paradigm shift!
April 10, 2010 by admin, under Uncategorized.
I usually make it a rule not to write about generalities. Still, today requires one. To quote Wikipedia, “paradigm shift” means “a change in basic assumptions.” I have experienced a paradigm shift, and man, do I love them puppies.
For the past twenty-eight years of my life, I have acted on one basic, gloomy principle: how can I avoid fucking up my or anyone else’s life?
Thanks to the romantic suffering my mom and I went through together last year, one of my friend’s decision to commit fully to her boyfriend, a few great self-help books, my favorite astrologers, my brother’s wise advice, and probably every other person I’ve spoken to in the past six months, that question has finally changed.
I don’t care if I mess up mine or anyone else’s path, anymore. Worrying about doing so makes life suck so much it’s hard to imagine me doing anything worse, unless I actually bought an Uzi and went on a bloody rampage. Which I won’t do, because it doesn’t fit into the new paradigm any more than it fit into the old one.
Now, I find myself asking how I can live this moment. Here, now, with this person, this tree, this cup of iced decaf coffee. Fully, and well. With a flourish and a smile and a leaning-forward big gamble on life in general. By recognizing the possibility it may make me blush later, and then, by throwing that possibility away.
Scorpio
By Rick Levine
Your two ruling planets, Mars and Pluto, are currently engaged in a winner-takes-all struggle, but it’s actually a stalemate because there won’t be a winner if anyone loses now. This will be a problem as long as you are in a competitive frame of mind. But you have the power to shift the paradigm from conflict to cooperation. By changing the rules of the game, everyone can come out ahead.
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15 life tips for the unitiated, or, how to flourish as a stranger in a strange land.
April 5, 2010 by admin, under Journal.
Thirty years ago, my grandpa’s girlfriend found out he was still married, to my grandmother, who no longer lived with my grandpa. So upset at that initial “I’m married’ confession to even hear the details, this woman, who later became the woman I called “Grandma,” climbed on a bicycle and rode from his house in a rage. In tears, she pedaled furiously down the gravel driveway, and crashed. My grandpa fetched her, told her the rest of the story, and shortly after, married her, right around the time my parents married.
That was in California, near San Diego. Meanwhile, thirty years later, in San Jose…
I got a call from my mother, who had ridden my dad’s bicycle from his apartment in San Jose, pedaling furiously, also because of a confession about another woman. She was riding around town, beside herself, determined to stay at a hotel and fly back to Buffalo the next day. It was late afternoon when she called me, and after I heard her out, she said, “I’m going to go get some dinner.”
Imagining her riding back and forth between downtown San Jose and its airport, knowing my mom well enough to also know she would not return to my dad’s apartment that night, I asked her if she’d found a hotel room yet. She said no. I said, “Mom, get a hotel room. The first rule of survival is to make your shelter, even before you find food.”
She reconciled with my dad a day and a half later, but in the meantime, had a place to stay.
You’re not going to believe this, at least, not if you’ve heard me ranting about hunting, fishing, and camping, but I spent one hour of every day of my senior year of high school in a class called Outdoor Living. I needed a science credit and couldn’t fathom chemistry, so while I spent half my day surrounded by fellow over-achievers in AP English and History, I took another class with the kids who were destined for management positions at Wendy’s: the slacker science class. My teacher spent an entire unit on survival skills, and even though I hated the class, I remember a disturbing amount of it.
I hadn’t thought about it until that class, but the idea that one needs shelter more than food probably stuck in my head because I wound up later living in a lot of different, alien places. I don’t move to new cities with a boyfriend and an SUV, I move with a couple suitcases and a willingness to walk. And after doing so in Seattle, Portland, various parts of New Jersey, New York, Brooklyn, southwest England, Barcelona and now Austin, Texas, I can authoritatively call myself an expert on surviving in the non-wild wilderness we call the civilized world.
Some of the things I’ve learned, most people don’t and shouldn’t have to, because they give themselves “luxuries” like cars and familiarity. Other things, everyone should know, especially every woman, and I’m continually astounded how many don’t. So here’s a mixture of both.
- No one judges you for doing something alone. It is usually more fun to eat, shop or travel with good company. But the self-consciousness and fear that prevents most people from acting alone is largely imaginary: no one cares, and as long as there are other people within shouting distance, you’re probably safe.
- Rely on the kindness of strangers. Anyone who works at a bar, hotel, or any form of public transportation, knows from experience how to help the lost and confused. Elderly people and parents with small children are also usually trustworthy. It doesn’t matter whether you’re going to the fair or flying to Guam: tip the bartender well, trust the bellhop, and be kind to the curly-haired grandmother sitting on the bench. Also, just because you didn’t stay at that hotel doesn’t mean you can’t ask the bellhop to call you a cab like your suitcase is upstairs in room #321.
- Conversely… if you’re female and alone, it is never rude to be rude. Most well-adjusted men know where it is and is not okay to engage a strange woman in conversation. The ones that don’t are the ones you probably shouldn’t get to know, even if their biggest crime is general cluenessness. Safe zones include: Bars, hotel lobbies, Toys R Us, and gas station pumps with at least one car between you. If someone approaches you outside one of those settings, feel absolutely free to respond in one sentence, smile politely, and turn away.
- If you’re worried someone’s following you, take some advice from a Wiccan book I’ve kept for the past ten years, and turn all the way around instead of glancing furtively over your shoulder. If someone actually is following you, he might be alarmed by your confrontational pose, you won’t look as scared as you would if you kept glancing, and you’ll be in a better position to fight back. And if it was just your imagination, the only people who’ll see you do it are the pigeons.
- Lost or overwhelmed? Find a restroom. I don’t know about Morocco, but in the US, even the worst parts of town have a crowded bar, grocery store, Starbucks, or McDonald’s. Head for the stall and get your bearings. It may sound gross, but no one is going to notice you studying your map or digging frantically through your purse in the bathroom. Collect yourself and then return to the fray.
- Reminding yourself that “you can always take a cab home,” takes the stress out of most situations, as long as you keep cab fare with you, and have the number of a cab company stored in your phone.
- Don’t drink unless you can accept the worst case scenario if you have one too many and your judgment flies right out the window.
- It’s okay to go home early.
- Don’t be afraid to get lost. Some of the best love affairs, creative epitomes, and undiscovered coffee shops have been discovered when I was lost. Just be aware that it all gets a lot more stressful after dark, and/or in ouchy shoes.
- Keep the following in your purse at all times: Antibacterial handwipes (Purell won’t do it if you have actual dirt on your hands); an iPod with cheering comfort music on it; almonds (to avoid costly emergency meals when you’re too starving to take another step); and if it makes you feel better, pepper spray.
- If you look sexy, you’ll get admiration, and (maybe) sex. If you look competent, you’ll get a job, the trust of strangers, entrance into any building you want without question, and that fabulous rent-controlled sublet. I’m not advocating women hide their feminity. I’m just saying that if you look like you’ve got money in the bank, a husband, and a full three car garage, you get access. Think J. Crew instead of Victoria’s Secret.
- Pay attention to landmarks. Navigating any new place is much easier if you note the tall building that looks like an owl (Austin’s got one downtown) and the big billboard with a salon advertisement on it.
- Most bus systems can’t give change, and most bus drivers are friendlier than they look.
- Regardless of what I said earlier, it’s always okay to show a little cleavage and a big smile, if you need some help and attention.
- Serendipity is your best friend. Planning the entire experience sets you up for disappointment, and you’re liable to miss the local treasures the guidebook missed. Leave the house with one planned destination or event and leave the rest up to chance. It is very, very important than you have time to pause for the shop, restaurant, or conversation that just seems to “catch your fancy.” Following those whims creates about 97% of the magic any individual will ever need in one lifetime.
Bilbo Baggins will tell you that every good adventure is scary by definition. The important thing is to find the wizards, dwarves and enchanted mini-swords that give you the courage to take it.
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irresistible forces and unmoveable objects.
January 20, 2010 by admin, under Journal.
My mom and I went to Buffalo’s ritzy suburban shopping mall, today. Ordinarily I suffer from involuntary tremors at the thought of crossing a mall door’s threshold, but a week and a half after walking out of my last job, I instinctively knew today was a once-a-decade time for some shop therapy.
The gods did smileth upon us the entire trip. The clerk at Frederick’s of Hollywood helpfully advised my mom and I on garter belt sizing. The soundtrack in New York & Co. kept me bopping while trying on skinny slacks. Fergie, unbeknownst to me, designed a line of sneakers so adorable, I had to buy a pair even though I already have three pairs of sneakers and hardly ever wear any of them. Bath & Body Works was paying people to take away their excess inventory. And when we finally collapsed at Jack Astors, weak and empty of wallet, the waitress greeted us warmly with cheap booze and cheesy, garlicky meat ‘n potatoes fare to strengthen us for our journey home.
Why, you may ask, does an unemployed person spend $150 at the mall on hi-tops and stockings? In my case, an unemployed person spends money because she has a disturbingly strong sense that she won’t be unemployed for long, and she’ll need those black slacks and skirt to look all, like, professional. She also does it because she needs a distraction from sitting around the house fixating on her new design portfolio or emailing the eight hundredth apartment ad.
I keep waiting for someone to say “Snap out of it and just move somewhere!” I am trying. I don’t blog about my attempts to find a volunteer homestay in Europe, or the families I’ve discussed nannying for, or the quantity of Craigslist ads I’ve read and responded to, but that’s how I spend a lot of my time. Since mid-September, I’ve explored every method of moving that I know of or people have suggested. I’ve tried, for months, to take responsibility for my happiness, by initiating change instead of sitting around complaining.
But nothing takes. And I’m starting to wonder whether the best way to figure out why, would be to shut the heck up for a minute.
So I went to the mall, and bought the dangling beaded earrings at Old Navy. I will probably wear them tomorrow, with my hi-tops, and layer the skirt over the pants over the garter belt, and top it all of with a heavy layer of sweet pea scented Bath & Body Works bath foam.
Something’s gotta give. Until then, at least I’ll look (and smell) fantastic.
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yardstick of normalcy.
December 2, 2009 by admin, under Journal.
When I decided to leave New York City a year and a half ago, I attempted to do it the rational way. I found a job similar to the one I had enjoyed in Manhattan, in Seattle. I had grown up in and around Seattle and thought I knew the city well. Measured with a yardstick of normalcy, the plan was a good two and a half feet.
I began my new job, moved into a new one bedroom apartment in Pioneer Square, cleaned the cupboards, unpacked my bags, looked around me, and thought, “What the hell am I doing here?” After working to New York standards, I watched aghast as candidates showed up for interviews in rain-soaked bike gear, paperwork forgotten, to show portfolios full of sub-par work. The city itself felt eerily small, the buses empty, shops few and far between, downtown full of homeless people, one busker filling my new neighborhood with Pearl Jam’s “Indifference,” his deep voice echoing down the rain-soaked block, “How much difference does it make…”
Indeed. A week later my mom flew in from Toronto. She and my dad had closed up their house in Oregon a short time before. We went down for the weekend to check up on it. I never went back to that agency in Seattle. I told them my head had fallen off or something, I don’t remember. All I do remember is waking up in that bedroom in the house in Oregon, unable to remember why I was supposed to return to Seattle and that silly job. Driving up to Seattle to pick up my belongings, I laughed out loud at myself. I had completely flaked out. I had thrown away my yardstick of normalcy.
About five weeks later, I flew to Spain, and the next four months were some of the coolest of my life. Sans yardstick.
I attempted to do the New York-to-Seattle thing again last month. I had a job, friends, a semblance of a life here. Why not stick with it, I reasoned. Keep the job. It’s the rational thing to do. But my friend didn’t know, when she idly suggested East Aurora as a pretty place to live, that I was seriously going to consider it. So she didn’t mention how often she’d turned back because the wind and snow made the highway out to the small town unpassable. My brother visited the apartment with me in a rare black mood, which made me discount his announcement that the highways were awful. The landlord assured me he drove into Buffalo to work every day, and it took him exactly thirty-two minutes each time. I ignored my instinct, which told me I was moving out there to isolate myself even further from people in general and sink into a nice, juicy depression. My coworkers, the woman at the DMV who helped me obtain an NYS drivers license, and neighbors all assured me East Aurora was indeed calm and beautiful… if isolated.
And then the day I was supposed to move, I went to a board meeting, came home in a funk, took a nap, woke up thinking “You shouldn’t commit another year to this job,” walked into the living room to find my mom biting her nails after talking to a friend on the phone. He had “gone on and on” about how horrible that highway was in the winter, that East Aurora was in the “ski belt,” that the snow and wind was always considerably worse than in Buffalo itself.
Since then, I feel like I did when leaving Seattle. I can’t honestly remember what the normal thing would be to do in this respect. Or, that is, the normal options no longer have meaning or resonance. Normal would be to find an apartment here, talk more with my boss about how rude she is, try to meet a nice fellow. But I don’t want to. I can’t remember why I should. The yardstick is broken.
Instead, I think I’d like to go to Guam.
Meanwhile, I’m working on a new website, sucking on cough drops, losing weight because the phlegm in my lungs ruins my appetite (yum!) and spending lots of money on new passports, driving licenses, and other forms of ID I probably won’t need in Guam. I hope y’all stay tuned. The future is filled with floating pink cotton-candy-flavored question marks.
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takin' a trip up de' Nile.
November 19, 2009 by admin, under Journal.
I hate “Gee, I haven’t blogged in a while!” posts, but, “Gee, I haven’t blogged in a while!” Unfortunately I can’t really write about many of my daily preoccupations right now. But you’re not missing out. Conversations with and about my dad, Mr. Hotness, and my boss wouldn’t be that interesting even if I did feel comfortable discussing them publicly. Important, but not heavy on plot.
Meanwhile…
I had a fun birthday, ten days late. We all went out drinking and dancing and had a great time. I’m sure photos will show me red-faced and sweaty, but enjoying my new birthday shoes. I had realized that afternoon that I had no sexy winter clothes, so I went to Marshall’s with my mom and bought a complete Birthday Party Outfit just like you do when you’re twelve. You can imagine me as an adolescent describing, with lots of gesturing, “It had a purple dress, and tights with pink polka dots, and black shoes with straps on the front and a tall heel!”
I looked fabulous. Alas, the Birthday Outfit did not win me any Birthday Sex. Not that I like that song anyway…
A man has been working on the steeply peaked roof of a Gothic house I pass every morning on my way to work. He stands on a crane three stories overhead, and always has a soft rock Christmas station playing from some invisible radio. He must have it up there with him because the music wafts down like a movie soundtrack- albeit a cheesy movie. Today it was raining, so you couldn’t see him beneath a large blue tarp draped over himself and the roof. But you could still hear Natalie Cole singing about mistletoe.
My friend Candi noticed an old high school friend’s Facebook post needing a web designer, put us in touch, and I’m making her an online store- proof that social networking actually works.
I haven’t unpacked all my stuff from preparing to move to East Aurora, so if you want to borrow that copy of The Bombshell’s Manual of Style from me (and you should), forget it. It’s buried under paper-swathed dishes and comic books, in that box at the foot of my brother’s bed, or maybe the box near the dining table in the living room, or maybe the box Flippy ate the corner out of…
I really enjoyed Michael Jackson’s This is It in the theater the other day. I’m going to name my daughter Orianthi, after the guitarist who responded coolly to Jackson’s demand of, “Higher, higher- this is your time to shine!” And I now say “God bless you” in a meek, Muppety voice to everyone. Okay, that’s a lie. I couldn’t be less like Michael Jackson unless I was a cat. But I was inspired by his dedication to his craft. Not inspired enough to actually start a novel, just inspired enough to think about why I’m not thinking about starting a novel.
And what about real life, you ask?
Nothing much has changed- I’m still fed up with my current situation, still clueless as to how to change it. But I am so sick of complaining about it, even thinking about it, that I bought a ticket to DenialVille on Tuesday and haven’t been back since. It’s nice here. Chocolate cupcakes have no calories, everyone’s thighs are dimple-free, men have very good reasons for not washing the dishes, and happy adventures are just around the riverbend.
It’s sort of like being Disney’s Pocahontas, without the question of how she could look so hot in a miniskirt, when Native Americans did not have Bics. Fortunately, I do. If I had a pet raccoon, my life would be complete. Meanwhile, I’ve put a striped fur suit on my rabbit. He’s actually practicing leaping over logs and making funny faces, in this new suit, right this very minute. As I write this. It’s funny. Shame you can’t see it.
Look for us in theaters everywhere on Christmas Day.
