I wasn't exactly one-hundred-percent last week. Maybe because my boss threatened to fire me last Monday. Or maybe because I'm ridiculously poor and it's Christmas time. Maybe because I feel like a big fat sugary blob. Maybe because I really want to be at home right now with my family in our cozy, cheery house.
Maybe . . .
But something happened this past week that also reminded me that everything is going to be okay. And that it is . . . well, Christmas.
One of my best friends, Iselle, asked me out to lunch, saying "I wanna give you your Christmas present." First, I was surprised. Iselle is Jewish. We've never done Christmas present exchanges before. Secondly, I was sorta bummed (horrible, I know), thinking, "Damn it, I have no money for a good gift."
So I go to meet Iselle for lunch at one of our favorite restaurants. I try to take a leisurely stroll from my parking spot at the only free meter in LA to the restaurant to wait for Iselle, but the smell of newly strewn fertilizer destroys the pleasantness of the walk. I'm in a bad mood as I wait to be seated. Hating every rich wanna-be-vintage-clad-cigarette-smoking-absurdly-spoiled-Beverly Hills-teen talking WAY too loud about their new designer boots and how much of a back stabbing bitch "Jenny" is, while munching on egg whites at the outdoor tables.
Then I spot Iselle. She walks up to me, holds up a beautiful Crowntail Beta fish and says, "This is Larry H. Parker."
I almost cry, my bad mood melting away like the plastic noses of those spoiled rich kids in the hot California Christmas sun.
I know it sounds weird that I was so emotional over a fish named Larry H. Parker, but this gift, the inside joke of it, the thoughtfulness behind it, reminds me that no matter how miserable I may feel I'll always have my friend Iselle. The person who understands me when no one else can, who tells me I'm brilliant and hilarious, who encourages me to create, who knows just what to say because she's been there. The person who tells me that everything is going to be okay without saying a word.
Standing outside the restaurant, proudly holding the best Christmas present ever, I was reminded that there are things in life so much more important than some job or having money.
Things like best friends and a fish called Larry.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
On Loop
Written on Friday, December 14, 2007
When I wake up in the morning I usually have a song that plays over and over in my head. And it’s usually only a short phrase from the song that plays again and again, a broken record. You’d think this would drive me crazy, but for some reason it doesn’t. It’s actually comforting. My daily process of waking up, finding the sound that’s gonna warm me up for the day, setting the tone. Although, I’m not so sure “setting the tone” is absolutely the best way to describe the inimitable, musical way my brain wakes itself up. Because, while I may have Britney Spears’ TOXIC running through my brain, I’m not necessarily in a man-killing, poison wielding, back-flipping sort of mood. But who knows, maybe I am deep down.
This morning I dragged my dead-ass-tired carcass out of bed at 6:30AM. But instead of the continuous circle of sound looping itself through my sleepy mind, I heard silence. Absolutely nothing.
I believe this is due to the fact that I went to bed around 3AM this morning, having stayed WAY too long a my work’s Christmas party. I was that girl who said, “I’m only staying for like, half an hour” and ended up staying til the DJ started purposefully playing bad early 90’s music to get people off the dance floor. Stupid. I had to be at work by 8AM. Excuse me, I had to have the phones ON and be ready to take calls BY 8AM, meaning I needed to have my exhausted (slightly hung-over) ass in that orthopedically challenged chair by 7:45AM. Because there are SOOO many phones calls at fucking 8AM in the morning. It’s 9AM now and I’m just now hearing signs of four or five other life forms in this building. And I’m positive the majority of the agency won’t be here til 11AM or later or not at all.
Knowing full well that I wouldn’t be able to function properly enough to make myself decent this morning, I took a shower last night, er, this morning rather, got fully clothed and got into bed. When I say fully clothed, I mean FULLY. Everything. Including my coat and scarf. Only thing I didn’t wear were my shoes. So when my alarm went off I literally rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, put on a hat and got my ass to work.
But there was no music in my head. Just silence. Brain too tired and assaulted by the combination of shouting-to-be-heard, two large glasses of white wine, and ear-ringing club music from the night before.
Then, as I pulled into the parking lot at work, there it was, like magic:
“Guess who’s back, Back again. Shady’s back, Tell a friend . . .”
When I wake up in the morning I usually have a song that plays over and over in my head. And it’s usually only a short phrase from the song that plays again and again, a broken record. You’d think this would drive me crazy, but for some reason it doesn’t. It’s actually comforting. My daily process of waking up, finding the sound that’s gonna warm me up for the day, setting the tone. Although, I’m not so sure “setting the tone” is absolutely the best way to describe the inimitable, musical way my brain wakes itself up. Because, while I may have Britney Spears’ TOXIC running through my brain, I’m not necessarily in a man-killing, poison wielding, back-flipping sort of mood. But who knows, maybe I am deep down.
This morning I dragged my dead-ass-tired carcass out of bed at 6:30AM. But instead of the continuous circle of sound looping itself through my sleepy mind, I heard silence. Absolutely nothing.
I believe this is due to the fact that I went to bed around 3AM this morning, having stayed WAY too long a my work’s Christmas party. I was that girl who said, “I’m only staying for like, half an hour” and ended up staying til the DJ started purposefully playing bad early 90’s music to get people off the dance floor. Stupid. I had to be at work by 8AM. Excuse me, I had to have the phones ON and be ready to take calls BY 8AM, meaning I needed to have my exhausted (slightly hung-over) ass in that orthopedically challenged chair by 7:45AM. Because there are SOOO many phones calls at fucking 8AM in the morning. It’s 9AM now and I’m just now hearing signs of four or five other life forms in this building. And I’m positive the majority of the agency won’t be here til 11AM or later or not at all.
Knowing full well that I wouldn’t be able to function properly enough to make myself decent this morning, I took a shower last night, er, this morning rather, got fully clothed and got into bed. When I say fully clothed, I mean FULLY. Everything. Including my coat and scarf. Only thing I didn’t wear were my shoes. So when my alarm went off I literally rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, put on a hat and got my ass to work.
But there was no music in my head. Just silence. Brain too tired and assaulted by the combination of shouting-to-be-heard, two large glasses of white wine, and ear-ringing club music from the night before.
Then, as I pulled into the parking lot at work, there it was, like magic:
“Guess who’s back, Back again. Shady’s back, Tell a friend . . .”
I seriously haven't blogged in four years . . .
but it’s raining outside and I’m bored as a result of my laziness and the rain for some reason reminded me of how I used to love to write on livejournal. Remember livejournal? I can’t even remember my handle on livejournal, but I do remember that I HAD to write on it EVERY day. I’m talking religiously. And I loved it.
I think I loved it so much because only a few of my friends who were also on livejournal could read it. I wrote for them.
I would write about my day, but not in a matter of fact sort of way. Often I’d start in the middle of a story about how my best friend and I were almost assaulted by a homeless man in Hollywood. Or it was a rant about a CRAZY professor who would take us on long walks around campus, pick up leaves off the ground, stare up at the sky for several minutes and then suddenly say, “This leaf has three holes in it.” No joke. One time it was a letter I had written to my imaginary mother as a character from a scene I was working on. Another time I simply described how cozy and warm my dorm room was when it was decorated with Christmas lights. It was all very carefree and fun. My friends wrote similar things and we’d post witty comments back and forth. It was lovely.
But for some unknown reason it stopped. I guess our lives just got busier and we started writing less and less and reading less and less and then there was no one to write for anymore. It was a lot less sad and important than I’m making it sound, but I still feel nostalgic for my little blogging world and slightly regretful that I let it slip away.
For a while now I’ve wanted to start blogging again, but nowadays it seems like every blog has to have an angle. I’m not sure this is completely true; I’m obviously not an avid blog reader either. But it seems like I keep hearing the phrase “To learn more about THIS read my blog.” Every Tom Politician, Dick Commentator and Harry How To has a blog. Not that I don’t like that ideas and information are being disseminated in this way, I actually really dig that. It’s just that I’m not sure how to write my own blog. Do I need an angle? Does it need to be politically motivated? Can I just write about my day?
Again, I think I’m making all of this too important. Who really gives a shit what I write? It’s just a blog. So in the spirit of my long lost livejournal I’m going to tell you about my day.
This morning I woke up, not when I was supposed to, but rather two hours too early because the rain was banging a loud, rhythmic BAM, BAM, BAM on the outside part of the archaic air conditioning unit in my window. I could say that I was pissed that I had been woken up two hours too early out of a sound sleep after a week of going to bed too late. But if I said that I’d be lying.
The truth is, when I realized that it was the rain that had woken me up a surge of happiness went through me. I love the rain. Nothing makes me happier, which is funny since the rain is so often associated with depression. But I associate it with a sort of release, a purging of things pent up, too great to carry any longer. Something healthy and necessary. To make things clean.
The rain makes me feel beautiful. Sounds like a cheesy romance novel, but it’s true. When I was little and it rained the little rock garden my dad had made in our backyard would flood and I would sit in the tiny lake, in the rain, and pretend I was a mermaid.
When it rains everything is vibrant against the gray cover. It’s like the world has come back to life. Like it remembered to remind us that there are things so simple and yet so much more important than all of our inconsequential worries. And I like being reminded, because I like having the chance to start anew.
So I felt happy, as I lay in the pitch dark this morning. Listening to the drumming on my window. Being reminded by the rain. Two hours too early.
I hope you liked this, because I wrote it for you.
I think I loved it so much because only a few of my friends who were also on livejournal could read it. I wrote for them.
I would write about my day, but not in a matter of fact sort of way. Often I’d start in the middle of a story about how my best friend and I were almost assaulted by a homeless man in Hollywood. Or it was a rant about a CRAZY professor who would take us on long walks around campus, pick up leaves off the ground, stare up at the sky for several minutes and then suddenly say, “This leaf has three holes in it.” No joke. One time it was a letter I had written to my imaginary mother as a character from a scene I was working on. Another time I simply described how cozy and warm my dorm room was when it was decorated with Christmas lights. It was all very carefree and fun. My friends wrote similar things and we’d post witty comments back and forth. It was lovely.
But for some unknown reason it stopped. I guess our lives just got busier and we started writing less and less and reading less and less and then there was no one to write for anymore. It was a lot less sad and important than I’m making it sound, but I still feel nostalgic for my little blogging world and slightly regretful that I let it slip away.
For a while now I’ve wanted to start blogging again, but nowadays it seems like every blog has to have an angle. I’m not sure this is completely true; I’m obviously not an avid blog reader either. But it seems like I keep hearing the phrase “To learn more about THIS read my blog.” Every Tom Politician, Dick Commentator and Harry How To has a blog. Not that I don’t like that ideas and information are being disseminated in this way, I actually really dig that. It’s just that I’m not sure how to write my own blog. Do I need an angle? Does it need to be politically motivated? Can I just write about my day?
Again, I think I’m making all of this too important. Who really gives a shit what I write? It’s just a blog. So in the spirit of my long lost livejournal I’m going to tell you about my day.
This morning I woke up, not when I was supposed to, but rather two hours too early because the rain was banging a loud, rhythmic BAM, BAM, BAM on the outside part of the archaic air conditioning unit in my window. I could say that I was pissed that I had been woken up two hours too early out of a sound sleep after a week of going to bed too late. But if I said that I’d be lying.
The truth is, when I realized that it was the rain that had woken me up a surge of happiness went through me. I love the rain. Nothing makes me happier, which is funny since the rain is so often associated with depression. But I associate it with a sort of release, a purging of things pent up, too great to carry any longer. Something healthy and necessary. To make things clean.
The rain makes me feel beautiful. Sounds like a cheesy romance novel, but it’s true. When I was little and it rained the little rock garden my dad had made in our backyard would flood and I would sit in the tiny lake, in the rain, and pretend I was a mermaid.
When it rains everything is vibrant against the gray cover. It’s like the world has come back to life. Like it remembered to remind us that there are things so simple and yet so much more important than all of our inconsequential worries. And I like being reminded, because I like having the chance to start anew.
So I felt happy, as I lay in the pitch dark this morning. Listening to the drumming on my window. Being reminded by the rain. Two hours too early.
I hope you liked this, because I wrote it for you.
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