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Exes and Almosts

Most of us have an ex, or two, or twelve. Whatever the case may be chances are not everyone from your past falls into this category. You went out a couple times, but were never really exclusive. You hooked up, but to even call it a friendship would be overstating things. You hung out everyday for a little while, but the exchange of bodily fluids was at an absolute minimum. These are the people (in my particular case, guys) who I put into the “Almost” category.

They had the potential to be an Ex, had the stars aligned and things turned out differently- but they didn’t. And now when you’re telling your friends about that time with the guy from the place you can accurately refer to him (or her) as an Almost. Despite the obvious advantages in retelling stories since there is no longer that awkward pause where you try to explain the exact dynamics of your non-relationship, the simplicity of the word naturally leads to a simplicity of the emotions involved. Much like calling a rejection a work of fate. It puts the whole experience in perspective. If he wasn’t really your boyfriend then you don’t really need to plague yourself with doubt about your oh-so-charming attributes when he doesn’t call. There is no breakup with an Almost, only a drifting out of your life. If he was so boring you’ve tried to block those hours out of your memory then you never have to admit to anyone that he was your boyfriend again. If your girlfriend went to parties without you and made out with random strangers, you would be understandably upset, but when your Almost does it you can happily hope that at the end of the night they will come home to you sloshed and half-naked. You know, or not.

This restructuring of titles and pigeonholes opens up some new options for the future, too. Go ahead and go out with the guy that no one you’re related to or friends with should ever meet- he can be an Almost and you can get a good night out of it. Since an Almost is a total absence of classification you can do what makes you happy and non-awkwardly introduce each other to people without confusion.

This is not to say that an Almost can’t become a proper, exclusive, significant other since, as the name suggests, that person was almost something and could possibly still have the potential to be. But commitment is entirely at your discretion.

Since I am currently fairly occupied with being very busy and important I may spare an evening sometime soon to go find myself a new Almost- so much less work than a boyfriend…

Honorable Mention: Man in the cafeteria, I very much enjoyed my ball point landscape portrait. “Hola,” to you, too.

Day One

I’ve made it in Hollywood! Kind of. Sort of. Hopefully… 

I got my dream job on a cable show that I can not expressly identify because I would get in trouble, but mostly because I don’t need you people stalking me. Now, more than ever, I know the massive difference between convincing your self that everything will work out one day and having had it work out – thus justifying all of that hope. Suddenly I can join the ranks of the “There were only those 9 months between graduating from college and getting the job I hoped I’d get”  and finally leave behind the all too large club of “It’s been 9 months since graduation and I’ve accomplished exactly nothing- I’ll have to go to the reunion with a bag on my head”. Granted, I’m not actually on a writing staff or anything, but knowing that many people (including not a few who will read this) want to kill me and take over my job is satisfaction enough. Writers’ PA is still a PA and there is lots of getting of coffee, lunch, and other foodstuffs but I’m definitely one of the better paid coffee runners in the world, and obviously those aren’t my only responsibilities. The Show Bible- the mythical document they told us about at TV school that holds inside it all that you ever need to know about a given program is not only available for me to lay hands upon, but is now written by me. It may not end up on the air, but it’s pretty freaking amazing.

Not to mention the obvious advantages of being the conduit to the writers for everyone on set and in production, thus meeting everyone and making myself invaluable. I’m now 10 feet away from the writers’ room, which is significantly closer than the innumerable miles (both literal and metaphorical) that separated us when I was substitute teaching.

My whole universe has flipped on its head as a result of this momentous shift- most definitely for the good- but the whole whirlwind is a wee bit overwhelming. Within two weeks I have the job I’ve wanted since the fateful day I said goodbye to my English major, and I’m on the verge of moving out of my parents house for the second, and hopefully more permanent, time. I’m also leaving the few friends I have back home, but to be entirely honest between 12 hour work days and my propensity for sleeping I don’t know when I’ll have the time to talk to anyone anyway.

I’d write more, but my current state of semi-consciousness is only being maintained by taking over the part of my brain that forms words. Going non-verbal until I get a nap.

The Creative Process

There is a lot of speculation about how it is that artists (of whatever their chosen medium) make the things they do. Many artists have even told people how it is that they create their prized works- the things that they need to happen for the magical genius sparks start doing their sparky thing.

Picasso always had a muse (sadly for his wife, it was very rarely her, but that is another very sad story) whose existence in his life allowed him to create some of the world’s favorite paintings. Religion, and more specifically, the Roman Catholic Church played a massive role in the inspiration of statues, murals, and some of the most impressive architecture, like, ever. And the Pre-Raphaelites had Shakespeare, Tennyson, and Keats to provide their subjects and scenes. You may have noticed that I did not mention what it is that has inspired the writers of the ages. Not because we are special, or so drastically different from any other kind of artist, but we’re weird and accomplish most of what we do because of the firm affirmation that we are wholly unlike any who has come before us, and will be irreplaceable by any who come after us. Whether or not it’s true is irrelevant. But to state the inspiration of other writers would be to claim a kinship to them which I will be more successful ignoring.

Now, don’t assume I am quite so high, mighty, and vain as to suppose that having an ounce of Shakespeare’s talent wouldn’t be one of the single greatest things to occur in all eternity, because it would. But assessing myself to be a rational person, it’s a lot easier to believe that whatever measure of “I-guess-this-doesn’t-suck”-ness that I do have comes from something innate. That sense of possession over the words in my head and anything they happen to compile into is the last gasp of sanity that I get.

After days of listening to the fictional people in my head tell me about their lives, showing me exactly how it’s meant to happen in my dreams, and yelling at me when I don’t write it correctly one begins to think schizophrenia is not too far off. This may, or may not, be why some writers seem moody. Their moods would make perfect sense to anyone who could see the epic throw down going on, mid-cerebral cortex. Anyway, if I began to even consider that part of why the voices in my head behave the way they do could be attributed to dead authors of the past, my latest romantic entanglement, or (God forbid) the diety of your choice then I might actually lose it. It’s one thing to be a little off within your own head, and totally another to believe that your crazy transcends the bounds of space and time.

I have no idea if  it is the same for painters and sculptors. In that arena, I am best known for my stick horse and the one bowl from ceramics that doesn’t tip to one side. And I don’t really know if it’s the same for other writers. But it would explain a little of our behavior, and if that isn’t a slice of modern psychology then whipped cream is a food group.

My personal creative process is only initiated after a fair amount of mentally yelling at myself, getting into comfy clothes, putting my hair up, and eating a croissant (I’ll use pretty much any excuse to get a croissant and a hot chocolate). Then I stare my laptop into submission, sometimes outline up my left arm in pen, and periodically get up for solo dance parties in my room to keep things going.

I have no idea how knowing the way the words you’re reading reach you is in any way helpful, but I really needed that dance, and I feel better now.

The Library

  

As an expert in people watching I cannot recommend a more entertaining place to disappear into a corner and judge our fellow human beings. First of all, it is very easy place to disappear and no one really questions you sitting in the corner silently,this behavior tends to freak people out otherwise.

The most prevalent, and very best thing, about the people you see in the library on Saturday morning is the self-satisfied smirk that everyone is wearing to one degree or another that clearly says, “Look how intellectual and smart I am, I am in the library, and I’m here to get a book unlike all of you other aimless library go-ers.” The smirk prevails even when they nonchalantly walk past the map one or twelve times in an attempt to figure out where they actually want to be without giving anyone the impression that they don’t know exactly where they want to be (thus cracking the self-important facade).

But even before the map-sign dance there is the entrance. Besides the cranky library card officials who quite honestly have nothing better to do, there’s the people who don’t walk far enough in to actually make contact with any books, but stick to the free DVD rentals- and maybe glance at the New Arrivals shelf just to legitimize their trip. Yet, for some reason, they have no qualms about surveying you from head to toe when you walk in and trying to guess which department you’re headed to. Obviously the very tiny people have given themselves away by being children and thus go to the room allotted to them. Everyone else has five seconds in which their clothes, facial expression, and carrying device are all scrutinized even though everyone watching is going to find out where you’re going in about three seconds. You can practically see the bets being placed.

I was in a black sundress, smiling, with my purse- so it was generally assumed that I was going to do some damage in chick lit. Or, since I’m blonde, not-so-subtly venture into the picture books. When I made a beeline for the Reference section there were more than a couple dropped jaws, and not a couple of people waiting for me to circle back with a look of utter confusion. Never underestimate the power of a little advance googling.

I not only knew what section the book I wanted was in, but had memorized the reference number and walked straight to it without any assistance. One must be careful not to adapt the put upon airs of the grad students who have been sequestered in there for so long they feel you are intruding on their living room- pretentious is never cute. But the confidence of “Yes, I know where all of the books are” is just smug enough to make you feel like hot library shit. And that’s not a bad accomplishment for a Saturday morning.

Please avert your eyes from the archive basement dwellers on your way out. Or have coffee with them- it’s a good habit not to judge anything by its cover.

Yes, No, Maybe So

doyoulikeme

Secretly, or in my case not so secretly, we all wish that relationships were as simple as they were in 5th grade. Someone passed you a note with very convenient check boxes while someone four seats to the right and up two awaited the answer to that timeless question: Do you like me?

For as much as we accuse ourselves of immaturity in thinking that a checklist should be the best way to determine attraction, there was directness in this method that is blatantly lacking in all of our interactions since. There is bravery in passing a note like that because no matter which box is checked the entire class is going to know about it as it makes its way back, and the entire school is going to know by recess. Reputation is really the only thing that hangs in the balance at that point, since even if the answer is yes the best you can hope for is someone to share your Little Debbie cupcake with- and who honestly wants to share their cupcake?? But the principle stands. Whether it’s the girls out to lunch, or the boys over beers, everyone is saying to their friends “I have no idea what’s going on. What the hell does he/she want?” And all of this confusion would be much simpler if we all started with a basic statement of interest.

 There is even confusion in the discussing of anonymous notes. I walked up to the host of a restaurant just as someone from the kitchen passed him a note. He seated me and asked how I was, to which I replied, “I’m good, no one is passing me secret notes, but it’s still been a pretty good day.” It could have very satisfactorily ended there, but no. He said, “If it was from a nice blonde instead of Juan it would make my day, too.” And with that conjecture over whether he meant me, or blondes in general or only meant to express the general ennui of being a host began. Granted, I’m more oblivious to subtleties of intention than most people (I’m usually the last to know if someone is hitting on me), but how is anyone supposed to know when flirting is innocent as opposed to a means to an end. I have been through enough sorta, kinda, I-guess-you-can-sort-of-look-at-it-that-way relationships to realize that you probably wouldn’t get a yes or no answer even if you asked for one, but it’s nice to think about.

The root of the problem is that no one really knows exactly what they want, and even when they think they do, they’re usually wrong and end up doing something completely contrary. Which is what makes the art of predicting other peoples nonsense, as well as your own, a fruitless exercise. Even knowing that a checklist would only be a stop-gap solution, I would most likely do it anyway; a few hours peace of mind is better than none. I, personally, have been on the precipice of employing a more comprehensive checklist with more questions and possible answers, but it began to take on shades of standardized testing- kind of sucks the romance out of things, not to mention the sincerity.

More often than not I’m fairly certain all of us would answer “Maybe so” if asked whether we like someone (or if we like like them) because liking someone and figuring out how much of your time you’re willing to spend around them is an ongoing decision. Figuring out your own crap is hard enough, much less trying to mush it together with someone else’s. You don’t go sharing your cupcake with just anyone.

 

Mmm Pie

2009-10-30_2By request, and in honor of the season, I am going to tell you how to bake a pumpkin pie that will not shame you in the eyes of the pilgrims or those who have to eat it. The first and most important issue to address is the common use of canned pumpkin goo as the base for the typical Thanksgiving pie. This is disgusting, unconscionable, and will not be tolerated if you are going to use this recipe. Pie ought not to taste like aluminum and feeding sub-standard pie to those you claim to love, or put up with, is mean. Don’t do it.

If you are wondering how in God’s name you are to make a pie without preformed cylinders of unnaturally orange food product then you need to leave. Just Google search ‘butt’ like you were planning to do anyways and please never make food for anyone- yourself included. 

If instead you are dazzled by the prospect of turning a vegetable into pie (or muffins, or bread, or…goodness it all sounds so good I’ve bought five pumpkins and now I need you to enlighten me as to how they become food) then you are ready for Step 1. Buy a pumpkin. You probably have one, but if you’ve stabbed it in the face to make it smile at your neighbors like the creepy gourd that it is then it’s too late. No one wants to eat that. It started rotting the second you cut it open and now it has dirt and candle wax and probably bugs in it. Eww. So go get yourself an unmolested pumpkin. You can draw a face on it of you must, and even name it, but dont poke any holes in it. Only get a massive pumpkin if you are feeding your family of eighteen, otherwise a little one will do- roughly the size of your head.

Step 2: Hack it up. You are going to take your pumpkin and a very large knife and cut it into bits and pieces. Embrace the spirit of our intolerant, ignorant, and mildly hypocritical forebears by ruthlessly killing that which you don’t understand. Dispose of the guts however you like but don’t let them near the pie. You want some good-sized chunks- as if you were making mashed potatoes out of them (the pumpkin chunks, not our forebears). Throw them all in a big pot and boil them to within an inch of their life, or until soft and stabbable with a fork. Then peel the skin off (this is where the Indian forebears come in) and put your mushy pumpkin chunks straight into a food processor, if you have one, or into a bowl, if you don’t. Either way you want to mash and stir until you get something the consistency of a creamy soup. Now you have your pumpkin muck.

Step 3: Pie filling. This part is super easy. You are literally going to stir all of these things up in a bowl in this order. That’s it, you know until step 4. 2009-10-30_1

2 eggs, beaten

1 3/4 cups Pumpkin muck

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

1 2/3 cups evaporated milk

Step 4: Now you have a bowl of orange-ish milk with specks floating on top- perfect! You are going to carefully pour this into a 9 inch pastry shell almost to the tippy top- but not quite. I make my pie crust, but if you’re exhausted after all of this hacking business and generally want to tell me to stuff it at this point then don’t worry about it. I’m not nearly as indignant about the use of inauthentic crust and will not come to your house to malign you verbally with excessive force if you cheat. If I sense an empty pumpkin can, however, I’m going to find you.

Step 5: Bake. You’ll have enough filling to make 2 pies, so transport these very slowly to your preheated oven which should be a toasty 425 degrees. Try really hard not to spill in the oven because it’ll burn in the bottom and be gross. After 15 minutes reduce the heat to 350 degrees and wait another 20 minutes. You should be able to poke it with a knife (I know, more stabbing) and pull it out clean so just leave it in an extra few minutes if theres still pie goo on it. It’s still going to wobble a little when you take it out, but that’s ok. Your pie will also collapse a little as it cools, but that’s ok too.

You’re done! You have made an exceptionally yummy pie without dishonoring the entire holiday of Thanksgiving and the spirits of all of your ancestors. You can eat it now.

Better Than Yours

January092009-01-14_7My twenty first birthday could not have been more ridiculous or fabulous than it was. This was most likely due to the great number of friends and random people on the street whom I shamelessly informed that I LOVE my birthday, in the days leading up to December. You know that all encompassing thrill and obsession that the average five year old vibrates with when their birthday is coming up? You know, the “oh my god, I’m only 4 and 364/365ths for another four hours! Ahhhh!” Well, whether luck or insanity, this spirit has been preserved in my annual celebrations- except for the counting part. Math is not my thing. Parties are.

It’s amazing what people will do for you when they know that you’re pretty much guaranteed to flip out over it. The celebration of my entering the ranks of the drinking, in Boston, was celebrated over a period of about two weeks wherein I drank every single day, virtually gave up sleeping, and the only food I remember eating was hastily acquired in the interest of drinking more. Taking place at the end of the semester this means I completed all of my finals while drunk. Except the one that I missed entirely because of the boy in my bed- woops.

Since the actual day of my birth fell on a Monday I planned for it to be pretty low key with the whole having to go to class the next day thing and all. Went to the BU Pub for a couple ceremonial drinks, since I could, but the friends I went with somehow turned it into a Boston bar tour through the 10 degree weather. One of them lost her phone which was later found in her bra. I almost ate the origami flower in one hand instead of the chicken finger in the other. And I’m fairly certain I did the splits more than once, in more than one bar (it’s apparently my go-to drunken party trick).

Then there was the actual party- on the weekend, when normal people go out. I’d already been drunk for five days at this point, but now I was dressing up for it. In a wonderful stroke of genius my roommate had organized a James Bond Pub Crawl, thus allowing for all the girls to dress like sexy Bond girls and guilting the guys into wearing tuxes (and I may have told them they didn’t have to get me a present if they dressed up). The night was perfection. A friend who had flown out from California for the occasion was lost between bars 2 and 3 when she wandered into a fire station. I gave my shoes to another friend. Being a massive lightweight I’d had enough to drink that I probably should have been dead a few times over, but the alcohol gods kept me going all night without even an inkling of a hangover. 

The walk home was slightly more difficult in having to keep one girl from going home with strangers, realizing we were barefoot at 2 a.m. on Comm. Ave., and getting a short-lived piggy back ride from Christian, a nice boy walking his bike home while holding his broken light saber. That night ended in the amazingness that is challah grilled cheese sandwiches, but the shitshow continued.

Went to the back bar of Our House (around the corner from the foosball tables) where I got to pick drinks out of ‘the book’- I can recommend Sex in a Hot Tub only because it’s the one thing I remember drinking. Edited my entire final movie project with a beer in my hand and my professor thought it was somewhat incredible. Inevitably, since I was treating my body like the rum punch bowl at the assembly hall (read some early 19th c. literature, you’ll get this reference and be very sophisticated- like me), I got a pretty nasty case of the flu. Thus I added a healthy dose of Nyquil to the mix, and a few more naps. This did not stop me from attending $1 draft Thursday night at An Tua Nua upon request. I was not so sure I wouldn’t collapse, but had a couple assurances that someone would catch me, so I danced and drank with energy that came from god knows where. I also vaguely recall agreeing to be somebody’s little spoon.

The ramifications of those couple of weeks followed me for a bit after that. Got a call from one gentleman asking me out who came up on my phone as Creepy Boy. I told him I was moving to California, he asked if I was blowing him off, I said yes. I also garnered a reputation for being a lot cooler than I really am. I suppose I felt the need to live up to that when I flew to London three weeks later.

Basically the festivities of my 21st birthday are so marvelous as to be virtually unmatchable. But I am turning 22 soon…

“Greek” is Great

greek-cast02[1]The cast of Greek has appealed to their audience’s sense of vicarious adventure for three seasons, and taking advantage of a mildly risqué plot they are now encouraging an important facet of Greek life that is often forgotten- philanthropy. In last week’s episode “The Half Naked Gun” Casey turns the annual undie run (mostly an excuse to run through campus in your favorite frilly boy shorts) into a clothing drive for the homeless. The episode is meant to kick off the recent partnership the show has made with DoSomething.org to encourage everyone to do what they can to help in their community.

The cast is going to appear in PSA’s supporting a few charities that need volunteers. Dilshad Vadsaria (Rebecca) has a special relationship with Girls Inc. since she “started volunteering at schools on [her] own and ran into Girls Inc. [She] found out what a great program it is and came to them with some ideas”. Global Green USA and Cancer for College, who encourage green living and supply college scholarships for cancer patients respectively, are also featured. Dilshad, Spencer Grammer (Casey), and Scott Michael Foster (Cappie, sigh) all agreed that supporting charities is not always the easiest thing- along with the studying, sleeping, not sleeping, eating, and maintaining sanity that fill a college students life- but “committing yourself for as little as an hour a week can make such a big difference”.

Greek has found a foothold with an audience that goes beyond college students to include reminiscing parents and anxious high school students which will, hopefully, make this campaign to participate that much more effective. Jacob Zachar (Rusty) thinks “the show is so relatable because of the different kinds of characters” and the full spectrum of events they show as being part of college life. Whether you think you’re an “Ashley” or a “Casey” someone on Greek has acted out part of your life, and then you kind of wished you had the rest of theirs. Granted there’s plenty that goes above and beyond with the excuse of entertainment value, Evan Chambers’ Ironman car for one (which Jake McDorman says was completely awesome, even if he had no idea how to drive stick).

While a lot of the cast has never attended college, or at least not ones with any kind of Greek life, they all seem to feel like they’ve gotten the best of the experiences they’ve missed through the show. Jake likes that the writers have “covered every facet… being the odd one out, how it feels to be in a new environment, go through relationships and breakups. And then every once in a while Scott walks around in his underwear.” Thank God for that.