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02.28.2001 ti-mingNaturally, after months of nothing -- not a squeak, not a drop of hope, just a dry wasteland of opportunity -- of course, predictably really, I get called about another job 3 days after officially committing to the current one. It's kind of like when a love interest suddenly wants you the moment you've devoted yourself to someone else. But I love my job, and it's whisking me off to a little honeymoon in California next month, so I don't expect to stray for a while, no matter how tempting the suitor. For now I'll just file this bit away in my lifelong personal tribute to Irony. 02.25.2001 femme fataleIt is a very weird thing, being a woman. Very.....contradictory. All the things we are likely to be lauded for -- sex appeal, attractiveness, intelligence, strength, independence, compassion, tenderness, and on and on -- all can be and often are twisted into weapons to be used against us, sometimes in ways you wouldn't even expect. And I'm not just talking about men who do this, but other women, too (and often, they're the more malicious perpetrators), and perhaps most tragic of all, ourselves. Maybe this kind of thing goes on with men, as well, but, for instance, how often have you heard of a "sexy" man also referred to as a "slut"? 02.13.2001 feelin' the lovePerhaps due to some combination of anti-depressants, excessive chocolate consumption, fond memories of what I was doing this time last year, and a long-awaited bit of wish-fulfillment that's coming my way, I'm actually feeling pretty cheery this Valentine's Eve. Maybe this Valentine's Day won't suck -- not just for me, but for everyone I don't actively hate. And for those I despise, let them share in the spirit of the holiday by ceasing, for a moment, their well-deserved self-flagellation, reaching out to someone near and dear, and letting them beat the tar out of them. That's it, everyone, feel the love. 02.12.2001 john cusack is saving himself for meWell why the hell not, I ask you? Sure, he's making time with Neve Campbell, last I heard, but there's a perfectly good explanation for that, which is that he hasn't met me yet, and worse still, doesn't even know who I am. But consider the evidence: he's never married, he's practically the living embodiment of my male ideal, and High Fidelity, Grosse Pointe Blank, Being John Malkovich, and a holy host of other Cusackian classics are terrific flicks. And where, you may wonder, do I fit into this equation? Hell, I'm the Queen of Everything, baby. I don't have to fit the equation, I am the equation. In my nutty, delusional, egomaniacal little world, anyway. And semantics are for sissies. 02.07.2001 all the answersI just finished reading Shopgirl by Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin), a novel full of depressingly poignant moments that all-too-effectively echo scenes from my own life. There's a bizarre comfort in realizing that it isn't just you, but that solace is fleeting when it's followed by the grim realization that you're part of a rather unfortunate trend. Maybe I should stop reading books like this, but I'm convinced that the authors have some wisdom to impart, just as you, dear reader, might come here looking for Answers, and if so, boy are you misled. Like most people, I have no real credentials in this area, and what's worse is, I've never even hosted Saturday Night Live. In my own search for answers, another clearing period has commenced in my little Queendom. My life is a tattered, ill-kempt jumble, well-reflected in the microcosm of my apartment (disaster) and the mini-microcosm of my car (disaster on wheels). There are little pockets of weird organization here and there, like my closet, where I've sorted my clothes by color, because...well, just because. Alas, a color-coded wardrobe does not a well-collected woman make. If it did, I'd have had it all figured out back when I was still sporting Garaminals. The other day I was discussing with my friend Dan the soul-clarifying properties of the ocean, how while standing on the shore and absorbing the vast wonder beyond, all the trivia of life falls away and is replaced with a feeling that you've clicked gracefully into place with the Universe. At least, that's the effect it has on me, and I could sure use a good brain washing like that to clear some of this mental garbage away. Incidentally, my California Dreamin' is currently being reinforced by the glaze of ice that is covering the surface of Des Moines, prompting one of those location-specific "Why I am I here?" moments. And the answer is the same as always: because the people that I love are here.....damn them all and their cherished, endearing ways... 02.06.2001 kiss-kiss, love-loveEvery so often, I get into these phases where I'm consumed with thoughts of kissing. Not sex, because that's an obsession that just keeps on giving, but your basic sugar-coated mouth-to-mouth. I think it has something to do with my wallflower youth and skipping Makeout 101 to go right to the graduate work, or maybe it's a combination of cuddly Winter hibernation and the early promise of Spring and all its attendant Fever. The last time I had one of these phases of thought, it was followed by a flurried phase of activity, much of it really, delightfully wonderful. There is something about kissing that is singularly delicious and dishearteningly underrated. It's treated too much like an appetizer, and surely, sometimes that's all it really is. But sometimes, a kiss is everything. There are kisses that promise and deliver, kisses that disappoint, and the sweet surprise of kisses you expected nothing from, or didn't expect at all, but turn out to be the kind that lift and stir you in ways you never could have foreseen and will dream of long after. When I think of kisses, these are the sort that linger in my mind, and when I think of love affairs, it's these same sort of unexpected romances that enduringly engage my interests, because they, too, are a sweet surprise. But for now, I'll have to leave the action to my overactive imagination, until the earth is ready to thaw and bloom, and so am I. 02.05.2001 lifestyles of the sick and famousBefore I commence with my loosely-defined topic of the day, I simply must comment on the rash of celebrity-couple separations that's been storming the courtroom lately. Bruce and Demi. Meg and Dennis. Kim and Alec. Harrison and...whatever his wife's name is. And now Tom and Nicole??? These pairs have all been married for like, ever, in Hollywood years! Is there something in the water out there? Is this one of those signs of the Apocalypse? Are they compensating for Liz Taylor's ease-up on the nuptials? What what WHAT is going on here? And why the hell do I care, if I even do? OK, I feel better now. Deep, cleansing breath. Now on to more important things, like smut. There was a definite theme to this day. Not necessarily an unusual theme, just a recognizable one. My work day started with the discovery of a party favor that I'd forgotten I'd stashed in my purse, and ended with my favorite coworker showing me a mold-spore petri dish love-in. During my lunch hour, I had this morally-upstanding song stuck in my head. On the drive home this evening, after a grocery jaunt to stock up on snack cakes, I giggled at a bumper sticker reading "Naughty People Lick." Then I realized I'd been craving some quality time with a pack of menthols and how for me that never has anything to do with nicotine addiction or the smooth taste of filtered carcinogens, but everything to do with that bit about idle hands and the devil, or something to an effect that I would later have to confess to, if I was Catholic or on Jerry Springer. Alas, all I did was sit on my sofa and eat my snack cakes, which is hardly worth a Hail Mary or a boast to the folks in the trailer court. Hostess Cherry Pies, to be exact. I thought I'd kicked that habit, but no. I thought I was through with a lot of guilty pleasures, but they seem to need occasional revisiting. At least, I like to think they do. And I can do that (think and do), being single and what-not. It's not as though I'm part of some high-profile long-standing celebrity couple or something. 02.04.2001 invasion evasionMy thoughts this weekend are random and wispy and disjointed. I can't or just don't want to wrap them up into one tidy little cohesive package. Perhaps letting them float like this keeps them from being too real and thus having any power over me. There was too much reality in my world this week as it was anyway. In this state of passive suspension I'm hoping a clarity of mind will return that will help me make sense of the chaos. That and I just don't want to think about any of it. And I hate that. Things have to get really bad for me not to want even think about them. I mean, my god, I live to think. Obsessively, meticulously, thoroughly, quasi-religiously. Even when I've exhausted the most tenuous and tenacious of topics, I can still think about how I think too much. It's sort of a hellish little personal playground up there in my head. All that brain activity often acts as a nice little emotional buffer. As my wise and similarly angst-addled friend Cyndi once said, "Once you've over-analyzed them, problems become quite small." Experiences and emotions get put through the dissection process and often come out almost completely unrecognizable, so probed for meaning that it's pummeled right out, and the ghastly thoughts and potent memories that threaten to overwhelm me lose their clout. It's an incredibly effective diffusion tactic. That is, except for when those carefully packaged thoughts and feelings and memories sneak up on me all stealth-like and deliver that sucker punch right in the region of heart+gut. And oh, bloody hell, does it hurt; wind knocked right out of all that lofty logic and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. All I can do is recoil into the recovery posture and search my mind for reasons, for rationale, and -- oh boy, here we go again.... (And for those of you who know exactly what I'm talking about here, I urge you to take Poe's song "Terrible Thought" for a spin -- always nice to give the afflicted a theme song.) |