Facial hair: a trending phenomenon in 75% of men ages 18-35. Tres chic. The hipster handlebar. The full on folk artist beard. Organic vegan mange. Meathead chinstrap goatees. Whatever your preferred style, I figured I'd use it as an opportunity to take a few bearded boys from my past and put an intimate twist on my thoughts about hairy little faces. The bearded boys have been named accordingly…
-SmartBeard -
You're probably the most intelligent man I've ever known, and it completely fascinated me. I could sit for hours just listening to you talk. And I did, even when you weren’t talking to me. You knew all these things that nobody else did, and it was pretty fucking hot. But what totally ruined it for me was everything that accompanied this wise, all-knowing persona you cultivated for yourself; the dry sense of humor that offended all my friends, random remarks on obscure topics that nobody else understood, and the old man beard that served no purpose but to intensify a cliche. You even smoked a pipe and drank scotch. It was like I was trying to get with Gandolf or something. You couldn't just be yourself, you had to be this bearded intellectual guy all the time. And the beard actually made you less legit in the end, a chilly disguise that hid your good heart, a hairy strategy that made you too smart to relate to anyone. And that shit is lame. It separates you from the rest of the world in all the wrong ways. For your sake, I hope you’re a lot softer now than you were back then. It feels better. Love always, the young lady temporarily blinded by your bearded Light.
-YoungBeard -
Being fearless but timid is a really attractive contradiction of qualities. You put magic in the air around you, casting little spells with a charm you don’t even know you possess. I’m sure one day you’ll know how to use it to your full advantage, but for now you’re endearing and sweet. At first I couldn’t really understand why I kept agreeing to hang out with you. It didn’t make any kind of sense, and I knew it was weird and out of the ordinary, an unlikely pair…but then after a while I didn’t really a fuck. I just liked how it felt when you were around. We would just drive around for hours like the night would never end. And in that darkness you made me feel like the prettiest girl in the world under an umbrella of fateful stars. You had a way of erasing from existence our difference in age, like the years wouldn't quite matter if we put on the right songs and outran the sun. You knew all the books of the Bible. I liked that. I still do. And once I pulled over so you could catch a stray kitten, I still like that too. And maybe I liked your beard so much because it made you appear beyond your years. It was kind of scraggly and unkempt, and it made you look like a carefree man. A grown up man. It eased the sense of impending confusion I was starting to feel about the chemistry between us. And even though there are still things I'd like to tell you, still lots of music I'd like to show you, and still nights I miss those candy coated whispers from the driver's seat to my ear; I don’t think either of us really knew what to do with it all. And now we only have the courage to see each other when other people are around. So in another time and place that lives inside my mind, we’re young enough to give it a shot, old enough to know what it means, and forever dancing in a foggy calm that nobody else can see. C’est la vie. YoungBeards should fly high and free.
-HotBeard -
HotBeard was fine as hell. And so fucking stupid. For real, the guy was just not bright. We were both flight attendants with bigger dreams. Most young flight attendants have these "bigger dreams," by the way. It's as if we think that seeing the world will enlighten us to a higher plane, no pun intended. Sometimes it works, other times we just remain lost in the sky. But anyway, the difference between his dream and mine was that his was basically to become some sort of Derrick Zoolander. And he really fit the bill. He was the most striking construction of chiseled features and remarkable physique that God ever created. But the dumbest shit came out of his mouth - casting calls, models he’d dated, auditions. And he was way cooler when he was drunk. He even borrowed lunch money from me at the airport once, which was a complete turnoff, but totally worked for him. It really suited the insanely attractive/not so smart/struggling actor vibe he was going for. His facial grooming of choice was little more than a 5 o'clock shadow, but not yet a full-on beard. Just scruff. Perfect scruff. And man oh man, did it do it for me...for just one night in Puerto Rico. It was like his whiskers turned me into a giddy little schoolgirl, willingly handing over her lunch money, while blushing in front of all her friends. That scruffy stupidity was his hustle. Get it, HotBeard.
-FatBeard -
When we first met you didn't have facial hair. I fell in love with you immediately, and stayed in love with you for a long time. I felt like I stood before you, heart in hand, day after day after day, knowing full well you’d never accept such a gift, but always returning to try again. I really believed that you were the one for me, and I thought I'd love you with everything I had until the day I died. Even if it hurt, and even if you never loved me back. It was beautiful.beautiful.beautiful. But then you got pretty fat. And then after you got fat, you grew this thick bush on your face to somehow "complement" the weight gain. Someone even called you Kenny Rogers once at a hotdog stand. And you did, you looked like a fat Kenny Rogers with that shit on your face. But still, the butterflies in my stomach remained unfazed every time you entered a room, or bought me a drink, or so romantically asked if I wanted to see your dick. I didn't care, I still loved Kenny Rogers. For real, I really loved your fat ass. But now that everything’s said and done, I can safely say that I just didn't get the chunky ass Jesus Christ look you were going for. Kind of fat is ok. Bad beard is ok. The Messiah is always cool, but fat with a bad beard is never a winning combination. But the weird thing is that it was in fact a winning combination, because you still got more ass than anyone I knew. And you probably still do. So FatBeard, much respect, my love.
-BlackBeard -
Alright, so he wasn't really black, he was Dominican. I just couldn't really tell at first. And he had lots of money that he showed off profusely. Had he not possessed this unfortunate quality, I might have been able to disregard the teensy tiny line of black hair that outlined his face like an eyeliner mishap. But that kind of redemption is reserved for people who deserve it, and he didn't. When he shaved it off he was really good looking, it made me notice his muscles more than that unsightly distraction framing his jaw. What are dudes thinking when they style their facial hair in this manner? Despite the fact that it's hair, and being hairy is masculine, it actually looks sort of feminine. It's just not a good look unless you're one of those homothugs. You know the type, gay and ghetto at the same time. Lots of times they're ex-ravers, or B-boys, and always in community college (or an equally Chlamydia ridden state school). Like I said, this look works for them. And nobody else. Nobody else, BlackBeard.
Here’s my weak ass conclusion: Sometimes beards are sexy. Sometimes they’re a really terrible accessory. Sometimes they’re just a really good excuse to write about people you’ve cared for. Do your thing, even if it makes you look homeless, and even if it makes you seem like an asshole. But when the rug burn gets away with a little piece of me, don’t be pissed if I don’t wanna kiss you as much.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Granola and Caviar
I’m backstage at a show. Some really well known jam band is playing. I don’t like this hippie shit at all, but my friend is in from out of town and I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see her. What the two of us are enjoying most is our view of the crowd from stage left. These people are so fucking into this music, and it’s almost touching to witness. From my vantage point all I see are a whole bunch of smiles show all kinds of love. Sometimes I feel like smiles and love are all that matters, even if the music’s not your cup of tea. I’m getting drunk on top of a huge crate that houses equipment or something. Red wine in plastic cups. And I can even smoke too. Then some girl that I think might be a groupie comes and sits down next to us. She ruins my moment. I guess I don’t like groupies, but I didn’t know it until right then.
It’s brought to my attention that a billionaire is having a party for the band after the show. A billionaire? Is having an afterhours? I’ve been around some money before, but never a real billionaire with a B.
“Are you coming to this party with us?”
I don’t know yet.
“Well, have you ever snorted blow off a dinosaur bone?”
I have not.
“Then you should come. This guy has real dinosaur bones.”
Sounds kinda awesome. I don’t snort blow at all actually, I hate people who love cocaine. And even more than that, I hate people who don’t ever buy cocaine, but can’t resist it if it’s sitting there in front of them. It just seems like a weak middle ground that shouldn’t exist. Use drugs often enough to buy them, or don’t use them at all. Anyway, aside from all that, being around large quantities of narcotics always makes me feel like I’m doing something right, socially speaking. Edgy by association, and a total hypocrite.
I decide to attend. So after the show I arrive in one of the most prestigious zip codes within Chicago’s city limits, rolling up and down sidestreets of marvel. My humble resignation is that the wealth around here does not want my Monte Carlo parked anywhere near this neighborhood. Permit parking. No parking. Tow zone. More permit parking. Block after block after block of it. I finally pull up behind a Jaguar and get out. It’s not a spot, but fuck it. I’m going to this party, and I don’t care if my car’s not here when I get back. My friend seems more worried about it than I do, she’s sweet and thoughtful like that.
I haven’t even made my way through the front door yet and I’m already impressed, this guy has a whole five stories off Lake Shore Dr. all to himself. And there really is a taradactyl wing hanging over my head as I take a seat at an endless dining room table. Our host is barefoot, welcoming everyone to the huge spread in the kitchen. There’s all kinds of food: vegan dishes, stacks of pizzas, appetizers, breads, dips, salads, sandwiches, and quite a few other goodies that I can’t fully figure out. There’s beer, there’s booze, there’s a whole countertop devoted to just wine, and even the soda is high-end and organic.
I spot some tiny dancers from the show. They all seem to be familiar with each other. Everyone’s really relaxed, but I don’t know how comfortable I should make myself. I feel nervous. I need a drink. But before I have the chance to get one, the host makes his way over to our side of the room. Someone’s asking him about a military library in San Francisco and whether or not he built it. He says it wasn’t him, it was his cousin.
He turns to my friends and I, introduces himself, and shakes my hand. I didn’t think he was going to do that. I didn’t really picture a man of his stature feeling the need to acquaint himself with someone like me, but I guess I underestimated his manners. I tell him my name and thank him for having me in his home. He smiles, turns up his palm, and motions across the room at all the people as if he’s just now taking it in for the first time himself, and he says, “You’re the gracious ones, thank you so much for being here.”
And I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but I was speechless. How is it that a man with billions of dollars could be thanking anyone for being in his home? I felt like I was in the presence of greatness, a greatness that inspired me, greatness that was no longer unattainable as he brought us all into his world. The guy sent me reeling, lost in his grandeur, but then brought me back down to Earth with a few modest words. In one instant, we shared in a universal sense of pure gratitude, and for that instant we felt the same. If I could make people feel the way that man made me feel in one simple sentence, it’s probably all I’d do. I’d spend my days giving away that feeling in every way I could. That feeling of confirmation, the one that says we’re all good enough when we open our eyes to see.
I realized after meeting him what I want in life. I want to take care of you before I take care of me. I want my dreams to become a reality that I can invite you to be a part of, introduce you to experiences you never knew existed, and prove to you that belief in yourself is all you really need. I want to take you places and buy you things, just to see you giddy. I want to remove the constraints of life as you know it, show you a love that transcends finances and allows you to be who you want to be. I want to be the purveyor of intoxicating environments you never wanna leave, and I want to provide everyone I love with the freedom to be free.
I want to make people feel and smile, that’s who I want to be.
It’s brought to my attention that a billionaire is having a party for the band after the show. A billionaire? Is having an afterhours? I’ve been around some money before, but never a real billionaire with a B.
“Are you coming to this party with us?”
I don’t know yet.
“Well, have you ever snorted blow off a dinosaur bone?”
I have not.
“Then you should come. This guy has real dinosaur bones.”
Sounds kinda awesome. I don’t snort blow at all actually, I hate people who love cocaine. And even more than that, I hate people who don’t ever buy cocaine, but can’t resist it if it’s sitting there in front of them. It just seems like a weak middle ground that shouldn’t exist. Use drugs often enough to buy them, or don’t use them at all. Anyway, aside from all that, being around large quantities of narcotics always makes me feel like I’m doing something right, socially speaking. Edgy by association, and a total hypocrite.
I decide to attend. So after the show I arrive in one of the most prestigious zip codes within Chicago’s city limits, rolling up and down sidestreets of marvel. My humble resignation is that the wealth around here does not want my Monte Carlo parked anywhere near this neighborhood. Permit parking. No parking. Tow zone. More permit parking. Block after block after block of it. I finally pull up behind a Jaguar and get out. It’s not a spot, but fuck it. I’m going to this party, and I don’t care if my car’s not here when I get back. My friend seems more worried about it than I do, she’s sweet and thoughtful like that.
I haven’t even made my way through the front door yet and I’m already impressed, this guy has a whole five stories off Lake Shore Dr. all to himself. And there really is a taradactyl wing hanging over my head as I take a seat at an endless dining room table. Our host is barefoot, welcoming everyone to the huge spread in the kitchen. There’s all kinds of food: vegan dishes, stacks of pizzas, appetizers, breads, dips, salads, sandwiches, and quite a few other goodies that I can’t fully figure out. There’s beer, there’s booze, there’s a whole countertop devoted to just wine, and even the soda is high-end and organic.
I spot some tiny dancers from the show. They all seem to be familiar with each other. Everyone’s really relaxed, but I don’t know how comfortable I should make myself. I feel nervous. I need a drink. But before I have the chance to get one, the host makes his way over to our side of the room. Someone’s asking him about a military library in San Francisco and whether or not he built it. He says it wasn’t him, it was his cousin.
He turns to my friends and I, introduces himself, and shakes my hand. I didn’t think he was going to do that. I didn’t really picture a man of his stature feeling the need to acquaint himself with someone like me, but I guess I underestimated his manners. I tell him my name and thank him for having me in his home. He smiles, turns up his palm, and motions across the room at all the people as if he’s just now taking it in for the first time himself, and he says, “You’re the gracious ones, thank you so much for being here.”
And I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but I was speechless. How is it that a man with billions of dollars could be thanking anyone for being in his home? I felt like I was in the presence of greatness, a greatness that inspired me, greatness that was no longer unattainable as he brought us all into his world. The guy sent me reeling, lost in his grandeur, but then brought me back down to Earth with a few modest words. In one instant, we shared in a universal sense of pure gratitude, and for that instant we felt the same. If I could make people feel the way that man made me feel in one simple sentence, it’s probably all I’d do. I’d spend my days giving away that feeling in every way I could. That feeling of confirmation, the one that says we’re all good enough when we open our eyes to see.
I realized after meeting him what I want in life. I want to take care of you before I take care of me. I want my dreams to become a reality that I can invite you to be a part of, introduce you to experiences you never knew existed, and prove to you that belief in yourself is all you really need. I want to take you places and buy you things, just to see you giddy. I want to remove the constraints of life as you know it, show you a love that transcends finances and allows you to be who you want to be. I want to be the purveyor of intoxicating environments you never wanna leave, and I want to provide everyone I love with the freedom to be free.
I want to make people feel and smile, that’s who I want to be.
Moi
People talk about how great they are all the time. That sucks, so I’m gonna do the opposite and point out all the shit that’s really fucked up about me. I’m pretty awesome, generally speaking, but now you can call me out on my bullshit if you ever witness me displaying any of the following habits or qualities…
1). I never answer the phone. I’m pretty sure I have the most avoidant personality of any being on the planet, and not answering the phone is just the tip of the iceberg. I have no idea where this comes from, but if I do answer the phone when you call it means two things. 1). You’re the shit. And 2). I feel very comfortable with you.
2). I’m so indecisive that it prevents me from committing to any one single thing, which hinders any type of real progress. I can’t stand the thought of ruling out so many of the endless options the world has to offer, so I end up committing to nothing. It stunts my growth and makes me seem like a flake.
3). When someone doesn’t like to do spontaneous shit, I kind of write them off as boring and not interesting enough to be my friend. I wanna party and take trips and find little adventures, but I shouldn’t look down on people who are different than me in that way. There’s nothing wrong with being stable and having routines, and people who fall into those routines are the ones who achieve success. But for some reason, I’m just really turned off by the idea. This is just another indication that my attitude towards life is really juvenile. If you’re a real grown up and you wanna hang out, hit me up. I could probably learn a thing or two.
4). I set little traps for people. Like, I’ll ask a really broad question that has no real answer, and then I’ll hold it against you when you give the wrong answer. Even though there was no right answer to begin with. It’s fucked up. And it’s never on purpose, I just find myself asking trick questions all the time. Mostly to people I don’t really like.
5). I love when I see pictures of your new girlfriend and she’s way less attractive than I am. I know this is so small of me, but I’m not even gonna front, I LOVE that shit.
6). I have a small case of OCD when it comes to my handwriting. If I’ve made you a cd, I’ve probably written out the track listing at least five times. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I think there’s something really romantic about anything that’s actually handwritten these days, and I just always want it to look perfect. Or maybe I have an uncontrollable desire to appear perfect myself.
7). I pretend to like people that I don’t really like. Part of me feels that it’s just good manners and common courtesy to be kind and polite to everyone I encounter. But then another part of me feels like maybe I’m just a fucking faker.
8). My appearance implies I’m something that I’m not, and I don’t live within my means. I spend my money on nice clothes and over-priced accessories that I can’t afford, and I buy high-end cosmetics that I have no business purchasing. And perfume too, I’m fairly obsessed with fine fragrance. My taste and my budget are not cohesive, and I don’t give a fuck. I like to look nice, but as an adult I should really learn how to prioritize and be more responsible.
9). When things aren’t going exactly how I pictured they’d go, if they’re not turning out in the ideal manner in which I’d planned, I just walk away. It affects me the most when I do it to people.
10). I really like who I am when I’m drunk. I understand that this is how people become alcoholics, but seriously, all my greatest qualities come out under the influence of top shelf vodka. All the things I like about myself become amplified. I just get...better. Sweet. Funny. Warm. I don’t even drink once a week these days, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish DrunkLori was EverdayLori. This is probably really pathetic and indicates that I need therapy of some sort.
11). When I buy something, I look through every single one of them to make sure I’m purchasing the one in the best condition. I look for scratches, stray threads, snags, dents…whatever the case, depending on the object. And I do it with almost everything that I buy. It’s like I just want the best one. All the time. No matter what it is.
12). I hate promiscuous women. I for real hate them. But I also wish I could be more like them. They’re always so impulsive and uninhibited. I talk shit about women with no self-respect, but in reality I wish I possessed some of their finer qualities. What a bitch ass contradiction.
This will conclude the seemingly self-aggrandized examination of my head for today. This started out as kind of a joke. But after reading it over a few times, I realize that it really is quite a list of flawed behaviors and habits. And as I was writing it I kept feeling the need to go back and counter each bad quality with a shining one. It was hard to leave out all the potential good, I felt like I had to defend myself against myself. And it’s probably a risky assumption, but if you know me, hopefully my redeeming qualities are apparent in my everyday interactions. And if they aren’t, well then maybe I have a lot more work to do than I thought.
1). I never answer the phone. I’m pretty sure I have the most avoidant personality of any being on the planet, and not answering the phone is just the tip of the iceberg. I have no idea where this comes from, but if I do answer the phone when you call it means two things. 1). You’re the shit. And 2). I feel very comfortable with you.
2). I’m so indecisive that it prevents me from committing to any one single thing, which hinders any type of real progress. I can’t stand the thought of ruling out so many of the endless options the world has to offer, so I end up committing to nothing. It stunts my growth and makes me seem like a flake.
3). When someone doesn’t like to do spontaneous shit, I kind of write them off as boring and not interesting enough to be my friend. I wanna party and take trips and find little adventures, but I shouldn’t look down on people who are different than me in that way. There’s nothing wrong with being stable and having routines, and people who fall into those routines are the ones who achieve success. But for some reason, I’m just really turned off by the idea. This is just another indication that my attitude towards life is really juvenile. If you’re a real grown up and you wanna hang out, hit me up. I could probably learn a thing or two.
4). I set little traps for people. Like, I’ll ask a really broad question that has no real answer, and then I’ll hold it against you when you give the wrong answer. Even though there was no right answer to begin with. It’s fucked up. And it’s never on purpose, I just find myself asking trick questions all the time. Mostly to people I don’t really like.
5). I love when I see pictures of your new girlfriend and she’s way less attractive than I am. I know this is so small of me, but I’m not even gonna front, I LOVE that shit.
6). I have a small case of OCD when it comes to my handwriting. If I’ve made you a cd, I’ve probably written out the track listing at least five times. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I think there’s something really romantic about anything that’s actually handwritten these days, and I just always want it to look perfect. Or maybe I have an uncontrollable desire to appear perfect myself.
7). I pretend to like people that I don’t really like. Part of me feels that it’s just good manners and common courtesy to be kind and polite to everyone I encounter. But then another part of me feels like maybe I’m just a fucking faker.
8). My appearance implies I’m something that I’m not, and I don’t live within my means. I spend my money on nice clothes and over-priced accessories that I can’t afford, and I buy high-end cosmetics that I have no business purchasing. And perfume too, I’m fairly obsessed with fine fragrance. My taste and my budget are not cohesive, and I don’t give a fuck. I like to look nice, but as an adult I should really learn how to prioritize and be more responsible.
9). When things aren’t going exactly how I pictured they’d go, if they’re not turning out in the ideal manner in which I’d planned, I just walk away. It affects me the most when I do it to people.
10). I really like who I am when I’m drunk. I understand that this is how people become alcoholics, but seriously, all my greatest qualities come out under the influence of top shelf vodka. All the things I like about myself become amplified. I just get...better. Sweet. Funny. Warm. I don’t even drink once a week these days, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish DrunkLori was EverdayLori. This is probably really pathetic and indicates that I need therapy of some sort.
11). When I buy something, I look through every single one of them to make sure I’m purchasing the one in the best condition. I look for scratches, stray threads, snags, dents…whatever the case, depending on the object. And I do it with almost everything that I buy. It’s like I just want the best one. All the time. No matter what it is.
12). I hate promiscuous women. I for real hate them. But I also wish I could be more like them. They’re always so impulsive and uninhibited. I talk shit about women with no self-respect, but in reality I wish I possessed some of their finer qualities. What a bitch ass contradiction.
This will conclude the seemingly self-aggrandized examination of my head for today. This started out as kind of a joke. But after reading it over a few times, I realize that it really is quite a list of flawed behaviors and habits. And as I was writing it I kept feeling the need to go back and counter each bad quality with a shining one. It was hard to leave out all the potential good, I felt like I had to defend myself against myself. And it’s probably a risky assumption, but if you know me, hopefully my redeeming qualities are apparent in my everyday interactions. And if they aren’t, well then maybe I have a lot more work to do than I thought.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Lovely Day
In my dreams, here is a day in my life; the life I built from my own desires, the life I envision as my happy ending. A day in a life that only exists inside my head for now, but still a day in a life that the rest of the world can't steal from me....
Season - Fall (September 25th maybe)
Location - Anywhere I want. A place I have rooted myself for reasons other than my own.
With - Anyone who wants to join me.
No worries, no life, just living....
9 a.m. - Wake up. Don't hit the snooze, not even once. This might be sleeping in to some of you, but not so much. It's waking up early for me. I prefer the night time, but my perfect day would involve functioning with the rest of the world. It's more productive. Make coffee. Good coffee from far away. Sip coffee in the little chair next to the kitchen window, this way I can peek out periodically at all the people on the street while I flip through a magazine gathering makeup tips and new ways to accessorize. Refill coffee. Check email. Read police reports from my hometown on the internet. Call Shayna and tell her about the police reports.
10 a.m. - Shower. Shave my legs without getting razor burn, silky for once. Make myself presentable. And new boots, I'd have a nice new pair of boots to put on. Flat ones that don't hurt my feet, but still look really cute.
11:30 a.m. - My friend comes over. I don't know who, but a friend. I show the friend something impressive that he/she has never seen before. Something we're both into, but now I seem more well-informed. I'm not snotty about it though, I just smile. That's why the friend likes me. Then the friend and I go have lunch together at a place that's not too quiet, but not too crowded. A nice balance; a dense menagerie of sounds in the background so nobody can listen in on our conversation, but still our elbows aren't knocking into the stranger next to us as we try to cut our food. I have melt in my mouth halibut. After our meal, my friend orders a really good dessert that I take a bite of. Pecan pie maybe.
1-3 p.m. - I run some errands with no hurried sense of urgency, but still very purposefully. I don't know what I'm doing, but I accomplish all kinds of little odds and ends and I feel good. Maybe I go to FedEx and mail a gift, or maybe I stop by someone's work and drop off a CD that I burned for him/her. I pay the rent. Or I go to AT&T and get a new phone charger because I left mine at a hotel in Prague last week. Then I perform some sort of work-related tasks that involve a fax machine and one of those big yellow envelopes. I pick up some milk and laundry detergent, then I stop and get a pair of sunglasses from a street vendor because I left mine on a nightstand, the one in Prague (I had to leave there in a hurry). From the street vendor, I get totally sidetracked and lured into a bakery with awesome bread that I bring home and share with my roommate and/or boyfriend and/or old lady that lives downstairs. Whoever it is has had an incredibly long day and really likes the bread. Ms. Lori Ann, at your service.
Around 3:30 p.m. - I return a whole bunch of phone calls that I'd been avoiding. In real life I'm awful at picking up the phone, so in my dreams I change that about myself. I spend a good hour catching up with those I love. Everyone's surprised to hear from me and I make promises to keep in closer touch from now on.
5 p.m. - I go take an evening class of some sort. It's not for any type of credit or degree so there's no pressure, I'm just taking it because I like it. It breaks up my day and delivers me a sense of enrichment. I'm not sure what kind of class it is, but it's not pottery. I don't know why I think people who take pottery classes are annoying, I just do. Maybe it's a writing seminar or a cooking workshop. Or an audio/video class. Class ends early so I can go grab a sandwich or a piece of pizza. I eat it on the go, while walking down the street or driving in my car. And I don't even get any of it on my shirt.
7 p.m. - Go to the liquor store. Buy everything. Yes, that's right. It's 7 o'clock and I don't know where the hell I am, but I'm making cocktails for everyone in the room. And it's a real pretty room, ornate but inviting, perfectly lit for demure decadence, with velvet couches that are deep red, and windows that start at the Rosewood flooring and end no sooner than they meet the ceiling that envelops our modern day masquerade. And there's a dancefloor where people mingle and flirt before they take eachother's hands to dance. We laugh, we tell stories, we reminisce, we embolden eachother's thoughts to blossom. We are a symphony of warmth; affectionate gestures, ingratiating glances, unspoken camaraderie, a community with no strings attached. We don't need strings to keep us together. And it brings me great joy to provide all these people with such tasty spirits, my own personal recipes of grandeur, ones that dissolve your delusions of inhibition and heighten your sense of why you're here in the first place. Midori and Dewar's and Ketel, OH MY! Don't worry, Dorothy, I've got it all under control. And I swear we'll be good. You and Toto are more than welcome to join us.
12 a.m. - I get a phone call a from a special someone. Maybe we've known eachother since we were young, or since we were both crazy, or since we were just friends. Or maybe we just met last week in Prague. And maybe one day he'll fondly refer to me as the one he let slip away, but not today. Today he's got me in the palm of his hand. And it's exactly where I want to be. After an endearing exchange of subtle familiarities, the kind that free you from the agitation of everyday bullshit, we meet on the corner of a quaint little street that has lots of grass. He takes me to a spot he found with me in mind, and when we get there it's just the two of us, the only two that matter. There's a bare cement wall that runs along the whole of this special spot, the wall is perfect for tonight. The room is dark, aside from the twilight peeking through open windows, and a light breeze intensifies the sweetness of our one single silhouette. And as we curl up in a corner, the flippant slipping sound of a film projector is quickly drowned out by a scene from my favorite movie, now playing against the backdrop of that perfect cement wall, the one seemingly created just for this.
Season - Fall (September 25th maybe)
Location - Anywhere I want. A place I have rooted myself for reasons other than my own.
With - Anyone who wants to join me.
No worries, no life, just living....
9 a.m. - Wake up. Don't hit the snooze, not even once. This might be sleeping in to some of you, but not so much. It's waking up early for me. I prefer the night time, but my perfect day would involve functioning with the rest of the world. It's more productive. Make coffee. Good coffee from far away. Sip coffee in the little chair next to the kitchen window, this way I can peek out periodically at all the people on the street while I flip through a magazine gathering makeup tips and new ways to accessorize. Refill coffee. Check email. Read police reports from my hometown on the internet. Call Shayna and tell her about the police reports.
10 a.m. - Shower. Shave my legs without getting razor burn, silky for once. Make myself presentable. And new boots, I'd have a nice new pair of boots to put on. Flat ones that don't hurt my feet, but still look really cute.
11:30 a.m. - My friend comes over. I don't know who, but a friend. I show the friend something impressive that he/she has never seen before. Something we're both into, but now I seem more well-informed. I'm not snotty about it though, I just smile. That's why the friend likes me. Then the friend and I go have lunch together at a place that's not too quiet, but not too crowded. A nice balance; a dense menagerie of sounds in the background so nobody can listen in on our conversation, but still our elbows aren't knocking into the stranger next to us as we try to cut our food. I have melt in my mouth halibut. After our meal, my friend orders a really good dessert that I take a bite of. Pecan pie maybe.
1-3 p.m. - I run some errands with no hurried sense of urgency, but still very purposefully. I don't know what I'm doing, but I accomplish all kinds of little odds and ends and I feel good. Maybe I go to FedEx and mail a gift, or maybe I stop by someone's work and drop off a CD that I burned for him/her. I pay the rent. Or I go to AT&T and get a new phone charger because I left mine at a hotel in Prague last week. Then I perform some sort of work-related tasks that involve a fax machine and one of those big yellow envelopes. I pick up some milk and laundry detergent, then I stop and get a pair of sunglasses from a street vendor because I left mine on a nightstand, the one in Prague (I had to leave there in a hurry). From the street vendor, I get totally sidetracked and lured into a bakery with awesome bread that I bring home and share with my roommate and/or boyfriend and/or old lady that lives downstairs. Whoever it is has had an incredibly long day and really likes the bread. Ms. Lori Ann, at your service.
Around 3:30 p.m. - I return a whole bunch of phone calls that I'd been avoiding. In real life I'm awful at picking up the phone, so in my dreams I change that about myself. I spend a good hour catching up with those I love. Everyone's surprised to hear from me and I make promises to keep in closer touch from now on.
5 p.m. - I go take an evening class of some sort. It's not for any type of credit or degree so there's no pressure, I'm just taking it because I like it. It breaks up my day and delivers me a sense of enrichment. I'm not sure what kind of class it is, but it's not pottery. I don't know why I think people who take pottery classes are annoying, I just do. Maybe it's a writing seminar or a cooking workshop. Or an audio/video class. Class ends early so I can go grab a sandwich or a piece of pizza. I eat it on the go, while walking down the street or driving in my car. And I don't even get any of it on my shirt.
7 p.m. - Go to the liquor store. Buy everything. Yes, that's right. It's 7 o'clock and I don't know where the hell I am, but I'm making cocktails for everyone in the room. And it's a real pretty room, ornate but inviting, perfectly lit for demure decadence, with velvet couches that are deep red, and windows that start at the Rosewood flooring and end no sooner than they meet the ceiling that envelops our modern day masquerade. And there's a dancefloor where people mingle and flirt before they take eachother's hands to dance. We laugh, we tell stories, we reminisce, we embolden eachother's thoughts to blossom. We are a symphony of warmth; affectionate gestures, ingratiating glances, unspoken camaraderie, a community with no strings attached. We don't need strings to keep us together. And it brings me great joy to provide all these people with such tasty spirits, my own personal recipes of grandeur, ones that dissolve your delusions of inhibition and heighten your sense of why you're here in the first place. Midori and Dewar's and Ketel, OH MY! Don't worry, Dorothy, I've got it all under control. And I swear we'll be good. You and Toto are more than welcome to join us.
12 a.m. - I get a phone call a from a special someone. Maybe we've known eachother since we were young, or since we were both crazy, or since we were just friends. Or maybe we just met last week in Prague. And maybe one day he'll fondly refer to me as the one he let slip away, but not today. Today he's got me in the palm of his hand. And it's exactly where I want to be. After an endearing exchange of subtle familiarities, the kind that free you from the agitation of everyday bullshit, we meet on the corner of a quaint little street that has lots of grass. He takes me to a spot he found with me in mind, and when we get there it's just the two of us, the only two that matter. There's a bare cement wall that runs along the whole of this special spot, the wall is perfect for tonight. The room is dark, aside from the twilight peeking through open windows, and a light breeze intensifies the sweetness of our one single silhouette. And as we curl up in a corner, the flippant slipping sound of a film projector is quickly drowned out by a scene from my favorite movie, now playing against the backdrop of that perfect cement wall, the one seemingly created just for this.
At the end of the day I surrender to the delicate oblivion of days to come. I welcome the abyss of the future. I dismiss bittersweet contingencies that confide, "There may never be another day such as this."
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Trapper Keeper
"An elephant never forgets."
I don't know where that phrase comes from, I looked it up and I didn't find too much. But whatever its origins, it seems to describe my memory to a T. And shortly after it was brought to my attention that I remember just about everything under the sun, my memory started being referred to as the "Trapper Keeper." Remember those? 4th Grade is the motherfucking place to be.
Aside from the obvious Birthday's and things like that, here are some examples of bits and pieces that might get filed in the Trapper Keeper -
If you like white clam chowder, but hate the red, I'll remember. And I'll even remember where we were when you told me about this dislike for red clam chowder.
If you like Polish sausage, the Trapper Keeper will contain information as to what you like on it. Mustard, relish, onions, on French bread. Or no relish, just onions, on a bun. And if you don't like Polish sausage at all, the Trapper Keeper will say, "No, Lori..HOTDOGS."
If you tell me that the house you grew up in had a huge yard, the Trapper Keeper will mention it when we pass by a similar yard of the same caliber.
If SWV was playing the first time you had sex in 1994, my folder/notebook combo will bring it to my attention the next time I hear one of their 2 hits. It will say to me, "Mary Kleinenburg's basement couch. 1994," in a Rainman kind of voice.
The Trapper Keeper knows what your first car was.
If your Dad had a heart attack while shoveling snow one year, the sentiment of this fact will get put into the Trapper Keeper's vault and I'll probably never ask you to shovel snow. I'll want to ask you to, but the Trapper Keeper won't allow it.
If you hate the color green, I'll know, and I'll remember why you hate it...like because your Mom painted your room that color when you were little, and as you got older nothing matched with it or something.
If you think that the color orange washes you out, I'll get out the trusty old Trapper Keeper if I'm ever shirt shopping for you.
If I happen to come over on a Tuesday and you're doing laundry, I'll make a Trapper Keeper note that Tuesday's laundry day.
If we get in a cab one day and you forget your phone on the seat, from then on, the Trapper Keeper will check that there is no phone on the seat when we get out of a cab together.
I'll remember your cell phone provider because of that one time you were so pissed about sitting on hold for an hour with Verizon.
If your coffee pot broke, it's because of the Trapper Keeper that I will bring you a cup of coffee when I come over later today. If your Birthday rolls around and you still haven't replaced the Bunn Drip-o-matic, PA-DOW with the Trapper Keeper! New coffee pot.
This absorption of useless information is not a conscious effort by any means. I'm pretty sure it stems from the simple fact that I like to listen and watch people. I like to observe, even if the only purpose of my observation is to form a negative opinion of you (sorry, I'm workin' on that). I just can't seem to not pay attention to people and their ways. And this little "talent" is not at all selective, meaning that even if I don't really care about you, even when I'm pretty indifferent in terms of your general well-being, I'll still soak up every detail you choose to divulge. And sometimes it comes in handy, but other times it just makes me look like a compulsive psycho.
It comes in handy when I'm buying gifts. For real, I buy awesome gifts. Not necessarily because they're expensive or high end. But because, like I said, the Trapper Keeper knows you, man! It knows what you need, knows what you want, knows what you hate. Don't fight it, remember the coffee pot?!
Or let's say I'm lost in a neighborhood I'm unfamiliar with. The Trapper Keeper will guide me with something like this, "Ok, last time you were here some girl asked you for a lighter on this corner. And she had on this dope jacket; navy, gold buttons up the side, falling just above the knee, cute belt. And after you lit her cigarette you know cute jacket girl went straight for a few blocks, and you know that you went straight for a few blocks too because if you hadn't followed her you wouldn't have seen that the cute jacket even had an awesome slit up the back." And now I remember which direction to travel. Thanks, Trapper Keeper!
It makes me look like a compulsive psycho when I'm coming over to your house, you offer me directions, and I say, "No, I remember where you live." Even though I've only been over to your place once, and it was probably close to a year ago, and you might not even remember that I was at your Birthday party in the first place. Damn you, Trapper Keeper! Why must you keep a record of every house you visit? I know you didn't do it on purpose, but now I might look crazy. And I didn't think of it before I spoke, but technically that person never gave me their address; I just remembered it from last time, AND NOW I LOOK LIKE A STALKER. Trapper Keeper, you're a real asshole sometimes, ya know? Perhaps this time you've gone too far.
Or let's pretend your girlfriend and I have a conversation about what to get you for Christmas, and I tell her that just the other day you said you wanted a subscription to "Pro Football Weekly." And then instead she signs you up to receive "Football Digest." Trapper Keeper will take note of the oversight and hold it against her, forever thinking of her as "the girl who didn't care enough to get it right." I don't want to think badly of your girlfriend. What if you marry her? Just forget about it, Trapper..it's the thought that counts. Sometimes I have to fight the Keeper.
So you see, this office supply of a memory device has a mind all its own. Please don't hold it against me. I swear, I'm not a stalker and I think your girlfriend's really great.
And at the same time, if my memory is somehow working in your favor, you probably shouldn't take that too personally either. I might not even like you all that much, it is just the nature of this thoughtful Trapper Keeper beast. (Just kidding, I love you)
I don't know where that phrase comes from, I looked it up and I didn't find too much. But whatever its origins, it seems to describe my memory to a T. And shortly after it was brought to my attention that I remember just about everything under the sun, my memory started being referred to as the "Trapper Keeper." Remember those? 4th Grade is the motherfucking place to be.
Aside from the obvious Birthday's and things like that, here are some examples of bits and pieces that might get filed in the Trapper Keeper -
If you like white clam chowder, but hate the red, I'll remember. And I'll even remember where we were when you told me about this dislike for red clam chowder.
If you like Polish sausage, the Trapper Keeper will contain information as to what you like on it. Mustard, relish, onions, on French bread. Or no relish, just onions, on a bun. And if you don't like Polish sausage at all, the Trapper Keeper will say, "No, Lori..HOTDOGS."
If you tell me that the house you grew up in had a huge yard, the Trapper Keeper will mention it when we pass by a similar yard of the same caliber.
If SWV was playing the first time you had sex in 1994, my folder/notebook combo will bring it to my attention the next time I hear one of their 2 hits. It will say to me, "Mary Kleinenburg's basement couch. 1994," in a Rainman kind of voice.
The Trapper Keeper knows what your first car was.
If your Dad had a heart attack while shoveling snow one year, the sentiment of this fact will get put into the Trapper Keeper's vault and I'll probably never ask you to shovel snow. I'll want to ask you to, but the Trapper Keeper won't allow it.
If you hate the color green, I'll know, and I'll remember why you hate it...like because your Mom painted your room that color when you were little, and as you got older nothing matched with it or something.
If you think that the color orange washes you out, I'll get out the trusty old Trapper Keeper if I'm ever shirt shopping for you.
If I happen to come over on a Tuesday and you're doing laundry, I'll make a Trapper Keeper note that Tuesday's laundry day.
If we get in a cab one day and you forget your phone on the seat, from then on, the Trapper Keeper will check that there is no phone on the seat when we get out of a cab together.
I'll remember your cell phone provider because of that one time you were so pissed about sitting on hold for an hour with Verizon.
If your coffee pot broke, it's because of the Trapper Keeper that I will bring you a cup of coffee when I come over later today. If your Birthday rolls around and you still haven't replaced the Bunn Drip-o-matic, PA-DOW with the Trapper Keeper! New coffee pot.
This absorption of useless information is not a conscious effort by any means. I'm pretty sure it stems from the simple fact that I like to listen and watch people. I like to observe, even if the only purpose of my observation is to form a negative opinion of you (sorry, I'm workin' on that). I just can't seem to not pay attention to people and their ways. And this little "talent" is not at all selective, meaning that even if I don't really care about you, even when I'm pretty indifferent in terms of your general well-being, I'll still soak up every detail you choose to divulge. And sometimes it comes in handy, but other times it just makes me look like a compulsive psycho.
It comes in handy when I'm buying gifts. For real, I buy awesome gifts. Not necessarily because they're expensive or high end. But because, like I said, the Trapper Keeper knows you, man! It knows what you need, knows what you want, knows what you hate. Don't fight it, remember the coffee pot?!
Or let's say I'm lost in a neighborhood I'm unfamiliar with. The Trapper Keeper will guide me with something like this, "Ok, last time you were here some girl asked you for a lighter on this corner. And she had on this dope jacket; navy, gold buttons up the side, falling just above the knee, cute belt. And after you lit her cigarette you know cute jacket girl went straight for a few blocks, and you know that you went straight for a few blocks too because if you hadn't followed her you wouldn't have seen that the cute jacket even had an awesome slit up the back." And now I remember which direction to travel. Thanks, Trapper Keeper!
It makes me look like a compulsive psycho when I'm coming over to your house, you offer me directions, and I say, "No, I remember where you live." Even though I've only been over to your place once, and it was probably close to a year ago, and you might not even remember that I was at your Birthday party in the first place. Damn you, Trapper Keeper! Why must you keep a record of every house you visit? I know you didn't do it on purpose, but now I might look crazy. And I didn't think of it before I spoke, but technically that person never gave me their address; I just remembered it from last time, AND NOW I LOOK LIKE A STALKER. Trapper Keeper, you're a real asshole sometimes, ya know? Perhaps this time you've gone too far.
Or let's pretend your girlfriend and I have a conversation about what to get you for Christmas, and I tell her that just the other day you said you wanted a subscription to "Pro Football Weekly." And then instead she signs you up to receive "Football Digest." Trapper Keeper will take note of the oversight and hold it against her, forever thinking of her as "the girl who didn't care enough to get it right." I don't want to think badly of your girlfriend. What if you marry her? Just forget about it, Trapper..it's the thought that counts. Sometimes I have to fight the Keeper.
So you see, this office supply of a memory device has a mind all its own. Please don't hold it against me. I swear, I'm not a stalker and I think your girlfriend's really great.
And at the same time, if my memory is somehow working in your favor, you probably shouldn't take that too personally either. I might not even like you all that much, it is just the nature of this thoughtful Trapper Keeper beast. (Just kidding, I love you)
Monday, August 4, 2008
Urban Dictionary
I looked up my name on urbandictionary.com (which is not a site to be taken seriously or looked to for accuracy, but still mildly amusing), and here's what I came across -
Lori -
"1). The most wonderful person in the world. Kind, sweet, loving, caring, gentle. Perfect in every way. The one you love for all your life."
I don't know about the most wonderful person in the world, but "The one you love for all your life?" I'll take it. And despite the subtle cynicism in a lot of these posts, I am, in fact, a gentle soul. ;)
"2). Crazy hot girl. Beautiful, smart and funny; Lori possesses attributes absent in 99.9% of women. Truly a lucky find. Plus she rocks."
Alright, I definitely wouldn't call myself "crazy hot." But the rest of that is RIGHT ON POINT. I'm really glad that it's now public information on such a respected forum, and no longer just the opinion of my dog.
"3). The most wonderful drug in the world, better known as Hydrocodone or lortab. Taking the pill may cause a sense of euphoria and well being."
Unfortunately, I've been exposed to my fair share of narcotics, and yet I've never heard of Hydrocodone referred to as a Lortab. But according to this entry in Wikipedia, the information seems to be correct. So that was new to me, thanks Urban Dictionary.
And now we're moving on to the last definition of Lori. Keep in mind that I had a Snickers bar in my hand as I read this...
"4). Fat disgusting hippo, a young adult with unhuman eating habits."
Ooops. How ya like me now, boys? Someone must have been real pissed when they conjured up that one, eh? You win some, you lose some.
Lori -
"1). The most wonderful person in the world. Kind, sweet, loving, caring, gentle. Perfect in every way. The one you love for all your life."
I don't know about the most wonderful person in the world, but "The one you love for all your life?" I'll take it. And despite the subtle cynicism in a lot of these posts, I am, in fact, a gentle soul. ;)
"2). Crazy hot girl. Beautiful, smart and funny; Lori possesses attributes absent in 99.9% of women. Truly a lucky find. Plus she rocks."
Alright, I definitely wouldn't call myself "crazy hot." But the rest of that is RIGHT ON POINT. I'm really glad that it's now public information on such a respected forum, and no longer just the opinion of my dog.
"3). The most wonderful drug in the world, better known as Hydrocodone or lortab. Taking the pill may cause a sense of euphoria and well being."
Unfortunately, I've been exposed to my fair share of narcotics, and yet I've never heard of Hydrocodone referred to as a Lortab. But according to this entry in Wikipedia, the information seems to be correct. So that was new to me, thanks Urban Dictionary.
And now we're moving on to the last definition of Lori. Keep in mind that I had a Snickers bar in my hand as I read this...
"4). Fat disgusting hippo, a young adult with unhuman eating habits."
Ooops. How ya like me now, boys? Someone must have been real pissed when they conjured up that one, eh? You win some, you lose some.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Lame
Here are some things that I think are totally lame...to say, to do, to be...whatever...
Anyone who still uses the term "..like a rockstar" in reference to partying, drinking, finding a good parking spot..etc. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt here, and say chances are you're probably not a huge douchebag...but using this term makes you sound way less cool. Why not just say, "Man, I snorted so much blow tonight!" or "Yea, we got bottle service!" or "Wow! I found a spot right in front of the club!" It would be way more effective in portraying this rockstar lifestyle you lead, but at the same time, you wouldn't be sounding like such an arrogant dork. And if you don't mind sounding like an arrogant dork, then you could always just say, "Hi, I'm from New Jersey."
People who take promoting peace to the point of obnoxious annoyance. The idea of world peace is great, in theory. And come on, do you know anyone who says, "Ya know, I'd really rather live in a world of death and destruction where there's swords everywhere and bombs going off all around me"? No, I guarantee you don't know anyone who says that. Everyone thinks it'd be fabulous if the earth was a serene and peaceful place, but it's just not a reality, so get over it and stop preaching hippie bullshit that can't be applied to the real world. I get excited about things too, kids. Let's start a revolution! But like I said, let's preach something that's actually applicable to today's world.
Toilets with a weak flush, totally lame.
Women who consistently make comments about how damn good they look. And even when it's in jest. Any woman with half an ounce of confidence does not feel the need to point out how hot she is all the time. So if anything, doing so actually defeats the point you're trying to make (that you're a secure and independent woman, Beyonce). I know a girl who's constantly telling stories about "how funny it was" when so and so hit on her, or "oh jeez, some dude tried to pick me up at the grocery store today, listen to what he said!.." And sometimes it IS funny, but other times it's just exhausting to listen to. Even the ugliest chicks ever have a humorous tale or two about some loser's pick up lines, and some of us could write a whole book on the topic, I'm sure. But letting everyone know how many times a day some asshole makes it known that he wants your ass shouldn't be a daily ritual. We all know you're easy on the eyes, pipe down.
Cheap ass son of a bitches are really lame too. Male and female. If I tell you that I don't wanna go out to dinner tonight because I'm broke as hell, then please don't stiff me when the bill comes. Even if I'm not broke as hell, you still shouldn't stiff me when the bill comes. You're the one who dragged me out of the house in the first place, and all I had was a drink and an appetizer! You know you should be putting down more money than you just did, SO DO IT. You really think nobody's gonna notice that you should have thrown in at least 10 more bucks? Wrong, and now we're never going out to dinner with you again.
Dogs named Buddy, cats named Tiger or Tigger, also totally lame.
Daily walks. It's nice to take an evening stroll, I enjoy it. And I can also see how it would be really exhilarating to occasionally start your morning off with a good cup of coffee and a brisk walk. But why do I always see the same lady or the same couple taking the exact same route, in the exact same place that they did the day before, day in and day out? That's not exciting at all. Can't you break away from the routine every once in a while and change it up a bit, make it a little more interesting maybe? And better yet, why do I have nothing better to do than stare out the window and criticize innocent speed walkers everywhere I go?
Hot as hell subway cars, lame. And really bad for the hair and makeup too. I spend all this time getting ready to go out, and then the "1" train comes truckin' down the line and fucks it all up for me. Now I look like a frizzy haired tranny with pit stains. And who wants to hang out with one of those? I know I don't, and if I wouldn't even wanna hang out with me, I might as well just go home. Can I get some AC, please?
Peeling a potato or a cucumber. I can't stand it. I'll do it, but it takes me forever. And it just isn't right that one should have to stand there, frustrated, flinging vegetable peels everywhere while they try and strip a potato of its dignity, forcing it into the nude. And then, after the misery of simply peeling them is finally over, you're left with a bunch of peels that accidentally got flung on the wall...no good. Beef wellington, on the other hand, I can totally do. And if anyone has a good recipe for stuffed peppers, I'd be into checking it out.
Wood paneling, outdated lame. Yea, the house I grew up in has it too, no worries.
Fat girls who stuff their feet into the wrong pair of heels, grotesquely lame. I'm by no means a skinny little white girl, and I'm all about embracing your curves and loving yourself at every size...but this just doesn't look right. If your feet are overflowing out of your shoes, crying to be released, something's very wrong. I mean, I know which types of shoes look good on my feet and which ones don't. And sometimes I have to put those cute strappy stilettos back up on the shelf because I know I just can't pull it off with my flat Fred Flinstone feet. Why can't you utilize the same good judgment?
Little kids talking shit, to smokers specifically. I wouldn't mention this if it hadn't happened to me more than once, but it has. Three times actually. And once I heard it happen to another god-awful smoker I know too, while we were on the phone. I guess I was a little relieved to hear that I wasn't the only one being ridiculed by youngsters. The last time it happened was a few weeks ago when an 8 year old walked past with an attitude, pointed at me, coughed and said, "Smoking is soOOOOO bad for you!!!" Oh really? So is talking shit to strangers. Maybe one day you'll enter your teenage years and get shot in the fucking knee cap for being disrespectful to people on the street. That would be really bad too, wouldn't it? You'd probably never walk the same. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong smoker. I'd like to thank the Truth ad campaign for turning little children into snotty know it all's.
Flies, fuckin' lame as hell. Mosquitos too.
And last but not least, people who are always blaming their problems on the rest of the world, finding a reason other than the one in the mirror as to why they're not achieving the desired results. It's really easy to take credit for all the great things you have in your life, but I think it's really rare to find a person who understands how to take credit for all the shit that pisses them off about their life too. You are responsible for your whole being, not just the good. Hold yourself accountable for your reality, your unhappiness, your lonliness, your nature, your procrastinating...your whatever. It's not about who's right and who's wrong, or what's right and what's wrong; it's about you and the way you handle adversities big and small. Take it, own it, accept it, question it, and then motherfucking change it. Don't change who you are, change how you respond to life. Your problems are not anyone else's fault, not anyone else's doing, not due to anyone else's actions. Your life sucks because of your own decisions. Your relationships end because of your behavior. Your job blows because you're too comfortable to find a new one. Your boyfriend is an asshole because you chose the wrong one. Your friends left because you let them. You did it. All of it. Whether you're able to admit it or not, your own agenda couldn't adapt to keep itself afloat. You didn't make the proper accomodations and compromises to keep yourself happy. If you're gonna get sad when he doesn't call the next day, then don't get drunk and have sex with that dickhead. If you didn't wanna call that bitch your girlfriend, then don't get pissed when she goes away. Again, you did that. And when you deny that it's all your own doing, you hand over the control without even realizing it. You're allowing someone or something else to dictate how you feel about your own situation. And you don't want that dickhead bitch having the control, do you? When you stop looking for someone to blame for your dissatisfaction you regain that control. And when you are the only one in control of everything in your life, you recognize that no one else is responsible for your greatness but you, and it's by your own doing that you're completely fulfilled. It's freedom. You're now on the other end of the spectrum, and it's fucking awesome, or so I've heard. Are we existing on a higher plane yet or what people?? Awww yea!!
Hey, really though, who the fuck am I to talk? I'm the lamest of my whole crew. ;)
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Love Potion #9
Listen! Her name's Adele, and the girl can't hit a wrong note. Pump up the volume, cuz the sound is really soft...
"I know you haven't made your mind up yet,
but I would never do you wrong.
I've known it from the moment that we met,
no doubt in my mind where you belong.
I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue,
I'd go crawling down the avenue.
No there's nothing that I wouldn't do,
to make you feel my love."
Am I just a sap, or is that some awesome shit?
If I'm being honest with myself, in the book of my life I've only felt a love that intense once. And just when you think you're in the clear, a random Youtube video comes along, brings it all back, and makes you cry your way into a sneezing fit (5 in a row!).
Now watch this one too. I've seen this band live a whole bunch, and the singer's voice resonates this richness like whoa. I don't know if it comes across in this video, but it's a good acoustic performace regardless. Smoking Popes - "I Know You Love Me."
You ever wanna make that phone call? "..you're a goddamn liar, I know you love me." Yea. Don't do it though, sometimes just because he loves you doesn't mean he'll ever be willing to say it out loud. RESTRAINING ORDER!
Speaking of restraining orders, I've been watching those around me do some crazy shit lately all in the name of love. Some of these things good, some bad, and some just crazy; taking drastic measures to mend broken hearts, making life altering decisions with complete strangers, telling huge lies in hopes of receiving a sympathetic reaction, acting out to get attention, even breaking laws. And like I said, it's not all bad. Sometimes the craziest stories have the happiest endings.
I don't know, just makes you wonder what's real and what's not. What penetrates its way into your heart and sticks forever, and what can be easily brushed off the surface when it's all over? Maybe some love goes so deep that it can live without its lovers until it knows the timing is right to bring them back together. Maybe two people can share a love so big that it continues to breathe and exist on its own even after the two have gone their separate ways. And maybe it always meets them again because it never died, it was just great enough to live on without them, waiting in the wings of eternity.
It's weird how sometimes our lives are a complete rollercoaster, and other times we're just waiting in line to get on the ride. And still other times, we'd rather just sit back and watch everyone else scream.
"I know you haven't made your mind up yet,
but I would never do you wrong.
I've known it from the moment that we met,
no doubt in my mind where you belong.
I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue,
I'd go crawling down the avenue.
No there's nothing that I wouldn't do,
to make you feel my love."
Am I just a sap, or is that some awesome shit?
If I'm being honest with myself, in the book of my life I've only felt a love that intense once. And just when you think you're in the clear, a random Youtube video comes along, brings it all back, and makes you cry your way into a sneezing fit (5 in a row!).
Now watch this one too. I've seen this band live a whole bunch, and the singer's voice resonates this richness like whoa. I don't know if it comes across in this video, but it's a good acoustic performace regardless. Smoking Popes - "I Know You Love Me."
You ever wanna make that phone call? "..you're a goddamn liar, I know you love me." Yea. Don't do it though, sometimes just because he loves you doesn't mean he'll ever be willing to say it out loud. RESTRAINING ORDER!
Speaking of restraining orders, I've been watching those around me do some crazy shit lately all in the name of love. Some of these things good, some bad, and some just crazy; taking drastic measures to mend broken hearts, making life altering decisions with complete strangers, telling huge lies in hopes of receiving a sympathetic reaction, acting out to get attention, even breaking laws. And like I said, it's not all bad. Sometimes the craziest stories have the happiest endings.
I don't know, just makes you wonder what's real and what's not. What penetrates its way into your heart and sticks forever, and what can be easily brushed off the surface when it's all over? Maybe some love goes so deep that it can live without its lovers until it knows the timing is right to bring them back together. Maybe two people can share a love so big that it continues to breathe and exist on its own even after the two have gone their separate ways. And maybe it always meets them again because it never died, it was just great enough to live on without them, waiting in the wings of eternity.
It's weird how sometimes our lives are a complete rollercoaster, and other times we're just waiting in line to get on the ride. And still other times, we'd rather just sit back and watch everyone else scream.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Taboo
Not that anything I talk about in cyberspace receives much traffic or that I'm important enough to create any sort of buzz, but nonetheless, there are certain things I won't speak of publicly on the internet. They are as follows:
My Mom. I have a weird relationship with my Mom. Don't get me wrong, she's been a great Mom, no doubt. But we don't have the same way of processing things, and she's very sensitive about certain issues. So I guess I fear that sharing my perspective on some of those issues would potentially damage us forever. And so I just won't go there.
My friends. I like to talk about my friends quite freely, because they're all pretty unique and interesting characters who make for good times and good story telling. But I'll rarely use names when I'm looking for specific examples in order to make a point. If you're part of my particular inner circle, you just might be able figure out who's who due to your own observations...but that's your call.
My loves. These are few and far between. I love love, corny as that is. Love is the only thing worth living/dying for, and that in itself just really fascinates the shit out of me. But I also have a pretty good understanding of the fact that, no matter how "right" I think I am in certain situations, there are still two sides to every story. I'm sure my opinion of the things that have taken place in my life is very different from the opinions of the other parties involved. And who's really to say which one of us is right? That's not up to me. This being so, if I've felt deeply for you at one point in my life, I won't ever totally talk shit about you. Some things are always sacred. And nobody really deserves that, even if you were a big asshole. I might mention a thing or two about my feelings for you, but I'm pretty good at keeping things fairly objective. Unless you're one of my girls, that is. In which case, I'm gonna call you up and tell you how it really went down, like, "listen to what the prick did this time!.." wink wink.
So if you fall into one of those categories, you can breathe a small sigh of relief.
Moving along, this next person absolutely did not fall into any of those categories, and I highly doubt he or any of his friends can even read anyway....
I got a text the other night from a number I didn't recognize (his was one I'd deleted to make more room in my phone, and you'll see why in a second). I'm gonna punctuate and abbreviate exactly the same way he did too, so you see what an idiot he is...
"Hey lori"
Like I said, I don't know the number, so I don't respond.
5 minutes later..
"its insert douchebag's name"
But no last name, and a really common first name...so it's still not clicking.
Me - "_____ who?"
"_____ __________. we use ta get wastd and makeott"
Oh you mean, "We used to get wasted and make out." Now I know who you are. It's great to hear that that's how you remember me. It explains why you only took me out on one real date the 2 months we hung out. You couldn't have said something like, "we met at blah blah blah" or "yea, you know, so and so's friend.."?
No no...instead we just used to get drunk and dry hump. Thank you.
So this is the route I took with that one:
Me - "Ooooh yea! And then one night you whispered in my ear that you were a VIRGIN, and that was a little too much for me to handle at my age, so we pretty much stopped hanging out after that."
See, what's your face? I have a sense of humor too! And I still can't figure out why you were trying to get on me all the time if you'd never laid pipe in your life. Did you really think I was "The One" or something? I doubt it.
"ummm ya i guess"
Me - "So what's up?"
"im gona b inthe city n i was wndering if i could slep at ur place sat"
Wait a second. We haven't talked in a YEAR, you text me with some really rude fucking intro like that, and now you wanna know if you could "slep" at my place on Saturday? THAT'S JUST FANTASTIC!
Me - "No, you most definitely cannot."
Lately I'm not as tolerant as I usually am, and I don't know why. If you want to talk to me about some real shit, then welcome. But if you're going to gloss over past fuck-up's and play a fake little game, then no thanks. Come correct, or don't come at all. Better yet, just go home all together. Cuz I'm tired of doing all the work.
My Mom. I have a weird relationship with my Mom. Don't get me wrong, she's been a great Mom, no doubt. But we don't have the same way of processing things, and she's very sensitive about certain issues. So I guess I fear that sharing my perspective on some of those issues would potentially damage us forever. And so I just won't go there.
My friends. I like to talk about my friends quite freely, because they're all pretty unique and interesting characters who make for good times and good story telling. But I'll rarely use names when I'm looking for specific examples in order to make a point. If you're part of my particular inner circle, you just might be able figure out who's who due to your own observations...but that's your call.
My loves. These are few and far between. I love love, corny as that is. Love is the only thing worth living/dying for, and that in itself just really fascinates the shit out of me. But I also have a pretty good understanding of the fact that, no matter how "right" I think I am in certain situations, there are still two sides to every story. I'm sure my opinion of the things that have taken place in my life is very different from the opinions of the other parties involved. And who's really to say which one of us is right? That's not up to me. This being so, if I've felt deeply for you at one point in my life, I won't ever totally talk shit about you. Some things are always sacred. And nobody really deserves that, even if you were a big asshole. I might mention a thing or two about my feelings for you, but I'm pretty good at keeping things fairly objective. Unless you're one of my girls, that is. In which case, I'm gonna call you up and tell you how it really went down, like, "listen to what the prick did this time!.." wink wink.
So if you fall into one of those categories, you can breathe a small sigh of relief.
Moving along, this next person absolutely did not fall into any of those categories, and I highly doubt he or any of his friends can even read anyway....
I got a text the other night from a number I didn't recognize (his was one I'd deleted to make more room in my phone, and you'll see why in a second). I'm gonna punctuate and abbreviate exactly the same way he did too, so you see what an idiot he is...
"Hey lori"
Like I said, I don't know the number, so I don't respond.
5 minutes later..
"its insert douchebag's name"
But no last name, and a really common first name...so it's still not clicking.
Me - "_____ who?"
"_____ __________. we use ta get wastd and makeott"
Oh you mean, "We used to get wasted and make out." Now I know who you are. It's great to hear that that's how you remember me. It explains why you only took me out on one real date the 2 months we hung out. You couldn't have said something like, "we met at blah blah blah" or "yea, you know, so and so's friend.."?
No no...instead we just used to get drunk and dry hump. Thank you.
So this is the route I took with that one:
Me - "Ooooh yea! And then one night you whispered in my ear that you were a VIRGIN, and that was a little too much for me to handle at my age, so we pretty much stopped hanging out after that."
See, what's your face? I have a sense of humor too! And I still can't figure out why you were trying to get on me all the time if you'd never laid pipe in your life. Did you really think I was "The One" or something? I doubt it.
"ummm ya i guess"
Me - "So what's up?"
"im gona b inthe city n i was wndering if i could slep at ur place sat"
Wait a second. We haven't talked in a YEAR, you text me with some really rude fucking intro like that, and now you wanna know if you could "slep" at my place on Saturday? THAT'S JUST FANTASTIC!
Me - "No, you most definitely cannot."
Lately I'm not as tolerant as I usually am, and I don't know why. If you want to talk to me about some real shit, then welcome. But if you're going to gloss over past fuck-up's and play a fake little game, then no thanks. Come correct, or don't come at all. Better yet, just go home all together. Cuz I'm tired of doing all the work.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
3 and counting
A few weeks ago I mentioned here that I set my default ringtone to "Warning" by Notorious BIG..."Who the hell is this, pagin' me at 5:46 in the mornin'?..."
And I said something along the lines of, "Just once I wanna get a call at 5:46 a.m. on the Biggie Smalls dot."...
Well I've gotten 3 now. And I just wanted to say thank you. It's the little things, ya know?
Much love.
And I said something along the lines of, "Just once I wanna get a call at 5:46 a.m. on the Biggie Smalls dot."...
Well I've gotten 3 now. And I just wanted to say thank you. It's the little things, ya know?
Much love.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Ann & John
Those are my grandparents on my Mom's side. Nana and Papa (Grandpa and Grandma were used on my Dad's side). I really love this picture. Nana was 15 when it was taken, and the back reads "Summer of 1939." They were married that same year.
Ann won beauty pageants in her day, and she really just sparkled with a sassy little sweetness that never went unnoticed (the sass for the rest of the world, the sweet reserved for those she loved). She tried to use the attention she got from other men to get the attention of her own husband, but I've grown up under the impression that it never worked out that way. She used to call each of us "sugarplum," even on her death bed she was calling us sugarplums. And she had stories about the depression; the dresses she wore were ones her Mom had made out of burlap potato sacks, and they'd eat lard sandwiches for lunch. "It's like Crisco," she told me.
John was a scrappy, wiry man who lacked any type of social grace or compassion. I'm not sure if he was born in this awful condition, or if the war really did change him forever. He was sent to the Philippines during WWII, and I only heard him make reference to it once. He said something about waking up next to men with their heads cut off. I can't imagine what that'd do to a person's psyche, but regardless, he was a physically abusive alcoholic (despite what sugar coated bullshit some of his children might tell you..I guess I don't really blame them though).
Although I really don't have many memories indicating so, I was Papa's favorite granchild (I'll never hear the end of it from my cousin Jen). I guess the fact that he even paid attention to me at all meant that he loved me, and maybe I was just supposed to know that as a kid. But I didn't, and as I grew older I felt nothing but resentment towards him. He hurt a lot of people in ways that he didn't even know. And I guess since he really didn't know, it was hard for some people to hold it against him. But for whatever "cold-hearted" reason, it wasn't hard for me to hold it against him at all...
I can remember us planting cucumbers in the back yard together, but I can also remember him calling me a "fat ass kid" every time I wanted a juicebox or a popsicle. And I can remember him letting me color the driveway pink with chalk, but making me come inside the house when the "chocolate drops" across the street wanted to come color with me. After I turned 18, the first thing out of his mouth every time he saw me was, "What the hell is wrong with you, ya old maid?! Go make some babies of your own!" Or "What the hell are you wasting your parents money for going to college?! Can't ya just find a husband already??" He was telling me this when I was 19 years old. And he was totally serious.
As a couple, Ann and John would live to see 6 children, 15 grandchildren, and 13 great grandchildren. They would be married for over 55 years. Bravo, kids. Bra-vo.
Nana would throw little fits from time to time and try to put Papa in his place, not speaking to him for days at a time, even leaving him on occasion. But in the end he never changed, and in the end she always came back. And she would continue to come back until the day she died. My head can't quite figure out why, but my heart knows the answer...
"Love is patient, love is kind...Love is not forward or self seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." - 1 Corinthians 3:4-7
I understand all that, and I've now felt for myself a love so strong it's blind to wrongdoing. But what I don't understand is why she was constantly defending him. She always had a reason, she always had an excuse, and she could always justify what he was. And there's definitely something really noble in that, but come on, everyone KNEW what an asshole he was. We didn't need her to explain it to us, we just knew he was mean. So who did she think she was kidding? None of us were oblivious to the fact that she was married to Archie Bunker, but I think maybe she was.
Maybe if she'd stepped aside and let someone rip him a new asshole once or twice, he wouldn't have gotten as belligerent as he always did. Maybe he would have questioned his antics on occasion if she'd tucked away a little of the love and respect she had for him and saved some of it for herself. Maybe he would have examined his non-existent relationships with people if she'd let him deal with the consequences of his behavior for once.
"It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages." - Friedrich Nietzsche
Or maybe things would have been better if he'd treated her as a friend before he acted as her keeper. Maybe he would have held himself more accountable for his actions if he'd taken on his wife first as a friend, and then as a cook. Maybe he would have learned to accept responsibility for his harmful words if he'd looked for the respect and advice of his friend before he looked for someone to batter. And maybe he wouldn't have been hitting on a waitress all the time if he'd just taken a moment to glance across the table at his beautiful best friend, his biggest fan, his most devoted companion.
When Nana died, I wondered if Papa would have some regrets. He'd treated unfairly the one who'd loved him most, and I wondered if he'd ever see it. He was a lonely old man who'd made one real friend throughout his entire life, and now she was gone. I witnessed it humble him somehow, very slightly, but nontheless. It turns out that there was a heart in there after all, and I think his last few years were miserable without his better half. I think he realized how much she contributed to his happiness, and how much pride she sacrificed to love him.
My Grandparents are both gone now, so I guess the semantics of their relationship are really of no significance at this point. The only conclusion I can come to is that, wherever they are, Ann and John are there together. Because some bonds are everlasting. And that's deeper than any semantics.
Electric Youth
I think I was in 3rd grade the year Debbie Gibson came out with her own fragrance collection...
Electric Youth. And I was in love. I was even in love with that hot pink coil that shot down the middle of the bottle.
These days I've acquired a more sophisticated palate for scent, and the signature spice of my bouquet is no longer found on the shelves of a CVS or a Walgreen's. But there's nothing like that first spritz of light sugary sweetness that makes a 9 year old want to spray it all over her pillow at night...that way I could even smell it in my naive pixie dust filled dreams of Kirk Cameron.
Designer fragrance and I will probably continue our torrid love affair until I'm an old woman...but this is where it all began. Thanks, Debbie. I wish I still got off for $9.99.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Dear Dad
Dear Dad,
I was at work the moment you were taken from this earth. Ironically enough, I was employed at a record store the day my music died. I got a page over the PA, and when I got downstairs Uncle Lonnie was standing at the register. It was weird, and when I said hello and asked him what he was doing there, he just said, "You've gotta come home now." That same week, we'd visited Nana in the hospital, so I thought God had taken her instead. But as we were walking through the parking lot, he didn't say a word. I started to feel like maybe something else was going on, and so I asked him, "Hey, is my Mom alright?"
"Yea, your Mom's alright."
My next instinct was to ask if you were ok too. And I can only imagine what was going through Uncle Lonnie's head..."...please don't say it, please don't ask about your Dad...."
I thought it, I really did. I thought, "Is my Dad ok?" But I didn't say it out loud, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe you were telling me not to. Maybe you were telling me not to ask him. You always were the only one who could keep me from opening my damn mouth.
We pulled up in front of our house and there were all these cars on the street. This is where everything becomes surreal. I saw a million cars parked outside, and I kept scanning the block for your truck, but it wasn't there. As soon as I didn't see it, I knew something was wrong. But in my fairytale world, I thought I'd walk through the front door and see you standing there. And you'd have a really good explanation as to why the whole family was over, and why your car wasn't parked outside like everyone else's.
But you weren't there, you weren't there ever again. And all the cars outside were there mourning our loss. I don't know about everyone else who was there that night, but I still mourn that loss. Most days. And even in my sleep. I find myself happy, but it's hard not to think about you.
I hurried inside and left Uncle Lonnie. The first person I saw was Rose. She looked at me, she looked down at the floor, and she cried. Everyone was just staring at me as I walked through the living room. And when I met Mom in the kitchen, she couldn't look at me either. There were a hundred faces there, but no one was saying a word, everyone was just crying. I looked at Mom and I said, "What?? What is it?!?..."
And that's when life changed forever.
"Lor, Dad was killed in an accident at work today..."
I heard her, but I didn't hear her. It was like I was a little kid again and my brain couldn't comprehend what she was telling me. I couldn't wrap my head around the idea of a world without you. My soul couldn't keep me from falling, and I collapsed. Everything went numb and I fell to my knees. I remember someone lifting me up off the floor, but part of me is still lying there in the kitchen, waiting for you to get home from work. I'm sorry that I wasn't around more in those last few months. I'm sorry that I was out getting wasted with my friends while you were at home being a good Dad.
I'm so
so
sorry.
I'm ashamed, and I'm sorry. Maybe I wouldn't miss you so much if I'd acted like the daughter you deserved.
I don't remember what happened over the next few hours, I don't even remember the next year or so, to tell you the truth. But a few days later, someone had to go to the Cook County coroner's office to pick up the belongings that were in your pockets the day Heaven called you Home. I was elected. They warned me that sometimes "in situations like this" your belongings might be a little messy. And I imagined what a morbid scenario I could have been walking into. But I wouldn't have cared if your wallet was stained with what just couldn't be your blood, Dad. I wouldn't have cared if the stick of Carmex you kept in your pocket somehow indicated how much pain you felt in the split second that would steal you away. I wanted to do it anyway. I knew that I could. So I stepped from the waiting room into the medical examiner's office, I looked at the man through the glass, and I didn't know what to say.
"Name?" he asked.
I didn't know if he meant my name or yours. So I gave him our name, I gave him the last name that you'd given me. And I felt proud. I spelled it for him, slowly, with no tears, and with as much dignity as you would have. Did you see me that day? Were you there? Are you here right now, Dad? I miss you. I miss you so much. And I know that people say I'm supposed to feel better as time goes by, but it never goes away. I still always miss you, no matter how old I get.
Remember how whenever a long funeral procession would drive past, you'd never get pissed at how long you had to wait for them all? And instead you'd just smile and say, "Man, a lotta people must have loved that guy." That was your funeral, Dad! There were so many cars, you stopped traffic for a good half hour! And all day there was a line waiting at your closed casket, I didn't even know half the people there. It was just like you said, a whole lot of people loved you.
I used to have these dreams that you'd sneak over to the house to visit us again. And you'd tell us not to be so sad, that you just had to go away for a while, and that you'd come back when you could. Sometimes it was something weird, like you were abducted by aliens or something. And other times it was because you were on secret missions or the mafia had kidnapped you, or something like that. But then one time, I dreamt that I was at the grocery store, over by the pharmacy, and you came peeking around the corner. You looked at me and smiled, and all of the sudden you were standing right there next to the Tylenol. And I was so shocked to see you, it was like I knew you weren't supposed to be there. And I didn't want you to leave again, I wanted to stay there in the grocery store with you for as long as I could, and I got all frantic trying to think of ways to keep you there.
"Dad, what are you doing here??"
But you didn't say anything, you just reached out and held my hand. It was the very hand that I'd held as a little girl, and it felt exactly the same. It was so real, Dad! It was like it wasn't a dream at all. It was your hand, and I was holding it, and it felt exactly the same. It was like you were really there, and I could remember your hands just as they were. I remembered exactly what it felt like in mine, crossing the street, walking across the church parking lot, at the pumpkin patch on Halloween...it was that very same hand.
Sometimes I think our dreams are your way of paying us a visit. Is it against the rules for you to pay us a visit like that? I think it might be, but I think you might do it anyway.
A few months ago one of your friends emailed me. Mom gave him my email address. It was weird though, weird in a cool way, but it was almost like he was looking to me for a little piece of you. I hope I helped him find that little piece of reflection, but I don't know. He told me stories about the band, and I guess he was one of the guys who smoked cigars with you the night I was born. When I emailed him back, I tried to say everything just right because I didn't want to make you look bad. But I didn't really know what to say, and I didn't know what you'd want me to say. So I just tried to show him that I'm intelligent, that I'm loyal, that I'm competent, and that I'm respectable (I didn't swear once). Not for my sake, but for yours. I wanted to show him what a good job you did, I hope I did alright.
Mark still has the mini bikes and go carts that you guys used to ride. AND he just finished rebuilding your truck. He rebuilt the whole thing all by himself. We all gathered in the garage when he started it up for the first time, and you should have heard it, Dad! He put this hot rod engine in there, and it sounds awesome. I'm pretty sure you'd love it. And Leah is engaged! Her fiance's name is Phil, and I'm pretty sure you'd love him too. He takes care of her. I think she's having Grampa walk her down the aisle, and I hope you get a little glimpse of the whole thing from Upstairs. Carissa is in school and wants to be an English teacher. The first tattoo she got was one in memory of you. She's turned out more like Mom than any of the rest of us, and she has a boyfriend who drives her around in this old white limo. It's a little rusty, but it's a real limo that he drives around town, and for some reason I think you'd kinda dig it.
I'm 27 now. I don't use drugs, and I haven't even smoked pot since I was 19. I do like to drink expensive vodka, but I'm definitely not an alcoholic. And I don't smoke in front of Mom, the same way you didn't. I know you were scared to fly, but I was a flight attendant for 2 years and there's really nothing to be afraid of. I'm going back to school full time in the fall, and I don't have any babies yet, but someday I'd like some. 2 or 3 boys maybe, and one girl named Annelise Isabella. Annelise is Danish, Isabella, Italian. And I know I'm neither, but you know how I do. I want her to be the youngest so she has big brothers to keep an eye on her.
I wish I knew what you'd think of me if you were sitting here right now. I don't know if I'm different or the same, I don't know if you'd approve of my decisions, I don't know if I've changed because you're not here, and I don't know if you'd be proud of who I am or disappointed in what I've become. I don't even know if you know that I'm 27. I'm always thinking about you though, the other day I downloaded some Peter Frampton and thought of you. I'm always trying to figure out what you'd tell me if you were here, what advice you'd give, or even just what you'd say about the weather or the war. I wonder if you'd like my friends, I wonder if you'd encourage me to stay in New York or tell me to go back to Chicago, I wonder if you'd still like orange juice so much or if you'd ever call my cell phone...and I wonder if you wish you were still here the same way we do. Most of the time, I just wish I could talk to you. Sometimes I forget how long it's been since you've been gone; sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes it feels like an eternity. I guess all I'd like you to know is that I take everything you taught me and I carry it with me every day. We all do. I apply the character you instilled in me to everything I do, and when someone says they like me, it really just means they like you.
So thanks. Thanks for being a good man. Thanks for being an even better Father. Thanks for sharing with me the power of music and guiding my fingers over the strings of a guitar. Thanks for educating us by virtue of integrity and respect. Thanks for teaching every kid on the block how to ride a bike when their own Dad's were too busy. Thanks for showing us that money is nothing and happiness is everything. Thanks for leaving us all with the best memories a childhood could ask for. We love you. We miss you. See you soon.
Lori
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just an aside here - My Dad was awesome and he was around until I was 20. Therefore, I've never considered myself one of those chicks with a "Daddy complex," and I really have no problem talking objectively about my Dad at all. What I do seem to have a problem with is discussing my feelings about the whole thing, so it was cool to do this. I wrote it quite a while ago, but felt weird about posting it anywhere...but then I figured fuck it, there are a lot of people in my life who don't know much about my past and might be interested in reading a little something like this. So I did a little editing to make it current, and voila. ;)
I was at work the moment you were taken from this earth. Ironically enough, I was employed at a record store the day my music died. I got a page over the PA, and when I got downstairs Uncle Lonnie was standing at the register. It was weird, and when I said hello and asked him what he was doing there, he just said, "You've gotta come home now." That same week, we'd visited Nana in the hospital, so I thought God had taken her instead. But as we were walking through the parking lot, he didn't say a word. I started to feel like maybe something else was going on, and so I asked him, "Hey, is my Mom alright?"
"Yea, your Mom's alright."
My next instinct was to ask if you were ok too. And I can only imagine what was going through Uncle Lonnie's head..."...please don't say it, please don't ask about your Dad...."
I thought it, I really did. I thought, "Is my Dad ok?" But I didn't say it out loud, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe you were telling me not to. Maybe you were telling me not to ask him. You always were the only one who could keep me from opening my damn mouth.
We pulled up in front of our house and there were all these cars on the street. This is where everything becomes surreal. I saw a million cars parked outside, and I kept scanning the block for your truck, but it wasn't there. As soon as I didn't see it, I knew something was wrong. But in my fairytale world, I thought I'd walk through the front door and see you standing there. And you'd have a really good explanation as to why the whole family was over, and why your car wasn't parked outside like everyone else's.
But you weren't there, you weren't there ever again. And all the cars outside were there mourning our loss. I don't know about everyone else who was there that night, but I still mourn that loss. Most days. And even in my sleep. I find myself happy, but it's hard not to think about you.
I hurried inside and left Uncle Lonnie. The first person I saw was Rose. She looked at me, she looked down at the floor, and she cried. Everyone was just staring at me as I walked through the living room. And when I met Mom in the kitchen, she couldn't look at me either. There were a hundred faces there, but no one was saying a word, everyone was just crying. I looked at Mom and I said, "What?? What is it?!?..."
And that's when life changed forever.
"Lor, Dad was killed in an accident at work today..."
I heard her, but I didn't hear her. It was like I was a little kid again and my brain couldn't comprehend what she was telling me. I couldn't wrap my head around the idea of a world without you. My soul couldn't keep me from falling, and I collapsed. Everything went numb and I fell to my knees. I remember someone lifting me up off the floor, but part of me is still lying there in the kitchen, waiting for you to get home from work. I'm sorry that I wasn't around more in those last few months. I'm sorry that I was out getting wasted with my friends while you were at home being a good Dad.
I'm so
so
sorry.
I'm ashamed, and I'm sorry. Maybe I wouldn't miss you so much if I'd acted like the daughter you deserved.
I don't remember what happened over the next few hours, I don't even remember the next year or so, to tell you the truth. But a few days later, someone had to go to the Cook County coroner's office to pick up the belongings that were in your pockets the day Heaven called you Home. I was elected. They warned me that sometimes "in situations like this" your belongings might be a little messy. And I imagined what a morbid scenario I could have been walking into. But I wouldn't have cared if your wallet was stained with what just couldn't be your blood, Dad. I wouldn't have cared if the stick of Carmex you kept in your pocket somehow indicated how much pain you felt in the split second that would steal you away. I wanted to do it anyway. I knew that I could. So I stepped from the waiting room into the medical examiner's office, I looked at the man through the glass, and I didn't know what to say.
"Name?" he asked.
I didn't know if he meant my name or yours. So I gave him our name, I gave him the last name that you'd given me. And I felt proud. I spelled it for him, slowly, with no tears, and with as much dignity as you would have. Did you see me that day? Were you there? Are you here right now, Dad? I miss you. I miss you so much. And I know that people say I'm supposed to feel better as time goes by, but it never goes away. I still always miss you, no matter how old I get.
Remember how whenever a long funeral procession would drive past, you'd never get pissed at how long you had to wait for them all? And instead you'd just smile and say, "Man, a lotta people must have loved that guy." That was your funeral, Dad! There were so many cars, you stopped traffic for a good half hour! And all day there was a line waiting at your closed casket, I didn't even know half the people there. It was just like you said, a whole lot of people loved you.
I used to have these dreams that you'd sneak over to the house to visit us again. And you'd tell us not to be so sad, that you just had to go away for a while, and that you'd come back when you could. Sometimes it was something weird, like you were abducted by aliens or something. And other times it was because you were on secret missions or the mafia had kidnapped you, or something like that. But then one time, I dreamt that I was at the grocery store, over by the pharmacy, and you came peeking around the corner. You looked at me and smiled, and all of the sudden you were standing right there next to the Tylenol. And I was so shocked to see you, it was like I knew you weren't supposed to be there. And I didn't want you to leave again, I wanted to stay there in the grocery store with you for as long as I could, and I got all frantic trying to think of ways to keep you there.
"Dad, what are you doing here??"
But you didn't say anything, you just reached out and held my hand. It was the very hand that I'd held as a little girl, and it felt exactly the same. It was so real, Dad! It was like it wasn't a dream at all. It was your hand, and I was holding it, and it felt exactly the same. It was like you were really there, and I could remember your hands just as they were. I remembered exactly what it felt like in mine, crossing the street, walking across the church parking lot, at the pumpkin patch on Halloween...it was that very same hand.
Sometimes I think our dreams are your way of paying us a visit. Is it against the rules for you to pay us a visit like that? I think it might be, but I think you might do it anyway.
A few months ago one of your friends emailed me. Mom gave him my email address. It was weird though, weird in a cool way, but it was almost like he was looking to me for a little piece of you. I hope I helped him find that little piece of reflection, but I don't know. He told me stories about the band, and I guess he was one of the guys who smoked cigars with you the night I was born. When I emailed him back, I tried to say everything just right because I didn't want to make you look bad. But I didn't really know what to say, and I didn't know what you'd want me to say. So I just tried to show him that I'm intelligent, that I'm loyal, that I'm competent, and that I'm respectable (I didn't swear once). Not for my sake, but for yours. I wanted to show him what a good job you did, I hope I did alright.
Mark still has the mini bikes and go carts that you guys used to ride. AND he just finished rebuilding your truck. He rebuilt the whole thing all by himself. We all gathered in the garage when he started it up for the first time, and you should have heard it, Dad! He put this hot rod engine in there, and it sounds awesome. I'm pretty sure you'd love it. And Leah is engaged! Her fiance's name is Phil, and I'm pretty sure you'd love him too. He takes care of her. I think she's having Grampa walk her down the aisle, and I hope you get a little glimpse of the whole thing from Upstairs. Carissa is in school and wants to be an English teacher. The first tattoo she got was one in memory of you. She's turned out more like Mom than any of the rest of us, and she has a boyfriend who drives her around in this old white limo. It's a little rusty, but it's a real limo that he drives around town, and for some reason I think you'd kinda dig it.
I'm 27 now. I don't use drugs, and I haven't even smoked pot since I was 19. I do like to drink expensive vodka, but I'm definitely not an alcoholic. And I don't smoke in front of Mom, the same way you didn't. I know you were scared to fly, but I was a flight attendant for 2 years and there's really nothing to be afraid of. I'm going back to school full time in the fall, and I don't have any babies yet, but someday I'd like some. 2 or 3 boys maybe, and one girl named Annelise Isabella. Annelise is Danish, Isabella, Italian. And I know I'm neither, but you know how I do. I want her to be the youngest so she has big brothers to keep an eye on her.
I wish I knew what you'd think of me if you were sitting here right now. I don't know if I'm different or the same, I don't know if you'd approve of my decisions, I don't know if I've changed because you're not here, and I don't know if you'd be proud of who I am or disappointed in what I've become. I don't even know if you know that I'm 27. I'm always thinking about you though, the other day I downloaded some Peter Frampton and thought of you. I'm always trying to figure out what you'd tell me if you were here, what advice you'd give, or even just what you'd say about the weather or the war. I wonder if you'd like my friends, I wonder if you'd encourage me to stay in New York or tell me to go back to Chicago, I wonder if you'd still like orange juice so much or if you'd ever call my cell phone...and I wonder if you wish you were still here the same way we do. Most of the time, I just wish I could talk to you. Sometimes I forget how long it's been since you've been gone; sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes it feels like an eternity. I guess all I'd like you to know is that I take everything you taught me and I carry it with me every day. We all do. I apply the character you instilled in me to everything I do, and when someone says they like me, it really just means they like you.
So thanks. Thanks for being a good man. Thanks for being an even better Father. Thanks for sharing with me the power of music and guiding my fingers over the strings of a guitar. Thanks for educating us by virtue of integrity and respect. Thanks for teaching every kid on the block how to ride a bike when their own Dad's were too busy. Thanks for showing us that money is nothing and happiness is everything. Thanks for leaving us all with the best memories a childhood could ask for. We love you. We miss you. See you soon.
Lori
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just an aside here - My Dad was awesome and he was around until I was 20. Therefore, I've never considered myself one of those chicks with a "Daddy complex," and I really have no problem talking objectively about my Dad at all. What I do seem to have a problem with is discussing my feelings about the whole thing, so it was cool to do this. I wrote it quite a while ago, but felt weird about posting it anywhere...but then I figured fuck it, there are a lot of people in my life who don't know much about my past and might be interested in reading a little something like this. So I did a little editing to make it current, and voila. ;)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Published?
A few months ago I submitted something that I wrote to this literary review. It was just a short little piece of fiction, and I totally forgot that I'd even sent it.
So today my roommate texts me and tells me that an envelope with my own handwriting on it came in the mail. As soon as she said it, I remembered sitting at the desk in our living room, writing out a self-addressed stamped envelope and sending it out to (the publication that shall remain nameless).
"Oh shit..." is what I text back.
I was afraid, but I told her to open it....
And its contents turned out to be my very first formal letter of rejection.
The shitty part is this - I went to Barnes and Noble and thumbed through that magazine before I sent anything to their editors. And the writing in it was super stuffy sounding, weird, boring bullshit. And so that's why I thought they'd accept my submission. My logic was, "Wow, this stuff sucks, mine's better, send it in." I guess my stuff isn't better after all. ;)
And that's totally ok...
Because the good part is this - It feels pretty cool to get a written record of the fact that I actually tried. I have proof that I took a chance and I tried, ya know (even if it was only in the miniscule form of a literary review)? And that's a nice feeling that I think I'd like to invite back again soon. I'm pretty sure I can take it, and the mere attempt seems like sort of an accomplishment in itself.
Maybe if I never "make it," I can artfully design a book consisting solely of rejection letters. I could make it all hipster-y looking, and give it a "it's cool to fail as long as you try and have bangs" feel. Pages upon pages, put together to create a huge array of entertainingly sad denials from publications in every nation. Yea, I think I might have a new goal.
My Mom used to take a ceramics class where she'd paint garden gnomes, among other things. Here's a picture of one, who looked way cooler after this pink flowery bush blossomed around him (give him a name) -
So today my roommate texts me and tells me that an envelope with my own handwriting on it came in the mail. As soon as she said it, I remembered sitting at the desk in our living room, writing out a self-addressed stamped envelope and sending it out to (the publication that shall remain nameless).
"Oh shit..." is what I text back.
I was afraid, but I told her to open it....
And its contents turned out to be my very first formal letter of rejection.
The shitty part is this - I went to Barnes and Noble and thumbed through that magazine before I sent anything to their editors. And the writing in it was super stuffy sounding, weird, boring bullshit. And so that's why I thought they'd accept my submission. My logic was, "Wow, this stuff sucks, mine's better, send it in." I guess my stuff isn't better after all. ;)
And that's totally ok...
Because the good part is this - It feels pretty cool to get a written record of the fact that I actually tried. I have proof that I took a chance and I tried, ya know (even if it was only in the miniscule form of a literary review)? And that's a nice feeling that I think I'd like to invite back again soon. I'm pretty sure I can take it, and the mere attempt seems like sort of an accomplishment in itself.
Maybe if I never "make it," I can artfully design a book consisting solely of rejection letters. I could make it all hipster-y looking, and give it a "it's cool to fail as long as you try and have bangs" feel. Pages upon pages, put together to create a huge array of entertainingly sad denials from publications in every nation. Yea, I think I might have a new goal.
My Mom used to take a ceramics class where she'd paint garden gnomes, among other things. Here's a picture of one, who looked way cooler after this pink flowery bush blossomed around him (give him a name) -
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
If I had a few billion
...Aside from what I'd do for my loved ones, here's what I'd do for me (until I figured out what billionaires really do with their money) -
1. I'd buy a small place to live in Lisbon, Portugal. I'd spend 3 consecutive months of the year there, just doing whatever my hopeful heart desired. I'd drink bica and eat olives during the day, and at night I'd wander around underneath the moon trying to speak Portuguese to anyone who'd let me. And I can't remember if there are lightening bugs in Portugal, but it would be nice if they were there too.
2. I'd post weird ad's on craigslist and handsomely reward the most thoughtful respondents.
3. I'd pay a psychiatrist to answer me the following questions: a). Why, shrink, why, does my incessant over-thinking always get in the way of all that I could be doing? b). Mr. Freudylicious, if I had such a great Daddy, why am I always in love with some insensitive prick? and c). Dr. Crazypants, am I insanely delusional if, at 27, I still believe that dreams really do come true?
4. I'd get lasik eye surgery. I absolutely loathe getting up to take out my contacts at night.
5. I'd walk down Canal St. and purchase every cheap piece of shit that tickled my fancy. Not because I need them or even want them, but because my imagination seems to have more fun while its hands are sifting through fake gold and plastic. Little street treasures urge my thoughts to tiptoe to another place for a minute, and costume jewelry incites a more interesting story than most of the beautiful people I meet.
6. I'd give Paul McCartney a pretty penny to come over to my house and perform "Maybe I'm Amazed." And he'd sing...
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song
You right me when I'm wrong
Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you
7. I'd buy this car -
8. I'd hire a film crew to document my life for a year. I'd tell them to edit it however they saw fit, and then I'd sit down with some raisinets and watch the way my life had unfolded through someone else's eyes.
9. I'd find a huge apartment in New York City and lavishly furnish it with things from around the globe. Pretty things, strange things, inexpensive things, priceless things, things that serve no purpose, things that make you think, things that make you feel sexy. Then when people came over they could ponder all the possible back stories as to where I picked this and that piece up or who I met along the way. I would tell them if they asked, but I'd rather they made up their own scenarios..the same way I do on Canal St.
10. I'd buy an ice cream truck and change the music so it bumped dirty sounding house beats that make you shake your culo. And you would too. I'd drive it to the club and hand out free Choco-Tacos to drunk people. And maybe even give some of them a ride home.
*Editor's note - Post inspiration: my gemstone turban wearing partner in crime, eviltart (http://www.myspace.com/eviltart).
1. I'd buy a small place to live in Lisbon, Portugal. I'd spend 3 consecutive months of the year there, just doing whatever my hopeful heart desired. I'd drink bica and eat olives during the day, and at night I'd wander around underneath the moon trying to speak Portuguese to anyone who'd let me. And I can't remember if there are lightening bugs in Portugal, but it would be nice if they were there too.
2. I'd post weird ad's on craigslist and handsomely reward the most thoughtful respondents.
3. I'd pay a psychiatrist to answer me the following questions: a). Why, shrink, why, does my incessant over-thinking always get in the way of all that I could be doing? b). Mr. Freudylicious, if I had such a great Daddy, why am I always in love with some insensitive prick? and c). Dr. Crazypants, am I insanely delusional if, at 27, I still believe that dreams really do come true?
4. I'd get lasik eye surgery. I absolutely loathe getting up to take out my contacts at night.
5. I'd walk down Canal St. and purchase every cheap piece of shit that tickled my fancy. Not because I need them or even want them, but because my imagination seems to have more fun while its hands are sifting through fake gold and plastic. Little street treasures urge my thoughts to tiptoe to another place for a minute, and costume jewelry incites a more interesting story than most of the beautiful people I meet.
6. I'd give Paul McCartney a pretty penny to come over to my house and perform "Maybe I'm Amazed." And he'd sing...
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song
You right me when I'm wrong
Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you
7. I'd buy this car -
8. I'd hire a film crew to document my life for a year. I'd tell them to edit it however they saw fit, and then I'd sit down with some raisinets and watch the way my life had unfolded through someone else's eyes.
9. I'd find a huge apartment in New York City and lavishly furnish it with things from around the globe. Pretty things, strange things, inexpensive things, priceless things, things that serve no purpose, things that make you think, things that make you feel sexy. Then when people came over they could ponder all the possible back stories as to where I picked this and that piece up or who I met along the way. I would tell them if they asked, but I'd rather they made up their own scenarios..the same way I do on Canal St.
10. I'd buy an ice cream truck and change the music so it bumped dirty sounding house beats that make you shake your culo. And you would too. I'd drive it to the club and hand out free Choco-Tacos to drunk people. And maybe even give some of them a ride home.
*Editor's note - Post inspiration: my gemstone turban wearing partner in crime, eviltart (http://www.myspace.com/eviltart).
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