If you like to travel, this will inspire the poop out of you. Hell, it will even if you don’t: http://www.wimp.com/travelsworld
Yesterdeay was my Dad’s 84th birthday. I decided to surprise him since I’m going to be on the east coast for a conference anyway. I figured I’d rent a car, drive up to NY from DC and show up on his doorstep with a big red bow on my head – tah dah!
Then I got an even MORE brilliant idea and decided to go beyond just the surprise and add some suspense. I called him before I left, told him that I’d found him the perfect present and to make sure to be home on the big day so he wouldn’t miss the mailman.
I later discovered there were two major flaws in my plan:
1.) I am The World’s 2nd Worst Gift Giver (Dad is #1). I never get anyone birthday presents or Christmas presents and I won’t go into my weird, gift-giving panic problem but suffice it to say if you’ve never gotten anything from me you’re not alone, and if you have it’s probably the only time you ever will. Leaving a message on Dad’s machine telling him I’m sending him a birthday present is like calling to say we’re having hula hoops for breakfast.
2.) Dad is 84 = Dad is not so much a sharp guy any more. This combined with the afore-mentioned present problem threw him into such a state of confusion that by the time he made sense of it he decided that it all meant that (drum roll please): I’m coming to the east coast to visit him for his birthday.
Doop. De doo.
I didn’t want to attempt re-explaining my lame lie only to show up at his house and make him really think he was losing his mind, so I just let it go.
We ended up getting the whole family together at my brother’s house and threw him a big ole party that was really fun until my niece fell down the steps and got a lump on her head that stuck out like a pinecone.
Note to self: Dad is surprised every morning he wakes up. He doesn’t need your help.
How come when I’m wasted at a party, camera-wielding arm outstretched, head glued to a friend’s cheek, I always take a great picture, but when I put on make-up, brush my hair and stand against a plain white wall to try to look like a respectable adult worthy of your hire or entrance into your country or a date or something, I look like I live under a bridge?
I needed to take a headshot for my visa for Thailand, and after about an hour of posing against every frikken white wall in my house, it occurred to me: maybe it’s not the light, maybe the real problem is that I think I’m better looking than I actually am?
How much would that suck?
Anyway, I finally got a usable shot but I won’t be trying that again without making sure my camera’s had a few beers first.
Part of getting ready to go on a big trip is making plans to see your friends before you leave. I fly out in 10 days (!) and am not sure how I’m going to fit everybody in, but have decided to make seeing those with beards a first priority.
Jean Pierre reflecting his lovely wife, Shaz
I’m just so damn happy the beard is back. Seeing a group of bearded hipsters crossing Sunset Blvd. makes me feel the way I imagine someone living in small town Alaska must feel seeing a moose wander down Main Street after a long hunting season: Giddy, relieved, home at last.
What killjoy decided a face-full of hair was uncool anyway? Or a pantfull for that matter? Where did all our hair go? What did it ever do to us that we feel compelled to go after it with razors, scissors, tweezers, chemicals, lasers, hot wax and insults?
I have half a mind to hand my body over to my hair while I’m in SE Asia, call a cease fire, see what I’m really made of. I don’t want to die not knowing how far down my thighs my buffalo are capable of roaming. Especially since I think I could sprout an impressive crop worthy of my Italian heritage. I just have to decide if I’m up for the commotion it’ll cause.
I’ll never forget going to Naples, Italy for the first time when I was 7 to meet my Dad’s family. His sister came out of the house, lifted her arms for a big whassamattayou hug and revealed a pitfull of armhair that was as obscene to my virgin, American eyes as if she’d spread her legs and wrapped my head in her crotch. What lady has hair there? That moment marked my loss of innoncence and caused me to sleep with my light on for the next three months. I don’t think I ever got over it. I’m not sure I want to be responsible for ending some poor kid’s childhood with my bikini line.
Anyway, I had brunch on Sunday with my pal Jean Pierre, film maker/beard grower extraordinaire and his lovely wife, Shaz Bennett, writer/peformer whom I will be performing a two-woman show with when I get back from my trip I’m extremely excited to report.
Then my friend J. Ryan and I went out for drinks but he showed up shaved and beardless, gravely disappointing me and reminding me just how fleeting a beard can be. Needless to say the thrill is gone so now I’m taking anyone who lives nearby who wants to buy me a farewell beer.
It’s become clear to me that although I’m loving writing this new blog, it’s going to force me to perform the unthinkable act of carrying a purse. I’ve spent my entire adult life dodging that reality because I don’t want to have to deal with the stupid thing every time I leave the house, clinging to me wherever I go like a baby monkey. I far prefer to be hands-free, pockets bulging, keys digging into my leg. Plus that werd. Purse. Ew.
But a blog requires that I carry a camera which is one piece of equipment over the line and we have no vacancies left in any of my outfits, so unless I start wearing a bigger bra, I’m going to be pursing it.
I’m telling you this fascinating piece of news because soon there will pictures and videos galore on here and it’ll all be thanks to the P word. And I must say, I wish that I’d had my camera yesterday morning as I drove off in my car (a purse with wheels) because I got up early and joined the virulent ranks of Saturday morning yard sale goers in a quest to find a new bike. And a purse.
I pulled up, five minutes before 8am, to a crowd attempting to push their way through some poor guy’s front gate as he yelled at them that it wasn’t eight yet and to back the hell off. I used to be in a punk band that played for the kind of people who’d rush the stage wielding chairs over their heads with intent to beat us with them because a.) they were drunk b.) my band was really bad c.) they paid to get in, and I’d take a long evening of fending them off over an impatient garage sale crowd anyday.
Cranky, entitled senior citizens, middle aged ladies with computer print outs of every yard sale within forty miles, neighbors attempting to wink and smile their way into getting first dibs on your tired DVD collection and worn out frying pan…all showing up well before the scheduled start time, duking it out on your front lawn very early in the morning for crap you’d happily leave in the alley. What IS that? Weren’t we at the top of the foodchain once?
Anyway, I’m pleased to report I found a bike and an ugly brown sweater, but shockingly, no purse. I’ve decided to do my purse shopping online.
This morning’s deep thought from the bathroom. Ahem:
Recession Lesson #1.
You can trade the majority of your time on this here planet for money, work your whole life at something only to find every penny suddenly gone. See ya, sucker!
LOVE WHAT YOU DO. And you will have lost nothing.
Stay tuned to see what the shower has to say about all this…..
One of my first jobs out of college was Production Coordinator for the Ethnic Folk Arts Festival put on by a little non profit group in NY called the Ethnic Folk Arts Center.
I heard about the job opening from a friend and decided I had to have it even though I’d never produced a thing in my life. It sounded like fun – they worked out of a funky loft in Tribecca, knew a lot about music and wrangled musicians and dancers from all over the world into a Polish beer garden in Queens once a year for a big fat party.
So I put together a resume that listed such achievements as: Produced plays in college (demanded my friends show up to watch my boyfriend act); Started several organizations in high school (had a bake sale once and started a sledding team that had no competition and only one meeting where we spent most of our time figuring out how to score some beer); worked at my college radio station (hung around while my friend DJed). Then I got all dressed up in sensible clothes borrowed from my mother that didn’t fit and marched off to my interview. An hour later me and my big mouth had a new job.
That night I lay awake in wide-eyed horror. My god, what have I done? I am a monster! These sweet, pure-hearted, sandal-wearing people who bring their dogs to work just handed me a coffee can full of money that they spent an entire year collecting for this festival and I’m the lying fathead who’s going to blow it.
I felt sick. I thought about turning myself in but instead wound up working harder for them than I ever had in my life. And I pulled if off in flying colors if I do say so myself. I got all my out of work friends to hand out flyers and take tickets, herded the unruly polka dancers into their places on time, got the latka vendors set up and oversaw the bagpipe parade that went off without a hitch.
I’m not saying you should lie, but I kind of am.
Because when we say we’re unqualified for something, we’re usally saying we’re too scared to try it.
Here’s the thing:
1.) We know waaaaay more than we give ourselves credit for
2.) We are drawn to things we’re naturally good at
3.) There’s no better teacher than necessity
In hindsight, I realized that I was more qualified than I thought. I’m an older sister which means I’m naturally bossy, I like working hard and I can talk to anyone, even a 76 year old Russian man who speaks no English and is in a bad mood because he can’t find his tights.
I went on to do many more things that I was “unqualified” for, but I also wasted plenty of time pretending I wasn’t ready or didn’t know enough or wasn’t sure about some other things I really wanted to do. And I will tell you, jumping in is way more fun than sitting around “getting ready”.
One time I spent an entire month preparing my office to write a book. I got just the right chair, put the desk in the perfect place by the window, organized all the materials I needed and then re-organized them, three times, cleaned the place until it almost wore away…and then proceeded to write the entire book at my kitchen table.
What are you putting off doing until you’re ready?
What could you start doing right now that would make you skip down the street with glee?
What are you pretending you can’t do?
Whether it’s a book you’re not ready to write or a trip you want to take after you lose 10 pounds or a business you want to start as soon as you save enough money….start. Now. You could get run over by the ice cream man tomorrow.
I demand you watch this all the way through lest you miss The Little Purple Man channeling the entire universe through his guitar. Holy frijoles people.
One question: what choade decided it was uncool to smile on stage? Poor little adorable George Harrison’s son is choking down a face-consuming grin the entire time until Prince forces him to lose it. I would be acting like a giddy little idiot if I was up there. Cool is a bore. Anyway, this video will make you wanna leap tall buildings in a sinlge bound.
I’m heading over to SE Asia (!) in December and don’t want to go just bumbling around as a tourist. I want to go bumbling around as a tourist on a quest. I want to come up with some way to engage with people wherever I am and blog about it – here are some of my ideas:
1.) Approach various people along the way and take their pictures wearing a tiara/a clown nose/a dainty hat/sunglasses shaped as the state of Texas/anything else that’s easy to carry around that’s stupid looking.
2.) See how many strangers I can get to take me to their homes for dinner
3.) See how many strangers I can get to let me buy them lunch
4.) See how many strangers I can get to let me cut their hair
Stuff like that. I’ll be in Thailand, Cambodia, Viet Nam and Laos. Got any brilliant ideas?
Alrighty, so I’m probably a little too out of it to attempt facing The Page this afternoon, but in my attempt to be a better blogger, I’monna give it a go. Ahem:
I’d like to meet whoever invented Halloween and give them an uncomfortably long hug. ALL holidays should involve dancing until 6am with Ernie, Bert and a bunch of dudes dressed like stewardesses.
I love it because it strips away the denials that we as a culture cling to for our dear, out-of-it lives: Our denial that we’re gonna die, our denial that bodies are oozy, our denial that no one is better than anyone else, our denial that we all want to connect to our fellow man, our denial that it’s fun to wear a tail and ears. Stuff like that.
I mean, is there anything better than driving down the highway and seeing Satan, a nurse and Sponge Bob fly by in the car next to you?
Costumes are the great equalizer, the open door that makes anyone fair game for a conversation. But here’s the thing – we’re all in costume all the time anyway. We’re all dressed up in who we think we are, so why not keep up the good work? Why not chat up everyone you meet as if they’re dressed in the giant gorilla suit that is their own self perception?
