That Thing You Do

"People call these things imperfections, but they're not, aw that's the good stuff. And then we get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds. You're not perfect, sport. And let me save you the suspense. This girl you met, she isn't perfect either. But the question is: whether or not you're perfect for each other. That's the whole deal. That's what intimacy is all about." - Good Will Hunting

I think about the people I let into my weird little world. The people who get a glimpse of the idiosyncrasies, the peccadillos(though I promise I don't fart in my sleep) that construct a person, like legos. Little building blocks of that random band you liked in 7th grade that made you fall in love with indie, craving peppermint patties at 3pm, one's "expressionful face". A genome of experiences. A map of the seemingly random course of one's life.

And there are always the ones that few notice, or are privileged enough to see. The people who impact our lives might take their coffee black (because their fathers do) and have the slightest pout when they sleep.

It's interesting how one can find a kindred spirit based on these quirks. Total strangers, fictional characters.

Skylar in Cambridge finds value in learning something for herself and enjoys telling dirty jokes.
Tereza in Prague has a penchant for sleep hand-holding and a desire for privacy.

Peggy in New York is a girl who "won't settle" and a people-pleaser at Church.

Emily in Amherst is feisty and jots down a poem or two from time to time.

Kindred.

Camels

Note: Found this among some abandoned short stories stashed away, figured I'd put it up.

violence has it's place in every life
every circumstance
whether it merely be the escalation of the wrong conversation
or a competition to determine a victor,
it exists, persists, pervades

I have to say, I have never had greater appreciation for the American legal system than when I was manhandled in Cairo.

It was Spring Break. One of the trip leaders had a local friend, who joined us on our many cultural visits. He was incredibly knowledgeable about the area and acted as our guide(since we had to fire the last guy who tried taking us to "The Pharonic Village", an amusement park for kindergarteners). He didn't really appreciate the crowd that many of us drew, but what was to be expected when you have a couple blonde girls and an asian chick running around?

Nevertheless, he was an asset to the group; suggesting wonderful places for us to eat, explore, and...eat. He had some contempt for me and another girl in particular, for we had difficulty saying no to the local boys who harassed us for pictures, and wouldn't pretend we had husbands every time someone tried chatting us up. I managed to develop a rapport with him despite this, and I eventually started playing by his rules. He called me "Britney Spears" and made light, flirty jokes at my expense.

This continued over the course of the trip, until our last night. Our trip leaders decided that we should hold up in a 24 hour mall, due to the fact that we had to stay up all night and fly out at 4am.

This, of course, was less than desirable to many of us, particularly those from the land of the malls(ie new jersey, ie me). We gathered a group of less-complacent and asked the local friend if he would take us to a place we hadn't explored yet. He acquiesced, and we then proceeded to badger our leaders into letting us escape the mall-prison.

With the go-ahead, a few brave souls followed the local to the parking lot to find his car. We crammed into the front/back seats and set off to an area he promised would entertain us. It was an area clearly meant to satisfy the tastes of the more affluent Egyptians, a sharp contrast to the ragged, dirty city life we had been exposed to. There were many lovely shops for us to explore - chocolates, ice cream, jewelry - a girl's paradise. I was still on hot pursuit for cheapish souvenirs, and he vowed to help me find a place.

While walking down towards another stretch of shops, we began with what I believed to be friendly conversation. After much teasing banter, I felt that he had given a green light for some mocking at his expense. So, I made a few jabs about his "guide" expertise.

He did not appreciate that.
He utilized the close proximity of our walking and grabbed the back of my neck in a tight grip. He did not relinquish his grasp, so I lightly batted him on the arm with my water bottle saying "hey! not cool", trying to play along with what I assumed was some sort of game.
He let go.
Me: "Bitch."
I had forgotten my place. He made sure to correct this immediately. He proceeded to grab my arm and bend it as far back as anatomically possible. I was still operating under the illusion that this was some sort of "playing around" that I was simply unfamiliar with(or perhaps a good game of "uncle" from back in the day). But then it started to ...hurt. Really hurt.

"Hey! that hurts." (nervous laugh.)
"Does it? It should."
This made me slightly alarmed, though I was still tying to keep the mood less-than-serious(if it escalated I had no idea what he would be capable of).
"Hey, uh, can you stop?"
He waited a few more seconds, a menacing look in his eyes.
"Watch your tongue."
With that, he let go of my throbbing arm, and I hurried over to the other girls in the group, who were several feet away looking into a shop window.

The entire time all I wanted to do was either:
a. punch him in the face(I have a solid right hook)
b. shout obscenities(cursing his mother or future descendants maybe?)
c. report him to some authority
d. sue him for battery
e. some combination of which to make him cry

In America, I could have freely engaged in any of those actions(except for perhaps the first one...eh). However, I was in Egypt, a place where it is apparently "okay" to abuse a person, as long as they are 1. female 2. weaker 3. some combination of the two. In this land I do not have a protector. There was no husband, older brother, father, to run to; to avenge the disrespect I had just encountered. Further, none of the male members of the group had gone with us on the excursion - shopping around did not seem to pique their interest. On top of the fact that I was currently in the Arab world, a place less-than-hospitable to "feisty" or "spirited" women such as myself, I was in place where I did not know the language or the lay of the land. The local was also the only one who actually knew where we were, and provided the only means to get back to the main group: his car. So I knew damn well that I better put on a smile and take it, because, for the first time in my life, I was truly powerless.

So I just choked back the tears of a wounded pride and arm, and continued window-shopping.
What amazed me was how this individual carried on as if our little interaction was nothing out of the ordinary - as if he had just asked me about the weather or something. Unlike before, when we usually ended up walking next to eachother since I was deeply interested in hearing about the history of the neighborhood we were in, I avidly maintained a 10ft distance from him when possible. In one of the more cramped shops, he was only an arm's length apart; I became so uncomfortable I had to leave the store and wait outside. He behaved as though repentant; he bought almonds and offered me some, he took us by shops he thought I would like and bade me to go inside and "take a look". I was as dismissive as possible without appearing too upset or angry - I was desperate to not provoke him again. All I wanted was to get back to the group, hide amongst the crowd, and wait out the time till takeoff without having to look at the bastard again.

Taking Bitches to the Shelf

In most traditional publishing offices there is something called a "take shelf," filled with extra galleys(bound advanced reader copies for the non-industry of you) from different departments. It's a neat concept - waste not, want not. Have extra books? Toss 'em on the take shelf, someone will want it(except for the Idiot's Guide to Fibromyalgia. It's just not happening, Portfolio. I'm sorry.)

Every time I pass by, I always take a quick look. An avid bookworm, I can't help but hope that there might be a freebie there for me.

And one day, there was.

The title was "The Seven Year Bitch". For those of you who know me and are giggling right now, yes of course the title jumped to my attention. I snatched it up like shoes at a sample sale and tore into it as soon as I had a break. The first few pages tricked me into thinking this novel would be a cozy, sardonic real-life-fic that would merit the occasional distractive chuckle amidst the silent commute home.

The book absolutely terrified me.

For those of you who are unaware of the reference, the "seven year itch" is based on the notion that after seven years' of marriage, everything suddenly sucks and the participating parties want to jump ship( It also debuts Marilyn's famous steamy grate white dress!)

Manhattan, money, matrimony. The expected trifecta of most graduates; the assurance of a happy, healthy future.

In the novel, those pillars of success devolve into a successful career taken under, a husband found insipid, a potential affair dangling in front of face, a child to obsess over, and an immigrant nanny to lord over.

But that's not what did it. How did this cleverly titled chick lit get under my skin?

The Nag.

Possibly my favorite insult when having a "difference of opinion" with my mother. I know that word has teeth. It nibbles because underneath the easily-rhymed monosyllable lies the fear that the demands one is making are unreasonable, or worse, that one does not have the power to effectively delegate the task. Either way, a lack of power.

Oh, and it means you're pretty annoying too.

Nag also rhymes with hag, and as much I'd like to picture myself feline-friendly and wart covered, I'd rather steer clear of that association as well.

Old(er). And miserable. I could not resign myself to such a fate. Ok, maybe I could handle becomingthe supercool grandma(nicknamed "gammy", of course) who lathers on wisdom and inspiration and bakes cakes filled with love. But not a hag.

Gammy would not be a hag.

The nit-picker, the never satisfied. It left me with a troubling thought: are all cynics doomed to such a fate?!

Apparently not. Though the book cruelly strapped me into a goddamn emotional roller coaster and forced me to plunge face-first into the problems of the future mundane, it was still just chick-lit.

AND as with all successful chick-lit, by the last few pages the main character enjoys having sex with husband(again), her nanny takes to the fertilization program she finances, and her son gets into the very exclusive nursery school(among other real-life successes).

All is well, all is well.

post script: my mom just picked up the book and asked to borrow it. I died.

Give me liberty, or give me thousands of unwanted pregnancies

To lawmakers in Washington: Let them have the Pill.
Why?

I'm a big believer in the concept of prevention, especially when it comes to healthcare. Like, take your vitamins and you're less likely to get a cold. Take care of your diet and you won't have to get your stomach stapled when you're 50. Things like that. Our country has an issue with economic liability(ie we have too much of it). I liken my solution to a dash of population control mixed with a scraping of feminism and perhaps a garnish of common sense.

The primary focus of this discussion is the poor, those dancing about the poverty line.
This class of citizen we speak of is dependent, and tends to perpetuate such dependence. We are worried about the cost of the this health care bill(and rightfully so, fellow social security losers), but have we considered its potential cost-saving capacity?
No, I do not have a model to support this. I have basic micro and macroeconomics in my back pocket, sure, but attempting to cipher through THAT much data seems a job much more suited for...anyone else. SO, I'm going to make my grandiose statements with touches of logic here and there, and you, dear readers, will attempt to digest them(and hopefully not spit them out...ew).

Particularly if we're talking about the typical individual(or family) who wouldn't able to afford contraception otherwise, this idea has a solid foundation. Why? Because their offspring are an automatic economic liability(if not a social one as well, but we'll delve into that later) to...us. Their children's food will be paid for by us. The subsidies for schools, clothing, supplies, what-have-you, will be paid for by us. I'm not suggesting cutting any of these programs(I do have a dash of bleeding heart liberal lying around), but I'm suggesting the country would be better off if we had less demand for these programs. Fewer dependents. Fewer mouths to feed. I am also NOT suggesting some mass-sterilization of the poor either, just the ability of choice.

As I said before, it's all about prevention.

Freakanomics made an interesting comment on abortion's effect on crime rates in Eastern Europe. Fewer unwanted children who would likely recieve less than stellar child-care = fewer future criminals. Employing a similar tactic(and taking away a need for a messy, expensive procedure), let's give them the Pill. Poor people with the Pill = fewer future criminals. Fewer future gang members, drug runners, or simply maladjusted adolescents raising a ruckus in already thinly-stretched inner-city schools.

My idea is this: contraception for prevention. Yes, I'm calling you out, zealous pro-lifers(including the ones I sat next to at mass, went to school with, did precious youth group activities with). You have noble ambitions, I do not doubt this. I just can't help but feel you're being slightly less than realistic here. Although it may be considered preferable for the unmarried to not have sex, they're doing it. It's not even that so much as those who cannot afford children are having sex. Even those who according to Church doctrine are "allowed" to have sex(married couples) may be unable to support 18 years of uh, potential result. Should they not be allowed, then?

Try having a vote on that one.

And then there's the "why-not-just-use-condoms" argument. Condoms are a negotiable element of the act. As much as one might wish they were compulsatory, their mainstream nature(including the vast variety of colors, flavors, textures, etc) have not made them everyone's choice. For one, one must pay for them. And have them at hand when the time is right. This alienates the cheap and absented-minded of us right away. Also, it is the man's choice. Yes, women may ask, demand, and throw a hissy fit, which implies some sort of control, but is it ultimately the man's decision(as it is his anatomy). Give them the Pill, and this becomes less of an issue.

I'm not suggesting that every woman unable to financially support a child has to go on the Pill, but if they wish to be more responsible and take control of their reproductive future, I think they should be allowed the option. Ultimately, it's about supporting the importance of choice. Creating choice and opportunity.

Feminist side note: Family planning was one of the hallmarks of progress in the women's rights movement. Let's continue it.

Political side note: This is not to suggest I'm for or against this bloated bill. I just figure hey, why not get something useful out of trillion dollar expenditure that will bury me and my descendants.

Social Capitalism and Increasing Your Net Worth!

"You only have what your word is worth." - David Shanks, CEO of Penguin USA

It was an interesting speech. There were times when some of the eyes drifted, potentially rolled, or slightly lowered. This statement, however, appeared to have the rapt attention of the room.

It's interesting how things like one's word remain important even years after the invention of contracts, an absurdly complicated system of law, and all the dressings with it. Once upon a time there was a concept of honor, one's reputation hung in a delicate balance with every action. Credit was given without the promise of assets, like real estate or equipment. It was all about "good faith". Lending a friend $500 because you know "they're good for it". Agreeing to get married without a prenup(gasp!).

Now, people have background checks and googling before first dates. Companies have entire departments dedicated to researching potential clients - every last scrap off a 10K and then some, before an investment decision. Trust is backed by due diligence...AND extensive contract language the average person would need an interpreter for.

But what about non-financial transactions? Simple promises, swears, commitments - where do these fall into play? Are they judged the same as the financial? Should they be?

The statement struck me particularly because I have had issues with commitments in the past. Some my doing, some others. To think now how easy it was to cast aside a meeting for a club or a meet-up with a friend, if something were to have come up. Of course, remedies were made, rain checks were held through.

Yet, there are those who refuse to be held accountable. Where would they lie on Mr. Shank's value scale? And does it matter? Particularly when these individuals are perfectly content with having shoddy credit, less honor to one's name: does it matter? Maybe it is just a means of avoiding these individuals, or rather, refusing to do business with them. But really, how does one conduct due diligence on a potential study partner? A means of past history like for any company, sure, but that requires just the *slightest* bit more stalking than society/facebook would typically allow.

People like this may have assets, they may be "good for it", but their word is worth BP's stock. Though, unlike with companies, there is no record of the confidence people have had in these individuals; it cannot be calculated or leveraged in numerical terms. Individuals are not ranked based on the expected success of them keeping their commitments. There isn't a single comparative instrument in society for the stock value - except for, perhaps, the association of "FLAKE," which would presumably lower one's, ah, social capital. (Though I suppose one could also compare an IPO to a debutante ball.)

I am no longer willing to invest in the high risk, despite the security of certain assets and what-have-you. Contracts can be broken, agreements can be leveraged - all leaving one with a big, fat, headache. From now on, my primary concern with the word of the individual with whom I am making the transaction(that sounds dirty? please excuse). I'm no longer dipping my toes in the subprime lending pool, just to have another client.

At the end of the day, it's a matter of principle.

Cruella's Guide to Parenting

Monday night I was married.

Or, every comedian who asked the boy and I if we were dating was told that. When asked how long, we gave answers ranging from 4 months to 4 years. It just seemed like the thing to do at a dive-y comedy club in the village, with an audience ranging from middle-aged married couples to a 15-year-old and his parents.

One the performers took a particular interest in the 15-year-old....'s sex life. His mother's scowl indicated her disapproval, yet the comedian blathered on about how he must be so incredibly horny all the time, a raging porn addict, and "probably would have an erection right now if your mother wasn't sittin' next to ya!"

The poor child. As soon as he gets home I bet his mother is going to tear through his room shouting YOU LOOK AT PORN? WHERE IS THE PORN? ...YOU HAVE ERECTIONS?

Y'know, one of those super comfortable family conversations about your penis and what you do in private.

To be fair, sex talks will never not be awkward with the parent-child. It is inherent, it is accepted, just rip off the bandaid and move on.

I actually never had one. I assume it is because I'm not supposed to know what it is or that it exists as a function for reproduction.(Ok maybe that, Catholic Church is all for the baby sex. Considering they didn't try to fend me off with a stork story, they probably assumed I would uh, "figure it out")

When I was younger, kissing scenes in the movies were accompanied by my mother's "ewwwww! don't look! kissing, bad!" or some variation thereof. It was particularly the "eww" that got her point across. Or the covering-of-eyes when it got particularly graphic(tongue?! was that tongue?)

They probably assumed good ol' (catholic school) would take care of such chats. The this-is-why-you-dont-have-sex talk. Not the why you should wait til you're ready, why love is important, condom use, how to tell if a guy actually likes you or just the thought of your vagina talk, but the WHY IT'S THE WORST DECISION OF YOUR LIFE AND SHOULD BE FEARED sort of chat.

It was amusing how it managed tackle both a self-empowerment angle "do you want to go to college? have a career? DON'T DO IT" and an overtly antifeminist, 50's-housewife angle "do you want him to love you? DON'T GIVE IT UP. he has to try to like you if you won't get him off!" We were programmed to think that men are walking phalluses set to destroy and pillage.(Penises are the enemy!) Incapable of emotion or rational thought at the prospect of "piping". Ok, to be fair, this may be true in some cases of the particularly horny/jackass breed(one-track-mind) of high schooler. The stereotypical testerone-drenched football player plowing all the cheerleaders after a win. But surely guys also had the capacity to, I don't know, LIKE someone?

I think a much more worthwhile conversation, beyond the creepy anatomical stuff, would involve elements like, "how do you know if you might be ready to potentially ruin your life" and "is the guy who gets to consistently grope you in the movies(aka a high school boyfriend) a person deserving of such potential wreckage?" ,"these bumps do not make you cool and are itchy" or maybe, "how to read people and their intentions" and "why your friends/your PE teachers don't know shit about sex".

As much as it was ever-so-educational to be slapped with a stack of books like "My Body, Myself" and "My Feelings, Myself", let's face it - for the most part we, puberty-stricken adolescents, are only interested in looking at the pictures to make sure nothing is awry or missing(awkward!). As much as it may try, the book cannot adequately convey the importance of staying true to your own needs and wants, while being respectful of others' needs and wants. Also, how to tell if yours are being disrespected(maybe a diagram of how to kick someone in the groin ... ok, excessive).which I think are crucial elements to sex/relationship education.

So, my kids(tentative!) are going to get a talk. They will have to deal with it. It will be a sit down(maybe with some sort of snack to render them unawares...oreos? hmm) discussion about how not to be a manipulative asshole(both guys and girls) and how to tell if someone else is. Maybe they will learn how to have semi-healthy relationships with the opposite(or same!) sex. Or they might be totally scarred for life. Good thing I have some time.

There will be key phrases included, such as:
"if you loved me you would..."
This was a particularly great one, provided to me by our lovely and inspirational chef, deemed "anitababy", whose sole companion is a cancer-ridden cat (she plays mamabear in a house full of girls - of course she's worried about us.)

As she wisely put it, this phrase is a BIG. RED. FLAG. As soon as you hear it or something frighteningly similar, head for the hills. Whatever follows is a request the person knows you are obviously uncomfortable with, would object to under normal circumstances. so of course it is prefaced with the phrase alluding to the trust/emotional intimacy alleged between the two which is supposed to allow for such demands.

And it's hard. one needs to be programmed early to detect and not fall victim to such ploys. I did once, and it's one of those things you sort of *face palm* after the fact. Especially during the tumultuous relationship training ground that is high school, during which no one really knows what is okay/ not okay, expected, normal, this tactic expresses that "given the nature of a relationship, you are supposed to do THIS.." And how would one be any wiser? Where does one go for advice? Equally clueless friends, magazines whose core content revolves around blow job secrets, and NOT A PARENT WHO LOVES YOU.

I'm hoping to be the kind of parent who gets to actually advise the kid on these matters. I'm not sure how one actually goes about creating this sort of dynamic, especially since the default is only-communicate-when-in-need-of-car-keys-or-cash. And my master plan of hanging out with my child at comedy clubs is totally shot.

Guess we're going with sock puppets.

Serendipped-over

"Remember when eye contact was foreplay?

To a conversation we weren't supposed to have."

Warning: we have reached the "self-quoting" level of ego. But it should be expected - there is, after all, a certain threshold one must pass before becoming a blogger.

I've decided that I'm going to write a story. Or rather, rewrite stories of fuzzy memories and fashion them into shiny bits of fluff to break off like cotton candy(the blue kind, that is) when I need a sugar fix. I see that being therapeutic. Poetry, my intended catharsis, has only served as an ostentatious reminder of emotions I'd rather not have.

I want something like this:

Setting? I'm thinking Vegas. It could be a combination of The Hangover 
and Serendipity. A "down to earth" romance of sorts. Maybe toss in some Showgirls - 
the protagonist could be a overly ambitious hooker with a heart of gold (just kidding 
that's "Pretty Woman", but I suppose we could toss that in too.)

The lead guy? Someone like the Dentist, definitely. I see him complementing a 
John-Cusack-type of chase around Vegas, looking for the girl he met when he was 
black out drunk. They, in their intoxicated states, discuss the concept of Fate
(yes I'm capitalizing it) and insist they won't need to swap PINs because it is "meant to be".

Of course, years down the line, after sort-of-marrying a stripper and a douchey art collector,
respectively, the guy and girl finally encounter one another after The Amazing Race-like 
shenanigans(Serendipity and The Hangover combined, you know). I'd rather there not be 
any roofies involved though, that's just...unpleasant.

The main thing to gain from this though(despite the fantastically tasteful allusions to 
movies no where near deemed classic enough to pull off such a stunt), is the concept of 
Fate. Or rather, what people are willing to do with it(or not do with it...). It's no longer 
just a chase, it's goddamn persistence.

And that's one of the qualities I admire most.