Don't Worry, There's Wine

It is one of the most human things we do, one of the most common things.
We assign meaning to the mundane and arbitrary minutia of our daily lives.  It's how we balance our sense of self importance with the reality that we are tiny specks of cosmic dust with no real role to play in the scope of history.  Every day the universe reminds us of this in small, crushing ways.  When we just barely miss our train or spill coffee on our shirt before a meeting, the universe tells us that our needs and wants are insignificant in the face of cosmic forces like gravity.
So we talk about luck or astrology or jinxing things, to try to assign meaning to the frustrations of life, so that we don't have to face the real reason why these things happen.  We are not important, we are not special, we are not the center of the universe and these things are happening to one thousand other people around the world all the time, and that our day is ruined is of absolutely no consequence to the cosmos.  Black holes and red-shifting light waves do not care about my missed train, your coffee stain, your brother's surgery, you aunt's 401k, hunger, political unrest, war.  None of it maters enough for the even the universe to shift its mighty gaze.
We are important only to ourselves, and the tiny circle of other carbon-based creatures we pull into a tight circle around us so that we don't notice how cold and unfeeling the cosmos is.  Space is a cold, dark place.

But, to paint a silver lining over the whole thing, this world has wine.

Philosophizingasdfjkl;

Sometimes, in life, it takes another person's perspective to get clarification. 
Which is of course a very broad and obtuse way of saying that today I got a fantastic, cut you to the bone, touch your heart and heat your blood compliment from a friend I'd lost touch with.  And it gave me a sense of rightness with the world.
Not because I have a giant ego and need that kind of vaildation regularly.  I hope...
No, because it speaks to the thinks that I hold on to personally in times of strife, conflict, and uncertainty.  Not being particularly religious or full of faith, I tend to hang my hat on the fairly flimsy hook of the nature of the universe in dark day.  Somewhat less comforting that some great omniscient paternal figure promising me goodies for following the rules, my ideas about the nature of the universe are ill formed and personally conceived.  So they are much  easier to dismantle in times of stress. 
I mean, if I mentally constructed a fragile world view using scraps from physics, statistics, and a smattering of other religious and spiritual ideologies, how reliable can it actually be?  Especially when I'm the joker that got me into whatever mess I happen to be in this minute.

So when a close friend I'd lost contact with for the last few years tells me that watching me love people helped her find the love in her heart that she wanted to give and receive, and how has with her significant other...well, shit.  No amount of iced coffee is going to keep this bitch from crying.

Fragile world view?  Validated. 

Which just serves as a reminder of the absolute necessity of perspective.  You cannot see everything when you're right on top of it. Whether you're talking about personal life, work problems, or paintings by Seurat, you occasionally need to back away, take another perspective, perceive things differently to truly see and solve them.

In my humble opinion.  But I rarely hear of epiphanies derived from endless hours of obsession.  And it is so dark up close.  Step away, get some light, some space, some laughter.  Take the opinion of someone farther than you can go, consider it in the sunlight, and decide how it suits you.  That's my personal advice, derived, like most of my philosophies, from smatterings of science, art, philosophy and old fashioned life experience.   I truly try not to wax philosophical in public, where people who have no interest in it can be unnecessarily exposed to my mental wanderings, but it was a really good compliment.  And she was a really good friend.  And, truth be told, it's been a pretty hard year.

open letter to my co-commuters

Dear People of the Metrolink train,
The following is generally considered unacceptable behavior on public transportation:
-clipping your finger nails
-putting your feet up in the seat so you can recline fully
-removing your shoes and putting your get up on the seat so you can recline fully
-arguing loudly about how you don't need a woman who won't pay your rent

Woman weeping and negotiating on the phone,  I'm going to give you a pass on the off chance you're going though some real shit.  But if I find out you did something basic or dumb you're going on my list,  too.

Cheers,
Andrea

P.s. yes,  dear reader,  this was all on the same ride, just today in the last 15 minutes.
P.p.s. Woman on the phone,  the fact that you've stopped crying and are now demanding your phone friend tell you when and where makes me think this is some basic bullshit.   You're officially on notice.

Sex, Love, and Romance in my Thirties

Is it wrong to want to break up with someone because you want more sex?  And also, who exactly am I supposed to talk to about this.  All of my fabulous, hilarious, insightful girlfriends are in other time zones.  So I rely on you, the interwebs, to answer my burning and deeply personal questions.

I thought it was silly to worry about sex.  Of course, in my last relationship it was never an issue.  Sex was something that could happen up to three times a day if I was game, and I ended up bored, tired, and frankly spoiled.  Now I'm lucky to get laid three times in a week.  And I thought it wouldn't be that big of a deal, but my libido seems to be building up a resentful store of excess sexual energy.  I feel like a teenager, eager to rub up against the next hot piece that walks by. Which is really not me.

Of course, I had my twenties, during which time I pulled down more ass than...something that pulls down a lot of ass.  2002 to 2006 was my golden age of hooking up and getting laid.  But then I settled down, got my heart broken a couple of times, and got married.  Monogamy suited me, and I rarely found other men and women attractive.
Newly single for the first time in 6 years, this summer was full of tentative flirting and my first hook up in *years*.  Which turned into a relationship when I wasn't looking.  I realize now that I kind of resent that; I missed out on a short period of wildness and experimentation by settling down with the first dude I hooked up with. 

So what's a gal to do?  First thing, as an adult, is to bring the subject up.  Awkward though it is, as grown ass adults who engage in adult behavior, we owe it to our partners to be honest and open with them about our needs, wants, and desires.  It's called a conversation, have it.
Then....we play the weighing game.  Weighing the pros and cons, doing the relationship calculus to figure out how much these things matter, when compared to the positives.
It is a strange thing to feel uncompromising in one's thirties.  I continually expect to feel like I am out of time, and should be grateful for what I can get.  And sometimes I do, but more often than not I find myself basking in a confidence that was unknown to me in my twenties.  I know that I am rare and odd and wonderful and pleasing in many ways.  I am a catch, crazy and all, and so the idea of compromising seems defeatist, weak, and small minded.  I actually find myself believing that there is such a thing as the perfect guy, and that I can find him, deserve to find him.

Crazy.

All of this makes me feel a bit like a whirling dervish of  affections, seeking, sex, and romance.  Doors fling themselves open to me, and I open and close them, rechecking the contents contained within against those behind the next door.  Obviously it's unsustainable, but it's fun right now.  Crazy, confusing fun.

Or just bring a flashlight...

I finally figured out what I want, at least writ small...
I want to write in large letters;
"Look!  Look how much people love me!  I'm worth loving!  I promise, I'm loyal and dedicated, Love me back!  Promise to try to love me for years and years!  Please!  Others have done it, why won't you?!"

And as I shout these words into the empty spaces of my mind, the darkness whispers back,
"maybe you're wrong, maybe he was the only one...maybe there's no one.  Why do you break everything you touch?  What if it's always been you?  Maybe you are the problem.  You are unlovable, unloved."

This, I think, is one of the central challenges of life, to silence the dark whispers, to fill one's own head with light and shrink the shadowy corners down.
To live in the light of one's own self love.

That's security.

My Boyfriends

Someone once asked me if I was a monogamist.  Having never given it much though, I immediately responded in the affirmative.  As life has gotten progressively more complex, I have been asked the same questions more time, in different contexts, and I tend to believe that, yes, I do refer the concept of two individuals committing to a romantic/familial relationship with each other, even though I no longer expect it of others.

That being said, I do have multiple boyfriends.  I mean, there's only one guy I sleep with, but there are other guys I go to for other needs to be met. 
B is my guy, smart, funny, and above all else interesting.  We talk about literature, science, theology, music, culture, and food.  We listen to music, watch movies, then we eat drink, and...be merry.  But he's not around that often.

So I have J.  Smart, funny, and willing to criticize my terrible outfits, we talk about relationships and work together.  He turns me on to new music and we debate ideologies and talk about how much we hate people.  But he is often busy with his own fulfilling life and cute young girls.

D is my gay boyfriend, cooler than I'll ever manage to be, a blast to drink with and a fantastic artist.  I go hang out with him in the city and feel like I'm living a slightly more rad version of my life.  Or we just have boozey google hang-outs where he gives me new nicknames.

G is older, and needs my help with things. He makes me feel smart, young, and pretty, and buys me sandwiches.  He drives me places sometimes and tells me about his problems, and when I tell him about mine he puts them in perspective.

S has known me forever, and we hate and love all the same things, so there's never a debate about what we're going to do when we're together.  Because she's successful and smart I get advice on financial planning, organization, and mental health in between nuggets of pop culture gold, and S is almost always awake and down to talk for an hour or two.

C has been around for a while, and is demanding but supportive.  He knows all my secrets, but still thinks I'm perfect.  While he might be a train wreck, he always manages to make me feel important, even if it's for the wrong reasons.

M is my back up date for movies, weddings, and dinner parties.  She promises to marry me if we're ever single together for too long, nurses me back to health when life gets me down, and always hates who ever has wronged me blindly.  Plus, she has kids, which are great for playing pretend family, and birth control.

There's also K, who I don't see very often, but can be counted on to share in good-natured arguments and philosophical debates, and shares comic books with me.   And R who is easy on the eyes and makes small talk seem like an art form.  Running into him fulfills me need for chitchat for at least a few hours, and never fails to put me in a good mood.

And when all else fails I can rely on the coven of beautiful women I call my roommates, all of whom have other relationships but can be counted on to hear me complain about my day over a meal or a drink.

Sneaky Internet

Ladies, gentlemen, and individuals who choose no gender normative title, I have an announcement to make; I broke up with my boyfriend.

Like, six months ago.

I know, I know.  I am a terrible person.  How could I not tell my best friend, the inescapable insatiable maw of the internet the very second it happened?

But I didn't.  I decided that ending the longest and most meaningful romantic relationship of my life garnered a certain amount of delicacy, and deserved a degree of privacy.  So I told people slowly, and in person, and even then mentioned it infrequently.  I skirted indirect questions and said nice things about my ex because he's a nice person, and just because I don't want to spend the rest of my life with him doesn't make him Hitler.  Or Moussolini.  Or Stalin.  It turns out there are literally millions of people in the world that I don't want to spend the rest of my life in an intimate relationship with, who are also not terrible people.  Apparently there is some middle ground between committed loving affection and bitter abject hatred.

But I digress.

Lately people have been bugging me.  And by people, I mean those many charming casual acquaintances I would have forgotten the names of by now if it weren't for facebook, linkedin, twitter, etc, reminding me periodically of their existence.  And by bugging, I mean they want to know what's going on with me.  Like something's wrong.  As though, after 6 months of saying nothing, carefully maintaining my privacy and conveying no explicit details about my personal life, they can all sense something is wrong.

It took me the better half of an unproductive work day to figure it out, but I have a solid theory.  I look super happy.  In my pictures, in my comments, in my interactions with new and old friends, everything in going really well in my life.  All the evidence shows me as a woman who is winning at life; my career is on track, I have strong relationships with old friends and new ones, and I am going out into the world regularly to have fun and enjoy the simple things in life.  I am actually happy.  And I didn't conceal that.
Which was my fatal error.
All the pictures and new job postings and exchanges with loved ones paints the picture of someone who is happy, unburdened, and somehow wrong.  Because how could I possibly be okay?

So I get the occasional message, "Hey, sweetie, it's been a while....how r u?"  "Just checking in, how are you and whatshisname?"  Sometimes I get a couple a week, like this week, and I run back to check that I've maintained my privacy.  No chinks in the armor, but the internet has ways of knowing...and apparently my happiness and success is disquieting, and they want to know what's up.

The Hotness Loop

I was recently talking to a friend, we'll call her Ol Dirty Sheez, about a dude who she found somewhat hot, but for no discernible reason.  How, she asked, could a guy with obvious physical deficiencies have so much game?

I have an answer, and I call it the Hotness Loop.  My theory is based on the assumption that hotness is a spectrum, with super hot people on one side, super ugly people on the other, and the majority of us charming normies somewhere in the middle.  Most people can agree on this premise, so I take it one step further; the spectrum is actually a loop, and people on either end of the spectrum can take a few steps and hop the line separating super ugly from super hot.  These are people who start out as ugly teenagers, then get an interesting hair cut in their twenties, or become a hipster and start wearing their coke-bottle glasses ironically. 

Think about high-fashion or uber-famous people, with their hyper-angular faces and over-sized features.  They are really just one bad day away from fugly, aren't they?  And if you think about it, isn't a bear just a few sandwiches and a shave away from unpleasant at best?

I am sure there is an evolutionary/genetic component in there somewhere, something about how facial features are indicators of certain traits, and enhanced features can indicate enhanced traits that are both alluring, from a potential genetic growth standpoint, and frightening from a 'dangers of new things' stand point.  But I am on my lunch break and have neither the time nor the caffeine to go into that level of detail.  So instead, I will close with a prescription; find out which side you are on and dive towards the center!  You never know...

Betrayed by my Body...and Timing

Part of being a woman is  living with the realization that your body will betray you.  When you least expect it.
Walking down the street, feeling super hot and sexy in something light colored?  Yeah, you have a blood stain on your ass and everyone sees it.  No, they aren't going to tell you.  You will find out when you get home tonight.
Feeling confident in the knowledge that you have chosen the right path, that you aren't that in to kids and  even if you were now is not the time?  Estrogen doesn't know that, and will flood your body with poisonous hormones that make you coo at hipster infant clothes in target.
Total proud of a successful weekend that sets you up for success personally and professionally?  Here comes crippling loneliness and depression, because as a woman in your thirties your PMS now includes a drop in serotonin that induces clinical depression!

Or, in my personal case, I spent last night bragging about my ability to process wine due to a family history of alcoholism and a highly evolved liver, then wake up to find that not only did impending menstruation inhibit my body's ability to process toxins, but the flu-like symptoms of aches, fever, and nausea, combined with both diarrhea and a feeling of constipation are not sudden onset of Ebola as I first suspected, but just my period.  Making me feel like shit.  Again.

Rather than spend $10.19 +tax on airport advil, I opted to spend the same amount of money on an airport beer. Because that was the obvious adult decision, giving me both pain relief and an improved sense of self, necessary now that I realize that I might also be bloated and gassy.  Sorry, fellow air travelers, but this is happening.  Right now.
I neglected to realize that the betrayal wasn't over, because with beer came the inevitable questioning of all of my life choices, ever, and the deep desire to call my ex.  Oh, silly estrogen, silly, seratonin.  Silly uterine lining shedding that fucks up an entire day.

As much as I believe and know that woman can do anything, I often feel like werewolfing myself the day my period starts.  It has become a day of physical and emotional pain that seems to beg for a break for society, rather than the powering through of my youth.  I don't have as much to prove, maybe, or maybe I just think I am due a day off from life more often now.  But, as much as it is possible for any and every woman to power through the worst day of the monthly torture that is part and parcel of being a biological woman for the sake of the perpetuation of the species, don't we deserve a few more days off?
I feel like I do.  Damn his for happening 5 hours before i am scheduled to eat and do laundry, when I could ease into a hot shower, elastic waist-band pants, and some raw cookie dough and cheap white wine with frozen fruit in it.

Here and there

Lately I find myself on the prowl...
all the time.
Like I'm somehow twenty two and insatiable again.
At first I figured it was a normal reaction to ending the longest, deepest, and most serious relationship I've ever had.
But something new struck me this morning as I hesitated to leave the soft, cool comfort of my bed.  It's all strategy.
If I spread myself nice and thin, and give pieces of myself away to several people,
I'm safe,
in a sense
from the trauma I'm still recovering from.
Because no one will have my whole heart,
and no one will be able to break it.
Which is sad.
Because how can I ever be whole again
with pieces scattered hither and thither?
How can I make myself whole again?

Overheard at the San Bernardino Greyhound Station

Charming guy across from me
You going to vegas? Let me give you my friend's number; he can get you in at Wet Republic...

Guy who's stuff I am now watching
Did I bang her? well...I mean, I hooked up with her there was a situation...she was throwing up so yeah...it was a stinky situation.
Yeah, I think he's going to get a house and I can get a room in it. Better than getting an apartment...a bunch of places around here just don't rent to felons...they all say they do a background check and all...like, if you have even one violent felony against anyone they will not rent to you...yeah. it's messed up man.
Yeah, he got picked up this week. You remember that girl I was seeing? the one with the face tattoos...the leopard....she told me. he got picked up on something...i guess he kidnapped a girl and raped her with a gun....yeah...well, if he's not PCP'd yet, he'd better get there...yeah...well, you know these young guys, they got issues with women.

Girl I've never met, to me
Oh wow, your hair looks so good, I didn't recognize you....
in reference to getting water out of the drinking fountain
...sounds like sleeping with an old man

Guy shorter than me, right in front of me
I'm not doin no faggot ass ass kissing shit. I paid for my ticket, I'm gettin on the bus!
he did not get on the bus...

Guy carrying walking stick with a wooden pigeon sticking out of his backpack
I see you noticed my lizard, and I saw he noticed you... Not many people like reptiles, but I do, so I put them on my walking sticks...Sometimes I do it just to freak people out...can I borrow your phone charger?

Yes...

The #YesAllWomen hashtag got me thinking.  Which obviously, besides opening dialogue, is the point of ‘social media movements’, if you believe in that sort of thing.  I have always felt a little bit special, and in a way left out from some feminist discussions because I have been rarely victimized.  But then I remembered, I had an incident or two I could parse down to 140 characters 

Yup, that shit happened to me.  A friend of mine, in the midst of a debate about women’s rights, reached out with both heads and tried to shut me up by choking me.  At my best friend’s birthday party.  And no one did anything.  Or at least, I did something first.  You see, I don’t remember it through the lens of being victimized because my hands were free, and so I reached out and punched at his face with both hands as hard as I could until he stopped, and then told him he was fucked up and got another drink.  Because I was raised in a home where my father told me the only reason I couldn’t be a professional football player was because I ran with my tongue out, and because I grew up with a mother who never stood up for herself, so she never tolerated me not standing up for myself, and I was raised with boys who taught me how to use my body sometimes, instead of my words, because sometimes that just works better.  So, even though this incredibly fucked up thing happened, it never stuck in my head as a time of fear and helplessness.  But only because I was fine, I was able to handle it, and I had been taught to do so repeatedly in life.  

When I look back over the record of my life, there are thousands of moments like this.  Moments walking down a dark street alone at night, where I have to remind myself to throw my shoulders back confidently, and shift my keys in my hand just in case I need a weapon, and the color is as an example of my strength.  Moments when I decided it was easier to just give in to a guy’s advances and chalk it up to the story or the experience, because fighting it could have ended badly.  Moments where something happens that I shake off, and tell myself I how strong I am rather than ask why I have to wear armor in social situations.  These choices have been mine, and would not work for everyone.  Which means that I am not immune to the prevalent, violent misogyny, I have just developed coping mechanisms for the hundreds of small and large ways that my gender and sex can make me a target.  I’m like the person in a stock photo of China, wearing my air mask as I bike through the city.  I’m not breathing different air, the fact that my lungs are cleaner doesn’t mean there is not pollution.  I have just found a way to mitigate the unpleasant reality to the point where it doesn’t affect me as much.  Except that is does.  I am wearing a mask.  I have to take measures.  I know how to hold keys as a weapon, that’s called Being a Woman 101.  I have worked my whole life to feel strong, confident, and independent, and that I am and can sit here and write relatively unscathed is not an example of how fair and just the world is.  It is simply evidence of my luck and my work to not let the harsh environment I exist in control me.

Motivation, please?

A very talented friend of mine recently completed a side project. Not for a deadline or a paycheck, but just for personal improvement, shits and giggles, and because she wanted to. I beam with pride. That shit is hard to do.
For some reason, the vast majority of us humans are hard-wired to need to be forced to do anything not strictly meeting the definition of leisure. Which is pretty dumb, when we all admit we would be happier/healthier/more productive if we just did the things on our To-Do list in a timely fashion. And yet, our personal projects sit un-completed, while our netflix que swiftly empties.
Philosophers, and more specifically economists try to describe and predict human behavior with a few simplifying premises in place. One of these premises is that we are rational, which is clearly flawed. There are new theories being tossed around, trying to explain why a rational person would do irrational things, concepts like "bounded rationality" and "time inconsistency" get tossed around to explain why we basically act like teenagers when it comes time sit down and work one something without an external force pressing us.  The basic idea is that we think differently about the present than we do about the future, in terms of wants, desires, money, and expectations.  Which makes sense to anyone who ever spoiled their dinner with a sugary sweet treat because someone brought doughnuts to work.
Another theory is that of supernormal stimuli, which basically says that our recently evolved brains haven't caught up with all of the amazing, yummy, shiny things in the world, and so rather than consume them in any reasonable fashion approaching moderation, we go for it with the all-you-can-eat buffet of sugar, fat, fun, and leisure. Think eating State Fair food while sitting in a hot-tub recliner watching every season of your favorite show in a row. With beer. Who wouldn't want to do that?!
I suppose the boring answer is, an evolved adult human being with shit to do, like, walk the dog, read that book I bought 2 years ago and/or wash myself. Booooring.
This is of particular concern to me because I have a pretty large project staring me in the face, and after a short burst of enthusiasm, have completely halted production. I have, however, used up all my lives on whatever online video game was handy so, there's that. But actual work on a project that I care about and will contribute to my future in a real way? Nah, I'm going to need a deadline or, better yet, a troll with a giant mace standing behind me to get that done. And maybe take away my internet connection.
Luckily, human beings are highly adaptable creatures, meaning we can always change.  Seek out new civilizations and boldly go back to what we started, and finish it.  Good habits, though much less fun, are just as plausible as bad habits.  

On Life and Getting Older...

Not that I'd used this label before, but I had a fantastic mentor for a while. As is the trend for young people, I did not realize how good I had it until it was gone. When he died a few weeks ago, I was devastated. How strange it is, to be surprised by the effect a person has on your life. You would think I would have noticed something like that.
After the memorial, I went through the old emails he'd sent me over the years, searching for some of the humorous gems I remembered and hoping for some previously undiscovered words of wisdom. Even in death, he did not disappoint:
My point, to close, is that it really is not so much important where you start, and how long it takes, just so you get to your destination, and not when you are too old. You will have to work until 75, I am certain, so you have plenty of time to amortize your investment.
Keep going, he tells me. It is not too late, not by a long shot. It only feels like I am old because this is the oldest I’ve ever been. But don’t worry, life says with a chuckle, you are going to get older. Much, much older. You’re welcome! That is the funny dance of our modern lives, trying endlessly to hold death and old age at bay, as though they are twins rather than rivals, each stealing numbers from the other. How do we not see that old age is the prize we gain for surviving a raucous adolescence? Wrinkles are the door prize you get, in addition to the degrees, jobs, raises, pink slips, leases, relationships, and other life detritus we collect year after year.
Remember how old you felt five years ago? Or ten? Extrapolate that sensation for ten years from now, and listen to your older self when she tells you that you aren’t shit yet. You are still a baby, fumbling through life. We all are. For ever. Fumbling through life, making mistakes, feeling younger than our age and older at alternating intervals, and wondering what on earth happened the entire time.
Assume that this is just how life feels, marvel at it, and move on.

FYI...

You can totally get a hickey on your upper lip. With a properly motivated partner. It does *not* make your lips look better by any degrees.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I feel so angry, I want to punch my fist through someone's face, like in those really cool, violent movies. Like today, when I thought I was going to meet with my department chair about a job offer, but instead was asked about sexual harassment in school. I don't mind the question, but I genuinely mind the loss of time spent wondering and hoping about the meaning of this meeting. It may seem trivial, but I got my damn hopes up, and instead of getting a nice job that would fund my occasional food-and-shelter-addiction, I got to confirm that no professor has ever pressured me for sex. Not an efficient use of my time. Silver lining? At least I got to make an impression with the new dean. That's a pretty slim sliver lining, though. Compared to the possibility to almost-gainful employment. Or any of the other interesting things I had cooked up. But, alas, disappointment is old friend who doesn't care what else you have going on, he's crashing on your mental couch all week. That metaphor may not have worked.
I had hoped by this point in writing I would have stumbled across some sort of larger meaning, something about the nature of expectations or the troubling frequency of sexualization in what should be de-sexualized contexts. But instead I am wrapped up in my own frustration and self-centeredly fantasizing about a larger bank account. I may be becoming a less interesting person.
Only time will tell.

Fight or...fight

Today I have been thinking a lot about frailty and dominance. For the purpose of literary organization and making me feel less like a mental patient, I’m going to say the two are interconnected. Just looking at your average human being, I can’t help but notice how inherently weak we are. No claws or scales or even protective fur. We are all soft fleshy underbelly and veins too close to the surface. Without our intellect and ability to make and use tools, we’d be long extinct. But if you believe that there is an inherent awareness of this reality, it starts to give reason to a lot of the stranger human behaviors. Looking down at my own pale, ineffectual hands laced with blue veins, I have a desire to prove that my weakness is a deception, a front for the really violent, malicious monster that lies within and is able to both defend and attack any threat. Don’t call me soft and fleshy. So maybe that’s why we have these strong fight or flight instincts; maybe that’s why we climb into our cars and get all road rage-y and yell at the guy who won’t wave our late fees or forgets to add fries to that. We know, deep down inside, we are just a few apocalyptic losses of technology away from being knocked down to the middle of the food chain by a big bear claw. And not the yummy sugar & fat bear claw. Today I had the pleasure of being yelled at in broken English by a guy who was, ironically enough, mad at me for firmly threatening him with consequences for breaking the rules. Repeatedly. Granted, he didn’t put anyone at risk, but he broke the rules, and as the person in charge of enforcing said rules, I came down on him with a very firm, “I almost had to…be more careful next time!” So I got yelled at, by the same guy, for not being nice enough, and because I am in a customer service position, part of my job is to apologize to the angry person in the wrong for hurting their feelings. Which got me asking that one big question, why? Why is it so common to shout and stomp and belittle the person who has no direct effect on anything when we feel threatened? Why is that the first place most of us go? And why does taking that abuse make me feel like I should go snap a pencil in half, or knock down someone’s Lego tower, or crack my knuckles and stomp around in a really serious, self-important way. For the aforementioned reasons, I’m going to say our inherent frailty makes us act out, as a display of false strength. And I’m not totally wrong. That’s why we associate larger tempers with smaller people, it’s not just over compensation, it’s also compensation. Nature knows that, which is why little guys pack a big punch (I’m thinking scorpions, spiders), while the big guys can usually get away with a show of force (I’m looking at you bears and sharks). Which makes me feel 0.1% validated after being yelled at, and before being yelled at again, because the day is young. But, ya know, science is cool.

Lies I tell Myself

The more skin care products I buy, the better off I will be. Because it is only logical that each product will serve a separate, specific purpose. And each newly acquired product will, therefore, solve a separate and specific problem.

So the only logical way to be able to solve each and every of an infinite number of potential skin-care woes is to purchase every product that seems like a good idea at the time.

Right?

happy Birthday to ME

I am an annoying nostalgic person. As I mature I've found it easier to let go of the past and look to the future, but when those big milestones come around I still get caught up in the rearview.

That being said, I wanted to chronicle my favorite birthday memories as I begin my thirtieth year of being Andrea Zaney Walters.

1998 - My sophomore year of high school, Sheila and Parisa got up early to put "Happy Birthday Andrea" posters up around the whole school. At lunch time, we had a mini party in the MPR, with cupcakes, cookies, hats and blowers. Awkward though I was, I still loved all the attention and will always love Sheila for knowing how to give me a great thrill. Plus Sheila made me a mixed tape and then the three of us went to Punk Rock Karaoke and sang White Riot with Mike Ness. It was, in a way, like a bat mitzvah.

2002 - I had just been kicked out of the house by the people I thought were my best friends, and absorbed into what I know fondly refer to as a crack house (only with weed). Floundering personally, academically, and socially, I wasn't even sure anyone would do anything for my birthday. When Jenna wouldn't come pick me up from school, I was heart broken. When I finally got home, I found the whole house decorated for my surprise birthday party. Charlie had brought my favorite pizzas home from work, there was a cake with candles, drinking, debauchery, and fun. When I needed it most, I felt loved, adored, and understood. Plus, it was an awesome party.

2004 - Jealous of other people's pirate costumes on Halloween, I decided to have a pirate-themed birthday party. Jenna collected all of my presents in advance, and planned out an elaborate scavenger hunt around the house, where each clue led me to another clue, a present, and a shot. I got oh so drunk. Added bonus? Christina gave me the once-in-a-lifetime gift of letting me drunkenly cut her hair into a mullet. So. Rad.

Honorable mentions go to the year I threw a lounge party, when Scott, Bob, and grant brought by a leftover super bowl keg and wore bathrobes, and Scott gave me a bag of trinkets he bought from a homeless guy; my Buca di Beppo/Piano Piano party, where I felt like I finally had a crew of friends in Claremont; the party that should have been, when Jenna and Taylor planned a bowling/sangria surprise party for me that failed because I spent the day in the E.R; my super classy birthday with Carlo, where he bought me a dream dress, took me out to Ecco, and we celebrated at home with friends, food, and Wii karaoke.

Transformative

The question of how I was going to define and recall this year came up recently, and I decided the most accurate word to describe the last 12 months was "transformative". Which is good. Not just because Transformers (tm) are cool, but because transformation is indicative of movement, usually either growth or decay. And I'm still alive, so I vote for growth. I am no longer the person I once was, but she is still me.
From my perspective inside my own brain, all of this seems trite; to feel a renaissance of myself swelling as I teeter on the brink of my third decade seems...contrived? At the very least, convenient in a deus ex machina kind of way. And yet, after a period of increasing and accelerating disorder, I seem to have emerged fresh from the fire, my old skin peeling off to reveal a new alloy composition, stronger and more flexible that my previous incarnation. And while my old form served me well and protected me through a cavalcade of hardships, and I excited to start walking around all the time in my new skin. I want to see how this new self I've managed to grow and forge drives.
Humans seem hell bent on finding and naming critical turning points: birthdays, anniversaries, various annual holidays. The return of Saturn gives people in their late 20's a three year window to feel a revelation of some kind, and yet here I am, googleing the exact cycle of Saturn. 29.4 years. That's right around the time when everything in my life broke, and I began to rebuild from scratch.
I believe that's why we have so many holidays and milestones, so no matter when our shift happens, when our big moment hits, we'll have a larger calendar to point to and say, see, it's special because of this!

Steve Jobs vs. The Real World

Yesterday Steve Jobs died. He was fairly young, and had struggled with cancer for some time. Luckily he had the resources to prolong both his life and his career, and did so with great relish. In the wake of his passing, the world that Mr./ Jobs had a hand in creating is vibrating with new insights and adulation for him, with people from every part of the world and every walk of life calling him a genius, one of a kind, generous, maverick. Comparisons to the bible and Leonardo da Vinci have been made.

But let's be realistic here. Steve Jobs was not the only person at the cutting edge of technology. He stood on the shoulders of his scientific predecessors, and had a whole generation of peers. And he is not solely responsible for every Apple product on the market. He gets credit for innovative and phenomenal brand-making, and great marketing, but that's not really scientific genius. He had a hand in a lot of innovation, but in recent years he's worked over and with literally hundreds of other very smart individuals who made the products people gobble up so effective. It's like saying wow, those pyramids are great, and they never would exist without Pharaoh. Yeah, that may be true, but really, other people helped.

He was prominent by choice, and for business reasons; when Steve Jobs returned to Apple, to bring it back from the brink of death, he brought some new technologies and new marketing strategies, and some savvy business techniques. But, like his decision to cut Apple's philanthropic giving (and never resume it), these were not wheel-inventions. They were great forward thinking steps in the ever-higher climb towards technological Valhalla, but really what did he do? The iPod, iPhone, iPad, and Mac Books are all great products, but they all represent brands of products that have been made by other companies, many times cheaper and better. What Apple excelled at, beyond creating a whole new class of genericized trademarks, was protecting the market share they won by viciously blocking any cross-platform interaction. As an outsider, with an mp3 player, smart phone, tablet and laptop, it looks a little bit like a high-tech gang, where you have to have something with an 'i' on it to get in, or you may as well take your ball and go home. Never mind the higher quality and lower cost of some non-i products.

So what is Steve Jobs' true legacy? It is undeniable that he has left a mark, and he participated in one of the greatest technological run-ups in human history. But lately? Lately he's been a champion of consumerism, of corporate person-hood, of making money and protecting market share, and damn the cost to small business, potential innovation, and individuals. In my mind, at least, Steve Jobs' legacy is slick marketing of a product line in constant flux because features and technologies are withheld for the 'next generation', where the brand name sneakers of two generations ago are replaced with several hundred dollar technologies that children are taught to covet from infancy (if you think I'm exaggerating, just search "baby iphone" online).

At the same time, The United States finds itself at a rare moment; The Occupy Wall Street movement is gaining momentum nationally, and people are standing up for human rights of corporate rights. The people at the bottom are finally questioning why the people at the top are getting so far away. But everyone has paused, to marvel at the passing of Steve Jobs. It is indisputable that Jobs left his mark on history, but I am more interested in the history being made now, today, on the streets of American cities, by the people who work minimum wage jobs for 28 hours to buy an iPhone, or 69 hours to buy an iPad. Steve Jobs helped create the personal computer, but he didn't do it alone. He did, however, make himself a household name. But I didn't think we celebrated people for becoming world-renowned former CEOs.

Because I’m me.

Because I’m me, I waiting until the very last minute to go to the bathroom after drinking a diet coke and three glasses of water.
Because I’m me, when I got to the bathroom and saw the little tiny baby lizard, whose cousins have been making me smile all week, I tried to chase him out, afraid that he would either die trapped in the barren landscape of a semi-public restroom.
It’s not my fault that the little tiny baby lizard was stupid, ran into a corner, and accidentally got caught by me. I wasn’t trying to catch him, just corral him into the out doors, where he would be happy.
But, because I’m me, as soon as I realized I could pick him up, I did. And because I’m me, as soon as I picked him up I wanted to hold him, and considered keeping him as a pet.
Settling for the middle ground, I took the little tiny baby lizard back to my office, and tried to photograph him on my hand, which was difficult because the little tiny baby lizard moved further and further up my arm with every jarring sound or movement, of which there were many. Because I’m me.
After getting a couple of good pictures, I went to take the little tiny baby lizard back outside and set him free.
Because I’m me, I was more focused on the little tiny baby lizard’s feelings than I was on the presence of real live human people around me.
Because I’m me, I naturally forgot I was wearing the fitted skirt of the pseudo-professional, and squatted like a woman giving birth in the jungle.
Because I’m me, I didn’t notice until the little tiny baby lizard had moved to the relative safety of the near by tree that I was giving a full-on, clear view crotch shot to a pair of middle-aged women a few yards from me.
Because I’m me, and I couldn’t think of a demure escape, I simply walked back to the restroom and resumed my business. But, because I’m me, I still think I’m the reason they disapeared before I returned from the restroom.

What I mean to say is...

There is no such thing as forever. Mountains move with startling fluidity given an appropriate scope of time, which is but a blink in the context of the age of the universes, which is just one in an evolutionary series of universes, and we’ll never know if we are an early, malformed attempt at success or a singular chance formation, or just a mundane step in the path, like tadpoles with slightly shorter tails and leg buds.
So how can anyone trust, when there is no certainty, when the basis for our strongest science is conjecture, and every time we break down the elements of ourselves, we find only smaller elements. More questions.
In a way, it would make sense for all of existence as we know it to be nothing more than the labyrinth of something larger than us, beyond our comprehension. That would begin to explain the maddening parade of still further obfuscation of truth as our science reaches at singular truths and “laws” with which to restrict our reality.
Or maybe, and just as likely, it’s our problem. We always want to impose straight lines, right angles, put life and elements and everything around us into next order so that we can make statements in absolute terms, when reality is just not constructed that way.
All of the evidence we encounter in life, from the moment we start to develop our powers of observation, indicates the strict randomness of life and the propensity for rules to have exceptions.
Thus the phrase, “the exception makes the rule”.

Really, what kind of bullshit logic is that?

I need...

Someone to claim the mystery-rodent I've been babysitting at my desk for the last 5 hours

Someone to extract the water out of the carpet of the moron who thought they could repair their toilet themselves

A fat free, calorie free, non-carcinogenic, sugar free caffeine substance that tastes like candy but won't keep me up at night

Better-functioning air conditioning

A tetanus shot

Barring a tetanus shot, someone to cut the metal shavings out of my finger, so I don't get lock-jaw

Shoes whose heels last as long as I do

An intelligent staff

An eight-day week, so I can have a two-day weekend

Help with my homework

A little credit

and a nap

To Polish....

I don’t think guys realize how much time it takes to look like a put-together girl. Seriously. My fellah has something of a nail fetish, deeply enjoying perfectly painted finger and toe nails. I, personally, have found nail polish to be a temporary pain in the ass. It takes upwards of an hour to apply correctly, and never lasts as long as you like. Example? Last night I spent my evening sitting on the couch, painstakingly applying the correct coats in the correct order with drying time in between, after carefully filing them all. This morning, in the shower, three of my ten finger nails were already chipped. Granted, I am usually afflicted with chipped nails sooner than the average girl, but that’s just because I actually use my hands to do things. You know, like wash my hair, wash dishes, move things, open and close things.
My sweet fellah, seeing my ongoing frustration and noticing that I now carry three bottles of nail polish with my everywhere for touch ups, suggested I just go get me nails professionally done. Sweet of him, and the pedicure does tend to last a little longer, but I have never been able to make a manicure last more than a day or two, and then I’m shelling out $30-$50 bucks to sit still for an hour in my busy day when I could be at work, at school, doing homework, or catching up on the thousand things I never have time for because I work full time and go to grad school part time.
I know, bitch bitch bitch.
But seriously. If I cut out of my daily schedule make-up time, all nail painting time, smelly lotions and creams to keep all my parts soft and sweet smelling, the shaving, plucking, trimming, coloring, and bronzing, I could save hours every week. Literally hours. And, let the record show, I am a pretty lazy girl. I don’t do a lot of the things considered de rigueur in modern (Los Angeles) society. Frankly, I don’t see how I could fit them into my week. But everyone knows there are tons of fringe benefits to being more attractive, and many of these things are cultural indicators of success. Which I guess makes sense, because you’d have to be successful to have the time to do all this shit. But what about the woman who pursues her career forcefully? Without time spent on creams and getting an appropriate amount of beauty sleep, with out the time to maintain a strict mani/pedi waxing schedule, or even the time to make it to her bi-weekly Pilates class, because she’s busy creating an empire, conducting research, or writing journal articles. Stress and time and regular daily abuse wear down her appearance, and she unwittingly chooses between beauty and success?

Just a thought.

Lost Summer

Every time I think I've made my peace with my shitty job and my shitty work schedule, something pops up inside of me like a cranky two year old and throws a tantrum, screaming "I don't wanna!".

Seriously, I don’t wanna.

Yesterday, I miss out on some good old fashioned family fun, The Our Lady Of Lebanon festival at a park in Van Nuys. I know my fellah said it was boring, but i also know I would have loved it. Food, family, culture, singing, dancing, a chance to practice my eavesdropping on Arabic skills. What's not to love? Plus, I would have included a night cap at our adopted Uncle Milo's afterwards, for the perfect Sunday. Instead, I spent a tedious 8.5 hours sitting behind my desk, trying desperately to focus on work while checking facebook for mobile uploads from the festival every 15 seconds. Time well spent. Whoo hoo.
But I'm okay, I recovered, and I managed to have a lovely evening at home with my fellah after he came home and promised me it was a tedious and boring day. Love him for lying to me, by the way.

Now, here I am, Monday, my Friday. I should be excited. I have two days relatively work-free for school and house cleaning and general relaxation. Except that I just heard it's going to be gloriously hot when the real weekend arrives, like triple digit, pack a cooler and head to the beach hot. My stupid brain won't learn, and won't listen, and so it automatically jumps to the conclusion that I can go to the beach at least on of those lovely days. Like a fool, my frontal lobe does the happy dance at the thought of flip flops, ice cream, water-related activities, and getting the hell out of Diamond Bar for a while, while the sun is still up.

Stupid stupid stupid.

There is a very depressing, melancholy part of me that believes I'll never crawl out of the hole that is this job, that I will never go to the beach again. I had about 4 good months of summer (I mean, this is LA) and I had one beach sunset, and one pool party abbreviated by driving. And Memorial Day. Oh, sweet beautiful Memorial day. That was a good one. Bikes and garlic fries on Venice Beach. But still, I'm not even 30 yet. I need more than 3 days of summer fun to feel fulfilled. I do not feel fulfilled. I feel like a semi-nocturnal parolee, not allowed to leave my area, and especially not allowed to do anything during the light of day.

I'm not even looking for wild, wet fabulous adventures. BBQ by the pool would suit me just fine. Or even just sitting in the sun by the beach on one of those days where it's not really warm enough, but you want to be in your bathing suit anyway.

Maybe I'm being melodramatic; I mean I did get something of a Labor Day weekend, but even that was spent nocturnal, rushed, and in no way associated with summer time, unless you count my optimistic donning of my bathing suit under my clothes, followed by several hours of summer wedgies. And getting into a fight over homework. Yay 3-day reduced to 1-day weekend!

I rest my case. The universe clearly owes me a summer. I can wait, make it up to me.

Little Monsters, But Not Fred Savage

There’s a little monster inside of me, and every once in a while it gets out. It says things I know I shouldn’t, and does things I know I shouldn’t, and then in the deep dark night it sneaks back inside to hide and watch the fall out from the safety of its home in the deep dark places of my heart. I wake up in the morning ironically mournful. I feel apologetic, embarrassed, the usual; nothing out of step with a night of drinking and dancing and toe-stepping. But the little monster creates more havoc than just that. When my little monster sneaks out, and then retreats, I’m left with questioning thoughts for which I can’t seem to draw answers.
I wonder which is more true, the me that keeps the monster locked away, wrapped in chains so that it has less of a chance of escaping, or the me that watches the monster take over my voice, my mouth, my hands, my self, and retreats to the center to watch the immediate fallout and giggle like a naughty child. I wonder if there’s a middle ground, if the monster and I can learnt o co-exist. I had previously thought I’d satisfied the monster, and she had grown into a different creature that would no longer say and do such things, but she was merely napping through the placid moments of my life, waiting for an opportune moment to sneak out and reclaim her place in the spot light, even if only for one night.

I don’t have anything more to say, so THE END. I apologize for the lazy writing.

Into the deep end.

I feel like after a certain point it’s a bit cliché to talk about life and death, but since it’s all around me right now, I feel validated. The thing that seems to give people the most trouble with life and death is the randomness; a 26 year old boy can die in his sleep in a controlled environment, while a 90 year old woman who drinks and smokes can still muster up the gumption to whack neighborhood kids in her yard with a stick. It’s random.


Apparently an obnoxious desire to over analyze things is intrinsic to grad students, because a couple of us polished of beers with a discussion of the reason humans evolved to have religion, and I always come back to the need for an explanation. In ancient times, people created a deity that would explain the incompressible forces of nature; the rising sun, the changing tides, drought and earth quakes were attached to unseen actors who could be influenced and, therefore, appeased. In modern times, we’ve abandoned the fickle agricultural gods of our ancestors for monotheism, seeking to explain just one major question, why do bad things happen? This obviously covers the whole range of life experience, including but not limited to those twin events that bookend every life.


People go to their god to ask when people are born different, born at the wrong time, or not born at all. Similarly, they go to their god when someone’s life ends. Why so young, why so soon, why so slow, why so suddenly? Why at all? And what is the complicated calculus in play when it’s decided who lives and who dies, who suffers and who simply drifts away.


Some take comfort in the idea that someone else’s plan is in effect, some larger plan, too big for us to perceive, but intricate enough to make perfect sense given enough perspective. Others, I think, enjoy having someone to blame endlessly, someone to curse until the pain subsides, someone who’ll never shout back. Many people find solace in the fairy tale of a magical place where everyone you love who is good and decent gets to go, where nothing’s bad and nothing hurts and we can all have a picnic when we get there. But even the people who wholeheartedly believe in this fairy land don’t seem to be in any rush to get there…


But I digress. Because those of us who find faith in the tangible have to find solace in the same. There are no happily ever after stories of living on clouds in white robes, so we have to counsel ourselves with other things. Beer is often helpful. So is talking. Whether you believe people got to a better place, back into the cycle of life, or just into the decaying end of the matter spectrum, we all believe the pain of this life is over. The only other thing we can hold on to is the same thing we always have to hold on to when ever thing get rough, the good times.

So I guess, in conclusion and in the wake of death and pain and life, here’s to the good times.

to my religious friends, please don't be mad at my playful characterization of different systems of belief. I'm an equal opportunity offender trying to figure out my own thing.

Me Talk Good

I think I'm forgetting how to speak English. Seriously. Which is a shame, because I used to be quite verbose. When I was little I had a knack for devouring books, and the continuation of this habit gave me a great vocabulary. But lately life has contrived to give me no free time and little time for the reading and writing I’m required to do by employment or for education. And then there’s the real reason, and I say this with the caveat that I am an incredibly open minded person who used to really love this aspect of my life:

I am surrounded by non-native English speakers. At home, at school, at work, in social situations, on the phone, via email... I honestly have to actively remember incidents of conversation with native speakers. It’s gotten to the point where I noticed I was speaking broken English to a friend whose ESL English was clearly superior. What the fuck?

And I always wanted to be multi-lingual. Anyone unfortunate enough to have heard my drunken Spanish can attest is a goal I’ve yet to achieve. But this goal and my active use of Spanish and Arabic on a daily basis seems to have short-circuited the language center of my brain. I now regularly think sentences in a mixture of Arabic, Spanish and English. My family is not amused. I am not amused. If I start to dream in another language, I am out. If I start to pick up Korean, I am out. I will run away to Kentucky or Iowa, somewhere where the only thing that’s international is the House of Pancakes.

You have been warned.

I've got the Late-Twenties-Staring-At-The-Thirties Blues

If we knew, when we began, what it would be like, would we keep going? Would we continue to grow and mature and reach for each birthday, each accomplishment, each stage completed like some kind of live-action Mario Bros with crappy bosses but good graphics?

Look at the facts; the older we get, the less impressed we are with the little miracles of daily life, the more mundane our daily activities become, the more responsibilities we acquire with fewer fun and exciting new rewards. It really is all like a crappy Mario Bros game! Follow me on this one. It all starts out so new and exciting, because you’ve never seen any of this before, and each mushroom is a thrill, each minor accomplishment is high-five worthy, and the first time you best a major foe, achieve something major, the payout is phenomenal. And then you go to the next level. There are new things, it’s still interesting, but the same shit from the last stage in life doesn’t thrill you the way it used to. You need fireballs now; just jumping on your foes isn’t interesting enough. And the challenges have to become bigger, more complex to hold your interest and challenge you. But at the end you still get fireworks, you still get a sense of accomplishment, you still feel like high fiving because you are moving forward on to bigger and better things.
But this is Mario Bros/Life. Eventually, around the fifth or sixth level, you realize there’s a recognizable pattern to all of this, and you figure out how to make your way through on auto pilot. I’m not saying there aren’t still challenges, you may even have to repeat a level once in a while, but the thrill is, as the song says, gone. There are no more major surprises, you have seen everything your pixilated world can offer, and rearranging it doesn’t make it new. You still high-five after an accomplishment, but your heart’s not in it because you know there’s going to be another one in due time. And you know there’s no magic to success, you just figure out the pattern and beat it and move on. It all becomes hollow and meaningless; you’ve seen the fireworks one hundred times and are no longer impressed, and even the tiny pixilated princess doesn’t thrill you. So you just wait for it all to end, because nothing will ever take you back to that level of excitement you felt the first time you played the first level, and saw it all with new eyes.

Who knew a chubby Italian plumber in red overalls could be so dark, right? Or is that just me?

Grammar Nazi

Now that I have a cell phone, I am forced to stop complaining about most to the viral annoyances brought forcefully into contemporary culture via the Typhoid Mary that is text messaging. I now text while walking, shopping, talking, driving, etc, and begrudgingly absorb all the disgusted looks I earn, only mildly nostalgic for the days when I gave those same looks to others.

BUT I will not abide the further degradation of the English language, especially that of the written. It does not take that much longer to write "are" than "R". Are those two button clicks really going to make or break your life's efficiency? Wigger please.

The problem is the written word, and grammar in general, is already facing such shocking abuse. I have, in my still short life, seen the accepted spelling of the word "okay" shift to "ok", which while succinct, is just shamefully lazy and a clear act of submission. The shift is still not complete; I find my Mozilla browser still recognizes the full spelling as correct, and the abbreviation as incorrect. But I know Word prefers the two-letter spelling, and I can't help but always remember cartoonist Bill Watterson's story of an editor changing his text from the correct spelling of okay to the abbreviation. I know it's incredibly pretentious, but I empathize with his outrage.

For me, though, the largest outrage is the increasingly flagrant abuse of the apostrophe. Let me begin this rant by disclosing that I have often had difficulty remembering when it was appropriate to use and apostrophe with "its". You know, until I managed to just remember the rule. However, the growing use of an apostrophe when pluralizing anything is astonishing and sick-making. Honestly. It is not that difficult, we all learned this in elementary school. Apostrophes are for possession and contractions. period. Except for with it's and its, but really. There is never any need to use an apostrophe when writing the word "balls", as in "Your usage of the written word sucks balls".
Except, I guess, for the rare situation when you would write something like, "That ball's vein looks like it's going to burst." But really, how often does someone write that? This might be the first time in the history of the written word. Maybe.

I don't have any succinct way to wrap this all up. I suppose with more time I might come up with another mildly funny point, then join all my points into a neat bouquet of bitter rage and present them with a final thought, but I've been on hold with the county of Los Angeles for a full 27 minutes now, and i think my head may explode from the repetitive stress of listening to their Muzak over and over.
My whatever god they pray to have mercy on their souls. And mine.

The Sizzler

It is so hot here. Why do people put cities in the desert? Don’t they realize that the heat and spiky plants are the universe’s way of telling people to go home, don’t build a resort community here?

To make matters worse, I still feel pretty awkward. I mean, it’s been a nice day, but I feel like every conversation is a balancing act of sarcasm and saccharine. I am human sweet and sour pork. Or at the very least, conversational sweet and sour pork. What am I doing here.

He asks where I want to eat. I scan the approaching horizon for signs of decent food. Keep scanning, keep scanning. He offers up options, Mc Donald’s, Taco Bell, Wendy’s. Tired of all the games, I finally say it flat out, “no where that has a drive through, please”. So we settle on Sizzler. I vaguely remember going to a Sizzler when I was about 7 years old. We were on the way home from a wedding, and I was sick, and my mom and I spent about 35 minutes in the bathroom trying to get me to swallow an aspirin or a Tylenol or something. I think, how bad can it be? Plus, I feel like a princess and a whiner for turning down perfectly pleasant dinning establishments like Jack in The Box in favor of “real food”.

So we walk in, order of the giant menu posted on the wall and they both sneak off to the bathroom to wash our hands. Apparently you now pay before you sit at Sizzler, so when I come out of the bathroom first ( he is such a girl, always takes longer in the bathroom than me), the girl looks at me like I’m a little dim. Part of me, the sweaty tired, I could be having a beer or at least wearing shorts part of me, wants to snark at her that I haven’t had a job that requires a name tag since becoming old enough to buy beer, but the other part of my smiles apologetically and whips out my debit card to pay the thirty dollars for what I presume will be rubbery meat and greasy, fat soaked sides. Did you know Sizzler doesn’t have much of a vegetarian menu? I go to sit down as he comes out, confused. So I explain what just happened and he scoffs. Why did you do that? I was going to pay! You just wasted your money! He calls me stupid, which is what he does when he thinks he’s right and I’m wrong, and for some reason, something in me snaps, and I turn my head so he can’t tell that I’m suddenly holding back tears. In Sizzler. In the middle of the desert. Surrounded by early-bird special with a side of diabetes types. I tell him he needs to not call me stupid anymore, and he falls back, suddenly realizing I’m not enjoying the repartee anymore. I don’t mean it like that, he says. That’s just what I say. English is my third language, you know. I know. I tell him to forget it and go get a salad from the salad bar, which also contains nacho cheese, naturally.

As I sit down, he says, see? This is why we’ll never work in the long run.

I know. We’re just too different. I think we can be great friends, and we connect in other ways, but I don’t think we’re meant to be together.

I didn’t expect this all to happen so soon. I thought he was pulling away, but I really didn’t think we’d have this conversations this way, so I say my peace into my napkin, eyes down and feigning any strength I don’t have handy to be as adult in this as he is. It’s cool, I knew it would happen eventually. Then I look up.

Oh shit.

His eyes are wide. I have never seen this look before. He looks…wounded.

I was joking. Are you serious? Oh my god, you’re serious.

Oh shit. What do you say to that? What do I say to that? There’s no way to back away quietly; this is like asking a fat chick when she’s due, you can’t back up and pull your foot out of your mouth, you have to just fall head first into the pile of shit you laid out for yourself.

So I say something about how much I care about him, but how I don’t see us ending up together. I have never seen him like this. I will probably never see him this vulnerable again. This thought haunts me.

Do you think I won’t be a good father?

No! Of course not! I know you will be a fabulous father.

How long have you felt like this?

Um...

All I keep thinking is, don’t say a couple of weeks, you asshole. Don’t say since we fought over fingernails and you told me we were done and then waited for my call. Fight the melodrama because I think you are doing something very bad here. Okay, I don’t actually think it. I feel it as I stare at my chicken breast soaking in its “lemon herb sauce”.

A couple of days.

Since when?

I don’t know.

HOURS OF SILENCE PASS.

Maybe longer than a couple of days.

Yeah, I guess so.

Now my heart is breaking. He starts talking about how he was getting closer, he was about to open up. He wanted to come to thanksgiving, meet my family, have me meet his. He thought we were moving to the next level.

I have to move. I can’t do this across a sticky Formica table with the surf and turf special and my crappy chicken on it. I sit next to him. I want to hold him. I start to cry. I tell him I care about him, but I thought he was getting tired of me. I thought he was sick of me.

He doesn’t seem to believe that, he keeps asking for more reasons why. He also wants to know why I’m crying; I’m the one getting dumped, he says.

I’m not dumping you!

Whatever you want to call it.

But I still care about you, I still want to spend time with you…

This is so bad, it’s clearly going nowhere. I would not have believed it possible, but my chicken now looks even less appetizing. This is the second time in my entire life a man has made me lose my appetite. That is not a good sign. What if I am screwing everything up, and he is the one? How could I know, why couldn't I see that he was getting serious? How did I ignore the jokes about playing house and having a family this morning, and focus on the joke about paying for lunch? What the hell is wrong with me?

I swear, if the waitress comes by one more time to ask us how everything is, I am going to shove my barely-serrated steak knife down her perky little throat.
He tells her we’re fine, charming as always. Then he turns to me and tells me he doesn’t think he likes Sizzler anymore. I actually think the words, “well, at least we were eating somewhere shitty when this happened. At least I didn’t ruin his favorite sushi place”. I think this may make me even more of an asshole. I may be the world's biggest ass hole. Ever. I feel so shitty, and it’s all my own doing. I want to hug him and hold him and cry and have him hit me to get some of his frustrations out, but I know that only one of those things is likely to happen. Me crying. Later. Alone in my car as I spend the one hour drive thinking about what I’ve done.

We talk more on the way back to Palm Springs. He tries to keep it light, after a while, talking about architecture and pointing things out to me. Already, he’s regaining his calm, his composure. He’s building himself back up, filling in any holes I may have made faster than I can count the holes I’m suddenly find erupting in me. How did this even happen? This can’t be real. I try to make sense of it, talking to him, but different words seem to convey the same things over and over and he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

I get it. There are still holes he’ll need to fill in before he can look at me again. He has to rebuild the façade, pull back from the surface, and begin treating me like everyone else. I realize then how much I am going to miss seeing him, his soft, underneath parts. I can’t believe how much I took for granted.

I notice he is quickly shifting the radio from station to station. Why are all songs invariably about love? It’s like an ongoing joke the happy play on the miserable. Passive aggressive bastards.

I want to make him stay with me in the house. I want to talk, to make it go away. I want him to never cover up the person I saw staring at me, wide eyed and crushed, and I want to kiss it and make it better and hold him until we fall asleep together, tear soaked, red eyed, and puffy. I want to take it all back, make it better, start over, start from here.
I also want to kick him and myself for not understanding each other. I thought he was growing disdainful, and he was falling in love. What the fuck is up with that.

This is the stuff of black comedies. If my life were a movie, Julia Roberts would not even cameo as the friend. I would be played by the chick from “In Her Shoes”, or Shannyn Sossamon. He would be played by Colin Farrel, and eventually fall in love with a blonde pair of legs with perfect hair, nails, and skin. She would be smart, but not too smart, and would always laugh at his jokes and know confidently that they were a good match. When he looked in the mirror with her and said, “we make a good looking couple”, she would smile knowingly, and then kiss him softly on the check in a way that enticed him to kiss her back. Cut to love making scene. Actually, the movie would be about him, and I would be played by Molly Shannon in a hilarious build-up to the real love story. This isn’t even my story.

God, could I feel any more sorry for myself? Pity is so easy to wear, but it’s really incredibly unflattering. Pity is the sweat pants I’ve had since high school, covered with hair dye and paint and full of holes. Not meant for the public.


He doesn’t let me stay, he says he has to leave, go back to work, and he doesn’t want to talk anymore. He says he doesn’t know what else he might say.
I feel that strange, dirty mix of fear and excitement and the idea of him showing anger towards me. But mostly I’m just sad. We hug. Hard. Long. Sweet. It’s a goodbye hug, there is no other way to interpret it. I have had many goodbye hugs in my life, I know them. I am a pro at good-bye hugs. I try to make it memorable.

I now realize I can’t imagine not going to sleep at his house in two or three nights. How will I sleep?

We get into separate cars. I don’t know whether to wave or not. How do you wave at a moment like this? But I don’t want to leave. I want to roll down the window and say something smart, sassy, perfect, that will erase everything else I’ve said today. Erase all the moodiness I’ve carried over the last two weeks. Because nothing cures broken hearts and dreams like a knock knock joke told at a stop sign in the desert between two cars.

It is truly a miracle anyone sleeps with me ever, let alone considers being in a relationship with me.


As soon as I pull on to the freeway, the loud, ugly, howling cry comes out. I’d like to say it slipped out, because I wasn’t expecting it, but things that big and loud don’t slip. It comes tumbling out of my mouth like a Saint Bernard running down stairs.

What have I done?

Upside Down and Inside Out

How, exactly, is one supposed to judge the direction of one's life? I ask because, to me, it seems like life is lived on one of those fabulous carnival rides that's constantly shifting, trying to throw you off your balance. Which is good, in that life is never boring, and bad, in that it can be incredibly easy to loose your perspective.

I want a quiet place to sit and think, clear my head, and try to find the base of this whirling ride called life so that I can be sure, at the lease, which way up is. Because then, at least, I;d know whether I was standing on my feet or on my head. Unfortunately modern life seems to be short on quiet, firm places where you can watch the flow of time stretch out in front of you for a few minutes and regain your bearings.

Sometimes I think introspection is one of those fabulous double-edged swords, like manic depression, that gives great gifts at great costs. Or maybe that's just another one of those life things. Good with the bad, light with the dark, smooth creamy goodness with loads of saturated fat.

I am sitting at the computer at 12:30 am in my moms house, researching bladder cancer. Ah, the carefree life of a swinging single 25-year-old gal. That life can suddenly pile so very much on a person who was, by all accounts, living a quite mundane life not long before (even if i was living said mundane life in a loud, fun way) , is very disturbing. If it didn't make so much sense in a rain-on-your-wedding-day kind of way, I'd find it positively tragic. But, fortunately, this is the stuff of a moving, powerful, and growth inspiring life. wheee.

my version of How to LOVE the new person in your life


Getting to love your step-mom (or bonus mom….or the chick your dad married) is like getting to know that one camp counselor you hated until your friend, who you’ve known for days, made you hang with her.
Basically, what I’m trying to say, is that no matter how badly you want to hate her ( or no matter how strong your irrationally fears are) you will eventually, no matter how much time it take, get down to the person inside the evil archetype you’ve spent you’re recent life hating and realize that this is someone who loves you father, and whom your father loves, and learn to shut the fuck up and appreciate the little gifts life send your way even when you don’t want it…..

Feminesto

I was reading recently about the inception of the second wave of feminism. How the ( attempted) burning of bras, aprons, and other implements of patriarchal oppression finally brought the political home to meet the personal, the private. And how that wedding of the political to the personal made the movement powerful, loaded it with the passion women have used for years to fuel and endure their personal lives, whatever their choices and options. The author went on to explain how, for third wave feminists, this marriage (if you’ll pardon my usage) of personal and political was less clear, less distinct. The author implied that the difference between second and third wave feminists was the view that the personal was in fact political.

And then I started thinking about my own life, my own goals. I was probably a feminist before I knew what the word was, thanks to the strong women in my life and my family, and the loving and sensitive men around me. I have been fortunate enough to have never felt the dark forces of patriarchy imposing so heavily upon me that I refused to call myself a feminist. I found economics as my calling after several failed attempts at various schools of study, and am fortunate enough to be able to shape my study of economics with a hearty feminists attitude. And now I am in the process of trying to get into a graduate program for economics. Which of course mean I have to clarify and reclarify my goals in the most powerful language I can muster, so that an unseen panel of academics and bureaucrats will let me sink myself further into debt while working my ass off for a few more years. Somehow, it always seems to come out soft, compared to how strongly I feel.

It actually hit me when I was painting a deck in Syracuse, Indiana. Trying to save up a couple of bucks, I found my self thinking about all of this while I watched four separate teams of service providers (myself included) toil at a family’s summer house in the hot sun. And that’s when it hit me. You may not know it by looking at me in my paint-stained shorts and dirty hair, but I want to get my PhD in Economics. You may not know it by looking at me painting this bourgeois whore’s deck, but I want to work for an NGO and help some developing nation create jobs, commerce, and independence by using the skills and resources they’ve honed for generations. You may not know it from looking at the globs of paint and dead bugs wedged inside my sports bra, but I want to be the next chairperson of the federal reserve board, because I realized a long time ago that I had too much conscience for the presidency, and have decided I could do far more at the Fed. And then I started thinking about the things I would tell my young cousins when I was completing my PhD and doing my research and traveling to new and interesting places. And hopefully, through hearing my stories and seeing what I’ve been able to do, they would be emboldened to make better, more fulfilling decisions for themselves, in their lives. And counsel their friends to buck the standard. And be an example to other young women on the street wondering whether to play it safe and get married in college, or make a run for it and try a semester abroad. And my decisions would reverberate throughout society, in a rocking feminist way. And I would carry that kernel of knowledge with me wherever I went, and It would inspire me to continue to make the right, strong choice, even if it wasn’t an easy choice.

And, to me, that is the definition, the quintessential truth, to the feminist maxim that the personal is political.

You haven't lived until you've spent a Saturday afternoon cleaning while quite drunk.

Which is not to say that that's all I did today. I woke up on someone’s couch at 8 am. I said goodbye to some friends and then brushed my teeth at 5am. I went downtown and watched the start of the Kinetic Sculpture Race and took about a million pictures. I made a fantastic gorgonzola and white wine cream sauce. I even got a free sticky bun and made a few phone calls, which is hard to do when you have no phone. But I have to say that the highlight of my day has been getting smashed on random bottles of booze while I cleaned windows, banisters, and doors, uploaded pictures, and listened to a startling array of music.

Woo Haw! That's what weekends are about, finding new and interesting ways to make alcohol a larger part of your life.
In a matter of days I am leaving the place I've considered home for about 7 years now, and I have to say, the catharsis of cleaning and drinking alone to music I forgot I liked has be like a tonic. Now all I need are my three road trips to completely wipe the slate clean, and a new, improved Andrea will emerge for all the world to enjoy.

palabra.

It’s taken me a while to dig out the root of my bitterness surrounding the Virginia Tech shootings and the emotional aftermath. Of course, I am moved to the defensive by my fear that white America will somehow try to make an example of this Korean immigrant who, ironically enough, is the child of dry cleaners. And, of course, I am enraged by Christians and other Jesus-Loving church goers’ inevitable and unchallenged claim for the moral high ground as counselors and caretakers of those left in the aftermath. Not that I’m against the idea of them helping. I just get pissed when no one talks about atheists bringing pot roasts over or rabbis leading prayers for those who’ve passed, or Buddhists mourning the loss of all life, including young Mr. Cho.

What really frustrates me is they way everyone, from the mourning friends and family to the story-hungry media, search for a meaning. I know I can’t be the first person to have realized this, but it seems to me that society is going through some of the stages of grief together, as a unit. And

Subsequently we are left with a nation of newscasters and reporters, and the entire investigative force of Virginia, dedicated to searching out the reason why Cho Seung-Hui acted out so violently. Apparently, everyone else in the United States is blinded by grief, but that’s okay. I’m here to tell you all why something like this happened to so many innocent people. Because Cho was unstable and freaked out in a violent way against other people. That’s it. It wasn’t that there was too much pressure to perform at school. It wasn’t because he listened to Marilyn Manson or played Grand Theft Auto (neither of which I believe he did, but you know, those are the usually suspects). We couldn’t have caught him early with our over reacting to and alienating hundreds of other creative, individualistic, and probably depressive young people. The fact of the matter is that sometimes some one just snaps and there’s not much we can do to control it, prevent it, or explain it.

In nature a single animal will occasionally freak out and act out against its community. Zoologists write it off as a variation of normal and move on. Humans, especially humans so obsessed with control they ear pieces for their cell phones lest they spend 10 minutes incommunicado while driving to the store, have a difficult time understanding how that can happen in our carefully manicured society. After all the time, money, and energy the media has spent socializing these young people, how dare they react to normal stimuli in an abnormal way?
This is not to say that what happened at Virginia Tech was not a horrible tragedy. And I do not mean to make light of the suffering of those close to the victims. I just find it interesting that the media and the public can’t seem to accept that sometimes sick people make plans and act them out, and it turns out that there was nothing we could do about it. You can’t prevent a disturbed person from taking his or her dementia out on his or her peers any more than you can prevent a hurricane or earthquake from decimating our infrastructure. All you can do is be prepared for the tragedies you can foresee and live your life to the best of your ability while it’s still yours.

The world will probably never know why Cho Seung-Hui felt so ostracized and so alienated from his society that he felt he had to shoot and kill his classmates and then himself. We can just move on, try to make the most of our days, and use this as a reminder that there are plenty of people out there who could probably use a smile, and be grateful that our lives aren’t so depressing that we’re hoarding hallow point bullets.

Dancing Feet

After spending most of my work day casually looking through Sheila's travel photos, i finally put my finger on exactly how they make me feel.

It's the exact opposite of home sick. They make me wanna run far and fast and now. They make me not want to study for the GRE tonight. They make me want to escape my job and my apartment and my bills and the people I've grown tired of looking at every god damn day. Jenna and Jon excluded.
I want to go places I've never been and meet people I'd otherwise never know.

I feel like i'm ready to jump out of my skin and run into the ocean.
right
now.

My SoulMate

I just talked to sheila on Gmail Chat about poop.

Now I miss her even more.

Fucking Roulette

So, when you hop in the sack with someone, there's only so much you can know in advance. Ya know, before you actually take the thing out for a spin.
With cars, you can look at the exterior, the interior, try to get a general idea of how the vehicle is going to perform ahead of time. You can even take the puppy out for a test drive around the block to make sure nothing weird pops up.
Dudes, it turns out, are similar. The real challenge is finding out as much as you can as quickly as you can, so you don't end up investing too much time in a dud.

This is where judgment of outer appearance comes in handy. If the dude's got a swagger, a look of confidence, and is comfortable walking up and conversing with new people, chances are his last date didn't come from the sock drawer. nothing against masturbation, but you don't sit at home with Jenna Jameson all day and then talk to real girls at night. it's usually either the real girls, or the imaginary ones.
A little bit of experiential wisdom from Big Momma, though, is that nice clothes, good hygiene, and a nice job don't mean shit in the sack. If you want to actually date the dude, then of course these things are of value, but if you're just looking for a fun romp, it turns out that hobos, old folks, stinkies and uglies can be good in bed. I'm speaking from experience here, it's sad but it's true.

Most people become good at sex from experience. anything you do by yourself, though it can be helpful, is not experience. that would fall under the category of Research and Development.
So, it follows that any indicator that someone's had a lot of sex is a good indicator that they'll be able to curl your toes. Age, for example, is usually a good indicator. This is why there are absolutely no porno scenarios of ladies taking young, virginal boys roughly for the first time. No woman really want to take a dude's virginity, because she could just as easily spend those 15 minutes trying to clean her ears out with her toes, and cause less bodily harm with less awkwardness. (Teaching young things some moves is a sexy enough fantasy, but who really wants a fucking 16 year old virgin boy with a couple of pubes and a cracking voice?) Older dudes, with more experience, have been to Vagina Town, walked around, checked out the sights, and probably have a few favorite spots there and in the outlying areas. Plus, they're familiar enough with the area to follow directions.

Guys who drink a lot can be good in bed, too, although you may need to match them for inebration to fully appreciate the experience. This is because drunk people get horny and hook up. the more often you drink, the more horney nights you'll spend learning a few new tricks from someone who's last name you'll never know.

People who appear exsessivly cool can go either way. It's the whole hot chick/fat chick debate; on the one hand, she's a hot chick, but on the other hand, the fat chick will be soo gratefull...
Seriously. Hot and cool folks tend to get laid more often because everyone wants to do them. but there's always a strong chance thast, because of their apeal, they've never been told, "hell no you can't stick that in my ear!" so they might try to do some funky, lame, or just plain immature shit to you. Your best bet here is someone who used to be nerdy, geeky, or generally unlikeable, but has recently overcome that awkwardness to mature into a super hottie. Then, on the inside the person is still insecure and in need of validation and subseqently with aim to please, but on the outside is the stone cold fox you would have been thinking about in bed with someone else.
That's what we call a win-win.

A warning sign that I'm sure we all know to watch out for is religious affiliation. But I'm gonna restate the obviouse in case you're new to the world of fucking. When seeking a sexual partner (expecially short term) the best religious affiliation is no religious affiliation. God doesn't belong in my pussy, and God shouldn't be hanging around your dick. Religion often makes people think stupid thoughts like, "i should be in love when i have sex" or "masterbation is wrong" or "someone besides the leather-clad chick in the corner is watching me and judgeing me".
All serious downers.
There is the exception of the recently fallen religious person, who wants to make up for lost time, and you can find a lot fo great enthusiasm there. But there's always the chance of a painful relaps into religosity that may include crying, and enthusiasm can't always compensate for skill and experience.

but, ya know, you've all been out there a lond time, grabbign ass and scoring drinks, so you know what you're doing.
And this has gotten really long.
So, mother fuckers, be safe out there, and tell people when they're fuckin it all up! The next person will thank you.

So, I have lately begun stalking my ex-boyfriend. Not for any really reason, mostly out of boy-boredom. He and I broke up when I was in High school and he was in college (how did I now see that cliché playing out, I know!) and I've never really had any interest in him since, but I gotta admit, just knowing he's someone that at one time in my life I didn't mind spending a couple of hours a day with makes him pretty attractive.
The majority of the population, of late, can abuse me socially for about 45 minutes before I start to fantasize about throwing them out the nearest window.

Many of you might not be professional stalkers, but my close friends and I are, so they'll know exactly what I mean when I say that, after spending fake time learning about fractions of his life, i start thinking stupid things. Like how we should hang out. And how it would be cool to catch up. And how he really wasn't that weird looking, nerdy, and obnoxiously sinophilic. And then I begin to wonder if maybe he's thinking about how much more awesome I've most likely gotten since we last talked, and thinking about how much hotter I am than him.

None of these thoughts lead anywhere other than the highway to stalker town. Where increasingly weirder thoughts begin to brew.

Which is why I need a new hobby. And not crocheting. That has never held my attention for longer than a week. Maybe a hearty Ritalin habit?  Or I could start working part time as one of the crazy fuckers who begs for money drunk. That would incorporate some of my pre-existing hobbies, like drinking and being loud.
hrm.