Family History

Family's History
I’m home in good old democratic voting (this year anyway) Michigan. It snowed the first night I was here, big beautiful snowflakes, the kind that look like feathers. A story came back to me from when I was a kid about the angels having a pillow fight. I like that one. Well, they were still going at it this morning when I got up. The ground looked just like the down comforter I was wrapped up in. What a wonderfully descriptive name, who thought of that one? Comforter. It keeps you warm, it protects you when you’re scared, it always wants to hang around you. If only they would make one in human form. You could choose his thread count (style) and his filling (smarts) and his size (well, you know). You could just go to the store and pick him out right there, and he would be conveniently zipped up in a plastic bag (with air holes of course) and labeled with one of those convenient little round stickers. Like Funny, Smart or Romantic…rather than just Twin, Full or Queen. Oh well. Anyhow, I didn’t want to get up, but I had snow angels on my mind. I wrapped the comforter around me a little bit tighter and slid out of bed. I planned on running outside, dropping the blanket at the door and making a snow angel in my pajamas...just to freak my mom out. All I needed were my boots, so I put them on and opened the door. Sam, my mom’s dog stood at my feet with his ball in his mouth. I took it and threw it into the yard and said, “Go get it!” Whoever said dogs can’t talk doesn’t know anything. He said, “Are you crazy? It’s fucking cold out there!” I swear. And he was right. I turned around and went back inside. Watching the snow from inside was perfect. Perfectly warm. I decided I’d go play in the snow later, at least after breakfast. My mom asked me how I wanted my eggs. I only eat them scrambled. I might need to come home more often.

Later on in the day, my mom and I went for dinner, just her and me. I was thinking about my grandmother and the state that she is currently in. And by state I don’t mean one of the 48 contiguous, I mean her state of mind. She is losing it. That Alzheimer's is one sly thief. I guess as far as geographical states go, it might be fair to say that technically she’s no longer a citizen of this one, or any other for that matter anymore. Hell…she’s not even on this planet anymore. Just a few months back she actually saw aliens. She described the space ship to me, and the people…or should I say “people” she saw come out of it. They were skinny and were wearing the same clothes, like a uniform. She didn’t mention anything about oversized heads and hairless bodies, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. She saw them right outside the window of the bedroom I’m sleeping in while I’m here. Might be an interesting couple of days. I’ll be checking for implants in my neck or buttocks, or wherever they put them, I’m not really sure.

Anyway, during dinner I began to ask questions about my family. Having had a conversation about families just a few nights before in LA, I guess it prompted me to wonder again about mine. And since I’ve already lost one parent, I’m really starting to realize how much of your history you lose when your parents go. I mean, unless you record your history, which aside from pictures or a few home videos, most people don’t do, your parents are really the link to those days past. I’ve always known that my grandmother lost her parents at a young age. Her mom when she was six and her dad when she was about ten. So, how much could she have been told by age ten? But I learned something new tonight, my grandmother’s mother was orphaned at fourteen, so she’d also lost out on some of her own family history. Throw in the fact that while my grandparents were growing up, a war was brewing and now they had to leave even more of their own history behind and get the hell outta dodge. It’s such a sad story through and through, that there’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to know. But there’s another part that, of course, longs to know everything. What they were like and the fact that I might be like or look just like one of them. I need to find out more of my family’s history, before my family is history.

It's funny how different the world is now. So much of the present, which in the course of 24 hours becomes history, is recorded these days. And you can sit down and watch just about all of it at any given time. (I wonder when President Bush's War - Season 1 and 2 will be out on dvd.)

If ever I have children, I will encourage them to write. I would give anything to be able to sit down and read any notes my grandmother may have scribbled. Having kept a journal myself since 6th grade, I've come to appreciate the documented history of my life that I own. Although much of it in those early years was 'he said...and then I said....and then she's like...i hate her...but he's so cute...I love him'. Ah, it'll be worth at the very least a hearty chuckle someday.

Well, it’s getting late…about the time that strange things start to happen. Maybe I’ll go look for some aliens outside my window. Maybe they know something. They’ve got to, they have a round thing that they can get to fly (she said it was round and it made a noise, almost like a plane and that’s what prompted her to look out the window). Maybe they know about the history…maybe they know where my grandmother’s mind has gone…maybe they know if I’ll ever find a comforter and what his name will be. Oh Christ, the wind just blew so hard I freaked myself out. I’m going to hide under the only comforter I've got right now...good enough.

Be careful what you wish for

Been on my soapbox lately about technology and how I sometimes wish we didn't have cell phones so our world could go at a less hurried and frantic pace. Well, I believe I just got what I deserved.

I couldn't have asked for a better day Friday. Having just seen Wilco on Thursday night and feeling refreshed and revived again for a number of reasons, it was a perfect day. In addition to this beautiful day, an entirely unexpected surprise at 4pm…tickets for Wilco's show that night...what kind of lottery did I just win?

I went with the same friend and we were amped to say the least. For Thursday’s show we were running so late that I completely forgot to grab my bowl before I walked out the door. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget it tonight. In the lobby of the Wiltern I let out a Homer sized, "Doh!" and decided I’m obviously doing too many drugs and it’s causing me to forget things…like bringing my drugs. Oh well...thems the breaks. We bought ourselves a couple of beers and settled in for another night of Tweedy and friends. Not one minute into their first song, an angel from heaven, disguised as the guy sitting next to us, passes us a joint. Could lightning really strike twice? The concert was even better than the night before...my night was perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil it.

I sat in my chair, transfixed and happily high. I decided to send a friend a text, but decided that I first needed a sip of my beer (which was sitting on the floor at my feet). Note: they don't give you the bottle at the Wiltern, they pour it into a big plastic cup. As I brought the cup up off the ground, my beer exploded. The cup is in my hand, I never dropped it, it is not cracked, but my shoes and pants are soaked. I stare at the cup that I was still holding and I am utterly perplexed as to how this happened. My friend looks over at me and whispers, "Did you drop your beer?" Almost sarcastically, I showed him that I was holding the cup in my hand, so NO, obviously I didn't drop it! I didn't knock it into anything; I didn't tilt it over, what the f....!?? It was almost as if something kamikaze’d its way into my malt beverage out of nowhere, I may have even looked up to the heavens above me for a possible explanation. And then, with a marijuana induced delayed reaction, I saw something that looked very familiar floating in my beer. My cell phone.

If they had been playing "I Must Be High" while all this went down, I would have surely lost it.

Lesson learned. No more tempting fate...it seems she's conspired to teach me a lesson. I already miss my text messages.

(You'd think there'd be a lesson here about drugs, but...nope)

One more blog about boys

I find lately that I would much rather make out with a guy than, to put it bluntly, get laid. I’m just bored, I think, with the idea of sex. I could get laid any night of the week if I wanted to (primarily because it's not hard to find a guy who would refuse sex). The problem is he most likely wouldn't be someone I cared to talk to the next day, or ever again for that matter. There just aren’t that many people out there that I want to share my pink places with. If it's about ‘getting off’, I have the means to do so, and honestly, probably better than anyone could ever do. But of course, you can't cuddle with a vibrator, so we all know that those little battery-operated over achievers are not the answer to the Mars-Venus dilemma.

Sex, for me, is not an affirmation of beauty or sexiness or desirable-ness. I mean, from a physiological perspective, men want to have sex...to insure their place in the kingdom. Animal instinct is to keep your species alive. Males, being an integral part in that structure, instinctively rise to the occasion (pun intended). It really has little to do with whether I wore my black lacey panties or those really cute pink ones with the ruffle. (Seriously, how many times has a girl put on her hottest unmentionables and had them end up on the floor…still inside her sweater?) You could be wearing a potato sack, he won’t care. Sorry, he might care, but it’s not going to stop him from having sex with you. I’m not denying that men are attracted to women for more reasons than just some instinctual motivation, but there is definitely a different frame of mind between the X and Y chromosomes when things start to get sweaty.

Not to be misunderstood, I sincerely and genuinely enjoy the act…immensely. I’m not shy or insecure about it. But I guess because my instinct isn't driving me to fornicate with as many breathing men as possible, I’m longing for things that seem to be more difficult to find. I was presented with one of those “Which would you rather?” questions the other day. I had to choose one quality that was really important to me. And the choice became this: forgettable sex with a guy who made me laugh every day or amazing sex with a guy who had a horrible sense of humor (all other qualities in these make-believe men were exactly the same). I picked comedy.



Anyone know any good jokes?

Do You Woo, Who?

I used to think that holding the door open for a girl and walking her home made him a gentleman. And by him, I mean that guy. The one we are convinced we’re going to find, the one who just gets it. But I’ve realized, while those chivalrous deeds are lovely and appreciated by women universally; they aren’t at the very top of the list (where I once put them) of things a man can do to truly be a gentleman. Don’t get me wrong, those things should always be done without question, but there’s a little more than chivalry that defines a man. This gentleman I speak of is no storybook hero, either. He’s not perfect and he doesn’t like to go shoe shopping with you. He belches and wears the same clothes for a week (there’s something about his scent that makes you crazy about him). He forgets to brush his teeth and complains when he’s sick. But, he makes you feel like the only girl in the world.

The latter statement is what I’ve come to realize makes a truly outstanding man. He likes you and he lets you know it. He holds your hand in public. He asks you out on a date. Properly. And the date by no means need be proper, just the manner in which he asked. Has this tradition just faded away and no one told me? Lately, it seems I run into these guys who flirt for about 34 seconds and…well, that’s it. At this point, I would probably think it was me…and they simply decided they weren’t interested. But then it happens all over again, 34 more seconds suggesting their interest, but this time throw in his expectation that you’ll be waking up at his place in the morning. What is happening?

I’ve always loved the word ‘woo’ and it would be great if boys re-learned how to do it. Maybe they should teach it in school, kind of like sex education. It would be the prerequisite class, promoted as the you-need-this-class-before-you-even-have-to-worry-about-sex-education class. To say I’d like to be ‘courted’ suggests that I should be wearing a corset and holding a parasol. The word is pretty dated. Is there a new word to indicate this desire from a new era of old fashioned girls? And by the way, I’d like to clear up some confusion. I’m not sure how it happens, but somehow ‘old fashioned’ gets misinterpreted as ‘prude’ in the air between her lips and his ears. There is a world of difference.

I hesitate to think that my geographical location has anything to do with this. I constantly hear people say things like, “It’s because you live in L.A.” Well, if everyone in L.A. is not really from L.A., then what is that saying? Is something changing in the role of boy meets girl and I’m just not adapting? Could it be technology? I fear that text messaging is inadvertently keeping us from flirting face to face, thereby causing us to simply forget how. I have to admit, texting has been an enormous icebreaker on more than one occasion. But these occasions seem to have fizzled before they even had a chance to begin and I’m starting to blame this feature on my phone. I liked it better when a boy knew I liked him because I didn’t look away when he gazed at me from across the room, not because I replied with a sideways winking smiley.

I’m a girl. I like being a girl. But I’m starting to forget what it’s like to be giddy. What it’s like to blush when someone utters the name of a boy I can’t stop thinking about. A boy who thinks about me just the same. And goes out of his way to let me know. I’d like to think that the days of time honored wooing aren’t lost to those who play what seems to be a testosterone-fueled numbers game. For as long as I can remember, men have been dubbed the hunter...I get it, it’s human nature. And maybe we’re really not meant to be with one person for the rest of our lives, a tiny part of me believes that may be true. But (trying desperately not to sound pessimistic), lately it seems almost impossible to share a few significant moments with someone let alone a lifetime.

Bitch on Wheels

I love those seemingly normal, fairly average…nothing-to-write-home-about nights that, out of nowhere, turn into a life changing experience. I was prepared to hang out with a couple of friends, drink some wine, smoke a joint and way too many cigarettes, which by the way, is an amazing evening to me in itself. I hate going out. There’s nothing ‘out’ that I feel I need to spend my time doing. Bars are annoying, actually no, it’s not the bars that are annoying, it’s the people. Or maybe it’s me and my antisocial-ness, I’ll take the blame. Whatever the reason, I don’t like going out. But who would have thought that someone who couldn’t go out, even if she wanted to, would have such an incredible impact on me on such an unexpected evening.

Nadia. She’s 64, I believe she said. She’s a cancer survivor, which before this evening I probably would have scoffed at that word…survivor. See, Nadia recently had one of her legs amputated. Me, young and arrogant, thought what kind of survival is that? You can’t walk, you’re in a wheel chair! I felt sorry for her. After hearing this woman speak to us for hours tonight, I started to feel sorry for myself! Sharp as a tack, hysterically funny and swears like a sailor. Behind every word and every story there was this silent attitude that screamed, ‘fuck cancer, what else ya got, I’ll beat that too.’ She drank with us, a self proclaimed ‘wino’. She could drink a frat boy under the table, believe me. Might be the fact that she’s Ukrainian. No attempt to take the drinking title away from the Irish, but Ukes pour vodka in their breakfast cereal. Nadia lit up her sixteenth cigarette and told us a story about how she got her dad stoned when he came to visit, it was his birthday. She was forty-something at the time and she remembered thinking her parents were ancient. She’s not much older than my mother, but she’s hipper than my mom could ever be. Hell, she’s hipper than I could ever be. She refers to it as grass, which is so incredibly awesome I can’t stand it. We didn’t smoke any with her tonight, but next time, I’m bringing her a bag.

I’ve been through some fucked up things in my life and it’s taken me a long time to learn that you have a choice, and it sounds easier said than done, but it really is simple…laugh or cry. It’s your choice. Nadia made me realize that the only thing that can break you, is you. I had only a little sample tonight of the wisdom that emanates from this amazing woman, I already can't wait until next time. Nadia’s experienced so many incredible things that I’m not sure I’ll ever get to do in my lifetime. I can only hope. She’s also been through hell and back, but she’s found the positive lessons to be learned from every one of those moments. And she claims she’s ready to do it all over again, but this time on her new scooter. I’m bringing a notebook next time.

As I drove home I found I was a little sad. I remembered her telling us she might get a prosthetic leg sometime in December. The operative word there is might. A bunch of bullshit with Medicare and money, so she’s not even sure it will happen. I thought about this as I drove through Hollywood. I couldn’t help but think about how twisted our society is sometimes. Especially here in LA, where one can see so clearly the absurd amount of money that successful actors, for instance, get paid. Money they won’t be able to spend in their lifetime, money they can’t take with them when they go. Money they get paid to play pretend. Maybe even to play an amputee in a film someday. Yes I’m sitting here complaining about how unfair the world is. And I know no one ever said that it would be. Funny thing is, I'll probably cry over it before Nadia will.