Day 11: Farting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Okay, so I lied about the under $200 thing...at least for this ensemble. Unfortunately, there is NOTHING cheap here. This is the definition of a dream outfit. The shoes are over $300, and the shirt (!) is even more...I think $350....good lord. But it's so freakin adorable! We'll call it "Dinner with the Boss," because I don't have a boss and think that's funny. It could also be "Take Me with You, Santa" for all those holiday parties (for people who have lots of parties to go to, that is).

Now...you're probably wondering about the title. Well, the big question in relationships--and the one the girls address in episode 11--is not, "Do I marry him?" but "Should I fart in front of him?" This is serious stuff here, folks. All the women hit a dry spell, and Carrie blames hers on a fart she accidentally let rip in bed with Mr. Big. Mortified, she spends the entire episode analyzing whether or not the budding relationship is doomed or whether she can still muster enough sex appeal to keep Big interested. We'll get back to how ridiculous this is later, but first, the others....

Samantha goes on a sex fast after talking to her handsome, young, celibate yoga instructor who swears ongoing foreplay beats copulation any day. Miranda hasn't been laid in two months and is bitter. So bitter that she attacks a Latino (of course) construction worker who whistles at her as she is entering Blockbuster for the upteenth time. Charlotte thinks she's in love (surprise) and wants to consummate her relationship, but the guy isn't interested (what?). He has chosen Prozac over sex and is just fine with his inability to get it up.

Okay. Back to Carrie. Maybe if I lived in New York City and dated multiple people a week, I would be worried about a little fart early on in a relationship. But isn't real love a little deeper than that? Isn't it a really bad sign that a fart can scare a guy away (not to mention guys are generally more farty than us ladies and better not be pointing any fingers...or butts)? Besides any guy I know wouldn't leave a girl for a fart--especially if she was hot.

See, maybe some guys think they want a goddess who doesn't fart, shit, or clean out her earwax. But I've found out that most guys prefer comfortability. We're not talking peeing with the door open (Hank still gets mad at me for this--Hey! I've always lived alone, why close the door?) or having farting contests with your mate (even I don't want that--talk about killing the moment). But if a little poof sneaks out once in a while, it's not worth WEEKS of morbid analysis. The first time this happened with Hank, I admit I was embarrassed. We were walking to dinner, and I think I laughed and said, "Oops!" or something. Right away he just said, "What? Hm?" with a little smile. I knew he had heard and was just acting as if he hadn't. He's sweet like that.

So I'm at Starbucks today. I am about two blocks from the Panera that offered me a job last week. Yes, I got a job offer. I almost can't believe I turned down a position in this economy. Lord knows job searching sucks. But Hank, a certified math wiz, worked out that I couldn't afford to take the job. It didn't have any health insurance, almost no chance of promotion or mobility, and paid $8 an hour with virtually no tips. That's slave labor, in my humble opinion. My health insurance is over $200 a month, people, and there is no way I'm working an entire week for money I'll never even see. So, I'm back looking.

And shopping. Just a little. Well, what did you expect? It's Christmas. So, I've activated another credit card (oh, yes, I hope you're cringing right now, because I am) and have been using it frugally, but using it nonetheless. I used to (meaning yesterday) feel panicked about this, but I am consoling myself by thinking that not only am I stimulating the economy and raising my own spirits by buying presents for people (and myself), but I am probably not unlike most Americans. Sad but true.

Last night, I tried to imagine my life without any debt--the way it was a mere two years ago. Honestly, I felt pretty proud of myself then, but other than that, not much different than I do now. Debt doesn't cause you to suddenly loose all of your teeth and die of shame. I can now tell you that firsthand. Just like money doesn't make you happy. (Though, I wouldn't know. It just might.) No, debt only holds you by the neck until you pay it back. Actually it really blows. But we are all held by the neck by something financial, no? School loans? Mortgages? Children? Wait, those are investments....oops. (Well, children are debatable, and I can say that, because I am one and am not so sure I've been the best investment.) Anyway, I do have to watch it, or I'll probably end up being that person crying on national TV about how bankruptcy ruined my life, caused my mate to leave me, and put me on the streets. I'm convinced this is what would happen.

Well, this has been a coherent posting, right? I guess I blog like I order coffee drinks, according to coffee guy--just throw a bunch of crap together. (You know--like decaf and regular. OHHH, you devil!) Better go. Bela is home with his head cone on, because he has been licking his paws obsessively. I guess we all have our obsessions. He licks his feet, and I just buy cute shoes to put on mine--proof that dogs take after their owners or something like that. By the way, Happy December!

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 10: Babies of All Sorts

"Hold That Exhibit For Me!" For the lover of all things art-related to show you're a sophisticated student of the world.

I realize we can't have it all in this life, but is a little politeness at your favorite local coffee shop too much to ask for? Today, after weeks of scrimping on lattes in order to save money, Hank and I decided to pop down to Pablo's on 6th, the only non-gay coffee shop within five blocks, and indulge my non-instant coffee craving. Notorious for its great beans and baristas, the place draws a magically huge crowd for not having the internet. Today was no different. Perhaps to escape the chilly Sunday weather, people had come from all corners of Capital Hill to commune with friends and read. Every table was full. We decided to get the coffee to go.

"What can I get you?" asked the cashier. "Um, can I get a split shot latte with 2%, please? With a little Amaretto in it, but just a splash. Thanks," I said. It's a version of what I always get and have had no problem ordering for the last 10+ years. He looked at me with a lazy expression. "What's a split shot?" He asked. "Oh, half-caf," I said, "It's the same."

Then the guy making the coffee drinks--tall, spiky-haired, emo, coffee guy--blurted out, "Oh great. Could you possibly add anything else to this drink?" He said it loud enough for the whole line behind me to hear. Here's where things descended into customer hell, and my memory goes a bit foggy, presumably from all the fury pulsating through my system. "Wow," I said out of shock. My mind felt numb. But coffee guy was on a roll and wasn't going to stop there. "Well, I guess you could mix a bunch of flavors too," he scoffed. The cashier apparently saw my unease. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "He's been crabby all day." But it was too late. I was already plotting my revenge. Fucking coffee guy was going down.

Waiting for my drink, I became unusually quiet, my eyes glazed over as I thought of what I should have said and what I could still say. Hank noticed and told me to breathe. He gave me some arm rubs. "How rude," I kept whispering. It's all I could muster. I was having fantasies of throwing coffee on coffee guy and asking for the manager as loud as coffee guy had coffee-shamed me. I couldn't get off it. I understood that a split shot required a little extra personalization, but wasn't personalization what coffee drinks were all about? Besides, it could have been worse for him. I could have ordered a white chocolate/raspberry, split shot, quad, lungo, skinny, wet cappuccino. He would have really blown a fuse.

As he handed me my drink, he nearly spit the words, "Here's your laaaaatte." That was all the goading I needed. "Gee, thanks, that seemed so difficult for you," I barked, flames in my eyes. We stared each other down. "But you know, I guess I'd feel the same if all I did was make coffee all day." He said nothing, and Hank hurried me out. I don't know why I said what I did. It wasn't particularly mean, even though I said it with pure hatred. And it's not like my life is any more exciting at the moment. But I felt I had to say something, and it was all I could think of. Even so, as we left, Hank said, "Hon, you're stooping to his level."

Then it hit me. That's how wars start. That's the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in a nutshell. You hurt me, so I'm going to think you're scum and am going to hurt you right back. Coffee guy may have deserved it, but did I really have to react? Does the world need more reacting?

Enter episode ten: "The Baby Shower." Carrie's period is a no-show at the same time she and the gals get invited to a baby shower in a wealthy Connecticut suburb. Their newly-pregnant, once-hard-core-party-gal friend, Laney, announces that she is naming her girl Shayla, Charlotte's secret baby name--the one Charlotte was saving for her future daughter and had told Laney in confidence back in the day. Laney then criticizes the gals for never growing up, even though she misses her former lifestyle. After having watched kids smear chocolate cake on the carpet and scream at their coddling mothers, the women leave in a huff and decide they will be cool mothers or no mothers at all. They won't give up their lives or careers like these women. They won't pick their children over their men. Most importantly, of course, they won't move out of the city. Laney decides that the friends live in a dream world without any meaningful responsibilities. The girls decide that Laney's a bitch.

There it is again. Reaction. The friends react to Laney and what they see at the shower. Laney reacts to what she was and no longer can be--a single girl in the Big Apple. It seems we decide what kind of people we want to be by seeing other people who are what we don't want or can't be. We judge. We don't care who we are, as long as we're not them. And that makes them bad.

When I worked in customer service at a flower shop, I once spent 15 minutes with a elderly female customer picking out the right ribbon for a poinsettia. I didn't mind. I'm particular, so I can appreciate it in other people. For me, there are too types of customers--easy ones and interesting ones. But to coffee guy at Pablo's, I was just plain annoying. Maybe he thinks people should stick to plain lattes and not be so high-maintenance. Maybe he thinks decaf-coffee drinkers are losers. Maybe he hates women. So he scoffed at me. And I scoffed right back. How could anyone treat a customer--or anybody, really--like that? We warred. We butted. Sadly, it happens every day, on both minute levels and unimaginably large ones.

But maybe that's just how it has to be. We form our place in the world by deciding what we like and what we don't. Sometimes we change over time and learn to see some things from different perspectives. But even if we allow for an open mind, there are parts of ourselves that are too ingrained to change--like my desire for politeness and coffee guy's desire for something else. To him, I'm difficult. To me, he's rude. We can hide these small judgements, but when we've had a long day of making complicated coffee drinks or are PMS-ing and tired of feeling like an unemployed idiot, they come out. And they turn us all into babies.

Maybe Hank was right (he often is). Maybe I didn't have to react. Maybe I could have just taken a deep breath, accepted my differences with coffee guy, and enjoyed my latte. I should practice that, I suppose. Maybe this is a start. But it's never easy, not for any of us. I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 9: Vibrators and Vanity Couplings

"Save Me Some Sand, Jamaica" is today's ensemble. As the weather gets colder and the job hunt fiercer, my thoughts turn to 80-degree days where my only responsibility is to keep my tan even. I'll take another mojito, please.

I think the SATC writers came up with the title of the episode, "The Turtle and the Hare," before actually figuring it out. This is the only rational explanation for this installment, which casually throws together two completely different issues--vibrators and settling for mates we don't love. After ten minutes of being mildly confused about how these two things are even loosely related (and I had already seen it--imagine Hank), I was laughing so hard at the dialogue that I no longer cared.

The Rabbit--a high-tech pleasure device to which "the Hare" in the title refers--takes center stage. Miranda is hooked and encourages the women to buy this marvel of sexual exploration. Charlotte, fearful of the toy until she sees that it's pink, gets hooked until her friends stage an intervention that forces her back into the dating world. As usual, Carrie doesn't have much interest and remains a skeptical bystander, aloofly gathering info for her column. Samantha has no need for a toy when she has the real thing--and lots of it.

I don't have much to say about vibrators. Boring, I know. I've never used one, but I can see why women do. If I were single, I'd definitely buy one. Maybe I still will one day. They could be quite fun even within a relationship. But I'm not at the point of needing one yet. Nuff said. Be jealous if you must.

Now, the issue of settling. We've probably all been in unions where it seems our mate loves us more than we love him. Often it's the other way around. In the dating quest to find equality in love, there's a lot of teeter-tottering that goes on. Somebody always has the higher ground. Even within long-term, vibrant relationships, equal love between partners at all times seems like a tall order. Besides, how can there ever be an exact equality of something that can't be measured?

That said, when things are really uneven, you feel it. I was once in a relationship with a man who seemed to adore me. We'll call him Travis. Travis addressed me as "La mia princepessa" (he was learning Italian and very proud of it) and travelled to China with me on my independent study just so I wouldn't be alone. For whatever reason, I was always lukewarm and couldn't figure myself out. We had a lot of similar interests and studied the same thing at school. He was funny, smart, and kind of cute. But I just wasn't in love with him. In fact, when he put his hand on my leg, I always had to suppress my impulse to cringe.

When I expressed my doubts to my mother, she suggested I marry him and quit analyzing everything so much. I thought maybe she was right, so I kept dating him. After two and a half years, he wanted to ask me to marry him. I kept telling him to wait. I wasn't ready. That Christmas with my family, he pulled out a jewelry box in the middle of unwrapping presents. Everyone got quiet. Dad had just opened an oxygen machine, and, in a desperate grab for humor, I asked if I could borrow it. I knew I couldn't say yes. What the hell was I going to do? In the end, it was just a pair of earrings, and my heart resumed its normal pace.

That summer I went to visit my sister in Peru and cheated on Travis with a local artist. I decided to move to South America to be with him. It was terrible for Travis. While I felt angry at myself for hurting him, I knew that my biggest mistake was that I didn't break up with him sooner. I should have trusted myself and my doubts. The artist and I didn't work out (in a fair dose of karma, he broke up with me in an equally painful manner), but I'm thankful now for what happened. I needed to learn a lesson about myself and don't know that I could have learned it any other way. The lesson was simple: I needed to feel butterflies for someone for it to last.

I realize I'm not everyone. In some relationships, imbalance seems to work. Some people don't mind being the one who "loves more," and it's awful hard for the adored one to give up being adored. One woman in the episode says to Carrie, "Always marry a man who loves you more than you love him." Later, a startled Carry watches as Samantha turns to an investment banker with bad breath (nickname: "The Turtle"...ah, at last the title becomes clear) to satisfy her need to feel loved. Carrie herself contemplates an open marriage to Stanford, her best gay friend, not out of love but so they can share his inheritance. Things are all messed up, and it's all because of a vibrator. No wait, it's because of marrying for money.... No, unrequited love. No, well, anyway, they're messed up.

Carrie finally decides that she wants kids, so marrying the gay guy won't work. Besides, she loves Big. But is it reciprocated? That's her big worry. I guess the best we all can do is be responsible for ourselves. We can find someone we love and hope they love us back--just as much, a little less sometimes, a little more at others. Whatever as long as there's love.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 6: It's Important to Do What You Do

"This is not me. This is me reacting to your perception of me." Carrie

This fragment of SATC deals with secret sex--the great stuff you have with people you're embarrassed to introduce to your friends. Since I have only been in relationships, I really can't attest to knowing what this is about. (Why do I even bother writing about this show if I can't relate to it?) If you're attracted enough to someone to sleep with him, it seems you should think your friends and family will find him attractive enough too...and if they don't, who cares?! You're having great sex!

It must have been fun to sit around and come up with topics for the show. It's the one chance to think of all manner of bizarre issues concerning love. Obsessed with models? Great, one episode down. Can't live without blow jobs? Okay, we'll use that in season five. Thirty hilarious minutes on secret sex? The audience will love it. Probably because we've never had it. It's just so novel.

Hank thinks I write because it makes me feel like Carrie. Here I am alone on a Saturday night, writing on the couch, while Bela snores and chases who knows what in his dreams. It could be depressing. But because Carrie does it and is glamorous, so can I.

The truth is, I don't feel glamorous. I feel like facades are crumbling all around me. Even with the show.... I remember remarking to my sister about how much I love SJP's style. And she said, "You mean the style of the person who styles her?" Ouch. M's in show business. She knows all about this stuff, but I don't. And that's when it hit me. I have a really hard time telling the difference between reality and what goes on in my imagination--between what's real and what's just really convincing.

Maybe everyone has their obsessions. Mine are SATC, Victoria's Secret, and spicy food. Yay. Maybe there are more. I've had people say that you should make peace with them, laugh at them, even exploit them to make your footprint in the world a unique one. But in the end, maybe they're just sad. They lull us into an alternate reality that makes us feel great in the moment, but in the end leaves us the same people we have always been--the ones we have been trying to escape through our obsessions. And we better be okay with that.

But even if we were to get beyond trite fixations like Sunday football (don't look at me), mayonnaise (I know a girl who ate this on absolutely everything) and my SATC reruns and try to be real every minute of our lives, it seems like there's a whole vastness of larger obsessions. Some of them we might not even know about--like an obsession with cleanliness (if you see our house, you will know I obviously don't struggle with this one), being ambitious at work, or, what I fear may be one of mine, feeling morosely analytical about life.

That's why I never kept a journal for very long growing up. Why record all of my crazy thought patterns? Wasn't thinking them painful enough?

Just tonight, Hank asked me to go out with him and his study group friends. There might be wine there, he said, and we could chat when they weren't studying. Nothing sounded worse to me than tagging along with him to study. I mean how lame could I get? It's bad enough that I don't have other options to speak of, but I can't imagine sitting around with a bunch of med students letting them practice physicals on me--all while trying to make casual conversation? No way.

But who knows, it could have been fun. At least I would have breached the 1/2 square mile distance around our house and talked with other creatures besides Hank and Bela. I asked him to consider the reverse. Would he go to a fashion discussion group with me or a meeting about piano technique? He said sure, especially if he was lonely, was in a new town, and wanted to meet some friends. And I believed him. After saying, "Thanks, hon, but I'm okay here" with a smile and watching him leave, a larger worry set in. Is there something in me that opposes being happy?

It's like I'm always waiting for that perfect thing to come along to do the trick. First it was the perfect man, but he came. While I'm near blissful in the relationship realm, now it's the perfect career. Maybe I will be satisfied once I get a position writing for a fashion magazine, sign my first book deal, or design a beautiful formal wear line. Or maybe teaching English in the Peace Corp will make me feel at peace with myself at last. If not, perhaps once I have children, I'll feel whole. Or...Will there always be something missing? Always some reason I hold myself back from being happy????

I don't have the answers to these questions tonight. Maybe I never will. But I hope so.

I do know that it's time for a movie and a walk with the pup. Sometimes too much thinking makes the world a scary place. But it's nothing some fresh air, a warm brownie, and a cup of tea won't cure, and I plan to partake in all three. So goodnight for now. I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 1: And Just Who the Heck Are YOU?

I am unemployed.

I am unemployed and sitting on my couch, in our new Denver apartment for about the 20th day in a row.

I feel about a joint away from the guys on Knocked Up or the main character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall when he starts enacting scenes from movies to entertain himself. I am starting this blog mainly to keep from becoming like Esther in Sylvia Plath's THE BELL JAR. Because I'm getting close.

Now, a bit about myself, just for reference. I am 27. I am in a relationship, and my significant other (what is the best term for this, really? I think there should just be one, and everyone should have to use it...like "novio/a" in Spanish, which means fiance but has nothing to do with being engaged) is in first-year med school, which makes me feel like an even bigger slacker. He spends his days studying to save the world. I sit on the couch and write into a potential void. We have a dog, Bela. He's a cute munchkinface of a Wheaten Terror. He keeps me sane these days, because often the only time I talk from 9-5 is to say, "Bela, no, drop it" in my serious voice.

I have two college degrees, both in equally unemployable fields--history and music. I got the first degree, because I couldn't decide on one (I had changed about 5 times), and I only had a year left before I was supposed to graduate. So I completed all of the required courses in two summers and an eyes-bloodshot-from-reading-so-much year. In some act of luck, I was elected by the history faculty as "History Graduate of the Year" from a pool of 5 graduates in the department with the highest GPAs out of 200 or so students. Even though it was true I had done well for myself, presenting papers at conferences and helping with grading as an undergrad, I wondered if I was there mostly by charm. After all, I received a C+ in Problems of Peace and Security, only because my professor pitied the fact that I forgot to answer one of the essays on the final and let me do some extra credit. That doesn't seem like HGY behavior. I spoke at graduation and cried through the whole thing, recounting all of my beautiful memories from various conferences, yada, yada. It was embarrassing.

But I really thought doors would open for me at that point. Let me rephrase that. I thought I would start opening doors at that point--that I would begin to see a direction for my life. That I would start to take my life seriously and see my potential when I really put my mind to something. It didn't happen.

I got the second degree in music two years later. I have always played the piano, and everyone--Mom, professors, Mom, friends, peers, Mom--thought I should get the degree, so I did. What else was I going to do? I have a good deal amount of talent for the instrument, and I am in love with music. I think that was their reasoning too. But it turns out that music jobs are hard to find. Go figure. And you have to be REALLY good. Or really convinced you are good. I am neither. I am good. So now I have two degrees, both of which I enjoyed pursuing. However, I can't say I'm too appreciative of the choices they've left me after graduation. I'm lost. But on the upside, I know what a harmonic progression is. I can tell you the tenants of Just War Theory and most of the major battles of World War Two. And I can analyze Chopin's first piano concerto. Jack of all trades....

I am from Montana. And yes they, surprisingly to some, have running water there. It is a beautiful, magical place. Maybe someday I will post a picture here for anyone at all to see. But let me attest to the fact that you can be gloomy and lost anywhere. That's why I don't dream of living in Cabo San Lucas. I know I would just be sitting on my couch THERE, watching my dog chase squirrels in his dreams, and writing this post, because I probably wouldn't have a job. Well, I could probably teach English, and likely I'd be sitting on the toilet much more than the couch, but those are neither here nor there.

Now, briefly, the title of my blog. I hate titles. I only come up with them at the last minute, because they are mandatory. I usually do so after I've written, because I'm so bad at them and I can spend 10 minutes thinking of a crappy one when I could otherwise be writing. I ask, "Who has the time?"

But this one seemed to incorporate the things I spend most of my day thinking about. And it is probably what will make it into my blog most of the time. And I think three words with a period after each looks cool. But I'm probably horribly wrong, since I suck at titles.

Fashion. I have a closet that takes up half of a room out of our 2-bedroom apartment. I have close to twenty coats at this point, and an equal proportion of scarves, shoes, blouses, boots, bags, hats, dresses, etc. I am probably not alone in this reality. Despite my expansive closet and attention to fashion detailing, I am under no illusion that I am the most fashionable girl walking down the street. I know how to put things together, but I am a bit predictable. Long tank? Check. Shorter tank to go over it? Check. Jeans? Check. Scarf and boots/flats? Check. Cute blazer? Hell yes. And a variation of that is pretty much what I wear every day. As you can imagine, my tanks take up an entire drawer. I have them in five different shades of green.

I told my boyfriend (is this a better term?) that if I ever go into extreme depression, just hand me a GLAMOUR magazine, and I'll perk right up. It is scary how true this is. I get strange, deep pleasure out of picking out outfits, having discussions about clothes, tearing out fashionable outfits from magazines for inspiration, and watching Sex and the City.

And that leads us nicely into the obsession part. I have a few of those. Sex and the City tops the list. As for the rest of them, you (and I) will learn about them in time. Now, I am not one of those women who thinks (or worse exclaims), "Oh, my girlfriends and I are SOOO like that show. My life is basically just like Sex and the City." I am jealous of those women. I don't really have girlfriends. Sad, I know. Well, I do, but they live all over the country--world, even--and I rarely see them or even talk to them enough for me to say something like "If you don't give him head, how do you expect him to give you head?" (Samantha). No, those conversations are once in a blue moon. I barely have them with my sisters. (We were brought up in a conservative Presbyterian family, after all.) No, I like Sex and the City precisely because it is NOT my life.

I didn't find out about the show until my first year of college at NYU, when I was a scared but precocious little freshman, 30 pounds overweight, with no friends and no boyfriend or lover to speak of. And it was obsession at first watch. It made me feel like I was part of something, that I was friends with those women, as sad as that sounds. That I, too, could be cool and talk like them at least in my imagination.

I haven't had a TV since I was little, so I had to rent the seasons at Blockbuster (since Netflix didn't exist). And I used to be really embarrassed by it. Here I was reading classic novel after intense classic novel, my nose always stuck in a book, only saying enormously serious things in class, getting a 4-point. And what did I watch in my spare time? The History Channel? BBC? The news? No. Sex and the City. While eating a gallon of ice cream.

You will hear lots more about Sex and the City, whether you like it or not, because my relationship with it has evolved into an almost healthy one. Almost. And I'll try to include thoughts about it in each blog. But moving on to love....

This is probably the third reason I love the show so much. (Remind me, what were the first and second? Oh yeah, fashion and friends. And I thought we were moving on....see! Obsession!) There is one episode where Charlotte says, "I have been dating since I was 14. I'm exhausted. Where is he?" And that sums up my entire life until about 7 months ago. At one point in high school, I actually said to my mom that I didn't think I was worth anything if I wasn't in a relationship. I have been engaged three times, two with bona fide rings and wedding dates. Only one with invitations sent out. And I have never been married. You figure it out.

Despite that history, I'm applying for jobs at wedding dress boutiques. A die-hard romantic, I cannot NOT talk about love and relationships. So I'm sure you'll be getting some of that. And that's the beginnings of my blog.

Well, here's to fall, the gloomiest season around, but also the most soulful. Hope you'll be back, I will.