Cantaloupe vagina. It's a real thing.
7.05.2013
Chopped: One Woman's Journey Through the Costco Fruit Section
I made this fruit my bitch. Happy 50th birthday, Kent.
6.26.2013
Friends: Everyone Needs 'Em
You know, it takes a lot of time for me to start referring to a casual acquaintance as a friend. Recently, an acquaintance of mine referred to me as her friend and I was genuinely taken aback. Not necessarily because I don't like this person (although, to be fair, I DON'T really like this person all that much), but because it made me wonder how people define that word -- friend.
When Casey the Human and I first met she took me to coffee in the heart of Seoul. There we chatted over the usual thangs -- Korea, teaching, our coworkers -- which then naturally led to a discussion of friendship. This is when she took the opportunity to tell me she wasn't really looking for new friends. See, this was also her second time around on the peninsula and she had established a circle of friends outside of work. In Korea, this is the holy grail. I mean really, who wants to spend their free time hanging out with the same group they are PAID to hang out with 40 hours a week? Certainly not me. Anyway, although I was initially a little put off by her comment (as if I was applying for friendship), I understood and respected where it came from. Friendship is an emotional investment, one not afforded to just anyone, and Casey's emotional bank account was full. Casual acquaintances were really all she was willing to take on at the moment. Lucky for me my sparkling personality, winning good looks, and knowledge of internet memes won her over! Today I count Casey among just a handful of people with whom I share true friendship.
Recent life events have allowed me the opportunity to take stock of the people with whom I surround myself. Everyday I come into contact with students, parents, coworkers, etc. I am friendly and engaging and generally outgoing. I talk to them, I ask questions, I empathize -- you know, all the hallmarks of adult interaction. Does this mean any of them are my friends? No. No it does not. Why, you ask? Because another hallmark of adult interaction is the setting of boundaries. Boundaries serve a very specific and useful purpose with regards to interpersonal relationships. Boundaries help us understand our roles and the roles of others. They let us know that no, you CANNOT hit on that lovely lady at the bar as she is married and that would be overstepping a defined boundary. (Or more often than not in my case, no you CANNOT tell me your ex-husband cheated on you with your best friend. WTF?! I am your child's daycare provider, this is not okay.) Boundaries make us feel safe and secure. But perhaps the most important purpose of establishing boundaries is that they teach others how to treat us. When you have ill-defined boundaries, or no boundaries at all, it's like saying "HERE I AM! TREAT ME LIKE SHIT!"
Normally I am very up front about my boundaries. This is prolly why it takes me so long to go from casual acquaintance to friend. Being picky about one's friends is not necessarily a bad thang, though. Being picky and methodical about entering into an emotionally invested friendship has some fucking awesome rewards, like reciprocated emotional investment, long-term/long-distance investment, loyalty, comfort, and perhaps the biggest one, mutual respect. (Coincidentally, these are also things I look for in a partner.) And because I am very up front and honest about my boundaries with others I tend to make friends of the same ilk. Occasionally, however, someone comes along who challenges my boundaries and forces me to rethink how I approach relationships. Sometimes it's for the best, as was the case with Jamie, my best Korean friendo. My initial reaction to all Jamie's attempts to hang out was, "EW, NOPE." But I gave him (and myself) a chance and what I got was a fucking awesomely open-minded, non-judgemental, hysterical friend. Wins all around.
But sometimes someone comes along who pushes too hard, is just a bit too needy, wants just a bit too much of my time and attention. This has happened to me twice in the past year and both times I had MANY reservations about both individuals. On the one hand, YAY, someone likes me! But on the other hand, JESUS CHRIST WHY DO YOU NEED SO MUCH VALIDATION?! So I kept one of these acquaintances at arm's length -- she was just a bit too over-the-top disingenuous for me. And the other? Against my better judgement I took a risk, let him in, and shared all the things. For a while it seemed he, too, was fully invested. But then something changed and all his insecurities that initially turned me off reared their ugly heads. Gone was our fantastic friendship and partnership, replaced with indifference, annoyance, and distance. And I was pissed. This was not MY fear! These were not MY insecurities! It felt as if I was being punished for having boundaries of my own and asking him to acknowledge and respect them. And in the end he couldn't follow through because he lacked ANY boundaries.
I know friendships (and partnerships) are not in a constant state of awesome; they take work. And maybe I'm being too harsh, my expectations too high, but I just don't think so. I suppose I'm just frustrated that I didn't listen to my gut on this one: that someone with such ill-defined boundaries wouldn't know how to understand or respect mine.
I didn't listen to my instincts when they told me, "EW, NOPE".
When Casey the Human and I first met she took me to coffee in the heart of Seoul. There we chatted over the usual thangs -- Korea, teaching, our coworkers -- which then naturally led to a discussion of friendship. This is when she took the opportunity to tell me she wasn't really looking for new friends. See, this was also her second time around on the peninsula and she had established a circle of friends outside of work. In Korea, this is the holy grail. I mean really, who wants to spend their free time hanging out with the same group they are PAID to hang out with 40 hours a week? Certainly not me. Anyway, although I was initially a little put off by her comment (as if I was applying for friendship), I understood and respected where it came from. Friendship is an emotional investment, one not afforded to just anyone, and Casey's emotional bank account was full. Casual acquaintances were really all she was willing to take on at the moment. Lucky for me my sparkling personality, winning good looks, and knowledge of internet memes won her over! Today I count Casey among just a handful of people with whom I share true friendship.
Recent life events have allowed me the opportunity to take stock of the people with whom I surround myself. Everyday I come into contact with students, parents, coworkers, etc. I am friendly and engaging and generally outgoing. I talk to them, I ask questions, I empathize -- you know, all the hallmarks of adult interaction. Does this mean any of them are my friends? No. No it does not. Why, you ask? Because another hallmark of adult interaction is the setting of boundaries. Boundaries serve a very specific and useful purpose with regards to interpersonal relationships. Boundaries help us understand our roles and the roles of others. They let us know that no, you CANNOT hit on that lovely lady at the bar as she is married and that would be overstepping a defined boundary. (Or more often than not in my case, no you CANNOT tell me your ex-husband cheated on you with your best friend. WTF?! I am your child's daycare provider, this is not okay.) Boundaries make us feel safe and secure. But perhaps the most important purpose of establishing boundaries is that they teach others how to treat us. When you have ill-defined boundaries, or no boundaries at all, it's like saying "HERE I AM! TREAT ME LIKE SHIT!"
Normally I am very up front about my boundaries. This is prolly why it takes me so long to go from casual acquaintance to friend. Being picky about one's friends is not necessarily a bad thang, though. Being picky and methodical about entering into an emotionally invested friendship has some fucking awesome rewards, like reciprocated emotional investment, long-term/long-distance investment, loyalty, comfort, and perhaps the biggest one, mutual respect. (Coincidentally, these are also things I look for in a partner.) And because I am very up front and honest about my boundaries with others I tend to make friends of the same ilk. Occasionally, however, someone comes along who challenges my boundaries and forces me to rethink how I approach relationships. Sometimes it's for the best, as was the case with Jamie, my best Korean friendo. My initial reaction to all Jamie's attempts to hang out was, "EW, NOPE." But I gave him (and myself) a chance and what I got was a fucking awesomely open-minded, non-judgemental, hysterical friend. Wins all around.
But sometimes someone comes along who pushes too hard, is just a bit too needy, wants just a bit too much of my time and attention. This has happened to me twice in the past year and both times I had MANY reservations about both individuals. On the one hand, YAY, someone likes me! But on the other hand, JESUS CHRIST WHY DO YOU NEED SO MUCH VALIDATION?! So I kept one of these acquaintances at arm's length -- she was just a bit too over-the-top disingenuous for me. And the other? Against my better judgement I took a risk, let him in, and shared all the things. For a while it seemed he, too, was fully invested. But then something changed and all his insecurities that initially turned me off reared their ugly heads. Gone was our fantastic friendship and partnership, replaced with indifference, annoyance, and distance. And I was pissed. This was not MY fear! These were not MY insecurities! It felt as if I was being punished for having boundaries of my own and asking him to acknowledge and respect them. And in the end he couldn't follow through because he lacked ANY boundaries.
I know friendships (and partnerships) are not in a constant state of awesome; they take work. And maybe I'm being too harsh, my expectations too high, but I just don't think so. I suppose I'm just frustrated that I didn't listen to my gut on this one: that someone with such ill-defined boundaries wouldn't know how to understand or respect mine.
I didn't listen to my instincts when they told me, "EW, NOPE".
6.25.2013
Let's Talk About Sex, Baby
Now this is the story all about how
My life got flipped, turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the princess of a town called bitter. (I'm not really bitter, I swear!)
I initially started this blog post nearly a month ago. It was all about friendship and boundaries and interpersonal relationships. BLAH BLAH BLAH. Then my life really did get flipped, turned upside down. (Hyperbole? Maybe. But just go with it.) I realized, however, that writing about all those things was not going to make me feel any better, as my mind grapes were in overdrive. For the past six months my mind has been a well of self-doubt; the kind of crippling, all-consuming, walking-around-on-eggshells sort of self-doubt that seems to bleed into everything you do. It's been a month since the big bang and time has afforded me a bit of perspective. And you know what I realized? That self doubt wasn't mine to carry. I was shouldering someone else's fears in the name of... love? Companionship? Friendship? Who knows. What I do know is that for all of my bitching and whining and bemoaning my station in life, I discovered I am a relatively well-adjusted adult capable of adult relationships, emotions, conversations, and sex. I stick up for myself. When something (or someone) hurts me or threatens me or just doesn't feel right, I let others know. I am my best and sometimes ONLY advocate, and if sticking up for myself makes me appear needy and possessive (or bitchy and overbearing), well, that's just, like, you're opinion, man.
Now on to the real reason for this post: Sex
Someone very wise once said when the sex is good, it's 10% of a relationship and when the sex is bad, it's 90% of a relationship. But what if the sex is just NONEXISTENT? Like, robotic, perfunctory, let's-just-get-this-over-with kinda sex? Sex like that has a way of fucking with one's mind, forcing one to internalize all that rejection and indifference in a way that is indeed crippling. There is nothing so demeaning and demoralizing as when a lover withholds intimacy and physical interaction. But what if that withholding is out of fear? Does that make it easier to swallow? Does knowing that your partner is consumed by a fear of sex and intimacy make it easier to externalize (rather than internalize) that fear?
No.
Why? Because without sex and sexual intimacy a sexual relationship becomes a sort of weird, twisted "friendship" where one party is getting their needs met emotionally and intellectually (because apparently the physical need is nonexistent), and the other party is left scrambling for ANY sort of attention. And scrambling for attention is so unbecoming...
Sex is an incredibly important and integral part of any intimate partnership and sexual intimacy is kinda the most awesome part of being in a committed relationship. It is a safe place for both parties to really just be themselves, no pretense, no expectation, no guile. Sex can be empowering and awesome. It's fantastic after a great week, and comforting after a shitty week. It's fun and silly and erotic and messy and emotional. And when it's missing it's like a giant gaping hole that sucks out all the good along with it.
So here I am, single again, but so very relieved to be out from under someone else's fears and insecurities. I suppose each failed relationship is really just a learning opportunity, and this one is no different. So what did I learn? I think my father said it best: "You don't put up with that shit."
Exactly.
My life got flipped, turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the princess of a town called bitter. (I'm not really bitter, I swear!)
I initially started this blog post nearly a month ago. It was all about friendship and boundaries and interpersonal relationships. BLAH BLAH BLAH. Then my life really did get flipped, turned upside down. (Hyperbole? Maybe. But just go with it.) I realized, however, that writing about all those things was not going to make me feel any better, as my mind grapes were in overdrive. For the past six months my mind has been a well of self-doubt; the kind of crippling, all-consuming, walking-around-on-eggshells sort of self-doubt that seems to bleed into everything you do. It's been a month since the big bang and time has afforded me a bit of perspective. And you know what I realized? That self doubt wasn't mine to carry. I was shouldering someone else's fears in the name of... love? Companionship? Friendship? Who knows. What I do know is that for all of my bitching and whining and bemoaning my station in life, I discovered I am a relatively well-adjusted adult capable of adult relationships, emotions, conversations, and sex. I stick up for myself. When something (or someone) hurts me or threatens me or just doesn't feel right, I let others know. I am my best and sometimes ONLY advocate, and if sticking up for myself makes me appear needy and possessive (or bitchy and overbearing), well, that's just, like, you're opinion, man.
Now on to the real reason for this post: Sex
Someone very wise once said when the sex is good, it's 10% of a relationship and when the sex is bad, it's 90% of a relationship. But what if the sex is just NONEXISTENT? Like, robotic, perfunctory, let's-just-get-this-over-with kinda sex? Sex like that has a way of fucking with one's mind, forcing one to internalize all that rejection and indifference in a way that is indeed crippling. There is nothing so demeaning and demoralizing as when a lover withholds intimacy and physical interaction. But what if that withholding is out of fear? Does that make it easier to swallow? Does knowing that your partner is consumed by a fear of sex and intimacy make it easier to externalize (rather than internalize) that fear?
No.
Why? Because without sex and sexual intimacy a sexual relationship becomes a sort of weird, twisted "friendship" where one party is getting their needs met emotionally and intellectually (because apparently the physical need is nonexistent), and the other party is left scrambling for ANY sort of attention. And scrambling for attention is so unbecoming...
Sex is an incredibly important and integral part of any intimate partnership and sexual intimacy is kinda the most awesome part of being in a committed relationship. It is a safe place for both parties to really just be themselves, no pretense, no expectation, no guile. Sex can be empowering and awesome. It's fantastic after a great week, and comforting after a shitty week. It's fun and silly and erotic and messy and emotional. And when it's missing it's like a giant gaping hole that sucks out all the good along with it.
So here I am, single again, but so very relieved to be out from under someone else's fears and insecurities. I suppose each failed relationship is really just a learning opportunity, and this one is no different. So what did I learn? I think my father said it best: "You don't put up with that shit."
Exactly.
5.11.2013
A Post for Mom
My mom made the best Hamburger Helper. She used to buy the the Beef Pasta flavor, the one with the giant egg noodles. I remember her preparing this decidedly mundane dinner in the most exotic way -- in the wok. My parents received a wok as a wedding gift and I think my mom considered it the greatest culinary invention. She was also really great at oatmeal. For breakfast, she'd prepare the old fashioned oats on the stove and toast an entire loaf of white bread. Then she'd sit my brother and I down at the table, each in front of a steaming bowl of mush. In the center of the table she'd place a towering stack of white bread toast and plenty of cinnamon and sugar, the better to flavor our bland oatmeal. From there it was a free for all. To this day I can't eat oatmeal without plenty of white bread toast to sop up the mushy dregs.
My mom was a great babysitter. During the summers of my childhood, she often babysat a handful of neighborhood kids, in addition to my brother and I. (Although, is it really babysitting when it's your own kids...?) She was always searching for activities to occupy our time until the pool opened at noon. One particularly creative morning she decided to clear out the kitchen cupboards, eradicating any canned goods past their expiration dates or deemed unworthy of gracing our kitchen table. The morning was fruitful, as she found buried at the back of the cupboard a can of Campbell's Nacho Cheese Soup (which, ew, really does exist), and a can of pickled beets. In a stroke of motherly genius, she donated these two items to my game of "house". And because every good mother wants their child to have the tools to succeed, she also offered up a can opener. WHY? The world may never know. But man, oh man, were we glad she did. That day the Yokom girls and I created the culinary delight known as Beet Cheese Surprise. Lacking bowls or cups, we dumped the contents right on the pavement, using sticks to stir up the lumpy mass. When my mom discovered our masterpiece, she checked the clock, announced the pool to be open, and sent us on our way. She must have felt somewhat responsible for the unpalatable mess as I'm pretty sure she hosed that shit down and never spoke of it again.
My mom was a fantastic cheerleader. As a precocious first grader, I had the dubious honor of receiving an award for excellent spelling. I say dubious because first grade spelling is not really all that difficult. Either that, or I was matriculating with a class full of morons. Anyway. I was set to receive this award at an all-school assembly, which also happened to fall on "crazy clothes day". My mom, not wanting me to miss an opportunity to express my individuality, enthusiastically applauded my decision to wear long johns covered in tin foil topped with an antenna headband. Crazy, right?! The school administration thought otherwise and ordered my mom to bring a change of clothes, post haste, which she also did enthusiastically.
My mom was a great storyteller. At night, after tucking my brother and me in, she'd pull out the chapter book and read until I drifted off. Most of the books are a jumbled mass of lost memory floating in my brain, but the night my mom finished Charlotte's Web made an indelible mark on me. Mom's voice was calm and soothing as she read of Charlotte's imminent demise and Wilbur's panic and dismay. Like every other night, my mom closed the book, checked once more on my brother, and went off to bed herself. But that night I lay weeping, sad for Charlotte's death, sad for all that Wilbur had lost, confused at why anyone had to die. I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to my parent's room, looking for answers. I crawled in next to my mom and sobbed, "WHY DID CHARLOTTE HAVE TO DIE?" My mom, ever the compassionate woman, replied, "Because all things die." Her answer was so succinct, so honest and true. She hugged me close and let me cry until I couldn't cry anymore.
My mom was never the soccer mom. She never carpooled the neighborhood kids or baked elaborate birthday cakes or volunteered as art mom or joined the PTO. She never scheduled her life around my brother and I. What she gave was time, and sometimes her time was precious. My mom gave of herself in a way that fostered a deep and lasting relationship, and we have weathered some storms. She has always been my loudest cheerleader and a seemingly bottomless well of support. I don't always say it and sometimes I'm quite terrible at showing it, but mom, I really do think you're the greatest. And you still whip up a wicked Hamburger Helper.
Happy Mother's Day.
My mom was a great babysitter. During the summers of my childhood, she often babysat a handful of neighborhood kids, in addition to my brother and I. (Although, is it really babysitting when it's your own kids...?) She was always searching for activities to occupy our time until the pool opened at noon. One particularly creative morning she decided to clear out the kitchen cupboards, eradicating any canned goods past their expiration dates or deemed unworthy of gracing our kitchen table. The morning was fruitful, as she found buried at the back of the cupboard a can of Campbell's Nacho Cheese Soup (which, ew, really does exist), and a can of pickled beets. In a stroke of motherly genius, she donated these two items to my game of "house". And because every good mother wants their child to have the tools to succeed, she also offered up a can opener. WHY? The world may never know. But man, oh man, were we glad she did. That day the Yokom girls and I created the culinary delight known as Beet Cheese Surprise. Lacking bowls or cups, we dumped the contents right on the pavement, using sticks to stir up the lumpy mass. When my mom discovered our masterpiece, she checked the clock, announced the pool to be open, and sent us on our way. She must have felt somewhat responsible for the unpalatable mess as I'm pretty sure she hosed that shit down and never spoke of it again.
My mom was a fantastic cheerleader. As a precocious first grader, I had the dubious honor of receiving an award for excellent spelling. I say dubious because first grade spelling is not really all that difficult. Either that, or I was matriculating with a class full of morons. Anyway. I was set to receive this award at an all-school assembly, which also happened to fall on "crazy clothes day". My mom, not wanting me to miss an opportunity to express my individuality, enthusiastically applauded my decision to wear long johns covered in tin foil topped with an antenna headband. Crazy, right?! The school administration thought otherwise and ordered my mom to bring a change of clothes, post haste, which she also did enthusiastically.
My mom was a great storyteller. At night, after tucking my brother and me in, she'd pull out the chapter book and read until I drifted off. Most of the books are a jumbled mass of lost memory floating in my brain, but the night my mom finished Charlotte's Web made an indelible mark on me. Mom's voice was calm and soothing as she read of Charlotte's imminent demise and Wilbur's panic and dismay. Like every other night, my mom closed the book, checked once more on my brother, and went off to bed herself. But that night I lay weeping, sad for Charlotte's death, sad for all that Wilbur had lost, confused at why anyone had to die. I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to my parent's room, looking for answers. I crawled in next to my mom and sobbed, "WHY DID CHARLOTTE HAVE TO DIE?" My mom, ever the compassionate woman, replied, "Because all things die." Her answer was so succinct, so honest and true. She hugged me close and let me cry until I couldn't cry anymore.
My mom was never the soccer mom. She never carpooled the neighborhood kids or baked elaborate birthday cakes or volunteered as art mom or joined the PTO. She never scheduled her life around my brother and I. What she gave was time, and sometimes her time was precious. My mom gave of herself in a way that fostered a deep and lasting relationship, and we have weathered some storms. She has always been my loudest cheerleader and a seemingly bottomless well of support. I don't always say it and sometimes I'm quite terrible at showing it, but mom, I really do think you're the greatest. And you still whip up a wicked Hamburger Helper.
Happy Mother's Day.
5.06.2013
Born This Way
A few years back a young, talented pop star emerged and captured the attention of, well, everyone. Everyone but me, that is. I loathed this woman. She sang about dancing and paparazzi and poker and telephones. She dressed like a fool. Nothing she did or said appeared to contain any real substance -- it was all for shown. And I hated it. I hated her hoof heels and meat dresses and her "Born This Way" anthems. Everything about her was contrived and fake. To me she was a walking punch line. Why couldn't she just be REAL, I moaned.
Then, by chance, I caught an interview with the loathsome star on 60 Minutes. And I fell in love with Lady Gaga.
I have always been unapologetically in lurve with pop culture. I read fashion and gossip blogs obsessively. I consume pop culture like some people consume food. But I don't fucking care. It fills an entertainment void AND does double duty as trivia fodder. When Unsuspecting Fred Meyer Clerk challenges me to a pop culture duel, look out, because OF COURSE I know Joe Pesci released an album in the 60's, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway.
Throughout the course of the interview, Lady Gaga was asked about her music, her fashion forays, her songwriting. Conspicuously missing from the interview was anything personal -- nothing about her love life, family, home. ZIP. ZILCH. NADA. And I realized (somewhat naively, I suppose), that Lady Gaga was a construct. Of course she was. She served as a buffer, or, more accurately, a cop conducting traffic. Every time she arrived in an egg, or eschewed pants in public, she was directing my attention to her persona, making sure I never looked behind the curtain for the wizard. The meat dress was merely guiding me in Lady Gaga's desired direction, while Stefani Germanotta was free to carry on as a somewhat normal member of society. Lady Gaga wasn't a fraud, she was a GENIUS. What better way to keep the public's prying eyes from your most intimate and private moments than to create a male alter ego named Joe Calderone?! Fucking brilliant.
Now back to my pop culture consumption. Like any bad habit, I consume(d) all that salty, delicious pop culture mindlessly, never caring for what was said or who was saying it. (Expect Britney. Man, that was hard to watch.) And while I clicked and clicked, always wanting more and more, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I, too, was being observed. Like every good twenty-something, I Facebooked, I blogged, I tweeted. Every piece of myself I put into the universe was really me offering myself up for judgement. But was I?
Every piece I put into the universe was calculated. Every piece was pointed, thought-out, crafted. Every post, tweet, and status update gave the universe fodder, but rarely did I provide a piece of myself. Save for a handful of very raw blog posts (and one "shitty" post), I have worked hard to cultivate my own (online) persona -- one of a fun-loving, outgoing, happy-go-lucky young woman. That part of me really does exist, to be sure, but it is not all of me. Not by any means. By creating this persona, though, I have been able to avoid pointed questions about my faith, my family, my love life -- all things I consider personal and decidedly NOT up for discussion.
Which leads me here. Because I offer up little of myself in initial meetings, I am invariably wary of people who say they "LOVE!" me upon first meeting. Or second meeting. Or only in certain contexts. Or because I post funny shit on the internet. I take my time getting to know people, and conversely, take my time letting people get to know me. It's rare (read: NEVER) that I let anyone know all the things initially. As a matter of fact, I feel very UNcomfortable when people know too much. Occasionally someone comes along who forces me to be socially intimate before I'm ready, shoving Stefani Germanotta behind the curtain, and thrusting Lady Gaga onto the stage.
I'M FUNNY! I'M WITTY! I FUCKING SWEAR! AHAHAHAHAHA!
I inevitably become the caricature you think I am. This makes me bitter and resentful, both because I am not a caricature and because I don't like to be forced into anything.
The very unfortunate flip side to this coin is that I am also very suspect of those who offer themselves up for consumption, seemingly without regard for privacy or mystery or self-respect. I do not understand those individuals who share willy-nilly the most intimate pieces of themselves. I do not understand how one's faith, family, or love life could be offered up as fodder for prying eyes. I do not understand why sharing (with complete or near strangers) is caring.
But Mindy, this is at total odds with your pop culture obsession! How do you reconcile perusing gossip blogs with your seemingly unending need for personal privacy?!
I don't know. I'ma go read some Dlisted and get back to you.
Then, by chance, I caught an interview with the loathsome star on 60 Minutes. And I fell in love with Lady Gaga.
I have always been unapologetically in lurve with pop culture. I read fashion and gossip blogs obsessively. I consume pop culture like some people consume food. But I don't fucking care. It fills an entertainment void AND does double duty as trivia fodder. When Unsuspecting Fred Meyer Clerk challenges me to a pop culture duel, look out, because OF COURSE I know Joe Pesci released an album in the 60's, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway.
Throughout the course of the interview, Lady Gaga was asked about her music, her fashion forays, her songwriting. Conspicuously missing from the interview was anything personal -- nothing about her love life, family, home. ZIP. ZILCH. NADA. And I realized (somewhat naively, I suppose), that Lady Gaga was a construct. Of course she was. She served as a buffer, or, more accurately, a cop conducting traffic. Every time she arrived in an egg, or eschewed pants in public, she was directing my attention to her persona, making sure I never looked behind the curtain for the wizard. The meat dress was merely guiding me in Lady Gaga's desired direction, while Stefani Germanotta was free to carry on as a somewhat normal member of society. Lady Gaga wasn't a fraud, she was a GENIUS. What better way to keep the public's prying eyes from your most intimate and private moments than to create a male alter ego named Joe Calderone?! Fucking brilliant.
Now back to my pop culture consumption. Like any bad habit, I consume(d) all that salty, delicious pop culture mindlessly, never caring for what was said or who was saying it. (Expect Britney. Man, that was hard to watch.) And while I clicked and clicked, always wanting more and more, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I, too, was being observed. Like every good twenty-something, I Facebooked, I blogged, I tweeted. Every piece of myself I put into the universe was really me offering myself up for judgement. But was I?
Every piece I put into the universe was calculated. Every piece was pointed, thought-out, crafted. Every post, tweet, and status update gave the universe fodder, but rarely did I provide a piece of myself. Save for a handful of very raw blog posts (and one "shitty" post), I have worked hard to cultivate my own (online) persona -- one of a fun-loving, outgoing, happy-go-lucky young woman. That part of me really does exist, to be sure, but it is not all of me. Not by any means. By creating this persona, though, I have been able to avoid pointed questions about my faith, my family, my love life -- all things I consider personal and decidedly NOT up for discussion.
Which leads me here. Because I offer up little of myself in initial meetings, I am invariably wary of people who say they "LOVE!" me upon first meeting. Or second meeting. Or only in certain contexts. Or because I post funny shit on the internet. I take my time getting to know people, and conversely, take my time letting people get to know me. It's rare (read: NEVER) that I let anyone know all the things initially. As a matter of fact, I feel very UNcomfortable when people know too much. Occasionally someone comes along who forces me to be socially intimate before I'm ready, shoving Stefani Germanotta behind the curtain, and thrusting Lady Gaga onto the stage.
I'M FUNNY! I'M WITTY! I FUCKING SWEAR! AHAHAHAHAHA!
I inevitably become the caricature you think I am. This makes me bitter and resentful, both because I am not a caricature and because I don't like to be forced into anything.
The very unfortunate flip side to this coin is that I am also very suspect of those who offer themselves up for consumption, seemingly without regard for privacy or mystery or self-respect. I do not understand those individuals who share willy-nilly the most intimate pieces of themselves. I do not understand how one's faith, family, or love life could be offered up as fodder for prying eyes. I do not understand why sharing (with complete or near strangers) is caring.
But Mindy, this is at total odds with your pop culture obsession! How do you reconcile perusing gossip blogs with your seemingly unending need for personal privacy?!
I don't know. I'ma go read some Dlisted and get back to you.
3.17.2013
Packing, Plotting, and a Whole Lotta Day Drinking
Today's word of the day comes from Dictionary.com:
Sundry (adj.) - various or diverse
I have sundry topics on which to report.
First, in an attempt to save mucho dinero, packing has commenced and I am moving AGAIN, this time back to the nest. For years my parents have jokingly referred to their spare room as "Mindy's Bedroom", a term at which I always scoffed. WELP. Joke's on them now, bitches, 'cause my shit's taking up residence in Meridian. Do not be too jealous of my awesome adult life, Internets.
I have *OFFICIALLY* finished all mah grad school apps. And now I wait. The waiting is maybe the hardest part. Ultimately I'm not terribly concerned with where I end up, I just know I am SOFA KING ready to go. Like yesterday ready.
I crocheted my first baby beanie. I know, like, eleventy billion pregnant women, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone -- learn a new skill AND make cool hipster beanies for all the new babies. So far I have completed just the one, but I think it's stellar. Also, that beanie model is legit, don't ya think?
Sundry (adj.) - various or diverse
I have sundry topics on which to report.
First, in an attempt to save mucho dinero, packing has commenced and I am moving AGAIN, this time back to the nest. For years my parents have jokingly referred to their spare room as "Mindy's Bedroom", a term at which I always scoffed. WELP. Joke's on them now, bitches, 'cause my shit's taking up residence in Meridian. Do not be too jealous of my awesome adult life, Internets.
I have *OFFICIALLY* finished all mah grad school apps. And now I wait. The waiting is maybe the hardest part. Ultimately I'm not terribly concerned with where I end up, I just know I am SOFA KING ready to go. Like yesterday ready.
I crocheted my first baby beanie. I know, like, eleventy billion pregnant women, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone -- learn a new skill AND make cool hipster beanies for all the new babies. So far I have completed just the one, but I think it's stellar. Also, that beanie model is legit, don't ya think?
It's a hat! Or a Yurt! Or half a bikini!
Thanks to my favorite old lady, Erica, I have signed up for two courses through Coursera, the online education technology company. In order to keep my brain engaged (and keep myself from going crazy neurotic insane), I have enrolled in courses titled Synapses, Neurons and Brains; and Introduction to International Criminal Law. In the first course, "You will become intimately acquainted with the operational principles of neuronal “life-ware” (synapses, neurons and the networks that they form) as well as with recent ideas about how the dynamics of these networks generate the “neuronal code.” As an aperitif we will highlight present brain-excitements and for dessert we will discuss the future of brain research." I fully appreciate the use of "aperitif" and "dessert" in the context of learning. Food motivates me, what can I say?! The second course on International Law is simply a way for me to learn to circumvent anti-piracy law...
I have fully cemented my status as a second rate hipster by purchasing a pair of Tom's. They are squishy and fluffy and wonderfully slipper-like. And despite my best efforts to talk shit at every available opportunity, I am fully convinced they were worth every penny. Happy early birthday to me!
Finally, beer-drinking weather, ERRR, golfing weather is BACK! Game on!
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