Mode of distraction: Watching live Adele performances. Distracting me from: Putting clean laundry away.
It's Gay Pride Month! Pride is a mere few days away, but the gay gene knows nor cares about any such calendar. No matter the month, there are a few things that will send me into a queeny fit faster than Shangela in a lip-sync competition. I realized this at the gym today when, while lifting dumbbells, N*SYNC's "Bye Bye Bye" came on and it was only due to the struggle to lift the dumbbells that I didn't break into an all-out dance in front of the wall-to-wall mirrors. So, in the spirit of the month, I've been pontificating as to what triggers my inner gay to become an outer one. And because I'm OCD like that, I had to make enough to do rainbow colors. Deal.
~
1. Halloween
I mean, duh. Costumes, makeup, candy, alcohol, parties, dancing...sign me up for twice a year. And though I only dipped into drag once, it was really amazing, if I do say so myself (if completely wasted on a Davis audience):
AbFab, natch.
2. Wedding dance floors
There's something about them--the age range, the go-to 80s songs, the open bar (ideally), and--most often--my sister and mother at my side that just puts me in my element.
3. Nostalgic bubblegum pop/R&B
Including, but not limited to, early Britney and Destiny's Child, as well as "The Boy is Mine," "Hit 'Em Up Style," "Bye Bye Bye," "Wannabe," "Genie In A Bottle," "Faded" and "Are You That Somebody?"
4. Champagne
It's alcohol. Bubbly alcohol. Bubbly alcohol that's perfectly acceptable to consume morning, noon, and night. Check.
5. My favorite famous females
5. Scrapbooking
SHUT UP. I've made three (well, two, but my Davis one required two scrapbooks to fit all the modness) and I love them. Too expensive and time consuming to do regularly (plus I'm sure at some point I'd actually acquire menopause), but I love putting on my headphones and crafting out at 3 a.m.
6. Movies I've memorized
There are comedies that are so good, committing them to memory just sort of happens. Such films include The Birdcage, Death Becomes Her, Drop Dead Gorgeous, and Best In Show. Proper intonation required while going through dialogue with those special family and friends that have memorized them, too.
~
So voilà. Bask in my pride, and what brings it out faster than anything else. Well, except for, you know, naked men. Attractive naked men in particular. And this guy in most particular:
Mode of distraction: Contemplating a lifetime (i.e., spending too much time on YouTube for the purposes of this post).
Distracting me from: Getting back to work.
"25? Fuck I'm old!"
I've been waiting to say that phrase since I first saw the Sex and the City episode it belongs to back in the early 2000s, when I finally came around and caught up on this show. A drunk loser says it during Carrie's birthday dinner from hell (she's turning 35, by the way).
And now I can finally say it. Time most definitely flies.
But this is where Oprah and I differ. Oprah, after a mere 25 years, is calling it quits. This bitch. What kind of message is that sending to those like me, only just turning 25? Is it really over now? All downhill from here? Oprah has proven herself a truly savvy businesswoman--maybe she just knows when to get out, while I (and most others) do not.
If 25 really is the peak, then I'm giving myself a slice of Oprah and doing a very special birthday blog post. Iiiiiiiiit's...
MY FAVORITE THINGS!!!
Having lived/survived/managed/grown/learned/succeeded/failed for a quarter of a century now, and because--again--Oprah and I have just so much in common, I'm going to reflect on the things that make me me, broken down into key (superficial) facets. And you will watch. Because it's my birthday (week).
No, this is not going to be a list of my favorite movies of all time (mullhollanddrthebirdcagedeathbecomeshermoulinrougerequiemforadreamangelsinamerica). Movies have been a part of my being since, well, yeah, seeing all the Disney movies growing up. But I really think A Fish Called Wanda earns the most credit for shaping me, my love for movies, and my family's intimate connection with them. I think I first saw this Rated R flick at age, what, seven? And Jamie Lee Curtis' swiftly delivered "What about my tits?" line proved to be absolutely the funniest thing I'd ever heard in my life to that point. It marked the transition from movie watching to movie memorizing, and my entire family can repeat lines to that movie on a dime. That, my friends, is how you judge a comedy.
True to growing-up form, I have continued to love and appreciate the movies watched and recited with my family, while moving on and finding my own. My #1 most quotable comedy goes to none other than Mike Nichol's sublime The Birdcage. It's simply the best. And trust that TRAC and I can quote the entire thing, from start to finish, with perfect intonation.
Sigh, Nathan Lane really did deserve an Oscar for this role. Perfection.
Admittedly, my appreciation for music came late in life. Most of my early CDs were simply movie soundtracks (such as the one for Speed 2, and I'm not even kidding). Though, I must give props to TLC, who managed to break through my ignorance with CrazySexyCool--the first CD I ever purchased and one I both still own and love.
But even TLC was no match for one voice that would shine above the rest (well, okay, two if you count my sister, because her voice does all the same things for me). In 2002, two things happened: my sister became interested in Broadway singers as she started voice lessons, and American Idol started. Upon listening to Linda Eder blasted through my sister's walls, I realized I really appreciated that she had such a good voice. That gay tuning fork inside me began to ring, and just as my love for big-voiced divas was finally starting to take shape, an adorably confident and humble Kelly Clarkson took the cheap, Season-One stage of American Idol to belt out a twangy and pitch-fucking-perfect "Respect."
Seriously, how cute is she? And amazing? I thought so, too. I really liked Tamyra as well, and still think they're the best contestants to ever grace this rapidly declining show (that I haven't actually watched since Season Five). I went through a big-voiced diva phase (Whitney, Mariah, Celine, Barbra, Linda, etc.), and while I still like and appreciate their talent, my musical taste has since expanded greatly. But my love for Kelly Clarkson has only grown. Her voice is phenom, she can sing anything, and she just seems like a way cool person. I'd post more videos, but I don't want to lose you, and when her new album drops this fall I'm pretty sure I'll be dedicating a whole post to her anyway.
Can't forget this. I grew up a terrible speller, probably from some mix of laziness and my first-grade teacher who had us write in journals every morning using "inventive spelling." She just wanted us to write and not worry about the technicalities. So...I didn't. Until my best friend, Kevin, in fifth grade, in big letters, on the big whiteboard, wrote "BROCKEN" and explained to anyone listening that this was how I continually misspelled "broken." Oh, the shame. But hey, it kick-started me into getting my shit together. And now I am a copywriter, editor, and soon-to-be-recipient of an MFA in Writing. Who knew?
But I must credit one teacher for really making me realize I had a knack for writing, even though I hated her (for, like, two seconds) for doing so. We had an assignment in seventh grade to write about a personal experience. I wrote about the time my dick of a third grade history teacher gave me an F on a test--my first F--and I realized he actually marked one of my answers as incorrect when it was correct. He looked it over, nodded, and put a "+" mark next to my F. Piece. Of. Shit. Anyway, my seventh grade teacher thought the story was so good (it sort of writes itself, doesn't it?) she read it aloud in class. Embarrassing, but then I knew I was good at something. It took plenty more years and teacher confirmations before I pursued creative writing aggressively, but that was the start.
I need my TV time. I just do. It's how I unwind. I watch it all, from brilliantly written shows like Weeds, Damages, and Modern Family to trashy reality TV like the Real Housewives franchises (even the shitty ones like Miami and D.C.). I get absorbed and happy when I watch, so I don't care what you say. And when it comes to marathoning a favorite, it doesn't get any better than the groundbreaking and beloved Roseanne.
Finally, gymnastics. Yes, I did a sport. Only for fun, but it's been a huge part of my life and, through the magic of YouTube, still is. I use to watch it endlessly, and left patches of dead grass in my backyard from where my feet hit as I ran up to our trampoline. It's the most demanding and spectacular sport there is. And over the years, my numerous favorite gymnasts over the years have changed and finally settled on one: Vanessa Atler. She is far from a household name, but was touted to be the next big name in 1997. Her talent, at least in the United States, was truly unsurpassed, but a lack of mental toughness and confidence (plus eventual surgeries and an eating disorder, as well as a host of other disadvantages) left her off the 2000 Olympic Team. I was there with my family for those Olympic Trials, and it was heartbreaking to watch her fall so spectacularly apart. But now I remember her fondly for her power and spirit, and this routine remains my favorite floor routine of all time.
The choreography is great and so well executed, but that first pass is really what stands out. Unreal. Incidentally, I ended up writing her on Facebook to geek out for a bit and she responded and was really sweet. Win.
Um, pretty much deserves her own mention. And I've met her. It might have been as a brace-faced 15-year-old who announced to her within seconds of meeting her that Death Becomes Her was my favorite movie of all time (we were at the Academy Award rehearsals for the year she received her Adaptation nomination, by the way...), but I still met her so I still win. Proof that my 25 years is superior to Oprah's is right here:
So, that about covers it for this epic blog post. But you only turn 25 once. And, yes, obviously, I would be nowhere (quite literally) without my family. They are everything. I couldn't have asked for more love, support, inspiration, humor, and drama (you have to have the drama or then you just grew up too lucky and jaded). And, since I'm a total mamma's boy, my mother deserves her own special shout out on this monumental occasion. You really are the best.
You're now free to get back to your daily routines. For all those people in my life who I both like and love, thank you for making this all so worthwhile that I am, unlike Oprah, continuing with life after 25. It seems like the thing to do. For all those people in my life who I both dislike and hate, fuck you. You're probably necessary to keep me grounded and all that, and for that I...well, whatever, I still don't like you.
Mode of distraction: Trying (and failing) to come up with a Brangelina-esque word for anorexia-alcoholism that I like enough to put in the title. Distracting me from: Actually eating lunch on my lunch break.
As I'm days away from turning 25, the dust from turning 21 has most definitely settled and being able to order drinks at bars, clubs, restaurants, and airplanes has become second nature (okay, ordering on airplanes still feels fun). But, as discussed in a previous entry, I've become focused on this "getting in shape" situation and try to get to the gym 4-5 times a week, and now that I've been doing that for a few months, it should surprise exactly no one who knows me that I've entered the obsessive realm. Not going four times a week feels like failing, and I've come to contemplate everything I put in my mouth (sigh...dick joke, snicker, etc.).
I was out to dinner with Alex's family last night at the delicious Patxi's Chicago Pizza in Hayes Valley, and we discussed the availability of wine and beer. Beer actually sounded good, but I turned it down (in favor of Coke, which really makes no sense for the topic of this blog, but whatever). Almost always at restaurants nowadays I get water, not alcohol. Same for when friends come over for movie nights. In the days of yore I would have enjoyed a nice glass of wine or three to unwind, but now I'll just stick with water or one of the remaining Big Sticks (sigh...dick joke, snicker, etc.) in my freezer from San Francisco's random sunny weekends.
Why? I don't typically want to drink alcohol unless I'm going to get drunk.
Quintessential 21st birthday shot.
Yikes. Really? But yes, it's true. Alcohol, like all things great, is filled with calories, and why waste them when I'm not even going to reap their full benefits? Granted, I'm not trying to lose weight, but I do have pesky lower belly fat that I stare at incessantly upon entering and exiting the shower, and I'm pretty sure that it's a physical manifestation of my drug of choice. Or just natural body fat that would require a more serious exercise/diet effort to lose than I'm willing/able to perform. Either way, it's there, and I'd rather it not be...unless the upside is a lowered sense of awareness while dancing with my favorite people in a crowded, trashy, loud environment. Or shit talking on my couch. Or dodging rats at Hobson's.
So, I've completed Step One. I've admitted I have a problem. Therefore, I'll be pouring myself a singular glass of wine now as soon as I'm off work.
Mode of distraction: Buying new and new-to-me music. Distracting me from: Thesis writing.
Classes. Are. Over. It was worthy, is worthy, and will continue to be worthy of a true "Raise Your Glass" moment:
The post-final class drinks at the reliable (take as you will) Hobson's was a necessary way to end the semester. After a last class that actually ran five minutes over (I mean, WTF), I met with Karen and Alex and ranted and (practically) ran to the bar. Fairly certain I took a shot before I even said hi to anyone. After I had chased it with a few sips of a vodka tonic, I felt human and ready to socialize. It's been said in countless status updates and slurred side-hugs, but I do thank everyone (you know who you are) involved in that program who made it a really special and helpful experience. And for those of you who didn't...thanks for the stories (not the ones you wrote, necessarily, but the ones you provided nonetheless).
The celebration couldn't last long, however, with my looming thesis deadline: a fully revised first half of my thesis due to Max on May 23. I figured this would be about 150 pages, as I see my thesis wrapping up at around 300 (currently around the 250 range), but it is now 6:30-something on May 18 and I'm at page 102. And I know I need to edit. So, methinks I've got another chapter.5 in me and then it'll be time to press print and just hope I've been overestimating the length of my story. This could all just be my body providing me with a built-in excuse because I'm so fucking tired from my continual work-gym-library combo I've been rocking these last few days.
I did pause in productivity to partake in my first-ever Bay to Breakers! Our group was "You Are What You Drink," and I selected the delectable mimosa to represent myself. Feast your eyes on my costume-making prowess, which--coupled with my beloved Tokyo Tea--garnered praise throughout the day:
It was a fun day--maybe eight degrees too cold, and I could have done without a slew of straight boys turning my apartment to a bigger mess than our housewarming party did in about half the time, but what are you gonna do? Why, bitch about it on your blog, of course! Oh, and boys--I know dick aiming becomes only more taxing while intoxicated, but seriously--the amount of piss on my toilet seat caused Hobson's flashbacks. Gain control or sit down until you can piss like a lady.
...
Anyway, off to write...because school ain't over yet.
Mode of distraction: Putting my new Kelly Clarkson song leak on repeat. Distracting me from: Getting changed for a celebratory dinner at Tataki.
Okay, so, I meant to do this blog post a week ago. Everyone get in your mental Deloreans and pretend this was last week. This also explains why my post isn't about my very last week of class EVER, but I need more distance to write about that. All I could say about that now is...
So, onto last week, because it was a good one, and because my foot is still peeling from the sunburn. That's right. SUNBURN. We had a hot, nice, amazing weekend in San Francisco. So nice, in fact, that Alex and myself took a trip to Golden Gate Park with Elliot's little well-behaved mongrel, Moose, and laid out in the sun. Shirtless and everything--and I was relieved to discover that everyone in San Francisco was in the same pasty position I was. I covered myself in sunscreen from head to toe mid-shin. I have no idea why I just didn't commit to the whole leg, but I burnt pretty badly there. Thank god for Aloe Vera. Imagine if I hadn't put any sunscreen on? I'd have taken all the Vicodin I could find and slept in a bathtub for five days.
Speaking of Aloe Vera, my beloved Adrienne Villafana (see what I did there?) visited all the way from ho-hum Washington D.C. for the weekend! We kicked off the visit with a potluck at Elliot's, then drank and danced the night away on Friday, Davis style--with King's Cup and everything!
Turned out, we drank a little too much (I know, I was shocked, too), because one of our friends had a real college flashback and ended up throwing up all night while I grabbed wads of her hair from her face and sat on the kitchen floor with her...alone...for hours. Really brings me back.
We had scheduled a more low-key game night for Saturday, but after a series of truly unfortunate events, that didn't happen. I was ready to kinda sorta lose my shit about it (because it was a plan! and Adrienne was only here for a short time! and I hate stupid decisions! and it was a plan!), but Alex convinced me to not go on a total Danny tirade when Elliot and Adrienne finally arrived at our place at 11:30, and so I just went to bed. The next morning, before Adrienne had to go back to the airport, we had what can only be described as a perfectly lovely brunch. It was a great way to end the trip. There's a lesson here somewhere, but...I'm gonna go ahead and ignore that.
Needless to say, it was amazing having Adrienne back. It felt so natural, like she had only been gone two weeks. And I think we showered her with enough love that she'll be back settled in San Francisco by the end of 2012. I'm calling it. Make it happen, darling, because I miss you already!
Mode of distraction: Body dysmorphia. Distracting me from: Tending to my sunburned foot.
My New Year's resolution for the past five years or so has been the same vague, tired, cliche wish: to get in shape. I have a naturally fast metabolism and difficulty putting on any real weight, which garners me no sympathy...and no substantial muscle mass. Thus, getting into optimal shape has yet to really take place.
Also, I hate working out.
But this year, I have been faithfully going to the gym since the beginning of February and am actually getting to the point where I can see improvement. This presents a predicament: I had sort of assumed I had the sort of DNA that simply wouldn't allow this to happen, no matter what I did. There. Absolved of responsibility.
While I'm hardly busting out of my XS t-shirts, things are improving, so...fuck. I guess it just means I need to really work at it. How ugly. My goal this time, however, is more focused: I want to look like this by the time I turn in my thesis this coming August:
Guffaw. The reality is that I'll fall short of this, but it seems within physical reason...ish...to pursue nonetheless. I'm just gonna go ahead and ignore who this is, but which of you queens don't need the face to know the name? Also, since I've neglected the blog for so long, I knew I had to lure in all my lost readers (all 13 of you!) with a bit o' flesh. Sort of like a desperate TV show that has jumped the shark in its first season.
In other far more important news, Adrienne returned to San Francisco for a visit this week! It was a pretty glorious weekend in general (hence the sunburn), but I'll save that post for later this week. Gotta get back into the habit of doing this and making those distractions count for something moderately productive.
Off to either take advantage of the sun or take advantage of a napping boyfriend and get some thesis work done.
Mode of distraction: Celebrating no longer having to move a car for street cleaning days. Distracting me from: ...paying my last parking ticket.
Lowering my carbon footprint. Sticking it to high gas prices. Helping the environment. Acknowledging my budget by utilizing public transportation.
None of that really matters. I'm car-free in San Francisco and all I care about is that I don't have to move the car twice a week for street cleaning. REJOICE!
Mi amor y yo made a fairly impromptu trip down to LA on the tail end of my spring break to deposit said inconvenience machine at his house, where it will stay until it is sold (then we'll really rejoice). This began with a 5:45 am start time.
Once we made it past the bridge, we embarked on our drive down the desolate I-5 waiting for the sun to rise. Which it did, slowly and with fairly muted colors of blue (not the golden red eye-gasm I was hoping for).
And then, the unthinkable. A pair of Central California criminals caught up to our car in their motorcycle and ripped my phone out of my own hands. Distraught but not deterred, we took our losses and kept on with our trip home. About an hour later, I noticed something shimmer amongst the yellowing grass and dry dirt. Could it be? Yes, it was my phone! I inspected it immediately, and came across a crucial bit of evidence to find the thieves:
They went to McDonalds. For breakfast. How atrocious. Clearly, after loading up on delectable disgusting food items such as two sausage and egg McMuffins, two hashbrowns and two orange juices (...or something), their fat, stubby fingers were too greasy to hold on to the stolen phone and it must have flown free from their grasp. Pathetic.
Phone safely returned, we made it home in five and a half hours with an easy, unremarkable drive. The weekend home was typical of quick weekends home--too many people to see and not enough time, but this was pretty successful. Got to go into the office, watch a movie with the family, and visit SF abandoners Will and Jace in their super-cute new LA apartment in which we watched hours of RuPaul's Drag Race with a few cocktails (not Absolut...sorry, Ru). Sadly, didn't get to see much of my sister as she was too busy making her director cry while rehearsing her solo for her up-coming role in Pizazz.
The flight back was rather long for an LA to SF trip. If anyone is ever feeling particularly masochistic and wants to witness a cesspool of human stupidity and selfishness, just hop on down to your local airport and go through security. Good Christ. What is it about a metal detector that is so difficult to comprehend? If you're wearing metal, it detects it. This middle-aged woman with a frumpy neon green sweater and bleached, wet-looking hair failed a solid three times in a row before finally removing her bracelets, muttering to herself "Unbelievable, they didn't go off in LA."
This bitch. So, you were aware of your K-Mart metallic accessories, and yet in spite of three botched attempts to walk those two steps through the security device, it didn't occur to you that perhaps you weren't going to get by like you allegedly did in LAX that one time?
Then the line was held up because this poor woman, who has clearly been in a coma the last five-plus years and is only now traveling again, decided to bring an arsenal of Costco-sized bottles of hair and body products in her carry-on, which stopped the security conveyor belt in its tracks. She later also decided that, though she was told to enter from the rear of the plane given her rear seat assignment, she'd just go ahead and enter through the front so more people could get out of her and her mop's way.
Directions are tricky, aren't they?
But, no matter, we are now officially car-free in San Francisco. And I am happy.
