Because I Laughed Longer Than The Video Ran

Nine

Hello. Remember me? Yes, I know it's been a while. I needed a little break. Some time to sort things out. Replenish the well. And, truth be told, I was a little cranky. Unemployment seems to have the effect on me. And, fortunately for you, my misery does not love company. You're welcome.

This happens to me (and I'm sure all writers) every once in a while, where I have so much to express but absolutely nothing to say. As bitchy as my blog can be, I don't like to rant all the time. Who wants to hear me moan about the job market and mounting debt? Aren't we all dealing with that in one way or another? I kept hoping that I would have something more interesting to say. Turns out I didn't. It's hard to have adventures when you don't leave your house so as to not to spend a dime and you're conjoined to Craigslist hoping there will be a job that you'll be right for...and pays more than $9/hour. When you don't have enough money for booze or chocolate, it's best to just keep to yourself. And, so, for the most part, I did.

By the time October arrived, the toll hit me physically. I suffered the worst bout of gastritis I'd had since I was diagnosed three years ago. I couldn't eat for four days, and became quite impressed with functioning self-starvers. Really. I couldn't stand up to brush my teeth by day two and needed a nap after showering. Being dizzy isn't much fun when it's not cocktail induced. Also, having to buy easy-on-the-tummy foods isn't as inexpensive as one might think. But, in case you didn't know, if you eat organic cinnamon apple sauce with organic saltines, it tastes kind of like really cheap apple pie. I became a connoisseur of the bland. Do NOT buy low sodium chicken broth. You can't add enough salt to make it palatable. Ginger ale should be served in a champagne flute. And you should only get rotisserie chicken from Rainbow Acres. I was deeply disappointed to find that the chicken from my Whole Foods as dry as Death Valley. After a couple of weeks of that diet, and a new addiction to Reed's Ginger Candies, I was a few pounds lighter, leaving me with an ill-fitting wardrobe. My curvy 6's too loose, my 4's too snug...not to mention a little out of style. I haven't been a 4 in five years. And I will never forgive Seasonale for that.

Fortunately, the day before Thanksgiving, I was offered a job, making my stint of un- or under-employment just two weeks shy of eight months. I survived that time only because of my incredible friends, who rallied around me, supported me (at times literally) and wouldn't let me give up or give in. They are as stubborn as I am. The hole I have to dig myself out of ends somewhere near Shanghai. And, so what? I'll get out of it one day. I've learned a little about patience during this time and the art of going with the flow. Which, for an A-type Aries, borders on alchemy. By the end of the year, I was so exhausted that I spent New Year's Eve with Netflix watching Bogie and Bacall (The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep), Cary Grant (Arsenic and Old Lace) and Grace Kelly (Dial M for Murder). I fell asleep about 10:30. New Year's Eve is one of my favorite events, but after the way it treated me, I didn't even feel the need to show 2009 to the door.

2009 was much like my last boyfriend -- coming in with so much promise and beauty, but ending up a cloying, annoying, utter disappointment. Last year was almost arrogant in its cruelty. Let's just say it: Last year was an asshole. And, like my last boyfriend, I'm not looking back to wonder, "What happened?" No. I've got better things to do. Top on my list: I am going to fall in love with this year.

I've been looking forward to 2010 like meeting the hot guy at the gym whose 6-pack remains on his abs, not sitting in his fridge; the only spare tire he's got is in the trunk of his car; and 'tight ass' refers to his bum not his wallet. Yes, I expect this year to be a perfect '10. And I am going to seduce it.

I realize I'm going in to the New Year with the same level of optimism and hope I did for '09, except, this year, I'm stronger and wiser, and have even less of a tolerance for bullshit. And that kind of feels fabulous. There's a level of fear that falls away once you have lost your illusion of security. I find myself walking into situations like, "Bring it!" Any minute shred of doubt about who I am, what I want, what I am capable of has been obliterated. Now I probably sound pretty arrogant. But I simply lost tolerance for even my own bullshit. You kind of have to at some point, if you are really going to survive.

And while we are celebrating '10 (which, by the way, I will say as two-thousand-ten because it just sounds better), today is a 9...the 9th anniversary of RUAWAKE. I know. Crazy, right? And I'm pretty sure this will be the last year for it. It's time to wrap it up. It's time to start moving on.

There are sure to be lots of adventures this year, including revealing some secrets I haven't yet shared. Which should seem shocking. What haven't I talked about here over these last nine years? You might be surprised. It's time for some light and laugher and some bloody effing fun.

Thanks so much for staying tuned even when I tune out. Thanks so much for your emails and comments and friendships. You make me laugh and think, and realize that I'm not just shouting into the abyss. So, happy damn New Year, friends. Let's show this one who's boss. xo

How Do I Say This...?

I've noticed a new trend in Feminist writings (and, remember, I am one with a capital F), that I find rather concerning. Of course, talking about it will surely make me unpopular. But, so what? Popularity has never been a concern of mine.

There seems to be a new wave of encouraging women to feel good about being heavy, while condemning other women for being thin. Some of the encouragement I've read borders on bullying. It doesn't make sense to me. The assumption is that heavy is normal, while thin is forced. As a woman, I find that somewhat offensive. We are still attacking each other, still trying to define what is right and wrong. After all this time, is this where Feminism has gotten us?

Let's be honest: People who are severely overweight typically don't feel good, physically or emotionally. Ask someone who's lost a lot of weight. I get being supportive of women accepting themselves for who and how they are. I get being against the rail-thin models and the airbrushed magazine covers. What I don't get is the fact that we aren't talking about being our best, about caring and respecting ourselves enough to eat well and exercise, not because Madison Avenue or Hollywood says we should, but because it's good for us.

You know I'm a big proponent of health care reform. But I know that starts in our shopping carts. Let's start pointing the finger at how we eat instead of what we see on TV, magazines or on film. Back in the 80s, we were made aware of anorexia and bulemia and how widespread they were. Those are terrible eating disorders. But so is constant bingeing on sweets and processed, high-fat unnatural foods. Overeating is as dangerous and deadly, yet we are silently accepting it as "normal".

Somehow, it's acceptable to say, "Ick. You can't expect me to eat rabbit food my whole life," like fruits and vegetables are the enemy. Or "Exercise? I don't want to get all sweaty," like it's cute to be that much of a princess. But it's not acceptable to say, "I'd like to lose ten pounds." Immediately, you are diagnosed with either an eating disorder or a poor self-image, obviously warped by some gossip weekly. Because, somehow, women still can't make up their own minds. We are so weak that we are easily guided by glossies. We see a starlet who is a size 0 and we must be a size zero, too. Or, we are thin because we want to live up to some male fantasy. Skip the bread basket and you are accused of being a carbophobe instead of getting a back-pat for avoiding white flour. To me, it's nonsensical.

As women, we should be at a point in society where we have the right to accept who we are, or change who we are, as it suits us. Hopefully, that acceptance or change will always be in a healthy manner. Of course, sometimes it's not. Sometimes we are trying to live up to a fantasy. Sometimes we are starving ourselves to death. Sometimes we are eating ourselves to death. But the fact that we are still being told what is "normal" is nutty.

This rallying cry to celebrate obesity is as dangerous as championing anorexia. Yet, why don't we see that as such? Whether the medical issues are showing or not, we know being severely overweight is not healthy for the body. And there are a lot of unhealthy people dealing with this. Weight gain and loss is just simple math. But, for it to be blown out of proportion in either direction, that speaks of issues deeper than one too many pieces of pizza. It's easier to stay as we are than it is to change, but that doesn't mean "acceptance" is the answer. I would rather women respect and care for themselves enough to be the best they can be than accept where they are. Shouldn't we care enough to feed our bodies the healthiest foods out there, move our bodies so they stay nimble and strong, and look inside to find out what makes us tick than to merely accept things as they are? To paraphrase the Serenity Prayer: Change what we can, accept what we can't and have the wisdom to know the difference between the two.

It's not society that makes us feel bad about ourselves. Media is not to blame for a poor self-image. Women aren't that weak. This is 2009, after all. We are in charge. Everyday, we make choices. Some are good for us, some are not. Each day, we get to make new choices. We can repeat our mistakes or go a different route. The only thing we should utterly accept is responsibility. There are always reasons for why things are the way they are, but we should know by now that if we want a happy ending, we need to write it ourselves. And, when it doubt, edit.

Now What Am I Going To Do?

September sucks! "Rescue Me" ended on the first. Nine Inch Nails ended on the tenth (and sadly, no, I did not get tickets for the very last show at the Wiltern...sigh). And "True Blood" finished yesterday, not to return for nine long months. Nine months!!! Which I've made more painful by readying Alan Ball interviews replete with spoilers, so I have a hint as to what will happen NINE MONTHS FROM NOW! Farg.

I suppose I need a hobby...or a life...but I do love good television. And it is so hard to find. So, when a show ends -- even for hiatus -- it hurts a little. And to lose two in such a short span...there is a tear in my eye, people. Though, that's probably just my allergies.

What's worse is that this month, September, they are filming the last 19 episodes of "Rescue Me", which will be spread out over two seasons. The series will end on September 11, 2011. Rip my heart out, why don't you? There's no word when season six will air.

"True Blood" will be back. I know only one new season is confirmed but, unless they totally blow it, I see at least two more. Figure the cast has signed five-year deals, so we are at least going to get that. (Please, Baby Jesus, I hope.)

In the meantime, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Perhaps learn to knit? Take up bridge? It's going to be a long winter, my friends.

Going Solo

If you know one thing about me, it's probably that I act on impulse. I've long ago learned this is not always a positive. I mean, one should really look to see if there is water in the pool before one takes a dive, but I don't really have time for all that. Sometimes, I just have to do what I want to do, no matter what.

If you know two things about me, the other is that love me some Nine Inch Nails. It's been bugging me that I've stayed so broke and couldn't afford to go to any of the last Nine Inch Nails shows. I missed the NIN/JA tour with Jane's Addiction. And, now, they were in town to do the last shows...forever. I know. Poor me. But, five months ago, I thought I'd be in a better place.

Last Tuesday, in an effort to get to a better place, I was at happy hour with a friend. As I finished up my discount martini, and she went and she went out to feed the meter, I checked Twitter from my BlackBerry. Once again, when I was nowhere near my computer, Nine Inch Nails released tickets. [Insert litany of expletives here.] We finished up our chat, our drinks and $4 edamame, and then she took me home.

There, I opened my laptop and logged on to the site. One last pathetic try for tickets. I checked Thursday's show. Sold out. I tried for Saturday's show. Sold out. I wasn't even going to try for Sunday's show, their last, because that had to be sold out...and it was in Glendale. Yes, I appreciate the irony of it being at the Echoplex, but the drive would be a buzz kill. That only left Wednesday night, the next night. Available. I took in a breath. At $65 a ticket, I couldn't afford one let alone two. And I knew that none of my friends would be up for something that late notice at that price that didn't come with seats. So, I did the unthinkable and bought a single ticket.

Going to the movies alone is one thing. Having a meal alone is another. Going to a concert alone was...weird. I called two friends I thought might be up for it, or actually going. By the time one tried to buy tickets, they were all gone. I was indeed going solo. This, for me, was the ultimate single-gal act.

I didn't really have time to dwell on that, though. I had to figure out what to wear. Jeans were obvious, it was shoes that would be the challenge. I no longer own General Admission footwear. And open-toed sandals are not appropriate for this kind of gig. Much to my chagrin, I put on a pair of Nikes and then found that I no longer own jeans that are made for sneakers.

The compromises one makes to see one of her favorite bands perform one of their last shows ever should not be underestimated.

The entire drive over to the Palladium, I debated on whether or not I would squeeze to the front of the stage. I'm the kind that can and would. I'm also the kind who doesn't really like the general public, or having them sweat or breath on me. Then again, I do love Reznor, and this would be one my my last chances to really get my punk on. Decisions, decisions.

The last time I had been to the Palladium, it was for a charity show I had won tickets to. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Mike Watt and Eddie Vedder performed. I ended up next to the barrier, right from center and separated from my friend. It was this event that brought to my attention that "slam dancing" and "moshing" were two, totally different things. Slamming was organized chaos that had the pit and the perimeter. Moshing just happened wherever some eejit wanted to do it. And he was doing it all over my platforms! This was also when I realized punk was dead. I told a guy just over the barrier, "Next time security goes to the center to break up a scuffle, take my hand so I can get over the barrier. I want to get up on stage." He looked at me and said, "No." What? That's when I said, "What the hell are you doing here? There's no such thing as 'No' at a gig!" Meanwhile, my thigh was being molested by some drunkard I had to keep elbowing. Two other guys finally came over to help me out, scared away the perv, and we enjoyed the rest of the show. Chivalry lives, even in bondage pants.

Upon that reflection, I was happy to take my place off the floor. To the right of the stage, only equipment between me and the band. Trent would face me (yes, me) while he played keyboards. It was the perfect place. No one was crowding, molesting, or even spilling beer. It was, dare I say, civilized. And, I could have worn my sandals. Lesson learned.

Another lesson learned is that there is no graceful way to exit a crowd surf. In spite of doing it about eight times throughout the night, this one girl never ended hers well. The highlight of the night was watching two girls get tackled by security when they tried to rush the stage, making the wrong decision to do it over the equipment and computers. If you are going to do that, 1) you should have a good game plan, 2) you should be in better shape; speed and agility are everything, and 3) stop when the guards get to you, unless you want to end up ass over teakettle. Know the risks, people.

The show ended without an encore. Reznor was quite sick, but gave us his all. So much so, they had to reschedule the remaining dates of this Wave Goodbye Tour. My ears are still ringing (I took out my earplugs...I couldn't resist), which can't be a good thing, but it does make me smile. This is just confirmation that a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, even if she has to do it alone.

Endings

This year, we have seen so much fall away, so much shift and change. It has left us unsettled, in question and scared. What next? seems to be on everyone's mind.

In the last two months, we have lost a fair share of icons. Each represented something different. The "me" of the 70s. The excess of the 80s. The buy-one-get-one-free-in-three-easy-payments 90s. The integrity of newscasting through the decades. And now the "lion" of liberals.

We don't use terms like, "Sex Appeal" much anymore. But Farrah embodied it. Today, we would mock anyone who declared themselves King or Queen of something. But, somehow, coming out of the materialistic 80s, we shrugged our shoulders and played along. How many of us got sucked in to buying the latest-greatest-product-ever in the 90s? I am raising my hand as a proud owner of the Caruso Curlers. How often have we wished that Walter Cronkite read us our news? At least then it was the facts, not the hype. And, even with all his faults, we will miss the kind of public service and progressive vision that Senator Kennedy gave.

The past seems to be slipping away from us as we step into an uncertain future. These icons, these anchors, are gone now. I wonder what icon will represent this decade? Will it be Bald Britney? Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan? Will it be the crumbing Twin Towers? That bumbling idiot we were forced to call president for much too long? Will it be the two wars and the soldiers forced to fight them over and over and over again? Will it be Wall Street or Madoff? Or will it be Hope?

In the face of all these endings, it's time to begin. It's time to change, for the better. To be brave and compassionate. To be fair. To truly make this country equal. To be responsible. To provide to those in need. I hope, if nothing else, this decade will have taught us to care, to be involved and to not turn a blind eye. From September 11th to Katrina to Wall Street to today, as this decade winds to its close, I hope we will be courageous enough to write a happier ending and not be afraid to move forward.