I come from a very musically talented family. Despite my congenital leg-up, I still manage to be fairly music-retarded.
From age twelve to age eighteen, I listened to one single artist religiously, breathing in her words like Gospel and measuring my heartbeats to her uneven acoustic strums. Sigh... Jewel. My first love. I somehow felt desperately related to her plight. She lived in a van for years! Did you know that?! She scraped by on tips she earned entertaining in bars and on street corners, bleating out her misfortune at having a really shitty dad and living an under-priveleged life until Hollywood decided that she was blonde-and-blue-eyed enough to be in their exclusive club. Although none of this reeeeeally describes myself in any way (well, maybe one-sixth is pretty accurate), when I listened to Jewel sing it was as if her words yanked the skin off my bones and soaked my naked frame in a bath of warm light and acceptance. I used to go into a trance when I played her album Pieces of You. Really. I would put the cassette into our living room stereo, and I would get down on my knees in front of the speakers and sway creepily back and forth like a blind version of Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
This happened until I was a senior in highschool and my brother sent me a burned copy of The Get Up Kids' On a Wire album. It broke my concentration on strong female woes and opened my eyes to the world of music spread before me. From there I became an Indie Music Scene junkie and started shooting up the broken vocals and sob stories I found in each playlist. Ohhhhh girly boys, how I love thee.
I rejoiced in the genre of Converse shoes and Vasolined black hair for years, sporting band T-shirts and tennis sweatbands while playing Jenga and watching re-runs of Baywatch. I was on top of the indie music scene, rejoicing in the neglected glory and smug narcissism that accompanies it, until...
... the music got too cool for me.
All of a sudden, in my freshman year of college at UCSB, I realized that the music scene was expanding at a rate that left me panting and jogging sadly behind, choking on its dust. Everything changed in the blink of a heavily-black-linered eye.
Band names transformed from cleverly catchy three-worded titles to full sentences that led the tongue on quirky abandoned phrases and half-answered enigmas. When I first heard the name "Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah" I laughed so hard that I tinkled a little bit and left a slappy red high-five mark on my quadricep. As the band names grew to twenty syllables, I found my patience with The Music Scene shortening, and my ambition shrank into my comfort zone of What I Already Knew. I became a lyrical hermit. Whenever people tossed their pre-Bieber bangs and boasted about a new unheard-of music group, I yawned and sipped on my canned beer. I flirted briefly with the idea of starting a career in naming obscure musical groups; wouldn't YOU buy an album from The Presidential Hair Piece Horrors or She Wrote the Peacock White?
I am SO stressed out by the quantity of "hip" music flooding all over itself in the audio waves of the Indie Scene. I can only handle being hit on by a new band maybe every four months. In the interim I concoct a playlist of feel-good grooves and let it lull me to sleep every night. When the time is right I open my ear canal and heart to the seductive tones of another sultry music group. My friends have grown accustomed to my Tourettes-style screams of enthusiasm about songs I'm stoked on that they've already laid to rest in the musical graveyard. When I start cheerleading about a "new" band that I'm excited about, they smile sympathetically and pat my head with the CD case of last year's hits that apparently swarmed past me without detection. I would say pretty confidently that I'm about five years behind the music scene at any given moment. I'm currently obsessed with Murder By Death's album Who Will Survive and What Will Become of Them? Britney and Gaga yank their hips in front of my discretion but I hold steadfastly to my vows to not be overwhelmed by Mister Music and All His Glory. Nay... while you are scrolling through iTune's lastest top sellers, I am licking the scratches off my oldest Ben Folds CD. I am DETERMINED to defeat the music industry's promiscuity by remaining loyal to my heart song's crucial players. Although it may leave me contemporarily in the dark, it allows me to at least form enough of a relationship with each artist that I feel comfortable enough around him or her to Zumba-dance a physical accompaniment in the dark solace of my living room.
I'm pretty serious about founding that committee for The Nomenclature of Obscure Musical Groups, though. I mean... c'mon... I can probably think of six ways to incorporate Unicorns into your title that you failed to see, so... just saying....
Rock on!!!
P.S... DOUBLE RAINBOW!!!
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Fear Factor
I recently saw a really cute metal necklace imprinted with the phrase, "Each day do one thing that scares you."
I felt particularly drawn to the inscription, considering the fact that EVERYTHING scares me, so it would actually be an interesting thing for me to consciously confront my demons. The necklace was priced at $168, so I backed away from it slowly with my hands up in the air. And hey, I've let my fears solidly run my life for twenty-five years, so I'm not sure if that'll change any time soon. It did, however, get me thinking.
Adventure to me equals danger. All of my favorite activities involve either sitting, lying down, or standing with my feet firmly rooted to the ground. Any time wheels are thrown into the mix I become instantly nervous about the situation.
I'll never forget the phase I went through at the end of my high school days when I decided that I wanted to become a Sk8er Gurl. I saved my money up and purchased a beautiful Sector 9 longboard in hopes that by the time I arrived on the UCSB campus I would be officially ten percent cooler. I took my board with my friend Kristin and we practiced getting our wobbles out in our high school corridors after school hours. We quickly learned that anytime we hit a rock and the board shot out behind us as our necks and elbows lurched forward it was best to shake our heads in irritation and mutter knowingly to any spectators that "Man, these bearings are SHOT!" I'd like to think that at least one person believed us. I got really excited the day I was daring enough to roll in slow motion-- GET THIS!-- OFF A CURB!! Just right off it like it was nothing!! I then spent a lot of time purposely slow-rolling off sidewalks into parking lots, scraping the beautiful sunset painted on the deck of my board against the concrete. It wasn't until later that my brother pointed out that it was really unfortunate that my brand new board was in such bad shape, and I hung my head in shame while the word "poser" skated across my consciousness. When I'd finally gained some confidence in my ability to maneuver the board well enough, I brought it to Christmas at my grandma's house and tried to show of my savvy skills with my brother in the quiet street outside. There was... a very slight hill. Virtually invisible to the human eye, but apparently monstrous according to the laws of momentum and inertia (eww physics **barf**). I started rolling along with my ironically ugly thrift-store sunglasses and my little boys' T-shirt, throwing out peace signs and quoting lyrics from The Cure as I started picking up speed. And more speed. And suddenly, too fast too fast toofasttoofasttoofasttoofast!! I panicked, and like any other person who is lacking in common sense, I brilliantly stepped off the board. At fifteen miles per hour or so. And the pavement picked my foot up and I started doing Olympic-status tumbles down the street, my head and feet taking turns spanking the asphalt. When at last I stopped Humpty-Dumptying down Frost Avenue, I lay there on my back, trying to decide how okay I was. I was fine. I sat up and turned to face my audience. My brother had skated like a rockstar to my side and was helping me up as I saw my grandma turn with her hands on her hips, shake her head, and walk back up to the house saying loudly to no one in particular "Oh she's fine."
So here's the thing. I WAS fine. And I was really, really lucky that all I ended up with was a scraped knee and chin I think (yeah it was so minor I don't even recall the injuries). And any NORMAL person would've laughed it off and skated back up to the house. I, however, am crazy. So from that moment on I viewed my skateboard as a loaded gun laced with mustard gas and refused to get back on the horse, as they say. (Don't even get me STARTED about horses!!!) I graphically imagined all the ways I COULD have been hurt if Lady Luck hadn't held my hand-- teeth bashing in, severe concussion, broken nose, etc.-- and I lost any desire whatsoever to master the art of the longboard. In fact, I gave it away when I got to UCSB and never missed it for a second.
Sometimes I wonder WHY I'm so crippled by my fear of even the most mundane activities. Is it just that I'm unbelievably uncoordinated? Am I cursed with an overactive imagination narrated by Debbie Downer herself? Why is my sense of mortality the most pertinent factor in every single decision that I make? I usually play off my fears as "quirks" that make me unique... but at what point do I realize that I am living a life full of restrictions because I am terrified to do anything that could possibly endanger me? I mean, come ON, EVERYONE drives, flies in airplanes, swims in deep water, runs down stairs, pets dogs, and goes snowboarding. Why the hell am I the only one who sees them as life-threatening choices? (I'm not even joking, by the way. Walking down STAIRS scares me. I always imagine tripping and breaking my neck. I did once meet a girl who does the same exact thing, and in my defense, she's really pretty and cool, so maybe it can be an acceptable phobia.)
I guess what drives me crazy about myself are my inconsistencies. I have a barely-used scooter sitting on my back patio collecting dust because I fell off it once and am too scared to learn to ride it... but I have a half-empty pack of cigarettes in my purse that will absolutely kill me if I continue the bad habit of smoking them, no if's, and's, or but's about it. Hm. That's pretty fucking stupid, (singlewhitefemale).
You know what, necklace? I see your challenge and I ACCEPT!! I don't wanna get too outta hand or anything, but I might even sleep in my ghost-ridden bed tonight! And look at pictures of deep ocean (AAAAHHHH!!!!) and not even worry about having nightmares!!! Take THAT mini-staircase in my bedroom! I'm gonna skip down you wearing slippery socks and not even hang on to the handrail!!!! Okay whoa whoa WHOA WHOA WHOA. I think I gotta take it down a notch.
I WILL however re-register my scooter and start the babysteps process of gettin' that thing on the road. Sometime in the nearish future. Ish. And I feel pret-tay, pret-tay good about that.
Thanks, necklace. You're so wise.
I felt particularly drawn to the inscription, considering the fact that EVERYTHING scares me, so it would actually be an interesting thing for me to consciously confront my demons. The necklace was priced at $168, so I backed away from it slowly with my hands up in the air. And hey, I've let my fears solidly run my life for twenty-five years, so I'm not sure if that'll change any time soon. It did, however, get me thinking.
Adventure to me equals danger. All of my favorite activities involve either sitting, lying down, or standing with my feet firmly rooted to the ground. Any time wheels are thrown into the mix I become instantly nervous about the situation.
I'll never forget the phase I went through at the end of my high school days when I decided that I wanted to become a Sk8er Gurl. I saved my money up and purchased a beautiful Sector 9 longboard in hopes that by the time I arrived on the UCSB campus I would be officially ten percent cooler. I took my board with my friend Kristin and we practiced getting our wobbles out in our high school corridors after school hours. We quickly learned that anytime we hit a rock and the board shot out behind us as our necks and elbows lurched forward it was best to shake our heads in irritation and mutter knowingly to any spectators that "Man, these bearings are SHOT!" I'd like to think that at least one person believed us. I got really excited the day I was daring enough to roll in slow motion-- GET THIS!-- OFF A CURB!! Just right off it like it was nothing!! I then spent a lot of time purposely slow-rolling off sidewalks into parking lots, scraping the beautiful sunset painted on the deck of my board against the concrete. It wasn't until later that my brother pointed out that it was really unfortunate that my brand new board was in such bad shape, and I hung my head in shame while the word "poser" skated across my consciousness. When I'd finally gained some confidence in my ability to maneuver the board well enough, I brought it to Christmas at my grandma's house and tried to show of my savvy skills with my brother in the quiet street outside. There was... a very slight hill. Virtually invisible to the human eye, but apparently monstrous according to the laws of momentum and inertia (eww physics **barf**). I started rolling along with my ironically ugly thrift-store sunglasses and my little boys' T-shirt, throwing out peace signs and quoting lyrics from The Cure as I started picking up speed. And more speed. And suddenly, too fast too fast toofasttoofasttoofasttoofast!! I panicked, and like any other person who is lacking in common sense, I brilliantly stepped off the board. At fifteen miles per hour or so. And the pavement picked my foot up and I started doing Olympic-status tumbles down the street, my head and feet taking turns spanking the asphalt. When at last I stopped Humpty-Dumptying down Frost Avenue, I lay there on my back, trying to decide how okay I was. I was fine. I sat up and turned to face my audience. My brother had skated like a rockstar to my side and was helping me up as I saw my grandma turn with her hands on her hips, shake her head, and walk back up to the house saying loudly to no one in particular "Oh she's fine."
So here's the thing. I WAS fine. And I was really, really lucky that all I ended up with was a scraped knee and chin I think (yeah it was so minor I don't even recall the injuries). And any NORMAL person would've laughed it off and skated back up to the house. I, however, am crazy. So from that moment on I viewed my skateboard as a loaded gun laced with mustard gas and refused to get back on the horse, as they say. (Don't even get me STARTED about horses!!!) I graphically imagined all the ways I COULD have been hurt if Lady Luck hadn't held my hand-- teeth bashing in, severe concussion, broken nose, etc.-- and I lost any desire whatsoever to master the art of the longboard. In fact, I gave it away when I got to UCSB and never missed it for a second.
Sometimes I wonder WHY I'm so crippled by my fear of even the most mundane activities. Is it just that I'm unbelievably uncoordinated? Am I cursed with an overactive imagination narrated by Debbie Downer herself? Why is my sense of mortality the most pertinent factor in every single decision that I make? I usually play off my fears as "quirks" that make me unique... but at what point do I realize that I am living a life full of restrictions because I am terrified to do anything that could possibly endanger me? I mean, come ON, EVERYONE drives, flies in airplanes, swims in deep water, runs down stairs, pets dogs, and goes snowboarding. Why the hell am I the only one who sees them as life-threatening choices? (I'm not even joking, by the way. Walking down STAIRS scares me. I always imagine tripping and breaking my neck. I did once meet a girl who does the same exact thing, and in my defense, she's really pretty and cool, so maybe it can be an acceptable phobia.)
I guess what drives me crazy about myself are my inconsistencies. I have a barely-used scooter sitting on my back patio collecting dust because I fell off it once and am too scared to learn to ride it... but I have a half-empty pack of cigarettes in my purse that will absolutely kill me if I continue the bad habit of smoking them, no if's, and's, or but's about it. Hm. That's pretty fucking stupid, (singlewhitefemale).
You know what, necklace? I see your challenge and I ACCEPT!! I don't wanna get too outta hand or anything, but I might even sleep in my ghost-ridden bed tonight! And look at pictures of deep ocean (AAAAHHHH!!!!) and not even worry about having nightmares!!! Take THAT mini-staircase in my bedroom! I'm gonna skip down you wearing slippery socks and not even hang on to the handrail!!!! Okay whoa whoa WHOA WHOA WHOA. I think I gotta take it down a notch.
I WILL however re-register my scooter and start the babysteps process of gettin' that thing on the road. Sometime in the nearish future. Ish. And I feel pret-tay, pret-tay good about that.
Thanks, necklace. You're so wise.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Thoughts on being a single white female
Well, it's officially happened.
Everyone in my family is either married or on the way to marriage.
Well, everyone except for myself, of course.
My baby sister got married this month. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to attend the ceremony (it was very sudden because her husband is in the Air Force and they needed to tie the knot before he could be shipped away unexpectedly), so two days before my sister's big day I started crying at work out of sadness for not being able to go. (By the way, if you cry, your boss will let you go. Write that down.) One of my coworkers saw my distress and asked what was wrong. When I told her my sister was getting married on Friday she put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Awww... and you're going to be the only single one left in your family?"
And so began the arm-wrestling contest of marriage versus single-dom in my head.
First of all, I am not a completely self-absorbed bitch. So no, I would not sob silently out of selfishness that my sister had found her happiness with another person before I'd done the same.
Second of all... well, I just don't know if I am the marrying type.
I know I didn't ALWAYS feel this way. I know I grew up believing that by age 22 I would be married and rearin' babies with a rhythmic pride. I know that I've been with at least two people who I thought for SURE I would end up married to, happily rubbing my pregnant belly while cooking our nightly dinner. **shudder at the thought**
(HUYooHuhhhYaBlech!)
Sorry... even talking about it makes me projectile vomit all over pictures of storks and little pink and blue packages.
It's not that I don't believe in MARRIAGE or having KIDS... it's just that either prospect feels as foreign to me as taping a carrot to my hip and calling it a third leg. I know some people just aren't suited for eternal commitment, and I'm beginning to think that I may be one of them. It's taken me seven years to realize that I like being single, and now I can't even remember how I ever fit my life into someone else's. I might just be kooky enough that a relationship with myself is all that I can handle. At least it's nice to know that in a year-and-a-half of being on my own I honestly haven't gotten lonely. Okay, yes, I am scared of my bedroom because I think angry spirits visit me in my sleep there, but instead of aching for a male presence to protect me I choose to sleep determinedly on the couch and high-five myself cockily every morning. Totally normal and AWESOME!
I think marriage makes perfect sense for a lot of people, and I'm proud to say that my siblings are great examples of everlasting love and partnership with their significant others. However... I just don't see myself taking that same path. When I see wedding dresses in a magazine I flip the page. When people get married at the end of a romance novel I gag and write to the editor for a refund. I've never pictured myself in my ideal wedding dress holding a bouquet of flowers (although I did once see a rainbow dress with pom-poms that I mentally marked as a promising option).
It's not that I'm anti-love or anything. I'm actually a hopeless romantic at heart. I plan on living a life full of passionate loving relationships. I'll spend the rest of my twenties courting a vegan San Diegan with a ginger beard, and through my thirties I'll become a famous artist who runs a vegan food cart (Bex you're crucial here) and I'll date Bob Harper and any other super rad vegans who come my way. At age forty I'll adopt two children (not only will I be saving the world, but I'll be able to bypass the whole breast-feeding dealio that gives me the heebie-jeebies). One will be a girl named Yesterdae Eve and one a boy named Peppir (he'll have no choice but to be gay with a name like that). They'll excel in the arts and in business like young Royal Tenenbaums and together we'll rule the greater part of the world. At age forty-five I will dominate California's Cougar Club. I figure by then I'll have made it onto E's What Not to Wear and I'll be stunningly stylish and able to down a handle of Jack Daniels in a matter of minutes. (If you didn't know, this is a killer combo in the Cougar Scene.) When I'm fifty I'll grace the cover of People Magazine for their issue on "50 and Nifty" and I'll become highly involved with a forty-year-old Justin Bieber. He'll teach me to drive, and at age fifty-five I'll get my license and will officially be able to take over the world.
It's so nice to have a fail-proof plan.
All I have to do for now is blink rapidly (I can't wink) at Ginger Beards and work up my tolerance for $3 shots of Jack Daniels at the Saloon on Sunday nights.
Done. And. Done.
Everyone in my family is either married or on the way to marriage.
Well, everyone except for myself, of course.
My baby sister got married this month. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to attend the ceremony (it was very sudden because her husband is in the Air Force and they needed to tie the knot before he could be shipped away unexpectedly), so two days before my sister's big day I started crying at work out of sadness for not being able to go. (By the way, if you cry, your boss will let you go. Write that down.) One of my coworkers saw my distress and asked what was wrong. When I told her my sister was getting married on Friday she put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Awww... and you're going to be the only single one left in your family?"
And so began the arm-wrestling contest of marriage versus single-dom in my head.
First of all, I am not a completely self-absorbed bitch. So no, I would not sob silently out of selfishness that my sister had found her happiness with another person before I'd done the same.
Second of all... well, I just don't know if I am the marrying type.
I know I didn't ALWAYS feel this way. I know I grew up believing that by age 22 I would be married and rearin' babies with a rhythmic pride. I know that I've been with at least two people who I thought for SURE I would end up married to, happily rubbing my pregnant belly while cooking our nightly dinner. **shudder at the thought**
(HUYooHuhhhYaBlech!)
Sorry... even talking about it makes me projectile vomit all over pictures of storks and little pink and blue packages.
It's not that I don't believe in MARRIAGE or having KIDS... it's just that either prospect feels as foreign to me as taping a carrot to my hip and calling it a third leg. I know some people just aren't suited for eternal commitment, and I'm beginning to think that I may be one of them. It's taken me seven years to realize that I like being single, and now I can't even remember how I ever fit my life into someone else's. I might just be kooky enough that a relationship with myself is all that I can handle. At least it's nice to know that in a year-and-a-half of being on my own I honestly haven't gotten lonely. Okay, yes, I am scared of my bedroom because I think angry spirits visit me in my sleep there, but instead of aching for a male presence to protect me I choose to sleep determinedly on the couch and high-five myself cockily every morning. Totally normal and AWESOME!
I think marriage makes perfect sense for a lot of people, and I'm proud to say that my siblings are great examples of everlasting love and partnership with their significant others. However... I just don't see myself taking that same path. When I see wedding dresses in a magazine I flip the page. When people get married at the end of a romance novel I gag and write to the editor for a refund. I've never pictured myself in my ideal wedding dress holding a bouquet of flowers (although I did once see a rainbow dress with pom-poms that I mentally marked as a promising option).
It's not that I'm anti-love or anything. I'm actually a hopeless romantic at heart. I plan on living a life full of passionate loving relationships. I'll spend the rest of my twenties courting a vegan San Diegan with a ginger beard, and through my thirties I'll become a famous artist who runs a vegan food cart (Bex you're crucial here) and I'll date Bob Harper and any other super rad vegans who come my way. At age forty I'll adopt two children (not only will I be saving the world, but I'll be able to bypass the whole breast-feeding dealio that gives me the heebie-jeebies). One will be a girl named Yesterdae Eve and one a boy named Peppir (he'll have no choice but to be gay with a name like that). They'll excel in the arts and in business like young Royal Tenenbaums and together we'll rule the greater part of the world. At age forty-five I will dominate California's Cougar Club. I figure by then I'll have made it onto E's What Not to Wear and I'll be stunningly stylish and able to down a handle of Jack Daniels in a matter of minutes. (If you didn't know, this is a killer combo in the Cougar Scene.) When I'm fifty I'll grace the cover of People Magazine for their issue on "50 and Nifty" and I'll become highly involved with a forty-year-old Justin Bieber. He'll teach me to drive, and at age fifty-five I'll get my license and will officially be able to take over the world.
It's so nice to have a fail-proof plan.
All I have to do for now is blink rapidly (I can't wink) at Ginger Beards and work up my tolerance for $3 shots of Jack Daniels at the Saloon on Sunday nights.
Done. And. Done.
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