Barbarella began keeping a blog, or Web log, in 2000. The following are selections from her website, http://barbylon.diaryland.com.
I AM Corybantic
The word of the day is “corybantic,” defined by AWAD as “wild; frenzied; uncontrolled.” Named after some psycho goddess who performed “ecstatic” dances. Okay, WHY am I just now learning this word? I could have used this when I lived in Los Angeles, you know, back in my corybantic days, when I would party corybantically all weekend. What a waste.
Well, at least I have a way to describe myself accurately in retrospect, in my memoirs perhaps. We all think we’re so fucking interesting, don’t we. I admit it. I find myself endlessly fascinating, which is one of the reasons I journal so much. It entertains me to document my interesting thoughts and poignant recollections. It makes me feel like I know myself. Knowing myself helps me figure out what I want and how I want to be.
I’m happy this morning because I am. That’s all. Two little words. I am. Any words after those two, will be put there by me and me only. That is what I will believe, that is what I will become, and that is what will dictate my actions and my feelings.
What do YOU say after “I am?” Think about it. Because that’s exactly what you are.
Impending Surprise and Me So Happy
Friday night, I’m taking my father out, something I can’t write yet, because from time to time, I think he reads me, and I want to keep the surprise. Speaking of which, Dad, again, if you happen upon this, all this talk and poetry about sex and slaves, it’s fantasy fodder for writing. RIGHT. Your daughters are clean and good and hardly naughty at all. Well, three of them are. But that doesn’t mean the fourth is ME. We all remember the fruit-fly ratio, right? One out of four. Hee hee. So, special night out with Dad, and he’s going to shit his pants when he sees where I’m taking him. That’s a figure of speech, in case you thought my father had weak bowels or something.
Last night, I reached a point of extreme happiness. Warm inside, with the cool rain pattering on a sky light, tapping against large windows, comfortable, safe, with M.s.’s head on my leg, looking up at me and talking excitedly about the stock market. I was so overwhelmed with joy that my eyes watered. He didn’t notice, which was good, because I didn’t want to explain my predicament, I just wanted to experience it. I burned the moment into my brain, I tilted my head back against a pillow and smiled into myself, and I could feel the core of me smile back.
It’s rare that I can release everything in the world and surrender to the moment. Happy moments are so much easier to get lost in, though, and yesterday, I was so lost in the moment that Sherlock himself could not have found me.
A Ride to the Airport with Dad and Peter
This morning, before work, I took my father to the airport. I finished the last page of a novel just as he was making his way out of his room with all of that luggage. I’ve been wanting him to hear a particular song from Peter Gabriel’s new album, “Up.” The song is called, “I Grieve,” and after listening to it MANY times, I was sure Dad would love it. Before he had the car door closed behind him, I put it on and asked him to start listening (short drive to the airport, long song). The song begins softly, and as Peter’s voice filled the space in my car, a stolen glance at my father confirmed that he was already sucked in.
Down Washington Street, Peter lugubriously lamented, words of loss and anguish, depression and loneliness, anger and frustration. Helplessness. “So hard to move on. Still loving what’s gone. They say life carries on.” I repeated the words Dad didn’t catch, driving home the point, that this is a song about the loss of a loved one, about the process we go through. Denial — “nothing yet has really sunk in” Anger — “final rattle rocks its empty cage, and I can’t handle this” Grief — “Let it out and move on” and finally, after turning onto Pacific Highway, the healing began, when the beat picks up and Peter sings of the many ways in which life DOES carry on. And the last words, “Did I dream this belief? Or did I believe this dream? Now I will find relief. I grieve.”
The song ended just as I was pulling up at the terminal, and I peripherally watched my father wipe the tears from his face, touch the cloth of his sleeve to his eyes to soak up any residual moisture that may be gathering. He mentioned wanting to share the song with his sister, all of our family back east, all who are drowning in grief, gasping for relief but every time it shows up, in one form or another, some choose to dip their heads back under the water. Something comforting in sadness, I guess. I can understand that, to a point. Sometimes, it feels so good to hurt, to touch raw emotion, whether it be overwhelming joy, or gut-wrenching pain.
I got out of the car to give Dad a proper hug, to hold love for a moment. He told me, as he always does, to tell my sisters that he loves them (he always wants that to be the last thing he says, should anything, God forbid, ever happen to him). Then, walking back to the car, I smiled as I called out, “oh, fuck off… What, don’t you know that means — I love you and I’ll miss you? But really… have a safe trip, Daddy,” hopped in the car and drove away, leaving him to stack his many bags on his little-wheely-carry thing. I’m going to miss him while he’s gone.
Someone found my site here by typing, “I have a wedgie” into their search engine. Gotta love it.
Okay, this is the deal — the water cooler/coffee station is outside my office. Not close enough for anyone standing near it to be right by my door, but close enough so that sitting between my two desks, I can HEAR EVERYTHING that is said in the coffee corner. Sometimes, like this morning, for example, I arrive very early to the office, in hopes of organizing my To Do’s, settling in slowly into my work mindset, catching up on emails, writing this, etc. Not many people come in early. So, not thinking anyone is around, the things that these catty, small-minded ladies say at that coffee spot are outrageously petty, and I get to listen to all of it.
I always thought that age, where a woman is concerned, is just about synonymous with “grace.” Holy shit, are these people bad examples of that. Psst! Psst! MEOW! No wonder they call their half of the upstairs floor the Cat Box. I must say, though, I can’t help but be amused, and I tend to stop typing, fuck, stop BREATHING, when they’re out there. I listen to it all.
The Surprise of a Lifetime!
I pulled off the surprise of a lifetime! Cut to Friday night: My father and I sat in the front row at Copley Symphony Hall. Spanish music played on the speakers, the room was filling up with a mixed crowd, the show was about to start. I said, “Turn around, Dad. Look at all those people. Sold out show. And here you are, in the front row, the only fucker in this BUILDING who does not know who he’s here to see.” Let me backtrack a bit, before you draw the conclusion that my father is “slow,” because he’s not. This venue is nice, upscale, there is no marquee. After a lovely dinner, we headed downtown, scored a parking spot that was closer than the venue lot, and entered the building. I told the ushers not to mention her name, this is a surprise for my Dad, I said, and they were excited to help me.
They said, “Just don’t let him look over there.” In one spot, there was a picture of her. Nothing else in the building indicated who was singing. The screen on stage read, “Solo 2003” and that’s it. The Spanish music was misleading, and my father had no clue. Then, they came out, the back-up singers, the musicians, and the stage became backlit, as right in front of us, an androgynous creature emerged. The face was a black silhouette, the lights behind too bright, and then, she sang her first note, and right as the lights illuminated her from the front, a matter of maybe ten feet in front of us, my father exclaimed, “ANNIE LENNOX!? I LOVE Annie Lennox!” That’s right. Not until the diva sang her first note, did my father figure out who I was taking him to see. What a GREAT show it was, what a WONDERFUL time we had, what a PERFECT surprise.
Zsa Zsa and More!
My weekend was MOST eventful! Ah, it’s been a long time since I’ve packed a weekend so tight with wonderful people and events. Friday night, I dined with Honey, and boy did we DINE! Indulgence was the word of the evening, from chocolatinis to chocolate cream crepes, delectability was palpable in the air. It was wonderful to spend time with Honey, catching up and sharing stories. As we received the check, I was told dessert was on the house due to my V.I.P. status. Hmm? V.I.P.? I grilled the waitress on just how I obtained this status. She said the woman who took my reservation on the phone wrote my status by my name, and then she made reference to her knowledge that I was involved in a neighborhood business. Probably the gallery, I told her. She introduced herself, shook my hand, said it was a pleasure to meet me and skittered off to other tables. I, of course, was glowing. I do not pretend that I do not totally get off on being very important, in ANY situation. I constantly maintain my intrinsic self-importance to prepare for situations just like this.
Ah, but part of me is kidding (can you guess which part?) I arrived at M.s.’s just in time to say goodnight to his mother and whisk him away to a gathering in honor of Evan. That’s right, Mr. Bluetech was kicking off his European tour at Fizgig’s Palace, and friends were gathering to wish him well. We stopped in briefly, and I received more shit than I needed for leaving so early. This is the deal — I don’t have time for all the parties, and I’m beginning to find them boring.
Saturday was wonderful and full, and M.s.’s cousins came down to join us for an evening of art and dining. From Ray at Night, to Parallel 33, to Extraordinary Desserts, our evening was full and decadent. Great friends appeared, great hugs were exchanged, a beautiful necklace was purchased (and is on my neck right now), and great laughs were had. What fun!
Sunday we had dim sum and then hit up the Farmer’s Market in Hillcrest! Sunshine, people all about, and wonderful colors and things to look at! I love it all. A relaxing afternoon, and then dinner at El Zarape. Quick, in-and-out, and yet plenty of time for my car to be towed. That’s right, my car was towed. I should have paid attention to the signs, so I was only pissed at myself when I discovered another car in the spot where I had parked mine.
Yes, deus ex machina! Another tow-truck appeared to tow the car that took my spot, and I talked the young man into giving me a lift to the tow yard. He helped me save a LOT of hassle. M.s. and his mother walked to get coffee while I went about my adventure of the evening. As tow-man #2 was filling out my paperwork (another blessing, because tow-man #1 called him and asked him to stay and wait for our arrival), I couldn’t help but balk at the charges. My voice was slightly raised, but more in incredulity than anger. He felt bad, and I realized it’s just his job, so I backed down.
Shit happens, and I learned an expensive lesson. But all is not lost! We finished up the night with a funny movie, and overall, I think My love’s mother had a fabulous visit. And, I think she likes me. But really, people… how could she not?
I want to walk barefoot on the grass.
I want to press my cheek against the warm concrete of a sidewalk, just as the sun begins to disappear over the horizon.
I want to lay back, smile and sigh. I think I might just do that… right now.
But it’s going to be hard to pull off the sidewalk thing, what with people all around… why do I care? I’m going to do it. The last time I felt warm concrete on my face I was a child, lying in the driveway of my house, loving the heat that the man-made rock-ground gave to my goose-bumpy arms. I remember wishing I could have every part of me touch it at the same time.
I guess that’s the dragon in me.
Word Processing and Sex Toys
Shit, I just made the mistake of glancing to my right — glimpse of dictator, just waiting for my thumb to slide the knob into the perfect red circle so that it can hold my voice, answering silly and redundant questions in legalese, just long enough to play back for the lovely woman who will type my words. You know, I insist on doing the typing, I ENJOY the typing. But, because it’s so much faster for everyone else to dictate, it’s assumed that this would also be the best method for me. It’s a damned good thing I like the sound of my own voice, and an even better thing that our lovely word processor doesn’t mind my ridiculous anecdotes between memos and letters. I do it for the knowing look in her eyes when my finished documents are delivered. Ah, the simple things in life.
The sex-toy party was cozy, intimate. You do NOT understand the restraint I showed by not walking out with some phallic-buzzing-item stashed in my purse. I’m such an exemplary citizen and sex-toy party participant. But now I know where she lives, and I know where those toys are. And I just can’t make any promises that I won’t be back there, sneaking around and trying the door handles (to see which one is OPEN, you pervert, not for anything else, I mean, a door handle is a FAR cry from a parking meter).
A few weeks ago, my grandmother died. I hardly batted an eyelash, and even the one batted was more for the guilt I felt for being happy about it. Here we are, though, exactly two years from the day I woke up to find out that Jeffrey was one of the firemen that was in the building that collapsed, and the slightest reminder brings tears to my eyes. Of all the things I feel like I control, I never pretended to believe that I could control my emotions.
Some of my family is at Ground Zero today, paying respects, remembering, reliving, mourning. Like so many other innocent people, doing their jobs in the building, Jeffrey died while doing his. His body wasn’t found at first. My cousins searched Ground Zero every day, finding unspeakable things, pieces of people, fragments of life in the rubble. They didn’t wear masks. They didn’t miss a day. They were exhausted, but driven to find him. Candles were lit, prayers were recited, and finally, a month later, a funeral was held. After the funeral, his body was found, crushed, along with a handful of other firemen and a few civilians. Closure.
I wrote about it then, and as I write about it now, I see the story hasn’t changed. The family is torn apart. People are angry, devastated, stuck. Unable to heal or let go, but how can you blame them? I’m distraught with the pain and the memory of the entire tragedy, the loss of a cousin I loved, the pain of going back to see where it happened, the sadness of the ceremonies. I’m able to move on and let go. Things might be different if he had been MY son, if it was one of MY sisters. So I can’t urge them to “move on.” I can never understand that level of suffering. Though mine is true and real, I would never think to compare it with the vast depth of torment that my aunt is experiencing. That my cousins are experiencing. I can’t imagine the trauma. I feel for my family. I want for them to continue to live and laugh as if Jeffrey were still here.
But he was the one who always made everyone laugh. I don’t have any answers. I know that thinking about it makes me cry. I know that I feel pain and loss and sadness. I know that nothing can bring him back. I know that he liked to see us laugh. I know I wish to see my aunt laughing again, to see the family together in laughter and love, which is how I grew up knowing them.
I know I need to stop typing about it, stop thinking about it, because I’ll never get any work done today if I continue to cry like this.
You’re GAY! Why, Thank You.
Speaking of gay, have you noticed that the definition of the word, “gay” is morphing? Yes, yes it is. Before, if you called someone “gay,” especially on the east coast, it was synonymous with “stupid,” “dorky,” etc. But recently, I am seeing “gay” used as a complimentary word. For example, the “gayest heterosexual.” My straight male friends take it as the highest compliment when others think they are gay (in the homosexual sense). Why? Because now, being gay is associated with having style, looking good, feeling good, being outrageous and free, and being surrounded by that rare breed of women who are not only beautiful, but also FUN. See what I mean? You KNOW it’s true.
Soon, you’ll hear, “Hey Bob! Looking mighty gay today, have you lost weight?” And the ladies will say, “Wow, have you seen Albert? How gay is he, right? YUMMY!” Trust me, you’ll see.
Alright, what do we have here? People to annoy me, check. Hot tea, check. An attitude that will either have me being worshipped or murdered by the end of the day… CHEEYECK. Let’s get started.
Oysters Are Yucky
“Sometimes I think we’re alone in the universe, and sometimes I think we’re not. In either case, the idea is quite staggering.” — Arthur C. Clarke, science fiction writer
Must be a Brit. No, I’m not planning on jumping into any heavy subjects here — the only reason I wanted to share this quote is that I love the way the Brits talk (e.g., “quite staggering”). Who uses the word, “staggering?” Lovely.
Last night was fun and relaxing, with My snobby s sharing oysters with us. M.s. got those oysters from friends in Martha’s Vineyard and had Spider Monkey & OH over to share in the tasty enjoyment of them. I took their word for it, as the idea alone of the snotty ocean slime that fills those gorgeous shells makes me go “Ew.” I was quite proud of the cheese log I brought, and content with my array of fruit, bread, cheeses and dips. Plenty of flavors kept me occupied as my friends and lover slurped away on these much-traveled oysters.
The entire while, I chanted in my head, “The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things…” the scene in Alice in Wonderland when the Walrus and the Carpenter trick all the little oysters into being their dinner. I like that scene.
The Stress Cycle
“In a time of drastic change it is the learners who inherit the future. The learned usually find themselves equipped to live in a world that no longer exists.” — Eric Hoffer
Headline: “Love Canal Declared Clean, Ending Toxic Horror.” Clean canal, eh? No dirty toxins to fear? Hmm. This is the best headline all week.
So things are smoothing out at the office, we had a nice little meeting yesterday to air the dirty laundry (stinky stuff) and suggest solutions. Personally, I feel a lot better. I’m still trying to detach from negative emotions, especially those of guilt or regret. Sometimes, it is the act of taking care of yourself that teaches others how to take care of you. If I say through my actions “It’s okay for you to treat me like shit and talk to me the way you do,” I have no right to be upset. In the past, despite my upsets or hurt feelings, I would continue to put myself in the path of their source. I’m sick of getting run over, so I am leaving this path until I sense the road is clear.
My Irish father spent the green holiday in an Asian country. His Irish daughter (moi) forgot to wear green. Shh, don’t tell.
Why do I care so MUCH what people think about my intentions? Why do I get SO upset when I’m not understood? Huh? Why do I stress over such silly little things that no one else seems to care about? I agonize over tiny decisions that involve any type of interaction with others in my life. Agonize. Worry. Stress. Why? Yes, because I care, but can I care TOO much? When I care so much I don’t sleep at night because it distresses me so much to be misunderstood, I wonder if other people bat a lash at this kind of thing. I honestly believe I’d rather care too much than not at all. But man, it’s really starting to wear me down. I need to find a happy medium. I need to stop worrying how someone is going to react to my honesty. The truth hurts sometimes, you know. But it also helps, if you’re interested in being helped of course.
For those who don’t want to change - it just hurts, and for those who don’t want to listen and try to understand, those wounds never heal. On a brighter note, things are always wonderful with my love. He makes me so very happy. Everything that is already wonderful and amazing, he makes even better.
Seminars and Slaves
So, I went to LA for a seminar on Mass Tort Litigation (and learned that “mass tort” means “big wrong”… poignant).
I’d have to say that the highlight of my two days up there was a brief interaction I had with a coworker — allow me to try and capture it in dialogue format for you:
Me: Fumbling around in my makeup bag for lipstick during one of our little breaks.
Coworker: Looking into my bag as I dig, “God, girl! What are all those keys for?”
Me: “Oh, these?” I hold up a ring of little keys, and nonchalantly reply “I’ve got a slave shackled in my room upstairs.” Back to digging.
Coworker: Laughing HARD “God, Barb, you are SO funny!!!”
Me: Not having the energy to explain to her that I’m telling the truth, “Yup! You know me… ahh! Here it is…” I apply lipstick as the speaker returns to the podium, my coworker still giggling at my “hilarious improvisational skills,” as I smile dreamily to myself and take up my pen for notes… end of scene.
Thoughts on Religion
“If the secret sorrows of everyone could be read on their forehead, how many who now cause envy would suddenly become the objects of pity.” — Italian proverb.
I’m in a constant conscious battle to make sure that my choices are based on what I want, and not what I think will be approved or disapproved on a general level. Separate, as church from state, your mind from society. It CAN be done, it’s just… really, really hard.
I really need to be more accepting of other people’s religions. It was so hard for me to keep my mouth closed when in casual conversation, I discovered a coworker to be Mormon. But you know what? If it’s not pushed in my face, why should my ideas and beliefs be pushed in theirs? As strong as a bible-thumper’s conviction that he is right, is as sure as I am that he is wrong. So, it’s good for me not to get in those little discussions. Ah! Coffee on the new outfit! I’m sure on some universal level, that bitch of a “god” just cracked a joke, with me as the punch line. Ooh, wiping off without a trace. Good one, Lordette. You almost had me there.
I feel GREAT this morning. I’ve been gradually feeling better, from the beginning of the week to the end, and here it is — Friday. I have this just-try-and-fuck-with-me attitude on today, I think that’s the result of the accumulation of being fucked with all week. The attitude has caused me to groom myself into a severe look. Slicked back hair, tiny specks instead of my funky glasses — black pant outfit, black boots. Light, glossy lips instead of my signature red. Two people asked me if I got a facial. Let ’em wonder.
On the phone with Spider Monkey yester eve, we agreed that it would be wonderful if every man, just for one day, could experience the full throes of menstruation. No, we wouldn’t require that they go through it every month for the bulk of their lives, we wouldn’t even require a full week (not even counting before and after, pre and post, my friends, no, not even that), just one, simple day. A day of excruciating cramps, seemingly non-stop blood flow from your “special purpose” (reference The Jerk), odd food cravings, being pensive, emotional, tears for no reason, anger for seemingly naught. Yes, we are in agreement. And not because we wish for our counter-gender to suffer, no, not that. Just to UNDERSTAND. We believe that one day, with all symptoms, would achieve this for womankind. And that, my congregation, is the word of the Barb.
Alright, onto your weekend, you! Go! Do with it what I would do — you know, live it up. Because I just may be taking mine down a notch and finishing another book. I trust that whatever I do, it will be wonderful. I hope for you the same, inevitable results. Inevitable, because we expect no less than wonderful. And good or bad, we ALWAYS get what we expect, whether we think so or not.
“Depend upon it that if a man talks of his misfortunes there is something in them that is not disagreeable to him.” — Samuel Johnson
I can see that, Mr. Johnson. Great name, by the way. There are some people I know who seem to only talk of hardships. Granted, we all have them now and then, interspersed with “easyships” (Barbarism), but our hardships are just so much easier to point out and talk about, aren’t they? As if we only have real news if something tragic or difficult is occurring. Which reminds me of another Mr. Johnson quote, “Adversity has ever been considered the state in which a man most easily becomes acquainted with himself.” I used to think that one could ONLY grow from the pain and difficulties of life. Sure, they are necessary, and because of this I have greatly appreciated on some level ALL of my pain and sorrow.
But I’m noticing, at this point in my life, that there are other ways to grow as well. Those are the ones I’m working on now.
Halloween in the Office
Okay, I succumbed to the ultimate Halloween copout — I dressed as a Fetish Monster to work today. C’mon, give a girl a break, I needed something QUICK! And it’s not like these people know any better. Although, something very interesting happened just now by the coffee machine. A female coworker, the same one I’m practicing “domination in the office” on, was unbelievably and hyperbolically FREAKED OUT by me. In a squirmy, can’t-handle-it sort of way. But her reaction was strange for someone merely freaked out.
She looked at me and she literally backed into a corner. She said, “This is too much, this is too much, why couldn’t you dress as something innocent?” Then, she asked where I got the jewelry and accessories, and when I told her, she almost hyperventilated. There’s NOTHING odd about where I got the things I have (which for information’s sake were a string of innocuously named stores in L.A.). It was the fact that I already had them that freaked her out the most, and I must say, the more she backed away, the more I stepped toward her. She was in between two file cabinets and when I asked her if she wanted me to tether her there, if she would feel safer, in a calm and even tone of voice, she grabbed her coffee cup, removed the pot while it was still brewing and streaming out, filled her cup, put the pot back on the burn from where the liquid just dripped, went into her office giggling hysterically and closed the door. Odd.
Divas & Delectables
For your random-voyeurism-of-my-personal-experiences pleasure, I offer you the following tidbits and peeks into some recent Barbarella interactions:
The 4 Points of Diva-dom (or, four necessary steps to being a Diva) as Cited by Gino:
- Learn to accept compliments — say, “Thank you.” And leave it. No explanations, no stories, no arguments. My, you look lovely today. THANK YOU. Moving right along,
- Accept gifts with grace — same basic principles as above. No, “you shouldn’t have,” no worrying about what you need to give, just accept what’s been given to you; and accept it graciously.
- Do NOT care what ANYONE has to say about you. Positive or negative. If you know there was talk, you are NOT curious about the subject. You do NOT care. It does NOT affect who you are, or the Diva you will be.
- Never, EVER, point out your self-perceived flaws. No, “I wish this mole wasn’t here,” no, “I hate my thighs,” NOTHING negative about yourself. You are a Diva, and Divas don’t have “flaws.” All you do is call attention to your insecurity, thereby giving others no choice but to see you as a pathetic girl, with possible potential once said-flaw is eliminated. Divas do NOT wait for perceived flaws to magically “disappear” before allowing themselves to be Divas. They just ARE.
After citing the Points, Gino properly dropped to the ground and genuflected, announced that he was “worshipping me properly,” and then got up, gave me a hug and flittered back to the dance floor. Good times, good times. Hee hee. Like I wasn’t going to put THAT in.
“When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you.” — Lao-Tzu
I made an appointment with the Dentist for Friday. You don’t want to know how long it’s been since my teeth have seen a doctor. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous for anything! I told them on the phone, though, I told them that lecturing me is not an option. “I’m already turning myself in, I know I don’t take care of my teeth, so don’t rub my nose in it.” I indicated that I would walk out at the first sign of a lecture, and I mean it! He took it well, said, “Sure, we look forward to seeing you again!” I wonder if they realize I’m an adult now. I haven’t been to this office since the last time I got my fake front teeth fixed.
That would be the 6th or 7th time I had gotten my fake front teeth fixed. Then, a dentist in Beverly Hills a few years back for some SERIOUS DEEP cleanings, and I never went in to get those cavities filled. Shit. Cavities. ARGH! Wait a tick… Nitrous. I just have to focus on the nitrous and I’ll be FINE. I wonder if I should bring my own cracker & balloon, no, they have those masks, don’t they…
Update and Mortality
I needed these last few days like a nun needs a vibrator. Whew! I feel the exact polar opposite of how I felt on Friday, thank Fucking Christ (no, I’m not trying to tie that expletive back to the nun comment, but if the wimple fits…)
I rallied in a big way, and went to see Bunky at Scolari’s Office. After a few cocktails and some warm-up bands, I was relaxed and ready to boogie. Ollie, Ronaldo, and M.s. were a wonderful crew to kick it with, and we had MUCH entertainment outside of the music.
There was this rock-a-billy kid trying VERY hard, and getting phone numbers from giggling girls with short black bangs. A LOT of numbers, for someone who Ron quickly dubbed as a “poser.” This kid was hysterical, and it was fun to catch snippets of his pick-up lines and watch him fidget and fix his holster (that’s right, the boy had a freakin’ gun holster around his rock-a-billy tight pants), mess with his hair and put his hat on, take it off, put it on, take it off… it was hypnotic, and satisfied my people-watching desire to the fullest.
On another note, this morning I thought of what I would do if I knew this was my last day to be alive. Not a good thought for someone as introspective as myself to have, you know. I thought, “I know what I’d do… I’d cry. For the entire day. I’d stress and worry and watch the clock.” So basically, what I’m saying here, is if you ever find out that I’m about to die for any reason, just don’t tell me, I’d rather not know, because I know myself too well. It’s an interesting thing to ponder, though, because I strive to have no regrets. Thinking about the finitity (Barbarism) of life keeps me in the mindset of wanting to go out with no regrets, which leads to me taking care of more shit than I would otherwise. It’s an exceptional mind-fuck, and I am constantly masturbating in this way.
Nerve Racking 101
The definition of “nerve racking,” as defined by situations occurring this morning — when a lawyer walks into the office late and says, “Look through these files! I have a hearing that I have to leave for in 15 minutes and though I pored over these files ALL night, I can’t find what I need!” It’s your job to keep the files organized. Everything should be in its place, but its possible that something could have been removed and not replaced. You say, “I’ll find it!” and begin searching furiously through the files. The lawyer says, “Do you REMEMBER having seen it? I can’t work like this! Why isn’t everything in its place! I can’t ask the judge for dates when they should be in my own file! How could this happen? If you took it out of the file, why wouldn’t you make a copy and keep the original IN the file???”
You are frazzled, your heart is beating fast, pounding with the strength of indignation and the energy of fear… did you see it? You say, “I can’t recall. I just don’t know,” because if you say that you did see it, you’re responsible for where it is. If you say that you didn’t see it, when it’s found, you’re fucked. Lawyer makes a call… looks like they never sent it. All this drama for nothing.
TWO MINUTES later, call from another lawyer… judge kicked a case out, do this, do that, write this, call this person, then prepare this paper, email this, call this court, send this out, oh, and while you’re doing all of that, could you stand on your head and hum the soundtrack to The Firm? Great.
AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME that you’re on the phone with this second lawyer, your call is interrupted by the local court — why isn’t a lawyer there? Opposing counsel is there… someone in the office (or a handful of people, it doesn’t matter now), made a clerical error and no one is left to cover a hearing. You get off the phone, you run around, you find the file, you call lawyers on their cell phones, you find one to take care of it, they’re just ready to leave and then… the guy on the phone says, “you know, don’t worry about it, we’ll continue this until the 9th.” Big, heavy sigh.
THAT’S nerve racking. I feel traumatized.
Warm Fuzzies on My First Anniversary
After our first date, everyone I knew heard about this “unreal guy” who put raspberries in my champagne and showed me a fetish collection worth drooling over. Everyone I knew heard about every little, tiny wonderful thing he did or said to me. I talked about my obedient new slave as though he was this temporary toy, and a part of me believed he was. I never kept any for very long. But then…
Enter LOVE, stage left. My slave became my boyfriend, my boyfriend became my BEST friend, and then my best friend became my very “significant” other. And yet, he is still all of those things, in every way. Sigh. I never said I wasn’t sentimental. I didn’t want to leave the bed this morning, relishing a moment of bliss, embracing M.s. beneath the soft blanket. Mmm, I’m in a dreamy mood this morning.
I’m a very happy girl.
Girls and Science
It’s a GIRL!!! IT’S A GIRL! Isabella Maria was born to my sister Janemarie early this morning. I haven’t been able to see her yet, but after work I’m heading straight over to the hospital to take a peek at my first niece!!
Psst.. between you and me, I was really hoping she’d have a girl. Now I have a niece and a nephew! Just in case little Liam turns out to be a heterosexual, I now have someone to teach the art of makeup to! Whew! Unless, of course, little Isabella is a lesbian. Gee, that would be quite the quandary. But I trust my uncanny wit to figure out a master plan that will ensure my entertainment throughout the raising process of my sisters’ children. That’s right.
Monday, no work! I love having things to look forward to. According to an article I read yesterday, knowing that there will be fun and/or joy in your future is good for you on many levels scientifically. I pretty much already knew that, though it’s always nice to have scientific back-up.
The Locked Box
“A bit beyond perception’s reach / I sometimes believe I see / that life is two locked boxes / each containing the other’s key.” — Piet Hein
Yes, that describes my professional life at this time. No matter how hard I work each day, there is always more to do, and something done was done improperly, according to at least one person at any given time. M.s. told me, “just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” echoing Dory, our favorite fish from Finding Nemo.
Frustration can be debilitating. Lack of control chips away at my motivation. Stress has become a fixture on the wall in my office. School is going great. I’ve received a perfect score on every presentation and every paper in this class. The last comment on my last paper was, “where do we go from here?” This is what happens when you are a better writer than your instructors. I caught a few mistakes and grammatical twists after re-reading my “perfect paper.” Hmm. Some of it just has to do with preference, I guess. I’m sure they read more for content than style anyway.
It’s like two fucking extremes here. At school, I can do no wrong, and every assignment I complete is literally the “best” that these teachers have seen, and I’ve actually been told that by more than one of them. Then, there is work. Everything I do here is inept, incomplete, needs to be reworded, re-written, re-packaged, re-done. I can do nothing right, and every day I am lectured on the importance of whatever-fuckup-the-day-has-brought-to-us. Anywhere where you have employees who have been around for over 10 years, you are bound to have people settled into their ways and resistant to change.
Here I come, new ideas, new concepts, varied experience, and I can’t apply it anywhere. I would settle for getting through a day with the feeling, the recognition, of having done something well. Something is amiss on one side of this extreme. If I am such a stellar student, how is it possible to be such a poor employee? Either I am being graded way too easy at school, or expectations at the office are painfully unrealistic.
I’d be happy with a middle ground for now. Until I figure out where I’m going and what the hell I’ll be doing, I’m stuck with what I’m doing NOW, and I need to make the best of it before I can move on to any other place in life.
Today, I will sit in my locked box and continue to attempt to carve a key from the wood around me with the tools I have at my disposal.
My Good Life
Okay, I need to stop reading the news. An article about a burglary, where they actually wrote, “…carried a shiny handgun,” has me stumped. Is the word, “shiny,” necessary here? It just seems so misplaced, so incongruous with the article’s content. The evil, sneaky burglar had a shiny gun and beady little eyes that glistened in the darkness. Is this the news or an elaborate short story? I’m having a massive multiple brain-fart… no more news for me this morning.
I was in a meeting the other night (you know, the big meeting in which we aired our dirty laundry?) and at one point, my boss said, “We all want better lives, so we all need to work together so that we can have them.” This is when I interrupted her - “Actually, I have a pretty good life,” I said quietly with a smile. She replied, “Well not everyone can have a perfect boyfriend and a wonderful life, BARB, so fuck off for this part, the rest of us need better lives.” She was kidding, of course, and we all laughed. But I wasn’t kidding. I have a pretty good life, and better yet — I know it.
My GOD, You People!
“Life is like a library owned by an author. In it are a few books which he wrote himself, but most of them were written for him.” — Harry Emerson Fosdick
What a name, Fosdick, what a name. Alright, America… what is it you are so afraid of? That if we take the word God out of the pledge of allegiance, we will all become heathens? Do you worry that the other countries will think we’ve strayed from the flock? “Almost nine in 10 people said the reference to God belongs in the pledge despite constitutional questions about the separation of church and state, according to an Associated Press poll,” is what the article reads. Yes, but nine in 10 people (how consistent we are to MLA, sweet Tribune) are ignorant and narrow-minded.
Don’t you see the contradiction? They embrace the idea but cannot accept the reality. Yes, separation of church and state is a wonderful idea! What? You’re going to CHANGE things? What will happen? Who will we become? But isn’t this supposed to be GOOD? Good-GOD, I simply don’t know what to do because I’m a narrow-minded traditionalist with absolutely no adaptability! Help, Supreme Court! HELP!
This will be interesting. If we follow the rules to the letter, we will find that it is, in fact, not constitutional to keep the word in our pledge. It is no surprise that more college graduates agree that the word is inappropriate given America’s conviction that it is the melting pot of the world. And it doesn’t surprise me either to find that born-again Christians are the most up-in-arms over the word’s removal.
Did I tell you I recently read The Life of Pi, by Yann Martel? Fascinating read, really. One of my favorite passages was about the strong belief by most who practice religion that other religions are somehow wrong. We know nothing of tolerance. We know nothing of acceptance.
Removing one religious symbol after another from our legal proceedings and from our schools is merely a step towards becoming who we think we already are. For all of you who balk and resist, for fear of the slippery slope, I must say the following: you know nothing of God, and you have no right to decide his language or her people.
Friendship and Love
I’m very happy with my friendships lately, on very many levels. Recently, I overheard someone say that she couldn’t find many “quality people” in San Diego. I say, you have to BE a quality person in order to find one. And seeing as I’m surrounded by so many wonderful, fabulous, quality people — loving, caring, TRYING people — well, we all know this is leading back to me. We attract our own, like kind, and I like what’s around me so much that it is clear I genuinely like myself as well. You can’t truly enjoy anyone’s company unless you can enjoy your own. I enjoy my own company almost a little TOO much, but so far, that hasn’t gotten in the way of anything… yet. Hee hee.
So I leave you with this on a dreary Tuesday morning (that I’m almost desperately hoping will turn into a rainy Tuesday afternoon): Consider the people around you, wherever you are, whatever you do, and if your considerations keep turning up negative traits, ways they are not meeting standards, ways they just don’t understand, areas in which you find them “unfit,” this means you have much work to do in this life yet, and much loving and accepting of yourself to learn. On the contrary side of things, if your considerations reveal happiness and love, talent and appreciation, and yes, I’ll go out on a limb here and say I fit in this latter category, then it is my opinion that you are on the right track. And you know what? Even if you’re NOT, and I’m wrong in my little conclusion, I’d still rather be in the latter category. It’s just so much more peaceful.
Think about it. Tell someone you love them today, and more importantly, MEAN IT. Trust me, it feels good.
I’ve got to go to a client’s house in a bit here. I’m a little concerned, because these people don’t speak and/or understand English that well. Hmm. Should prove interesting, to say the least. Yesterday I went to a lovely old couple’s home, and though the meeting started off a little rocky (with a complaint for the way a case was handled), it ended with a thorough tour of their home, complete with pictures of family and then I was loaded with homemade strudel and reluctantly sent on my way. You know, it’s one thing to joke around and say that I’m a people-person, that everyone loves me, that I can put a smile on the dourest of faces… but when something like yesterday happens, I can only be reassured that my statements, however they may sound, are mostly true.
Do I believe otherwise? That I can be strongly disliked, that I can put a frown on someone’s face, that I can be misanthropic and even… evil at times? Sure. Just not as much. And we all like to focus on the positive, don’t we? Great. I love you too.
Note to readers: if you don’t actually love me, then replace “I love you too” with “I am apathetic to your life and its happenings, your feelings and thoughts, your opinions and everything else about you also.” Then sit back and realize that you’re still reading. Which means, c’mon, you gotta like me just a little.