Monthly Archives: September 2009

Pattern Sickness

I love this pattern. But if it were hurting me I would shred it to bits.

I love this pattern. But if it were hurting me I would take some scissors to it's pretty little flowers and shred it to bits.

Not all patterns are bad.

There are some good patterns out there that I engage in: I wake up and go to work Monday through Friday.

Then there are the benign patterns: The first thing I do when I get home from work (and after feeding the cat) is sit on the toilet and inspect my nails. Weird, but it’s just how I do.

And the patterns that are uncomfortable, but harmless nonetheless: Eating too many dried apricots at once. (Not that I would ever do that.)

If we’re talking textile patterns, it’s always flowers over stripes for me.

And then there are the emotional patterns. Relationship patterns. Love patterns.

There is a common pattern for men and woman alike to be attracted to people who are not interested in having a relationship with them. (And of course, we tend not to like the ones who are completely available. Interested people are never quite as interesting.) Perhaps you’ve felt doomed to this pattern of making bad choices, of choosing wrong. With each new date, you think it will be different. And then kerplop. That pattern comes cycling around again and lands squarely on your heart enabling yet another juicy and dramatic pattern of you as victim to the cruel alternative universe populated by emotionally unavailable ghouls. (Though I have to wonder, if one is attracted to another who is emotionally available, does that mean the former is emotionally unavailable, too?)

Victimization is so boring, though. It’s like blah blah blah, whine whine whine (then wine wine wine), more blah blah blah. And the reality is, patterns can be broken. You just stop the insanity before it begins. (And the signs are there early on. Always.) Or maybe a little easier, don’t get involved with people so quickly a la Hollywood so that if and when he/she does reveal that he’s/she’s moving back to Oregon, Ohio or Canada (Canada’s a big black hole of disastrous love for me), it just doesn’t sting so sharply. I mean, you have to put yourself out there a little. Closing yourself off does not a pattern break. Maybe just stick out a toe or a hand—phalanges and limbs you technically can do without. Leave your internal organs behind the safety line. And maybe throw on some chain mail. And make Wonder Woman bracelets out of aluminum foil. Just because you can.

My bad pattern: I don’t look out for #1 enough. To break this pattern I will start with a manicure. Essie color: Wicked

In other news, did I mention I need a new fall bag? My favorite one just broke. It’s sad. I’m looking for a vintage (or vintage looking) brown bag, preferrably with some exposed stitching. I don’t prefer lots of buckles or hardware or anything. Kthanks.

My Heart Is A Flying Trapeze

[I made some bold promises last week and I’m here to make good on them. Behold, a blog post about trapeze, flying, dating, timing, love, and pink monkeys. Drum roll please…]

Timing is everything in trapeze. Otherwise, you’re barely skimming fingers when you should be locking arms and flying through the air weightless like a cloud instead of your ass is dropping in the net. In trapeze class, you have to do everything the instructor says exactly when she says it—not so simple when you’re staring down a bed of concrete more than 20 feet below. (I trimmed my false start from the video. Oh, the magic of iMovie.) Trust is the other part of the equation. My instructors were so supportive and encouraging, I probably would have leaped without a net.

Of course, timing and trust make me think of dating and relationships. Especially timing, which is something I’ve been pondering quite a bit lately. (I’ve also been ruminating over patterns, too, though I will save that for another post.) I used to believe timing was everything. The only thing. A friend reminded me the other day over lunch of more pumpkin-mash delight from my Merlindia boyfriends (who will hopefully ask me to join their 2015 circus with my developing trapeze act) that, just as important as good timing—because really, when is there ever a situation when two people are in the same exact place in life?—is finding someone who is willing to work out the kinks with you. To sand down the edges so the square peg eventually fits in the round hole.

I liked that because we’re not completely at the mercy of timing, whether it be bad, off or in a different zone.

There are two other things I loved about trapeze. One: I actually enjoyed the process. Normally, I resist the process of anything. I just want to be done, to know the results and to not have to drift in tides of uncertainty.  Two: I am good at trapeze. The video above, taken by Shira’s boyfriend Chris (thanks by the way), was my second flight. By the end of the class, I’d mastered the beginner techniques and I was able to make a catch, which involves swinging upside down to someone else who is also swinging upside down, locking arms and letting go. Swinging from the arms of someone else was … freeing.

And now for the pink monkey, to tie it all together.

Pink Monkey
Trapeze-school mascot.

[Music in video is “Blue Turning Grey” by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah if anyone cares and/or copyright people get their panties in a bundle because who the hell knows how music on home videos published to a blog works.]

My New Bestie

Slinky Minx Karen O.

Slinky Minx Karen O.

If you haven’t already met her, let me introduce you to Karen O., my new idol. I saw the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at 930 this past weekend and it was the best damn live show I’ve seen since this guy serenaded me and my girl Ashbellina last year and Smashing Pumpkins at Lollapalooza 1994. I love Karen O. Love love love love love love love her. The tore up tights, day-glo mini, sparkle hi-tops, water spraying, shawl parading, melodramatic posturing and microphone fellatio (sort of). Give me all of it Karen, and more. Seriously ya’lls. You’ve been missing out if you haven’t seen the Yeah Yeah Yeahs live. It’s like if Deborah Harry, Amy Mann, Chrissy Hind, Joan Jett and my friend’s Pia and Chris’ three girls who love playing dress up all ran at warp speed and smashed into each other. At about the same time, Def Leopard is ground up with a synthesizer in a wood chipper and the remnants are sprinkled on top of the eighties-ladies/pre-school melange. It fucking works. I bet with that analogy, you don’t believe. Let me wipe away that cloud of disbelief:

That’s Nick on the guitar. He’s friends with my friend. I totally met him backstage after the concert. I did not meet Karen O. I wasn’t worthy. But I stood near her. I ogled a little. She didn’t mind.

He didn’t wait for me.



I thought we had a thing, John. I really did. But I had to find out this from them.  I survived when he got his wife knocked up and he became a douche bag (and if you caught one of the two episodes of his VH1 talk show, you know he wasn’t a DB before. He’s funny. Or at least he’s funnier than his songs are good.) No really, I’m happy for you. I think you will be happy. Just not as happy as you would have been had you waited for me. Just sayin’.

Teaser Time

Kinda like walking the plank.

Kinda like walking the plank.

I flew through the air this morning. Trapeze school. It was awesome. I was awesome! I have video and lots to say. In fact, I will be creating a daring, death-defying blog post in which I link trapeze, flying, dating, timing, love, and pink monkeys.  Trust me, it’s going to be awesome. Better than the puppet show that didn’t quite work out. It actually ended up being kinda…porno? Unintentionally, of course, because, really, porn is boring. Anyway, that video is gonna require more editing. Until then, I leave you with this. Ready! Hep!

Seriously, it was raining. I didn't pee myself. Tho I wanted to.

Seriously, it was raining. I didn't pee myself. Though I wanted to.

That’s Cupcake Top to you.

I will use b/w images so as not to illicit binge eating.

I will use b/w images so as not to illicit binge eating.

I’m just not sure why, with all of this lack of exercising and not much eating and drinking in moderation, I haven’t dropped this fluffy cupcake top. (Have I mentioned the amazing chardonnay I had here last night? Holy cannoli it was good. Buttery delish.) Yes, cupcake top. Not muffin top. This reduction of square footage in my jeans that made walking to work today in a ridiculous post-summer heat wave feel like my legs were trapped in three layers of moist sausage casings is most definitely a result of dessert thrice a day including but not limited to cupcakes, quiches, croissants, and the most amazing ice cream you will ever eat in one sitting. And divine pumpkin bread pudding, also from here. Skirts and dresses all summer did me wrong because I went without the 3-day-a-week jean habit to keep me in check. I just need to fall in love, get dumped or maybe contract a mild case of stomach flu (no swine, thanks) where I puke in my food dish like my cat just did to lose the offending LBs.

This is all neither here nor there—except that dating when you’re feeling all plumpy is the pits. So I will go to the gym.

[47 minutes later]

Phew. That was a a great workout. Cardio for 30 minutes and not 1/10 of a hot second longer—check. Ogled the cute guy with long blond mane (trust me, it works on him)—check. Avoided running into hot guy who kissed good but is possibly stunted at 13 years old—check. Lost 5 pounds—check.

Just kidding.

That would be cool though.

I’m thinking puppet show for my next post. I think you’re going to like it. A lot.

Be careful what you wish for.

Seriously. It's so simple guys.

Seriously. It's so simple guys.

I have a fantasy about how I meet the love of my life. It’s a lot like that perfume commercial from the 80s when the man chases the woman down the street with the flowers that he nabs from a street vendor who doesn’t seem to mind. It’s all in the name of love. So my fantasy is basically that, and I’ve thrown in peonies because it’s my favorite flower and Sam Cooke (Shared via AddThis), because, hello, Sam Cooke makes me melt like lobstah butter.

So anyway, this kind of happened yesterday. I was walking to the metro on my way to pick up my car from the shop because it had to go there after a brick wall fell on the bumper. That’s when a short, squat, fifty-something Costa Rican, said good morning to me. I smiled and said good morning back because I was feeling good. I had a great date the evening before during which I canoodled on outdoor lawn furniture over limoncello and lavender cocktails here. And I was rocking my favorite new-to-me dress from my favorite new vintage shop.

Down the escalator and I hear someone hustle behind me. The little man. Not exactly chasing me down. But he’s catching up. His name is Jose he tells me. Jose also wants to tell me how pretty I look. How I’m “precioso” or something. (Sweet.) He takes my hand and kisses it. (Teetering on the fine line between sweet and creepioso, but I let it slide because I’m trying to go with the moment, to graciously accept the compliment). Then Jose won’t let go. And insists we have coffee despite the fact that I tell him I have a boyfriend whom I love very much. (A lie, yes, and not one I wanted to resort to, but he forced me. I would not allow Jose to engulf my hand and wrist in his mouth. Though he did have soft lips.) Jose recited poetry. He offered to take me to the car shop. He touched my arm, then brushed my upper chest, not dangerously close to nipple necessarily, but not okay all the same. Jose needed a good cheek slap, is what he needed. Instead, I turned off gracious and cranked up bitch and told him firmly and not apologetically it wasn’t going to happen, to have a good day.

If he’d had peonies, maybe. MAYBE. (Not really, but peonies would have been a nice touch.)

Normally, I’d say this interaction doesn’t count toward fantasy fulfilled because in my fantasy, the chaser downer is h-o-t, not s-q-u-a-t. Normally, I’d say it’s hard to be a woman because men are leg-humping lunatics raging on testosterone without a buffer chemical like a nice cc of estrogen in sight.

But I won’t. I will, in fact, say the fantasy has been fulfilled. Not in the ideal way, mind you. But a man has chased me down. Check. Now back to reality. And that reality is a new bag of fanc makeup I was lucky enough to stumble upon last night. I have a one extra shimmery gun metal eye shadow and one extra sheer pink lipstick that I will give to someone (anyone) who comments on my blog.