Archive for September, 2006
I am just plain not ready to deal with the anniversary of 9/11. I wasn’t ready to relive a moment of it when the films came out, and I’m not any more ready now. It’s not like I was there. It’s not even like I knew someone close to me who is gone. Yes, we all knew someone who was impacted and likely gone, but I didn’t suffer a personal loss on a devastating level. But I’m still not ready to look back on it and watch documentaries, films and specials on it. It’s still too real, lurking in the shadows like a cloud, the specter of the worst day imaginable, and oh God, it was. I can’t breathe, and I feel sick when I think about it, and I know how inadequate this sounds, but it’s the best I can do.
I worked within view of Logan Airport, and I heard the news that there was a plane crash from a woman who resembled Grimace in every possible way, including the ruddy complexion and exaggerated pear shape. She was stone-faced and fearful, and I distinctly remember thinking something snarky about McDonald’s, and I know how cold-hearted that sounds, making fun of someone at all, much less on a day as awful as that one, but it’s the ugly truth. And then and as the events unfolded – so slowly, it seems now – I remember actually trying to get back to work, because I just couldn’t quite face it.
I edited an analyst presentation with my vice president. I made notes on how I would manage a conference call the next day. I thought of anything but what was happening until I just couldn’t fake it anymore, it was a while before I joined my colleages in the conference room and sat, riveted to the television, waiting for more planes to strike us down.
My mom called the front desk. The receptionist was a dumb sort, not prone to having the slightest clue as to what was going on, and if she were at all honest about where she was when the planes hit, and the drama unfolded, she’d tell you that she was huddled under the desk listening to bad music and reading romance novels, oblivious to the horror raining down on us. When my mom called, for some reason the receptionist told my mother that I was out of the office that day – on a flight that morning, in fact. Where, my mom asked. To Los Angeles, I think, she answered. She still somehow had no idea what was going on.
If I’d been flying to Los Angeles (which I wasn’t even scheduled for, that day, or any day in the near or distant future, thank you crackhead receptionist), it would have been on American Airlines Flight 11. My mother thought I was dead, plunged into the North Tower in an airplane. Panicked and desperate, she called my cell phone. Busy. She called back begged for my direct line and mercifully, got me live. She reached me – asshole me, who was still working on an analyst presentation, chained to my desk, because again: denial and also, I had a manager screaming at us all to “Get your asses back to work! This is not an emergency!”
Because of that analyst presentation, I got to experience the most surreal, miserable moment of my entire life. I heard my mother’s voice. I heard her screaming in my ear, thinking that I was actually dead, and it’s something I honestly don’t ever want to experience or even think about again. There was relief, but the weight of it all was too much, and I’m not even sure she believed it was me, that it was my voice. She must have asked me a hundred times, my first and last name, over and over again, afraid she got someone else. She couldn’t breathe. I heard her talking about how all she could think about was that she knew I was afraid to fly. How she knew that I wouldn’t have survived even as far as the impact out of fear, and how she felt she would have failed me if I’d died that way, though I’m not sure why.
I can’t even talk about that part that much, and I won’t beyond this, because it was horrible – sickening, and painful and easily one of the hardest, most strangled moments of my life so far, because she really thought I was dead and yet, there I was. I heard my mother’s reaction to my death. And after it was over, after she’d accepted I was alive, all we could think about was how many families made that phone call and were disappointed. How many families didn’t get that moment of relief mixed with heart-squeezing sadness. I can’t imagine, and again, I’m sick, just sick when I think about it.
After sitting in stony silence in front of the television with my colleagues for a spell, I finally left the office at the urging of my husband – then-fiance – despite being perpetually screamed at to “stay and work! This is not an emergency!” I’ll never forget seeing him running towards me with his little backpack on, looking to the sky thinking, as we all did, that surely there must be more out of that airport, and what if they miss? Or worse, what if they’re coming for us? No one knew. We ran down the street like we were being chased, even though there wasn’t a single indication otherwise. We just didn’t know.
And then we went home. And then it was over, and we watched the rest unfold from the comfort of our living room, together, safer than so many other people.
I know that there are other nations who suffer tragedies like this much more regularly than we do. I know that we are but one small cog in a giant wheel, and the politics that have followed are rich, varied and not always pleasant. But that day – oh, that day, that hour, that afternoon – was terrifying in a way that I can only hope that we never see again.
Five years ago. Hard to believe.
*This woman is where I got the dreaded, oft-used Grimace analogy from. I know it’s mean, and I should be stoned, and feel free to do so if we ever meet.
**Erasure & Alana Davis. Not together.
September 10th, 2006
I got my haircut last night, hence no entry, not to mention two work projects that kept me writing until 1 a.m. I get my hair cut quite a bit – with short hair, you can pretty much go three weeks comfortably, four weeks if you’re really pushing it, especially if you have a low hairline in the back, as I am blessed with. This hairline issue basically means that if I go a day over 3.5 weeks, I suddenly find myself with Neanderthal Neck, and I start to consider turtlenecks as a viable option even in pudding-hot humidity.
My hairdresser did not disappoint in the drama department. As some of you may recall, he has a tendency to make every appointment as miserable as possible with Camille-worthy dramatic performances. Prior instances include abandoning me mid-foil to go curl into the fetal position behind a stack of hair product, crying and falling to one knee telling me he loved me, torturing me with nonstop talk of veiny penises (penii?) and threatening me with clairvoyant visions of his clients’ impending doom. These incidents are exacerbated and enabled by the fact that he runs his own salon and I often go after hours when we are alone. He is free to be, um, himself, I guess.
Last night’s incident really didn’t have anything to do with me specifically, per se, fortunately or unfortunately. Squiggy’s friend Tiggger was visiting when I got there. Squiggy (who is a tall skinny Jewish man in his mid-50s with a white pompadour and a penchant for low-cut polyester) introduced Tigger (who was a tall, attractive African American) as a “totally straight, and isn’t he SO HOT?” [actually yes, yes he was] former coworker and then promptly announced, after calling him a horrendous racial slur, that he would like to shove [Tigger's] penis up his “chocolate wizzwang.”
There were accompanying pelvic thrusts in Tigger’s general direction. Like, um, strippers do, if you get what I’m saying, and sweet lord, I hope you do, because I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE TO EXPLAIN THIS. But, um, there was visible swinging near my shoulder, and there may have been a bump that I would like to forget. Get it? IS IT CLEAR ENOUGH FOR YOU PLEASE SAY YES.
I died. The end.
Except, no! It went on! Tigger proceeded to come back at Squiggy with a retort of his own, YES!
I originally had a quote here, but I can’t! I CANNOT! It was too horrible, but please, let us suffice that there was more talk of chocolate wizzwangs, Tigger called Squiggy a horrible Jewish slur, along with a really upsetting word for a gay man, and then he told us that he could “break Squiggy in half” with his “Ron Jeremy unit” and then there was talk of a chocolate milkshake and I died again. Then, as if it couldn’t get worse, there was crotch grabbing of the Ron Jeremy unit. There were jerking motions that were, for me, a bit to, uh, realistic for your average Wednesday night. While the RJ stroking was going on, he was describing the girl he was going out with later in a little too much detail and good God, there was eye-closing and then – THEN – I actually died. For real. For the third time.
They laughed and laughed. It went on for at least an hour, the two of them hurling extraordinarily terrifying ethnic and derogatory insults at each other(at one point Squiggy took it to the lowest of lows with the ethnic slurs, and I was thisclose to running screaming from the building, honestly, because I was so miserable and uncomfortable with those things being said seriously, please dear God it was awful) and more penis grabbing and thwapping (against my ear at one point, folks, AGAINST MY EAR), and I have never been so miserable in my entire, entire life.
At the end, I just lost it, and I actually started weeping in the chair silently. No one noticed. Oh! And please: let’s not forget that because Squiggy was so busy thinking up snappy and racially-offensive retorts, I was stranded with a man brandishing scissors who was less than focused on my hair. Consequently I paid an embarrassing sum for a neck shave and repeated racial slurs, insults and a penis smacking repeatedly against my ear. Awesome.
By now, I imagine many of you are wondering why I continue to subject myself to this torture, yes? I would be if it wasn’t me, and to help answer that question, I am going to provide some photographic evidence from seasons past. More than a year ago, I wrote an early blog post about the worst haircut I ever had. And lo, it was bad, and before now, I’ve never posted photos. It was the last time I changed hairdressers, so you can see why I’m concerned. And so, that fateful day ages and ages ago, within an hour, one bad hairdresser took me from this:
I was experimenting with a Very Dark Moody color then, which was not only awful, but not the hairdresser’s fault. I have no one to blame for the Morticia look than myself.
To this:
Please note this photo was taken mere moments after I stopped crying and finally began to see the humor in it. I am miserable. I am fat. I am multi-chinned. I am wishing I could stop crying from the horror of it all, and when I do? I can’t stop laughing, because what the hell else do you do when this is what you look like? I also feel compelled to point out that what you cannot see is the long, desperate mullet in the back. Yep, there is a partay going on back there, much to my chagrin.
So you can see why I am reluctant to switch it up and give up a quasi-normal head of hair.
I’ve got my appointments booked through next June. Yes. Yes, I do.
*Lisa Loeb
**Also, I would like to remind everyone of Suebob‘s post. Please, I beg of you, heed her advice.
September 7th, 2006
I am afraid of people from the Midwest. Terrified! The perpetual niceness! The pleasing accent! The penchant for bringing mysterious things called “bars” to covered dish picnics!***
Until now (my area is rife with Midwesterners to the point where I wonder if the region is completely devoid of all residents in peak season), I’ve lived almost my entire life surrounded by east coasters. I grew up next to New Jersey. I went to school in New York. I settled in Massachusetts, home to the meanest, most unpredictable drivers in the universe. Midwesterners were a rarity, and the few I encountered had already been completely ruined by our dead-to-me culture that is the east coast. We are not a polite bunch, we east coasters, and we are relatively unapologetic about it. It’s terrible, but I am somewhat comfortable with it – it’s familiar.
I grew up not far from a city that beats the pants off of all of the other rude cities -yes, even New York. Philadelphia: the city of brotherly hatred. People in Philly don’t even bother to say hello to you unless they are forced to at some sort of gunpoint, and the accent makes every interaction about a frillion times worse. The dirtyfishydish Delaware/Lehigh Valley inflection is the foulest, trashiest of accents – we say things like “FOWWWWN” instead of “phone” and “wooter” instead of “water” and please, let’s not forget “crick.” And oh by the way, forget eye contact. If eye contact is made, it is more likely that you have something on your face that they can’t look away from – a large zit, perhaps. Or maybe they’re angry and are trying to will your head to explode with their heavy mind vibes.
And while it sucks, it’s what I’m used to: familiarity breeds contentment, no matter how dysfunctional. But the lack of pleasantries rarely belies the human within: it’s simply a cultural difference in how we greet people, I suppose.
I know it’s not right to feel this way. I’m learning after living down here, where almost everyone is from the Midwest. Everyone is so nice! NICE! Every time I meet someone from the Midwest, goddammit, they are so NICE! The neverending niceness that terrifies me to my very dark soul! “Hi!” they holler in a happy accent, waving brightly to make sure I see them. “So nice to meet you! How ARE you?” They genuinely want to know, and it confounds me. And the answer is: Not good. Not good at all. You’re scaring me with the niceness. People in the Northeast aren’t like this! You’re too nice! Do you WANT something? I am suspicious for a moment.
There is great irony in this: I am actually very nice and exceedingly polite when I meet people. I am nice to everyone I meet, in a Midwestern sort of way. I genuinely like most people I meet, or at least I try very hard to make an informed decision before I launch off and call them a sycophantic douchebag. I embody the very problem I am bitching about! I AM THE SYSTEM I AM AFRAID TO FACE.
We would be much better as a society if we put more of an emphasis on how we treat one another, but because of where I grew up – and the inherent rudeness within – I am always suspicious of inherent cultural kindness, if that makes sense. It’s wrong! So wrong! of us to be so rude here, and yet: it feels comfortable, so we go with it. How sad. And I know that 99% of Midwesterners ARE genuine, (hello, Carol!) and I have a cold, cold suspicious heart.
The sad truth is that I am more comfortable with rudeness. I’m sure it reveals some sort of deep-seated** problem, likely that I wasn’t held enough as an infant or that my parents are cold-hearted snakes (they’re not), but I always rationalize it like this: if someone is rude, at least I know where they stand. When things are hidden under a veneer of too-polite comfort, I am caught off guard, completely lost. I ramble, unsure of what they really think, and I find myself swinging the pendulum back and forth unpredicably, from X-Treme People Pleasing Mode 2000 to I Am Afraid You’re Being Nice to Me Because You Want Something and with no good reason other than I am unnerved by the niceness. Because, again, if you missed it the first time: dysfunctional, suspicious soul right here who is unaccustomed to nice people.
I am aware this is my problem and I mean no ill will towards my Midwestern friends, of which they are now a legion. Forgive me. I have a very good friend from Michigan (who I will be seeing this weekend at the wedding and OH MY GOD, I can’t wait to see her!), and I’ve always considered that while she’s Midwestern, she has an edge. Sort of. A blunt, soft edge, I guess. A light and fluffy edge? A clay edge? Oh, sod it, there is no edge at all.
And then there are my friends from Wisconsin, who are darling and also a little edgy. And Ohio! I have friends from Ohio! MINNESOTA. ILLINOIS. Dear God, they’re all going to hate me for this, but it’s *my* problem! MINE! The Northeast breeds sad, rude people!
One last Rockstar note (yes! I’m still talking about it!): Dilana’s songwriting tonight, dear sweet Jesus oh my God. During a painful reality recap!, Gilby Clarke voice overs that he’s unsure of her lyric-writing abilities, noting: “She’s too…literal, I guess.” He grasps at straws, trying to figure out how to politely say to the universe that she is very, very stupid. We are treated to a display of this unimaginable ineptitude as she explains how her original song is all about “her fans on the Internet” and then sings in a happy singsong little voice to Gilby: “Ooh ooh – what about this: (singsong voice): ‘CON-TROL ALT DELETE?’” Gilby sits there, unmoved, in stony stunned silence. As did I, folks. As did I.
Because nothing says “rock song” like the lyrics “control alt delete.” She might as well go on and sing, “JAVA! JAVA APPLETS! I LOVE U! JAVA! PHP! BLAWWWWGS! ”
Control Alt Delete, man.
*Depeche Mode
** I feel oddly compelled to explain that this is the correct spelling of this term. I’ve seen it used incorrectly so many times in the last week, I’ve wanted to scream: It is not deep-seeded, deep-ceded or even deep-ceeded. So help me. Deep-seated: as in, deeply seated in the area of one’s breast, I think is the etymology. No, no I do not know why, that’s just the way it is.
***Because many people have asked, Carol explains bars below: they are DELICIOUS, and I’ve eaten them at pot luck dinners down here. My friend from Wisconsin always says, “I’m bringing bars!” and for the first five times, I just stared at her blankly: bars? But damn, they are good.
September 5th, 2006
I’m always afraid life is going to leave me behind. The first time I can remember this feeling so distinctly was when A. and I first planned our trip to the Carribbean. I’d certainly traveled plenty before that, and though I’d been to Europe and all sorts of other, less pedestrian places, I’d never been anywhere where the water was that clear bright blue, and I was ridiculously excited to swim in it.
I couldn’t picture it – I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to swim in water so clear that you could see your feet, even as it swirled around your neck. I had no idea what our vacation would be – how we would relax, what we would do – and because of this, I became convinced that it would never happen. I was sure we’d never get there – that a car accident would befall us, or some sort of family emergency would prevent our arrival, and we’d never know what it was like to trail our little toes in white sand together. As our plane dipped down to land at the airport, I clutched the armrests even more tightly than usual – I’d never imagined we’d get this close, this fast, and I was sure the end was near, if only for me. I didn’t think it would actually happen.
Later on, I was convinced I was never getting married. I was sure that one of us would back out or that I would die, that A. would die, that a tsunami would sweep us away in a big blue wave. I was positive that we’d never get there, never get it over with, never get on with our lives. I was sure that my life would end in this strange engagement purgatory, unfulfilled and alone, because I just couldn’t see it any other way. I couldn’t move on.
When we moved here, I was so focused on what I was leaving behind – of the life I was giving up – that I never considered that I’d be an active participant in a new life. I became convinced that my new world would ride around me in giant circles behind thick glass while the sounds of my past were piped in through an invisible sound system. I could see things – see what I might be missing, what I might want to do – but I’d be stranded alone in a strange island pining for a life I could only hear about, but never touch. I would be left alone, unchanged, stranded in a changed world.
I’m starting to get over it. I’m starting to understand that when things happen – some good, some bad – we get to go along for the ride, and it’s just part of what we signed up for. I’m starting to realize that when things happen to me, I am not helpless. I can choose how to handle things, how to behave, how to adjust my life. I’m starting to let go a little, and enjoy the ride. I’m realizing that when change happens, I will not be left behind. I am starting to understand that just because things change, it does not mean that I will remain unchanged and completely lost. I will not be left pining for what might have been, or what was and is now gone.
I get to change, too. I get to go on the journey and see what happens.
*Carbon Leaf.
September 4th, 2006
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