Sunday, February 14, 2010
Ouchie
Facebook is not a single gal's friend on Valentine's Day. Ouch. Should have known better than to look. God grant me the strength and memory to keep my overflowing happiness to myself the next time I have a good VDay.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Much Impact Girl
Sunday, I read No Impact Man, recycled cover to recycled cover. Of course, afterward I was pumped up--ready to change a few things, the world, whatever. Could I brush with only baking soda? Would I be making a positive impact on the world by drinking only local brews and wines? Instead of feeling awkwardly single and childless, could I instead declare it a conscious move toward simplicity and population control? So many things to consider.
Thursday, the documentary by the same name played at the Portsmouth Music Hall. I had asked my boss whether she wanted to go, not stopping to consider that it might not be her kind of movie. Colin Beaven's project is a little out there, even for residents of New Hampshire.
Before the show, we went to Popovers on the Square for a bite to eat. We discussed work (ridiculously busy this time of year), living situations, light thoughts on where we see ourselves down the road--regarding both work and location. When it was time to head to the Music Hall, I went to the counter to ask for a take-home container and a bag, figuring I didn't have time to store the leftover quesadillas in the car and should make at least an attempt at concealing the food I would be bringing into the theater. And I was proud of myself for eating a reasonable amount of food and deciding to make two meals out of it. Slightly ecological, no?
I was unprepared for what I received. The woman at the counter handed me a clear plastic container in which one could stow a small child and a plastic bag akin to the size Walmart would give you if you bought a lamp. Wow. No paper bag? No cardboard container? Suddenly feeling incredibly shitty for the waste I was creating just to contain my leftovers, I made a self-deprecating remark to my boss as I loaded my plastic, and off we went.
The Music Hall is a fantastic c. 1878 theater with a c. 2045 lounge area. The lounge was redone over the past couple years, and now it's incredibly funky and holds an air as a place to be seen. Locals all know each other, so there is a lot of cheek kissing, and probably ass kissing, and elegant couples mingle with funky artists. Fur and leather. My boss went to the ladies room, and I stood in the lounge watching the social rituals and slightly wishing, as always, that I were part of a larger scene. In that lounge, you are either invisible or known by all.
Folks don't quickly leave the lounge, so the lone ticket taker kept catching my eye, which felt a little strange. But I decided to ignore it. I tossed my gloves, car keys, wallet, phone, and chapstick in my ginormous plastic bag, vowing to use a proper bag more often. My boss returned, and we headed toward the ticket taker. She took my boss's ticket but then stared at my plastic bag. "Is that food?" she asked. I said yes. She pointed to the bar and told me to give the bag to the bartender, who would hold it behind the bar until after the movie. No problem.
I crossed the lounge with my huge plastic bag, a little anxious that the movie was about to begin. I became more anxious as it took painful minutes for the bartender to look my way. When he did, I barely got the question out and he stopped me with a curt response: "No, that's a health violation." Let me just repeat that: It's a health violation for a bartender to have food behind the bar. Sure. I tried to remain sweet. "Really? The woman taking tickets told me to come to you." Now people at the bar were all staring at me and my huge plastic bag full of chicken, cheese, and belongings. He said no and dismissed me by cutting off all eye contact.
Panic.
The movie was about to begin. I'm a freak about entering theaters once the lights go down. I knew my boss, and a portion of the lounge, was watching me. Bah. I glanced at my boss. She and the ticket taker were watching me. I shrugged, looked around the room, and dipped into the ladies room. I pulled my gloves, car keys, wallet, phone, and chapstick from the gigantic bag. I stuffed the bag and its equally grand plastic container holding perfectly lovely quesadillas and salad into the bathroom trash. Bastards!
I crossed back through the lounge and handed my ticket to the taker. She said, "You could just slip it over here [she pointed to a nook to her left], or in there [she pointed to a coat room to her right]." I smiled and said, "No. All set now, thanks." She persisted. "No, really. If you want to go get it, I can put it aside for you." At this point a line of hipsters stood behind me waiting to get to their seats. My boss was halfway up the staircase. "Yeah, no, I'm not going to go dig through the bathroom trash for it now." I took my ticket stub and started up the stairs. "Oh, the irony!" I exclaimed to my boss. That plastic bag, containing a plastic box the size of Maine and a perfectly good quesadilla dinner will live longer than I will. But I learned my lesson--so much for diets; clearly I should just eat everything on my plate in the future.
Thursday, the documentary by the same name played at the Portsmouth Music Hall. I had asked my boss whether she wanted to go, not stopping to consider that it might not be her kind of movie. Colin Beaven's project is a little out there, even for residents of New Hampshire.
Before the show, we went to Popovers on the Square for a bite to eat. We discussed work (ridiculously busy this time of year), living situations, light thoughts on where we see ourselves down the road--regarding both work and location. When it was time to head to the Music Hall, I went to the counter to ask for a take-home container and a bag, figuring I didn't have time to store the leftover quesadillas in the car and should make at least an attempt at concealing the food I would be bringing into the theater. And I was proud of myself for eating a reasonable amount of food and deciding to make two meals out of it. Slightly ecological, no?
I was unprepared for what I received. The woman at the counter handed me a clear plastic container in which one could stow a small child and a plastic bag akin to the size Walmart would give you if you bought a lamp. Wow. No paper bag? No cardboard container? Suddenly feeling incredibly shitty for the waste I was creating just to contain my leftovers, I made a self-deprecating remark to my boss as I loaded my plastic, and off we went.
The Music Hall is a fantastic c. 1878 theater with a c. 2045 lounge area. The lounge was redone over the past couple years, and now it's incredibly funky and holds an air as a place to be seen. Locals all know each other, so there is a lot of cheek kissing, and probably ass kissing, and elegant couples mingle with funky artists. Fur and leather. My boss went to the ladies room, and I stood in the lounge watching the social rituals and slightly wishing, as always, that I were part of a larger scene. In that lounge, you are either invisible or known by all.
Folks don't quickly leave the lounge, so the lone ticket taker kept catching my eye, which felt a little strange. But I decided to ignore it. I tossed my gloves, car keys, wallet, phone, and chapstick in my ginormous plastic bag, vowing to use a proper bag more often. My boss returned, and we headed toward the ticket taker. She took my boss's ticket but then stared at my plastic bag. "Is that food?" she asked. I said yes. She pointed to the bar and told me to give the bag to the bartender, who would hold it behind the bar until after the movie. No problem.
I crossed the lounge with my huge plastic bag, a little anxious that the movie was about to begin. I became more anxious as it took painful minutes for the bartender to look my way. When he did, I barely got the question out and he stopped me with a curt response: "No, that's a health violation." Let me just repeat that: It's a health violation for a bartender to have food behind the bar. Sure. I tried to remain sweet. "Really? The woman taking tickets told me to come to you." Now people at the bar were all staring at me and my huge plastic bag full of chicken, cheese, and belongings. He said no and dismissed me by cutting off all eye contact.
Panic.
The movie was about to begin. I'm a freak about entering theaters once the lights go down. I knew my boss, and a portion of the lounge, was watching me. Bah. I glanced at my boss. She and the ticket taker were watching me. I shrugged, looked around the room, and dipped into the ladies room. I pulled my gloves, car keys, wallet, phone, and chapstick from the gigantic bag. I stuffed the bag and its equally grand plastic container holding perfectly lovely quesadillas and salad into the bathroom trash. Bastards!
I crossed back through the lounge and handed my ticket to the taker. She said, "You could just slip it over here [she pointed to a nook to her left], or in there [she pointed to a coat room to her right]." I smiled and said, "No. All set now, thanks." She persisted. "No, really. If you want to go get it, I can put it aside for you." At this point a line of hipsters stood behind me waiting to get to their seats. My boss was halfway up the staircase. "Yeah, no, I'm not going to go dig through the bathroom trash for it now." I took my ticket stub and started up the stairs. "Oh, the irony!" I exclaimed to my boss. That plastic bag, containing a plastic box the size of Maine and a perfectly good quesadilla dinner will live longer than I will. But I learned my lesson--so much for diets; clearly I should just eat everything on my plate in the future.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Ringing in 2010
I've had a long weekend to think about resolutions and consider the year now behind me. And I'm not entirely sure I have resolutions at all, per se, but rather a goal for 2010.
I want more energy.
Everything lacking in my life, everything subpar, can be traced back to a lack of energy. And I believe that if I can bring more energy to my being, everything else will fall into place. If I have more energy, I will be in better shape and more motivated to move my body and treat it well. I will want to be more social and will make more friends. I will finish more projects, experience more things, and enjoy everything just a little more.
Rather than living life from behind half-closed eyes, with TV droning on in the background, increased energy will see me play with Millie the cat more, create beautiful and unique quilts and embroidered pieces. It will see me cooking more from scratch, feeling the weight of the knife as it slices vegetables, and inviting people over for dinner and good conversation. It will see me out on snowy days and unashamed to smile at strangers. It will make me feel more confident and at peace with myself. Yes, energy.
I will likely finish writing out the list of resolutions I started writing a couple weeks ago because I like to put it out there on paper for me to look at periodically, a reminder of who I want to be--who I can be--who I am. But for now, I just hold this goal up in my hand. Bring on the energy. And make 2010 a fiercely happy year.
I want more energy.
Everything lacking in my life, everything subpar, can be traced back to a lack of energy. And I believe that if I can bring more energy to my being, everything else will fall into place. If I have more energy, I will be in better shape and more motivated to move my body and treat it well. I will want to be more social and will make more friends. I will finish more projects, experience more things, and enjoy everything just a little more.
Rather than living life from behind half-closed eyes, with TV droning on in the background, increased energy will see me play with Millie the cat more, create beautiful and unique quilts and embroidered pieces. It will see me cooking more from scratch, feeling the weight of the knife as it slices vegetables, and inviting people over for dinner and good conversation. It will see me out on snowy days and unashamed to smile at strangers. It will make me feel more confident and at peace with myself. Yes, energy.
I will likely finish writing out the list of resolutions I started writing a couple weeks ago because I like to put it out there on paper for me to look at periodically, a reminder of who I want to be--who I can be--who I am. But for now, I just hold this goal up in my hand. Bring on the energy. And make 2010 a fiercely happy year.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Brother West Rocks the East Coast
--Quote from Flickr
(May 5, 2009 - Photo by Stephen Lovekin/
Getty Images North America)
Getty Images North America)
I concur. Pretty doesn't go nearly as far for me as brilliant-beyond-belief. Yesterday's Boston Book Festival featured, among its many sessions, a panel composed of Christopher Lydon, Harvey Cox, Mary Gordon, and Cornel West. The topic was spirituality. It amuses me that they believed they could have a truly rich conversation about God, religion, atheism, and the future of spirituality in one hour. But God love'em for trying.
Smart is sexy. And intimidating. And without perhaps really even noticing, women largely like intimidating. Big, overbearing men, unbelievably pretty men, controlling men...there's a woman for each of these types of intimidating men. And then there are those of us whose motors are revved by men who are too smart for their own good. I fall into that last category of women. I love a smart man.
And so it is with someone with like Cornel West. Yesterday Boston made me proud. Standing in line at the Book Festival at the Boston Public Library, no one asked me if I was in line for the talk on spirituality. Everyone asked if I was in line for Cornel West. Yes, yes I was. And Dr. West delivered. Patient and clearly deep in thought, he is someone to watch. People couldn't keep their eyes off him. They leaned in when he spoke. They clapped before he finished sentences. They nodded fervently when he made points that were political, economical, religious, and racial. To see a room 90% full of white folks nod in agreement about the "vanilla suburbs" is something.
I don't always follow what Dr. West says--purely because his knowledge is so vast and deep that I just don't have the context to keep up. Instead I take away little nuggets--his plays on words, his subtle grabs at pop culture. He talks about "spiritual malnutrition," and I think yes! While listening, I think about how amazing it would be to sit and talk with him over a cognac--and then instantly shiver with the fear of actually having a conversation with someone so intelligent. Oy, I would
Dr. West is a class act. He's the kind of person you want to please. If you were speaking and he began to nod, you'd feel like a million bucks. If you made him laugh, it'd be a jackpot. In trying to describe him to a friend, the only word I could come up with was animated. He is called a "provocative public intellectual." An excellent job title, no? And perhaps what is equally impressive as his intellect is his ability to speak. And I mean speak. My friend and I marveled after the talk over what it must be like to be one of his students. He could talk a group of thugs into painting a church and a team of Hell's Angels to learn ballet. He just exudes a love of life that is seriously inspiring.
As a reviewer on Amazon stated, "By his own admission, he is a bluesman, a man who loves hard, speaks truth, questions unapologetically, and a servant of the people." There just aren't enough men (or women) who live so intentionally.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I reckon I'm a seven
According to this grieving site, I'm at stage seven with my Facebook withdrawal. I've experienced shock, pain, anger, loneliness, a bit of an upward turn, and reconstruction, as I went through an abrupt withdrawal over this past week. I'm pretty much at acceptance now.
I only check about twice a day now, morning and night, to see whether they've fixed their database issue. And I've checked out the different online chats/text strings from people describing the problem, experiencing denial, pissing each other off by declaring every loser's life would be better if he/she went outside to play instead, etc. For every hideous "Their R starvin kidz in Africa stupid and if you new that youd get off da computer" comment, full of misspellings and written by some moron who is also on the computer and somehow found his/her way to a chat about Facebook being down, there is one helpful individual discussing what's actually going on and linking the public to other forums with more info.
I imagine Twitter is loving this. I saw one post that announced, "Inaugural tweet!" and then went on to mention the Facebook issue. And surely many others are doing the same. If you search the issue on Twitter, a long line of people are talking, er, tweeting about it. And while I've adjusted back to pre-Facebook life well enough after a week, I pretty much mostly agree with Tashinka, on Twitter, who simply states, "site maintenance for 7 days SUCKS ASS." Right on.
I only check about twice a day now, morning and night, to see whether they've fixed their database issue. And I've checked out the different online chats/text strings from people describing the problem, experiencing denial, pissing each other off by declaring every loser's life would be better if he/she went outside to play instead, etc. For every hideous "Their R starvin kidz in Africa stupid and if you new that youd get off da computer" comment, full of misspellings and written by some moron who is also on the computer and somehow found his/her way to a chat about Facebook being down, there is one helpful individual discussing what's actually going on and linking the public to other forums with more info.
I imagine Twitter is loving this. I saw one post that announced, "Inaugural tweet!" and then went on to mention the Facebook issue. And surely many others are doing the same. If you search the issue on Twitter, a long line of people are talking, er, tweeting about it. And while I've adjusted back to pre-Facebook life well enough after a week, I pretty much mostly agree with Tashinka, on Twitter, who simply states, "site maintenance for 7 days SUCKS ASS." Right on.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
DN'T TXT N DRV
I am amazed that people are proposing texting while driving bans in certain locations. How about banning it EVERYWHERE because it's ridiculously dangerous. Having driven near three people in the past month who appeared to be driving drunk but, upon closer inspection, turned out to be texting, I can't believe we treat texting with the same democracy as abortion or gay marriage. This shouldn't be debatable. BAN IT.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Delirium tremens
I have disturbing news. It has caused a jittery sweat for three days. I'm just not the same woman I was last week. And who knows how long it will take to fully recover from such pain.
I can't get into Facebook.
Who knew it would disturb me so much? What is everyone doing? I'm missing the minute-by-minute account of shoe shopping, baby firsts, Farmville scores, and philosophical ponderings. Approximately 110 of my closest friends are living life without me. No matter that we didn't stay in touch for 10 years or longer in most cases. I had become fond of the Monday "So and so is getting ready to go to work" notes and the "TGIeffingF" declarations each Friday.
Now, it's just me. Alone. Who cares that everyone else's happy family info made me feel so single and childless and constantly like I was missing something? Now I can't even try to feel happy for others. I can't snicker at self-indulgent profile pictures or raise an eyebrow over the "deep thoughts" folks like to share ("Damn, it's raining again. Waaaah").
Now I'm just painfully aware of my aloneness. I may actually step away from my computer and become more productive. And who the hell wants that?
I can't get into Facebook.
Who knew it would disturb me so much? What is everyone doing? I'm missing the minute-by-minute account of shoe shopping, baby firsts, Farmville scores, and philosophical ponderings. Approximately 110 of my closest friends are living life without me. No matter that we didn't stay in touch for 10 years or longer in most cases. I had become fond of the Monday "So and so is getting ready to go to work" notes and the "TGIeffingF" declarations each Friday.
Now, it's just me. Alone. Who cares that everyone else's happy family info made me feel so single and childless and constantly like I was missing something? Now I can't even try to feel happy for others. I can't snicker at self-indulgent profile pictures or raise an eyebrow over the "deep thoughts" folks like to share ("Damn, it's raining again. Waaaah").
Now I'm just painfully aware of my aloneness. I may actually step away from my computer and become more productive. And who the hell wants that?
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