lost and found portion of the venue, and someone in that office used my phone to contact my parents, who they assumed would track me down. They did. The next night I drove across town to retrieve my phone and had to battle my way through a line of rather rowdy, mostly pleather-clad individuals who were excited for the venue to open the doors for admission to, I believe a nigh S&M performers' ball. Looking like I'd just walked out of the pages of the Babysitter's Club series in my t-shirt and jeans (and original bulky purse), the white-faced-makeupped transvestite in a leather girdle and thigh-high boots very easily believed that I was not in fact trying to worm my way past the security, which they believed to be inadequate for the crowd's enthusiasm, but rather HAD lost my phone the night before. I needed to go to the business office on the top level. A back office lackluster security detail (girl in a black t-shirt with a flashlight who worked there and happened to be passing by) was kind enough to escort me upstairs at the behest of the doorman/woman. They found my phone. They gave it back. My niece's tiny face was smiling on the front. Numbers were inside. Connection! Phew. And what nice people to understand losing one's phone sucks. And to not make me pay the $5 cover to go inside to get it.
This weekend's phone loss occurred in downtown L.A. as a Friday happy hour morphed into a bar crawl. It was fun! I downgraded to a smaller purse for the evening! And soooo the story repeats itself. I realized my phone was missing in the middle of our fun. Backtracking spots and coming up empty, I tried again the next day, calling, texting, leaving email addresses at a restaurant - hoping that my good fortune in the face of bad phone retention might also repeat itself. Saturday it was ok. I actually liked the freedom from the phone, as I tend to cling to its possibility on weekends. I hadn't lost hope that it would physically return to my sweaty palm, and could enjoy a day fast and loose. Unhindered and unchecked.
Sunday things turned south. Quickly too. I realized that I had to suck it up and replace the phone and did not want to head to the phone store on a weekend. I realized I'd probably missed absolutely no calls in the absence of my phone. No one was looking for me. And worse, would people even write to give me their numbers? It was like a crystallized symbolic mental retrospective of contacts I was, well, a little out of contact with. Somehow having a name in your phone, even if you never use it again, seems important. The name of the limo driver from your best friend's bachelorette party. The friend you only text regarding one sports team one season a year. Your old landlord. Just in case.
Somehow this phone loss marked the enormity not just of distance from loved ones on a different coast, but of the passage of time in a whole new way. Here I was, out of touch. Off the grid. In a city where I hit a traffic jam at midnight that brought me to a complete stop the night before. And would the college friends I see once every 2 years even bother sending me their number to replace?
(this sounds super depressing! I don't mean it with quite as dire a tone as it might seem to convey)
I was assisted at the phone store by a gentleman named Njall. Or Nihall. Or hm...the second one looks more accurate. He was definitely not originally born in America. He was also like, the best and most non-salesy, non- B.S.y phone store guy I'd ever met. Here was the efficiency I wanted when, after getting coffee, I decided to do what felt like impulse shopping and suck it up and head to the phone store, lines be damned. I needed to know what I'd missed and if someone was using my lost phone to make the phone calls that would keep their long-distance relationship with their bon hunnybun in Paris going strong.
He explained things. He told me the price point for unlimited texting. He showed me the phones that did the things I wanted and nothing more. I pointed. He went and found the box. It worked.
I loved him, and somehow (again, perhaps I woke up with more emotional turmoil than I gave myself credit for) his efficiency and kindness made me want to cry, because I wanted him to be recognized for taking care of business, business that I had failed to take care of myself. I love the TCB feeling. Scattered self - not so much, though it seems to be my default setting.
When I got home, I realized I hadn't shopped for the phone at all. Aside from rejecting a phone as a conceivable option because its display font was Comic Sans, I had really just taken his word for it. I had no idea how this thing worked. No idea.
It rang. I panicked. I hated the ringtone - the default ringtone that only those over the age of 65 keep, so the ringtone you always hear as the ringers are often turned up really loud. I couldn't unlock it. I didn't know if I was answering the call. It was my Dad. He said I seemed to be in a bad mood. I confirmed I was. After I hung up, I sent a text message reply to an automated 900 number unintentionally. I couldn't see my sent messages. I couldn't believe the new keyboard thingy that was supposed to set my world on textual fire did NOT adhere to standard typewriter letter order. QWERTYIOP motherf*cker! Do I look like I can learn a second keyboard? Where were the punctuation marks? Was I being charged for email I wasn't using? Oh God. I don't even know my best friend's phone number. And if I do, I won't be able to save it. I didn't get the insurance, despite being there for a totally insurance-plan-is-smart-based reason. The screen would probably shatter by week's end. All of this I pondered as the sun dropped a little lower on the weekend.
How is it back-to-school time? How is there an NFL game on? How am I ever going to figure out this phone, much less what to do with life?
An oversight in the story...
When I came back home from the phone store, I am foolishly sharing with the readership, my door was wide open as if I had just stepped outside to get my mail or do laundry. The kind of wide open for when you are coming right back. No big whoop. Oven isn't on, but it could be and it wouldn't matter.
I had left my apartment in such a state of distraction that I didn't even shut the door behind me. Maybe that speaks to the necessity of coffee in my life, but that threw me for an even bigger loop than my phone. I wasn't just losing my phone, I was losing my mind.
The great part of the phone confusion is that I now have an even greater appreciation of my dad's new confusion with his newly acquired cell phone. No, it's not a new model - it's his first ever phone. He and my mother had been sharing one phone previously. She'd been mission control on the tech side of that one. He'd just talked into it.
His newly acquired phone gifted him, not only the capacity to let my mom know when he's taking a detour to the grocery store because he might need neosporin and the nectarines are on sale, but also a fairly good run of phone bumble anecdotes. He thought the cell phone was the alarm clock one morning, and got out of bed only to later discover the beeping had been a text message. He wrote out the words "question mark" in the first text he sent me, having no idea how to make punctuation marks appear. Hearing these tales I'd laughed and laughed. Teased a bit and assured him he'd get the knack sooner or later. Recommended he switch from the awful default ring tone and thought he was being too picky when he said all the pre-loaded ring tones were crap.
One more moment of being the apple at the base of the family tree for me today. Where were good ring tones? Where was the button to talk? Where was the text menu? Where, for God's sake, was the question mark???
I suppose Dad and I will have to learn the tricks of our new phones on phone calls to one another. Assuming I can hold onto mine and he can find the snooze button on his, we might just be the technologically out-of-touch keeping in touch. We'll see. I've got minutes with his name on them. And well, about 2 other contacts.
My former landlord could call any day now, letting me know he's also unable to reconcile with change, but finally ready to return that deposit.
If he does, I'll put it toward the phone insurance.
Or a new ring tone. Maybe my Dad can suggest some good ones. I'll call him, if I can figure it out.
I am in a terrible mood and have not been able to shake it for the majority of the day. This happens often on Sundays, but usually some sort of food treat, outdoor adventure, television pablum, or mindless task accomplishment can push me over the hump and into the week. Today, however, I have been stewing a bit. Why not stew like a fish in a crockpot? I don't even think the fish at the top of the page are interested any more! Anyway, I decided, presuming I'd be lying awake for a bit, to return to the crockpot. I give credit to Natalie Kranz who, upon seeing me recently at her gorgeous home with her gorgeous kids and gorgeous quiches where she was hosting a divine baby shower, suggested I write something as she was "sick of LA!" being the leftover post of this crock page.
How true. The Lakers aren't even the biggest story in the NBA anymore since the Heat set about making a boy band. Backstreet's back - all right! And so too, should I be.
Maybe I'm back because somehow my unease seems to have a need for reckoning at its thematic core. Today I felt as scattered as Waffle House hash browns and I don't quite enjoy it (though I enjoy hash browns, though not as much as cheese n' eggs), and I am certain that is due in no small part to having to replace my cellular telephone. Since arriving in Los Angeles, I have had three definite instances of phone loss or failure. All three have resulted in immediate and existential angst of varying degrees. It is interesting, however, that the angst has changed in its causation.
The first time I was cell phone-less, I had been thrown in a fountain while the phone was on my person. I had not been in L.A. for a quarter of a year yet. Though my brother and sister-in-law were visiting that weekend and physically in my presence, I felt panic as though I'd been irreparably severed from my life and loved ones on the east coast. Panic panic panic. I believe that entire weekend was a watershed "maybe I'm having adjustment issues" moment.
The second time I was cell phone-less, I dropped it at a concert venue when I'd switched to a new, smaller purse to have a non-bulky purse at a concert and believed I'd put it in a pocket of said purse. I'd put it on the outside flap of the purse. Ready to fall. Then, as with this most recent instance, my phone loss occurred when I was participating in a new and fun activity. Though both evenings in question were fantastic, the realization of phone loss the next day made me feel like I'd forgotten the penalty for new fun. Like, whoops - you can't go doin' that and not expect a tariff. The 2nd time I again had panic about not being able to contact, or be contacted, by people who might be trying to find me. But L.A. people too, not just east coasters. That had a happy ending and an "Oh L.A. does have fine and upstanding individuals" as both someone returned the phone to the lost and found portion of the venue, and someone in that office used my phone to contact my parents, who they assumed would track me down. They did. The next night I drove across town to retrieve my phone and had to battle my way through a line of rather rowdy, mostly pleather-clad individuals who were excited for the venue to open the doors for admission to, I believe a nigh S&M performers' ball. Looking like I'd just walked out of the pages of the Babysitter's Club series in my t-shirt and jeans (and original bulky purse), the white-faced-makeupped transvestite in a leather girdle and thigh-high boots very easily believed that I was not in fact trying to worm my way past the security, which they believed to be inadequate for the crowd's enthusiasm, but rather HAD lost my phone the night before. I needed to go to the business office on the top level. A back office lackluster security detail (girl in a black t-shirt with a flashlight who worked there and happened to be passing by) was kind enough to escort me upstairs at the behest of the doorman/woman. They found my phone. They gave it back. My niece's tiny face was smiling on the front. Numbers were inside. Connection! Phew. And what nice people to understand losing one's phone sucks. And to not make me pay the $5 cover to go inside to get it.
This weekend's phone loss occurred in downtown L.A. as a Friday happy hour morphed into a bar crawl. It was fun! I downgraded to a smaller purse for the evening! And soooo the story repeats itself. I realized my phone was missing in the middle of our fun. Backtracking spots and coming up empty, I tried again the next day, calling, texting, leaving email addresses at a restaurant - hoping that my good fortune in the face of bad phone retention might also repeat itself. Saturday it was ok. I actually liked the freedom from the phone, as I tend to cling to its possibility on weekends. I hadn't lost hope that it would physically return to my sweaty palm, and could enjoy a day fast and loose. Unhindered and unchecked.
Sunday things turned south. Quickly too. I realized that I had to suck it up and replace the phone and did not want to head to the phone store on a weekend. I realized I'd probably missed absolutely no calls in the absence of my phone. No one was looking for me. And worse, would people even write to give me their numbers? It was like a crystallized symbolic mental retrospective of contacts I was, well, a little out of contact with. Somehow having a name in your phone, even if you never use it again, seems important. The name of the limo driver from your best friend's bachelorette party. The friend you only text regarding one sports team one season a year. Your old landlord. Just in case.
Somehow this phone loss marked the enormity not just of distance from loved ones on a different coast, but of the passage of time in a whole new way. Here I was, out of touch. Off the grid. In a city where I hit a traffic jam at midnight that brought me to a complete stop the night before. And would the college friends I see once every 2 years even bother sending me their number to replace?
(this sounds super depressing! I don't mean it with quite as dire a tone as it might seem to convey)
I was assisted at the phone store by a gentleman named Njall. Or Nihall. Or hm...the second one looks more accurate. He was definitely not originally born in America. He was also like, the best and most non-salesy, non- B.S.y phone store guy I'd ever met. Here was the efficiency I wanted when, after getting coffee, I decided to do what felt like impulse shopping and suck it up and head to the phone store, lines be damned. I needed to know what I'd missed and if someone was using my lost phone to make the phone calls that would keep their long-distance relationship with their bon hunnybun in Paris going strong.
He explained things. He told me the price point for unlimited texting. He showed me the phones that did the things I wanted and nothing more. I pointed. He went and found the box. It worked.
I loved him, and somehow (again, perhaps I woke up with more emotional turmoil than I gave myself credit for) his efficiency and kindness made me want to cry, because I wanted him to be recognized for taking care of business, business that I had failed to take care of myself. I love the TCB feeling. Scattered self - not so much, though it seems to be my default setting.
When I got home, I realized I hadn't shopped for the phone at all. Aside from rejecting a phone as a conceivable option because its display font was Comic Sans, I had really just taken his word for it. I had no idea how this thing worked. No idea.
It rang. I panicked. I hated the ringtone - the default ringtone that only those over the age of 65 keep, so the ringtone you always hear as the ringers are often turned up really loud. I couldn't unlock it. I didn't know if I was answering the call. It was my Dad. He said I seemed to be in a bad mood. I confirmed I was. After I hung up, I sent a text message reply to an automated 900 number unintentionally. I couldn't see my sent messages. I couldn't believe the new keyboard thingy that was supposed to set my world on textual fire did NOT adhere to standard typewriter letter order. QWERTYIOP motherf*cker! Do I look like I can learn a second keyboard? Where were the punctuation marks? Was I being charged for email I wasn't using? Oh God. I don't even know my best friend's phone number. And if I do, I won't be able to save it. I didn't get the insurance, despite being there for a totally insurance-plan-is-smart-based reason. The screen would probably shatter by week's end. All of this I pondered as the sun dropped a little lower on the weekend.
How is it back-to-school time? How is there an NFL game on? How am I ever going to figure out this phone, much less what to do with life?
An oversight in the story...
When I came back home from the phone store, I am foolishly sharing with the readership, my door was wide open as if I had just stepped outside to get my mail or do laundry. The kind of wide open for when you are coming right back. No big whoop. Oven isn't on, but it could be and it wouldn't matter.
I had left my apartment in such a state of distraction that I didn't even shut the door behind me. Maybe that speaks to the necessity of coffee in my life, but that threw me for an even bigger loop than my phone. I wasn't just losing my phone, I was losing my mind.
The great part of the phone confusion is that I now have an even greater appreciation of my dad's new confusion with his newly acquired cell phone. No, it's not a new model - it's his first ever phone. He and my mother had been sharing one phone previously. She'd been mission control on the tech side of that one. He'd just talked into it.
His newly acquired phone gifted him, not only the capacity to let my mom know when he's taking a detour to the grocery store because he might need neosporin and the nectarines are on sale, but also a fairly good run of phone bumble anecdotes. He thought the cell phone was the alarm clock one morning, and got out of bed only to later discover the beeping had been a text message. He wrote out the words "question mark" in the first text he sent me, having no idea how to make punctuation marks appear. Hearing these tales I'd laughed and laughed. Teased a bit and assured him he'd get the knack sooner or later. Recommended he switch from the awful default ring tone and thought he was being too picky when he said all the pre-loaded ring tones were crap.
One more moment of being the apple at the base of the family tree for me today. Where were good ring tones? Where was the button to talk? Where was the text menu? Where, for God's sake, was the question mark???
I suppose Dad and I will have to learn the tricks of our new phones on phone calls to one another. Assuming I can hold onto mine and he can find the snooze button on his, we might just be the technologically out-of-touch keeping in touch. We'll see. I've got minutes with his name on them. And well, about 2 other contacts.
My former landlord could call any day now, letting me know he's also unable to reconcile with change, but finally ready to return that deposit.
If he does, I'll put it toward the phone insurance.
Or a new ring tone. Maybe my Dad can suggest some good ones. I'll call him, if I can figure it out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)