New Year's Meme

In 2008, I gained a condo, a dryer that vents into my living room, convenient access to the DC Metro system and a view of the Capital Building from my studio room.

I lost a best friend. (I know that sounds dramatic and maudlin, but, well, that's still kinda how it feels.)

I stopped writing meaty blog posts on a regular basis.

I started a new job with a 35% increase in pay.

I was hugely satisfied with the internet's capacity to continue to provide me with oodles of fascinating filth for thought.

I am so embarrassed that I now actually have, in case of further emergencies, a locksmith's personal number saved on my cellphone (yes, that would be replacement cellphone #4, as cellphones #1-3 all met their, ahem, Waterloos in various porcelain facilities. Yeah, I'm embarrassed about that, too. As I am about that atrocious pun I just made.).

Once again, I managed to impress boys with my repertoire of yoga-generated party tricks.

Once again, I did not show the slightest bit of self-restraint when faced with shoe sales.

The biggest physical difference between me last December and this December is, I think, the (benign) lump in my right tit is more like a jumbo egg than the small egg it was last year. Otherwise, I think I look the same.

The biggest psychological difference between me last December and this December is I am no longer nursing any crushes on inappropriate men. (YAY!)

I loved spending time developing fleeting crushes on impeccably dressed DC denizens while riding the Metro. I did not so much love smelling some of the other ones, however.

Why did I spend even two minutes debating whether to leave my old job? They so did not earn even the smattering of loyalty I gave them. I know this is particularly true after having spent the subsequent 7 months making a lot more money and doing a lot less work. And feeling a lot more appreciated.

I should have spent more time doing yoga, organizing my finances, cleaning my car, writing and fucking. One can always spend more time writing and fucking.

I regret buying as much gas as I did. Given, my gasoline expenditures decreased significantly once I got situated here in the city, but even anyway... buying gas makes me feel guilty. No matter what.

I will never regret buying someone's time and expertise to paint the walls of my new condo for me so that I didn't have to do it myself even though with that money I could have paid off a chunk of my post-moving, bloated credit card bill. Saving myself the added moving stress of having to paint myself? Beyond worth it.

I slept in late only with S.

I didn’t apply to grad school. That's what 2009 is good for. I hope.

Sporadic internet service in my building, a sometimes-surly, sometimes-smarmy internet service dude, and a general laissez-faire attitude from my building's developers about the whole situation drove me crazy.

The most relaxing place I went was work, during the middle of my move. That's the only place where I got to think about something besides freaking out at the prospect of becoming a homeowner.

Why did I eat so many fucking cupcakes? I blame a duo of enabling women with whom I work. Bitches.

The best thing I did for someone(s) else was let them go. All three of them. (This one's cryptic to protect the not-so-innocent. Sorry.)

The best thing I did for myself was learn to say the word "pussy" without blushing. Finally.

The best thing someone did for me was when my whole family, in shifts, flew out to DC to help me fix stuff in my new place, pack, move, and clean my old place. A million thank-yous to my parents and my big brother.

The one thing I’d like to do again, but do it better, is write about film.

A figgy pudding to break all conventions

Here's my dessert for this year's Christmas dinner-- a poached fig gallette with a cinnamon sabayon. It is such a wonder of our modern world to find fresh figs at Christmastime. And what a pretty plate they make, no?

This sweet little thing followed my (quite tasty) creamy wild mushroom and leek soup and Mom's absolutely phenomenal pan-sauteed duck breast in a dried cherry sauce with some lovely, simple, and very fresh Swiss chard. A very festive meal, indeed. We can DO Christmas in the kitchen here at Casa Vino!

Thanks to my mom for the photography credit. And here's one more:

Over the Hill and Through the Woods... via Memphis

Or, Why I Can Pick on Tennessee and You Can't

It seems, for the most part, I might have outlived the infamous air travel jinx of 2006/2007. For the most part, my comings and goings over the last year or so have been basically uneventful. I mean, only pussies complain about 2-hour delays anyway, right?

Nonetheless, scoring a layover at the Memphis airport while on the way home to Nashville is something of a special early gift-- and one that I must share.

After being deposited back on the ground after my flight from DC, I dutifully made my way to to Gate B4-- along the way, passing many wondrous food-vending establishments. Oh, heaven help me, I was back in Tennessee. There was a barbecue joint and little stands selling pralines (PRAH-leens!) and there was a Backyard Burger. Now, I haven't eaten a burger in over two years, I'm sure of it. But not for lack of love for them. Man, do I have fond memories of the Backyard Burger. This is pretty much the only fast food "restaurant" I'd ever condescend to patronize. The burgers are actually made of meat, not some aggregate of soy sludge, amalgamated animal fats and a (not) healthy plug from the jar labeled "MEAT FLAVORING" from the lab--er, I mean, "test kitchens." And, sure, they're always significantly overcooked. But still-- it actually tastes like food... food that one might find in the backyard of one minimally skilled in the art of grilling... but like real food nonetheless. In short, temptations abounded.

I made my way down the corridor and discovered that my flight's departure time had been pushed back about an hour and 40 minutes. Given my already two-hour long layover, I probably could have just rented a car and showed up at my parents' place in better time than actually waiting for my plane would require. But, whatever. I'd already paid for this second leg of my flight. And an hour and 40 minutes? I don't even get bored with watching the freakshow that is the American airport-going public in that short epoch. Besides, a friend had given me the manuscript to one of his novels to peruse and I was already duly ensconced therein. (Predictably, my favorite parts of this book are when the narrator discusses his penis. I am a dog and my master is Pavlov.)

So, I sat down, pulled out my impressive binder-clipped sheaf of paper and set to reading. No sooner had I done so than three gentlemen arrived at the gate. As the first one rounded a column that had been shielding my presence from general view, I hear, "My, my, what beautiful curls." Pretending I didn't know he was talking about me, I peeked over the rim of my new (tres chic) nerd goggles, and got quite a load of these characters. And then quickly resumed reading, so as to not look like I wanted to participate in the conversation.

The two younger ones embodied just about every backwoods stereotype of which I can think. They had their trucker caps and their Bud Lite bellies, their sunburned necks (even in December) and their plaid shirts under nylon vests with some sort of sports team insignia. Have I mentioned the mullets? No joke. Mullets. Wow. And I would hedge my bets that the reason these two fellows had such difficulty finding their indoor voices was because they so rarely set foot actually inside of doors. And the third was clearly their father. I say "clearly" not because there was some undeniable family resemblance, but because the other two kept yelling, "Dad?! Hey, Dad!!" at him. And poor man, he was generally befuddled. He didn't really look much older than my own parents, but certainly lacked their wherewithal.

They spent a good 10 minutes trying to get him settled and explaining to the old guy how to board a plane in their absence. In that time, they addressed me several times, as though I was somehow invested in whether or not the guy boarded the plane correctly and actually made it all the way to Nash Vegas. The younger one leaned into me and said, all conspiratorial-like, "You know, honey... if you get up to use the restroom, or get some grub or somethin', why doncha just bring ol' Dad with ya? " And then he leaned back over to his father and said, "See there, Dad? There are beautiful women here who're HEPPY to take care of ya." Aw, shucks. Meanwhile, I'm busy parsing away in my head-- just what exactly is my community obligation to these crazy folks? Am I actually required to take care of this man now? Whatever did I do to merit these people infringing on my anonymous air traveler status? Oh, help. Help me, oh. Help.

So, Dad continues to ask where the boys are going and what he's supposed to do and how long he has to sit there and where the bathrooms are. And then the boys prepare to leave. This time, the second one leans in-- close enough for me to smell his cowboy cologne and whatever quantity of Bud Lite he's managed to excrete from his skin, and says to me, "Truly, girl. You have some LURVELY hair. Can you just keep an eye out? Make sure Dad gets on the aircraft?" I, of course, being the citified island that I am, offer what I hope is an enigmatic smile and do not assent.

Meanwhile a couple on the other side of the gate has been watching the whole show and the woman has collapsed against her husband's chest with laughter. Obviously, I'm uncomfortable. Obviously, I'm also amused. So, I hear this woman laughing and begin shaking. I do not wish to make fun of these friendly gentlemen (to their faces-- on my blog is a completely other matter), but it's altogether too much. My body can only contain just so much mirth before it gives way, quakes out of control. The woman across the gate is no help. No help at all.

"Bye, Dad!" the older one hollers, not only audibly, but still quite loudly from three gates on down the concourse.

Long about this time, the elderly woman in the bank of chairs in front of me whips around and says, "You know whut? My chil'ren do the same thing. They just worry... Hey, you know whut? That barbecue place down there is right tasty. I just had me sum. You ought'n get up there and get you sum. Hey, you know whut? I've never seen a plane delayed this long. Can you believe it? Nearly two hours! Hey, you know whut?..." and so on. By this point, the woman across the gate is laughing SO hard at me, me with my eyes wide with disbelief (internally thinking, you mean, people still talk to strangers? What IS this Memphis place? Where AM I? Is this still the America of my self-involvement? My America of public insularity? What is fucking going on here?), that I really can't contain it either. I allow myself a few stifled chortles when, what's this? A second elderly woman behind me taps my shoulder and says, "Do you have a cellphone?"

I say, "Yeeeesss...?" She says, "Can you call someone for me? I'll give you money for it." Not wanting to explain the whole cellphone system wherein, seeing as I haven't yet used all my minutes this month and my calls are essentially already paid for, and in which she can't exactly hand me a dime and call it even, I say, "well, the calls are free, ma'am... and you can borrow the phone if you like." And I hand it to her. And she looks at it. She huffs a little. Looks at it. Says, "I don't know what to do with it." Recognizing that, indeed, Memphis airport is like the Brigadoon-iest of all Brigadoon-ish time warps, I retrieve my phone from her hand and ask the number she'd like me to dial. She does not know the area code. Because she is also awaiting the flight from Memphis to Nashville, I take a wild stab and ask if it's a 615 number in Nashville. Success! Her eyes catch flame and she manages to have a profitable conversation on my phone.

Surely, now, I can go back to reading the stack of paper in my lap, right? Surely no other strangers will see me, amongst all the other quietly waiting anonymous travelers, as the most approachable of the lot? Please?

At this point, the old dude who was abandoned to my dubious care by his two sons, figures out how to work his own cell phone. This is what he is saying: "Yeah. Two hours. I'm just sittin' here. I'm sittin' here like a fuck'n' idiot for two fuck'n' hours. I guess the plane is delayed. I don't know. They don't tell us nuthin'. Cuz they think we're idiots. So, I'm sittin' here like an idiot. I ain't got no place else to go. So, I'm a dunce. That's right. I said I'm a fuck'n' dunce. That's how these people treat me. Cuz I'm a fuck'n' idiot." Yeah, I know. As though a plane delay was somehow an insult to this man's intelligence. I'm not sure I understand the connection either. And when was the last time you heard anyone use the word "dunce?" Yes, I'll admit-- I kinda fell a little bit in love with old dude at that moment. Way to revive an archaism, man!

And now, finally, a chubby kid with an improbable quantity of iPod cords coming and going begins to chime in. "It's a plane delay, sir. It's probably just the weather. It's not any big deal. And besides. I missed my flight earlier. I've been sitting here for 6 hours already. I've had a real bad day. You see, I was supposed to meet with my college advisor to make sure I get my classes next semester. Because of this delay, I don't know if I'm gonna be in school or getting a job next year. I've had a real bad day. I think it's because of all the job losses in the airplane industry. Y'all heard about that? Yeah, that must be it. Sir, the bathroom's down there (pointing); I heard you asking about it a while back. Just down there. Sir, it's just a delay. It's ok. Just sit here. Like me. I've been here for 6 hours..." and so on.

Then the kid looks over at the "Hey, you know whut" lady and I swear to god, it's love at first sight. Two folks who talk in paragraphs and don't listen for answers? They get to chatting and I am, at last, off the hook.

Sometimes airports are rough on the introverts, eh? Particularly, it seems, in Memphis.

So, now, ladies and gentlemen-- let me say this. I realize I've made myself into a big ol' citified East coast bitch at this point. I know this. I accept this. I own this. Nonetheless, I still consider this great state of Tennessee to be the home of my youth, and therefore the resting grounds of my roots. A lot of things about this state make me crazy. Its voting record in, ahem, a certain recent election is not the least of those crazy-making things. I feel about this state something like I might feel if I had an autistic older brother. I can talk smack about Tennessee all I want... but my smacktalk is muddled with love. If any of my Yankee-fied friends do the same? Yeah, they'll have me to answer to. Got it?

So, unless you live here, I don't wanna see a single comment against Southerners. We may all be crazy and we may not have all seen to political light, and some of us may not have any concept of personal boundaries within a mass-transportation-type venue, but if you're not one of us, you probably just don't get us. And therefore, it's best you not judge us.

Thank you, and to all a pleasant winter festivus.

And no, I did not see whether the old man made it on the plane. Shame on me. I am so lousy at that it-takes-a-village thing.

What other people have said about the (dubious?) marital project

"It is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue."

—Voltaire

via The Ch!cktionary

It continues to baffle me that traditional wifery might be the only job for which an applicant's utter ignorance of one of its primary duties has historically been considered her chief, and most desirable, qualification.

"...Marie returns to seduce the reluctant Paul and squeezes just enough sperm from their half-hearted encounter to become impregnated, or, in Breillat's extrapolationist thesis, wholly alive. Pauls slumbers on when her water breaks. In a cool rage, Marie turns on the gas and leaves the apartment to give birth to their child. The final scene shows Marie in a ritualistic procession holding the newborn aloft. Dolly the Cloned Sheep was already 3 at the time of the movie's release and the transgender queer movement raged on American campuses. Still, it's interesting to note just how appealing this ancient narrative is to a great number of upper-middle class women in their 20s and 30s who've revived the traditional wedding ceremonies with a vengeance. If a wedding is "the most important day in a woman's life" (Bride magazine) it is because it serves as an affirmation of her as a woman. Perhaps accurately, now that the culture has only inertia to offer, this generation perceives marriage and its ensuing spawn of the nuclear family as the only achievable utopia."
--Chris Kraus, describing Catherine Breillat's film, Romance, in his essay introducing the novel Pornocracy, the companion piece to Breillat's other film, Anatomy of Hell.

I watched Anatomy of Hell some time ago and it irked me. It explores an old fundamentalist (meaning, not "fundamentalist" in the sense of fundie-Christian, but in a sense far closer to essentialism) notion that what is inherently problematic about female existence is that the "abyss of cunt" is necessarily horrific. And it predicates an inborn fragility in the female as well. Now, that's an interesting idea with which the "auteur of porno" might toy, but Breillat is simply employing the idea to inquire as to whether the essential vulnerable nature of women is designed to inspire tenderness in men, thus drawing the sexes together. Now, I tend to think she's using this very ancient thesis about the nature of woman to pose an argument-- to force her audience to ask again, in a contemporary, post-feminist context, whether there might be something to the concept-- the one that, to me anyway, seems to do a real good job of putting us girls at a real disadvantage-- after all.

But, c'mon! Cunts are dark, slimy pits of terror? And the female condition is, by default, one of weakness? Really? Is this really a discussion that is actually still relevant in 21st Century Western culture?

In any case, I've just started reading Pornocracy and I might well come to understand Anatomy of Hell a little better by the end of it. I may or may not have more to say about it when I'm finished. We'll see.

In the meantime, though, I'm fascinated by Kraus' comment that marriage and the nuclear family just might be the modern woman's last finger-stretching grasp towards a micro-utopia, thus explaining the great wedding fervor of our times. Personally, I think he's making a cute little connection with little to no basis in actual reality. The Oprah crowd and the over-therapized masses regularly raise the chant, "But marriage takes WORK!" Young women enter into marriages having seen at least a couple of their peers establish life-- and even happiness--after divorce. And so many of us have pre-marriage long-term relationships in our early 20s-- difficult, experimenting-with-adulthood, long-term relationships.

So, even if we claim to be holding out for the loves of our lives, deep down, we have already learned that love doesn't eradicate the fucked-upedness and baggage that any adult entering into such an arrangement with another fucked up, baggage-laden adult is bound to pull behind him- or herself. And every day, more and more of us fight off the urge to hide under the covers when faced with the all-too-apparent discrepancy between white wedding photos and Planet Couples Therapy.

But is getting all entwined in the solipsistic endeavor of the Bride Show still preferable to the "inertia" that Kraus claims our culture holds out to us? It can only be a brief distraction, and not much more, I'm afraid. No matter what, ladies, we've still got bigger fish to fry than invitation fonts and seating charts. I mean, what if our pussies really are just so many little mouths of hell, clapped shut, safely for the moment, between our thighs? Or worse, what if there are folks out there who still actually think that? Surely we collectively still have bigger hopes for our world than the small consolation of the domestic marinade?

***

I know I've been terribly lax in writing lately. I've been busy. I've been reading. I've been exhausted. I've been traveling. I've been perched on the edge of my usual wintry sinkhole. I've been social. I've had a holiday and a birthday. I haven't had a Saturday at home in a month, and tomorrow will be no different.

But I miss this conversation with the ether. Maybe some time soon. Soon.