What the cuss?

A friendly PSA from the folks over at Elephantine: in an effort to clean out our mouths (and, as a tribute to a favorite film) all further expletives on this blog will hereby be replaced by the word "cuss." Or they will simply be much, much more interesting.

That is all.

Dear Diary: A Cautionary Tale

Tucked into the broken drawer slats of my nightstand was a composition book that belonged to the previous owner. As far as found objects go, you can't get any more innocuous than a black Mead marbled schoolbook, but the instinct to open it and flip the pages (something we must learn by rote in our formative book years) reveals that this is no homework log, but a diary. And this diary is no diary like that of a writer-- there are no painstaking efforts to describe events, flush out characters, or even to ascribe to basic grammatical convention. This is the real thing, the classified raw emotions of someone genuinely turning to the pen for release: it is, without question, the most terrifying object I have ever encountered.

I have been keeping a journal of some kind since I was thirteen, which means that my entire life has been fastidiously documented for over ten years. There is ritual to my journaling: the vessel is important and selected with care; pens and handwriting are wielded with the tedious patience of a taxidermist. I have experimented with logging the times, noting my location, music, clothing, food. For a time I was even writing prayers. I have mastered the art of paraphrasing dialogue, so as to never lose a poignant conversation to the hazy well of memory (which I'm certain makes some people very, very nervous). Every important player in my life has been chronicled down to the most minute detail: I've noted tapered fingers, large pores, cadences and speech patterns, a peculiar method of eating popcorn, or the odd moment shared after a line is crossed. I have written love letters to teachers, detailed fantasies of wild success, delivered deliciously vicious diatribes against politicians, family members, and dear friends. I have hulled emotions from myself and given them to the page, writing until my fingers cramp, my forearm burns, and I am gutted.

But I have never, not once, given in to the reckless abandon of writing for only myself.

This composition book diary is only a rough dozen entries, delivered once a month or so, with absolutely zero consideration for a reader. Names are thrown around without explanation, emotions are contradictory and unjustified. Heinous acts are mentioned but left undefended, are then violently but briefly regretted. Her prose is underdeveloped, the handwriting harried, secrets spilled without apology. A repetitious line of self-loathing strings together chronicles of someone resigned to be sex-addicted and lost.

I met this girl a few times before she sold me the nightstand. After reading the diary I've Facebook stalked her a few times, searched through her friends to match names of regrettable hookups to their digital visages. My instinct was to judge, to note the youthful smiley face and the addled disconnect from her dimples to the sparse admissions of "Got drunk. Had sex with J----- even though I didn't want to. I am disgusting. He is gross." I mean, I also bought her bed, and spent almost a year of ignorant nights nestled amongst the ghosts of hundreds of drug-fueled romps, often with men who are "Okay, 48, but he's so sexy and made me feel soooo good about myself."

Maybe it's because I read Anne Frank's diary before I began keeping one myself, but I was always far too guarded to ever write like the Girl from the Composition Book. The thought of posthumous publication is enough to keep my feet to the fire, but I think the most imminent danger was that of a snooper-- you know, the "concerned parent," or jealous boyfriend. While reading my journals has proven to be a deal-breaker at least once in my life, I totally get it. We want to know what everyone is "really" thinking, who they "really" are. But while I now know that the owner of the composition book wanted so desperately to find meaning in her life (goal lists included such arbitrary stock-do-gooder items like "Help AIDS victims in Africa" and "Become a yoga instructor"), unfortunately for my snoopers, my diaries are more calculated and guarded than a well-timed conversation over a couple of glasses of wine (I'm a bit of cheap drunk, as it turns out, and not much of a secret-keeper).

This composition book is hands-down the saddest thing I've ever read, but absolutely solidifies my commitment to journaling for the Phantom. Doing something therapeutic for yourself is a fabulous notion, but do yourself a favor and never, ever put it in writing.

Playing Dress-Up

Day 6 of Snowpocalypse 2010:

Boredom was not allowed in my childhood. The oft-whined, "I'm booooored," was usually met with a list of productive, not-so-interesting suggestions to clean my room or get a head start on a research assignment. Worse still, my stepfather would sometimes bait me into a political discussion or try to wrangle me into home projects like organizing audio-cassette tapes or relabeling the pantry shelves. But the biggest deterrent for me was the pride-crushing mantra used when none of the other aforementioned options were viable:

"Only the boring get bored."

It was a good quip for a teenager whose self-image was all-important. Thus, the whining dwindled, and the quest for cabin-fever anecdotes began. I'd like to think that as I've matured, the activities in which I engage to occupy lag-time have also become more sophisticated. Unfortunately, this week completely debunked that hope. I apparently still inhabit the private world of a little girl who, when left to her own devices, will spend all her time:

• Writing in her diary
• Painting her nails
• Experimenting with makeup
• Dressing up in all her clothes
• Practicing french-braiding her hair
• Baking cookies and eating most of the dough
• Singing out loud, and thinking it sounds great
• Writing poetry
• Reading to her cats, using made-up voices
• Admiring the voices she makes up to read to her cats

Of course, there were a few more grown-up activities (wine-drinking, apartment-cleaning, David-loving) but mostly, I've spent the days doing exactly what I would have done with this time as a child. I've even begged David that later, when we go for our late night walk through this white, muffled world, that we can make a snowman.

All this aside, I do have one new grown up obsession I've been meaning to discuss-- lipstick. More specifically, this lipstick:

A very kind, generous woman gave me the Chanel Lover 09 lipstick last year, and save Halloween and Valentine's Day, I was very reluctant to wear it. But thanks to the recklessness that comes with pure, unadulterated boredom, I found myself swiping it on for the trek out to David's show this past Saturday.

Now, I'm thinking this could become my staple. I used to shy away from lipstick in general because I had this whole weird idea about "trying too hard." I was obsessed with looking like I "effortlessly" pulled a look together, but often this just resulted in spending hours trying to layer just right, with the tiniest bit of sexy peeking from a whole lot of casual. For awhile, this idea manifested itself in tight, lace-lined shelf-bra tank tops (no actual bra, a truly misguided psychology that governed my sartorial decisions in high school) under mens' open Oxford button downs. Accompanied with a series of attempts at the "tossled" hair updo, barely-there makeup (that somehow looked VERY there and took at least half an hour to achieve) and some ripped up jeans (of which I had ripped off the waistband) I still wonder how my mother let me out of the house. Somehow, in my twisted mind, my look was "effortless and sexy," not Walk of Shame.

If only I'd known then what I know now: Lipstick. I instantly took my last-of-the-clean-clothes outfit into something that made me feel hot. I mean-- I was wearing a cardigan. And a yellow scarf, that was just a tad bit off-shade from the yellow dress I had on. Over jeans. If Lover 09 can make that outfit work, it can do anything.

The [snow] comes on little cat feet..

The Snow Globe

Okay, I'll admit it: I had been skeptical about the imminent storm that had all inhabitants of the tri-state area absolutely hysterical (needed to make a quick stop at your local Target/Rite Aid/Safeway Thursday night for something casual like toilet paper, cereal? HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAA. You mean you didn't stock up on a lifetime supply of Charmin and Kelloggs the moment the weather girl cried "snow"??) There was a general air of terror and knee-shaking that only seemed to amplify as the sky pooled snow clouds overhead.

We tucked in with some Snow Day Stew (potato-broccoli-cheddar soup I made up combining this and this recipe) and our well-timed Netflix of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Season 4. And we waited. And I've got to say, I was all but rolling my eyes at the dribbly, innocuous, slow snowfall that fluttered down Friday night.

Ever heard the phrase "Slow and Steady wins the race?" Yeah, okay. You win, snow.

Here we are, knee-deep, under a sky that just won't quit.

Below you can see the Hello! sign in lieu of a snowman. This was sheer carving, no piling necessary.

That night David and I trekked out to his show at the Annex with our friends Josh and Liz. We'd started the afternoon delights with hot buttered rums (and though I strangely had no aversion to the thought of drinking melted butter, sugar and alcohol, I would really only recommend this one for the brave at stomach. Also, a rum that doesn't taste like gasoline might be the way to go) and had quickly progressed to a case of Tecate. Despite this, the involuntary faceplant into the unplowed roads was still highly possible. Here, Josh trips in front of a hill that used to be a vehicle.

Baltimore is still a snow-globe;everyone's on gchat "working from home." I'm making Valentines and beginning a very exciting collaboration project that I'll be sharing soon..

EDIT:

We are SIX DAYS into the blizzard. We are working on an additional 20 inches, as I type. Also, there was apparently an earthquake in Chicago last night... Anyone else feel like Mother Nature ain't just crying wolf anymore?

The Lotus Feast (or, On Pleasure)

In 1997, Brian Gilbert directed a sort-of biopic on Oscar Wilde, which you may not recall because a little ol' movie by the name of Titanic dominated the hearts, minds and credit cards of Wilde's intended target audience-- women ages 18-44, and gay men the world over.

I call the film a "sort-of biopic" because the focus is largely on Wilde's homosexuality (a point drilled into us about a quarter in, when David noted that we were on semi-explicit love scene #3), leaving the complexities and nuances of his working life as mere plot fillers for lag time.*

In fact, a viewer unfamiliar with the writer may walk away from the film forgetting the fact in lieu of the oh-so-more-juicy events surrounding The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. Yes, his work is mentioned; theaters feature his plays in the background; Constance reads his stories to their children; but the only time we actually witness Oscar writing is in one scene, a truly incredible scene (maybe the scene that made the film worth seeing) when Lord Alfred Douglas decides he is bored with Oscar's frugality and throws a hissy fit that is just so, to put it mildly, delicious:

"You're always so vulgar! No gentleman ever knows what his bank account is!" the very young and very convincing Jude Law screams, right before he runs from the house with abandon-- spit flying, arms flapping like some maladroit bird attempting a first flight. Child-like at vocal pitches maybe only dogs can register, his anger transcends even his vanity, and as you watch those delicately carved, pretty little features mangle in rage, you will have difficulty suppressing the image of Dorian Grey's matted soul. (And a good giggle.)

Nonetheless, the film, based on the celebrated biography by Richard Ellman, does shed a rather sensitive light over the man who brought us such quips as "It is better to be good-looking than to be good." We see him as warm, thoughtful, and compassionate, though certainly willing to forsake solemnity to entertain and be well-liked. In the scene where he is drilled by an irate Irish prosecutor while on trial for "acts of indecency and sodomy," he gives a very poignant, compelling speech that (paraphrased) while there can be no morality or immorality in thought, in truth it is not pleasure, not happiness, but one's true nature that must govern a life. Gilbert's Wilde seems willing to accept his, though he does appear somewhat shy and befuddled by it.

As any diligent neophyte of the School of Wilde, (circa 2002, junior year English class, The Importance of Being Earnest) I vividly recall the romantic tugs of Oscar's "Not happiness! Above all, not happiness. Pleasure!" The memory has me contemplating the frustrating dualities of such a seemingly simple concept: we all want to feel good, but there is a hairline border between evil Vice and acceptable Indulgence. And we humans are exceptionally prone to crossing the border.

Hedonism was hardly a foreign concept in my formative years: those who enjoyed themselves (or, lived for enjoying themselves) were usually the brunt of many-a off-the-cuff morality tale delivered if I was too entertained by a movie, or singing too soulfully with the radio. It became a challenge to even read a novel without someone accusing you of enjoying yourself too much. In the world of Wasps, you are trained to value suffering, to savor the right to complain about what you've endured, how many things you don't get to do; pleasure nullifies one's claim to a good sob story. And what would a Wasp do without her soap box?

Equally as important in my household were the Others, or, Those Who Made Us Feel Good About Ourselves Because They Are Not Whole And Pure Like We. (A.K.A, Democrats and Aggies.) As far as I knew, attending A&M meant you didn't know how to screw in light bulbs and voting blue was on par with petty theft. I remember a classmate parroting their parent's Clinton vote on election day and staring, mouth hung, as though he had just announced that he was, in fact, a voluntary Eunuch. And liked it.

As when, for the first time, I met intelligent Aggies and kind people unabashedly proclaiming themselves Democrats, I was agog when I heard my friend Ariel's parents shrug at a price tag for a family cruise to Bermuda (in the middle of the school year!): "Money is made for spending," her father said. It blew my mind.

So I did a quick thesaurus search for "hedonism" and discovered that "lotus eater" is a Macbook approved synonym. Otherwise known as lotophagi, this tribe consists of the pleasure-seekers from the Odyssey who lazed about doped up on lotuses.

(Above, Odysseus removes his men from these indolent pleasure-junkies.)

"Pleasure" certainly has it's negative connotations (which brings to mind that Mean Girls scene when the high school coach says, "Have sex and you WILL get chlamydia and you WILL die." Never mind he spelled it "Klamidia," he speaks the truth!) But what I've always struggled with is how the general school of thought, as distinguished by dear Oscar, seems to be that one can pursue pleasure OR happiness. But what about pleasures that beget happiness? Like travel, reading, bubble baths, or a really really good piece of cheesecake. Is it because I enjoyed it I can't possibly feel real happiness?

I'm just not buying it. To completely re-contextualize a Bill Maher quote for my own purposes:

"And it really is outdated in some ways - the "Life sucks, and then you die" philosophy was useful when Buddha came up with it around 500 B.C., because back then life pretty much sucked, and then you died - but now we have medicine, and plenty of food, and iPhones, and James Cameron movies - our life isn't all about suffering anymore. And when we do suffer, instead of accepting it we try to alleviate it." **

I mean, I'm down for a life with brunch, Amazon.com, cocktails and Netflix. Who's to say that these "simple pleasures" aren't actually little pieces of real Happiness? How is anyone who's ever found a 90% off flight to Hawaii, or completed a full marathon, or even just had a really solid, productive day, going to deny that the calm, quiet feeling nestled in the wake of accomplishment isn't an unalloyed bid for the Big H?

Whatever the case, Oscar's presence in Pleasure's corner just got me thinking about the complexities of definition, and the inevitable rupture of ensuing schools of thought. As usual, I tend to not choose a platform, but rather swallow the big gray pill with relish; to me, it is the mark of measured thinking to at least straddle the fence for a good long while before throwing a hat on a donkey or elephant (for example). Likewise, Wilde himself is not a compelling enough mascot for me to completely throw myself behind. Even if he did wear lush purple waistcoats and stand trial for something he (and I) believe in.

But I can throw myself behind hardback books, and french press coffee makers. And red wine and letters, runner's euphoria and yoga. Because, while happiness is certainly a concept worth scratching the head about, pleasure, dear, is not so difficult.

*This was a point that somewhat disappointed me, as I've taken a rather strong interest in the habits and schedules of writers. Annie Dillard's A Writing Life is a good source for anyone else interested in the exercise habits of Chekhov or the sleeping patterns of Octavio Paz.

**Bill Maher's comments on Tiger Wood's "Sex Addiction." Remarkably applicable.

I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.

So, in light of the fact that I'm apparently talking in my sleep about this, I guess I need to try to air it out in hopes that I will give my subconscious a rest.

The title post is taken from Jessica Rabbit's famous line in 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit." Jessica is, um, one hot mama, sporting every single physical jewel that plastic-surgery junkies consider mere modus operandi to "looking like the best me": soft, enormous, pillowy lips (often referred to as the Angelina Lips), teeeeeeeny tiny nose (think Heidi Klum), and, duh, some big ol' titties.

If Jessica Rabbit were real, I'm sure her repertoire would have been extended to an ear tuck, brow lift, cheek injection, and many additional "nips and tucks" to keep that waist so trim it's a miracle she doesn't crumble from the weight of such impressive décolletage. She may even have had some more personalized procedures, such as having an elongated chin shaved down, or implants wedged into her flat trunk ... sound familiar? Maybe like a certain young "starlet" who not only did get that chin shaved and butt "augmented" this past November, but also underwent each and every one of the aforementioned procedures in-- wait for it-- one, completely unnecessary, ten hour surgery. (Click for full photo)

As much as I wanted to resist joining the ranks of Heidi Montag's critics, I simply cannot get over these interview quotes that keep popping up over my dear Jezebel. (That and, when David informed me that amidst all the sleep-talk garble I'm famous for, my subconscious was apparently fuming over how she "looks like a tranny!") There have been some true gems that came out of her post-op interviews, but some quotes were, well, gut-wrenching. I'll let you differentiate:

• In response to whether she had chosen to unveil the new look in order to promote her conveniently timed release of her first album, she responded swiftly that, "Ohhhh no! That's all God's timing."
• On how young girls are supposed to respond to the apparently superficial and self-loathing message she's sending: "Well, my message is really that beauty is within."
• On if she thinks DDD is large enough: "I actually want H for Heidi."
• "I'm not addicted [to plastic surgery]. If I was addicted I would have had ten plastic surgeries" (Um... she did. Ten.)
• "I had to look through hours of photos for what boob size I wanted in Playboy...if you're going to do surgery, it's like doing research you know, for a paper you're writing."
• Paraphrased: "It's a spiritual transformation. God made Dr. Ryan who made me so it's okay with Him."
• "I went to an after-care place, and I was in so much pain, and like, literally crying, and just saying I-- I felt like I wanted to die, almost."

Wow. I love how she talks about the recovery with a definitive air of surprise, "It really.. hurt." What? Really? You mean that injecting all those foreign objects and substances and fats into your body didn't feel awesome? Because I always imagined that having my jaw bone sanded down would feel amazing.

I'm not really anti-cosmetic surgery, just to be clear. When I was growing up, the only kind of plastic surgeries I knew about were the standard boob/nose jobs, lipo and face-lifts that were generally frowned upon and seemed to only happen with the rich, bored, and unhappy. Now, while limelight, insecurity and shitloads of cash seem to make up the dangerous combination that launches many-a young celebrity into the rusty jaws of cosmetic surgery, I know many women and men who undergo the knife for reasons that are entirely reasonable: relatively so. While I don't think that multiple procedures (and certainly, some procedures even by themselves) are all that healthy for your body, I can definitely sympathize with the feeling that you're missing something (or have too much of something) that has nothing to do with exercise and healthy living. In an effort of full disclosure, I should say that I fully plan on having a boob-job of some kind after my breasts have served their purpose (after a life-long struggle with these guys, I will savor reclaiming them in my later years).

But while I don't necessarily love my chin or lips or nose, I think that shelling these features in favor of some stock plastic replacements wouldn't possibly bring me happiness. And while I don't know Heidi Montag, I just can't imagine that now that she looks like the Cat Lady's little sister, she's 100% happy with herself. And I can guarantee she isn't 100% finished getting work done either. One doesn't get neck liposuction at 23 and just ride out the fruits of that labor til death. Tis not exactly an endeavor with totally solid long-term effects.