La Elefanteria

Last night, while watching the better Capote film, Infamous, I was reminded of an interview in which Frank Sinatra once said that every time Judy Garland sang she died a little inside...that's how much she gave. And, in the ensuing argument that occurred between my fellow movie-watcher and I, I discovered that I completely agreed with this notion. (Yes, I'd like some wine with my cheese, thank you.) But let me explain:

When you make art, when you really give yourself to something that requires creation, I don't think it's unreasonable to say that you become controlled by it. And it's because art is, to a large degree, an autonomous thing-- something that must be worked over and reasoned with as well as coaxed into existence. I don't know a single writer, artist or performer who hasn't felt consumed by their work at some point, like it could kill them if they let it. Yet while it seems that believing in this idea could indicate a kind of fatalistic perspective on the maturation and quality of an artist's work, I don't think it's any more damning than recognizing our own mortality. We have a finite number of years to live, and accordingly, a finite number of works that we can create. While the work can and probably will "kill" the artist a little bit from time to time, I don't think that this indicates a diminished quality in the work as it progresses... but maybe a tarnished or wearisome artist? Sure.

Which is my somewhat roundabout way of saying that I simply have not been able to face the great challenge of a blog post since starting grad school. I've been writing about 500% more than I'm used to, and any writing that was not art or casual emailing seemed beyond my mental faculties. Maybe this will change, as school continues and my brain and body become accustomed to this kind of work, who knows. In the meantime, I have found myself lamenting a waning memory capacity for small things that I've mentally noted to blog about. With the addition of a smartphone in my life, I've decided to get back to my photographic roots and keep a "notebook" on tumblr:

http://elefanteria.tumblr.com/

Again with the elephants, right? I guess I could offer a tiny explanation: when I was a kid, visiting my abuelita in Santiago, I remember that she had a vast collection of elephant figurines in her dining room. So intense was this collection that the room became a kind of storage space that could no longer accommodate a dinner or guests, and truly, not even a small girl's wandering feet. The elephants were made of everything from wood to bronze to ivory, and were as small as pearls or large as Great Danes. I've loved elephants ever since (despite their unfortunate political affiliation) and find myself drawn to them in nostalgia.

"La Elefanteria" is in reference to the animal, and to the South American tendency to name a store by simply adding the suffix "-eria" to whatever it is they're selling: "Levanderia" (cleaner's) "Joyeria" (jewelery store) "Sanwisheria" (you get the idea). Obviously, I'm not selling anything, nor is my blog particularly elephant-related, but I was thinking of the old phrase that "an elephant never forgets." I intend to upload photos, quotes, small notes, etc of things I encounter that strike me in some way and I want to "remember."

I'm super scattered and disorganized, and I hate that "tip of my tongue" feeling when trying to recall. It's kind of a New Year's thing, I guess. And maybe I'll come back here if ever I feel inclined to elaborate on my notes.

Muchos besos, prospero año, etc.

A little bone-picking from a curvy lady.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting with an old friend at a bar enjoying (in my opinion) the best martini in Houston. I was happily slurping away, the bartender there a like-minded creature who, believing the martini glass an evil invention that makes everyone look sloppy, had kindly delivered the chilled, pretty-dirty beverage in a high ball glass. Thumbs up.

So euphoric was I with my delicious cocktail, I almost missed the double-entendre-statement my drinking companion tossed my way, that went something like this:

"OMG I love hanging out with you! Everyone I usually hang out with is so super skinny and tiny and they make me just feel huge."

Call it testimony to the scrumptiousness of my cocktail that I didn't "accidentally" tip it into her lap.

I've been sitting on this in the meantime (flattening it out with my apparently elephantine figure), wondering what the hell would prompt one to make a remark like that. Initially, I decided to give the speaker the benefit of the doubt: she couldn't possibly have meant it that way. I have a whole list of reasons why no one in their right mind could say something like that to me, all of which boil down to this one, singular fact: I'm gnome-size. Seriously. I can wear children's size coats, and can still fit into my favorite fifth grade pair of jeans. No pair of pants, not even the "ankle length" (whose ankle? Shaq's?) can be worn un-hemmed. I have to drive with the chair pulled so close to the wheel I can barely exit my freaking car, and I rue the day Austin Powers declared small hands "carnie." Unless you're five, using me as your counterpoint to feel tiny is delusional. Case closed.

The comment was almost written off as such, but a few nights later the situation seemed to shift into auto-focus. After making some off-hand remark to a fitness trainer friend not to look at us for exercise talk because we don't work out, I, sans delicious but distracting drink, informed the ignoramus that um, no, actually I work out 4-5 days a week. And then homegirl said, with all the disbelief, shock and outrage she could muster, "Reeeealllyyy??????"

Look, I'm not delusional. I know that while I may give immediate meaning to the term "Shawty," I am no pixie (I said gnome, remember?). As you may recall, my breasts came in when I was nine years old. Well, they came with friends: a pair of hips and an ass that rely wholeheartedly on the solid foundation of legs built like a shetland pony's. The Boogs and I affectionately call all my lady lumps "Maluendas," after the side of the family who so lovingly bestowed them upon me. I'm half-Chilean; you can see it in my ass.

Had the incident occurred this time last year, there's a chance I would have done what so many insecure, American women do and internalized the thing as my problem. I don't know how we were trained to function this way, as though the passive aggressive insult is constructive, important, or even accurate, but the impulse cussing blows. So let's play a game: using the incident at hand, let's test its weight (ha) against these three attributes: accuracy, constructiveness, and importance. Maybe I'm wrong, after all. Maybe I should go hide under a rock until I lose 30 lbs. Let's be scientific about this before I do anything rash like, I don't know, move on with my life.

1. Accuracy

I think I pretty much covered this above, but I'm willing to expand for the sake of diligence. While I'm certainly not Shakira, I sure as hell ain't no Snookie neither. Being small and curvy does leave a little wiggle-room to wonder what's "right," and most women have developed their own methods of understanding when they're in a good place, and when they've maybe over-indulged. I know I'm in trouble when I can't fit into my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle onesie, for example.

Obviously, if we're measuring accuracy, the question of the speaker's figure must come into play. While I'm disinterested in carping on someone I've decided has some serious body-image and self-esteem issues, I will say, for the sake of our thorough investigation, that if I'm an Ewok she's Chewbacca. But that's only if we're getting technical.

2. Constructiveness

You may wonder how it could ever be constructive for a friend to comment passively on one's weight and size while out in a bar, and you're bewilderment would be well-founded. But, full disclosure, I do have a pact with the Boogs to inform me when the Maluendas are getting a little out of control (and I would inform him if ever he garners some man-maluendas), so I think it's possible to gently address a loved one's weight gain. The real issue here is timing: let's say I have suddenly put on 20 lbs that can't be attributed to medication, pregnancy, or extreme muscle mass. Would it be helpful for me to have a friend tell me how much she appreciates my new plumpy figure for how thin it makes her feel? Yeah, about as helpful as her chosen background for delivery: the bar. Nothing I want to talk about more than body image while I'm out on the town. Martini's only taste okay without a healthy dose of body-bashing, duh.

3. Importance

While I've concluded that my general response to this whole incident was to let it go, to maybe feel a little sad for the commenter, and you know, to blog about it, I'm not going to deny that I wasn't a little bothered. Unfortunately, the vestiges of American body-image brainwashing haven't totally vacated my internal monologue, and I definitely felt more conscious of my Maluendas in the days that followed. But what bothered me far more than any insecurity the comment could have bolstered was how mean it was. Not to mention just flat-out weird-- both remarks were made in bars, where one goes with friends to generally laugh and have a good time. Who busts out bitch in those situations?

The thing is, our idea of body image is completely bat shit to begin with. Whether fashion begets the figure or the figure fashion is chicken and eggs (though I'm pretty sure we can blame the designers if we wanted to get down to it), but to function as though Calvin Klein's 90's ads are the pinnacle of ideal women's figures is absolutely coo coo bananas. Sometime in the 80's, someone decided clothes look better on hangers and thus died the supermodel and all we got for it was Kate Moss. Clothes may look better on hangers, but women sure as fuck do not.

I used to lament my bad timing. But it's all a matter of perspective: with my pale skin (ivory complexion), high forehead (noble brow), and voluptuous figure (T&A), I could've been a relatively successful centerfold in any number of eras ranging from the middle ages to the 80's.

But why miss what I never had when I've got what I do now: a body women essentially pay to construct themselves. My Maluendas make impants of any kind completely unnecessary; I don't need surgery to feel like a woman (I was Kim Kardashian before Kim Kardashian was Kim Kardashian, yo). And though I'm independently pretty happy with my curves, it doesn't hurt that I live with a man who, after 5 years together, still drops whatever he's doing like a dumbstruck teenager when he sees me naked.

I hate it when I read that one has "made peace" with their body because it sounds like they've just sucked it up and compromised with mediocrity. I do not have a mediocre body, and I sure as hell don't want to feel that way about it. My body is amazing. I am continually impressed with what I can do when I push myself, like when I came home from a run and, on an endorphin high, challenged David to a man-push-up contest. I did 25. Straight. I can do the splits and touch my nose to my knees. I can balance myself on my hands, with my shins resting on the backs of my arms. I can stand on the tips of my toes for almost 5 full seconds. I can also finish an entire pizza, a 10-cup pot of coffee, a whole pumpkin pie and a bottle of wine (separately). Boo-ya.

So how important is it that this one friend felt the need to remark that I, in her warped little world, made her feel small? Not very. In fact, I'm happy to help out. If a friend of mine is so starved for positive body affirmation she must create illusions that fortify her confidence than please, let the make-believe begin. I am a gnome after all.

So this is Love

This delightful little candy knows the way to my heart: sea salt. I can't get enough of this magical seasoning, especially nestled inside of delicious sweets. The bar had me at first glance, with it's adorable little correspondence packaging-- the embossed gold heart mimicking a wax seal is indeed a nice touch. But the moment I knew that ours was the stuff of lasting love was when I glimpsed the Shelley poem printed on the inside of the wrapper...

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The Winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another,

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea--

What are all these kissings worth,

If though kiss not me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make out with a bar of chocolate...

Footballer's Delight

With the World Cup finally coming to a frustrating end, I now have little excuse to keep me from resuming some kind of consistent blogging. But today, in honor of the only game I've ever loved, I will forgo the usual discussion of beauty products, pop culture and breasts to attempt something that's going to make my mother's jaw drop: sports writing.

My sporting penchants were set early in life: soccer was always around, my Chilean father ever the advocate with his regulation size ball in the trunk, pulling it out at the site of the smallest stretch of grass, dirt, or empty parking lot. I remember learning how to head the ball one particularly swampy afternoon in late summer of my elementary years, in a parched field landmined with drying dog turds next to Herman Park. After applying my forehead to an underhand toss maybe 4 out of 10 times, he declared me "ready," and sent a short-ranged chip square to my face.

My father had generally taught me that a 6-year-old girl's inclination to sob from pain is not okay. "Toughen up, Pipas. Be a man." But after taking a rock-like punt from a full grown man to the mug, I was having a hard time stifling the tears. Luckily for me, there is crying in soccer. And thus my love affair began.

Many of my friends are not too fond of soccer. The complaints are pretty standard-- you may harbor the same quibblings yourself: nothing happens, there are barely any goals, it's just a bunch of running around, etc. etc. I suppose, if I had not played the game in my childhood and early teen years, I would probably be among the chief carpers, because I certainly have my share of sniveling against other sports (American football! Baseball!). And while I know it can be off-putting to have someone try to convert you to the Other Side simply because they happen to reside there, well... this is my blog.

=)

Why I Love Soccer And You Should Too

Contrary to the notion that "nothing happens," the game is a full 90 minutes (usually more) of solid, unrelenting play. Two 45 minute halves that go mostly uninterrupted (even the most dire injury will be cleared away with the swift discretion of a C.I.A. operation) is a hell of a lot more action than you'll see in say, a 3 second football play or watching baseball players stretch their hamstrings all game. The average midfielder in a soccer match runs MILES (7 or 8, if you're Michael Bradley), on thighs plucked from a prized thoroughbred. Thus, ladies and gents, you don't have to care about the game to get into it: you can just sit back, drink a beer, and let the shameless objectification commence because these guys are fit. Seriously. Soccer players are built like gods straight from Mount Olympus. Case in point-- U.S.A. hero Landon Donovan:

Ah, yes. The good-looking athlete. Thank God for soccer because it seems like there are so many athletes out there looking like Shrek these days. I remember the first time I actually tried to watch an Astros game, looking down at Jeff Bagwell's enormous ass in his white pants. What? I thought. Doesn't he get paid millions and millions of dollars to play sports? Shouldn't he look like Herakles, rippling quads and sinew, delts straining against his jersey? And then I found out that there's really minimal movement required for baseball. If there isn't heart-stopping action, gorgeous players should be a requirement. Period .
(The USA team. They didn't win, but they're certainly easy on the eyes.)

There is pressure, intensity, and emotion in every soccer match, the likes of which you are unlikely to see in any other sport. From superhuman athleticism to personal fouls, faked injuries or booking disputes, you won't want for drama in any given match. Soccer players are coursing adrenaline so thick they simply can't help but succumb to the extreme of every emotion they feel. And who doesn't want to see a grown ass man throwing a full out tantrum?
Now, I'm not much of a sporty jargon user, so I can't support the point as well as say, this guy, but I feel pretty confident declaring that soccer athletes are arguably some of the best athletes playing in any sport the world over. The game requires tremendous stamina, endurance and raw physical power. It ain't some small thang to run for almost 90 solid minutes over a space longer than an American football field while 11 demi-gods do everything in their power to plow you down. Manipulating a ball with your head or body demands perfect timing and unimaginable core strength. And, with no flabby guts slowing up the game, there's some serious break-neck speed, coupled with instantaneous decision making that is often breathtaking to behold. Here, check it out:
Best of all for the fan, there are no obnoxious commercials breaking the mood, nor billions of instant replays blocking out the game at hand: the fan is right there with the players in real time, experiencing each excruciating step up a mountain of intensity so great that the only way for it to end is with some fantastic, impossible athletic feat. And then, under insurmountable odds, the moment breaks in sheer, real emotion. You will find no poker-faced winner or grimly silent loser in this game. Adult men will shed real crocodile tears, will embrace one another in genuine camaraderie, will fall to their knees and shout praise to the floodlit heavens. Plus, who can make the argument that the post-goal celebrations aren't the most incredible celebrations to behold?

Why else do we value sports if we don't need for this spectacle? Call it simulacrum, but if you don't feel your troubles fading into the background you aren't paying attention. I used to doubt the benefits from channeling all of your stress and frustrations into a professional sporting event, but I can say now with full confidence that I not only understand the phenomenon but also support it. There's simply no doubting the cathartic and unifying effects of sports. Not once I found myself, tears streaming down my face, reflecting on recent troubles with a much lighter heart. Seriously. I could've been hanging out with one of my least favorite, pompous, obnoxious acquaintances, but witnessing that Donovan goal in the 90-something minute of the Algeria game and there would've been genuine, full-bodied bear hugs in order. Watching all that man-love on the field is just bewitching.
The World Cup pulled me out of the nasty, almost 3 month case of the Mean Reds I've been suffering after a wedding contract job went sour and my writing hit a major wall. The frustration, anger and outrage churning in my gut was enough to have me jumping into a superfluous and asinine court case over $200 with a passive aggressive bridezilla who seemed to believe that paying an inexperienced independent designer a little more than minimum wage would sufficiently cover a progressive list of jobs appropriate for an entire team of florists, designers and movers. Any bitch who figured that formula somehow entitled her to the perfect, problem-free wedding of her dreams obviously doesn't live on a planet where reason and logic roam free, but pride caused me to briefly consider taking the thing to small claims.

Luckily, after promising the Boogs not to do anything rash for at least a week, the tournament began. And, in those precious hours each day spent following ESPN.com and engaging in some major shit-talking with fellow supporters, I found all the anger and helplessness with the Crazy Bride melting away. What did I care about a bat-shit princess when I had referees and Argentina to endure my wrath? How could I sit around feeling sorry for myself when the U.S. was devastated after our best-ever run, or when Ghana went to penalty kicks after Suarez's outrageous Devil's Hand? The sound of an entire continent's collective heartbreak as they watched their last African hope fall out of the tournament was all the perspective I required to shrug away my now meager troubles.

(Suarez's desperate handball prevents a Ghanan goal in the last few minutes of overtime halves, pushing the game to penalty kicks)

Though none of my 5 picks made it to the final two (I was pulling for Ghana for third, Germany to win), and though I backed the Dutch in a game that will forever be etched into the books as one of the scrappiest, dirtiest, least-soccer-played finals in World Cup history (seriously, if Howard Webb red carded every time it was deserved, the match could have easily turned into some coo-coo banana circus event of 9 on 11, not that the Netherlands weren't asking for it) I bid South Africa farewell with a light, grateful heart. Thanks WC. See you in Brazil 2014.

Here, some articles on Why Americans Should Love Soccer, an excellent argument Supporting the Most Un-American Aspect of The Sport.

Hi, how've ya been?

Hello dear blog-followers (Hi Ari! Hi Mal!):

I haven't forgotten about you, I promise. I've got half a dozen blog posts half-started in my "To Be Edited" folder, I swear. But I've been fighting a bad case of the Mean Reds this past month or so, and just couldn't bear to pull out another filler YouTube video, or some mediocre commentary on pop culture fads. I needed a break, I needed to regroup: do some Pilates, clean out the studio, drink some wine. No good blogging could come from these things, I think. And so it was for you, dear reader (Mal! Ari!) that I abstained from the drunken blog post, or the post-yoga meditation on the BP oil spill and Lady Gaga. Life's too short to read Bad Blogs, I reasoned.

And so consider this my solemn vow, dear ones, that I am going to return to the semi-regular posting quite soon, and that I have gathered quite the delicious array of fodder for your eagerly seeking creative non-fiction blogging needs (bad weddings! lover's quarrels! Facebook faux-pas!). I do think, however, that I needed to ease my way back into the conversation on neutral, if not positive terms, as I'm afraid that most of these topics lead me to chugging the Haterade (Bridezillas! Art reality shows! Creating-fake-practice-family-portraits-with-someone-else's-child-on-Facebook-like-a-psycho-asshole!) and I'm not too keen on alienating my dear readers on the pretense of bitching.

And so, I'd like to reopen the dialogue with a list of recent obsessions: things that make me happy, things that I cannot stop using/buying/consuming/thinking about/watching. This is, to say the least, MY Tiffany's, the only surefire cure for the Mean Reds.

1. Rompers.

I am totally obsessed. I have three of them, and the moment I come home I hop out of my clothes at a speed that would inspire Warner Bros. to reexamine the Road Runner, and slip into one of these cotton, full-bodied numbers that make me feel cozy, practical and sexy. Every time the Boogs comes home and finds me doing Pilates, reading, or cooking in one of these ingenious sartorial inventions, he calls out "Romper!" and I stop what I'm doing, and frolic. Just for a moment. They are so, so delicious.

2. Say Yes to Carrots Body Butter.

I found this in a mini travel size at Target and I cannot stop putting it on my hands and arms. It is creamy, light, and soft, everything a good dessert mousse should be, for your skin. The smell is subtle and clean, and if I can't control the fervor with which I rub it all over myself in public, I'm afraid I'm going to just have to start eating it.

3. PG Tips

I was introduced to this delicious tea last summer when the Boogs and I lived in the Catskills with two Brooklyn artists and their young son Jasper. (Check out their sites on the links provided!) At night, after the Jasper had been put (usually temporarily) to sleep and we all retired to our studios for late-night contemplation, Kirsten and I would make enormous mugs of PG tips with milk and raw sugar. I developed a bit of an obsessive craving for the stuff and was abruptly cut off when we were traveling shortly thereafter. Upon our return to the US we were so absurdly poor that it wasn't until this past month that I finally felt totally comfortable buying the whole damn 80 satchel box at Whole Foods. Tis heavenly at 10 o'clock at night, with a big hard back book and graham crackers.

4. Anthropologie dishware

All of which were purchased today with the help of my handy-dandy family discount card courtesy of the Boogs' job (he's the display artist at Urban). I cannot tell you how long I have coveted the latte bowls, nor can I fully express what joy it brings me to see them stacked now, next to a bottle of wine and a big white Anthro bag with those spartan, elegant red handles. I believe we've called this feeling "happiness," though it seems to fall devastatingly short of what I'm currently experiencing.

5. The World Cup. More specifically, the USA team in the World Cup.

I know this may seem like an unlikely transition, given all the beauty and food items listed before it, but I am equally obsessed (if not more so) with this year's World Cup. I came into it with what I thought was a very "realistic" approach: given the stats and my own instincts, I settled upon a rough Top Five of Germany, Ghana, Mexico, Chile and the US. While Ghana and Germany are definitely abreast my expectations, Chile and the US have far exceeded them, and I am happy to say that I am fully backing our dear country in the upcoming elimination round. I was skeptical, though unsurprised, by their performance against England and Slovenia (our defense was wild, if not pathetic) but the Algeria game that won us our group (first time since 1930!!!!!) makes them worthy not only of their spot against Ghana in the elimination round (a totally worthy team, a strong and surprising group) but also of my total, 100% undying support.

I saw on the ol' FB that many-a non-soccer fan (re: the vast majority of my American friends) were confused- nay- resentful of the sudden outpouring of support and soccer-love via status updates. "Where did all these soccer fans come from??" they queried, not without judgement, not without a tone that would imply that we futbol-watchers were Sunday-supporters, fair weather fans. To these skeptics I say this: I never hear you wondering "where did all these Olympics fans come from!?" during the games. The World Cup also occurs every 4 years, and thus, we are fully informed, fully saturated, fully satisfied. Deal with it.

And, USA v. GHANA, SATURDAY JUNE 26th, 2:30 ET. Be there.

A love of elephantine proportion.

In honor of today, here's a photo of me and my Mama, circa 1986:

I know. I was heart-meltingly cute. It's been kind of a tough thing to keep up with.

My mother is one of the most dedicated, kind, and patient women in the world. She is also stunningly beautiful, and by some fluke in the Universe's genetic lotteries, my face favors hers over Dad's. And for that, I am completely and totally grateful.

To my incredible mama, from whom I received cheekbones, little-to-no body hair, and lady feet that fit the tiny-size shoes always on super sale at department stores (they look larger in the photo).

Thanks for everything.

Baiting for Hobnobs

Once upon a time, I was a mingling champion. I was at home in any scenario: art opening, baseball game, youth gathering held with various religious organizations or schools. I could spend the afternoon discussing the finer points of the Container Store's fabric closet shelves with my neighbor to hitting a friend-of-a-friend's impromptu pool party for some light skinny dipping and jello shots with strangers. Musicals, potlucks, school dances-- I could take to the mix like a well-timed toss of a twist of lemon or pinch of sea salt to, well, everything. I was amazing.

...in a dream I had once. I'm not saying I suck at fraternizing with strangers at any given function, but I'm not saying I'm awesome either. It's nothing, in short, that a few glasses of complimentary cheap red wine can't cure (or so I like to believe. It is, however, somewhat of a joke amongst my loved ones that I'm a surefire champ at The Intense Drunk Conversation. "It's your way of dancing topless on tables," said my college roommate).

In any case, somewhere along the line, I developed a small case of pre-mingling jitters I can't seem to shake. I blame the zodiac-- between the social Libra and the moody crustacean, I seem to have developed performance anxiety. Once or twice, this unfortunate habit ended in either the telling of a super inappropriate topic way too early in the event (because I'm certain David's boss would have thought that my joke about octopus vaginas was hilarious after a third round of cocktails), or in the incredibly unfunny, esoteric stories about poetry ("I mean, seriously, what's John Updike's deal anyway? I'd rather have a colonoscopy than read one of his masturbatory characters again. Hahaha-- get it? Colonoscopy? Get it??").

The thing is, I've got a penchant for names and faces (it's actually listed as an extra skill on my resume and has, not just once, garnered additional interest for a job). But most people seem to lack the attention span required to remember the names of their coworkers, let alone the surnames and birthdates of their Kindergarten classmates (it's true, I remember all 12). My gift served me well as the sidekick of my ever-forgetful stepfather at pretty much every social occasion in memory, but most of the time it's simply a burden that appears to reap far more embarrassment than accolades (try explaining to someone you haven't seen in 9 years why you remembered to ask about Vanilla, their cockapoo, or whether their mother Sandra ever figured out how to get around her shellfish allergy at the family restaurant).

And so, as my enthusiasm for mingling has been replaced with self-consciousness, I don what appears to be a pleasant but serious expression of interest (as pictured above, courtesy of Bmore Art) while I nod diplomatically and await the magical properties of alcohol to take effect. I look like an semi-understanding, partially medicated Kindergarten teacher.

Tomorrow, I'm heading to Roanoke to attend the Last Jitterbug and to do the good thing and reacquaint myself with the faculty and staff I will be working with come fall. And, truth be told, I am terrified of that whole awkward half-recognizing one another thing: you know, the "Hey-" oh, they weren't looking at me. Oh wait, yes, "yea-- HEY, oh," but not that friendly they don't remember my name. Hands? "Yeah-oh yes, let's shake.. no! Haha, just kidding" ha, yeah, no need to touch, I'll just scratch my arm here and rock back a step or two.. "Right, so.. did you say there was a bar?"

But here, here! Let it be known that this trip will mark a new direction for my pre-hobnobbing apprehension. Utilizing a kind of carrot-on-a-fishing-pole-technique, I'm going to pretend I am that elbow-rubbing warrior of my dreams. I am going to allow myself to react, to smile, to express emotions that don't denote a recent round of Botox regardless of how many times I remember the person's name (..and rank and serial number) only to be introduced as "She," because: I booked myself a fancy room in the big fancy hotel with my grant money (travel for a reading = poetry funding, YES) and I fully intend on sinking into my pillow top King with a big-ass glass of not-so-cheap red wine at the end of the night.

Disquietude be damned.

In Which I Lament Early Blooming

My breasts came in when I was 9. I remember the latter parts of elementary school not as the joyful, carefree days spent doodling in textbooks with my smelly peers, but as a time of overwhelming self-consciousness. It happened overnight: I came down to breakfast in my nightdress, quite unaware of the new addition to my chest, and stopped cold at my brother's wild-eyed, ecstatic face. It was the look wrought only from a gift passed down from on high, a sign that you are being blessed by the hand of God himself: it was the undeniable recognition of your older sister's greatest humiliation. He ran from the room, and, standing in the grey morning light I felt the slightest tenderness coming from something swelling over my breastbone. Ringing out, as though shouted from the highest mountaintop, I heard my brother's now-infamous cry: MOM, Steph's got big ones!

With the misguided logic of a hormonal preteen, I began wearing my brother's left over Beefy T's-- you know, all the radio and sporting event freebies that the chubster himself couldn't fill out. I refused a bra, under the equally as misguided notion that to wear one was toacknowledge them, thereby making them real. So I endured the 4th and 5th grade in shin-length Umbro soccer shorts and enormous white t-shirts that draped in two stiff tents from my budding chest. Shortly thereafter, my brother was blessed further: I had developed a ruddy case of acne and acquired round, wire-rimmed glasses. Did I mention that I was in my 3rd year of braces? And that the braces were an experiment in orthodontia by my elderly and somewhat blundering dentist?

In short, I had it going on.

While my forehead remained a breeding ground for volcanically active whiteheads and I kept the braces, wire-rimmed glasses and, for a short while, a blunt shoulder-length haircut in the shape of a yield sign, it was really only my breasts with whom I waged war. Not until my flat-chested comrades began donning tiny training bras would I even consent to a sports bra (6th grade) and I would often wear 2 and sometimes 3 shirts to buffer their shape. I crossed my arms over them, covered them with my books, hunched my back to counteract how horribly convex they were. And the boobs fought back: they just kept growing. They grew and they grew....

Until..

Just kidding.

I do, however, consider myself the gracious loser of this round of "My Pubescent Stories Are Sadder and More Embarrassing Than Yours." If you're in the mood for a good cry, and you think you can handle the classy kind of journalism over at The Sun, here's the link:

Bed-Bound By My Big Boobs.

How Lady Gaga got schooled

A few posts ago, I lamented the lost art of the Pop Music Video. I never thought I would have to look to the military to appease my need for booty-shakin' good.

I mean, really: group choreography is the scientifically proven answer for pop success. They didn't even need cleavage, and it's still better than the over-budgeted, over-acted weakling skin flick that was the original Gaga video.

El muerto en motora

Yesterday, my boss had me Google "custom made men's underwear." I spent the day discovering companies like buffdbod.com and yourprivates.com.

Today, my students told me I was too old to have children.

"Miss Lohmann, you got kids?"

"No."

"Just babies?"

"...no. Two cats."

*student wrinkles nose*

"Miss Lohmann, how old are you?"

"24."

"Well whatchyou waitin' for?? You can't be havin' them in your 30's. You supposed to be a grandma then."

And all I could find on the internet was this:

Grandmother makes a baby! With her grandson.

and this:

Incidentally, it's been a rough week.

A very tiny soapbox

I generally don't like to get involved in political discussions over the internet, as they are often polarizing and easily misinterpreted, but this new law in Oklahoma is making me completely sick to my stomach.

Regardless of one's stance on abortion, the fact is that it exists. It has always existed.* And whether or not it is legal, it will continue to exist.** The question to abolish it is nonsensical; the question to regulate it is complicated. However, requiring that the pregnant woman must undergo an expensive and invasive procedure (from which the doctor retains the right to lie to his patient about the developmental status of the fetus) begs the bigger question: is Oklahoma going to be spending an equivalent amount of money and effort on this child after they manipulate the woman into keeping it?

Somehow, I believe the answer is, "Well, no. She's in charge of the thing now, isn't she?"

I believe in shades of gray and exceptions to rules.*** And I believe that laws like these do not consider the complexities of a very muddled issue (these screenings require the woman to hear a detailed description of the fetus' heart, limbs and features, and are mandatory for all women, including rape and incest victims). It is in this regard that the law is not only ludicrous, but also downright disgusting.

*The "Concerned Women of America," Conservative, Anti-choice site dedicated to spreading biblical principles throughout the land.

**"National Abortion Federation," Liberal, Pro-choice site dedicated to spreading awareness about women's health and safety across the land. Both sites acknowledge the rich and dangerous history of the black market abortion.

***I do not readily identify with the Elephant or the Donkey. I was raised in an extremely conservative household but went to an arts high school and then a women's college: I've visited both sides of the mirror. While I do not believe entirely in either political party as they currently present themselves in our country, I do believe in certain inalienable rights: everyone, not just the financially privileged, should have the opportunity for healthcare and a safe educational environment. Both the Elephant and the Donkey have ignored these rights when they don't best serve their respective agendas. (Because isn't voting what politics are all about anyway? We're only fooling ourselves if we believe that any time a politician is faced with a national dilemma they don't poop their pants over voter's retention before having a go at a real solution. If they ever have go at a real solution.)

How Pop Music Saved My Life (or, Disillusionment and the Music Video)

While driving, I exclusively listen to top 40 stations. It began in college when I found myself road-tripping through the Blue Ridge on a weekly basis, sometimes driving straight through the night on an ill-advised Red Bull and cigarette high. When the caffeine buzz waned and my car companions had all gone comatose, I found myself completely alone on a deserted highway at 3 am. Virginia is not big on the street light, and being the lone car in the pitch of early morning puts you at considerable risk for Death by Deer. I remember once, while driving from Roanoke to Houston (a nonstop 26 hours), I found myself in what appeared to be the drop point for the local serial killer-- limbs were strewn across the road as though they had been dumped from the back of a pick up truck, and all I could make out were their spindled shapes, sometimes flattened, studding the bloodied ground. As I slowed (which still baffles me; in my right mind the instinct would surely be to flee) I caught site of the tapered nose from a decapitated deer. Some poor truck driver, no doubt, had unwittingly come upon a pack of deer; the impact was clearly so immediate that the bodies more or less exploded, leaving nothing behind but a 50 yard stretch of solid carnage.

Despite the fear induced by facing what appeared to be the opening shot of a B horror film (or worse, a Tarantino/Rodriguez mashup) I still found myself overwhelmed with exhaustion. Nothing in the world made more sense than to fall asleep. Right there. Wheel in hand. Surrounded by dismembered roadkill. And so I turned to the radio.

Sometimes, it's the obvious appeal of pop music: the catchy beats, the flashy vocals, the simple lyrics. One year, I went through a phase where the only thing that could keep me from nodding off were the first three songs on Britney's Blackout album, blasted at decibels rivaling the crowd at a Hanson concert circa 1998. I will be in my car, on hour 12 of straight driving, past the point where food or caffeine retains any kind of effect whatsoever, and Rihanna is my upper. The Black Eyed Peas. Justin Timberlake. Lady Gaga. The Pussycat Dolls. Basically, all the stuff you would never list under Facebook's "Favorite Music" section.

But sometimes I listen to top 40 stations because they get me riled. Some of these songs are so poorly written, so blandly executed, that I am baffled at their success. Take, for example, Ke$ha. Now, I have no animosity towards the girl herself-- she, like all the rest of the pop starlets out there, is a carefully crafted, heavily marketed image for the pop crowd who needs a breather from Gaga. She is plain ol' easy-to-swallow vanilla pop, whose heavily synthesized music can get your foot tapping despite her stupid name and asinine lyrics (The boys are lining up cuz they know we got swagger/ but we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger). The less I know about the puppet behind the song that keeps me from crashing into a tree at night, the happier I am to sing along to, laugh at, and rant about the songs themselves.

But we all have YouTube. And I have the relatively common habit of looking up the photos and music videos of the people whose music prevents my untimely demise. Sometimes, I am pleasantly surprised: take Kanye's Love Lockdown, JT and Madonna's 4 minutes, or Gaga's Bad Romance (the Cremaster of pop music videos: over-budgeted, overrated, heavy with semi-ambiguous symbology... but visually delicious). But then you get videos like this, where the song is a flimsy pretext for an outrageous plot with bad acting and over the top product placement. It's like a bad porn without the sex, and maybe a little Super Bowl ad campaigning thrown in for good measure. Vomit.

But nothing could stop me from searching for La Roux's "Bulletproof," a somewhat "breath of fresh air" amongst all the Chris Brown and Train my Top 40 station has been overplaying lately. And this is what I found:

No! No! No!!!! It's like watching Kate Gosselin on Dancing with the Stars--those vacuous eyes, the plastered expression of unmasked discomfort. Elly Jackson, what were you thinking?? I can run with the geometry-- I don't generally need to know "why" for my music-video-viewing pleasure-- but why did we go with "sad face" for this one?? I really thought, when I heard the song on the radio, we'd have some humor, something a little more energetic-- think Depeche Mode's gogo dancers from "Personal Jesus."

The music video is an absurd thing. To go back to my former comparison, it is not unlike a porn-- there's the basic premise of a song (sex), for which the video is responsible to accommodate. The storyboards these days seem to attempt the "plot line" more and more, which (as in a porn) generally feel groundless and wanton. I'm more into "Pick a theme" videos, where they run with some kind of general aesthetic and add some dancing. It's MUSIC. We don't need a 4 minute sitcom or documentary. We need costumes! Synchronized jazz squares! Maybe a few booty shakes and a little animation!

There's the old joke about rap videos showing nothing but booty, cars and money, and honestly I feel like it's a much better formula than the crapshoot that occurs when pop strays from their own group choreography, sexy faces, and glittery costumes. If you MUST stray, just don't axe the choreography-- we don't want to see you cry in your video and stare soulfully into the camera's eyes (or, the case of Elly Jackson, attempt to stare soulfully). We want to see you strut, pop and lock it. I'm not even going to qualify the statement as a generalization. It's practically science.

An example of how a well-crafted video made me overcome initial gag-reflex to the song. Well done Michel Gondry: we are not worthy.

Bibliophilia

For the sole, arbitrary reason that the book is sitting on my bookshelf, I've decided that my summer will look like this:

1. Don Quixote Miguel de Cervantes
2. War and Peace Leo Tolstoy
3. Ulysses James Joyce
4. In Search of Lost Time Marcel Proust
5. The Brothers Karamazov Feodor Dostoevsky
6. Moby-Dick Herman Melville
7. Madame Bovary Gustave Flaubert
8. Middlemarch George Eliot
9. The Magic Mountain Thomas Mann
10. The Tale of Genji Murasaki Shikibu
11. Emma Jane Austen
12. Bleak House Charles Dickens
13. Anna Karenina Leo Tolstoy
14. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain
15. Tom Jones Henry Fielding
16. Great Expectations Charles Dickens
17. Absalom, Absalom! William Faulkner
18. The Ambassadors Henry James
19. One Hundred Years of Solitude Gabriel Garcia Marquez
20. The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald
21. To The Lighthouse Virginia Woolf
22. Crime and Punishment Feodor Dostoevsky
23. The Sound and the Fury William Faulkner
24. Vanity Fair William Makepeace Thackeray
25. Invisible Man Ralph Ellison
26. Finnegans Wake James Joyce
27. The Man Without Qualities Robert Musil
28. Gravity's Rainbow Thomas Pynchon
29. The Portrait of a Lady Henry James
30. Women in Love D. H. Lawrence
31. The Red and the Black Stendhal
32. Tristram Shandy Laurence Sterne
33. Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol
34. Tess of the D'Urbervilles Thomas Hardy
35. Buddenbrooks Thomas Mann
36. Le Pere Goriot Honore de Balzac
37. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man James Joyce
38. Wuthering Heights Emily Bronte
39. The Tin Drum Gunter Grass
40. Molloy; Malone Dies; The Unnamable Samuel Beckett
41. Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen
42. The Scarlet Letter Nathaniel Hawthorne
43. Fathers and Sons Ivan Turgenev
44. Nostromo Joseph Conrad
45. Beloved Toni Morrison
46. An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser
47. Lolita Vladimir Nabokov
48. The Golden Notebook Doris Lessing
49. Clarissa Samuel Richardson
50. Dream of the Red Chamber Cao Xueqin
51. The Trial Franz Kafka
52. Jane Eyre Charlotte Bronte
53. The Red Badge of Courage Stephen Crane
54. The Grapes of Wrath John Steinbeck
55. Petersburg Andrey Bely
56. Things Fall Apart Chinue Achebe
57. The Princess of Cleves Madame de Lafayette
58. The Stranger Albert Camus
59. My Antonio Willa Cather
60. The Counterfeiters Andre Gide
61. The Age of Innocence Edith Wharton
62. The Good Soldier Ford Madox Ford
63. The Awakening Kate Chopin
64. A Passage to India E. M. Forster
65. Herzog Saul Bellow
66. Germinal Emile Zola
67. Call It Sleep Henry Roth
68. U.S.A. Trilogy John Dos Passos
69. Hunger Knut Hamsun
70. Berlin Alexanderplatz Alfred Doblin
71. Cities of Salt 'Abd al-Rahman Munif
72. The Death of Artemio Cruz Carlos Fuentes
73. A Farewell to Arms Ernest Hemingway
74. Brideshead Revisited Evelyn Waugh
75. The Last Chronicle of Barset Anthony Trollope
76. The Pickwick Papers Charles Dickens
77. Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe
78. The Sorrows of Young Werther Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
79. Candide Voltaire
80. Native Son Richard Wright
81. Under the Volcano Malcolm Lowry
82. Oblomov Ivan Goncharov
83. Their Eyes Were Watching God Zora Neale Hurston
84. Waverley Sir Walter Scott
85. Snow Country Kawabata Yasunari
86. Nineteen Eighty-Four George Orwell
87. The Betrothed Alessandro Manzoni
88. The Last of the Mohicans James Fenimore Cooper
89. Uncle Tom's Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe
90. Les Miserables Victor Hugo
91. On the Road Jack Kerouac
92. Frankenstein Mary Shelley
93. The Leopard Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
94. The Catcher in the Rye J.D. Salinger
95. The Woman in White Wilkie Collins
96. The Good Soldier Svejk Jaroslav Hasek
97. Dracula Bram Stoker
98. The Three Musketeers Alexandre Dumas
99. The Hound of Baskervilles Arthur Conan Doyle
100. Gone with the Wind Margaret Mitchell

I love setting realistic goals. For the sake of time, I'm going to skip over the books I've already read (highlighted). I figure that, if I'm seriously going to attempt an MFA (and shortly thereafter, a PhD) in creative writing/literary arts, the least I can do is read all the books that are archetypal standards for comparative literature. You know, all the books we were supposed to read in school. (I cannot believe I've never read a stitch of Dickens, but am super grateful to have already trudged through the hobby horse that was Tristram Shandy.)

Aiming to read 75 books whose average page count is hovering around 500 before September is totes reasonable. An achievable goal. Lest you forget that I once hit the entire Harry Potter series in less than a fortnight.

What's a delusional knight got on preteen wizardry, anyway?

The Orangutan and the Hound

Tuesday-Thursday, I teach art at a charter school in downtown Baltimore to 1st-7th grade. The school is young and a little rough-- the older students are separated by gender (after too many were getting expelled for fornicating in the hallways...yes, you read that correctly) and I've lost not a few students to concealed weapon and assault charges. I begin my week with a 1st grade class of 28 who behave mostly like The Dog Whisperer's pit bull pack on crystal meth; without fail, my class ends with me on my knees, physically restraining a 6-year-old child who's spewing something along the lines of, "Bitch Imma kill you!" I end the day with a combined class of 6th and 7th grade boys who call me "Shawty." While they also become aggressive with one another every now and then, the biggest danger in that class is some light, casual, sexual harassment:

"Hey Miss Lohmann, can I get yo digits?"

"Um, whatever for?"

"So I can call you."

"I'm not sure the school board would be too happy about that."

"Miss, they don't got to know!"

The exchange is usually concluded with a stealthy duck and roll on my part when the boy goes for a full body hug. Though more than a decade younger than me and (supposedly) still prepubescent, all of my boys are roughly the size of a baby rhinoceros, and it's a littler terrifying to be charged by one.

Needless to say, I often come home in desperate need of decompression, and sometimes my mind craves Light, Fluffy, and Cute. I bring to you, as a Friday gift, Suryia and Roscoe.

I want an orangutan.

Twit for Tat

This week in Twitter Feuds, we learned about "True Facts" from the Baios (as well as discovering the hidden aspects of the Attorney General's job description) and reexamined the Insult. Today, we get the thrill of discovering "False Lies!" via Twit Scrap between one Spencer Pratt and one Perez Hilton.

Now, I have no idea why Mr. Pratt is so angry, and honestly, I think it's more or less completely insignificant. The following exchange is cut down, mostly because Spencer just says "Bitch!" 200 times over, and it gets a little redundant. But you get the gist: he makes "bitchass lying unethical traitor" all sound like one word. The boy's got a gift; let's observe him in his natural habitat, as he hones his craft with nothing but a phone, the Internet, and 140 characters.
I'll be honest, I'm not a Twitter user, but the whole "@" thing looks ridiculous to me. I do love how Perez put Spencer's name in quotations, like he's allegedly "Spencer Pratt." I also like how he keeps the name calling to a classic MF, and maintains defense solely on attitude. Point to Hilton.
Okay, so, what the cuss is a "False Lie?" Wouldn't that be a truth? Point Hilton.
He'll take it street. Going the "Yo Mama" route without even having to use a mother. Beautiful. Point Pratt.
Laaaaaaaaaaaame. Rotten-produce-wielding-lame. This is just a big fat DUH. Point Pratt.
I love how he manages to call Ke$ha a pumpkin in the process of insulting Perez. Pratt is a machine of disparagement when he's on his game..AND he keeps it PG; see how he takes it playground? Double to Pratt.
He's so good at the Defame Game, he even took a knock at himself. I like it. 3 points Pratt, just because I laughed for a good 3 minutes after reading this zinger.
Allright, Hilton's been a little lame on the offense but I will say this: Pratt is exactly where Hilton wants him. All media is good media, in this case, and Hilton's got absolutely nothing to lose engaging with a shrill bitch-happy sleazeball via Twitter. Point Hilton.

For those of you keeping score at home, the final count is Pratt:8, Hilton:3 Pratt wins mostly for volume and consistency, though I think we all know that winning the Douchebag race is kind of like coming out first in a diaper-eating contest. Congratulations are not necessarily the first thing on anyone's mind.

An excellent article on How Twitter is Ruining the Celebrity.

From the blog formerly known as "Livejournal"

Remember how I said that I would never, ever, ever write for just myself? Apparently there are worse things..

Like this.

Crawling back into my shell to reevaluate history. One small treasure discovered today, however: I love it when I have the opportunity to recall what small words spoke to me, and why it happened when it did.

September 6, 2004

It is as if one could by-pass love, when the other eyes parry with a picture of one's own face, never arrive at marriage, either true or false, when eyes glaze and minds are more private than ever but could stop in between at a point where no one can stop.

-Mona Van Duyn, Into Mexico

18 is a mystery.

The Decline of the Insult

I've been haphazardly following the Twitter Feud between Jezebel and Scott Baio, and with the addition of his very eloquent and charming wife, I feel I can no longer sit on this plaguing question: when did the Insult become so pathetic? While "Shitasses" and "cuntness" receive points for humor (the comical element stemming from the button-cute blonde Mommy holding her lil bundled Future Bigot of America) they are largely unoriginal and juvenile. If she had stopped there, we could just assume she was a pirate in a past life and call it a day. But the woman goes on to use "class" as an adjective and "Lesbian" as an insult, and this is where we over at Elephantine, get a little bored:

WHEW. Glad you cleared that one up Renee! For a second there I thought you were hating on lesbians! But you have a friend who's gay? Cool, girl. By all means, you slur out the word, no worries. Now that we know you're cool with a Gay Person, you can really just go nuts.

PC backpeddling is more nauseating to me than the outright bigotry itself. She, and rightly so, anticipates an onslaught of negative criticism for using a sexuality as an insult, and thus asserts this doesn't make her a homophobe because she has a Lesbian Friend (because, in case you hadn't heard, Gay is the new Black).

And while she's covering her barmy arse, she really pulls out all the stops: Renee Baio, everyone, also has friends who are left- and right-wing, Christian and not, handicapped and otherwise, and come in various sizes and colors. (etc etc.) According to Renee, her circle of friends is made up of Michael Jackson's We Are the World Benefit audience. Girlfriend's backpedaling so hard, she flies right into some gibberish meant to appease animal rights activists.. at least, that's to whom I determine "with or without animals," could possibly be intended. (While the Asshole Flag is undoubtedly flying high over her online avatars, I somehow doubt that "Lesbian cunts" shows up on PETA's radar.) I guess, if you're going to cry hood pass, you may as well be thorough.

Then it just gets downright silly:

Now, here's where I feel enlightened: I had no idea the Attorney General was in charge of mediating commenting rules on social networking and media websites. Huh. Learn something new everyday.

Anyway, the Tweet that started it all:

I'm sure you can deduce all you need to about the Baios' political affiliation from there. Nonetheless, this is also coming from a man who capitalized on his being 45 and commitment-phobic. I don't know about you, but I'm inclined to say that Reality TV Featuring a Big Washed Up Bum doesn't really qualify as "hard-working," but that's neither here nor there. We're talking about the lost art of the insult today.

After recognizing that he'd blipped up as Republican/Whiny/Angry on the Jez site, he goes into full on defensive mode, no holds bar:

To which, I'm sorry to say, writer Irin bites and makes a rather flimsy attack:

And then..

Oh GROAN. We're pulling the "take the high road" line and praying for one another now? AND arbitrarily throwing around the R-word? I think it speaks to his bigotry, that when he goes on the defense and attacks with abandon, the first thing he can think of is "a ignorant racist.**" Kind of like when Perez called Will.i.am a "Faggot." I love that he, like his wife, is completely thorough when they take the gormless road-- "blocking tweets" is the Twitter equivalent of "AND you can't come to my birthday party anymore! So there!"

Again, I'm a little sad that Irin took the "Go to hell" play, even if she did try to elevate it with a cutesy "sir." While I'll spare you the play by play for today's onslaught of the Baios' tweets and status updates (they're still taking the holier than thou road, undoubtedly reveling in the confidence that comes from being so tight with the Attorney General) but I will say this: if we are going to take the time to engage in a passive aggressive repartee via Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networking site, I implore the usage of your thesaurus. There's a widget for it, people. Then, at least when we're being forced to witness your temper tantrums, we won't have to look at words like "shitasses," or hear about the levels of "class" in your piss.

And maybe, one day, one of your awesome lesbo friends will let you know that while it's true some men "couldn't put up with their cuntness," the nature of being a lesbian means that the woman is not attracted to the man. Not the other way around.

Muttonhead.

** I didn't want to go SNOOT on you here, but "a ignorant" pretty much slammed what would otherwise have been a mildly uninteresting insult into full blown dumb ass territory.