You’re Not Crazy

When I was a sophomore in college, I took a class with Professor Jim Kincaid called “The Perils of Common Sense.” A lot of irreverent people with big brains took that class. We cracked jokes about everything, and we bonded quickly. Early in the semester, we spent a Saturday together in one of the conference rooms at USC. We broke into groups and we did presentations on various themes, ranging from sexuality to war to politics to family. We tried to challenge each other… which is the pretentious college way of saying we tried to impress each other. We all wanted to be the most subversive kid in class.

Then one group got up there and started talking about 9/11. They made jokes about conspiracies, talked about the man who jumped head first from the towers, blustered about what we did to deserve it. They challenged us, they made a point, they fulfilled the assignment. And I completely lost my shit. I interrupted and I talked about that morning in AP US history class when Andrew Moon walked by our classroom talking about some attack in New York, and Mrs. McNamara yelled out the window that he shouldn’t make jokes like that, and he said he wasn’t joking. I talked about watching the second plane hit. I talked about going to New York ten days later and wanting to punch my dad in the face as he made me and my brothers pose for somber pictures in front of the bulletin boards covered in missing person fliers. And then I did the least subversive thing a 19-year-old “intellectual” can do: I started to cry. Sob, really. In front of all of my classmates, and I felt so ashamed.

I blubbered my apologies for ruining their presentation and for raining on everyone’s parade and for… “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m just crazy.” And the professor stopped and turned and looked at me, and he said, “You’re not crazy.”

I’d like to say I stopped crying when he said that, but I only cried harder. His words were stunning and never before heard. My whole life I’d felt crazy. Crazy because I couldn’t make people understand. Or crazy because I reacted so dramatically to what other people took in stride. Or crazy because… people told me I was crazy. My dad told me I was crazy a lot, especially when I cried.

To have a professor that I loved watch me rant and weep and stutter, and then tell me I’m not crazy. To insist on it. That moment remains the most intense feeling of relief I have ever experienced, and it sustains me. I’m writing about it now because I just watched an amazing play called “School for Suckers” (go see it: http://www.schoolforsuckers.com/), and it talked about shame and it made me laugh and it reminded me of that intense feeling of relief. It made me want to share the feeling with you. I know I can’t do it as effectively as Jim Kincaid or the talented thespians who put on the play, but I have this blog and sometimes people read it, and maybe those people feel crazy every once in a while. I’m here to tell you:

Maybe remembering 9/11 makes you weep and shout, or 2,000 miles between you and the person you share a bed with makes you anxious to the point of not eating, but you can’t pick up the phone to order pizza because you’re too stressed out about talking to a stranger, plus you count your ice cubes at a soda machine and have to have exactly 9, and you still count calories even though you’re “over” your eating disorder, then a bus speeding by makes you want to step out into the street just to see what it would be like…

You’re not crazy. I’m right about this, you want to know why?

1. Jim Kincaid is never wrong.
2. Jim Kincaid says that I am not crazy.
3. If I’m not crazy, neither are you.

The Inches Before A Kiss (a new song)

I wrote a new song called “The Inches Before A Kiss.” You can listen to a rough recording of it here…

Or download it here…

The Inches Before A Kiss

And check out the lyrics here…

I’d like to buy a house
In the inches before a kiss
I won’t hesitate
To put money where my mouth is

You can rent a room
You can come and go as you please
I won’t make you stay
It’s a one night by night lease

Just pay me with kisses
Pay my lips and my neck, my eyelids and breast
No one will miss us
You move me to bliss without moving an inch

I’d like to buy a house
In the inches before a kiss
I won’t keep you long
Just put your lips where my mouth is

And pay me with kisses
Pay my lips and my neck, my eyelids and breast
No one will miss us
You move me to bliss without moving an inch

I’d like to buy a house
In the inches before a kiss

Jason wants to be Joan Didion, and I want to be John Wayne

“As it happened I did not grow up to be the kind of woman who is the heroine in a Western, and although the men I have known have had many virtues and have taken me to live in many places I have come to love, they have never been John Wayne, and they have never taken me to that bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow. Deep in that part of my heart where the artificial rain forever falls, that is still the line I wait to hear.” (Joan Didion)

Keys That Change

by Monika Lind

If you’ll sing, I’ll fall in love–

if not with you
then with your song.

Oh, dare to sing!

I’d rather taste a melody
than tears that fall
on keys that change

than notes that stretch
my tenor range.

Give me a song
and it won’t matter
if your hands are on my hips,

that your lips aren’t on my neck:

flatter me with harmony
and I’ll never know you left.

Obsessed

“It makes you good at the rest of the things you do.”
-BDR

Dealbreakers: It is NOT what it is

In the absence of a man worth thinking about, I ponder the type of man I’m looking for.  There are obvious qualities (honesty, intelligence, stunning good looks) that leap to mind, but those don’t interest me much.  I care more about refining my radar.  Not because I’m hunting for a husband, Lord knows it’s not that.  I am just so tired of wasting my time on guys who are going to flake out or freak out or faaaaaaaade out.  So, in the cause of saving everyone time, I have compiled a list.  Correction: 3 lists.

Permanent

Let us begin with the set-in-stone variety.  My childhood, my values, my genetics, etc., all make the following qualities prerequisites (like the SATs or CTCS 190).  He must be pro-choice and support gay marriage.  Duh.  My father and brothers and male cousins average 6′4″ so he must be tall enough that I can wear heels and still look up at him.  I can count the number of times I went to church as a kid on one hand, and I was never baptized – that has to be alright with him.

The qualities I’ve listed so far are sort of “he either has ‘em or he doesn’t” traits and are probably very difficult for a guy to change either way.  That and the fact that I don’t think I’ll ever change my mind about them make these qualities “Permanent” Dealbreakers.  The last three items in this list fall under the “Permanent” category because I have absolutely zero tolerance for them in anybody and so, even if a guy could change and/or improve said characteristic, I wouldn’t stay around long enough to find out.  Therefore, the last 3 “Permanent” Dealbreakers: dangerous driver, doesn’t reply to communications (text, phone call, email) promptly, chews with his mouth open…  Deal.  Broken.

Temporary

I created this “Temporary” list to allow for my own ability to mature, develop patience, re-prioritize, etc.  Also because the intensity of my anger towards some things is directly related to their prevalence in the Zeitgeist.

The first on this list is the omnipresent, seemingly omnipotent catch-all phrase, “It is what it is.”  That must be the laziest maxim in the English language.  It’s like responding to a question about dinner by saying “Red is a color.”  It is what it is?!  To all the athletes out there propagating this mind-numbing jargon: if you have nothing to say to a reporter, just say “No comment!”  It seems fitting, though, that this phrase entered modern parlance through one of the great disappointments of the nascent 21st century.  When Al Gore ceded victory to GWB, he said, “I strongly disagreed with the Supreme Court decision and the way in which they interpreted and applied the law. But I respect the rule of law, so it is what it is.”  Shame on you, Mr. Vice President, for undoing all your fine work on Global Warming by unleashing this petulant verbage on an unsuspecting world. If a guy says “It is what it is” within my hearing, I lose all interest.

The next entry needs no introduction nor explanation: Nicolas Cage.  I cannot stand him.  Seriously, his most recent movie KNOWING?  The line they chose for the end of the trailer, the hookiest most clever amazing line from genius entertainer Nic(olas) Cage?  “Little Boy: Are we going to die?  CAGE: I would never let that happen.”  So I can only presume this movie recounts Nic’s quest to discover the fountain of youth so his son will NEVER die.  A tip: if you like Nicolas Cage, keep it to yourself – no one will be impressed, and I will definitely not sleep with you ever.

And for a bit of seriousness… after a bad burn in my last relationship, I cold refuse to do long-distance again anytime soon.  Considering my line of work, it will almost certainly happen again someday, but I will put off that day as long as possible.  Long-distance relationships make loving people act cruel and sane people seem crazy.  Which reminds me: as well-balanced and trust-worthy as she seems, Juliet on LOST gives me the heebie-jeebies, so if you’re into her, shhhhhhhhhh, at least until Sawyer and Kate get back together and I can nestle in the warmth of their love.

Dealmakers

Now before I get yipped at for heaping on negativity, consider that I was finally motivated to write this post by one of the greatest Dealbreaker lists I have ever heard.  A lovely young man recently shared with me that he, in his pursuit of a wife, would not date Mormons, virgins, vegetarians, or red-heads.  Lest you think that his list was a way of letting me down lightly, I no longer have red hair.  No, this was a friendly conversation, perfectly earnest.  The specificity of his list surprised me until I learned that it was not hard-earned wisdom from past relationships – this gem of a list had been handed down from his frat brothers.  I envied his certainty (and efficiency!) and wanted to make a list of my own, which you find above.

So let us round out this post with a final catalog.  I love boys/guys/men, as all of you know, and so there will always be things they can do that will make me fall in love as fast as the above Dealbreakers will make me turn tail and run.  The Dealmakers are small things, acts I cannot brace myself against, and the list grows all the time.  For now, we’ll stick to the three Ol’ Faithfuls.  First, if he can talk to me about any of my three geekiest favorite books (Ender’s Game, The Grapes of Wrath, Harry Potter), I go weak in the knees.  Second, if he can swing or salsa dance and can *really* lead, I am putty in his hands.  Third, if he rolls up his right pantleg and hops on a roadbike to get around… it is a wonder I haven’t tackled more boys-on-bikes in this town, they are so dreamy.

If I’m being honest, though, there’s really only one thing that could allow me to forgive a guy for chewing with his mouth open, and that’s courage.  And in perhaps my most embarrassing revelation so far, I confess to you, the quickest way for a guy to show me he is both brave and incredibly hot?  Put on some eyeliner.  We would all do well to take a page from Casey Affleck’s book.

UPDATE! (4/3) Please post your Dealbreakers in the comments!  Like, maybe you would never date a blogger…

Straight Guys: “Even their irony is unironic.”

I met a guy a couple of weeks ago, we’ll call him Eric.  He’s smart, funny, handsome with a killer smile.  I liked him immediately.  We talked for maybe half an hour that first night, then he scurried off at closing time at the behest of his in-a-hurry friend – we’ll call him Jacob.  I was disappointed that Eric and I hadn’t exchanged numbers, especially considering the awkward/awesome moment when I asked what time it was and we both pulled out our phones and literally stood there, mute and immobile, phones in hand, unable to clear the hurdle.

So the next day I found him on Facebook.  Duh.  There followed a pretty delightful daily exchange of messages that we agreed ought to culminate in plans to go out the following week.  I was pumped – he seemed sane!  (Oh how far my mighty standards have fallen.)  Alas, I missed his call and we played awkward phone/text tag for about a week before I conceded it was time to bow out.  If it’s not easy in the beginning, it will only get more difficult.

So okay, I thought Eric was out of the picture and I was back in that most lamentable position of having no one whatsoever to think about.  Young women out there know what I’m talking about, maybe young men as well – we’d rather be wrapped up in something (or someone) that goes nowhere than have nothing to fantasize about and analyze in the first place.  I was pretty surprised, then, when Eric’s friend Jacob from the first night invited me to a preview screening of the movie that Jacob directed and Eric produced.  I felt a little awkward accepting the invitation, so I watched the trailer first to see if it was worth it.  Turns out the movie looked very cool, so I told Jacob I’d go and texted Eric that I’d be there: “I didn’t want to surprise ya!”

The movie did not disappoint.  I signed away my rights to write about the movie in a non-disclosure agreement before the screening, but after some Googling ©, I’ve discovered that the one background element of particular interest is already an internet meme: an initially innocuous, eventually hilarious, ultimately infuriating game called, creatively, The Game.  The only rule in The Game is that if you think about The Game, you lose.  So the goal is not to think about The Game.

A flurry of text messages followed the screening, which included me being my dumb self and telling Eric that I thought he was great and we should hang out and he should let me know.  So now the ball is securely in his court.

This is a perfectly familiar circumstance for me.  I rarely show restraint when I like the idea of kissing someone.  But there is a special wrinkle in this particular iteration.  Thanks to that clever movie Eric produced, whenever I think of him, I also think of The Game.  Which means that every time I think about him, I literally *LOSE* The Game.

What a postmodern, post-ironic mindfuck!  I am terrible (terrible!) at playing the “game” in the classical way that we discuss in interpersonal relationships.  And now, having stripped away all mystery and intrigue from my flirtation with this guy by actually *telling* him that I *LIKE* him, I am faced with both losing the game and losing The Game every time I let my mind wander.

I publish this post now rather than text him again.  This blog entry qualifies as “restraint” for me.  Pure comedy.  I hope you agree.

UPDATE!  Hahahahaha he’s gay!  That makes the title of this post both moot and amazing.  I am really really retiring from the g/Game.

A Wifely Job

This is the single greatest gift a man has ever given me.  It has a special place of honor in my kitchen.

The text goes like this:

A wifely job’s no cinch–
At times it leaves me cross–
But I kinda like my job
Because I kinda love my boss!

The Shirt

A favorite poem from our all-girls 12th grade AP English class, this little gem pretty much sums up my feelings these days…

THE SHIRT
by Jane Kenyon

The shirt touches his neck

and smooths over his back.

It slides down his sides.

It even goes down below his belt—

down into his pants.

Lucky shirt.

Cut your hair, college freshmen!

I spent New Years Day in the hospital thanks to a fever of 103.7.  Take it from me: there’s nothing like a grave illness and the attendant health insurance rigamarol to make you feel like a child again.  So in the nearly two months it took me to recover fully, I have been thinking a lot about adulthood.  What is so hard about being an adult?  How is it different from childhood?  Does it get any easier?

My first clue to the fundamental challenge of adulthood presents in freshman dorms across this great nation, most noticeably in young men.  By about 4 months into their first year of college, guys’ hair has lost all recognizable characteristics of a human hairstyle.  They have left the nest and no longer have a guardian to harass them about their hair, so they JUST STOP CUTTING IT.  (Young women may do the same thing but get away with it due to their longer hairstyles.)

My second clue to the fundamental challenge of adulthood came with the failure of my first serious romantic relationship.  Our relationship started in a fairly juvenile fashion, both of us fresh out of college and working only part-time.  We got to spend all of our time together, positively reinforced by constant physical contact.  It was easy and amazing.  Then he moved away for a year and long-distance absolutely kicked our asses.  It was so much work to keep our relationship functional.  I accused him of refusing to “take care of what’s good.”  We broke up on Valentine’s Day 2008 because I couldn’t resist the poetic timing.

Then my third clue, a year later, when I landed in the hospital at Lake Tahoe on New Years Day and discovered that my health insurance was inadequate.  Add that to the ongoing quasi-lawsuit involving my car insurance and my imminent unemployment and the hole in my favorite jeans and the failing DVD player/burner in my computer and the likelihood that I would probably someday have to possibly start shaving my legs again…  Add all those things up and you get the sum of all the tiny terrors of being an adult: MAINTENANCE.

I’m convinced that the great challenge of adulthood is maintenance. As a child, I relied on my parents to get me to school and haul me to Super Cuts and pay my soccer fees.  My relationships were all immediate, low stakes, and easily maintained through constant contact (I was very lucky this way).  Everything I bought with my lawn-mowing wages I only had to pay for once and then it was mine.  I had transient preferences that suited the cycle of cheap stuff through my life.  Not so anymore.

I have to pay rent, car insurance, health insurance, bills, etc, every month.  And the freelance attitude of my chosen profession makes relationships far more taxing.  But I’m thinking that there is a beautiful flipside to the adult problem of maintenance: we get to have nouns (people, places, and things) worth maintaining.  That makes failure more costly and heartbreak more crippling, but I personally believe in raising the stakes whenever possible.

My guardians and mentors refuse to coddle me in my first forays into adulthood.  They make no bones about the long haul that stretches before me.  But they do offer one sustaining morsel: adulthood won’t get any easier, but you do get better at it.