My microwave is keeping me up. It broke today. It seems like everything is breaking. Our washer broke recently and then the television downstairs (both for the second time). We haven't fixed the television yet. We didn't have a choice with the washer and decided to just replace it.
My ten year old Mercedes is in desperate need of repair. I can't go over sixty on the freeway without the steering wheel shaking.
And now this. That piece of shit microwave.
The more stuff you have, the more stuff that can break. And, the nicer your stuff, the more expensive it is to fix. As my husband said before he went to bed, "that's a thousand dollar microwave."
Should any microwave cost a thousand dollars? Maybe my husband's exaggerating. Maybe not. It's a pretty nice microwave. It's built into the cabinet and fancy with all the bells and whistles.
I think back to my first microwave. I bought it at a garage sale for ten bucks. On second thought, maybe someone gave it to me for free. I am speculating here, but it doesn't really matter because the point is, a microwave breaking should not be a calamity.
Except it seems like one right now.
It's late, I have to work tomorrow and I need to wake up early so I can work out at six a.m. and all I can think of is the microwave. We need to fix it because we may be moving soon with my mother-in-law to her house in Hesperia and renting out this huge monstrosity we call a house. Who needs 3700 square feet? Certainly not I said the cat.
My husband and I were happy in five hundred square feet when we lived in UCSF's dental school housing on the hill with Sutro Tower. I could barely fit into the bathroom, but it was enough. Just barely enough, but enough. And we popped our popcorn in a small white microwave we bought at Walgreen's.
Fuck, I can't get that damn microwave out of my head. It just stoppped. No power. We tried the breaker, but that wasn't the problem. I was watching my favorite show "Smash" and I went downstairs to make some popcorn and tried to turn the microwave on. Nothing. The microwave died without a cause.
You take a microwave for granted until you don't have one.
I really want some microwave popcorn. Actually, what really sounds good is the old fashioned kind of popcorn you make in a big pot with kernels and oil. The kind my dad used to make when I was little.
My dad would pop the popcorn and throw it into a Stater Bros. brown paper bag. He would melt margerine on the stovetop and pour it on top and grab the Morton's and shake it all over.
"Watch this girls," he would say as he shook the bag. Me and my sisters would fight with one another to grab a handful of the delicious, buttery mess. It was the perfect combination of salty and sweet.
Maybe that's what I miss. The simple happiness of popcorn from a brown paper bag. Nothing fancy, kind of like my dad. Simple, but sweet.
Unlike my fucking microwave.
Panorama of San Bernardino
Monday, April 2, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Taming of the Shrew
The other morning at seven a.m., I had a meltdown in the driveway. Afterwards, images of my mother screaming at my dad in the front yard when I was little flashed in my head like sugar covered plums on Christmas.
My morning had started out hectic as usual. I woke up at five a.m. and went to the gym. After running the treadmill for an hour I got home by six and walked the dogs. I rushed my shower reducing my usual fifteen minute shower down to five minutes and blow dried and straightened my hair. I looked at the clock and hissed when I saw that it was already seven. Parking has been horrible this last week so in order to get a "free" county space, I must be in the parking lot by 7:45 a.m. It usually takes me about twenty five minutes to get to work so I was cutting it close.
I threw on my clothes and ran down the stairs. I watered and fed the dogs and grabbed my keys and jumped in my car. 7:15. I had just enough time.
When I looked to my right, I saw my neighbor's trash cans on the curb. Fuck. Wednesday is trash day.
I ran back in the house, pushed the button to open the garage door and pulled the trash cans to the curb one by one cussing under my breath.
When I got back to my car, Adrian was sitting in his car warming it up. He doesn't have to be at the dental office in Hesperia until 9 a.m. on Wednesdays but he usually goes early and hangs out at Starbucks. How relaxing.
Double fuck. The garage door was still open and I lost my remote last week. I looked at Adrian sitting in his car and motioned toward the open garage door. No response. I turned off my car and looked at him. He shrugged.
"This is bullshit," I thought to myself as I slammed my car door and walked back into the house to close the garage door.
As I walked back outside Adrian was still sitting in his car and something inside of me snapped.
"Fuck, you need to help me more Adrian" I screamed like a possessed banshee and flipped Adrian off not once but twice.
I pulled away tires screeching and saw my next door neighbor and his kids standing by their front door.
On my drive to work, I called Adrian on my speaker phone. "What is wrong with you?" he said in a perplexed voice. He had no clue.
I feel like I do everything. And, instead of just letting it go, i.e. letting the trash sit in the garage for two weeks, I push myself to get it all done and then bitch about it.
I know screaming isn't productive, but sometimes I feel like us shrews get a bad rap. When people nag others it is because shit isn't getting done.
And I get shit done.
So fuck it, this shrew won't be tamed, although I will try and confine her to the interior of the house from now on.
My morning had started out hectic as usual. I woke up at five a.m. and went to the gym. After running the treadmill for an hour I got home by six and walked the dogs. I rushed my shower reducing my usual fifteen minute shower down to five minutes and blow dried and straightened my hair. I looked at the clock and hissed when I saw that it was already seven. Parking has been horrible this last week so in order to get a "free" county space, I must be in the parking lot by 7:45 a.m. It usually takes me about twenty five minutes to get to work so I was cutting it close.
I threw on my clothes and ran down the stairs. I watered and fed the dogs and grabbed my keys and jumped in my car. 7:15. I had just enough time.
When I looked to my right, I saw my neighbor's trash cans on the curb. Fuck. Wednesday is trash day.
I ran back in the house, pushed the button to open the garage door and pulled the trash cans to the curb one by one cussing under my breath.
When I got back to my car, Adrian was sitting in his car warming it up. He doesn't have to be at the dental office in Hesperia until 9 a.m. on Wednesdays but he usually goes early and hangs out at Starbucks. How relaxing.
Double fuck. The garage door was still open and I lost my remote last week. I looked at Adrian sitting in his car and motioned toward the open garage door. No response. I turned off my car and looked at him. He shrugged.
"This is bullshit," I thought to myself as I slammed my car door and walked back into the house to close the garage door.
As I walked back outside Adrian was still sitting in his car and something inside of me snapped.
"Fuck, you need to help me more Adrian" I screamed like a possessed banshee and flipped Adrian off not once but twice.
I pulled away tires screeching and saw my next door neighbor and his kids standing by their front door.
On my drive to work, I called Adrian on my speaker phone. "What is wrong with you?" he said in a perplexed voice. He had no clue.
I feel like I do everything. And, instead of just letting it go, i.e. letting the trash sit in the garage for two weeks, I push myself to get it all done and then bitch about it.
I know screaming isn't productive, but sometimes I feel like us shrews get a bad rap. When people nag others it is because shit isn't getting done.
And I get shit done.
So fuck it, this shrew won't be tamed, although I will try and confine her to the interior of the house from now on.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
My romantic side
I am watching "You've Got Mail" for the umpteenth time. There is something about romantic comedies like this that gets me. Especially romantic comedies by Nora Ephron.
Ephron's "You've Got Mail" is essentially a remake of the film "Shop Around The Corner", a 1940's film involving a letter writing romance between James Stewart and Margaret Sullavan. It also overtly references the Jane Austen classic "Pride and Prejudice" and the main characters of Austen's classic strongly influence the characters of Kathleen Kelly (played by Meg Ryan) and Joe Fox (played by Tom Hanks).
At the end of the movie when Kathleen finds out that Joe, her arch nemesis, is the man she fell in love with over email she starts to cry and Tom Hanks wipes her eye and says, "Don't cry shop girl." To which she responds, "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly." It gives me chills just to write that scene's dialogue. It is perfect. And it helps that "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is playing in the background.
The referential nature of "You've Got Mail" is similar to another of my favorite Ephron films, "Sleepless in Seattle" which also pairs Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. "Sleepless in Seattle" is heavily influenced by the film classic "An Affair to Remember." Even though it is embarrassing to admit, I had never seen "An Affair to Remember" and only rented it after I saw "Sleepless in Seattle" for the first time.
The first time I saw "An Affair to Remember" I cried like a baby. The final scene where Cary Grant realizes why a wheelchair bound Deborah Kerr couldn't keep their appointment atop the Empire State Building turns me into a weeping mess.
"An Affair to Remember" is a close second to my favorite movie of all time "Gone With The Wind". I read "Gone With The Wind" when I was six and used to dream about running away with Rhett Butler. When I saw the movie for the first time, at somewhere around seven or eight years old, I remember thinking that Clark Gable was the same image in my head of Rhett Butler after I read the book. This rarely happens. Usually when I read a book and become invested in the characters, a movie casting is a pale comparison to the image of the characters in my mind's eye. "Gone With the Wind" is the exception (and Matt Dillion as Dallas in "The Outsiders").
I used to sit in elementary class and daydream about writing a sequel to "Gone With The Wind". Of course, Rhett and Scarlett would end up together. They would have another little girl and they would grow old together and laugh about all the drama in their past.
Isn't that how all great romances are supposed to end?
Ephron's "You've Got Mail" is essentially a remake of the film "Shop Around The Corner", a 1940's film involving a letter writing romance between James Stewart and Margaret Sullavan. It also overtly references the Jane Austen classic "Pride and Prejudice" and the main characters of Austen's classic strongly influence the characters of Kathleen Kelly (played by Meg Ryan) and Joe Fox (played by Tom Hanks).
At the end of the movie when Kathleen finds out that Joe, her arch nemesis, is the man she fell in love with over email she starts to cry and Tom Hanks wipes her eye and says, "Don't cry shop girl." To which she responds, "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly." It gives me chills just to write that scene's dialogue. It is perfect. And it helps that "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is playing in the background.
The referential nature of "You've Got Mail" is similar to another of my favorite Ephron films, "Sleepless in Seattle" which also pairs Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. "Sleepless in Seattle" is heavily influenced by the film classic "An Affair to Remember." Even though it is embarrassing to admit, I had never seen "An Affair to Remember" and only rented it after I saw "Sleepless in Seattle" for the first time.
The first time I saw "An Affair to Remember" I cried like a baby. The final scene where Cary Grant realizes why a wheelchair bound Deborah Kerr couldn't keep their appointment atop the Empire State Building turns me into a weeping mess.
"An Affair to Remember" is a close second to my favorite movie of all time "Gone With The Wind". I read "Gone With The Wind" when I was six and used to dream about running away with Rhett Butler. When I saw the movie for the first time, at somewhere around seven or eight years old, I remember thinking that Clark Gable was the same image in my head of Rhett Butler after I read the book. This rarely happens. Usually when I read a book and become invested in the characters, a movie casting is a pale comparison to the image of the characters in my mind's eye. "Gone With the Wind" is the exception (and Matt Dillion as Dallas in "The Outsiders").
I used to sit in elementary class and daydream about writing a sequel to "Gone With The Wind". Of course, Rhett and Scarlett would end up together. They would have another little girl and they would grow old together and laugh about all the drama in their past.
Isn't that how all great romances are supposed to end?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Funny Girl
Some may find this shocking but in some ways, being the fat girl was more fun. There was no pressure. You could talk to someone and be funny and witty and there was never more than a hint of sexual undertone.
It was as if the layer of fat that covered my belly and thighs, at least eighty pounds of which I have lost, insulated me from the male gaze. That has changed and I am not entirely comfortable with it.
More accurately stated, I am downright uncomfortable with it.
So there lies the rub. To be thin, and in turn meet society's definition of "sexy", you have to give something up. That something is a certain freedom of being and existing. And, while I would not put back on the pounds, I do wish I could somehow escape that rub. No pun intended.
I want to be the thin, funny gal pal type, just like I used to be the fat, funny gal pal type. There are strategies I could use I suppose: dress more boyish, wear my glasses, pull back my hair, the list goes on. But why should I have to ugly it up to escape the unwanted attention?
And, I have to admit, in a weird way I do crave the attention. Do my contradictions make any sense?
In Vegas this weekend, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend to finish at the blackjack table. I fidgeted in my bar stool trying to pull down my too short sequined dress.
A guy sat down next to me and smiled and said, "Are you waiting for your sugar daddy?" I looked at him with a scowl and said, "No, I make my own money." His friends walked up shortly thereafter and handed him a hat to match their own green baseball caps. I looked over and gave a sarcastic smirk and said, "You looked better without the hat." His friend laughed and said, "Oh you're a funny girl."
I nodded my head and said, "Yes I am."
It was as if the layer of fat that covered my belly and thighs, at least eighty pounds of which I have lost, insulated me from the male gaze. That has changed and I am not entirely comfortable with it.
More accurately stated, I am downright uncomfortable with it.
So there lies the rub. To be thin, and in turn meet society's definition of "sexy", you have to give something up. That something is a certain freedom of being and existing. And, while I would not put back on the pounds, I do wish I could somehow escape that rub. No pun intended.
I want to be the thin, funny gal pal type, just like I used to be the fat, funny gal pal type. There are strategies I could use I suppose: dress more boyish, wear my glasses, pull back my hair, the list goes on. But why should I have to ugly it up to escape the unwanted attention?
And, I have to admit, in a weird way I do crave the attention. Do my contradictions make any sense?
In Vegas this weekend, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend to finish at the blackjack table. I fidgeted in my bar stool trying to pull down my too short sequined dress.
A guy sat down next to me and smiled and said, "Are you waiting for your sugar daddy?" I looked at him with a scowl and said, "No, I make my own money." His friends walked up shortly thereafter and handed him a hat to match their own green baseball caps. I looked over and gave a sarcastic smirk and said, "You looked better without the hat." His friend laughed and said, "Oh you're a funny girl."
I nodded my head and said, "Yes I am."
Friday, January 13, 2012
Pictures of You
(Myself, Kenny G (my date for homecoming), Kenny B, my bff Tracy, Gene and Chrissy
High school was an interesting time for me. My parents had lost their house and we were roaming from rental to rental like a band of nomads. I had morphed from preppie geek girl to punk rocker between freshman and sophmore year. My once light brown hair was dyed blue black, I pierced my nostril and wore a uniform of all black with monkey boots on most days.
When the homecoming dance came around, my friend Tracy and I went dress shopping. We idolized Siouxsie Sioux of Siouxsie and the Banshees and wanted to emulate her. I found the perfect dress: all black with a sheen to it to match my hair. Tracy found a black lace dress that hugged her waist.
I don't remember much from that night. I am sure I drank too much and I remember that Kenny G wore a shiny silver suit and Kenny B carried a cane and top hat.
What is also interesting is how my perception of myself that night was so warped. I remember feeling fat. Yet, looking back all I see is a curvy, young rather Goth looking girl with fabulous blue black hair who had style.
Even though I may pretend, deep down inside I am not the staid and lawyerly type. I am still a rebel. So last night when my hair stylist asked me, "Are you sure you want to go that dark. That's really black."
My head moved up and down and I said firmly, "Fuck it. Go for it."
All I need now are some combat boots.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
How Did I Get Here?
Someone recently told me that my blog makes them think about the source of happiness. I think that is an accurate depiction of what I am trying to do with my writing. It is a discovery of my own self. The age old query stated so succintly by the Talking Heads, "How did I get here?"
Life can be surreal sometimes. Looking at my life, I am amazed that I made it here. When I was in my late teens and twenties, I was trying to survive. Rent and transportation were my two biggest concerns, and going to dance clubs. I was not an adult in the true sense of the word. I never looked into the future and planned. Getting by was enough and I was more of a child pretending to be an adult.
Thinking back to my twenties, I remember one time, my mom and dad came to visit me in my apartment in Upland where I lived with my younger sister Annie. I was around twenty one and Adrian and I had been dating for months. When my parents arrived, Adrian and I were in the shower and Annie told me through the bathroom door. I came out in a towel and yelled at them for coming over. They left in a huff and afterward I saw that they had left a couple of bags of groceries on the kitchen table.
I know I hurt their feelings, but I never saw my parents back then. All of my chaotic and crazy childhood had come home to roost and I was angry and pissed off. I blamed my parents for everything I thought had gone wrong in my life: my decision to drop out and get my GED, my decision to move out into an apartment and my constant struggles financially.
The reality was much more complicated. Yes, it's true that my mom and dad raised me in a crazy house. But, my mom taught me to read when I was three and always stressed education. Yes, my dad was an alcoholic, but he also was a hard working and loving father who taught me a love of movies and Gin Rummy. Yes, when I told my parents I wanted to go to Claremont McKenna and they told me they could not afford it, I went from straight A student to dropping out within the year. I think back and realize I could have researched financial aid and my dropping out had more to do with a bout of depression then my parent's inability to comprehend federal student loan programs.
Now I know that I was a self destructive brat. When I dropped out at seventeen and took my GED just ten credits short of a high school diploma, my mom said I could continue to live with my parents if I went to school. She desperately wanted me to go to college. I wanted to waitress and party. And I did just that for many years.
So, how did I get here? Luck? Maybe. Determination? Sure.
Through the grace of God?
Yes.
Life can be surreal sometimes. Looking at my life, I am amazed that I made it here. When I was in my late teens and twenties, I was trying to survive. Rent and transportation were my two biggest concerns, and going to dance clubs. I was not an adult in the true sense of the word. I never looked into the future and planned. Getting by was enough and I was more of a child pretending to be an adult.
Thinking back to my twenties, I remember one time, my mom and dad came to visit me in my apartment in Upland where I lived with my younger sister Annie. I was around twenty one and Adrian and I had been dating for months. When my parents arrived, Adrian and I were in the shower and Annie told me through the bathroom door. I came out in a towel and yelled at them for coming over. They left in a huff and afterward I saw that they had left a couple of bags of groceries on the kitchen table.
I know I hurt their feelings, but I never saw my parents back then. All of my chaotic and crazy childhood had come home to roost and I was angry and pissed off. I blamed my parents for everything I thought had gone wrong in my life: my decision to drop out and get my GED, my decision to move out into an apartment and my constant struggles financially.
The reality was much more complicated. Yes, it's true that my mom and dad raised me in a crazy house. But, my mom taught me to read when I was three and always stressed education. Yes, my dad was an alcoholic, but he also was a hard working and loving father who taught me a love of movies and Gin Rummy. Yes, when I told my parents I wanted to go to Claremont McKenna and they told me they could not afford it, I went from straight A student to dropping out within the year. I think back and realize I could have researched financial aid and my dropping out had more to do with a bout of depression then my parent's inability to comprehend federal student loan programs.
Now I know that I was a self destructive brat. When I dropped out at seventeen and took my GED just ten credits short of a high school diploma, my mom said I could continue to live with my parents if I went to school. She desperately wanted me to go to college. I wanted to waitress and party. And I did just that for many years.
So, how did I get here? Luck? Maybe. Determination? Sure.
Through the grace of God?
Yes.
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