Collarbone High

Going LJ for a moment...

2003-10-26T00:46:00.000-07:00

...Funny how I blind myself
I never knew
If I was sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose

I'd tell myself
What good you do
Convince myself

It's my life
Don't you forget
It's my life
It never ends...

(And that's the original, not the No Doubt, thankyouverymuch.)

Heavy

2003-09-14T21:28:00.000-07:00

This evening, I ran into a co-worker I haven't seen in several months. (We work in separate areas, and our paths cross only rarely.) He looked at me closely, appraisingly, quizzically.

"You look different," he finally said. "You've lost weight."

"I have," I admitted. I've shed fifteen pounds in the last two months.

"You look good."

"Thanks," I said. Yeesh, this was awkward, him staring at me like that. How bad did I look before?

"You can really see the difference," he continued. "For a while, I was concerned about your health."

As was I. My whole life has been a struggle with weight and diets and my damned thighs. I remember as far back as fourth grade, comparing the flab on my inner thigh with that of my closest friends. In fifth grade I managed to find a friend whose relationship with food was more dysfunctional than my own--one day, angry at her parents, she downed half a bag of Lay's potato chips, muttering "You'll see how fat I can get" in between greasy handfuls. The war with my body continued into junior high school; even when I was a relatively thin cheerleader, I envied the girls who didn't yet have hips and breasts. And high school was just plain wicked--pudgy in ninth grade, super thin in tenth. (In fact, several people didn't recognize me on the first day of sophomore year.) Progressively heavier for the next two years and into college.

Despite my utter dislike of my body--my hips and my thighs and oh my god, have you seen my upper arms?--I never formally dieted until I joined Weight Watchers after ninth grade. That summer I subsisted on lettuce, Saltine crackers and iced tea; that fall, I found my first serious boyfriend. Two years later, flirting with a neighbor's friend in college, I didn't eat much that didn't come from my dormitory's salad bar. And two years after that, trying to save a failing on-and-off relationship with that high school boyfriend, I was drinking meal replacement shakes. Then came lowfat, and "eating sensibly" (a miserable failure, by the way, as it should be apparent that I completely lack sense when it comes to food), and low carb.

Oh, low carb. The Carbohydrate Addict's Diet. Size six jeans, size four skirts. Squeezing into a row of seats in a lecture hall and having room to spare. Buying clothes constantly as the old ones became too big, walking around campus in tight shirts and slim-cut pants and being admired by men, feeling like I could conquer the world if only I had some energy.

Maintaining that weight--oh, to be 117 pounds again--was, for me, a Sisyphean chore. I was frustrated by not eating normally, disgusted by the constant metallic taste in my mouth. And then, hoping to salve the wounds of years of a poor self-image, I went on anti-depressants.

No, said the young doctor at Student Psychiatric Services, this won't cause weight gain. But I graduated from college with those single-digit sizes shoved in the back of my closet.

And now, two and a half years later, I'm on the weight loss train again. Will it stick this time? Will I keep up with the weightlifting and the long walks and the salads? Is it possible that I can stop thinking of food as love and comfort and a companion?

I hope so. I hope I manage to keep my head on straight. I hope I manage to convince myself that, no matter what, I deserve to be healthy and happy with my body (or at least not feel repulsed by the image in the mirror). Whether I deserve to slide back into that size four skirt is, at this point, immaterial; but whether I deserve to run up a flight of stairs without losing my wind is, to my mind, an easy question.

"I did Body for Life for a while," said my co-worker. "It works, but you really have to commit to it."

"Commitment is key," I said. I'm not quite convinced that I have such diligence, but I've got enough to fake it to an acquaintance. "It's an ongoing process."

"Keep it up. I'm really proud of you."

He walked away, and I continued, climbing the steep set of stairs to my office. When I got to the top, I was breathing normally. I've got a long way to go, both with my weight and my attitude, but it's a good start.

Never forget

2003-09-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

I wrote this not long after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. I don't have anything new or shocking to say. I wasn't there duing the attacks--in fact, I was on vacation in San Diego, and I felt rather protected there due to the multiple military installations around the city. Here's what I wrote following the attacks and a trip to New York City that I had planned during the summer of 2001.

In my room hangs a small black and white photograph purchased last September from a midtown street vendor. The Brooklyn Bridge marches through the foreground as a boat sails beneath; behind this, a parade of skyscrapers forms the proud Manhattan skyline. Most impressive of all of these is the World Trade Center, its shimmering Gemini towers stretching up into the clouds, penetrating the heavens.

In Los Angeles, where I was born and raised, we are cowed by earthquakes; we build wide and flat. We cherish horizontal space, finding thousands of acres for each new suburb. We only rarely invoke the vertical, as New York has always done. We do not build up. The World Trade Center’s destruction seemed an appropriate insult for a city that has always reached for the stars.

Pundits, commentators more witty than I, have said the World Trade Center is—was?—a symbol of America, of wealth, of capitalism. To me the World Trade Center was a symbol of New York, a symbol of a city so great and powerful that only one 110-story tower would not suffice, a city where one could reach celestial heights merely by riding a high-speed elevator.

I cannot look at the photograph now, cannot even close my eyes, without seeing jetliners crashing through the steel and glass walls of the towers. The horrible image is burned into my memory for now and maybe permanently; I admit I cannot tear myself away from the news coverage. Each rumor of a survivor or a suspect keeps me riveted enough to bear the horrific videos of amateur cameramen, each with a different angle on the tragedy. I hate myself for watching, torn between voyeurism and virtuous anger at those who committed this hateful act of destruction.

At night I lay silently in bed, trying to ignore the constant chatter of newscasters that asserts itself into my thoughts, feeling suddenly grateful to be alive. I wonder if the jet passengers were cognizant, if they survived the impact. Was there a split second for them to look from the plane’s thick windows at the bewildered office workers surely caught off guard by this strange turn of events? The idea rolls like a movie in my mind: Were they alive and conscious? Did they see?

I ask not to titillate but because I am horrified. To die in a plane crash is thankfully uncommon but sadly, not unfamiliar; but to die on television, and to be used as a weapon by terrorists, is something else entirely. Did they know they would be canonized by nearly the entire world? Did they know that I, a total stranger, would mourn their passing?

The television shows me their pictures and their friends while the newspaper prints family photographs. The television shows me the World Trade Center—or the site of the World Trade Center, as it was called today by a network reporter whose name I can’t recall—heaped with bent steel and dust. The television shows me New Yorkers standing tall, British soldiers marching to “The Star-Spangled Banner,” people all over the world waving our flag and singing our national anthem.

There are still things to be done: blood to donate, missing people to locate, dry socks to buy for the firemen. But I needn’t worry about the city of New York. Its spirit is indomitable. You can see it in the faces of the citizens as they line up to help at Saint Vincent’s. I saw a man on the news today, his wide face streaked with tears. “They have to rebuild,” he said. “They have to rebuild.” He repeated it like a mantra. You can see the spirit in the murals painted on walls, in the candles lit on seemingly every intersection, in the raucous cheering that greets firefighters and police and even Con Ed as they rush to Ground Zero.

Now, days later, a new image is forming in my mind. It will not replace the one that hangs in my bedroom, nor the horrific image of fiery disaster, nor the ghostly dust rising like a beacon from lower Manhattan. Instead it will overlap, a cellophane picture through which I can still see the city before all this, a city where dreams come true, a city where fortunes are made and destinies are sealed.

I expected more reverence. I had seen the vigils on the news, the mass of flowers and posters and candles crowding George Washington’s statue in Union Square. When I arrived, mid-afternoon on a Monday, it was almost as if the past three weeks had never happened.

College kids lounged on every available patch of concrete, smoking, reading thick paperbacks. Teenagers rode skateboards, headphones clamped to their ears, and shouted at each other, seemingly ensconced in normalcy. Traffic streamed all around the park, taxicabs and buses grinding through the New York City streets. The sun was absurdly bright, so much so that it hurt my eyes even behind my sunglasses; it didn’t seem appropriate that such a beautiful day had brought me on such a morbid mission. I would have preferred rain.

My palms grew sweaty as I clutched a tiny bouquet of yellow sweetheart roses I had bought at the Food Emporium just east on 14th Street. The wilted, tired-looking flowers were wrapped in cellophane and held together by a rubber band. They were, I knew, hopelessly inadequate for the task.

Her name was Shannon, and my friend Doug had known her for more than a decade. September 11 should have been a vacation day for her, but she had gone to her office early that morning. No one even knew she was there until more than a week later, when her parents’ frantic phone calls went unreturned. Now I was here to pay tribute, to lay down flowers on Doug’s behalf, and I didn’t know her favorite color or favorite flower or even her last name.

I approached the statue with trepidation. It was covered in wooden scaffolding like so much else in New York City, but the fence around it still bore signs of a makeshift memorial. There were posters signed by elementary school classes, Buddhist prayers, pictures of the World Trade Center all fluttering from the fence. A candle burned here and there, but mostly there were chunks of colored wax stuck to the concrete. Flower petals were scattered haphazardly in the dirt.

I ripped a piece of paper from my notebook and wrote simply, “For Shannon.” An old woman standing next to me saw what I had written. “I’m so sorry,” she said. I nodded at her, painfully aware of my discomfiture in this grave situation. I tucked the paper under the rubber band on the bouquet and placed the flowers along the fence, fussing with their position for a long moment, not wanting to let go. The old woman was still gazing at me when I stood. What could I tell her? That I didn’t know the first thing about Shannon, that my friend Doug in California was the one who needed her sympathy, that I knew none of the dead but was instead mourning my own forever-lost sense of security?

I stepped back and watched as others moved forward to the memorial. A family in “Oregon Loves New York” t-shirts lit a candle, and a pair of middle-aged women bowed their heads in prayer. All around the statue, New Yorkers ignored us—one was chatting on a cell phone, another eating a hot dog, a third balancing her checkbook. Where did they find the strength?

My nerves were shattered just walking around lower Manhattan. I couldn’t go more than half a block without seeing a “missing” poster—smiling, well-dressed people grinned at me from these posters, and I learned that they were 53 or 29 or 37 years old, that they worked on the 108th or 87th or 56th floors of the World Trade Center, Tower One or Tower Two, and that they had all been missing since September 11.

Two days later I rode the 1 train to Franklin Street. I couldn’t go any closer—the next stop had been closed. I would have to walk.

I cannot adequately describe the smell that hit me when I ascended from the subway, a horrible, acrid mix of burning and melting and decaying. The scent grew stronger as I walked south on Broadway, turning a corner each time I reached a police barrier, and I noticed people walking with tissues held over their mouths. At Centre Street near City Hall, two women in business suits wore surgical masks. I kept moving, disgusted by the stench but needing it for direction, turning down streets I could never find on a map.

Near the Brooklyn Bridge, a Citibank branch had become a shrine. The inoperable ATMs were covered with plastic bags; papers and photographs had been taped to the wall around the machines. “R.I.P.,” said one hastily scrawled message. Another more poignant message read simply, “I wish I could take the place of a parent.” Across the street was the now-ubiquitous blue wooden barrier, three officers standing guard, and beyond that, two or three blocks down, a barely perceptible pile of rubble. Cranes stood nearby—some in action, others temporarily idle—and after all these days, tufts of gray smoke rose up from the site. The wind blew gently, dust and ash from the scene stinging my eyes and clinging to my lips, and a man strode by in a gas mask.

I walked another block, trying not to think about what was in the air, stopping when the smell overtook my senses and forced me to succumb. I wavered there on the sidewalk, feeling faint, determined to go on but disgusted to the core. A crowd gathered and pushed into the street, their cameras snapping just a few feet in front of me. I stepped into the wet intersection—the water, I would later learn, came from hoses washing down vehicles leaving the area—and stared across the police barrier. The burned out shell of a building was in front of me, a mountain of gray debris behind it, and just beyond, still-standing skyscrapers with black wounds where their windows had been. The sky above was clear and blue and sunny—but the hole in the skyline was unmistakable. Something was wrong.

I was transfixed—I couldn’t leave—but my head began to throb and I wanted to cry. There was no reasonable response to this sight—there was no reason I had to be seeing this. Even in front of the wreckage, I could not understand.

I wish I were stronger. I wish I could have ignored the crime scene unfolding in the Financial District and stayed away. I wish I hadn’t gone to see it, and I wish I had never inhaled that palpable odor of death and destruction.

Desperate for air and scenery untainted by the events of September 11, I rode the crowded subway back to 14th Street. I walked slowly south to Washington Square Park, still feeling queasy, still fighting that horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach. The park was untouched save for an American flag dangling from the triumphal arch. I sat down under a tree and tried to catch my breath.

2003-08-31T00:15:00.000-07:00

Hey kids--

I'm still here, still alive, still finding eight billion things to be curmudgeonly about on a near-daily basis.

The only thing that's changed is the amount of free time I have. Synonyms: stress, job-related; hazard, occupational; life.

I'll be back soon, with more actual writing and less whining. I've just bought a domain name and I'll be sure to post here when it's up and running.

2003-07-21T23:43:00.000-07:00

The soap opera continues:

My manager hasn't gotten fired, but he did decide to take a two-week leave of absence. Yes, right now, in the midst of our busiest season. Bah.

Oh, and I found out that I'm getting paid far less than the people who are only temporary supervisors. Boo.

So, yeah, I still hate my job. And obviously I didn't get to take the New York trip this month.

But I'm still employed. And my carpal tunnel is acting up, but that just means less work I have to do. It could be much, much worse.

2003-07-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

Remember when I asked for a young, hunky intern? Well, we got one. Score!

2003-07-17T23:24:00.000-07:00

Looks like I get to keep my job for another week at least, which is good and bad news.

Oh, and on a totally unrelated note: I still love Jon Stewart. Mwah!

2003-07-16T00:31:00.000-07:00

File under crisis, quarter-life:

A guy I went to elementary school with is now on Days of Our Lives.

Add in all the graduate students and married people I looked up on Classmates.com, and...

Jesus.

My life is not at all what I expected. My ten year high school reunion is next year. What am I doing where am I going general malaise and stagnation and ack! I'm not accomplishing anything!

...

By the way, did I mention that my manager thinks he's about to get fired, and is doing everything he can to make sure I don't get sent along with him? At this point, knock wood, being let go wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. I'd take my severance--surely it would be quite generous, as all previous severance packages have been--and move to New York. Considering the 11-hour days I worked this week, really, I'm not too keen on my job right now anyway. I just want to leave--and I will eventually--on my own terms.

2003-07-15T23:07:00.000-07:00

Three songs I never want to hear again:

1. Chevelle's song with the chorus that goes, "Send the pain below...much like SUFFOCATING." Um, what the hell does that mean? What's like suffocating--the pain or sending it below? And where is "below," anyway?

2. The generic American pop star song by Thalia featuring Fat Joe. Does every pop song have to have a guest star these days?

3. The white-boys-with-acoustic-guitars version of Boyz N the Hood. Has anyone heard from Dynamite Hack ever since? What is the expiration date for novelty songs anymore? Hell, KROQ still plays King Missile's Detachable Penis from time to time too. Enough!

2003-07-15T00:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, like right now, I fucking hate my job.

It does have its moments, though.

Today I was within inches of a certain legendary celebrity with a freakishly altered visage. Would it have been rude to stick out my foot and trip him?

2003-07-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

On the lost side of town
in a dark apartment
we gave up trying so long ago...
Hey baby, it's the Fourth of July
Hey baby, it's the Fourth of July
What ever happened I
apologize
so dry your tears and baby
walk outside, it's the Fourth of July

--X, 4th of July

2003-06-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

Hmm, let's see how well this new-fangled version of Blogger works.

I spent all day yesterday teetering on the edge of a migraine. Lights were too bright, noises too loud, my own voice seemed to echo in my head no matter how softly I spoke. My head felt too heavy and I was dizzy and unsteady on my feet, swaying each time I got up from my chair. Yes, I probably should have stayed home, but I'm so close to being up-to-date on email!

I answer all the email that comes in through my company's website; no matter how off-kilter the letters are, no matter how ridiculous the content, I have to reply. Currently, I'm getting two to five identical emails daily from an individual who seems to think that women are a) too thin and b) too powerful; three to five weekly from a guy who's either sending me parts of a film script or is so deluded he believes that I'm on trial and he's the prosecuting attorney (literally, these letters say things like "Where were you on the evening of April 26, 1970?"; it's rather discomfiting); and another hundred or so weekly that ask for information easily verified elsewhere.

It fascinates me that, with the advent of email, people expect instant answers. For instance, I get emails sent at 10 or 11 at night, asking what time we open in the morning. Does anyone expect that I'm sitting at the computer 24 hours a day, answering each email instantly? People re-send their emails when they don't get a response after a day or two, which makes me wonder what makes them expect such a quick response. Do other major corporations answer their email instantly? Is my company remiss by taking approximately 5 days to send back a personal response? (I'm trying to convince my boss that I need an intern--preferably a young, hunky one--to help me answer email. Hee.)

Tomorrow I'm leaving work early to catch a plane to Las Vegas! Last year, my mother and I ended up going to Vegas together when my father couldn't go with her, and we had such a good time shopping and playing video poker that we're going again. Sure, going to Vegas with your mother cuts down on the debauchery, but I'm not particularly prone to indulgent excesses as it is. (Okay, I'm not prone to non-emotional indulgent excess. I don't smoke, rarely drink, never hook up with handsome strangers and...)

I adore Vegas in the summer--even though I hate the heat--I love the way air conditioning blasts from the doors of casinos so you can feel it before you enter, the way it's perfectly comfortable outdoors even late at night (unlike L.A., where we often have cold summer evenings), the gorgeous gaudy mix of the setting sun and the flickering neon.

Want me to place a bet for you?

2003-06-26T20:10:00.000-07:00

Today I needed two cars, a train, a subway, and a long walk to get to work. It totally wasn't worth the effort.

2003-06-25T01:48:00.000-07:00

I looked in the mirror today and was shocked by what I saw: I'm becoming ugly. It's not just that I need a haircut and I've got a bit of carb-face happening; I honestly think that some nebulous internal change, some wrong decision or emotional misstep, is taking over my countenance.

There are times when potentially life-changing decisions must be made. I made two somewhat major decisions in the last month--one of which I've posted about on this site and one which I haven't--and I wonder now, in both cases, whether I made the wrong choice. I am constantly second-guessing, constantly wondering what I would be doing right this minute if I'd followed an alternate path. The fact remains, however, that I was not happy before making these two decisions, and while I'm not presently unhappy, I am stagnant. And now, living with the stress-inducing results of my choices--not to mention the very stress of making these choices--I'm seeing changes on the outside. While it is difficult to pinpoint exactly how my face has changed, I think it looks older. More harried. Less happy. Dour, almost. Definitely less pretty than I'm used to seeing--all bubbling insecurity aside, I was generally pretty happy with my appearance. Not so now.

And so I suspect that this internal turmoil is contributing to an unhappy, unhealthy, un-aesthetically pleasing appearance. And I wonder, if I'd made different decisions, if I'd be prettier than I was when this whole thing started.

I wonder if maybe my face hasn't really changed--maybe I'm just so displeased with who I am that I'm seeing that dissatisfaction, that perceived inner ugliness, reflected in the mirror.

2003-06-18T22:36:00.000-07:00

Five ways I wasted time today:

1. Felicity, 4 P.M., cloyingly-named Women's Entertainment channel.

2. Excruciatingly close examinations of the lip gloss photos in the July issue of Allure.

3. Talking on the phone for twenty minutes to a fellow supervisor about a potential problem employee. Damn it, this was a day off! And I can't do anything from home anyway!

4. Lusting after the socks on sale here.

5. Contemplating how much of my body I would have waxed, were time and money no object and I had a much higher pain threshold. (Wax myself? Never. Not in a million years.)

Edited to add a clarification: Lest the above information gave you the impression that I am a sappy-television watching girl with relentlessly hairy legs, I do shave the relevant exposed body parts. And I really do have a penchant for unusual socks.

2003-06-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

So I have this black dress. It's very classy, though the neck is cut low enough to reveal a small amount of cleavage. The dress goes past my knees and the flared hem brushes my calves when I walk. It's sleeveless. On Friday night I wore this dress with very proper low-heeled black sandals and small gold earrings, and I carried a teensy black purse.

Walking down Santa Monica Boulevard in this dress to meet friends at Jones, a young man stepped right in front of me--he clearly invaded my personal space; I could see the color of the gum he was chewing--and shouting "Wooeee!", proceeded to make an exaggerated hourglass gesture with his hands.

I ignored him and kept walking.

Here's my question: What was this guy's goal? Was it a compliment? Really, what is the point?

How am I supposed to react when men yell things at me on the street?

a) "Hey, thanks for noticing my bust line--here's my phone number!"

b) "Wow! That's really hot the way you make that kissy noise at me! Let's screw!"

c) "Hmm, nothing like a man who ogles strange women. You are dead sexy!"

I just do not understand what men hope to achieve by behaving this way. Anyone care to share some insight? (And until I figure this out, maybe I'll avoid walking down Santa Monica alone.)

2003-06-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

Random notes from the last week:

--T.S. Eliot. Wow. Why haven't I read any of this before?

--2 Fast 2 Furious is 2 dumb 2 be believed. Fortunately, I didn't pay to see it, as it would have been a total waste of cash; Paul Walker didn't take his shirt off once. He's such a mediocre actor, and yet he's supremely drool-worthy. The Italian Job, meanwhile, was similarly dumb but entertaining, even if it did utterly lack even one man worth getting worked up about.

--Jason and I spent Monday exploring downtown. We disembarked the Red Line at Pershing Square and quickly proceeded to the Biltmore Hotel (which is now calling itself both the Regal Biltmore and the Millenium Biltmore--the hell?), strolling through the lobby while I mentally relived my one night spent at the ultra-luxe place sleeping on the floor with a million other people and drinking. And drinking. Did I mention I was drunk that night?

We worked our way to the Central Library, where I discovered many, many grammatical and punctuation errors in the placards at the photography exhibit--don't these people know how much they need my super-sharp eye for commas?--and fell madly in love with the inscriptions on the entrance stairs. Dead languages and archaic systems of writing are right up my alley.

Next on the agenda was Angel's Flight, which is still closed following a fatal accident in 2001. Someday, someday, I will ride the world's shortest railway!

Then there was the Bradbury Building, where we didn't act out any scenes from Blade Runner or do much of anything but gawk at the wrought iron banisters and slightly transparent marble stairs.

Finally, after a long walk down Broadway past all manner of art deco theatres which are now swap meets and revival halls, we climbed Bunker Hill. (Okay, we walked to the escalator and rode the rest of the way up. Hey, it's steep!) I sang to myself Michael Penn's song titled, appropriately enough, Bunker Hill: "Take a look, but you might stay until you have counted every light from Bunker Hill." Indeed. What a view. I took approximately three million pictures before we wound our way past the Museum of Contemporary Art and ended up close to the Walt Disney Concert Hall (or at least as close as the roadblock would allow). In our pretentious uber-intellectual manner, we griped that Gehry's relying too much on the waves of titanium. Please do something new, Frank! Go back to the plywood and the chain link! Hell, let's see some more corrugated cardboard furniture! More pictures were taken, because old-hat or not, the building is still incredible to look at. It's architectural eye candy.

--An expensive lesson: If an Olvera Street mariachi asks if you'd like some music, for the love of God, find out how much before you agree.

--Oh, and I finally got paid.

2003-06-06T00:19:00.000-07:00

Woohoo! I have booked my hotel room for the New York museum-crazy trip (including this sure-to-be-outstanding exhibition) for later this summer.

Now who wants to go with me?

And who wants to bribe my manager into letting me have two extra days off the last week of July?

2003-06-05T13:30:00.000-07:00

Grrr. Just got off the phone with the HR department at my more-bureaucracy-than-the-IRS workplace. The paperwork changing my position--and thus my pay--was never filed with the accounting department, which is conveniently located at the other end of the country. They're going to cut me a check as soon as my HR rep gets that fixed, but, to quote her, "there's no telling" when that check will come through. Argh.

So now I'm off work for a week with nowhere to go and no money to spend. Guess I'll finally get around to organizing my closet. And putting up lots of stuff for sale at Half.com. And washing my car.

The good news is, I've got at least one trip coming up in July, and the super-nerdy trip to NYC should be in August. There are worse things than spending a week doing absolutely nothing of any consequence.

2003-06-05T10:27:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm incredibly morbid, but this tour sounds like an interesting option for my NYC trip this summer.

2003-06-04T22:22:00.000-07:00

So first of all, a big shout-out (what is this, TRL?) to Andy of the World Wide Rant, who took my lament about my uncool, non-internet-rockstar status seriously enough to post about it. You rock. (And to the person who visited from Comedy Central, welcome. Please stay. And introduce me to Jon Stewart.)

See, I really do belong at the cool kids' table. I've got all the lingo down. Ha!

While I'm name-checking, I'd like to offer a big "screw you" to my employer, whose totally incomprehensible payroll system will most likely prevent me from taking my vacation. (Hmm. Maybe "screw you" isn't quite right. I should be nicer, maybe just offer a hearty raspberry. They are being sold, after all.) Wonderful. I didn't really want to go anywhere anyway. I hate travelling. I hate historic, architecturally significant sites. Of course, I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I have a job and that I just got a very nice raise--now if only they'd pay me. Bastards.

Let's see...The Coldplay show was awesome, though the band played for a paltry 90 minutes. (Noise ordinances at the Hollywood Bowl prevent concerts from going past 11 pm, I think.) And the opening acts? Ron Sexsmith was pleasant enough, once we figured out who he was, but Eisley? They get points for punctuality--they started playing a good quarter hour prior to the posted 7:30 start time, but I swear they played the same 60 seconds of music in a repeating loop for the duration of their set.

Or maybe our seats were just so far back as to render each song sonically indistinguishable from the others.

But the bad-seat-hell didn't last long, as my super-secret Hollywood Bowl connection whisked us way, way, way up front, close enough that Chris Martin was actually human-sized. Long live my concert venue hook-ups. And long live the sound of tinkling piano notes trilling across the warm May air, lilting vocals drifting through the L.A. haze, listening to beautiful music and looking up to see trees and hills, not a bit of civilization--not even the super-close 101 freeway--passing through the foliage. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.

2003-05-30T21:50:00.000-07:00

Celebrity sighting!

Leaving work today, I was sitting in the intersection formed by Lankershim and the Lankershim offramp from the 101. I fiddled with the radio, waiting for the light to change, and looked over to my left at the cars trying to turn off the ramp. And there, ensconced--and sans sunglasses--in a black SUV, was Lauren Graham.

Since Gilmore Girls is my second favorite show (right behind Alias, of course, though GG gains major points for being scheduled like a normal show and not all willy-nilly like Alias), this was pretty major. Still, being stuck in traffic and all, there wasn't really any way to wave or smile or acknowledge her celebrity or fall on my knees in front of her and weep, "Ohmygod--GilmoreGirlsismysecondfavoriteshowandIhopetoonedaytalkasfastasyoudo."

Not that I would have anyway. But I did reach for my cell phone to call my mother, since we nearly always watch GG (and sing along to the theme song) together. When I looked back, Ms. Graham was wearing huge black sunglasses. But I screamed into the phone that I had just seen "Lorelai freakin' Gilmore," and all was good.

2003-05-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

Happy blog-day to me--I've been blogging now for just over a year. Not that my own little corner of the internet grabs any attention whatsoever, which, to be honest, is not necessarily a bad thing. My life is simply not that interesting, and the really juicy stuff never makes it to the blog anyway. (People who know me in real life read this page, which is why it usually reads much more like an accounting of my activities and much less like the soap opera my life occasionally resembles.)

Still, I can't help but think the blogosphere is like high school all over again. I can't quite put myself out into the world the way I want to. I know who all the cool kids are, but I just can't penetrate their circle.

Sigh. Twelfth grade just goes on and on.

2003-05-28T01:07:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess 5 days is soon.

The biggest and most dramatic change that has taken place is that I have accepted a pretty big promotion at work. It's a relatively high-profile position, a decent amount more money (though it's still not exactly bling bling, as the kids say these days), and a lot more responsibility. And I'm in charge of people. I supervise a staff of 20. Me. 20 people.

There's something quite scary about that, really.

Anyway--what else can I throw down in quick easy-to-read format? (Not that anyone's reading anyway, but what the hell? Someday I'll look back on this and wish I'd recorded more.)

This week I saw Bring the Rock, which rocked my socks (yes, I do sometimes say that aloud; no, I'm not 16). I know--Rhett Miller again? Yes, yes, a million times yes. I adore him in a strictly non-groupie way. (Er...that's my story and I'm sticking to it.) And I'll be quoting Patton Oswalt's "Avert your gaze!" for a while, I'm sure, if only because it's a phrase that can be used in so many situations. I'm thinking of shouting that as I enter a room, now that I'm a supervisor and all. Ha.

I also saw The Matrix Reloaded and Bruce Almighty. Bruce? Eh. Nothing special. Reloaded? Eh to all the talking, but I want to be Trinity when I grow up. And Neo? Hot. (Not Keanu Reeves, mind you. Neo.)

And...

Saturday is the Coldplay show at the Hollywood Bowl. I've only seen orchestras there, but I lurve the Bowl, being outside and hearing the music bounce off the hills. Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait, and maybe I'll even spot Gwyneth.

And then, next week, vacation--my long-awaited trip to see Hearst Castle.

I'm also thinking of hitting NYC this summer, if only to see this and this at the Met. Is it nerdy to travel cross-country to go to a museum? Ah, well, so be it. I am a nerd. Besides, it's been more than a year and a half since I've been to New York, and I am jonesing in the worst way to ride the subway and walk through Central Park and look up and see tall buildings and browse at the Strand. It's worse than a drug, that city.

What with the raise from my promotion, I'm hoping to have enough money to get out of L.A. in the next six months or so. I'd wanted to leave before the end of summer, and of course the year before, and so forth, but things always got in the way--with this raise, there'll be no real excuse except if I decide that I love it here and want to stay. And it would take quite a miracle for that to happen.

I've also begun to think about applying to graduate school again. So the first round of applications was an exercise in resounding rejection, but the idea of spending two years focusing on reading and writing is sounding more and more appealing. I'm getting older, I'm going places, and yet, I'm still not going the place I want to go. I still can't get that novel out of my head and into words. I'm looking at a few places, casting a wider net of schools than the original batch of schools that rejected me, and who knows? Maybe working on my admission portfolio will get me rolling again. Maybe I'll actually get admittted. Maybe I'll have an MFA by age 30.

2003-05-22T23:11:00.000-07:00

I really should update here. I've got lots of news...

...and no time.

Soon, I swear.

2003-05-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

If there was any question as to whether or not I am a humongous dork, tonight the answer came loud and clear:

Not only did I watch the finale of Dawson's Creek, but I blubbered through the whole thing.

2003-05-14T00:17:00.000-07:00

Minor glitch in which this post from earlier today was deleted:

I would just like to announce to the world that today I finally, at last, four years after its release, watched this film. There are no plans to take four years to see the sequel.

2003-05-14T00:08:00.000-07:00

I wasted so much time today, lost in the haze of my own thoughts and sadness and exhaustion. I mean, really, I did nothing today outside of watching a movie and catching tonight's ep of Gilmore Girls--and I didn't even pay attention to all the setting-up-the-spinoff parts of Jess and his father.

I wonder sometimes if, subconsciously, I don't really want to do the things I say I do, because when I have the time, I often don't do those things, I don't work on the things that will get me to place that I claim I want to be. Instead of writing or sending out resumes today, I read the Straight Dope Message Board and listened to far too many sad songs--hell, when I'm in a mood like this, pretty much every song is sad--and napped and watched Smallville. (I never watch Smallville. I had no idea what was going on in tonight's episode, though it seemed there were some pretty clear allusions to Clark Kent losing his virginity. Yes?)

Anyway, I wonder how much of this occasional lethargy is depression and how much of it is just my personality. I've always been a person who needs a lot of time alone, a lot of unscheduled free time; but where does the depression end and where do I begin? It's something I've been wrestling with...

Some things are changing in my life, and some even bigger decisions--and changes--are afoot. I hope I'll muster the strength to tackle them.

2003-05-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

So I guess I feel like talking again. Huh.

What I learned today:
A surprisingly good rendition of 50 Cent's "In the Club" can be played by two guys with a violin (or is it a fiddle?) and an acoustic guitar. Lascivious hip-thrusting certainly doesn't hurt.

2003-05-12T00:51:00.000-07:00

New name, new look, same content.

Same Wendy.

2003-05-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

So I keep thinking that I should post something here, that I should have something I want to say, that I should want--should need--to write.

But everything I want to say, for now at least, is convoluted and weird and uncomfortable. Everything I want to say is reserved for a small handful of people in my life who I've been neglecting. All the words I have left, after explaining everything to myself, are owed to the small circle of people I am lucky enough to count as friends.

I'll be back. I'll have things to say, words for the entire world to read. But it'll be a while.

2003-05-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Virus Invading My Body,

Please, please, for the love of God and all that is holy (even if I don't invoke those things at any other time, ever), GO AWAY! I'm tired of having a stuffy nose and a sore, scratchy throat and coughing and aching and sleeping forever and being cranky. ENOUGH! I banish you!

Love,

Wendy

That ought to do it, right? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the drugstore to buy more tissue and cough drops.

2003-04-24T22:25:00.000-07:00

Now this is annoying: My journalism teacher said "confrontive" about twenty times during class tonight.

That's not even a real word.

Hey, is making fun of other people's foibles with the English language annoying? 'Cause if it is, I'm screwed.

2003-04-20T23:30:00.000-07:00

Resolved: I am no longer going to exercise. No more miles-long walks in the murky gray morning, no more lifting weights, no more low-carb and low-calorie.

Instead, I'm going to spend every weekend like I did this one. It'll either make me skinny or kill me entirely.

Friday afternoon, I found out that I could go to the Foo Fighters show (for free) if so inclined. Now, I had been planning to spend some time in a bookstore, but...bookstore or loud live music? So a friend of a friend and I picked up our shiny silver mylar wristbands and slipped into the pit, mere yards from the stage, almost close enough to smell Dave Grohl. Did I mention it was free?

We arrived just in time to hear the Transplants perform "Diamonds and Guns," and then they segued into a song whose primary lyrics appeared to be "fuck you."

Wow. I wanna be a rock star. I can scream "fuck you" into a mike and people will think it's art.

Anyway, the Foos came on around 9:45, and the place went insane with dancing, jumping, and moshing. I have never experienced anything like this--the bass was thumping so much that my bones were vibrating. The highlights included "Monkey Wrench" and "Everlong," a song whose appeal I never quite understood until I heard it live (they did the song plugged in), and getting a minor contact high from the guys next to us sharing a joint.

The encore--why is it that these are automatically done these days? Is it some sort of ego boost? The house lights don't come on, so we all know the band's coming back. Sheesh.

Anyway, Liam Lynch came out (with Tony Kanal! Love him!) and did "United States of Whatever," then the Foo Fighters came out for a few more songs. Dave called Liam a "super-nerd." Ouch.

At the end of the show, my legs were sore as we climbed the steps to leave. (I'd have skipped the 2-mile walk and all the stairs I did Friday morning if I'd known I was going to jump up and down for 110 minutes.) My ears were ringing (and kept on doing so until the next day). Fabulous. It had to be a great concert if it brings on hearing loss!

The next day it was off to a place that parallels Universal CityWalk in cheesiness--the Block at Orange.

How can you not love a guy like Rhett Miller? The show was supposed to start at 2, but he was stuck in traffic, and somebody (his road manager?) actually went through the audience, apologizing to us and giving us frequent updates on when Rhett was expected. When he did arrive, he walked right onstage, tuned his guitar for a moment after shaking hands with the tech, and cranked out a solid 30 minute set. He even took requests, which impressed me--alone on stage with a guitar, and you don't know what you're going to play? Yowza.

Afterwards, the crowd headed to Virgin Megastore for the CD signing. When it was my turn, my heart was pounding. I was seriously nervous, people, which is just stupid. I deal with celebrities on a not-infrequent basis, and here I was with sweaty palms. Ugh. Anyway, Rhett was very nice, shook hands and made eye contact, and inscribed my copy of The Instigator. Yay.

Ramona and I are going to see him play at Largo next month, and I'll probably swing by to see Michael Penn there as well. It's been three years or so since Acoustic Vaudeville, and he plays at Largo all the time, and I've never been. I've been listening to Michael Penn since seventh freakin' grade--I'm ready to rack up some additional concert time for the man.

This weekend also included seeing A Mighty Wind (funny but not as good as Guffman--but is anything?), 16 hours of work, a lot of driving, little sleep (about 12 hours from Friday through now), and hardly any food at all (too worked up to eat!).

I'd probably collapse if I weren't:
a) pumped full of caffeine
b) exhilarated
c) in the middle of writing some slightly neglected email
d) pissed off that I can't really use the internet at work anymore.

Whew.

2003-04-18T05:40:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted to be one of those people who can wake up without an alarm clock, one of those people whose eyes pop open automatically at an appointed hour. Normally, I play tag with the snooze alarm, dragging myself out of bed at the last possible moment. But this morning--

--a breakthrough occurred.

Without an alarm, without any kind of outside intervention, I awoke. At last! I thought. I have conquered my circadian rhythms! I have the mysterious power to wake myself through pure and simple willpower!

And then I realized it was 4:30 in the morning.

Damn it.

2003-04-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

So this is my life:

Last night, Wednesday, 7:40 P.M., eating dinner by myself at Boston Market on Riverside Drive in Burbank. The place was populated by just a few other diners: a couple with two young children who were more concerned with standing up in their seats than eating, and three single men, dining alone, just as I was. I looked at them as I ate my turkey--I knew well why I was there alone. But why were they--were they heartbroken or heartbreakers? Vehemently single or just plain damaged?

No couples eat at Boston Market unless they're well-established--a steam table of sticky beige stuffing and colorless vegetables is not the way to impress a date. It was with great interest that I watched a young couple come in to eat--they looked happy and were thus quite boring; decidedly unhappy were the couple sitting next to me, both heavy, with long hair, dressed in black. The woman said to her companion, "I have a confession to make," and I opened my ears--what juicy tidbit would I hear? What revelation would I soon become privy to?

But she merely began a diatribe about Boston Market, about food, about how she wanted to have Japanese food and he would never go for sushi with her; about her diet, and how he was sabotaging her by always vetoing her restaurant choices, and did he even really love her at all. He sat there and took this abuse from her, saying nothing as he picked at the skin on his chicken leg. Finally, finally, he opened his mouth: "I don't even like Japanese food."

This shut her up. I appraised the dining bachelors one last time--all but one had left by this point--and I took a final gulp of caffeine-free Diet Coke and left the place in a hurry.

2003-04-11T23:27:00.000-07:00

Things I Learned Today:

--exactly which kind of people go for coffee at Hustler Hollywood.
--that my boss peruses Playboy at newsstands.
--what happens when I try to compensate for a lack of sleep by quadrupling my normal caffeine intake.
--that a woman can honestly, seriously say "I am not a feminist" and have no idea what that really means.
--that a man can tell a woman she needs to obey her husband and have no idea what that really means.

2003-04-08T22:56:00.000-07:00

10 Things to Do Before I Die
(A non-exhaustive, positively not all-inclusive, somewhat silly but mostly serious list by Wendy)

1. Be thanked in someone's liner notes. Hopefully that someone will be a hip, slightly underground, cute boy singer/group with shaggy hair. A comment along the lines of "Damn girl" (Ryan Adams to Winona Ryder in Gold) will suffice. So will "You're a goddess." (I made that one up!)

2. Publish an article in Vanity Fair, preferably something a la Dominic Dunne where I breathlessly name-drop and shamelessly talk about which celebrities are my friends and mix my opinion with established fact, and no one will care because I'm such a personality.

3. Make love in a foreign country (and Texas doesn't count). Twisted sheets on a Mediterranean afternoon...maybe that's what siesta is for.

4. Write something that inspires fan mail from morose teenagers. At least some of those teenagers will grow up to be writers/actors/artists/musicians, and they can name me as an influence.

5. Spend hours choosing the song for the first dance--make that all the dances--at my wedding. It has to be just right--romantic, touching, absolutely not cloying. There is no way I would let a DJ determine my playlist. (And if I handle the music, there's no way I would have time for boring things like seating arrangements.)

6. Live close enough to the ocean that I can hear the waves crash when I lay in bed. (Although this one requires not only the financial wherewithal to purchase a house on the beach but to purchase the insurance that will let me rebuild when El Nino wipes out my living room.)

7. Go parasailing. Easy.

8. Drive a man crazy with desire. Not so easy. I want a man to love me and want me and need me so much he can't think straight, but not in a stalker-ish sort of way.

9. Learn a foreign language well enough that my accent doesn't give me away as a--gasp--mono-lingual American. This language will probably be French, since I've already studied it and thus have a head start, and because it's so pretentious.

10. Sing onstage and not care that I'm out of tune, off-pitch and absolutely horrific-sounding. Oh, and I should be sober for this one.

2003-04-06T22:09:00.000-07:00

...Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows it boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay

I feel so sad tonight, so aching and melancholy and goddamned wistful. I feel so full of feelings that I'd deny having if you asked, so full of dreams and visions and lusts. I have slowly, slowly, started making a list of all the things that would fulfill me; the list is long and ponderous and almost too much to bear. But I'm checking things off; I intend to do them all.

One of the things I love about Los Angeles (and there are few) is that there is always a spot where it feels like summer, where the hopefulness and cheer of warm weather is always in abundance, even when, like tonight, the air is filled with biting cold. Tonight I will drive home along the Sunset Strip and let the neon lights of the Roxy and the House of Blues and Saddle Ranch warm my soul; let the white lights wrapped around the trees on the median of Sunset Plaza catch my eye; let the pretty, polished girls and boys waiting to get into Skybar make me smile. Tonight, in my Mazda, it will be summer, and I'll be playing summer songs even as the heater blasts and a plaid scarf is wrapped around my throat. Tonight I will feel hopeful and vivacious and excited; tonight I will anticipate the better times that I know are waiting for me.

2003-04-03T19:30:00.000-08:00

More good news: Tax refund came in! Whoo!

Must be prudent, must be prudent...I've already got plans for that cash, and those plans don't involve a new pair of shoes. Damn it.

2003-04-03T17:40:00.000-08:00

Good news: I have found myself a new rock star boyfriend. Chris Martin, eat your heart out.

2003-03-31T00:49:00.000-08:00

It's almost one in the morning, I'm supposed to be at work by ten (if I go at all), and I am too freaking keyed up.

It's not caffeine--only one serving today, nearly twelve hours ago now. It's not that I'm engrossed in a fabulous book; well, I am (Kate Chopin's The Awakening), but it's not exactly a keep-me-awake-past-my-bedtime sort of book. It's not the internet, because I'm actually feeling rather bored with my usual online haunts.

It's...I don't know. Too many thoughts and plans and ideas and worries rushing around in my head, too many what-if's and I-don't-know's and oh-my-god's for me to sit still long enough for me to drift off to sleep. Too late to go for a nice long walk, which has been my salvation these last few weeks; too late to pace around the apartment, lest I wake the downstairs neighbors. Too much stress, too much worrying about my job interviews and sending out resumes and too little money and wanting to move and needing space and time and dear lord, I have got to clean up this place before Jason gets back tomorrow. Too much hatred and boredom and ennui. Too little free time and agency and privacy.

Far too many moods. Not nearly enough hugs (yesterday's slimy attempt not withstanding).

2003-03-29T21:24:00.000-08:00

My Co-Worker is a Lech: Another Whine from Wendy

"Wendy," he says, sounding more excited to see me than ever before in his entire life. "So nice to see you."

"Uh, thanks," I say, trying to ignore him and walk past him down the hall.

"Come here," he says, and wraps his arms around me in a hug. Luckily, I am able to turn so I only give him my side and not a full-on crush-my-breasts-against-his-chest embrace. (Only certain people get those, anyway.)

"Why the sudden affection?" I ask once I've escaped from his clutches.

"It's not unusual," he says. "I'm always glad to see you."

It's a good thing his wife is in the next room.

"But you never hug me," I say.

"I've hugged you before," he says, and I notice now that he's not actually looking at my face. His eyes never leave my chest as he says, "It's just that I was so glad to see you."

2003-03-27T21:31:00.000-08:00

Note to self: No matter how much we want to show off the beneficial effects of working out on our bum and thighs, wearing a wrap-around skirt that whips up around the waist in the Santa Ana winds is not the way to do that. Not even when we're wearing a brand new pair of skivvies.

2003-03-24T23:55:00.000-08:00

After last night's Academy Awards ceremony, it's official:

Adrien Brody has officially replaced Colin Farrell as my movie star boyfriend. Colin, you broke my heart when you made out with Britney.

For those of you keeping track at home, Michael Vartan of Alias is still my TV star boyfriend, and my current rock star boyfriend is Coldplay's Chris Martin, though I'm on the lookout for a new hot young thing.

But aren't I always? Meow.

2003-03-22T18:25:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is March 23.

On March 23, 2001, I took my last final at UCLA, and thereby ended the ordeal of my college education. I was overflowing with emotion, sobbing and smiling as I drove off campus for the final time as an undergraduate.

On March 23, 2002, my uncle Frank shot himself in the chest in the front yard of his house. I didn't find out until several hours later, when my father called and woke me up, but convinced me to go to work. I remember walking into the fun, happy place where I work, taking people around to rides and shows, laughing and cracking jokes in the morning, but sinking into utter melancholy by afternoon, when the news had finally sunk in. I remember that was the last day I worked for a while, and I remember sitting home with my mother in the ensuing days, holding her hand while she sat on the couch, too weak to do anything but cry.

2003-03-22T18:19:00.000-08:00

Last night, there was a handful of protesters at the corner of Laurel and Ventura. Normally there are quite a few--but last night, there were just a few thin, bespectacled people in jeans holding candles and shaking their signs at passing cars. One sign in particular caught my attention--it was white posterboard, with "Peace Now" and "No War" sandwiching a large peace sign. It looked peculiar to me, and it took me a moment to realize what was wrong--the peace sign's vertical line went only halfway through the circle, ending in the legs of the design. This girl, standing next to a sign that read "No Blood for Oil," was holding a sign emblazoned with the logo of Mercedes Benz.

2003-03-22T18:14:00.000-08:00

Today I wore red shoes and a vivid violet lip gloss. Much like a child, I found these tiny bursts of color disarming. Each time my shoulders would hunch with stress, I'd look down at my feet, resplendent in red suede mules. I'd smile--red shoes!--and my shoulders would creep back into place. The lip gloss would pop out at me each time I looked in the mirror, and I was shocked and surprised each time to see that color on my face--it's unusual for me, but it worked. It's amazing what a little bit of color can do.

2003-03-16T20:23:00.000-08:00

Why working out rocks my world:

My favorite pair of black pants are now so loose that they can be pulled on and off without being unzipped or unfastened at the waist.

Also, everyone keeps asking me why I'm glowing.

2003-03-15T23:49:00.000-08:00

It's been a few days. I'm barely eating, sleeping, and functioning right now, so why should I find the energy to blog? How can I spare those few neurons that are still firing properly, when I so desperately need them to get up in the morning and go to work and make it through my day?

2003-03-09T23:53:00.000-08:00

What could it be?
What would you bet?
I'm not so sure about anything yet...

But I'm eternally grateful to you for the call
Some kinds of time happen once and for all...

My hands did not shake
I'm a very good aim
I know I missed you again and again...

Exactly what I'm thinking, feeling, sitting here going over and over in my mind. Thanks, Michael Penn.

*Note: This unofficial Michael Penn website is much better than the official one linked above.

2003-03-09T20:49:00.000-08:00

An open letter to the city of Los Angeles, but really just directed at the moron in the champagne-colored SUV who cut me off on the interchange from the 101 north to the 405 south around 5:55 this evening, and I'm not just saying this because I hate SUVs:

Please, for the love of God and all that is holy, use your turn signals!

Thank you.

2003-03-06T23:28:00.000-08:00

So I'm not completely evil...I don't think. I found my Aztec Camera CD in my Discman. How it got there, I have no idea, because the last time I'd looked my Coldplay CD was in there. Weird.

2003-03-05T00:03:00.000-08:00

Last night, Jason and I went to the Lysistrata Project.

Aside from a perhaps too-modern translation as well as one instance where the female members of the audience were asked to stand and join the actresses in a cheer (I stood at Jason's urging, then fell back in my seat, embarrassed, and whispered "I'm such a sheep"), it was quite enjoyable. Not to mention watching Charlotte Rae and Charles Durning perform--though it was a bit disconcerting to see this obviously fading old man grab his crotch, and Mrs. Garrett inviting a man to "screw"!?!?! Shocking!

Of course, it was also a fun, non-yelling way to voice dissent. Look at me, attending theatre and throwing money at the problem! I'm such a limousine liberal! Ha!

P.S. I guess I did something lousy this week: today I went looking for my Aztec Camera CD. I opened the case and, sadly, there was no CD inside. I can't find it anywhere! Where on earth is my copy of Stray? I must, must hear The Crying Scene. It's been in my head for two days now. Damn karma.

2003-03-01T23:56:00.000-08:00

What a super-exciting Saturday night. I'm sitting here in the dark, getting car insurance quotes online, while Jason sleeps in the next room. He's sick, knocked out on Ralphs' crappy Nyquil knock-off, and I'm wide awake--too much tea at dinner.

My parents bought us food at Art's Deli, where we had much intrigue discussing Iraq and President Bush and my cousin Allison and the garage sale I've been planning for over a year. Then it was off to Bookstar, where there was much internal moping as I lovingly thumbed through books I yearn to own, but lack the money to buy and the time to read.

The good news is, upon arriving home, Sallie Mae has mysteriously made my student loans disappear until 2012--9 years without a payment?!? That is good news in terms of my current financial situation (even though my Select Step--Plan B payment was rather paltry anyway) and bad news in terms of 2012. Even at 3.5%, how much interest is going to accrue in 9 years?

Maybe I'd rather not think about that, because certainly I'll be in better financial straits by then.

This has been an easy work week--I'd planned to work only 4 days anyway, and then ended up calling in sick for one of those days. It's not often that I get off so easy--24 crummy hours of work. Another supervisor was let go today--that's 2 this week--and, supposedly, more layoffs are on the way. The new department I've been working for, however, is going to bring on a supervisor, and I'll be applying. It's more money, and if they fire me, I'll get a generous severance package (which might be fun to negotiate, since I know how much money other people have received). Keep your fingers crossed for me.

2003-02-28T22:49:00.000-08:00

A quote for all of you who filled my work email inbox with invectives directed toward George Clooney, Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins et al:

To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public.
--Theodore Roosevelt, 1918

I don't want to argue over whether we should go to war. I do want to question the belief that disagreeing with our government is un-American and un-patriotic. Thousands have died so that you and I have the right to question our elected representatives; thousands have died to create a country wherein debate is not only allowed but encouraged. It is not un-American to question our leaders; in fact, it is quintessentially, vitally American, and we should celebrate that we live in a country where such dissension is allowed. Fundamentally, we are all entitled to our beliefs. We are all entitled to speak out against those we disagree with, and we should continue to do so.

So go on, keep sending email to celebrities who will never see your messages--but don't question their patriotism.

2003-02-26T16:30:00.000-08:00

This town is crazy; nobody cares.--Beck's Lost Cause, a song I like, an artist I don't normally enjoy, a lyric which strikes me as particularly true today. Los Angeles is filled with contradictions today: giant golf umbrellas and open-toed shoes, bright squint-inducing sun and menacing black clouds; a bookstore full of facts being ignored in pursuit of carnal knowledge.

Note to self: If I'm ever hitting on guys at a bookstore, do it quietly enough that the entire magazine section can't hear me flirting.

2003-02-24T23:01:00.000-08:00

I know, the end of February is a little late for New Year's Resolutions, but I've decided I'm going to finish my novel, now (tentatively, as always) titled Present Tense, by the end of the year. My classmates gave me some useful feedback, and the rest of the story is bubbling out of my subconscious and into my fingers.

I've signed up for Introduction to Novel Writing next quarter. I figure 100 pages is a good head start for an introductory course. Instead of taking a second class, as I'm doing right now, I'm going to concentrate on three things:

1. Writing my book, of course.
2. Submitting to literary magazines.
3. Finding a new job, preferably in New York, but at this point, I'd take a new job in L.A. My supervisor has reached new levels of incompetence and condescension--enough already. I refuse to be abused by someone who can't even use commas correctly.

2003-02-24T22:09:00.000-08:00

I was going to update last night, but Blogger was down, and now I've forgotten what I was going to say.

It's pouring down rain. It sounds like God is taking a shower.

2003-02-19T22:44:00.000-08:00

Everybody wants to be on tv.

On Laurel Canyon near Moorpark, there's a guy selling gas masks out of the trunk of his car. He's got a sign that says:

Nuclear
Biological
Chemical

with the N, B, and C all in day-glo green, just like people do at sporting events, hoping that putting the network's logo on the sign will buy them a few seconds of air time.

Would you trust a gas mask from a guy's car, anyway, even if he was on tv?

2003-02-15T10:54:00.000-08:00

YES! Coldplay tickets are mine! Woohoo!

2003-02-13T18:38:00.000-08:00

Hey, thanks for asking, but I'm in a super-cranky mood. I hate living in a world where the pizza's cold, gas is almost $2 a gallon, and I can't leave work just because I feel like it.

The last three days have been incredibly stressful--I worked pretty much non-stop on my writing project, which ended up being...well...there are brief flashes of brilliance, and the rest of it is just okay. Next week is when the whole class gets together to critique, but I probably won't be there because I'll be in the hospital with a panic attack/heart attack/bleeding ulcer/all of the above.

This morning I woke up late, got to work late, and discovered 10 minutes before the darn thing started that I was supposed to go to a meeting.

No stress, none at all...

Sociology is in 25 minutes, and I'm not sure I can bear to sit still for three hours. I'm so hungry for some down time, some time to myself, some time to send out resumes so I can improve my quality of life--not to mention my happiness.

2003-02-09T11:16:00.000-08:00

I should add, one thing to look forward to: Alias is on tonight. (Although I'm not sure how J.J. Abrams can top last week's episode, wherein Sydney and the delectable Vaughn finally got it on to the strains of Coldplay's "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face.")

One thing I'm really worried about: On Wednesday I have to bring in 15-20 pages of writing for my class to critique. Yikes. I'm rewriting pretty much every word I've ever put to paper. I don't think it's possible to be any more nervous about something that really doesn't matter that much. My class can hate my work, and I can still be a successful writer. But I want them to like it--I want them to love me. Hey, at least I can admit that I want attention.

2003-02-09T11:00:00.000-08:00

My head is full of wicked thoughts and daring ideas and unlikely dreams.

I can't read, I can't write, I can't sit still. I'm biting my nails again, viciously, tearing at them like they're holding me back.

I can't walk to my car without wishing I was walking to a subway; I can't dress without thinking of what I might wear in another city, in another life; I can't see my friends without wondering who else's company I might enjoy.

As always, music is my constant companion in all this insanity:

Honey
All the movements you're starting to make
See me crumble and fall on my face
And I know the mistakes that I made
See it all disappear without a trace.
And they call as they beckon you on
They said start as you mean to go on
As you mean to go on, as you mean to go on...
Meet me on the road
Meet me where I said
Blame it all upon
A rush of blood to the head

Indeed. Blame it all upon a rush of blood to the head.

2003-01-27T10:53:00.000-08:00

I'm wondering if I have some weird disease--I keep finding bruises that I didn't know I had--my thighs are all beat up and there's a nasty purple one on the back of my calf that I found yesterday, and today I find a small gray-purple round one on my left foot. I know that wasn't there last night! Didn't I see a TV movie once about some kid who kept finding bruises, and he turned out to have a rare blood disorder and died right after high school graduation?

2003-01-27T10:50:00.000-08:00

Last night's Alias was so incredible that I can't even talk about it coherently...all I know is that I spent an hour last night gasping and saying "oh my god! oh my god!" and that was after the Super Bowl.

Love that show, love love love it.

2003-01-26T19:31:00.000-08:00

Sunday night. I decided not to go to Coldplay, because I've got so much stuff to do--that, and I'm exhausted. I take my vitamins--I don't know what the problem is. I'm too young to feel this old.

2003-01-25T22:07:00.000-08:00

Okay, I have no time to do this, but it's been more than a week since I posted.

My arm is still in a brace, though it doesn't hurt so much anymore. Luckily, I didn't have to use my arm today because the lovely and talented worm virus completely immobilized our email system, and my job is to answer email. Nice. And I got a half hour of overtime, because my temporary department got swamped in the evening, and even though I was never trained and pretty much had no clue, I was pressed into service and thanked profusely. Nice.

We just watched Amelie, which was cute but disappointing, and she drove me nuts with all her hesitation.

This week has been long and dull and lacking in sleep. What else has happened?

In an attempt to write a High Fidelity-esque list for my writing class, I pretty much bombed.

I now have a girl in my sociology class that I want to punch, based almost entirely on the fact that she pronounces Max Weber as Max Weeber. (It's VAY-ber, by the way.)

And I may head down to Hollywood and Highland tomorrow to see Coldplay's free show. Still not sure that I want to spend hours on the sidewalk, and I do have to work tomorrow, so this one's still up in the air.

2003-01-18T11:59:00.000-08:00

I'm at work and the phone keeps ringing and my right wrist is in a brace because I'm having carpal tunnel-like symptoms and I wish I were still asleep.

Also, my writing class really liked my story. I am a genius.

The end.

2003-01-16T18:17:00.000-08:00

This cannot be a real billboard.

It says: Oysters. Pffft. And then there's a pair of diamond earrings.

Is DeBeers parodying itself now? That ad is rather similar to the commercial satire from The Family Guywhich showed--in silhouette, natch--a man presenting a woman with a diamond, then the woman getting down on her knees. The tag? Diamonds. Because she'll pretty much have to.

What a great message to put out there. Hey guys, can't get any? Buy her diamonds! She's only after your money! Ladies, save physical affection for meaningful moments, like when he gives you jewelry! He's only after your body!

Oh, and it is indeed real: It's on Sunset Boulevard along the strip.

2003-01-14T21:56:00.000-08:00

On Monday, I was going through some old photos and came across a picture I'd taken on my solo trip to New York in October 2001. (I'm not that morbid--I had planned the trip in July.)

I had gone to the massive memorial in Union Square Park to pay respects for my co-worker Doug, who'd lost a friend in the terrorist attacks. There was a fence encircling a statue of George Washington, and tacked to the fence were bouquets of flowers, and posters that elementary school classes had made, and copies of prayers and bible verses and remembrances of the dead. After I laid down my wholly inadequate bouquet of yellow sweetheart roses from the Food Emporium on 14th Street, I wandered around reading the various postings.

I had taken a picture of a flyer that said, in plain and simple black text, this Buddhist quote:

What you are now is what you have been.
What you will be is what you do now.

What a meaningful quote that is--for me then, on that inappropriately sunny day when I was mourning my own lost sense of security, and for today, when I am striving in so many ways to turn my life around. It's a call to action, a comfort in times of sorrow, and a bit of hope for the future. I hope that I will be able to live up to the challenge--what do I do now? What will you do now?

I'm not writing this to sound corny or maudlin--but the newly rediscovered quote brought me a great deal of peace and inspiration. I hope it does the same for you.

2003-01-13T00:08:00.000-08:00

And I'm looking for somebody to do
My thinking for me 'till I come through...
And it feels like I've got something to prove
but in some ways it's just something to do
--Liz Phair, Go West

I haven't listened to this song in ages--years. It takes me right back to 1994, the summer after I graduated from high school, when I was convinced my freshman year at UCLA would turn me into the hipster I knew I was deep down inside. Sigh. I spent my days thinking about how I was so much cooler than anyone I knew and making lists of the clothes I would take with me to Dykstra Hall, and my evenings chatting on Compuserve and having moderately good sex with my boyfriend. Super-cool, huh?

I remember coming home at 4 AM, creeping in just before my parents got up for work, having to shower to get the cat hair from my boyfriend's place off me. (I am violently allergic to cats.) I remember worrying if they would figure out what I was doing, why I was coming home so late.

As it turned out, they never asked.

I remember playing this song on my tinny CD player in the microscopic room on the third floor of Dykstra, willing myself out of that place, wishing myself anywhere but where I was. I remember making mix tapes for my boyfriend, who never listened to them, and for this guy I met online, who was much too old for me and lived on the wrong coast besides, and he sent me a dozen roses for my eighteenth birthday. I remember listening to my mix tapes, sitting on the top floor of the research library (when it was still URL, for all you Bruins), skipping classes, just turning up the music and hoping, praying, needing for it to take me away from myself.

2003-01-12T20:54:00.000-08:00

Archives may or may not be working. What else is new?

Also, we're looking odd in Netscape again.

I swear, Blogger, with what I spend on you...uh, never mind. Can't really complain about something free.

2003-01-12T10:07:00.000-08:00

This week I started both a new work assignment and two new classes. The work--it's great. I actually like answering the world's most inane emails.

I'm not quite sure what that says about me.

Wednesday nights are my writing class. Now, the teacher is just fine--we did a fun writing exercise, and it seems that our assignments will be enjoyable and creative as well. Unfortunately, enrolled in the class is the requisite annoying middle-aged woman who knows better than every one else, including the instructor, and describes herself as having "tremendous facility with language" and she used to be an actress and then she was working for a European film director and she would stay late and rewrite the script they were shooting and she never got credited or paid and she's got her novel inside her and can she write good prose because she's mastered the art of screenplays even though she's never sold one and BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Good Lord. It makes me want to punch her in the face.

So far, at least, there is no one in my sociology class I want to punch. Give me time, though--we've only met once.

2003-01-07T21:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Jehovah's Witnesses of North Hollywood,

Could you at least carpool?

Getting desperate,
Wendy

2003-01-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

Last night I made the brilliant decision to drive to my parents' house at 10 p.m. when Alias was over. Not smart.

We're having Santa Ana winds right now, meaning it's about 85 degrees outside and there is debris flying through the air. As I got further from L.A., more and more random trash started flying at my windshield--not to mention I had to concentrate just to keep the car going in a straight line.

This will tell you so much about where my parents live: About 20 minutes from their place I started hitting tumbleweed. First, there were two or three rolling along the shoulder, then I had to change lanes to avoid a particularly large tangle of the stuff. As I came to the end of the 71, a huge gust of wind picked up and pushed me hard to the right and I had to pull over and stop because there wasn't time to safely regain my position in the lane. Okay. Whew. Caught my breath.

When I started going again, I was going about 10 mph behind an SUV--we're driving on this narrow ramp between two construction walls. Suddenly the SUV disappears, and this massive 8 foot tall tumbleweed is directly in front of me. Now what? It was taller than my car, but my car weighed more...So I hit the gas, bumped the thing a little, and eventually it moved off the side of my car and made a horrible fingernails-on-chalkboard noise until I had passed it.

I still haven't been out to check whether there are scrapes on the side of my car. For now, I'm content to sit here and listen to things being blown around outside.

2003-01-05T18:40:00.000-08:00

Why do I even turn on MTV these days? I can't decide who I dislike more: Good Charlotte or Avril Lavigne.

Good Charlotte dresses badly, and I'm sorry, but guys in makeup? Er, no, that doesn't make you cool or alternative. Isn't there a special level of hell reserved for people who get famous by bitching about the already-famous?

But then there's Avril. So she can't help the unharmonious name, but does she have to inflict her unharmonious songs upon us? She calls herself punk and has no idea who the Clash or the Sex Pistols--is she joking? Sorry, Avril, Blink 182 is not punk. (Yeah, I know, it's so passe to be ripping on Avril, but this is my blog. Go elsewhere if you don't like it.)

I've still got MTV playing in the background, and it's a special promoting the upcoming Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes. Of course I'm going to watch that, right, because I'm really into seeing these kids make asses of themselves. They've got Johnny Moseley hosting it, and he is not at all bad to look at, but every thing he says is totally lacking inflection. His co-host is the inimtiable Ruthie from Real World Hawaii, who may no longer be an alcoholic, but she can't read a teleprompter for anything. Ruthie, honey, just because you come to the last word on the line doesn't mean you should pause. See those little dots in between sentences? That's where you stop for a moment.

2003-01-05T18:22:00.000-08:00

Dear Jehovah's Witnesses of North Hollywood,

I know we have freedom of religion and all in this country, but could you at least leave me a parking space?

Love,
Wendy

2003-01-04T16:21:00.000-08:00

Hee hee...yet another Kelly Kapowski fan has visited my site!

2003-01-04T12:26:00.000-08:00

I am now officially registered for classes. Yay!

Yes, yes, these classes don't really mean anything since I already have a BA...but I'll be taking Introduction to Fiction Writing and Urban Sociology just the same.

The downside is, my Wednesday and Thursday nights are now spoken for. Sorry, boys!

2003-01-02T20:31:00.000-08:00

Two days into the New Year, and I haven't bitten my nails. Yeah, I've put my fingers in my mouth, but then--I remember. I stop. I drum my fingers incessantly. I am on the way to long sexy nails!

2003-01-01T20:43:00.000-08:00

Forgot to mention--

Last night we went to see Catch Me If You Can--yes, I know, rockin' New Year's Eve--and we saw a trailer for How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.

The trailer is set to an absolutely blasphemous remake of Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over," sung by a woman who sounds suspiciously like that Sixpence None the Richer chick. Agh! That woman strips the emotion from everything she sings and turns it into bland, milquetoast, middle of the road, easy listening garbage. What, I ask, was wrong with the Crowded House version, quite possibly one of the most gorgeous pop songs ever recorded? What is wrong with you, Touchstone Pictures? I may boycott the film simply because of the heinous piece of music in the trailer. No joke, people, I loathe that Sixpence woman.

And don't even ask me about Avril Lavigne on MTV last night.

2003-01-01T20:16:00.000-08:00

It's cold today, so cold that I huddled into my thick sweater when I left work. The cold is biting, seeping into the apartment, attacking me up the cuffs of my jeans. I sit here shivering from cold, drinking clean cold water, shivering with delight at the music pouring into my ears.

It's January 1, and I am happy. It's a new day, a new year, and it's time for a new leaf.

Cliche, but what else can I tell you? This year is going to be the best yet.

2003-01-01T15:02:00.000-08:00

Chewing on this:

To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.
-Robert Louis Stevenson

Personally, I'm a bit tired of the hopeful travelling--I'd like to have a place to rest my head for the night.

2003-01-01T09:48:00.000-08:00

I don't agree with everything on this site, but it's a fine read.

Then again, how could I not enjoy a list of the 50 Most Loathsome People in America?

Example:

13. SEAN HANNITY

Misdeeds: Without question one of the most smarmy, vile, hypocritical talking heads on television. Has the uncanny ability to vilify and generalize those who disagree with him, and then state that he's not a partisan person. Exploits his devout Catholicism and patriotism to the point that it makes you think he's selling something—like his book, whose cover features his giant head in front of one of the glossiest, waviest American flags ever. Much of his wrath can probably be traced to his displeasure that Reagan still can't remember his name although he's met him many times.

Aggravating Factor: Since 9/11, pretends to be genuinely convinced that anyone who disagrees with the Bush administration does not want America to be safe.

Aesthetic: Repressed kid from Long Island who got to college, was scared of sex, discovered other repressed white kids in conservative student group, joined them, devoted rest of life to blasting people who didn't.

Love it! But don't take my word for it. Just read it!

2002-12-31T14:26:00.000-08:00

I just this second received in the mail an invitation to the wedding of my cousin Carrie, who is 19 and lives in the Pacific Northwest and has an abnormally large head.

I would love to go to Washington, and I would hate to attend that wedding.

2002-12-31T14:08:00.000-08:00

It's New Year's Eve, and I'm sure tonight is going to be a real rager for me. I'm sick, I'm broke, and I have to be at work at 8 tomorrow morning.

Some of the best things about this year? Uh...getting to write at work. Maintaining my sanity. Becoming friends with people I've known for years. My trip to Dallas in late May and Vegas in October.

The worst parts? Not getting in to graduate school. Not going to New York. Still being a procrastinating nail-biter.

Resolutions:
1. I will stop biting my nails. Seriously. I swear.

2. I will move to New York, even if I have to sell a kidney to do it.

3. I will not sell any organs to finance my move.

4. I will get something published. Anything.

A girl's gotta have dreams, right?

Happy new year, kids; see you on the other side.

2002-12-30T23:25:00.000-08:00

It's been a few days since I've written--I've spent my days at work being too busy to update and my nights being too sick to do so.

Yes, the dreaded cold has come for a visit. I should be over it soon, which is good, because I can't handle breathing through my mouth and whimpering when I can't breathe. Ugh.

My life has also been relatively drama-free for the last five days. I haven't even encountered any horrible people, just nice friendly folks like the three old ladies who thanked me individually for letting them cross at the mall today. Wow.

Maybe the holiday spirit really does exist.

Or maybe all the annoying, rude people are out of town.

2002-12-26T21:44:00.000-08:00

Added a blogroll--just a few links for now, but more will be added as I waste more time in the blogosphere. Feel free to write me if you don't want your name on the roll.

2002-12-26T13:32:00.000-08:00

Xmas is definitely over--my inbox was stuffed with spam this morning. No, I don't want a free 7-day trial of an acid reflux medication, nor do I want to refinance my house. Thanks for asking, though.

2002-12-25T18:31:00.000-08:00

So now that it's the evening of the 25th, can we turn off the Xmas music?

2002-12-24T19:11:00.000-08:00

AAAHHHH!

No more Xmas music, please. No more Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Manheim Steamroller synth carols-to-a-John-Tesh-beat. No more cute ska versions of traditional songs or rock anthems about being lonely for the holidays. No more choirs singing, no more freakin' bells ringing, no more Christ our savior is born.

Do you hear me, world?

NO MORE XMAS MUSIC!!!

(Wendy's head explodes...!!!)

2002-12-23T11:18:00.000-08:00

Yay! All is in working order. Knock wood.

Geez, if only I had as much going on in my life as I do with Blogger.

2002-12-23T08:49:00.000-08:00

Blogger is misbehaving again. That's supposed to be a white background, folks. Even I am not so sadistic as to put black text on a gray background.

Also, the comment links are actually supposed to work!

2002-12-21T22:26:00.000-08:00

Tonight I finally saw Die Another Day. Shut up. I was waiting to get the free screening at work.

(Disclaimer: I haven't seen a Bond film since A View to a Kill, and even then I was more interested in the Duran Duran theme song than the movie.)

Die Another Day was the most ludicrous thing I've ever seen.

I loved it.

2002-12-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

Another Saturday at the salt mines...

What's working for me:
--The honk-for-peace protesters at the corner of Laurel and Ventura
--The girl who always flirts with the guy at the newsstand: fascinating human drama
--Aforementioned newsstand at aforementioned intersection
--Christmas is almost behind us
--Having tomorrow off--it's a rare Sunday I escape this place

What's not working for me:
--The Counting Crows remake of Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi: was this really necessary?
--Christmas shopping--what I'll be doing on my rare Sunday
--The Santa hat I'm supposed to be wearing at work--don't ask

Interesting scene last night leaving Bloomingdale's:
Boy, around 8, says to his mother, "Your brain will turn into clothes. That's all you look at."

Mother, missing valuable opportunity to teach child about gender roles, says, "Girls like to shop for clothes. What else are we supposed to do?"

Boy, jumping on the gender stereotypes train, responds, "You already have a husband. Why do you need nice clothes?"

2002-12-20T12:42:00.000-08:00

Okay, I think we're back to normal. For now, at least.

Kisses to Blogger for finally working!

Now back to your regularly scheduled workday.

2002-12-20T00:45:00.000-08:00

Okay, boys and girls, looks like just about everything is working again, with the possible exception of archives.

Knock wood.

I am now going to bed. Goodnight, Blogger.

2002-12-19T23:38:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wanted to break free?--quit your job, leave your boyfriend, just get up and drive somewhere, anywhere, and do something unexpected and spontaneous and crazy?

As I move up at work--as I find myself cemented into a position being created just for me--I feel an ever-stronger pull to run. I've never run from commitment--I've run toward it, embraced it, leapt whole-heartedly into its prickly arms--but now, at this moment, I'm aching to fight with every ounce of strength I have.

2002-12-19T23:37:00.000-08:00

Oh god, it's raining/But I'm not complaining/It's filling me up with new life

It's raining, finally, I've been waiting for it all day. I'm alone, a bit cold, listening to music and reading old emails and silly sweet sentimental thoughts are filling my head. I feel wistful and sad and full of dreams and desires and wild fantasies. My feet are planted firmly in reality, but it?s growing harder and harder to keep them there.