The Mask’s Inside, Dummy

Amsterdam.

Sitting at a café on Geary and 6th Avenue. I’m in San Francisco, dummy. This is the part of San Francisco that tourists don’t come to because Geary looks like a highway and is lined by things like lamp shops, which are uninteresting to the visitor but for people who like to read a little bit in bed before they go to sleep and also sleep nightly in the city, lamps are of a certain kind of appeal and necessity and knowing where to purchase one is even more crucial.

Last Saturday, I want to a masquerade-themed party in Oakland, at my friend’s house where there are trees outside every window and spiders weave webs wherever they can, and there are tubs of things like spelt flour in the basement. Freaking hippies. I made a mask by smearing glue all over a pre-made plastic mask from Michael’s and sprinkling sequins on it. It took about 5 minutes. My primary goal in every craft project is to finish it. I’m not great at crafts.

The party was fun, but it was surprisingly hard to talk to people wearing masks, not being able to see their faces or mouths moving, to calculate if they’re joking or if I went over the line with my last comment. We depend so much on everything besides words, so don’t you forget it. That’s why I thought I wouldn’t get the job at an interview because I was blinking too much. Did I seem nervous? Unprepared? Bizarre and/or inhuman, like the algorithm that controls my blinking was out of whack?

And then at the party I was talking to a girl/woman/lady/chick/gal about why I’d left the field of International Relations. She’s in law school, trying to decide between international law and intellectual property, and she wants to have a career she finds meaningful and help people. And she asked me “what’s Oklahoma like” and I droned on about obesity and chain restaurants before she got bored and wanted to take pictures with everyone else. I was bored of the subject too so I was glad to leave it but I was left with a taste in my mouth like doubt. She seemed so smart and passionate and should I go to law school and do something sexy like maritime law and defend the lives of refugees? Is that even what they do?

She was dressed as what she imagined to be a woodland elf and I got the impression she wanted to be that free-spirited-pixie girl, the one who is brilliant but also fun and spontaneous. Did she even know what it takes to be a woodland elf? Would a woodland elf go to law school and try to figure out what kind of legislation helps the most people? Would a woodland elf even care? Depending on how nerdy you want to go, it’s possible to theorize that because elves are immortal, they would view the suffering of others as so temporary as to not be worth their time. So there.

And my facebook status hasn’t been getting as much traction as I would have liked.

Is it about the journey? Is it possible to get to what you think you want to be, even when it’s proven that most people know nothing until they’ve turned 50 and it seems like it’s too late?

Join me over the next decades and we’ll find out!

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Television Shows I’ve Regretted Watching with My Parents

This proved too much for mother.

My parents, who read this blog regularly, are wonderful. They truly are. They only desire to see me wearing shoes without holes in them and have a coat during the winter. On that note, parents, please send both of those things to area code 94122.

They are, for the most part, wonderful people who raised me on the firm belief that television was a treat, and that in general, the shows the children watched should keep sex and witchcraft to a minimum. In my many years of television watching, I’ve undergone some awkward moments with the parents that came from a surfeit of one or both of these elements.

1. The Bachelor/Bachelorette (with Dad): Something about women in tight gold dresses slinking around one bare chested man in a quest for true love just doesn’t scream good father-daughter watching material. On the other hand, 20 men puffing their chests out and wrestling each other to win the heart of a woman is probably more terrifying for a father.

2. Lady Gaga on American Idol (with Mom): Let’s just say she’s more comfortable with clothing made out of textiles.

3. Charmed: I can’t remember what put this on the banned list, but I bet someone was making out with a warlock and it was just too weird for my parents to imagine any of it could be wholesome. “Change it,” Dad said.

4. Sabrina the Teenage Witch: Maybe the talking cat pissed off my parents? Harvey and Sabrina held hands too closely? I’m really not sure about this one, but I do know it was a show we weren’t technically allowed to watch.

5. The Office: This is a family friendly, funny show, right? WRONG. You’d never notice it unless Mom is sitting right there, but every other sentence is about sex, which is evil.

6. Family Guy: See above.

7. Late Night with Conan O’Brien: Lucky for me, my parents went to bed before 12:30 and never got to see how soul-rotting this show was. All I can say is that if they’d ever witnessed the masturbating bear, they would have thought twice about letting me stay up so late by myself.

8. The Tonight Show with Jay Leno: Sometimes Jay was just a little too racy to watch with the whole family. Also, he was/is depressingly unfunny.

9. The Office, British Version: One episode featured a dildo. Need I say more?

10. Dancing with the Stars: The dancing is beautiful and the grinding can be horrific.

Safe bets:

Extreme Makeover Home Edition

The 5 o’clock news

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Dance to the beat of a little girl’s drum

Quick! Steal her drum while she’s not looking!

Hey you.

You have the power to be who you want to be. Dance to the beat of your own drum. Steal a little girl’s drum and dance to its beat if you want to.

She might start crying, but that’s okay, because it’s the perfect chance for you to tell her that she has the power to be who she wants to be, and if she wants to be a sissy whiny pants with no drum, then that’s her choice. Run away with her drum.

Now you have a little girl’s drum and you’re out there dancing to it like there’s no tomorrow, because you want to be a person that dances like no one’s watching.

Unfortunately, there are many people watching, including those with pets, the elderly, and one jock who comes up with a great line to mock you with. “Nice moves.” A pet owner’s pet gets nervous and starts barking at you, because you’re flailing your limbs wildly and your eyeballs are rolling around in their sockets and you’re having a grand old time while everyone around you stares in horror at the maniac writhing to the bizarre beat of a hello kitty drum.

Someone calls the police.

You try to tell them but they don’t understand and that you have the power to be who you want to be. Unfortunately, they have the power to make you be who they want you to be. You had never heard the corollary before.

You’re arrested for theft of a little girl’s drum, and dancing is discouraged in the courthouse. You learn that sometimes you need to think about adages before you follow them blindly, and you shouldn’t take advice from someone with unclear motives.

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Hi everyone! I changed my profile picture.

This is my former profile picture.

Dear facebook community,

As many of you have probably noticed (and commented/liked), I changed my profile picture today. For the past year, three months, and…you guessed it! 22 days, my profile picture portrayed me making a funny face while my parents tried to kiss me on the cheek. It was taken on a cliff in Maine shortly after I graduated (with honors, three ribbons, and a wheel of cheese) from Boston University.

The picture was hilarious. It provided all of you with enjoyment for many months, but in truth, I’ve felt for a while now that I needed a change.  I was held back by the fear of not measuring up to past profile picture greatness, of failing to find the one image that bursts with humor, creativity, and wisdom and shines like my beacon into the darkness of facebok.

It just so happened that yesterday, as I was showing my boyfriend pictures I had taken of myself, that I stumbled upon a great prospect.

While being an attention-whore, ham, and all-around obnoxious and spotlight-sucking rockstar in July, I had grabbed antlers and posed with them pressed to my face, as if they were emerging from my cheeks and I was undergoing a painful transformation into a creature both cursed and beautiful. I forced my mother to choke back embarrassment and take pictures of me.

This is the new profile picture.

When I found this gem, glittering in the dust of the My Pictures folder, I realized I must make it my profile picture, that it encapsulated everything I feel about my current situation in San Francisco, that it was the embodiment of who I am and who I am becoming.

“This is it.” I said to myself, and I uploaded it, changing my life and yours forever.

I immediately commented on it, liked it, and did everything I could to promote it, including making it a life event and asking people politely to comment or like anything regarding the photo change. Just a few minutes into the barrage of news about my profile picture I was bestowing upon you, the facebook community, the giddiness of my endeavor wore off and I realized I had made a huge mistake.

The picture was too dark. The community could not appreciate how ridiculous it was. The expected outpouring of likes and comments was not appearing as I had expected. Not only that, I felt in my heart of hearts that this was not the best possible photo for my profile.

I am now trapped, with no way out. Should I change my facebook photo again so soon, I will make an ass of myself and the 5 people who liked it will mock me endlessly. Soon I shall become an echo of my former facebook profile picture greatness and live in the shadow I have created for myself.

I shall grow paler.

My freckles will fade.

And I will be forgotten.

Goodbye, facebook community. Goodbye to those who know me and love me.

Please like this post.

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A Desire Burns in My Breast

So I want to change the world. Go figure. Who doesn’t? The question is: how the blork am I going to do that?

The solid, hot truth is that I have no freaking marbled cake idea of how this dumb globe even works. Thanks a lot, 4-year education at an “accredited” institution.

If only I’d read a little bit more Dante maybe I’d know what the heck was going on, and how hurricane what’s-her-face is connected to the plight of migrant workers is connected to Wal-Mart is connected to the Christ and Madonna and soaring flocks of macaws in the Amazon.

Heck, I don’t even know how to dress myself. Every single pair of pants I own has or had a hole in it, and I spent two hours today trying to figure out what a person who goes to a professional job for work looks like. I failed miserably and ended up gawking at tubs of extra-terrestrial creatures at an Asian supermarket before day drinking and retiring to my abode where I contemplated the chocolate-covered toffee on my desk and felt the impending free time about to destroy my brain.

I must do something.

This is the eternal desire, the ever-burning flame within my pasty breast. I must do something. But what does it look like? How does it taste and smell? Does it like children? Will the child I babysit like it more than me? These questions bubble to the surface of my existence like those tell-tale doom bubbles in the lower intestine after a July chili cook-off.

What must I do? Should I climb the tallest mountain? Should I chop down the tallest tree in the forest? Should I drink the tallest milk shake? Tell the tallest tall-tale? Slap the tallest man? Braid the hair of the tallest woman? Wear the tallest pants? Take a dump in the tallest building?

Am I even on the right track with the tallest thing? Do you see the problem here? Sometimes the world is spinning and spinning and just when I think I have the game down and I’m hopping and stepping in time with everyone else like at St. Gregory’s Church, I catch my breath and realize I have little to no idea what’s going on.

It’s refreshing and terrifying, like a cucumber-scented bodywash that dissolves your skin days after you use it.

And then, after I figure out what I must do, how do I do it? Are the discovery and the doing part of the same thing? Can you have one without the other?

But here’s a better question: how do I forget all of this and just get to the point where I want to make a lot of money? Isn’t that a safer and less confusing place to be—more easily quantified too!

And then I could blog about money, and everyone would want to read my words and learn out how to get rich like me and I would purchase a pair of shoes without holes.

Alas alas, I am in the holey time of my life, and there is much pondering to do. Join me, if you dare. Mock me, if you will. Just don’t ask to see the inner thighs of my pants.

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