Holly Days

Happy Holidays, everyone! I know this time of year means something a little different for us all. Decorating, shopping, vacationing, lovingly gathering with/avoiding family. Mild to extreme observance of whatever spiritual credo you adhere to. But what I really think it’s important for us not to forget this time of year are the Pagan roots we all descend from and should respect. Granted you’re probably already doing a lot of things without even realizing it – decorating trees, lighting candles, cooking and eating feasts in a ceremonial fashion, dressing up, and dancing.

If you think about it, those are really all the fun parts of the winter festivities anyway. Especially that whole making out under bushes thing. Awesome.

Since the point of all the religious observances is just to further bind you to the global power play that is organized religion, and they are mostly not fun, I’m all for glazing over those in favor of the purity of Pagan celebration. And what better way to exorcise the stress caused by all of those aforementioned seasonal obligations. A little worship to the North Star, in sparkly earrings and a red scarf, sashaying near flames sounds way better than your average midnight mass. Who’s to say that is any less spiritual or connected to the world around you?

Although, if that’s the sort of emotional freedom and happiness, the kind of connection that you get out of mass, or Hanukkah prayers, or ritualistically howling at the moon then more power to you. Shun the tree, oust Santa, and get on your knees in front of a manger. Personally, I think gold and silver are a choking hazard for babies. A nice fleece blanket would have been a lot more welcome at the birth of a barn baby in the Israeli desert. In my opinion. Or, like, socks. Or a Bugaboo stroller. Maybe myrrh is really good for diaper rash? Anyway. My point is just to value the joy of Paganism, in all its forms, as being of equal value as any other holiday tradition. Presents make people happy (and that whole scenario is very symbiotic with capitalism, so there’s that) and you shouldn’t let anyone make you feel guilty for thinking about what would please the people you love and sacrificing part of your income to get it for them when they label it “materialism”. We exist as physical entities. Materials are nice. Embrace it.

While you’re at it embrace the people you choose to be with this holiday. Do whatever makes you happy with them. And definitely set something on fire at some point.

So I was watching TV…

Surprising, I know. And as one is won’t to do (as a viewer should do if the writers are doing their job) I put myself in the place of some interesting female characters and came out with a whole new idea about myself. Connie Britton in the pilot of American Horror Story only reinforced her place in my heart as the best lady to fight with ever, and my assertions about myself should anyone ever have to audacity to cheat on me and then move me into a haunted house.  God help the man who tries. My side of the argument wouldn’t have the constraints of cable censorship.

Then I saw this week’s episode of Parks and Recreation with the drama of the Tammy’s. My family also suffers from the anomaly of multiple women with the same name, except one is my mom and I like her. I realized that while there is a valid point in not putting too many restrictions on the qualities that people you date must or must not possess, someone with the same name as my father is not an option. Neither is someone with the same name as someone I’ve already gone out with. Three of the same in the past is more than enough. He also can’t wear smaller jeans than me.

And then Legally Blonde came on, and if you can’t see how I would relate then you don’t deserve to read this. But beyond the validated indignation over the prejudiced treatment of blondes and pretty people there were some lessons to be learned. Being smart is enough to show other people you’re smart, but proving you’re smart has to be for you or you really are the pretentious cow that everyone’s assuming you are for even trying. And Luke Wilson was right when he said that being blonde was a powerful thing and there’s something to admire in using that power for good. Not that I’m going to stop flipping my hair for discount car maintenance services (I’m underemployed and on a budget, don’t judge me), but I’m all for using it to help others and using people’s prejudices against them to do my best. If my hair gets me places, then at least I know my brain keeps me there. Law school is not in my future but other wonderful, intellectual things are.

Of course, there have been a couple of fantasy moments inspired by Pan Am, mostly to do with makeup and wardrobe. Less to do with being sexually objectified and roped into spy networks.

If you’re not being inspired by your television viewing experience, then you’re doing it wrong. Or all you are watching is procedural crime dramas and your lack of connection with them is something I can only be thankful for. Happy Fall TV!!!

Broken Record

This is not going to be new. But if I have to continue living with it, then you can continue reading about it.

On a day when I definitely needed it I was treated to the profound ego boost that is being asked out while standing in line for salad. Sadly, the gentleman prefaced his request by pulling his pants down to show me his underwear. I informed the servers that my salad should be nowhere near his salad at any point in time. The scariest part of this story is that I was criticized for turning him down too readily. I realize it’s been a while since I’ve had an even slightly normal experience with a male person, but throwing the “don’t-show-me-your-underwear-in-eating-establishments” standard out the window is not an option. Sorry, boys.

Now I’m back to the hopeless endeavor of randomly bumping into someone charming and attractive while substitute teaching. For some reason eligible bachelors are not often found in public school classrooms. And the few that work there are married. Because that is the unspoken rule of teachers.

Until I cave to the threat/inevitability of grad school, or am hired to write things, I will continue taking a super long time waiting for my lattes and praying that no one feels the need to start stripping in a show of affection. And I will also take into consideration that my stripping in public might be rewarded with a more positive reaction. No promises.

My Belle Epoque

Before you get too excited, this has nothing to do with my life going fabulously well in comparison to other era’s of my life (hard to do when most of them are as yet to be experienced). It does, however, have everything to do with how similar my current disposition and situation seem to mirror that of Belle’s. Given the pop culture climate I feel it’s important to distinguish that I’m referring to Disney Belle and not Belle de Jour of the very entertaining and popular, Secret Diary of a Call Girl series. Not prostitute, Disney princess. Good? Good.

While California coastal towns are not exact replicas of French provincial towns they are kind of the same in that there is a family owned bakery where they make bread everyday, and as in the movie, no one speaks French. The same people doing the same things is starting to wear on me and I generally feel more at home in a bookstore than anywhere else, though since the advent of Visa no kindly shopkeepers with hair in their ears are handing me my favorite books for free.
[Sidenote: I don’t know what crazy story she’s reading with the prince, and the hidden identity thing, and this clueless heroine who can’t figure shit out for three chapters is, but that crazy Shakespearean/ Bourne Identity nightmare is not available on my Kindle.]

Without a doubt, I feel that both Belle and I are destined for as-yet-undiscovered great things. Hers involved falling in love with some kind of angry, talking minotaur and I’m hoping the object of my destiny falls more into the tall, handsome, and human category, but why quibble over details? Chick ends up with a castle and a kick ass library. Which is worth it even if she apparently has to waltz about the ballroom in the same yellow dress every evening for the servants’ amusement. People already think I’m exceptionally strange, just like Belle, but also are typically willing to forgive this character flaw if I hush up and sit pretty the rest of the time. I can only pray that no neck-less misogynistic hunters are plotting to surprise marry me, but one can never be too careful. I think that stalker I had totally qualifies in this instance. My dad likes cars and Belle’s dad likes, um, moving conveyance thingies. And the inanimate objects in my house do not talk to me, but I certainly talk to them. Maybe you didn’t need to know that part.

So, obviously, Belle and I are exactly the same and now all I have to do is wait for destiny to follow its natural course and I too can have the privilege of presiding over a kingdom that no one knows exists, since 10 years is adequate time for a castle and monarchy to be entirely forgotten and hidden in a dark forest full of wolves. If you’ll excuse me, it is half past singing loudly in the middle of the street time.

Instant Boyfriend Powder

Coming from a not so envied position of semi-recently graduated and barely employed, a goodly number of my friends and I are well primed for a little instant gratification. I’m supportive of the fantasy insofar as something falling into my lap would be a nice change from scrabbling up metaphoric jagged cliffs to chase taunting golden mirages of boyfriends, promising careers, and a living space my parents don’t also occupy. But I can’t really embrace the entitlement that my generation refuses to see past. Yes, it would be nice if perfect scenarios presented themselves right in front of me, but I don’t expect that to happen and it’s not something the universe owes me. Capitalism, on the other hand, made some promises that haven’t been kept. I don’t mind working my ass off to get what I want, but putting in all the work only to suddenly realize your goal isn’t there when you reach the end is more than a little infuriating.

In this line of thinking, I was considering conversations I have had with my friends that seemed to end on the same note of dissatisfaction: “Why can’t my ideal someone/something magically appear”. And god knows I sympathize, but what worries me is that they seem to mean it. If they can site even one example (and there is invariably at least one) of someone stumbling into their dream with perfect timing and circumstance all they can think is that it should have been them. All I can think is that it would make a very boring story, but I’m fully aware of my masochistic and opportunistic tendencies. In any case, comparison is not a good verb on which to base your life. You will, without fail, come up short every time. Now weighing things against your own expectations can be equally dangerous, if not more (entirely dependent on your level of self-delusion), but it’s ever so slightly healthier to attempt to live your life on your own terms and based on your own perceptions of reality, morality, success, failure, and happiness. In my opinion. Of course it would be bloody fantastic if you could go to the boyfriend store and pick out a packet of Tall, Handsome, Debonair, Will Let You Name the Children, Comes with Puppy and just add water. Or to go to the Work building, get in the Dream Job Line, and pick up your envelope of…well, you get the idea. But we can’t. And maybe that’s a good thing.

It definitely doesn’t feel like a good thing. Being an adult is hard and often awful, but when the big things work out it’s that much better when you’ve fought for every step towards the goals you want the most. With any luck you’ve reached a place where you can enjoy this massive piece of the puzzle falling into place. Not that I’m in possession of any of these puzzle pieces. I’m still trudging along with one eye on the clouds – just in case my dreams decide to suddenly fall from the sky.

Quantification

I am an extremely accident prone person. So I tend to assess damage to myself as a matter of course: head – attached; fingers – functional; bruises – minimal; etc. but lately I can’t help but quantify the damage. For instance my teeth are worth thousands of dollars. Ish. A good chunk of that was the braces, but the rest was actually the consequence of a few of the various accidents I’ve already discussed. Not my best moments. And I now have my dentist’s home phone number, but it makes those times I open the car door into my head that much more upsetting.

And then there’s my brain to consider. I’m not entirely sure I was using it when I decided to go to a private university but that definitely upped the value into the tens of thousands. Suddenly that bump on my head is not only stupid, but downright fiscally irresponsible. I should be wearing a helmet at all times with alarms and lasers and things. But I like playing with my hair too much so that isn’t going to happen.

Valuing your life and the things you have and the things you do are all good and important, but assessing their monetary value is going to drive you insane. Bumps and bruises happen, both literally and metaphorically, but they heal and we’re either as good as new or we’ve learned something (remove head from under coffee table before standing up). It’s really hard to maintain the innocence of walking straight into things when you know there are going to be unyielding, fast-moving projectiles heading in our direction every so often, but I almost always think it’s worth it and that dizziness wears off in a minute or two.

Bashing yourself in the head with a car door, or a table, or a stapler (don’t ask) is definitely a bad thing, for the record, but is sometimes unavoidable.

The Ish Proviso

Everyone who has ever made plans with me has waited the requisite ten extra minutes that it takes me to arrive. It doesn’t matter how insignificant or important the plans – I will be late, but only a little. My best friends have learned that the best course of action is to lie to me. Approximate time is the only way you can hope to be blessed with my presence when you actually require it. So, in the interest of trying to be less misleading I have started to utilize what I have come to learn is the beautiful irreplacability of the suffix “ish”. If I’ve promised to be there at noon-“ish” then it’s just barely permissible that I walk in at 12:24. With the hope that I was at least offending people less, I started to explore the further possibilities of these three amazing letters. It actually becomes theoretically feasible to avoid taking responsibility for anything with liberal application of “ish”.

“I said I’d be there at 3-ish.” “Two hours away is close-ish.” “I swear I was wearing a condom-ish.”

If you’re someone who really can’t stand to be nailed down to your plans, or anyone else’s then I can’t think you’ve been very successful at avoiding it without some “ish”-ing. “Ish” is also of great use when trying to explain something you know very little about. Like wine, for instance.

“There’s definitely a woodsy-ish note below the full-bodied apricot-ish flavor.”

No one can argue with you. All you’ve really said is that it tastes like red wine with a fruity flavor. It’s made of grapes, and you can see that it’s red. You’re in good shape.

Your friend asks just how hot your Flamin’ Hot Cheetos really are. “Spicy-ish.” Suddenly you absolved yourself of the responsibility for the third degree burns to their tongue but you still get the enjoyment of watching them run about with their tongue hanging out of their face. Or manfully tearing up. Also funny.

It’s like when someone tells you you’re stylish. They don’t really mean it, obviously.

There is also massive potential to get yourself into trouble, so make sure to use “ish” moderately. The word “ish” and I are not responsible for any negative repercussions of your use of the word because I am only telling you how useful-ish it is.

Happy New Year (ish)!!!!!   I’ve now addressed all time zones at once.

Boobs Are Never Lonely

I think it’s high time I talk about breasts in a public forum – it was only a matter of time really. It’s one of those topics of conversation that always comes up and kind of gets old, but before you know it boobs are new and exciting again. And that is because they are awesome. It’s pretty general knowledge that guys think so but I’m fairly certain that an honest survey of women would elicit the same answer. Personally, I LOVE my boobs. They’re perky and squishy and all around lovely. And there is something special about knowing that one is very slightly bigger than the other (I’m not telling you which).

Once, in middle school, all the guys in class were crowded around a picture of some model in a bikini and they wouldn’t let any of the girls in class see. So I promptly looked down my own top and told all the boys that I could look at boobs anytime I wanted to. So there. I was responsible for a lot of shocked stares that day, but what those guys, and more importantly all of the girls, learned was that they possessed orbs of power. Some more than others of course, we were like twelve.  By the simple expedient of having boobs girls find out they can command attention, influence thought,and inspire action. The “Why” of it isn’t so important. It could be because they are so protected and forbidden in Western cultures. Or some Freudian maternal complex. Or just because they’re fun, which they totally are. What I find more fascinating is the unimaginable usefulness of symmetrical fat receptacles conveniently available on one’s chest. I would like this bartender to make my drink first, I think I shall lean over. For whatever reason I’m always a little pleasantly amazed when these transparent sorts of tactics work, but I can’t argue with the outcome. I have never in my life paid for a flat tire repair, and I don’t intend to for as long as I can manage it.

It would be a lie to say that boobs are under appreciated because fashion and pop culture have ensured that they are not, but on a more individual basis I’m not sure the same is true. 355,671 breast augmentations were performed in the U.S. in 2008. That is a lot of unhappy boobs. I think a little objectification, under the right circumstances, would have gone a long way. Women should love their boobs as much as all the guys around them.

Please feel free to disagree with me. Or challenge me. I’m going to put my frilly bra back on.

You Kiss Badly

There has been a thorough appreciation of amazing kissers on this blog (since it’s inception almost a year ago, Happy Birthday HillaryofTroy!!) but a willful ignorance of those who, by all accounts, are physically incapable of kissing someone in a manner that is enjoyable. This is about the bad kissers of the world, with a little indignant ranting about their introduction into my life.

I had no idea how lucky I was. Up until about a year ago every guy I’d kissed seemed to know what he was about and this came to be my expectation from anyone with the audacity to invade my personal space- and my mouth. Which I still consider to be reasonable. Sadly, there have been a few guys lately who have fallen far short, and it made me think that these sad specimens of masculinity may be in the majority, running rampant and ruining otherwise lovely evenings. It turns out everyone has encountered bad kissers and yet I had no idea what I was in for with guys who licked my cheek, bit my lip (like really hard- there was a bruise), and made a good try at suffocating me with their tongue. Why would anyone find that fun?

To be fair I can’t be upset that no one has told these people what a menace to romantically inclined social interaction they are because I didn’t say anything either. I was selfishly concerned with the welfare of my face. And yet, I still don’t understand how one makes it to their twenties thinking that this sort of behavior is acceptable. There can’t be anyone who puts up with this kind of thing more than once (I’m a big fan of the “never ever answer your calls” method), which I’d think might lead to a little self-reflection, but apparently not. So, for those persons, when in doubt, keep it simple. You’ve just met this girl. For whatever reason she has tolerated your company for some period of time without excessive trips to the bathroom and people across the room she needs to speak to. Then again, that could be assuming a lot, perhaps you’ve thrown the nearest female up against a handy flat surface, in which case, I have to say from experience, that you really ought to make it worth her while. Either way, your fancy tricks are unappreciated as you are executing them very very badly to the chagrin of all involved. Thanks for your interest, please move on. I hate to fall back on cliches without a good excuse, or to call any well meaning gentleman a frog, but if the slime fits…

My future paramours are probably not going to read this warning, but I can only hope that the tide of my romantic luck will change for the better. And wish the talented kissers of the world will find you, too.

Happy kissing xxxx

5 Ways You Know You’re A Hollywood Assistant

As if it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t notice…

1) You have spilled coffee…all over the roof of your car. And the passenger seat. And every floor mat you own, including those in the trunk. When you do a coffee run almost everyday with anywhere from 4-14 orders and you transport them in your car a fair percentage makes it outside of the stupid containers. Doesn’t matter how much you think you’ve perfected the art of balancing the trays and making them all support one another while you drive, it’s going to end up everywhere. Speed bumps arise out of nowhere and all your planning is for naught.

2) You have forgotten how to sleep. This is not to say that you don’t sleep- we’re not some breed of insomniac vampires. But you no longer get that way under your own power, with any kind of forethought, or with any regularity. You work more than twelve hours a day – how much more being entirely dependent on your boss(es)- which means that the moment you get somewhere where you don’t have to be alert to the needs and whims of everyone around you, you basically collapse. You’re body has run the marathon and there is nothing left. I’ve woken up a few times (luckily, I seem to make it to my bed most of the time) with one leg of my jeans still on and my bra unhooked, but still more or less in place. This is because sleeping becomes an involuntary and sudden loss of energy and control that results in unconsciousness as opposed to anything you’d actually get ready for. Thus, the art and practice of ‘going to sleep’ is lost on you entirely.

3)All of your stories about going out and seeing your family start with “So there was this time a while back…” because you haven’t actually seen anyone on a social basis that wasn’t also an excuse to network in years. Or at least the equivalent of years because you’re awake so goddamn much.

4)You’ve done things deemed ‘strange’  by the world at large because it’s your job. Jack (of all trades) is a lazy asshole compared to all of things that you do. Feeding, dog walking, nursing, typing, calling, faxing, cleaning, running errands, answering phones, running for no apparent reason, researching funny names for cat shelters, filing, coddling, and coloring. And then there’s the odd tasks. Somehow all of it is entirely normal until you realize that other people’s ‘water cooler’ stories actually have something to do with a water cooler.

5) You have regularly scheduled nervous breakdowns. Your main focus is to organize and operate the lives of others, therefore, taking care of your own life is tertiary at best. I’m lucky if I have time to deposit my own paycheck. The stress levels, sleep deprivation, and constancy of awareness all add up to an unavoidable nervous breakdown – most likely more than one. But you can’t afford to have that kind of loss of control when you have other things and people to worry about. So you find ways to stave them off and very conveniently schedule blocks of time in advance in which to irrationally cry and break things and imagine yourself being sucked into a void of blackness. And then you get over it and go back to work.

Because we are the future of LA goddamn it. And one day we will have our own assistants to subject to all of this while we concentrate our obsessions and intelligence verified by $100,000 degrees on worthwhile problems like why our characters keep cheating on one another. And we love every minute.