Somewhere in Time

Somewhere in Time

I know I’m not the only one who thinks about all the other eras in time I would fit into better. Some of us voraciously read historical fiction yearning for customs and attitudes that belong to another age. Some people think they would just look better in drop waist shift dresses and want to go back to the 1920s. Whatever the reason, when we feel out of place it’s somehow comforting to think that a flaw in the time space continuum is to blame. That we were born too late (or too early?) for the slice of reality fate dropped us into.

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In all the best ways I have felt like, having moved to England, I was granted the sparkling chance to experience the best parts of connecting with people based on a set of rules that are typically only found between cardboard covers. When you really think about going back to your ideal time you then have to face the vagaries of the whole picture. Things like the plumbing situation. Classist, racist, sexist, etcetera prejudices present wherever you saw yourself. And the likelihood of your early and untimely death due to war, disease, malnutrition, tooth decay, and/or childbirth (okay, you might not die of tooth decay, but gross). These do not make for pleasant books or films though. Or daydreams. Though Outlander is making a good stab at it. So, while I will never be presented for the season, or painted in oils, I get to break up with my boyfriend for not respecting my political ideals without anyone batting an eye.

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Luckily our appetite for wondering “what if…” can be satisfied through our usual forms of escapism- glowing screens- while still maintaining our superpowers of pause and microwave popcorn. Woody Allen reminded us that this phenomenon is not new, and it isn’t old, it simply is human to think of yourself sometime else when you’re not where you want to be in Midnight in Paris. Sometimes its just a matter of a little rewind within your slice, which has been gloriously granted to us in 90’s flashback Hindsight, and Life on Mars. We are not going to get into all of the immortal scenarios because I feel like that comes from a different psychological place, and the beauty and drama that comes with being a person somewhen depends on our fragility, our time limit.

Dreams Come with Tiny Nightmares

In this case I am not referring to dreams when you are asleep dreams (though obviously those can also be nightmares; like the one I had yesterday where all the hardware disappeared from my handbag and my laptop crumbled in my hands…*shudder*) Anyway. I’m talking about the other kind of dream. The “Dream big!” kind. The “Dream come true!” kind. The kind that has the thing(s) you really, really want in this slice of existence.

Depending on personal philosophy, parenting, mental imbalances, and available cash we all have different perceptions of how possible acquiring or fulfilling our dreams will be, and deciding what our dreams are. Sometimes our dreams choose us, but either way people and circumstances are going to get in your way and every challenge presents the possibility of giving up on the dream, or getting past what’s in your way and getting a little bit closer. This part we’re all familiar with.

But what about when you find out you are finally going to meet your dream and you’re plagued with a month-long panic attack that you are going to completely fuck it up in some way? No one talks about that part. That’s where the wands come in during Disney movies. And upbeat music montages are edited in during all other movies. No one shares the step between trying your hardest and singing on the mountain top, where you hyperventilate, and eat chocolate with every breath, and you develop a twitch trying to suppress crazy eyes every time someone asks if “you’re excited??” (It is also possible I have an undiagnosed anxiety disorder, but lets ignore that for the time being).

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To be clear, I am not saying “be careful what you wish for”  because I do not believe that dreaming is the time to be careful. I believe the opposite in fact. Dream as if there are no consequences whatsoever. But this phase, the post-struggle-pre-having stage is the time for care and planning and details. Evidently it is also the time for alcohol. Or whatever form of relaxation and heart rate reduction you prefer. Because the reality of something that has only ever manifested in your imagination is overwhelming and feeling all the feels associated with its fruition is part of the experience. I wouldn’t give up these moments of helpless emotional and physical gasping (even if I will self medicate them) because it just goes to show how monumentously great it is to wrap your hands around the object of your obsession/affection/heart’s desire.

If it isn’t an overwhelmingly great thing to have, is it worth wanting in the first place? I’m calling it a win. I’m also calling my mother. If you haven’t let anything get between you and what you want, don’t let fear be the thing that does.

You can take the girl out of the concert; but actually, you can’t.

While it’s surprising to everyone else when I go to intimate rock concerts by myself I couldn’t be more fine with it. I might go so far as to say it’s actually my thing. I haven’t been to a concert with another person since Jingle Ball 2004 with my dad (Jennifer Love Hewitt and Mariah Carey killed it). The truth is I do a whole lot of things on my own and tend to enjoy them more when I do.

I generally make friends with the bouncers and have a nice, cute and vulnerable vibe that has, more than once, resulted in a personal visit from band members (“Why yes, I’m fine, just don’t want to get caught up in the crowd” blink, blink “Yes I would like to hear your unreleased song in the green room”) Things didn’t go quite that swimmingly this evening, because of very silly responsible concerns like getting home safely, but I was compensated with a spontaneous Christmas jazz performance on the Northern Line. See previous post for further eruptions of Christmas spirit of this sort in London.

Unlike every other concert I’ve been to in my life this one was eighty percent grown men singing along like tweens to Taylor Swift which lended a unique and cool dynamic. And every one was extremely polite. No pushing, no yelling (except that which was encouraged by the band) and not one drink spilled by an unruly passerby. Oh, British people.

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Everything about the concert was improved by the headliners, The Xcerts, being Scottish. They were also super engaged and grateful and happy to be there, which makes such a big difference. Taking the intimate show vibe one step further, the lead singer switched to an acoustic guitar and sang along with the audience with no mic. The adults shushed each other and we all had a little campfire moment.

Mirrored pillars in the venue lent some sexy mystery as you could covertly watch large beardy men singing along and bopping. Decently priced beer rounded things out nicely, but the highlight of the show was when, realizing everyone knew the words, the band said, “You sing, and I’ll be Tom Petty.” And we did.

Needless to say, I will be going to more concerts while I continue to live in a city. Maybe I’ll even let someone come with me.

Slut

Quite a bit has been said about the use of the word, and what it means, and what it doesn’t mean, both literally and sociologically. Whether they’re aware of it or not it means something different to different people. And that’s entirely separate from the people who use the word as a weapon. There are interwoven issues of misogyny, and religion, and group dynamics that also come into play. So I just want to lay it all out there – mostly for the express purpose of explaining how stupid the whole thing is.

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I have called people a slut (of both genders). And there will be people in the future that I call a slut. Some of them will even deserve it. I love words, and I think everyone should use as many of them as possible, but they should be used properly. To me, a slut (in it’s modern iteration) is someone who has no respect for themselves or the people they surround themselves with, who chooses to express these sentiments in an offensively sexual way (Offensive, in this case, meaning inappropriate to the given circumstance, i.e. no panties under your mid-thigh length dress at your cousin’s wedding. Your grandma is there. You are being a slut.) I am not the underwear police, wear whatever the hell you like, but there are times and places where other people’s feelings do matter more than your right to assert your preferences. Otherwise we wouldn’t have relationships, or be humans…

In the common vernacular ‘slut’ gets thrown around quite a bit. In sincerity, it seems to be a reaction to frequency or quantity of sexual activity (real or perceived)engaged in by someone of either gender or to how women dress. Now, the etymology of the word can be traced back to our good friend Chaucer, but no matter which language you slice it with ‘slut’ used to refer to someone literally dirty, like with dirt, from outside. There is no arguing that the meaning has changed and developed in the intervening six hundred years. At the first ‘slut’ was synonymous with ‘kitchen maid,” but it only took a hundred years or so for the word to mean ‘prostitute’. It’s not for me to say what kitchen maids got up to in the 15th century that contributed to this change.

German schlutt “slovenly woman,” schlampe “a slattern”

Dialectal Swedish slata “idle woman, slut”

Dutch slodde or slomp “slut,” slodder “a careless man”

Middle Dutch slore “a sluttish woman” (sorry, Kardashians)

*Strangely, just like that old standby ‘bitch,’ ‘slut’ also referred to a female dog for a while there.

So the reference to promiscuity is not entirely out of nowhere. The reaction to what women choose to wear is significantly ridiculous, even if the case is made that she is wearing “clothes that a prostitute would wear” (what about male prostitutes? No slutty gigolo uniform? I digress). In an age where E!’s Fashion Police have a segment titled Starlet or Streetwalker, it is just not a definitive way to categorize anyone. If you weren’t listening to #YesAllWomen, or the very real statistics that most rape victims were wearing sweats, jeans, or pajamas when they were attacked, or the common decency to realize that there is never an excuse for rape, then let me just plainly state the fact that nothing that anyone is or isn’t wearing is inviting, suggesting, or asking you to rape them. Ever. For this and many other reasons, calling someone a slut because of their clothes is stupid. Saying “You look cold” is at least honest, if not entirely complimentary.

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Now, as far as sexual promiscuity is concerned, the label tends to be attributed as a snap judgement regardless of whether in response to a rumor, a direct confession, or a vague imagining. You had sex? Slut. You gave two different people your phone number? Slut. You spoke to people you were attracted to? Slut.

What is that?? Jealousy? Why do we have to, even in jest, imply that pursuance of intimate relationships, in whatever way we choose, is shameful? Or that there is a right way and a wrong way? No one knows the right way. It’s bad enough trying to navigate the judgments and preferences of the person you’re attracted to, much less everyone in the vicinity, everyone you speak to, and, possibly, invisible deities. There should be just as much support for the search for love as there is for the finding of it.

I’ll leave you to your own opinions regarding the incorporation of misogynistic and patriarchal values of purity and social hierarchy into our interpersonal relations that means a ‘slutty’ woman is so much worse than a ‘slutty’ man. To value women only as sexual entities and then punish them for being successfully sexual, neither of which is minutely acceptable. The only thing I’m going to say about religion (other than my blanket policy that everyone should be free to believe and practice what they want to, or not, and to respect that freedom for others) is that it’s an insult to the construct of modern society, and men in particular, that some religions impose dress and conduct codes specifically to combat uncontrollable sexual urges, temptation, and the seduction of beauty, by hiding women. We can cure diseases and create space shuttles and snowboard. Yet, we can’t expect men to behave as rational human beings when confronted with long hair, knees, or, god forbid, cleavage? Get a grip. That is not a tradition worth perpetuating. Unlike pie. Pie forever.

Careful who you’re calling a slut.

Life and Times of an Eighty Year Old Twenty Something

It’s come to my attention that I am the oldest person that I know. The first event that led to this realization occurred last week when I was driving and couldn’t figure out what glowing LED light had burnt out that was causing my car to look so dark. Then I realized that my electrical system was in good working order – I simply hadn’t driven at night-time in so long I forgot what the inside of the car looked like in the dark. Hadn’t even been in a car at night in months.

Then I looked back to the preceding week. I had spent the weekend crocheting a baby blanket (with a decorative edge – I know the fancy stitches). I had done a load of laundry comprised entirely of leggings and over-sized sweaters, and absolutely nothing else. I own more than one pair of six-inch stilettos and all I wear is brightly colored knee-high socks. I had missed a text message from a friend asking me to go to a bar because I had fallen asleep before she sent it. At 8 p.m. It was not difficult to determine that I am living the life of someone almost four times my age. And a particularly boring and introverted octogenarian at that.

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The most disturbing part of this whole scenario, that is my life, is that it’s been difficult to muster up any real indignation at this state of affairs. I genuinely like spending some quality time with my nine pillows of an evening, in comfortable and unattractive outfits. But it’s doing nothing for my social life, and it’s going to be really tricky to revert back to my concert-hopping, tight dress wearing, giggles at everything alter ego when I really am eighty, and look like I should be at home in a shmata, minding an elderly menagerie.

In an effort to shake things up I have made an effort of late to leave my house for purely recreational reasons, and wear some of those dresses taking up real estate in my closet. And it turns out I’m perfectly capable of having fun. I actually really like it. But I’m still going to crochet baby blankets. And spend some Saturday nights in an enormous jumper marathoning cinematic interpretations of YA series’. I’m entirely comfortable with my own company, and sometimes I’m my favorite person to spend time with. We like all the same things.

Might work on that bedtime though.

The Thing About Dick

Now before you get too excited, I do mean Nixon. And before you get completely turned off, this has nothing to do with his politics – or even politics in general.

There is plenty to dislike about Richard Nixon, and he certainly has his share of character flaws, but there is one thing about him that I can’t help but admire. Something that has actually been helping me through some extremely challenging decisions and obstacles. Shockingly, there are some things Beyonce can’t help with.

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When doing some research I found myself at Nixon’s Presidential Library, which is both an amazing research facility and an interesting museum. Apart from the gifts from China, and the glitter-walled space room, there is memorabilia from his early life and political campaign. The thing I never thought to think about, the one thing that felt relevant and relatable was how many times he tried and failed before he became the President of the United States (which makes it all the more tragic that he screwed himself over – but that’s really not the salient point). He lost and failed and messed up constantly. And he still became a Congressman, and a Senator, and gave a really sweaty speech on television, and became the President for a while. I’m not saying that I would do anything the same as this man. The elections he did win were mostly due to somehow insinuating that his competitors were communists (this after serving on the House Un-American Activities Committee).

I’m not saying that it was to any particular person’s benefit that he was eventually elected to such powerful roles, but I’ve become extremely focused on the sort of person he needed to be to keep trying. To do things he didn’t enjoy, and fill roles that were a means to an end, repeatedly, when there was not often hope of success.

It’s easy to envy those who deserve great things, and to whom they come easily as a result. We create justice in our entertainment (punishment for the bad, reward for the good) and marvel at reality when it follows suit. But that trope is not of much comfort to me, or to anyone who does everything right and has arrived at the end of the tunnel only to find that light was a flashlight someone dropped – and now it’s out of batteries. But I can admire the patience and fortitude it took to cultivate something meaningful, where it wasn’t simply given, though I really don’t feel the need to blacklist everyone in my way to do it. I believe in taking the good from whatever you’re presented with, whether it be unethical former Presidents or very limited offers for future endeavors.

Right now I can count my lucky starts on one hand, but I have hope. Hope that my silver lining attitude will pay off, even if it’s not in the way I expect. Hope is enough, for now.

DVR-BF

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I’m not saying that I want someone who I’m with to change an unreasonable amount to accommodate me, but if they could come equipped with features not entirely dissimilar from my DVR that would be kind of great.

Whoever decided that abandoning all of the carefully honed habits that you cultivate into perfection as an individual, and reordering your life’s priorities to put a person your brain would like to share parts with at the top, was romantic, is more than mildly delusional. Why did I figure out what I like if I don’t get to do it anymore?

But someone who saves up all of the things you have previously decided you’re interested in hearing about so that you can choose (in small doses) convenient segments to spend time with them. Moments that you can fully commit to, that you can plan around the rest of the pieces of your life. Now there is something I can get on board with. A relationship that is all about the best, pre-sorted parts of each other, with reminders when important issues have been in the queue for too long, might be the key to lasting monogamy in our On Demand world.

Obviously every relationship would then have one person in the box and the other with the remote, but that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. There’s always going to be a power dynamic, this way there are simply actual batteries. Considering the alternative relationship involving batteries, it’s my personal opinion that DVR boyfriend would be preferable.

Everything else in my life has power switches and privacy settings and notifications, why not my entire romantic life? If anyone finds a guy who seems to have a lot in common with a cable box, please, tell him to get in touch.

True Love

I love my boyfriend so much. We are really good together. He’s always there when I need him, and I love being close to him when I feel bad, and when I feel really good. There is no one better to celebrate with or have with me after a long week.

Things aren’t perfect. When I was younger I couldn’t get enough of him and I never got tired of having him around. But as I got older that constant attention took its toll. I started to gain weight and get headaches, until I could really only be around him every once in a while. But ultimately we found a balance in our relationship and moderation really has been the key to our everlasting love. He understands when I need him and I know he’s there for me, even when I have to handle something on my own.

As Valentine’s Day approaches we have very special plans together. On this one special day there will be no moderation, only indulgence and excess. We will be with one another constantly and I look forward to every minute. And when the holiday is over we will return to our well-honed relationship based on trust, understanding, and love, and he’ll give me just enough distance that I still crave him at the end of the day.

Because our love is true. And my boyfriend is sugar.

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Off to a Sexy Start

I was always completely aware that the trip to Israel was going to be much worse than the trip in Israel. A redeye from LA followed by an 11 hour flight to the promised land on an airline that promised to interrogate me. All of those dreams did come true.

In my ever logical and valiant efforts to arrive  in Israel relatively bright eyed I resolved to stay awake all of Saturday night and sleep through the long haul flight. In this pursuit I decided that eight new books might be adequate to keep me occupied and awake. Little did I know I wouldn’t need any of them. By fate, or possibly a fatal combination of obliviousness and tenacity, I kept the poor man sitting next to me up for 5 hours; and he kept me up.

First, there was the mandatory tail feather flaunting of what schools we went to and what enviable jobs we have had. And then we had to prove how clever and smart we were. But then hours  passed in a haze punctuated by in depth literary analysis, rather  intimate commentary on our lives thus far  and candid musings on our  purpose and very selves. The flight crew, who were already striving for new levels of on board cheek, gave us a bottle of wine, and we drank it- at three in the morning. This, of course, both mellowed and intensified an already heady conversation, though wine did feel more appropriate than breakfast.

He decided he knew me well enough to flick me when I was being cute, and I decided he might be allowed to finish his own sentences instead of amusing myself with my own endings.

As any heroine would, I wrote my name in the back of his novel, and left him enigmatically at the gate. All before I ever left the country.