hold onto your hats…and bouquets… and programs… and that three-year old, where’d he go?
My friends’ wedding was a complete success. It was darn close to being a total disaster. It was an outdoor wedding, and it was probably 103 degrees when we all got to the church in wool and polyester and pantyhose and flowers and hairspray and jackets and pants and all. So we were set for a sweat fest.
Then the ceremony was about to begin, and I looked in the sky: dark, dark clouds. I was so nervous that we were going to get poured on. We started the ceremony, and then the wind hit. You know that crazy wind right before a huge storm? Blowing us around like you wouldn’t believe. But everyone in the ceremony was an actor, and you know how we are: “The Show Must Go On.” And we got a little louder (some a LOT louder) and we got a little bigger, and kept a sense of humor through the whole thing. Every once in a while a drop would fall… but we beat nature.
It never rained on us.
And it was the most engaging wedding you’ve ever seen. Such tension, such drama. It’s like in Poltergeist when the dad’s trying to get out the keys to let the family in the car before the undead gets him… we just wanted to hear “Kiss the Bride” before the crash of thunder and lightning. Every added song, every reading was another layer of suspense. Will the sister singing on the karaoke machine get electrocuted at the climax of the song from a sudden downpour? Will the veil get blown off the bride’s head before the groom lifts it to kiss her? Will all the flowers blow away? Will the children start crying? Will we still be able to hear the ceremony? And most of all… What happens if it rains?
Relationships are full of drama and comedy. Theatre is full of drama and comedy. The ceremony between two members of our theatre world should be just as exciting, fulfilling, and ultimately– entertaining. Let God join the two of you together with a mixing of his most powerful elements. Let the world see you start together with all of your friends and family determined (as Viola is to find Sebastian after the storm in Twelfth Night) to start your lives off right. Let us cry for you because it finally happened. Let us cry for you because we are proud of you, happy for you, and relieved that everything went well. Let us cry for you at the mere spectacle of it all.
Love is messy. It is fast, unpredictable, and surprising. Love makes you dizzy. Sometimes you have a bit of cleaning up to do when love sets you down for a second. Love makes your friends get caught up in it and want to be a part of your love so bad they don’t care the consequences. Let ‘em take a branch to the eye for love.
Don’t ever let your storm die down. Always keep it exciting and amazing and electrified. And when you hit that calm of the eye of the storm, appreciate it for what it is– down time before the next whirlwind… time to buy more survival equipment, time to check on the chicken coop.
Don’t shake your fist at the storm, but thank it for the way it will keep your life always interesting, and never, ever dull.
To Weldon and Martinique Happiness and Passion Forever I Love You
karma, n. 1. Hinduism, Buddhism. action seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation. 2. (loosely) fate or destiny. — karmic, adj.
It’s only fitting that after mocking my gynecological exam last week that I should get the phone call this morning. That’s how things work, you see. You mock something to the American Public and it will bite you on the ass. They have found abnormal cells in my pap smear. They don’t know what that means, exactly, until they run some more tests. They will run these tests in a few weeks. That is when they are next free. They are going to perform what is called a colposcopy, and then they will know more if these cells are pre-cancerous, and then what treatment I should follow. They left me with more questions than I had answers and a knot in my stomach that cursed the gorditas I had just eaten before answering the call.
So, all this sent me into near hysterics this morning, and I left work shaking and confused and I spend $50 on office supplies to make me feel better. I got nice new pens and paper that comes in a carrying case and new ink for my printer and a new notebook to start working on my new play. I thought that playing with staplers and yearning for scanners would keep my mind of things. It did, until I got home, and I was alone and I was still confused. I had friends tell me that it’s probably nothing, but I can’t shake in my head that this kind of thing never happens to me, I’m not usually really sick in like a hospital sick kind of way, and I’m terrified of chemotherapy (having seen my father go through it) and then I got myself all worked up again.
Sally Jessie Raphael this afternoon was about women with cervical cancer that cured themselves with homeopathic remedies. Sesame Street was about how important it is to take care of yourself when you are sick.
I was scared. All afternoon I was scared. I have to wait an entire month to know any more than I do now. So I went online, and I started doing some research as to why I’m getting this procedure and what it means.
Here’s the best explanation, from Planned Parenthood in Houston:
Your clinic has just called to say that your recent routine Pap test for cervical cancer has an “abnormal” result. What should you do? How should you feel?
A few women may panic at this news because they think “abnormal” means something very serious is wrong [That would be me, Ma'am]. Fortunately, most women know this is not true. It does means two things:
1. Further tests are needed to find out where these abnormal cells are and what kind of cells they are.
2. She should have another checkup soon, even though she feels just fine. Quick action will help prevent any serious problems from developing and will also relieve any worry.[Tell that to my physician, who's making me wait a month.]
Since, as a screening test, a Pap smear may not give the complete picture, her clinician may order a colposcopy. With the help of an instrument called a colposcope, a biopsy (tissue sample) can be taken. This greatly improves the accuracy of diagnosis
More info and answers can be found here.
Then I found this site:
What is colposcopy?
Colposcopy is an office procedure performed by your doctor to evaluate the exact meaning of an abnormal pap smear from the cervix. It can also be used to more accurately evaluate abnormalities of the vagina, vulva or external genital area.[yummy.]
Why is a colposcopy recommended?
Colposcopy is usually recommended if you’ve had abnormal Pap smears, or if an abnormality on your cervix was identified during your pelvic exam.[suddenly I realize that my last doctor was lying to me. I don't have a beautiful cervix. She was just sweet-talking me. I feel so cheap.]
What happens during the procedure?
You will lie on an examination table, just as you would for a Pap smear. Your doctor will insert a speculum into the vagina to hold it open, just like the procedure for obtaining a pap smear. Then, a vinegar and water solution [HEL-LO!] will be applied to the cervix to make the abnormal areas more visible. You may feel a slight tingling sensation at this time.
Next, your doctor will use an instrument called a colposcope, which provides magnification, to evaluate the cervix. With your permission your doctor then may decide to biopsy your cervix and endocervical canal to evaluate any areas in question. Some medication may be applied if there is bleeding from the biopsy.
Colposcopy takes between 15 to 30 minutes and is performed in your doctor’s office.
After the procedure, you may experience light bleeding or mild cramping from the biopsy which can last for several hours.
It is best to avoid sexual intercourse for a period of one to two weeks following a colposcopy procedure. [damn.]
For most patients, it is safe to return to work and resume other activities such as driving and exercising as soon as you feel able.
And if you need to know what all this looks like, this site was kind enough to show you what your insides look like.
Then I found some scare tactics:
Examples of alternatives [to colposcopy] are:
1. conization (removing a cone of tissue ) of cervix.
2.doing nothing and risk dying of cancer of the cervix.
Then I found a picture of the actual instrument:
And I guess that’s when I started calming down about the whole procedure. It’s just a test to see what’s wrong. And what’s wrong is in such an early stage that they can fix it. They’ll freeze something or blast something or coax something out of there and I’ll be fine. So, nine hours after finding out this news, I’m feeling better. I’m not crying at the drop of a hat (I was crying at A League of Their Own this afternoon, for Christ’s sake!), and I don’t keep hugging my cat like it’s for the last time.
I urge you, if you are a sexually active woman, or a woman over the age of seventeen, get an annual physical every year. I go every year, and all of a sudden there’s something they’re worried about. Early prevention is critical in so many of these diseases. Please contact Planned Parenthood, or your Primary Care Practitioner or your family doctor to get your annual. It’s good for your body, and it’s good for your peace of mind.
I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. I’m upset that I had to do all of this research on my own, and that my doctor wasn’t the one telling me that all of this was fine, and she had this apathetic tone of voice, throwing out words like “biopsy,” “cancer,” and “abnormal.” It took my own research, and the stories of my friends to reassure myself that I’m just going through a minor medical trauma, and that I’m gonna turn out fine.
I wish I didn’t have to wait a whole month to find out any more info. I wish that we had a better health care system. I wish I knew what was wrong with me.
Time to sit and wait. Keep myself calm, and focus on the important things in my life. I just hope those cells sit and wait until their big day, and don’t try and dress up or impress the doctor or anything. I’m sure my cells are big show-offs too. I can’t believe there’s another part of me that’s abnormal.
I swear, sometimes I’m just one big joke.
“nothin’ to see here”
So…we wrote a really funny sketch at rehearsal yesterday. It really is funny. I think people will like it. The rub? It requires total nudity.
Watch as pamie’s spine shrivels into the back of her neck…
I just can’t do it. Now, look, I’ve thought a lot about it and everything, and I’ve decided that this sketch is about comedy. It’s about making people laugh. My naked body is not funny.
It’s more like an exhibit on Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Okay, maybe I’m being a little hard on myself or whatever, but it’s my decision whether or not to parade my body around in front of strangers, but the guys in my troupe are so disappointed that I don’t want to bare all…well, the guys and the girls, I was using the term “guys” collectively. Here in Texas we refer to that as “All Y’all.” That’s the plural form of “Y’all” in case you didn’t know…
I mean, what would make me do it? How would I get over my fears of being naked and pointed at? If I was getting paid? Nah, not really. If I was getting whistles and grins? Most definitely not. If I was being filmed so I couldn’t see anyone’s reaction? That’s too creepy. Maybe if I had a bag over my head so I couldn’t see them.
So then I was feeling bad that I was letting down the group think of the troupe and I was like, “Okay, it’s time for me to stop being a baby and just do it. Just say I’ll get naked.”
I didn’t say this aloud, of course, so I can still back out at anytime.
But if I just decide to like my own body more, become more comfortable with who I am, I won’t have this problem. Let’s see, for me to become more comfortable with my body, I have to like my body more. For me to like my body more it has to look like someone else’s body. For me to have someone else’s body, I have to live in a Science Fiction novel. For me to live in a Science Fiction novel, I’d probably have an alien body, and for me to have an alien body I’d have a whole new set of body issues about having my father’s antennae and my mother’s nine eyes and I’m probably not ready to deal with that.
So then I decide that to be comfortable with my own body I have to just change my body to how I want it to be. I start exercising like a moron…”Oh, since I’m sitting at this red light, I should do some butt squeezes. Boy, am I changing my life around. That’s so good for me. Look how much healthier I am.” Five butt squeezes and suddenly I’m Susan Powter. I drink five bottles of Naya a day. You know, those 1.5L bottles? I convince myself that I am burning more calories on my nineteen trips to the bathroom every day at work (even healthier) and my smoking is a great appetite suppressant (health, health, health). Who needs deal-a-meal when you have float-away?
Then I start feeling thinner (because peeing every half-hour makes you feel pretty svelte) and I decide to stand naked in front of the mirror.
And then that evil critic in my brain starts shouting like Carrie’s mother, “THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU! THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!” And I know that the whole point is that they laugh in the first place, and what are the chances that the entire audience is only starting at my thighs, but my brain is very, very paranoid. I convince myself that I should probably be in a shroud and not visible to the public again and then I try and cry but I can’t because I’ve peed all fluids out of my system and I convince myself that food is the enemy and that I can sustain on a power bar a day and then I remember how power bars taste like rice crispies soaked in molasses and I get nauseous and then I decide that maybe if I only think of power bars I’ll never be hungry again.
Then I decide I’m being silly again, and that there’s nothing wrong with my body, and my boyfriend loves me, and he loves my body, so why shouldn’t I? And then I think, “They just don’t know I’m the master of disguise. Without my protective baggy T-shirt the world will know. I’ll be like the Phantom of the Opera without the mask. The Incredible Hulk without the ripped shirt. Divine without a dress.
Then I get depressed again and decide that it’s time to like my body. I decide that the only thing keeping me from liking my body is the way it looks. I decide to lose X number of pounds. I decide it will take X number of weeks (this number is usually the countdown to a major event– wedding, show, seeing old boyfriend, seeing current boyfriend’s family, etc.). I convince myself that I have total control over myself and what I eat. Then I realize that I don’t eat so much, it’s just that I don’t eat things good for me because I’m so busy I never have time to cook. Decide to cook more. Go to store, buy $200 worth of groceries. Start doing yoga. Lots of yoga. Butt crunches in car. Start buying Subway sandwiches for lunch. Get home very late, very drunk on weekdays, do show on weekends. Get wrapped up in some friend’s crisis. Realize a week and a half has gone by. Throw out $200 worth of rotten stupid vegetables and skinless, boneless meat.
It’s hard to love your own body. Even when my boyfriend is talking about how much he loves my body, I’m thinking, “Wow. Love really is blind. Or he’s not wearing his contacts.” Then I start thinking that maybe he doesn’t wear his contacts on purpose when he’s with me. Then I realize that I’m truly, truly paranoid, and of course I look fine.
Then I go home for the weekend and my mother says, “Oh, you gained a little weight, huh?” And I try to explain to my mother that I’m carrying 4 Liters of water in me because of the car trip and I’ll be a much skinnier person when I get out of the restroom. She just sighs.
So, I’m trying to decide whether to take the plunge and just get naked on stage in front of many strangers and a few industry people. Aw, man, I’m a puss. I’m just a big puss.
Nudity is a very private issue, I guess, and in this business it becomes a bit public. (I accidentally just typed “pubic” and had to change it, but I’m cracking up right now) I’m not the only one that’s hesitant about dropping trou, but I’m the most vocal about it. There’s something funny about a naked man, but a naked woman becomes an object to scrutinize, and if she’s not perfect, worked on by a pack of highly skilled physicians, squeezed and molded into Perfection, then there’s a gross-out factor there that I don’t think I can handle.
But it’s a funny sketch.
But what if no one laughs because they cannot believe that’s actually my butt?
What if my troupe members can never look at me again?
What if a fan club starts for my tummy?
What if it’s no big deal?
What if– gotta pee.
righteous dude ferris and power lloyd duke it out
Growing up in the eighties gave young girls two types of men to look for in a future mate. Two films divided what type of girl you were and what type of guy you wanted. Those two films are Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Say Anything…
Those two boys are Ferris Bueller and Lloyd Dobler.
Two cute boys. Two charming boys. Two very different boys. But in looking for a guy, you’re either a Mia Sara or a Ione Skye. Who did you want to be?
Ferris was the happy-go-lucky guy who would spend an entire morning getting you out of school by convincing the principal your grandmother died. He’d convince his friend to let him use his father’s car because your father would drive a nicer car. He’d get you out of class and take you to the Sears Tower, the museum, a ball game, and serenade you in a parade. (Life moves pretty fast for Ferris, check out this site to see how Ferris can even beat the hands of time.)
Ferris would discuss marriage with you, but you knew he probably wasn’t too serious. He was mostly thinking about himself and what he wanted to do. Besides, he’s older than you are. Ferris has no future plans. Ferris may not graduate high school if he keeps skipping. Girlies (like Sherilyn Fenn) are always hanging on Ferris, and trying to take your man. He does not stray, but he could if you two were in a particularly nasty fight.
There is never a dull moment with Ferris. He will always accomplish the impossible. He will make you feel like a queen. He takes care of his friends, and he’s RICH. Ferris has the cash. His brainless parents probably would throw the stuff at you two if you got married. If Ferris would get married…
Ferris would probably try and pull a few scams on you, too. You’d have to decide if you could really, really trust him.
Ferris would serenade you with “Twist and Shout,” or his clarinet version of “I Dream of Jeannie.”
Jeannie, Ferris’ sister, would hate you every waking moment.
If you got better wedding gifts than she did, she may very well send you a bomb in the mail.
Ferris can get out of any situation. He’s fast on his feet. He can make a clean getaway, unless there’s a couple of girls in bikinis lying in the yard where he’s running.
Ferris will make you less of a stress freak. He will explain to you that all the fuss isn’t necessary and when you see how much fun he’s having, you’ll get pretty convinced.
Ferris moves pretty fast. Buy some condoms.
Lloyd will love you from afar for quite some time. He will eventually get up enough courage (just by being amazed that you are so incredible) that he will call you and ask your father if he can date you. At first he will appear a bit dorky and rambling, but there’s a charm in his logic.
Lloyd Dobler will be a perfect gentleman on your first date. He will tell you you look wonderful and stay up all night with you without expecting you to put out.
Lloyd, unfortunately, is so nice that he will take three hours out of your date to find a drunk guy’s house and drop him off after the party.
Lloyd will have girlfriends. Best girlfriends, but there’s nothing going on between them, and there will never be anything between them. They will give him advice and support and give you advice and support.
Lloyd is ambitious. He takes care of his body. Kickboxing. The sport of the future. He’s a good uncle, helping to keep the fun in his sister and nephew’s life. He has stayed where T-I-M has gone. He’s into good music, and has a great sense of humor. He likes Bavarian Dutch Style Pretzels, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the Clash.
Lloyd will start to hang out with you more and more. He only thinks about you. He wants to spend as much time with you as possible. He will kick shards of glass out of your way when you’re walking.
Lloyd will teach you to drive a stick shift. He will visit you at work. He will go to dinner at your family’s house. He will stay out of family matters, but still support you through your decisions.
He will shiver and shake when you are intimate, and he will try to blow it off like he’s cold. But when he looks you in the eyes, you know it’s because of you that he’s shaking. He will write you a letter the next day, and will wait a few days later to tell him that he loves you, just as you were about to give him a pen.
He will not give up. He leaves messages on your machine. He talks about you to friends. He tries to bond with other boys, but he knows that’s not his style. You’re his style. You make him a better person, and he makes you a better person. If only you weren’t so selfish. So stupid and selfish none of this would have ever happened. Dammit, Diane! He gave you his heart and you gave him a pen! You stupid bitch! Don’t you care about his feelings? So your daddy’s going to the pokey, this is true love we’re talking about here!
Lloyd will serenade you with a perfect Peter Gabriel song that was playing the first night you made love. Lloyd pays attention to detail. Lloyd would never embarrass you. He would never make you feel bad about yourself. He will patiently wait for you to come back, and he won’t even blame you when you make him get punched in the head.
Lloyd’s flaws come from the fact that he needs you so badly he doesn’t take care of himself. He doesn’t care if you came back because you needed someone rather than you needed him. He needs to believe in himself more. After all, he’s Lloyd Dobler.
Lloyd will visit your dad in prison when you won’t. He’ll try and explain what’s happening. He’ll drop everything and go to Europe with you. Lloyd loves you for your talent and your heart above everything else.
Ferris and Lloyd are two different types of boyfriends. Do you want the rebel or the romantic? Do you want to chase or be chased? Do you want your parents to approve or disapprove? Well, in this case, I think that Sloane’s parents approved more than Diane’s, but that’s another story.
I am happy to say that I’ve found my Lloyd Dobler that I’ve been searching for all these years. I’m beaming about him today, because he’s coming back into town. I have a sensitive, romantic guy who kicks the glass out of my way, teaches me a stick shift (on his own car), and likes to talk late at night. He doesn’t want to buy anything. sell anything, or process anything, or buy anything sold or processed or sell anything bought or processed or… you get the idea. He’s in love with my mind and my heart. He’s charming, funny, and attractive. He’s got close girlfriends who think he’s the best, but wouldn’t date him. He is always looking out for me. “He checks up on me” at parties. He trembles.
He likes the Clash.
Whatever you’re looking for, keep true to your heart. And for all you guys out there looking for a girl, pleasefollow Lili Taylor’s advice:
“No, don’t be a guy. Anybody can be a guy. Be a man.”
don’t tell me i’ve got to be bummed about my breasts
I am all apologies. I had no idea my web page looked like shit if you were looking at it through Microsoft Internet Explorer. Damn. Damn. Damn. For those of you who never got to read “I Lived With John Travolta” it is now in a more readable, agreeable form. Same with the splash page. I just figured if it looked right on this piece of crap OS/2 box I have at my work desk it should look pretty decent anywhere. Ai ya.
I saw The Slums of Beverly Hills last night. Hmm… it was okay, but if you’ve seen Mary Jane’s Not a Virgin Anymore by Sarah Jacobsen, you’ve seen a better version of this film. It was okay in that “quirky teen” kind of coming-of-age film, but I really wanted it to be funnier, and I really wanted the body doubles to get, like, third billing in this film, since we were seeing headless boobies for a good 1/38th of the film.
Yes, that is an exact fraction based off the time spent in the film directly proportional to the time spent looking at boobies in the film, thank you very much.
I’m a little angry about the film, and I’ll tell you why. It’s not just this film, it’s every film that has an awkward girl as it’s heroine…
Sarah Jacobsen’s film is about this girl and what happens to her. You watch her get a job, and interact with friends and boys and find out about sex and masturbation. In films like “Slums” and “Welcome to the Dollhouse” the teen becomes a bit of a hero, and the rest of the family are made to look like dorks. We are looking through the biased eyes of the fifteen year old, and we don’t see the family as a whole. We are watching the girl who’s thinking, “If only my family would all die and then I could be famous.”
I think these films sometimes make the confused puberty-ridden teen a lot more heroic than she ever could be. These films tell you if you’re awkward, you’d better be extraordinary or we don’t really care about you.
I moved around a lot growing up, and I was awkward virgin girl in school and I had a weird family and I was lonely and I didn’t know how to give myself an orgasm, but it didn’t make me like everyone else. It didn’t make me stronger than the average girl and able to handle any crisis that came my way. I would go into a crying shrieking fit if the President interrupted the “Facts of Life” to give a speech. These girls are so stoic that they handle situations with more dignity and respect than their parents.
The Geek Girl in today’s indie film has to be so unattractive that you find them interesting to look at. She’s got to be so awkward that she makes you feel good about your adolescence. She has to hate her body and she has to be teased by every member of her family. She has to hate the thought of one day being a woman. And this last point of mine is my biggest beef: She has to be molested or potentially molested or watch someone be molested by a family member or close family friend. Why is there always a molestation scene in the middle of a dysfunctional-family-teen-girl-comedy? Why? I’m tired of watching a film and before we even get into the plot I’m trying to decide which creepy uncle is going to feel up our heroine’s tits? I’ve been programmed to dislike the heroine’s family. And that’s the part that really gets me… we’re supposed to see her grow up and get stronger and learn about herself and then she always gets into this rape-type-scene and that’s when we see her back down, run away, have a breakdown. That’s where the Geek Girl is no longer a winner. She cannot triumph over sexual abuse.
It’s like they took the best parts of our Judy Blume books when we were kids and added just enough sex jokes that it’s now a taboo film when basically these films are about getting your tits and liking boys and trying to decide when you will go “all-the-way.” If that’s what it is, that’s what it is, and put a funky March Violets song in the back and call it “Sixteen Candles” and be done with it. But if I’m supposed to feel like how I did when I was fourteen and this boy on the bus was trying to put his hand up my panties and I was so scared I sat still and cried— then why make me re-live it film after film after film if you don’t have anything new to say, but you need to get the sex abuse element in your teen comedy/drama. Give the Geek Girl some power once in a while. If she can stand up to the whole school, she can stand up to Uncle Ed who likes to play horsey.
I’m tired of it. I just am. Treat it the way it is, or don’t use it in your film. If you really need to tell the story of child sex abuse, read She’s Come Undone. Then decide if you really want to tell that story. Then tell me if you really understand what it’s like to be a Geek Girl. Read Girl.
We didn’t all grow up with hilarious families where we rolled our eyes all the time at our wackiness. Not all Geek Girls are ugly. We don’t all have uncontrollable breasts or no breasts or weird breasts. We don’t all get our periods in front of the class. We didn’t all have crushes on older, unattainable boys. We didn’t just accept things with a solemn, adult understanding. We cried. We cried because we had no control over our bodies and our futures. Other people decided if we were cool. Other people decided what we had to wear, where we lived, where we went to school. A Geek Girl is at the constant mercy of how the Head Bitch Girl feels at recess that day, or at lunch. Don’t tell me that after I get a little makeup on me, or I get a training bra that the boys will come a-running. Don’t mess with my head and tell me that I wasn’t pretty enough to be cool and “look-how-you-can-look-back-at-yourself-and-laugh.”
I know a mockery when I see one, and if you can keep making fun of me at this age, I don’t want to see your damn film.
I just get so upset because I want to root for these indie films. I want women filmmakers and writers to start making a mark in this industry. I just think they are going about it the wrong way. You don’t make a Geek Girl superhuman so that she can be accepted by Film-Watching-America. You show her like she is… a young, delicate, confused girl who’s about to experience some unforgettable things. She’s about to decide who she is and what she wants to be. She’s so concerned on what’s going to happen to her, she doesn’t hear the teasing anymore, it starts fading away. And one day she wakes up and realizes she hadn’t heard it in a while, and how come she didn’t notice that before? Show the evolution of the Geek Girl in a powerful, honest way. Yes, we should see her temper tantrums, her awkward attempts at sex, her pinings for the boy next door. But we don’t have to see her abuse herself for popularity, get abused by popularity, and get abused by family. Abuse is now what makes a Geek Girl a Geek Girl. That’s the movie industry’s excuse. “Oh, well, she was diddled by her stepfather, so she’s not right in the head.” It was not something horrible that happened to us. We just always were a little different. We liked different things. We liked wearing our clothes a different way. It wasn’t some horrible sexual incident that made us gawky. And even if there was sexual abuse and it makes you feel weird about your body and you don’t know how to dress anymore because you don’t want that to happen again, don’t laugh at it. Don’t point at it and say, “Look what that does to you. That’s hilarious.”
For Christs’ sake, give us a little respect.
I’m sorry I’m so cranky, but this has been on my mind since last night, and it’s just been so many damn films in a row. Even the good films all have sex abuse or someone observing sex abuse or whatever. The Ice Storm, Eve’s Bayou, Welcome to the Dollhouse…
It’s funny that now that I’m an adult I’m searching for a younger character that I can identify with, someone that I feel lived my story… I’m looking for an answer to how I looked when I was a kid. I’m trying to find some sort of understanding and I’m furious that I cannot find it, and that it’s not a simple answer and then I think, when I was younger, I just wanted to be one of the Goonies.
Those were the coolest kids in the world. They stayed best friends thoughout their grand adventure and they saved their families from financial ruin. They were the outcasts of their school (aside from the cheerleader, who is there to learn something about Geek Kids) but they weren’t exploited for being different. When I was a kid, I wanted to be just like that.
birthday cake and ulcers
So I’m off to Houston to visit my mom tomorrow. Or tonight. I haven’t decided when I’m leaving. If it was up to my mother, I would have left yesterday to come and see her, but I do have a show tonight. But the A/C is out in my car, and with the weather the way it is lately, I know I’ll be sweating. I’ll probably leave in the morning.
It’s my mother’s birthday, and of course I’m coming home. I wouldn’t miss her birthday for anything.
In case I don’t get a chance to update when I get there, let me just do it now, since it is always the same every time I go. And I mean every time I go. It’s scripted, and everyone is off-book. (There’s little acting lingo for you guys, how’s that?)
I’m Coming Home
Opening Credits: pamie is driving along in her car, singing at the top of her lungs. She has the occasional cigarette, and doesn’t stop to pee. She completes the two hour drive.
Scene One: pamie walks in the front door. Dog attacks with happiness. Dad is asleep in living room chair. Mom is out at grocery store buying last-minutes stuff for dinner. No one has heard from Sister. pamie pees. Say hello to seventeen year old cat “Ginger” who now weighs four pounds.
Scene Two: Dad greets pamie, turns on History Channel. Mutes television to ask me questions, unmutes while I’m giving my answers (he cannot hear voices when the t.v. is on… my father says that he has a special kind of hearing loss. The doctor told him that he’s lost the range of women’s voices. He cannot hear our frequency. Since he lives in a house with up to three women, this is very, very, very convenient for him. “Damn these ears.”
Scene Three: Mom comes home. Hugs. We go out on the porch to have a cigarette and talk about what’s been happening.
Scene Four: Dad comes out to have a cigarette with us. We page sister to see what’s taking her so long.
Scene Five: I go and tinker on Dad’s $4000 Solitaire Machine. Dad explains to me that they don’t need online service anymore because the web is boring and they don’t know how to e-mail anyone. I shed a silent tear for the insane waste of technology, and then kiss the 20 inch monitor longingly.
Scene Six: Mom has fallen asleep in the living room waiting for Dad and I to come back from the Pentium argument. She will sleep for an hour and a half. I smoke a cigarette.
Scene Seven: I am reading a book. Cigarettes.
Scene Eight: Dad begins dinner, and wakes Mom up to have her help in the kitchen. Outside with cigarettes, I am convincing myself that I am nothing like Bridget Jones.
Scene Nine: Sister comes home, pissed and pouty that her day has been interrupted by family time. She goes into her old bedroom and plays loud music. She goes through my suitcase for clothes she wants. She starts doing the laundry that she brought from her apartment.
Scene Ten: Essential dinner ingredient missing. Mom, sister and pamie are sent to store.
Scene Eleven: The worse I look, the more old high school acquaintances I run into at the store.
“You don’t need that.”
“Mom, yes I do, you don’t know.”
“Well, I’m not buying it for you.”
“You’d buy it for pamie.”
“I buy you stuff all the time.”
“God, I hate everyone!”
“Just go wait in the goddam car and pamie and I will be out in a second.”
“Fine. Get me a pack of cigarettes.”
Get home, dad has remembered something else. Sister and I return to store. Sister refuses to go in, and blasts Tupac in the parking lot until I return with Sour Cream.
Dinner. Humiliation. Arguing. Sister is burping. Mother is mumbling and my dad can’t hear her. Lots of repeating ourselves. Sister hates whatever meal is in front of her, and Dad is telling her that she liked it last time. Sister has made a pile out of her meat and is feeding it to the dog under the table. Mother is getting up over and over again to go back into the kitchen for something else that is not on the table (napkins, salt, spoons, etc.) Cat jumps on table. Dad yells at cat. Mom says not to yell at ancient cat, she could go at any time.
Mom and I get into an argument over Tourette’s syndrome. She thinks that it is simply kids wanting attention and a good spanking would solve everything. My father chimes in saying that my generation is dissolving the core of all humanity in this country, and it all goes back to that wretched MTV. I try to have a political discussion with my father, but I end up getting so infuriated when he goes in about same-sex marriages being an insurance scam that I have to go refill my milk glass.
Cat vomits under table.
Sister has gone out with friends. She will come back to finish her laundry tomorrow. Parents and I sit around and talk and smoke, sometimes play a game of “You Don’t Know Jack.”
Dad gets tired, goes to sleep.
pamie and mom sit up very late outside smoking and talking.
Naked sleepy Bed-Head Dad comes out to yell at us that we are keeping him awake. I make the observation that he cannot hear the pitch of our voices when we stand next to him, but somehow sixty feet away and through a pane of glass we are disturbing his slumber. Dad does not find me funny, reminds me to stick with computers, goes back to sleep.
Mom and I decide to go in. We fall asleep watching Lethal Weapon 3. I wake up in the middle of the night to turn off all the lights and go to sleep in my old room (which consists of my sister’s old furniture, my old bed, and my mother’s forgotten old projects.)
I leave first thing in the morning back for Austin because I have work/rehearsal. Mom stands at door, teary-eyed and making my stomach turn in knots. “It’s never long enough,” she says, and I feel guilty that we don’t spend more time together. We make future plans to go out just the two of us that we both know will never happen, but it makes us feel better to know that plans have been made.
I drive off, tears in my eyes and Radiohead in my tape deck.
It’s like this every time. It never changes. Only the dinner meal. It’s a routine, and everyone is comfortable with it. It happens about once a month, depending on who’s birthday it is, or Mother’s Day or Father’s Day…
So, this is family living. This is being there for each other. I wouldn’t trade the late-night talks for anything. My only regret is that there’s never a time… except for the meal fiasco, where we are all in the same room. And then I think… that’s probably a good thing. Families need their space, my family more so than most.
So, tonight, when I’m packing, I know to find a couple of good books, three packs of cigarettes, and a whole bag of patience.
It’ll be good to be home.
I have a headache. I’ve had one for about a week now and I’m tired of it. It starts right under my eyes and travels down to the base of my neck by the end of the day. I took off work early today to get some rest, but it’s not seeming to help.
What did brighten my day, however, is the amount of mail I got over the weekend. Thanks, guys. I was just thinking the other day about what is it that keeps people coming, makes them want to read your site. Why do I go to sites every day hoping from an update from Melty or Ms. E? I love the privacy of it all… looking into someone’s mind without them having to explain things slowly to you or you having to hear the same old stories again.
I enjoy writing this page because people I would never have met e-mail me to tell me what they thought ( my girlfriend piece was especially popular) and people that I do know tell me what they think of it all…(hi, guys!). It’s my tiny magazine that I work on every day and it’s something that makes me feel like I’m doing some writing everyday. Guestbooks make me uncomfortable, I know, because you feel compelled to put more of your own personal info on them than you’d like, but I like when people sign them, because they usually tell me more than they do when they are just sending a quick e-mail.
I also realized that I never told anyone too much about me, so to answer any questions:
I’m in my twenties.
I’m an Aries.
If you didn’t know at least two of those facts by now, I’m pretty surprised.
In any event, this was merely my attempt to thank you guys for the great mail I’ve gotten lately. I like knowing that people are reading.
I’m not a crazy cat lady.
Now that we’re past that, it’s time for me to tell you about my cats. I think it’s important to tell you about them so that you understand a little bit about my home life, and that when I say my house feels crowded sometimes, you know all of the personalities in the house.
I have two cats.
Taylor and Lillith.
I’ve mentioned them before, but I never went into detail.
First off, I didn’t name them. They came with the name. Somewhere in San Francisco lives their former owner. His name is David. I’ve lost his e-mail address, so I cannot tell him that his kitties are doing just fine. But if he happens to read this…
Let’s start with Lillith…
Lillith: AKA Rose Petal, Spice Girl, Wiwl-wiff.
Age: 5 years.
Lillith is a grey cat. Often when people come into the house, they comment that my cat looks like the cat in Pet Sematary. That’s because she has these sharp green eyes, and she always looks like she’s slightly pissed at you. Lillith is a lap cat. She likes to be in your lap at all times. If she is not in your lap, she looks at you like you are being incredibly rude to her.
Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, she’s sitting over my head, staring straight at me. That’s kinda spooky.
She’s the beta cat, and let’s Taylor pretty much rule the roost.
She likes men more than women. Specifically, she likes my boyfriend more than she likes me.
Lillith wants to be the next Spice Girl. She’s British. She is more elegant than anyone else in the house.
Lillith likes to rub the fur off her chin on anything hard. She has no fur on her chin.
Lillith does resemble in personality the Lillith of “Cheers” fame.
Lillith drinks out of the toilet bowl, which goes against all of her proper breeding and drives me insane.
She has a very skinny tail.
She has $100 worth of toys, but she prefers to chase the shadows on the floor.
When I exercise at home, she likes to bite me on the neck to get me to stop moving around.
Lillith is very good at looking innocent. I recently learned that it is her that goes into the trash can at night, but she puts the evidence over next to the sleeping Taylor, so in the morning he is framed. She’s a smartie.
She has herpes in her right eye. I’m not kidding. Her eye weeps whenever the house gets particularly smoky. My boyfriend will tell you that I gave the cat herpes. He thinks that’s really funny. Since I don’t have herpes (human or feline) this is impossible. She picked it up before she belonged to me. Do not listen to by boyfriend’s opinion on this subject. We have this oil that we can put in her eye when it gets particularly goopy, but it grosses me out to no end, since it’s like an ointment that you have to put straight onto her eye and then rub in. Eww…
AKA: Taylor Dejardan, Taylor-tot, Squishy, “The Cat
With the Fur on His Face”
Taylor is a big tabby cat. Big. People think he’s fat, but like Cartman, he’s just big boned. Taylor’s face is big and squished in. Taylor is a French Canadian Hockey Player. He cannot believe that the Pittsburgh Penguins did not do better this year. He really likes Doug Gilmour, but he is more like Felix Potvin (Felix the Cat).
Taylor is very strong. He can take a slice of pizza down from your hand into his mouth. When he swats you it makes a great “smack” noise. Taylor rarely scratches, but he can bite pretty hard.
Taylor is not a lap cat. He’s not even a “sit-near-you” cat. He likes to sit under the futon and watch our feet. He lays on his back with his legs spread.
Taylor likes catnip a lot. A whole lot.
He thinks that he can become invisible.
Taylor has an eating disorder. He binge eats. He waits until he thinks you’ve gone to bed and then eats everything in his bowl. You can’t stop him.
He’ll eat anything. The cat will sometimes eat chips, fruit, cheese, bread (he loves bread)— especially french rolls.
Taylor eats the carpet. I cannot get him to stop. He loves to sit and munch on the rug. I don’t know why.
Taylor likes to sit on folded clothes.
You can pet his head and neck, but that’s it.
He likes to sit on whatever you’re reading, or whatever he thinks you may read in the future.
Taylor often pretends that he’s my boyfriend. He sits where my boyfriend does on the couch and sits really tall like he wants me to bring him a slice of pizza and some beer.
Taylor will chase bugs and get lost. He hates wind. Wind freaks him out. He keeps looking around to see who just walked by, but he doesn’t see anyone.
Taylor rarely makes a sound, except to say hello, and “feed me.”
They are both good at saying my name. “Paaaam!”
They once packed me a lunch. I make pork chops, which is their absolute favorite, and one day when I got to work, I opened my bag and there was a chewed up pork chop inside. Somehow they got into my bag, dropped off the chop, and closed the bag. They care about my well-being.
Taylor chases Lillith, but Lillith never chases Taylor.
Taylor cannot stand Pearl Jam.
Lillith likes Radiohead.
Taylor doesn’t like me to sing to him.
Taylor will knock glasses over to drink out of them.
Lillith gets her head stuck in the glass.
They both jump into the empty bathtub and get lost.
They are afraid of cockroaches, but they like to eat crickets.
When the litter box gets full and I forget to change it, they leave little crumbs of kitty litter on the rim of the toilet.
Go on, tell me I’m crazy, but these cats are just as much roommates as anyone else. Except they won’t get a damn job.
I suddenly get this feeling like you’re going, “Oh, and I used to like her so much. She just did a cat page.” So I’ll tell you the truth. I’m still a little sad (see yesterday, and I’m a little drunk off Vodka. I wanted something to cheer me up, and I also wanted you to know where Squishy came from. I just need a damn hug. Damn. I’m gonna go smoke.
and other stories from my gynecologist
pamie is a little sad.
I took my boyfriend to the airport this morning. He’s visiting the fam for a week.
This afternoon I went to the gyno. I hate getting my annual. I end up feeling very violated. It’s all over so fast. Wam, bam, here’s your co-pay bill. No hugging, no snuggling, no lollipop.
I feel that after you spread your legs you should at least get a sucker.
For those of you who never go, and for those of you who will never need to go, here’s the experience in five easy steps:
1. Something metallic and wet pulls at you.
2. Something sharp and small pokes at you.
3. Something sharp pokes further in you.
4. Metallic wet thing gets smaller and goes away.
5. Fingers poke around while pushing down on your stomach
You have to understand that I started out by going to the University doctors. They don’t care how you feel. They don’t care what’s hurting you. They want you on the pill and they want you out of their office. Then they want you to come back every year.
My first gyno was pretty good. She explained what was happening to me, and aside from that awkward moment during the breast exam where she was flopping my titties around and asking me how my GPA was going, she was pretty good at making me feel comfortable. She was aware of my body to a degree that I didn’t feel uncomfortable telling her about my problems.
She said I had a beautiful cervix. That made me feel proud, since it’s a natural beauty.I’ve never spent money on creams or anything to improve its appearance. I can only assume it’s pretty, since I’ve never seen it myself, but I’m planning on putting that on my resume one day. If nothing else, I’ll get an internship at Annie Sprinkle’s office.
The next gyno left me in such a state that I still haven’t recovered. First of all she was cross-eyed, which makes me nervous to begin with, since she’s sticking sharp objects between my legs. Then she starts making fun of my family’s medical history, which I won’t go into right now. Just know that at one point she made a joke that it was a wonder my father wasn’t dead. So as you could imagine I was just anxious as hell to get naked in front of her.
Here’s the worst part… I’m on my back, legs in the air, feet in the stirrups, and she starts calling to my cervix like she’s playing Ollie Ollie Oxen Free. “Come on, Miss Cervix! Where are you? Oh! There she is! Hello!”
Did I mention I had the flu?
Christ, I was humiliated. I just wanted to go home, but we were only on step two (see above) and it was going to be a few more steps. She whistled “Heigh Ho” and sang a couple of tunes while she completed my pap smear and then told me I was free to go.
She left the room and I cried for five minutes. A crazy woman had just looked inside my body, and she didn’t even notice that I had a beautiful cervix. I had it all dolled up for her, too. With a little bow.
Today’s doctor didn’t mention my cervix as a beautiful thing. In fact, she was worried about it because I was so sensitive. I’m starting to worry that my cervix is losing it’s sex appeal at an unusually early age. I wonder if there’s some sort of exercise I could do.
Then I realize that I’m trying to impress my gynecologist, and I think that’s going a bit too far to be liked.
Besides, how can you impress someone in a paper vest and a sheet?
Don’t ever tell anyone you’re a comedian if they ask what you do at night. They just want to hear a joke. The place I was at today was called “A Woman’s Place” and when the doctor came in I asked her, “Do you guys ever jokingly refer to this place as ‘the kitchen?’” And she just looked at me. “You know,” I said, “A Woman’s Place? Do you call it ‘barefoot and pregnant?’”
She goes, “That’s not funny.” And I was like, “It’s just a joke, you know about how far we’ve come and all.” And she’s like, “My husband wouldn’t find that funny.” And I was like, “You’re a very lucky lady.” And then she started putting on her gloves and cleaning the speculum so I shutup. She asked for a joke, man.
Tip for future patients: if they have that seat where you sit down and then they tip you back to put your calves in the stirrups, be careful. Going back I felt like a cowboy slapping my legs up in the air… but she didn’t tell me when I was coming down, and I was talking to her and I slowly started sinking and my butt fell down from the chair with my legs over my head. Oh yeah, I looked real cool.
And I still didn’t get a lollipop.
wherein we discuss my shortcomings as a glamourpuss
There’s something very appealing about a girl that knows how to rock out.
I am not one of those girls, but I do have respect for those that do. The girls that can sing, the girls that can write, the girls that can make your spine do that tingly thing.
I’ve always wanted to do that.
I want to be the girl with the “too-cool” look that makes you want to know her better, that makes her instantly unattainable and unforgettable.
I want to stop the air in the room when I walk in.
I want to be asked to dance by a total stranger because he just “had to.” I want a drink bought for me by the “gentleman at the end of the bar.” I want a door opened for me and a jacket thrown over a puddle for me. I want to get pinned. I want a coming out ball for me.
I want to be the girl “with the most cake.”
Women with a presence. Man, that’s an amazing thing, isn’t it? When you sit back and want to absorb them. You wish they knew who you were, and inside…deep deep inside… you wish their knees would bend for your affection. That they craved you like you crave them. That they find you so intoxicating.
I’ve always wanted to be That Girl.
That Girl knows how to have a man love her. She makes him beg for love. She knows how to have a lover’s fight with style and class and oh-so-much-bitch-factor that even the pets are crying when she makes her perfect, perfect, perfect exit.
That Girl never needs a tissue.
That Girl has her cigarettes lit for her, unless she wants to light them all.
That Girl has a voice that digs at your knees.
That Girl has perfect skin, perfect hair, and a body that makes you blink. She has never thought twice about skinny-dipping, and has never apologized for you seeing her in a swimsuit.
Women hate That Girl, and she never notices. She never notices, because they never ever let on. To hate That Girl is admitting that you are not, and will never be That Girl.
She is strong, except when she wants someone to hold her. She is outspoken, except when she can get someone else to take the blame. She is accused, and she accepts the gossip. As long as they are talking about her somehow, she’s still important. She’s still That Girl.
Maybe you’ve never spoken to That Girl. You just want to look at her. You just want to listen to her. Smell her. Maybe she knows you’re there, maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter, because you are just watching a part of her world. She seems to almost see you, but then– she looks away.
I will never be That Girl.
And a good part of me doesn’t want to. She has a lot of responsibility. She has to keep making herself remarkable. Watchable. Desirable.
I just have to be funny and pay my rent.
That Girl has to spend lots of money on a night life. I’m broke.
I can eat Chocolate Fudge Brownie Frozen Yogurt in my boxer shorts and Pittsburgh Steelers shirt I swiped from my boyfriend.
That Girl wouldn’t be caught dead in her boyfriend’s shirt.
I could never slap someone. I could never tell a horrible lie. I could never use someone to attain perfection. I could never leave my friends behind. I can hardly leave my cats alone for the weekend.
That Girl has crying fits that are followed by nights of amazing passion. I have crying fits that are followed by hours of splashing cold water on my puffy face, while soaking the sleeve of my flannel pajama in snot with my boyfriend going, “Man, are you okay?”
That Girl never has bad breath. That Girl has never had to leave the room to change a tampon. That Girl has never called a man and hung up when he answered the phone. She has never punished herself after eating a Death By Chocolate.
Or she has never eaten chocolate.
That Girl knows nothing about the internet, except that there maybe a few pages out there about her. That Girl never reads the poems you leave for her.
That Girl is starting to get on my nerves.
I can’t imagine being aware of yourself all the time. I sing “Sesame Street” songs while I’m brushing my teeth. I break into a dance at the line at Taco Cabana if the song moves me. I trip and I fall all the time. That Girl couldn’t do that. But I can.
I’m That Other Girl. And I’m very happy about it. I’m a clumsy, dorky, funny, short girl. No glamour, 100% fun. And although I don’t stop a room when I walk in, chances are they may remember me after I’ve walked out.