The Home Personified

{ February 9, 2010 @ 9:40 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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Sometimes I feel like I’m a suburban house with predictability. Eggshell siding with earthy window shutters. Plain. Surrounded by a land of green. Distant to neighbors. Pestered by squirrels. Just another face in the neighborhood getting the mail or planting daffodils.

But I want to be a bold color and live on the edge. I want to escape. Free like a seagull in the sky. Unique and exotic. Charming.

Venice, Italy

Sometimes I feel like a church. Safe and happy, yet too naive for this world. Fragile like stained glass. Quiet and thoughtful. Surrounded by candles and the oppressive realization of the sureness of death. Eating stale bread and cheap table wine of a dead man. Stinking of incense and Catholic guilt.

But I want to be a college bar where everyone is loud and alive. Bubbly and carefree. Dancing to a cover band and drinking $3 Long Island iced teas. Enjoying the present rather than fearing the future.

Rome, Italy

Sometimes I feel like a mobile home. What you see is what you get. Capable of change, but tied down in a park. Small and ignored. Frowned upon. Never good enough. Unreliable in bad weather. Oftentimes abandoned like a crumbling shack.

But I want to be a rich mansion with secret rooms that people would pay to see. I want to have a vineyard and take walks in the gardens. I want ancient statues and whispering memories. I want to last forever.

Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina

Sometimes I feel like an unfurnished apartment. Empty, but waiting to be loved. Naked and untouched.

But I wish I could be an art museum. Where people would seek out the masterpieces that are displayed within the frame. Where canvas and stone hold deeper meaning.

National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC

**I wish I could be memorable.**

Why Unemployment Isn’t So Bad: A Mix Tape

{ February 6, 2010 @ 7:57 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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I guess it can be depressing to be unemployed. You can’t go speed dating because you’d fail on the “what do you do for a living?” question. You can’t buy useless things like frog cookie jars or pirate wine holders. You have no one to hang out with during the day because all of your friends are at work getting ahead in life. You never leave the house. Your pajamas have become a part of your body. You look like moldy old bread because you don’t shower.One of my friends is starting a new job on Monday after being unemployed for several months. At first I was happy to hear the news. And then after getting off the phone, I started feeling bad for him. All those months he felt like he wasn’t good enough to have a job, a loser if you will. What a waste! He was living the dream and didn’t even know it.

Being unemployed brings happiness. We need to acknowledge this. You get paid by the government. Your parents still send you checks on your birthday and other holidays. You don’t have to worry about what to wear in the morning. You don’t even have to get out of bed in the morning. You’re not a slave to coffee. You are always free to go to parties. You can go out on weeknights and not regret it in the morning. You are your own boss. You can blog all day long. No photocopying. No paper cuts. You can play boardgames or Wii. You can have cool hobbies. No one can call you a suit or a sellout. You don’t have to drive during rush hour. Your lunch break can be longer than an hour.  You don’t have any co-workers gossiping in your kitchen.

Makes it seem like life without a job isn’t so bad afterall. I’ve come up with a very short list of songs to listen to if you find yourself without a job. I guarantee you will feel better about sitting around in your bathrobe all day.

1. Dead Kennedys “Take This Job and Shove It”

2. Disney’s Cinderella “Work Song”

3. Billy Talent “Worker Bees”

4. Dead Kennedys “At My Job”

I could go on, but I think you get the point. Plus I was running out of Dead Kennedys hits. Any inspiring songs you’d like to share with those desperately seeking work and feeling miserable about being unemployed?

A Banana a day…

{ February 5, 2010 @ 11:52 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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Bananas are good for you.

Here’s a treat, have some potassium.

The Curse of the Scarlet Shirt

{ February 1, 2010 @ 9:41 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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About a year ago, I bought a red top. I don’t usually wear red, it’s a bit too loud and attention-grabbing for me. But this top was different. Unique because it was flattering in all the right places. Plunging, yet tasteful. Playful, yet serious. Approachable, yet too good for the likes of you. It was perfect for grocery shopping. Or work. Or a dinner date. Or with a pair of jeans. Or to the funeral of someone I hated. Versatile and on sale, that’s what I like.

I’m of the “black is always in fashion” school of thought. So this was ground-breaking to add a bright red shirt to my closet. I was opening doors with that piece of clothing.

I was so excited when it was fresh out of the wash and ready to be strutted around.  I put it on in the morning, and my confidence shot out of the roof, which is a very rare event. All gussied up and leaving the house, I got into my car. Got on the road, and then got into an accident. It was very minor, but it was still my first accident so it left an impression. And I thought about that red shirt. It was plagued now. So tainted I wasn’t sure I would ever wear it again. Damn it to hell! It’s rare to find such a shirt. Nothing is perfect, and I found its flaw. It was jinxed.

Months went by, and I stumbled on the ominously beautiful shirt yet again. I thought to myself, “Surely I’m being silly. This is just a shirt, not the plaything of Satan.” I put it on and looked in the mirror. Sensational! I was transformed from the clumsy-looking young girl into a devastating temptress. Too good to be true. I took it off and threw it to the floor where it belonged. No shirt is worth dying for.

I left the house and went out for a bite to eat in a plain old band t-shirt. Upon returning to my car in the parking lot, I saw another car backing up into the space in front of me. It was creeping up, getting closer, my mouth dropped open. They inched on obviously with no intention of stopping; I started jumping up and down and shouting to get their attention. No such luck. He slowly kissed my fender. They sat in the car for a minute looking at each other, then the door opened. A teenager came out practically in tears to take a look at what he’d done. You bent my license plate, I said. His voice was shaking with I’m sorries. I felt bad for him, and it was nothing to make a stink over anyway. But just for theatrics, I said, “You’re in some serious trouble.” It was hard to keep a straight face. After a long awkward pause, I laughed and told him not to worry about it. Shit happens, don’t back up into spots anymore.

On my way home, it hit me. It was the cursed shirt. It touched my skin, it left its hellish stink on me. For Catholics, there would be a saint that protects you from shirts like this. Shirts that cause motor vehicle incidents. It was official, this top was bad news. Only wearing it twice in my life (well three if you count the time in the fitting room), I thought I should perhaps donate it. But what kind of human being knowingly passes on a cursed shirt to innocent people. Afraid to throw it out, not knowing what kind of revenge it would take on me, I tucked it in the back of my dresser.

Months went by. And now it’s this morning and I’m desperately looking for a bright shirt to cheer me up in such abysmal weather that is only exacerbated by the fact that it is a Monday. I rummage through my drawers and in my hand I find the red shirt. Coincidence?

I’m superstitious, I know this. Everyone who knows me knows this. I read into everything. But this time, I wanted to overcome my fear. I wanted to prove everyone wrong. This time, I wouldn’t attribute my misfortunes on a piece of material. I would be brave and wear the shirt. I put it on and covered it with a sweater, secretly hoping this would suffocate its powers and reduce its strength.

Now whether it was because of the sweater or because of my new carefree attitude, today passed without incident. I am safe at home and I have absolutely no plans of getting into my car again today.

So maybe the shirt wasn’t a death trap. Or maybe it is. I could die tomorrow, and it will be all because I wore that damn shirt the day before. I’m still paranoid and superstitious.

I’m happy to part with it. Anyone interested? I won’t charge for shipping and handling. Maybe you’ll have better luck with it than me.

Opacity to Hide Seymour Glass

{ January 28, 2010 @ 11:57 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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I’m sure many of you are already aware of the link between Catcher in the Rye and serial killers. I am proud to admit that I have two copies of Catcher displayed in my bookcase, along with just about everything else published by Salinger. Afterall, as a teenager I wanted to elope with Holden Caulfield (just as every other angsty teen did). Too bad I couldn’t find any depressed 16-year-olds with premature gray hair who liked holding hands. Some might say I had weird taste. Some also say serial killers have weird taste. We have one thing in common.

I was driving home from work today, perfectly happy sitting in traffic and smelling gas fumes through my car vents, when my boyfriend (who likes holding hands, but isn’t gray yet) casually asked over the phone, “Did you hear J.D. Salinger died?” I always find out about my idols dying from him. Hunter S. Thompson, Kurt Vonnegut, Bee Arthur. And now J.D.

I was crushed to hear the news. The story “Teddy” of his Nine Stories really impacted my outlook on life; how precious and fleeting it is. I read it at a time when I needed it. I’m just an orange peel. I hope Salinger knew that while some criticized him, many more were thankful to have read his work (the little we have been lucky enough to read). What I learned from him is nothing I would want to trade. But I don’t want to glorify a person just because they’re dead, especially someone I didn’t even know personally. He might have been one of those I’m-better-than-you authors. Like a  pompous ivy student in a world of community colleges. But I don’t get that impression. He avoided the public eye. He just wanted to write and live his life and be left alone. But maybe he was an asshole. Even so, he was an asshole I understood. I’m not sure I would want the fame or criticism that comes with being read in high schools either. I wouldn’t want to learn that my most famous book is one treasured by cross-dressing cannibals who put the lotion on the skin.  He didn’t want people in his business. He wrote out of the love of the art, not for the bills or admiration. And that’s respectable.

You go ahead and write about a 91 year old recluse who died of natural causes and quickly move on, he’s no pop-star afterall. Mention he might have stashes of unpublished works that could be released. Milk the story as much as you can. Maybe now you can finally make that film production of Catcher in the Rye that he’s been prohibiting all these decades. Exploit him. Get Robert Pattinson to play Holden.

Fine, I confess… I’m just as curious to know what kinds of things Salinger’s written since he went into hiding. If his journals leak, I will read them. But it’s also very romantic keeping his wish of anonymity. It’s like meeting a stranger, falling desperately in love, and then never seeing them again. It’s a perfect moment. Perhaps it even changed you. An untainted image you get to keep. As brief as it was, it was something intimate. And it exists until you die too.

Remember What You Can

Bumper Cars

{ January 25, 2010 @ 9:21 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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My recurring dream:

I’m driving down a highway and I can feel something bad is going to happen. And suddenly the vehicle in front of me is at a complete stop. I slam on my brakes, but not in time. I don’t die or anything, there’s just a loud crash and a jolting feeling that wakes me up in a sweat. The weird part about the dream is that I’m always hitting a different vehicle. Sometimes it’s a big white truck, sometimes a company van, sometimes an SUV. But it’s always a vehicle much larger than my own. What the hell does it mean? Please tell me.

I know some would say that I must be repressing anger or that I must be sexually frustrated. To that I say… Perhaps, but I’d rather not admit to either. I have a better theory.

When I was a child, I loved bumper cars.  But not for the usual reasons. I never intentionally hit anyone. Maybe I was afraid of hitting the wrong person, the type to shoot you in the face. The fat bully who would pull down my pants and make fun of my day-of-the-week undies. Or the girl who would tell everyone I had a crush on the kid who puked so much he carried around his own supply of sawdust. No, I minded my own business. I went out of my way to avoid hitting people. I was a pretty precocious child; maybe I was a Buddhist in a past life, if such a notion is possible.

So why did I hop in that little car and pray for my spinal column? What was the point if I didn’t want to get into multiple accidents? Because I liked the risk of getting hit. I swerved all over the place trying to avoid everyone. I must have looked so strange to onlookers. The girl with pigtails wooshing past people trying to stay out of trouble.

This is still me. I try to avoid trouble. I’m not an aggressive driver. I let people in. I give the thank you wave. But sometimes it’s impossible to avoid trouble no matter how hard a person tries. I try to steer clear of dangerous situations, but somehow I am drawn to them. I want to be surrounded by petroleum chaos and test my luck. I have this need to control in an uncontrolled environment. And my dream is a fear that one day I will be powerless, I will catch a glimpse of a loud fiery collision, try to stop it from happening by slamming on the brakes, and still find myself in a wreck. But as the saying goes, shit happens. It’s silly to think we have complete control over our own lives. There’s always something bigger than us. Don’t read into this statemnt, I’m not particularly religious. Maybe I just meant a Mack truck.

Adventures of a Coupon Cutter

{ January 21, 2010 @ 12:20 AM } · { Uncategorized }
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A typical Saturday morning:

  1. Wake up around 7 AM, far too early for a weekend
  2. Stay in bed for half an hour and contemplate buying black curtains
  3. Run outside with knotted hair and manpanties, hope the neighbors don’t have their binoculars smushed up against their windows, and grab the weekend paper
  4. Make a cup of tea, add honey
  5. Turn on the TV, browse for a chick flick
  6. Cut coupons, get excited over $2.00 off shampoo
  7. Check the store circular for sales
  8. Get dressed, maybe shower beforehand
  9. Go shopping for half-priced faggots and wonder why British people use the word fag as slang for cigarettes too
  10. Checkout with a sweaty stack of coupons
  11. Feel embarrassed and turn red when the cash register can’t handle the number of coupons
  12. Leave in shame thinking about getting disguises for my grocery store trips
  13. Fold up my receipt that says I saved $50
  14. Feel a little better in the car ride
  15. Brag about how I’m smarter than people who pay full price for everything when I get home
  16. Look forward to next Saturday morning

Photo taken in an Oxford grocery

Mr. Brain — you could never find him in the US. Not selling pork “balls” at least. Mr. Brain would be a Dr. Brain. He would cure cancer. He would be a world traveler. He would be a snob with a monocle. He would be a magician who sleeps with his assistants. He would have mad scientist hair. He would have gotten picked on in high school. His head would look like the kid in Mask (the Cher movie). He would be a serial killer who thinks he’s a zombie. He would be a necrophiliac. He would have no body, just a head with a bunch of plugs connected to a power strip. Mr. Brain would look like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, old and crumpled and frail. Mr. Brain would be a sad, lonely man who has eaten too many pomegranates in his life.

No, Mr. Brain is definitely not a meatball producer.

Bring your coupons at all times. Without sales like “6 for the Price of 4,” I would have never found my darling Mr. Brain. The miracle of advertising.

I Sat on a Square Toilet in the UK

{ January 17, 2010 @ 11:59 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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Top that! I guarantee Americans have done nothing more uncomfortable and unfamiliar as sticking their tushes on a square toilet. It’s almost as unsettling as eating a pizza cut into squares not slices. You don’t know how to hold it, you have sauce on your fingers, the cheese slips off. You’re miserable and napkinless.

Sit Your Cube Ass Down

My life is different now. I know suffering. I know fear. At any moment being on that thin brink, that awkward edge, I could have slipped. I could have fallen down into that swirling ocean, never to be found again. And to think this is something people must face everyday, multiple times a day. I understand Blue Monday. The most depressing day of the year, the day people most contemplate suicide. The Christmas gift cards have been spent, the New Year’s resolutions have been kicked to the curb, Valentine’s Day is around the corner and Hallmark is jizzing on you without your consent, and for chrissake, I have to sit on a goddam square toilet.

It is the Monday in the last full week of January. Keep your pants on, it’s almost here.

This bathroom encounter was not at all like the first time I sat on one of those toilet seats that’s filled with stuffing. That was like sitting on a cotton cloud; I was alive, I finally felt joy. I had epiphanies. I found the meaning of life, my purpose was right there all along. King of the castle. But my butt wasn’t worthy of experiencing such bliss. I’d broken into someone’s mansion just to use their regal facilities. I was an intruder.

I sat down on that cushion and instantly thought, “This is why you hear stories about people dying on their toilets.” Who would want to leave? I could have sat there forever. Why do anything? No worries, no pain. Who could have negative feelings when the circulation in your legs hasn’t been cut off even though you’ve been sitting down for hours reading a stack of Cosmopolitans. I was comfortable and I finally learned how to please a man in 157 ways. Yes, I could have gotten used to that way of life. I would send my friends to the store to fetch me my meals, my family would visit and bring me books, my grandmother would comb my hair and clip my toenails.

But alas, I am back to a life of boring, ordinary circular porcelain toilets. I am at home where I belong.

Commotion in a Fancy Restaurant

{ December 20, 2009 @ 7:25 PM } · { Uncategorized }
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Not that I haven’t realized this before, but “weird” people are much more fun to hang out with. My S.O. is the perfect example of this; he just doesn’t care what people think. Even at fancy restaurants. We’re the young ones in jeans and t-shirts trying to figure out what the hell a “roulade” is. Please don’t comment on this, I have recently googled it and learned it is Pompous for “rolled”.

Servers fail to realize we are awesome tippers. **Keep this in mind all you judgmental wait staff** Don’t you recognize me? I understand your plight. I didn’t receive minimum wage either. Don’t be an asshole because I’m young, because I’m not wearing a fur coat, because I have a fetish for vintage t-shirts, because my boyfriend has too many earrings for a guy. I’m a jaded girl who toted hot plates with a soft spot specifically for you! And I have a credit card just like your favorite regular who gets Botox treatments and escorts.

So, as we’re leaving the restaurant, my partner in crime jumps in my “closet” of the spinny door and keeps running around practically humping me from behind and shouting. And that was when I realized that even though he drives me nuts and he’s boring sometimes (as am I), I love him for those moments of insanity and voluntary public humiliation.

The Kills have it right, “I want you to be crazy ‘cuz you’re stupid baby when you’re sane.” Please take the time to watch this video, I think you’ll like it, it might inspire you. It could also have the opposite effect, which will make you want to get off your ass and stop reading my crummy blog. Either way, just please, please do something fun and crazy. Without hurting yourself or others.

Eulogy of a Hypochondriac

{ December 13, 2009 @ 1:25 AM } · { Uncategorized }
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I’ve always been a bit on the morbid side. If you’ve been reading my blog, you already know this.

When I was a kid I remember telling my Mom how I didn’t have to worry about opening a locker because I wouldn’t be alive by the time I got to high school. No wonder her hair turned gray by the time she was 30, I had my difficult moments. I seriously thought I was going to die young. And yes, this does make me a hypochondriac. Here’s a test in case you’re curious about your own sanity.

http://www.4degreez.com/misc/hypochondria_test.html

So how did I become one? I did some research; apparently no one knows what causes it, and no one knows how to cure it (although it can be “managed”). It can occur at any age, but typically early adulthood is when it kicks in. As for me, I’ve been doomed since childhood. Yet another quirk to add to my already abundant collection of eccentricities.

Brain tumors.

I was reading Anne of Green Gables one hot summer staying at my Grandparents house. If you’ve read it, you might remember Marilla, the woman who adopts Anne. Well, she starts getting these headaches all the time. And then she goes blind. I immediately panicked, told my grandmother that I had been getting a lot of headaches lately and asked if that meant I was going blind. She said no, the woman in the book probably had a brain tumor. It’s different, she said. Naturally, I connected the dots. Headaches equals loss of vision equals brain tumor equals death. All painful experiences.

My grandmother is a smart cookie. A pair of sunglasses later, headaches were gone. But the movie Kindergarten Cop certainly didn’t erase my whole headaches equals brain tumor philosophy.

Second scare.  When you know someone about your age who is diagnosed with a brain tumor and you see the suffering they go through, you tend to doubt the existence of a magnanimous God. After stressful months of steroids and fruitless treatment, you realize how ordinary we all are. No one is immune. It would be silly to think I was anyone special.

On to my lovely teenage years. “Death Be Not Proud” is quite possibly one of the worst books for a person to read who gets very distressed when the topic of brain tumors comes up. But it was assigned in high school and I better damn well read about Johnny Gunther. It was rough. I’m pretty sure I cried. This kid was perfect according to his father, and I believed it. He was rare. And it wasn’t a fictional book like Anne of Green Gables, this was a memoir. Johnny remained pure gold throughout the book. But the article linked below details a really fucked up story about how a brain tumor turned a perfectly normal man into a pedophile:

http://www.rifters.com/real/articles/brainontrial.htm

Third scare. Freshman year of college. Fall semester. I started waking up mornings with nosebleeds. I had never had a nosebleed before in my life, so you can imagine my terror when I woke up feeling congested, grabbed a tissue and found it soaked red with blood. During my weekly call from my mother, I told her I had been getting nosebleeds the past couple weeks. She asked if I was doing drugs. Typical mom question for you. I wasn’t. She told me to not worry about it and “It’s probably nothing.” I never liked the word “probably,” it’s so mishy moshy. Hypochondriacs only like yes or no. “Probably” leaves so much unanswered. So I consulted my roommate. Her words of wisdom: “You should see the nurse, it sounds kind of like a brain tumor.” I had that sudden cold/hot feeling when you’re so upset you can’t tell if you’re about to pass out from chill or vomit molten lava. So I went down to the nurse. After some questions and a peek up the nostrils, her diagnosis: “Hon, you’re just not used to the climate here. Sleep with a glass of water by your bed. And if that doesn’t help, come back.” Smart cookie, who knew a glass of water could cure a presumed case of cancer.

So here I am, Liana 25 Alive (Short Circuit anyone?). So much for my theory of dying before adulthood. I’ve extracted the malignant mass of hypochondria and buried the haunting phobia with a glass of water. Drink fears away and celebrate my funeral.

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