Fuck the Ban

Fuck it. Seriously. I have not written a LOT of things I've wanted to get out since my parents found out about my blog. They have a lot of issues with privacy and who owns information and has the right to share it, so obviously there are control issues at play as well. But I've gotta get this out. I can not and will not walk around all day with this rage bottled up inside me. I simply refuse to do that to myself.

I'm a little bit furious right now so this may not come out smoothly, but as I said above, fuck it is the phrase of the morning. But we are just pausing here because sometimes I refer to my parents as a unit - to the point that Golden Boy and I will sometimes say, "Have you spoken to the Unit?", referring to the Parental Unit - and it should be clarified that they are individual people. My point is that I may write "they" or "my parents" when I mean one or the other. Sorry in advance. Deal.

So my beloved grandpa in Florida is turning 90 this summer, and my parents are planning a party for him. After my last visit to see my parents, which resulted in my having a panic attack, complete with screaming/begging at my father to stop the car he was wildly driving in his fury at my mother so I could get out and cry hysterically while sitting on the ground of a hot parking lot, I said I would never stay with my parents again.

I decided their relationship with each other is not healthy, and it is not healthy for me to live among it. After Golden Boy told my parents about my blog, my relationship with them deteriorated further, and now we barely talk. Sometimes I email with my dad, but often when they are calling, I see the Caller ID, and guiltily press that button that silences the ringing.

Kind of don't know why my mother wants to even talk to me - our talks never go well, even though we both think we're trying.

On Monday I was on the phone with my father for a long time. Ironic - growing up we didn't get along at all. He tried in his own way and failed, I tried in my own way and failed. My moving out of their house was the best thing that could have happened for our relationship. So now I'm closer to him than I am to my mom, who I grew up thinking would be my best friend as an adult. Weird. Anyway.

So my grandpa. When my father initially told me that he and my mom were tossing around the idea of throwing (tossing, throwing ... is there some deeper meaning here, or is it just a pipe?) a birthday party and asked if I'd come, I didn't know.

I have not had steady work in a year. I am thousands of dollars in debt, and two weeks ago just started at a new law firm. Plus, it's not just the cost of a cross-country flight to consider. Staying at my parent's house is not an option - it's simply not healthy for me. For over a decade I have said that what I value most is my mental health. Thus, it is very important to me that I do whatever I need to in order to protect that. I refuse to compromise it. Because you can only lose your mind so many times before one day it's lost, and you can't get it back. So far, I've always been able to get my sanity back, but there's absolutely no good reason to tempt fate.

As I was saying, it's not just the airfare to consider. It's funding a place to stay in Florida as well, possibly a rental car, meals, etc. Sure I could pack half a dozen pb&j sandwiches but ... could I? So as far as I was concerned I was not going to see my grandpa this summer.

My father called this morning and said that if I wanted to attend my grandpa's birthday party, they would pay for the flight. I told him I still couldn't commit, but the idea had now been pushed into the possibility range.

And then we were interrupted, by my mother telling my father they hadn't agreed on anything. So my father took back the offer. I laughed, because this is kind of typical for them. My father offers, my mother overhears and raises an objection, my father (seemingly regretfully) retracts, my mother talks but says nothing of substance, and then when we have a family discussion, she claims a misunderstanding. Typical. Then my father said my mother wanted to speak with me quickly (I'd told my dad when he called I was on my way out to the Farmer's Market).

My mother came on the phone and spoke in circles, which she denied. She said things like my grandfather would be very happy to see me. That I'm always welcome to stay at their house. I told her I did not understand what she was saying. She said more words, which clarified nothing. Finally I interrupted and said, "Are you saying you'll pay for me to come to Florida?" The correct answer was either, "Yes" or "No."

But I got neither. I got something like, "Grandpa would love for you to celebrate his birthday with him," or "We would love to see you and you're always welcome here." In the back of my mind I wondered if my mother was having a control issue, and it was just that she wanted to be the one to make the offer to pay for airfare.

I don't know. My father said she'd wanted to talk to me. But when I pointed that out, she told me he said to her, "Talk to your daughter!" Which he did. I know he said that because my brother and I have complained numerous times that we greatly dislike when they fight with each other while on the phone with us.

Talk about a fuckup. My mother ultimately hung up on me. I would bet my life that my parents then yelled at each other. I'm positive of it. It's experiences like this that make me feel a little less bad about avoiding their phone calls. Why are they incapable of presenting a united front? Why can't they agree on whether they'll pay for something for one of their kids or not?

I'm not going to get into whether they should or shouldn't. That's their decision to make. But from my end, one parent offered something, and then the other parent took it away and then alluded to offering it. But when I asked for clarification as to whether it was really being offered, I walked away not knowing. Is it me, or is there something wrong with that?

So I propose a senior-swap. Would anyone in South Florida like to go see my grandpa in mid-August to wish him a very happy birthday and give him a hug from me? He doesn't drool and won't grab your ass or anything inappropriate. In turn, I will go visit an old relative of yours in the Bay Area for you. Old people like me - they think I'm a very nice, Jewish girl. Who's in?

Sex and the City Crazyness

At some point I caught most of the first season of Sex and the City. I'd never been a big fan of Sarah Jessica Parker, and after seeing the show, nothing changed.

After seeing it, I did not dig out my nameplate and start wearing it. I did not rush out to buy Manolo Blahniks, begin drinking Cosmos, or anything of the sort.

There was a complete disconnect between me/my life, and that show. Which makes sense, what with it being, you know, FICTIONAL and all.

Which is why when I arrived at work today to see the secretary next to me wearing a spandex leotard and a big pink tutu, it was a bit shocking. Sure, I'd spend the money to see the movie, but there's no way in hell I want to be surrounded by people attempting to dress like Carrie Bradshaw in an enclosed space.

Facing Facebook

Facebook is causing me agida. Yes, again. I hate that it lists how many friends people have. Again, the contest to have the most friends. Quantity over quality. Directly goes against my belief system. Some people believe in jesus. Not me. I believe in quality.

Really, it's just a high school issue. Maybe I should un-friend/de-friend the people from high school? Because I don't care if my current friends can see that I only have 14 friends. And if half of those are Crazy Girl and her siblings. Everyone now who knows me knows what my life is like. And I'm okay with my life the way it is, when I'm thinking of the people who know me now.

But the people who know me from high school? The ones I'd known since kindergarten, who didn't even blink as I walked out of 10th grade in 1992 on a pretty spring day and never come back? The ones I haven't talked to since then. Those people I (irrationally) care about. Not that I care about them, but I care what they think of me. Why is that? More importantly, how can I make it be not so?

I showed a real friend who doesn't have a Facebook account my friends. I showed her a picture of two kids I grew up with, posing together at some hotel during Spring Break in the mid-90's. They are beyond beautiful. Your jaw drops to look at them. One has since moved to Australia, and is an actress there. People I went to school with sometimes missed a day or two, due to little things like performing on Broadway. Or filming a commercial or two in Canada. And the mind-blowing thing is, they were not even popular when we were kids. There are people from my town better looking than they are. How sick is that?

Maybe I need to do Facebook without anyone from home. Of course there's always the option of not using it at all. Except if I didn't, then that girl from Australia never could have friended me, and I'd never know she has become a perfectly lovely person.

I never got a yearbook, from either of my high schools. I didn't attend graduation or the prom. About once a year since moving to San Francisco, I get together for lunch with a girl from my private high school. She is a singer. A real one, like with a contract and concerts and everything. It overwhelms me to come from things like professional singers and Broadway and to be so underwhelming myself. Maybe I need to associate with lower-reaching people to make myself feel better. To get away from that feeling of all the air having left my chest. Are there any janitors or people who work at Target who'd like to be friends with me?

Big Thoughts

So there's this thing called the Fat Acceptance Movement. It's kind of interesting, and I waiver in my stance on the subject. To complicate things further, I also wavier on many of the sub-subjects. Like how I will cringe and avert my eyes upon seeing a fat man in a Speedo (Canadians in FL during the winter, eh WideLawns?). But, if we extend that thought process - which is "don't make yourself look extra-unattractive to others" - we will eventually bump into issues like whether gay people should be allowed to kiss in public. Hey, it might offend someone, and make them cringe, right? When I look at it like that, I think "Get over yourself, let people be comfortable."

Last week I wore a skirt to work for the first time in over three years. The skirt hiatus had been due to a cruel comment a guy made to me while I was walking down the street in the Financial District a few months after I moved to San Francisco. Last Tuesday I didn't get any compliments, but I also didn't get any insults either. Which is pretty much how I like things.

I guess it's a very fine line between not beating yourself up for your weight and embracing an aspect of your lifestyle that's unhealthy. Should shame play a part in motivating people to lose weight? I don't know. Maybe, if that's the only thing that inspires them to do it. But who is to decide how that shame should be brought on? What's crossing the line? Isn't it shameful enough to have to buy clothes in a fat-people store? Or in a different section at Macy's and Nordstrom? Maybe Old Navy thinks they're saving fat people the shame of having to buy bigger clothes, and that's why they took their fat people section to online-only.

Also, does society want fat people to stay fat so they keep feeling better about themselves? Your marriage may be in shambles, but hey, at least you don't look like THAT. Is that why it's so hard to find workout clothing for fat people? Huh, Missy Park of Title Nine?

Currently candy is taxed. What if potato chips and cupcakes and ice cream were also taxed? But where does it end? What about the people who eat half a loaf of bread with a huge hunk of cheese to maintain their (over)weight? What if you're buying a cupcake and you're a size six? Or you're planning to split one pint of Ben & Jerry's between seven people? Should pregnant people having ice cream cravings be excused from the tax?

I certainly don't think people should be allowed to sue McDonalds for eating their food and being fat because of that. If you can't figure out for yourself that eating from a fast food restaurant isn't healthy, then … well, unless you actually do have an extra chromosome, you don't want me on the jury when your case goes to trial.

There's a lot to think about on this topic. What are your thoughts? I may have to write about this again.

Giving Whirls

You know how some people will walk up and upon hearing a discussion about Brazil or corduroy or golf will announce how lame it is? But then when you ask, "Well, have you ever heard the sound corduroy makes when you stride down an empty hallway?" they sheepishly admit they have not? Well, corduroy is not a mom-jean, where you can just look to know exactly how lame it is. Trixie, for example, loved wearing corduroy. I've decided to try them out. Maybe I'll find that corduroy is the right style of pants for me.

Twitter is being explored. We'll see how it goes. You do realize that the more of you who see how it goes, the better it will go, right?

On the Road Again

So, after a month-long hiatus, I'm back to working, this time at a very big law firm you've probably heard of (unless you live in a fly-over state and know nothing about law firms). I'm working as a floater, which means I'm not assigned to specific attorneys, but instead cover for secretaries who are out. Yesterday I covered for someone who's out with a broken foot. Today it's a secretary who just decided to extend her already long weekend.

It's kind of fun, and kind of sucks. I don't deal well with change; it rattles my nerves. So constantly changing desks does not appeal to me. Also, having no home base is a bit of a pain - there are these huge binders full of training materials that I have to lug around from desk to desk. However, the good thing is that when you're floating, not much is expected of you (and I'm all for fulfilling low expectations). You won't get roped into some difficult and time-consuming project, since nobody can expect you to be there day after day. It's an easy way to meet lots of people. I get to see how other secretaries keep their desks - how they organize, what systems they use, etc. And did I mention the lotions and candles and fun office supplies?

Everyone keeps some sort of lotion at their desk. Today I tried Trader Joe's Refresh. It's a citrus flavored body lotion with vitamin C. Now I smell like an orange. I also helped myself to some exfoliating cuticle treatment by OPI, whose nail polish I use exclusively. This aspect of floating is great. I use a tiny enough amount that nobody will get upset, but enough that I can tell whether I like something enough to buy it for myself.

Next week I'll be at Broken Foot's desk all week. She likes bats. A LOT. Has them all over her desk. I think it's a bit obsessive. And I don't just say that because they're bats. It's the volume of bat things that's at issue here. I mean, I like green, but you don't see my entire room covered in green. Broken Foot has a bat mug, bat coaster, bat pens, an entire shelf of stuffed bats, bats on her bulliten board, pictures of bats, rubber bats on her pony wall, bats everywhere. It's simply too much.

There is a head secretary on each floor, and the one for this floor just came over and warned me that the lawyer I'm working for today is a bit difficult/demanding. Today will be fun.

I Think I *Can* Dance!

How exciting! I even had Le Pooch watching attentively. Was it me, or was Mary Murphy not screaming and carrying on as much as she normally does?

You know what I think of when I see her? A woman from the Midwest, who came out to the "big city" to "make it big" and saw a lot of things that maybe she didn't understand, didn't agree with, whatever, but she acts overly enthusiastic to cover that up, so people will never turn and say, "Hey. Mary's not into that. She sucks. Go back to OHIO where you came from, Mary!"

Apparently Grey's Anatomy had its season finale tonight, and it was a two-hour deal. For some weird reason I got it into my head that SYTYCD would also be two hours, and I swear that I felt the disappointment in my heart when it ended at 10 pm.

No Applause Please

Do I know my shit or do I know my shit? Some people say, "Those who can, do, and those who can't, teach." I say, "Those who can should do, but those who can't anymore, should feel free to sit on their couches and judge reality television shows."

So You Think You Can Dance starts later this week, and I can't wait!

Fucking Yoga: Thinking Ahead

Dear Self,

I just wanted to remind you that although yoga costs almost $400 for three months of unlimited classes, you should do it anyway, when this three-month period is over. Yes, even though it's a lot of money. Three months is a long time.

Plus, this whole yoga thing is making you lose weight like a mofo, and giving you muscles. And you dropped a clothing size.

Think of it this way: you spend almost $400 each month paying for COBRA. Paying for yoga will feel WAY more beneficial and it's significantly less money. Your goal is to be off COBRA by the time this yoga stint runs out. That's why tomorrow you're headed to a new law firm. Again. Yes, I know you're bitter but you have no choice so shut the fuck up; we're tired of stressing and bitching about not having a real job.

To recap, while yes, $400 is a lot of money, three months is a very long time. It's a quarter of a year. And, you are making a LOT of progress with this whole stupid yoga program you've put yourself on. Funny, since you seem to hate yoga, but it works, so run with it, pay for it.

Okay? Okay. Thanks, bye.
Love,
Me

P.S. You looked really good yesterday. And on Thursday.

That's Hot

The weather is set to be over 95 in San Francisco today. I just want to point out that this is not what I signed up for when I moved here from Florida. My very favorite thing about San Francisco was the mild weather. Never too hot, never too cold. This over 95 shit is not acceptable to me, and you better believe I will be taking this up with your supervisor.

Remember a couple of years ago when all those people in France died from overheating? Most homes in San Francisco don't have air conditioning, and I can see it happening here. What will all the homeless people do?

Let's be sunscreened and hydrated out there today folks. And let's pray for cooler weather also.

High 90

Fucking Yoga: What Ifs During Naps

Last night's yoga class got off to a rough start. Before I tell you why though, I must remind you that my mind races, I get bored easily, and I'm a little bit on the creative side. This might explain why I have come up with what each yoga teacher used to do before they became ... yogans. (That's right - we make words up left and right here. Keep up!)

Anyway. I was all excited for last night's class - it was going to be taught by my favorite former construction worker (whose asthma spiraled out of control breathing in all that dust). Not to be confused with the former roofer (he fell off the roof and almost broke his back, poor thing).

But when I arrived at yoga, the last class was running late, there were a lot of people in the lobby, and I got a little flustered. I sat down to wait for my class to start, when the Yogu I'd cried at told me the class running late WAS in fact my class, and it was the teacher running it who was running early. So I thanked him and rushed in - luckily there was a spot open in the part of the room I like (right side, second or third from the door).

During naptime, I don't remember what made me think of it, but I started imagining what if the Little House people did yoga? Where would they meet? In the middle of a field? In someone's barn? Would the men and women yoga separately? Would it make Nellie a nicer person?

Interview Series Marches On

A while back I interviewed Nicole. Now she's turning the tables.

Is there a moment in your life you'd like to take back or do over? What about it would you change? So, so many of them. It's wrong to say "all of them," right? I became friends with a girl who has the same name I do at ballet, and invited her over to my house eventually. We were in my bedroom, laying on the floor playing while my mom was downstairs in the kitchen. I think we were about nine or 10, and she wanted to play with these cut-out doll things she found in my bookcase. For several years I'd been over the whole doll thing, but in trying to be a nice hostess I let her pick what we played.

She was fat. Not just a little overweight, but fat. And when she looked at the doll in her hand and said, "She's fat," I accidentally blurted out, "You shouldn't talk." I gasped. I don't think I've ever been more horrified at my own actions. She immediately put her head down in her arms and I didn't know what to do. So I left my bedroom and ran downstairs to tell my mother what I'd done. Of course, she told me I had to go back and apologize and to think before speaking in the future, so I did. The girl nodded and we went on playing.

We stayed friends for a year or two after that - as long as we were taking ballet together I think. It was one of those moments that made me think that maybe I was really a horrible person deep down, and I was just unable to hide it all the time.

Is there anyone in your past you wish you could say something to? Who would it be and why? You know, I got teased and bullied and made fun of so much growing up. And I've seen those Maury shows where a former loser confronts their bully after they've gotten implants and a short dress. I'd never do that. Not because I already have big boobs, but because the truth is, I don't think any of the kids who teased me feel all that badly about it. I think a third of them wouldn't remember it, a third would say I deserved it, and a third would say I should be over it.

I would really like to talk to my grandma again though. She died two months after I turned 18, while I was away at college. It was sudden, and the last time I'd spoken to her I'd felt like she was angry at me. It's not that there's something specific I'd like to say to her; I'd just like us to talk again. She was a true example of pure unconditional love, and it would be nice to thank her for that. While I was at it, I'd also thank her for keeping that shimmery unicorn sticker I gave her on her purse for two years, and for letting us watch cartoons in the morning before school. And for always having Pine Brothers cough drops in her purse.

And I'd ask her for her recipe for booze cake, because that was really good.

What blogs do you read regularly and why? You can see by the sidebars which blogs I read. The only ones I don't list are the ones that are password protected, because ... what's the point? Whoever you are, I am secretly fascinated by you, and I always have been. I want to know if you really like your job, look in your closet, meet your friends, look at your books, everything. As a little kid we used to take a lot of hellishly long car trips. I hated it. Spent a lot of time telling my dad the speed limit as it flashed by while my mom and brother slept. I'd also look at the people in the cars around us and wonder where they were going. If they liked the people in the car with them. If they were happy about where they were going.

I've never stopped thinking that way. I am interested in everybody. Reading people's blogs is a great way to people-watch.

What television show do you watch that you won't admit to your friends? Is there any lower low than The Hills (season finale tonight!)? I've been known to flip over to Oprah sometimes if I'm home for it. I've never been one of those people who tapes their soap opera or anything. Also, when Trixie lived here, she got the Oprah magazine, and I'd read that too.

If you're a blogger, what is the best post you think you've ever written? Can't answer this. The ones that got the most hits where when my family found out about my blog. Everyone's fascinated by a trainwreck, huh? But that wasn't great writing - that was numb writing. Some of the Loose Earlobe Lady posts were a lot of fun to write, as are some of the fucking yoga ones. This one was fun.

You Know What Would Be Funny?

You know how like, when one celebrity is going a little nuts, another celebrity who's already gone nuts and come back from it will take them out for drinks and talk with them?

Wouldn't it be funny if tomorrow Perez reported that Britney is reaching out to recently arrested (yet again) Amy Winehouse to offer her support and help?

Daaaaa Hills!

Okay, who's watching with me? Let's discuss:

1. Who else is surprised that Heidi has lasted at her job as long as she has? Didn't you think for sure she'd have been fired ages ago?
2. Poor Audrina! What the hell is Lo's problem? Lo always seemed so nice before; why is she acting this way and who's going to smack her?
   
3. Justin Bobby is turning into a real person more and more! How is this possible?
   
4. Where's Whitney? She's my favorite.
   
5. Spencer was clearly going for the scruffy look, but it doesn't work on him. Doesn't he realize he's the only one who has nothing going on in his life?
   

Fucking Yoga: Topless

No, I was not topless at yoga last night. It was a small class, which is what I like best, and a male yogi. Not the one I cried at, or the nice one, but a different guy. A guy who looks like he used to be a construction worker. Maybe he fell off a roof and hurt his back, which is why he turned to yoga after it helped him recover. Or maybe he directed traffic and got hit by a car, and then someone else who was also waiting for an MRI recommended yoga for the pain. But he definitely looks like he'd look damn good in some Timberlands and dusty jeans. While it's raining out... Oh. Excuse me.

Anyway. So we're starting the class, people are moving their mat an inch to the left, taking a last sip of whatever, shoving their hair into ponytails. And the Construction Yogi throws down a mat right across from me.

This is different. The other yogis don't use a mat, and don't get in line with the rest of the class. They do yoga poses in the middle of the room and walk around. I was confused by Construction Yogi's position. Was this class going to be run differently? Did I accidentally come to the wrong class? That's the moment when Construction Yogi whipped off his t-shirt, exposing the full intensity of his hotness to us all.

Sixty minutes later I picked my jaw up off the floor as he put his shirt back on. I wanted to close my eyes for the walk home, lest any other images get banked into my memory, and go promptly to sleep to have wonderful dreams about topless yoga.

But since it wasn't even 8pm I stayed awake a few more hours.

I Don't Even Like Tea

I'd had to stay late at work that night, and not just an extra 15 minutes. We're talking hours, with attorneys standing over me as we tried to get into Pacer to look up a case and then file something. When I finally got out of work it was raining and cold. I had neither an umbrella nor a hood nor a warm-enough jacket.

In high school I liked going for walks in the rain, especially when I could play November Rain on my walkman. Teenage girls like doing depressing things like that.

Now I'm an adult, don't like being depressed, and don't particularly enjoy walking through the dark and cold and rain after a long day of work. What I needed in life that night was soup, and it inspired my decision to stop at the dim sum restaurant near home.

Rain dripped down my hair and face, and my jacket and shoes were soaking. I didn't even want to walk too far into the restaurant lest I get everything wet. But even after I gestured to my wet bags the owner waived me over, so I went to place my soup order. She gave my order to a waiter and then scurried away. When she came back from the kitchen, I was still standing where she'd left me, and I watched as she pulled out a chair at a table, and placed a glass on it. She told me to sit, and pointed to the glass. I didn't want to mess up the table; I wouldn't be staying long. But I sat, and picked up the glass. It was warm tea. Not hot - it didn't burn my mouth, but warm, and as I swallowed it warmed my body.

Immediately tears were in my eyes. I don't know how people like JD Salinger do it. I don't even aim to be alone but yet I am, and it apparently affects me so much that I am moved to tears when someone sees that I am cold and wet and does something to help.

I kept sipping the tea, to drink up the feeling of being actively cared for, until my soup was ready. The owner looked over periodically to check on me, and that "being cared for" feeling overwhelmed me.

By the time my soup was brought out to me, I'd drank almost half the glass. I get all verklempt every time I think about it.