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Sometimes when I see pictures of Dalian, I feel like I can’t breathe. Needing to go back, to live, for a few years, or forever, is maybe the one thing I’m sure of.
Cute Boys Make Mama Nervous
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I have no desire to post lately as a result of the fact that I will never ever aspire to be even a fraction as cool as she is:
http://cuteboysmakemenervous.blogspot.com/
cute boy
All I really want to do is sit and hit refresh for hours into the night, gazing furiously into my computer screen, while my vision plummets to hell. The fact that I’ve temporarily lost my brain and cannot spot the “insert link” button within a 12 inch screen doesn’t much help my blogging confidence either.
I’ve been having nightmares lately, and I tend to blame everything that’s wrong with my life either on lack of food or lack of sleep, so there’s another excuse for the lack of posts. These nightmares consist of ex-boyfriends, which is unfortunate enough. But instead of lasting the standard minute, these drag for hours, with twisting plots involving disco balls and coming out stories. Good thing I good riddance all of my ex’s so I have no way to, how did she put it, “resolve the deep seated, disturbing issues causing these dreams.” Yes, I have an aunt who’s a Buddhist psychic. I won’t write ‘thinks she’s a psychic’ because I like her too much, and I’d personally like to believe she does have some sort of ESP, and maybe if I stare at the Buddha statue living in our guest room long enough and learn to love the smell of incense, this could become a career path in my non-committal, directionless life. I think she might be right about the issues thing, although God knows I don’t have the cojones to email/phone ambush some guy whose face is still pasted onto a popsicle stick voodoo doll smeared with blood/red marker. Puh.
Worse than the ex attack are the bunnies (more like one particular giant, yellow, furry bunny head attached to the body of a business-suited man). It was a few nights ago, talking on the phone with Paul, and I’d closed my eyes to doze off when the image of this ungodly creature came creeping around the walls of a cubicle. Aunty didn’t tell me this, but I’m pretty sure bunnyman is a product of my loathing for my corporate-bullshit-overly-air-conditioned internship and those 13 times I watched Donnie Darko when I was a sophomore in high school because I thought it was sooo sooooooo deep. The sad part is that the only reason I keep thinking about bunnyman is because I keep reminding myself not to think about it. And the more I think about it, the more I’m afraid I might legitimately go crazy. Okay, I mean, I like the crazies. They generally seem to be a lot more passionate about life than your average soccer mom working her way through 20 years of polite PTA meetings and a sexless marriage. But if I’m crossing over, that is so NOT the imaginary friend I’m bringing. Can’t I at least delude myself into thinking I’m Elizabeth Taylor, circa 1964, so I can drape myself in crystal droplets I’ve torn from the chandelier in the vestibule, and go around cooing alluringly and burning men with my impossibly long cigarettes? I would SO get my ass kicked if I brought bunnyman to the crazies playground! Boy has got to go.
Oh and I can’t go to Paris. My laptop is broken and I haven’t packed at all and even if I did I wouldn’t be able to bring half the clothes I needed and I can’t afford to buy new ones and I REALLY REALLY like my friends and I heard that sometimes French men make orgasm noises when you walk by them on the street(this one really isn’t much of a problem considering my voodoo skills). So I’m officially freaking out.
EVERYBODY DIES ALONE waaaaaaaaah *cue the Who
Once
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Once, when she was fifteen or sixteen, a boy had told her that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She had pinched her chubby cheeks then and smiled politely. She thinks about that moment now, in line at the grocery store, her sweat soaked t-shirt from her bike ride still clinging to her in several places, making her uncomfortable in the too cold air. The man in front of her looks out of place. He’s carrying a toddler on one arm and a Gucci wallet in the other as the scanner beeps its approval. She wonders to herself whether that toddler will someday be one of those grownups who proudly proclaims, “My friends are sooo important to me. They’re my family.” It seems like a common phenomenon nowadays. She takes part in it. But it’s hard to imagine those roots already being planted in a child so small. The toddler fusses and the man fails to notice. Instead, he continues making jokes, trying to tease the cashier girl into laughter.
Yea, he’s one of those, she thinks to herself. She has friends like him, who, even though they’re handsome, rich, married and just all-around privileged, never lose the desire to make the waitress or the maid giggle. She calls it the ‘George Clooney syndrome’: lethal if executed with grace and nonchalance; pathetic if even a little flawed. He cracks a joke about a nun and a cat. She doesn’t see the relevance, as it’s currently a bag of cabbage getting the scan treatment. She glances down and sees that his Le Tigre polo is tucked into a pair of pale khakis with a Dockers label attached. She cannot suppress a snicker. He turns to her, surprised and pleased that she is laughing at his joke, and flashes his million dollar, million teeth smile. She smiles back.
A List and Some Shrooms
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Here are some things that keep me sane:
Savage Love podcasts. Dan Savage is wonderful, frank, articulate, funny. When I grow up I want to be just like him.
The fact that the chocolate covered gingers and cherries at whole foods are vegan.
Running for ridiculous amounts of time.
Giggly phone chats with Jess and Nicki like we’re in 7th grade.
The pile of books from the library that now rests on my desk, leaving little room for school supplies to exist.
The prospect of vegan baking this weekend.
Walking around naked in my little corner of the house.
Once, last semester, I was waiting in the unfinished basement of Gregory Hall for my journalism TA to show up for a critique. She was so late that the person scheduled behind me ended up waiting with me. We talked about our articles. Hers was on how the government demonizes psychedelic drugs. She traced a study that reported that 80% of people who’ve done shrooms said that their lives improved as a result of the introspection that took palce during their trips. Shrooms sound like a nice, hippie-esque idea anyway. I wanna try them.
And then she told me about her sorority sisters smoking up in their house.
Good.
PinkyWhore
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I have no idea who I’m linking pinkies with in this picture. I found it on my camera, and I remember taking it, thinking it would be cute. It is cute, but it’s also been torturing me for some time now. Different factors rule out different people, like, the hand+the ring mean it totally could be Lauren, but she doesn’t own shoes like that, nor would she wear her pants that way. Totally looks like something Andrew would wear, but the time period logically rules him out. Not Kathleen, Melissa or Jessica, also because of the fashion choices, although they were my main victims during spring break, when I was especially keen on pinky-ing.
So, if you see this pinky, will you let me know? I’d like to meet them.
Peaches & Cream
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Nerds’ butt smells like peaches. No, literally like peaches. Or more like the cosmetic interpretation of peaches rather than the real thing. Now, see, I don’t own any peach scented beauty products. I’m not a hussy. So I can only assume that it rubbed off of some skanky stuffed monkey he’s been rolling around with. He won’t answer my questions. He’s been lying face down, sulking all weekend, presumably because he’s missing out on some peach flavored ass.
It’s hard living with a boyfriend.
throw some Tabasco sauce on that!
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I am getting drug tested today and PMS-ing for the first time since I got off birth control. Everything’s so intense, everything evokes an emotion. Crying is more satisfying.
Just Jack’s album Overtones is craveable. Better than a big mac.
I suck at flirting, especially the grown-up kind. I stood in the company cafeteria this morning, ordering my bagel, when a 30-something executive type walks up beside me.
Suit: What should I get?
Zin: (slightly confused) The bagels are good.
Suit: Really? (To girl behind the counter, while gesturing to me) Hola Senorita! I’ll have what she’s having. (Winks)
*my bagel emerges from the toaster
Suit: That’s a good looking sandwich.
Zin: It’s a beaut.
Suit: What?
Zin: Um. I said, it’s a beaut.
Suit: Yea! You should throw some Tabasco sauce on that.
Is this what the dating world is like in your late thirties? Can’t think about that right now, will attempt to contemplate when I’m a little more emotionally stable next week.
I should go find his cubicle.
Peace.
Bacon
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Something that fascinates me about the place I work: there seems to always be someone pooping in the women’s bathroom.
What’s up with that? And half the time they’re these really explosive episodes that go on forever. Sometimes I want to giggle and others I just try to get outta there to avoid their embarrassment at having to meet their audience. What really gets me is that, today, I walked in and all three stalls were taken. I waited for five minutes and it occurred to me that THEY WERE ALL POOPING! That’s just so against everything experience in my bathroom history. Even in those hole in the ground, fly-infested things by the beach in Dalian, this never happened! The atrocities.
It was odd, and I wish we had urinals.
Girl Code
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The system at work is down, so I’ve updating!
This weekend I had a little run in with Girl Code. You know what I mean, that little nebulous black book of rules that every girl by the age of 19 knows and lives by. There are certain situations in which it is acceptable to break Girl Code. One, severe inebriation, two, post-trauma rambling, and three, hormones (note that this only applies about half of the time, depending on who you’re dealing with, and just how annoying you are, cus, come on, we all have hormones.) Girl Code is comprised of knowledge that you begin gathering when you’re young, probably when you first start noticing the differences between you and Jimmy over there ramming his head into a tree and all of his friends laughing hysterically, and till high school when everyone’s testing the Code and at their cattiest, until mid college, when almost everyone has it down pat. Cardinal rules of Girl Code include:
- When your girlfriend says she thinks she’s gained a few pounds, you must tell her she is crazy. It’s best if you act shocked that she brings up the topic at all.
- “Why hasn’t he called?!” should always be answered with “He’s so busy! Let’s go get ice cream.”
- If she asks “Do I love myself so much that I’m going to end up an old maid?” you should probably say no.
So the people who do not know girl code are mocked and shunned because the rest of us are so darn proud of ourselves for learning a little social etiquette. And we gossip about them, about their tactlessness and their insensitivity. We don’t mention this set of unspoken rules, because we never mention Girl Code aloud, especially not in the heat of battle. If you think about it, almost all female conflicts are results of a breach of Girl Code. The Others, as the unknowing ones are called, are usually stoned to death at the sorority formal.
The event that brought on this rant happened this past weekend when Nicki disobeyed rule # 3 listed above. After she, Lauren and I finished watching the Sex and the City movie(if Girl Code were the Bible, this movie would be the Holy Grail), we stepped out, all cried out and laughed out. Nicki, presumably still a little high from the movie, half giggles and half says to Lauren, “You are just like Samantha, you love yourself so much!” At which point, Lauren stomps off to her little red convertible. Now, mind you, I would normally have attributed this comment to the endorphins released by the deliciousness that is the NY foursome, but Nicki has been known to break the Code. She doesn’t intend to, she always means well, she’s just very blunt. She’s both admired and disdained for this trait. Disdained mostly by sorority girls, and admired by boys and manlier girls, like myself(at least mentally).
It’s kind of sad that, in this context, rationality and openness mean masculinity, whereas slyness is the girl equivalent. This got me thinking about one of the last This American Life broadcasts I heard about testosterone – how it’s linked to ambition, decisiveness, (and maybe physics (in parentheses cuz feminists are scary)). That the more testosterone you have, the more prevalent these traits are in your personality. It’s also linked to a lack of stage fright, so actors and lawyers tend to have a lot of T. The interesting thing is, if these statements are true, both Nicki and Lauren have high levels of testosterone. Nicki is decisive, knows what she wants, and is rarely afraid. Lauren is very ambitious, wants to be a lawyer and will be an amazing, cutthroat lawyer. (did you catch all that asskissing for extra girl code points?) Where as I, as the battle raged, mostly stood in the background, trying not to take sides and, later, tried to philosophize Nicki into a solution. I don’t have much testosterone(sometimes), and I am jealous. So the fact that my gal pals clash maybe isn’t because of their femininity, but rather because of the traits within them that resemble those of men.
So I guess the conclusion is that masculinity is the root of all evil
But seriously, to continue… on the other hand, Lauren doesn’t follow Girl Code, or at least no more than it takes to survive in girl world. She’s beautiful, brazen and probably will try to argue with me that she doesn’t even know what Girl Code is, but she’s bluffing. Let’s take a fundamental rule, like you shouldn’t steal a boy who’s been claimed. (Note: Lauren hasn’t actually broken this rule, or at least not that I know of.) A girl could never get away with stealing a friend’s boyfriend, as every other girl (and boy) in her friend circle will think she’s a cunt. On the other hand, if you were to steal an unknown girl’s boyfriend, allthewhile talking a lot of shit about her, telling stories about her bitchiness and about that time she cheated on said boyfriend in vivid detail, leaving him crushed. Talk about how you want, no, need, to pick up the pieces. Your friends will accept the transaction, heck, maybe even root for ya. It’s how you play the game, isn’t it? A lot of the times, Nicki doesn’t know how to play the game, and I love her more for it.
In happier news, I’m more and more excited about Paris everyday. WHOOOOPIE! Oh, and just so all of you countrytons know, Hannah the current au pair and voyeur extraordinaire has informed me that no Parisians go out on Saturdays cuz it’s when all the suburbanites come into town and rowdy up the place. Travel tip #1! Don’t expect any more.
P.S. Helena, please don’t strike me down today. I wanna go jogging later when I go home, and shower, and eat tofu.
UPDATE: Nicki has sent me an email recommending a book called He’s Just Not That Into You. HMMM. With subject line “YOU MUST READ THIS BOOK!!!!”. And has offered to deliver it to my house. Do you think she’s trying to send some sort of a message? Anyway, this might be a breach of Girl Code; I can’t quite tell, seeing as the book itself claims to be a subset of codes for the madre Code.
Test, test…hello?
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I’ve lost the will to live. Not really, I’ve mostly lost my days to work and my nights to filth like Young American Bodies and searching the internet for student loans.
Note: If you’re looking for money to put you through college and you also like E.T. and Han Solo, perhaps the Writers of the Future contest is right for you. Apparently, L Ron Hubbard set up a contest to encourage a whole new generation of vindictive scientologists (he was not a happy man). Anyway, it consists of a pretty awesome panel, with the likes of Orson Scott Card. UM HOT. I’m seriously considering writing a piece just so I can treasure the knowledge that Ender’s daddy has read my schtuff.
I’ve finally settled on a host family (whoopie) for France. Their last name is LePoutre and they sound super French, their kids are young and chubby-cheeked, and they live in the 5th arrondissement, which, from what I’ve gathered, is home to a lot of young, hip student types.
Christelle, the mother, sent me a couple of pictures of my new life. This is my bedroom in a little flat upstairs from the family’s abode. If you look really closely, you can see the reflection of a bikini clad girl in the window, taking the picture (you pervert!) It’s gotta be Hannah, their current au pair. We’ve emailed each other and she sounds sweet, but apparently she’s also kind of a voyeur. I don’t quite know how to follow that kind of precedence.
This gig also means that I’ll be in France from the end of August 08 to end of July, with vacations sprinkled throughout and the last month spent beachside with just the kids(!) First things first, since I have my own room, come visit me in Paris! After France, I plan to go to China. China is one of those things that I always find myself coming back to. No matter how long I go without reading anything Chinese, as soon as I’ve picked up something China-esque, I seem to get addicted for weeks at a time, bound by nostalgia. I’ve started reading China expat blogs. They seems to be a cool crowd, I mean how could they not be. People who chose to move out to an exotic, propaganda ridden country where you can’t read the Guardian half the month cus it’s blocked out by the gov: they’ve got to be a little crazy or ridiculously cool, but probably both. The point is, I miss China terribly and the plan is to spent my last month of summer 09 there, getting to know it grown up style. Every one of my experience there before, including that little 10 year stint, found me a child. Even my more recent trips, like last winter, consisted of me tagging behind grandma and smiling politely when the lady at the linen stall tells me and I have really pretty skin and also look like I’m 13. Thanks, lady, and nice curtains. Well, this time I’m determined to look 21 and eat abundantly and adventure shamelessly. If you’d care to join, I’d like a buddy for rape prevention purposes when I travel in the country. Here’s what I can provide: free lodging, your very own doting Chinese grandparents, on loan, amazingly greasy food(yea in China we just call it food), and a walking, talking insider’s guide to the Middle Kingdom. Seriously, all you gotta do is pay for your airfare and we’ll be off! And you have a whole year to think about it! Also, we’ll probably be bffs by the end of it. UMMM YUMMM.
To backtrack a bit, I wanna talk about Young American Bodies. First off, just for basis, it’s a web series done by Joe Swanberg about the lives (mostly the sexual aspect) of a group of young college grads living in Chicago. The eps are 5-7 minute installments, little morsels of indie goodness. What I noticed while watching is the sequence of the (numerous, NC17) hookups goes a little something like this: making out, more making out, pause for both parties to remove clothing, then the real thing. Is this what’s happening now? For realz? Cus last time I checked we were still doing that whole awakward let’s-undress-each-other-and-pretend-not-to-be-undressing-each-other-all-the-while-maintaining-lip-contact thing. Is this whole charade up? It all seems a little crass for me. I mean, letting the boy fumble with your bra clasp and secretly enjoying his embarassment was one of the simple, reliable pleasures of high school (and let’s admit it, college). I need you to put in that effort. I refuse to remove my own brassiere, oh yes sir indeed. Oh and Joe, if you’re ever googling yourself and happen upon this: that Sarah chick’s laugh is crazy annoying.
Alright children, peace out. I shall be back, less tired and laggy, hopefully.
