LittleBritBigWorld

2010-08-07T21:25:00.000-07:00

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Positano, Italy
The Blue Grotto

Two to Tango, Vows to Swim

There was this one time I jumped off a boat to rescue my husband. It was just in time too, because I was beginning to think there wasn’t much I could do for our marriage that he couldn’t, and saving his life sort of balances the scales for good, no? It wasn’t so much that my husband was controlling during those first few years (yes it was!) I’ll say instead that he liked to be in charge. I admit I was an enabler, lazily handing over the reins of our life because it meant less trouble and less work in exchange for living his preferences.

But every now and then I would get a surge of indignant independence and dig my heels into the dirt over some very important issue like what color to paint the bathroom: Two lives become one, not two lives become YOURS! I know that ‘Bayview Blue’ is the right choice, and I’ll be darned if I’m going to bathe in a room painted ‘LIGHTHOUSE YELLOW!’ Or the earth shattering issue of what to do with our Friday night: No more hanging out with your old man friends! I’m twenty-two and we’re going OUT and you’re going to LIKE IT! The random outbursts were admittedly more of a personal frustration for not having established myself as more of a “co-conspirator” in our relationship from the get go than they were actual discontent with my husband’s décor preferences, or lack of clubbing libido.

The push and pull between the over-confident idealist who fell in love at 21, and the slapped-in-the-face-by-the-world-without-messing-up-my-makeup twenty-something I was becoming was just the emotional water that had to flow under my psychotherapy bridge for marrying the same summer I graduated from college, joining the urban artist life of a man 6 years my senior and 10 years older than his age.

I was twenty-four when I rescued him, and three years into the process of giving your life to the other for the common good of both, but not yet shielded against the stray shrapnel of the ‘war against odds’ we waged to make a marriage thrive. I had just spent a month without him at Cambridge University studying UK fiction and film writing to finish up my Masters program through the University of Southern California. Since I was already abroad, we decided to make a trip of it and rendezvoused in London before heading to Italy, conveniently over our three-year anniversary.

I was excited for a romantic reunion, something like that famous post-WWII kiss picture that girls hang in their college dorm rooms. I was also hoping for some serious “good job navigating around England all by yourself” comments, as another quirk of having a mildly controlling, older-than-me husband is my need to constantly prove myself as capable and self-sufficient. Well, as much as can be proved when I’m carrying his credit card, right?

What I got instead was a quick hug in the terminal and an urgent, “I’ll take your passport for you now” just as we were arranging our bags underfoot on the flight to Rome. Enlightened from my month study abroad, I was going to prevent him from taking control.

   “Uh, I’m fine holding onto my identification, thanks.”

    “I really feel better if I have both of them, hun.” He stuck out his hairy hand.

    “Well, I really felt fine for the last month without you around, so I think I can manage.” I had my big girl pants on now.

    “I have this nice zipper pocket and you’ve got a lot going on over there. You’ll wanna do things on our layover, get coffee and… I’ll just hang onto it for you.”

This is husband code for You’re carrying way too much crap and remember that time in college you studied abroad and left your entire wallet full of traveler’s checks and your passport at the Starbucks in Atlanta? And they had to mail it to the Madrid airport for you to pick up?

I should have never told him that story.

After a month filled with long nights of writing and partying, and days full of overly-intellectual literary discussions and sightseeing with friends, I was used to being on my own watch, so this moment was quickly mounting into one of my freakouts, not unlike the infamous bathroom paint. I pined for my tiny dorm room at Pembroke with the view of the gardens, thirty feet from the student bar where ideas and personal freedom abounded.

     “I’m going to keep my damn passport in my damn purse,” I said calmly. “And Cambridge was great. I really missed you too,” I had to add to burn him for failing on the romantic reunion. I’d taken up moderate cussing so people would take me more seriously, and it seemed to work for the time being. The rest of the plane ride I listened to my lovely husband talk about how he had arranged the perfect hotel in the perfect place because of his expert trip planning skills and finely tuned instincts. He also insisted we visit something called “The Blue Grotto,” a cave with natural florescent-blue lighting. It sounded cramped and a bit too earthy for my taste and I spurned the idea as a touristy breeding ground for claustrophobia. But since he had of course done more research than I could manage at Cambridge, I conceded after he did his infamous “It’s done” arm motion—the same one an umpire does when a player is safe at home base.

Thankfully, he went first at customs and didn’t see me digging through my shoulder bag before I remembered my passport was in my purse.

After a brief stay in Rome, we arrived at the quaint coastal town, Positano, and our hotel was indeed perfect. It was nestled halfway up the city incline, and our room boasted a street side window that perfectly framed those picturesque, multi-colored houses inlaid into the natural slope of the village. Positano is one of those images that once you see it you realize you’ve seen it before, maybe on a postcard in an antique store, a puzzle at a garage sale, or in a travel book at your aunt’s house. The hotel wasn’t so expensive that we had to constantly reminded ourselves to enjoy it, but certainly nice enough to prefer the sheets to our own -- the perfect level for an anniversary getaway.

The boat to the Blue Grotto was just a few couples on a nice, large cruiser for 5 euro more than the cramped transit ferry. It felt posh, and I was glad I chose a sundress and mascara for the journey. James pointed and named the different towns along the coast as we cruised, and I nodded like I had also located them on the map before our arrival.

To my secret satisfaction, the Blue Grotto was a double-d sized bust. Crammed inside muggy caves alongside seven other long boats barely afloat with their prodigious tourists all sporting their various ‘European vacation boating attire,’ we barely moved through the water. The guides, looking like dilapidated versions of the Venice canal paddlers, all sang this once-beautiful-now-miserable-song while we admired the walls that were in fact lit with an eerie blue light. Excuse my geological ignorance, but I was more worried about whose fleshy arms were rubbing up against mine than the mysteries of the faint blue under my over-crowded boat. Just as my asthma was about to kick in from too much body heat, we rowed over to a spot that erased any remaining suspicion as to whether or not this was a good idea. There, under our boat, was a submerged stone carving of mother Mary and baby Jesus. The guides gasped in mock surprise and the moronic tourists took pictures of the worst nativity scene ever while I made “are you happy?” eyes at my husband.

But it was the boat ride back that made the excursion memorable. I knew my husband wasn’t a great swimmer, but I had seen him thrash through swimming pools just fine so I didn’t think twice when the other couples on board requested a swim stop and James nodded in agreement. I didn’t want to jump into the luring sea because I had declared a “cute day” and wanted to avoid the wet hair look.

Instead of finding a cove, the boat dropped anchor with expanse in all directions, and I settled myself into a prime tanning spot on the front of the boat just as James peeled off his shirt and jumped in.

It’s amazing what you don’t know about someone in three years of marriage. I didn’t know he had never jumped off a boat before, had never done the “water activities” section of summer camp, had never taken a family vacation on a lake, and didn’t know a thing about currents or waves. His Armenian parents weren’t big on water parks and he certainly never endured the YMCA “water safety” course my mother made me take seven times the summer she wanted me out of her hair. Or did I ask to repeat it because the instructor looked like Zach Morris from Saved by the Bell? Regardless, what I now know means that when he jumped into the Mediterranean next to a boat with an anchor swinging a good 40’ above the ocean floor, he didn’t know to keep an eye on the ladder at all times and to swim against the waves and wakes that naturally carry you away from where you started. I guess when you struggle to prove your competency and control in a marriage, you never pause to think the all-mighty husband might be lacking some serious survival tools.

Thankfully I got sweaty and propped myself up to see the swimmers. The other two couples and the driver were bobbing within five feet of the ladder on the side of the boat, splashing and laughing. One guy was doing summersaults through the safety ring. A good seventy feet away, James was treading water in that full-steam panicky way you do when you see a weird fish swim by, or I guess the way a person who never learned how to tread water treads water.

Oh my God, I said to an empty boat.

     “Hey babe!” he yelled between gasps. “Could you maybe throw me something?” He was at least fifty feet out from the bow of boat and his head was disappearing behind waves from my perspective. The fact that he thought a floatie would make it to him off my toss told me he was already panicked. I called upon the depths of my water safety from that 6th grade summer. By the time I found a floater, or explained it to the other passengers, he would start taking in water. I took a running dive off the front of the boat and did my personal fastest crawl to my bobbing husband. By the time I reached him I thought of yelling back to the boat for a floatie myself.

I treaded water beside him and pulled his arm up to give him a good breath. His odd-paced gasps were disconcerting. I sent how to bring a grown man through waves into my memory banks and came up with nothing.

     “Try and breath normal, babe. You’re cool, okay? Just hang onto me.”

He nodded but his eyes were wild and he grabbed my shoulder hard. As he pushed down, the only thing I could remember from the YMCA is the percentage of rescuers who are drowned by panicked swimmers.

     “Sweetie, breathe normal and let me pull you.” I tried taking his arm over my neck but he couldn’t hold lightly, and my lungs were already burning from the swim out. I only lasted a few strokes before I felt like we might both go under. “Okay, listen. You know how to get there, you’re just beat. I’m letting go and you just hang onto my leg, okay?”

     “I can’t!” he gasped through his freaky breathing. I nodded confidently even though it felt like a lousy way to rescue, and having our safety rest on my one-legged swimming skills was supremely scary (I was the last leg of the lowest ranking relay on Jr. High swim team, a posterity swimmer if you will).

     “Just keep your head above water and kick.” I let him go and he did a doggie-paddle spaz for a second before trusting that my leg was attached to me and I was swimming toward the boat.

     “No big deal, we’re almost there.” I said between strokes, a little too loud.

Thank Jesus, the real one and the creepy stone baby underwater, we made it to the ladder. Few moments have been better than those I laid sprawled on the hot vinyl boat cushions, my sundress soaked through, heaving in the sweet Italian oxygen with my sputtering-salt water husband lying safely beside me. The next day we hiked up to the fancy Le Sirenuse hotel for cocktails and views without the room rate. We enjoyed that unique yet iconic part of the Amalfi coast that makes you want to be more creative and original when you get back home, with a profound appreciation for the person we were with.

Something about seeing my husband at his weakest, with the weight of our safety (literally) on my shoulders, made me realize that perhaps his control was sometimes a disguise for responsibility, and maybe my outbursts were times I felt my need to acquire some. I was going to work on turning my panic into appreciation -– there had to be a bit of beauty in having matured next to the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with, right?If I had to hit that crazy, unique to generation Y “quarter life crisis” (it’s a real thing), I was happy to have worked through it with him at my side. So be it if he got a little over-protective and lashed out in a caveman “Me man, I in charge.” kind of way every now and then. What was he supposed to do, let the over-eager twenty-one year-old who wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to culinary school, write for a magazine or join the peace corps make all the decisions? I could try and understand his misdirected way of taking care of me, if he could, as I politely urged him, step aside and allow me to be a bit of who I was mixed with a bit of who I was becoming.

Actually, at 170lbs, I don’t know about gold, but the fight for control certainly isn’t worth its weight in water. But lest I seem entirely mature, it must be mentioned that I was absolutely right about The Blue Gratto, I totally saved my husband without killing us both, and I have never lost my passport.

2010-07-19T03:14:00.000-07:00

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Ensenada, Mexico
Casa Hogar Orphanage

Pass the Tequila

First it should be explained why I, a peppy twenty-something with a ponytail and a penchant for sleeping in, was in Mexico with three SUVs full of Rotarians and the nastiest chest cold of my life.

Joining the local Manhattan Beach Rotary Club was one of the first things my husband did when we moved to Los Angeles about three years ago. This particular club provides such a powerful sense of community, that spouses are welcomed as part of the gang, and until I found my own outlet for that glorious mix between philanthropic work and social belonging, I tagged along whenever I could. From tropical-themed cocktail parties and monthly supper clubs, home builds and serving the elderly, to a Saturday afternoon of flipping burgers at the local hometown fair, I was there with the Rotarians and loving the guidance of such an evolved organization. Yes, it’s true that while other hot-blooded kids my age were making their rounds at the hippest spots, staying out 'till 3:00am and enjoying the beach life, I was cozying up to a tight-knit group of grey haired do-gooders. But as time passed and I began to toss my social net a little wider, my Rotarian involvement lessened and I missed it terribly.

So naturally, when my husband recently brought home the announcement that a friend in the club was taking a group of Rotarians to Ensenada to work at an orphanage he supports, I jumped at the opportunity to both satiate my ache for children in need and work alongside our Rotarian buddies.

And so it was, that on a quiet evening in March, I helped load up a few rented Yukons with tubs of paint, flats of bottled water, art supplies…and lots of candy. In addition to some light construction plans, we hoped to give the forty-something kids at the orphanage something of educational value, and the leader asked my husband to come up with some sort of art project for the kids. Forget the fact that I can't even color inside the lines, when you're the wife of an artist, you're on the craft squad, period. Our aim was to let them draw, color and create with individual attention and instruction, and build some confidence in their abilities and preferences. To prepare, we loaded up on fancy paper, new crayons and markers, coloring books and of course, Costco-sized bags of chocolate bars and lollipops. Much to the chagrin of our friends with kids, my husband absolutely cannot be around children for more than fifteen seconds without giving them candy. Combine that with his treat-based dog training theory, and there you have the totality of our kid knowledge: repetition and copious amounts of sweets.

We were all loaded up for the 3 hour drive to Ensenada. I was ignoring my sore throat because I'd been looking forward to this trip for quite some time and my throbbing headache was masked with three Advil and a large coffee. I find caffeine yields a rewarding response to most my ailments, and I wasn’t about to let the group go without me.

It was long after midnight before we reached our humble lodgings, and too late to visit the orphanage. I was entirely anxious for sleep, but as someone dedicated to the cause of personal comfort , I couldn't bring myself to cuddle up with the musty, Mexican blankets at the foot of my bed. I find no purpose for scratchy blankets in this world, and the multi-color, itch-fest ones within my reach were no exception. Cold as I was, I resisted the scratchers and snuggled with my moderately stained sheet and tried not to indulge in my deepening cough. I fell asleep with visions of adorable orphans dancing in my head.

Homemade breakfast was served from the modest kitchen, but I couldn’t even taste the pancakes because my mildly sore throat was now a cough bad enough to make me wonder if there was a miniature man in my chest turning a knife into my lung each time I took a deep breath. Seriously. And my voice sounded like I had smoked two packs a day since puberty. I actually didn't mind this part so much because I think my regular voice is annoyingly high and feminine and have always wished for a hint of scruff to amp up my sex appeal. Regardless, I was only there for a few days, and nothing short of the bird flu (the real one) was going to keep me in that scratchy-blanket room instead of playing with orphans who needed me while working with my favorite Rotarians.

Driving through downtown Ensenada, I was embarrassed that I brought so much of the extraneous candy food group and wished I had brought a truckload of expensive meat and vegetables. The scene was grim, but reminded me of the picture inside the flap of my high school Spanish textbook, the one that shows a happy Mexican street of brightly colored buildings with the names like "Tequileria" and "Carneceria" and "Heladeria" scrawled on their roofs. In the textbook, the liquor store, meat store and ice cream store were in the same complex with their happy-go-lucky owners in clean aprons making nice outside with a cute little dog at their feet ("Perro" was written on his back). But in real time Mexico, on this particular street, every other building was vacant, all were dilapidated, and the once bright fronts were faded by the scorching sun and filthy from the red dirt pitched up off the street. There were indeed store owners on the street, but their eyes were clouded with a mixture of exhaustion and greed, and at the sight of our three packed SUV's, began pointing and shouting toward their taco stands, racks of jewelry and stacks of blankets (scratchy ones I assumed), sensing the biggest sale of the week. Also like the textbook, there was a dog. Then three dogs, then one behind a broken down car, then one nosing through some garbage, then two chasing our vehicles. And they weren't cute -- they were sad and desperate, especially the ones with nipples that hung low from multiple, probably unattended litters. Finally, our entourage pulled into the orphanage grounds, which were a grand total of four dilapidated buildings, and the red Ensenada dirt gave us a grand entry in clouds of dust. I was thinking something humble and appropriate like help has arrived!

The kiddos came straggling in from school, some from a day of playing in the streets, and we set up tables for “art time.” Most of the kids were as thrilled as I was with the smell of new crayons and the boundless opportunities represented by blank paper (well, for me mostly stick-figures). They colored for hours in our outdoor craft time next to their rusty jungle gym and dirt soccer field. My husband handed out candy for finished pictures that included their names and descriptions of the pictures. It was fun to trade English words for Spanish ones and hear about the kid’s favorite colors and the names of the dogs scurrying around, but I couldn’t ignore a little guy that hung back from the group a good twenty feet, totally indifferent to the scuttle of prizes and colors. He was tiny and listless, almost troubled. I went toward him with a sucker and some crayons.

“Como te llamas?” I said sweetly, reaching out to his shoulder, hoping to guide him toward the tables. He offered me a blank stare and dodged my touch. One of the older girls shouted that his name was Oscar and that he was boring. I decided he just needed a little love (and maybe some refined sugar?).
"Quieres color conmigo?" No, Oscar was not interested in coloring with me, in practicing his English words, or in winning any type of affection from me, and his gnarly little face smeared with dirt confirmed this. I made a big pout, sure that my disappointment would woo him into craft time. He could care less and meandered toward one of the dogs instead.

Dejected, I trotted off toward a few fluffy haired boys with pleading eyes, and played a good game of soccer. I quickly jammed my finger (when is it ever a good idea for a 5 footer to play goalie?) and my red-rimmed nose was running all over the field, so I threw back some meds and a Gatorade before the afternoon construction work.

At the second craft time I gave Oscar a few more heartfelt attempts and received only scowls and contempt in return. I have to be supremely honest here and say that I like kids that like me. Oscar was nearing brat territory, orphan or not, and I’d rather spend time with the little girls that played with my hair or the little boys that were thrilled I knew my way around a soccer field. It was simply no fun chasing after Oscar with his boogers, his dirty-bottom pants and his disconfirming scowl. All I wanted was to wipe his face clean and give him some attention, who wouldn’t want that? I left the orphanage that day with a black and blue finger, serious congestion and a bruised ego.

Back at our camp by the bonfire, one of the girls produced some prized local Tequila. The entire group was tired, sore and a bit overwhelmed by our day in Ensenada, so it was only a few awkward moments before everyone admitted they were entirely ok with a game of "pass the bottle." To be supremely honest again, I’d never played this game. My prude teen years never provided much opportunity for the drink-from-the -bottle kind of evenings. I seemed to have skipped that phase and gone straight to the Cadillac Margaritas as an adult. I actually know my Tequila pretty well, and wanted to come off cool. I offered to be skipped because of my cold, but was assured that the alcohol would kill the germs (funny what you don’t care about after a day with Mexican orphans). When the bottle came to me I took a swig, but because of the weird nozzle, it made a "glug glug" sound before I could swallow, pouring in at least two shots. A little bit dripped down my chin and the circle all burst out laughing. So much for cool. Two more times around the circle and my life-threatening tuberculosis cough didn't bother me so much. It was fun to drink a little; it felt good to our sore muscles and tired demeanors. It also felt good to saddle up to that campfire. Together with the Tequila it seemed to dim the sounds of the local life, maybe even warm the air we knew was cutting through the walls of that orphanage.

The next day I was chatting with a few of the Rotarians pouring cement when I saw one of the little boys, about four years old, wandering the dusty streets outside the fence of the orphanage, petting a dogsand watching some older kids.

"That's one of our kids, should I go tell him to come back?" I happened to be carrying a bag of suckers leftover from craft time. The leader overhead and reminded me that the kids can do whatever they want, some of them don’t even come back. I felt sheepish for trying to create control. One of our kids. Who's are they when I leave in 24 hours? Running out of a mother's sight is quite plausibly the worst thing a little tyke in my beach town can do on a given day, and here I am applying my limited knowledge of needs and safety to a 4-year old that is vitamin deficient, wearing two different shoes, and parentless. The only thing these kids do have for certain is their unfortunate freedom to mill about without the attention of a fussing parent. No one checked them in at the front with a diaper bag and a name tag on their back that says "My name is Susy and I have a moderate peanut allergy."

From where I was chatting it up with fellow workers, I could see Oscar on the far side of the soccer field, making mounds of dirt. His pants were still filthy and his face still sour. He hadn’t given me a second look all day and it drove me nuts. Why? I don’t think I was upset that Oscar wouldn't receive my love; I was upset that Oscar didn't love me. My middle class, privileged problem of “needing to be liked” followed me to Mexico and I threw it onto poor Oscar who could give a rat’s booty about being liked. Suddenly, he seemed like an old soul playing in the dirt, knowing full well that being liked is the kind of thing you worry about after your real needs are met.

Oscar wasn’t after a smile, or a lollipop, or someone to tell him he made a pretty picture. He was simply trying to matter. To count in the total number of children at the orphanage, to be in line for a serving of meat, and to belong to someone. I’m a nuisance in his very real world, pouting because he won't sit on my lap and color with me. I’m so far from worrying about my literal needs being met, that my problems are a lack of self-confidence and a need for affirmation. They’re pretend problems, really. I'm the one that wanted a blasted lollipop.

With a busted finger, a hacking cough and low self-esteem, I was embarrassed that I came thinking I had what he needed, and embarrassed that I wanted to rejoin my Rotary community by using a trip to an orphanage as bonding time.

The last night, shivering from my fever, I wrapped myself in all the stained, scratchy Mexican blankets I could find. I made a chubby Tamale out of myself and thanked God for those miserable blankets. I hacked myself into a Mexican-brand Nyquil induced sleep and scolded my presumptions.

On the trip home, I slept all the way to the border in the "way back" of the Yukon. The Rotarians in my car threw back Kleenex and Fanta whenever they felt bad for me and my husband even offered to buy me a Churro and some Mexican trinkets from the border vendors. Even though I rarely pass up the opportunity to purchase good quality, made-in-China crap, it felt low to snag a souvenir from a trip like this. I could tell I would be bed-ridden sick for a week, and I could tell I would think a lot about Oscar, how even though the little bugger wouldn’t color with me, he gave me a much needed glimpse of his much bigger picture.

2010-07-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

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Hermosa Beach, California
Pacific Coast Highway

She moves her body like a cyclone

It's one of those days that’s so pretty you have to roll the windows down to have a little bit of outside in your car with you.

I just downed three cups of coffee on an empty stomach, which means there's an awesome amount of caffeine in my blood stream. Which means I don't think it's strange to crank the radio at 9:30 in the morning. Besides, I recently started going to the gym more frequently and I need a little "umph" to get me in the cardio mood. (I'm not one of those people who just love working out. Those people are liars.) My go-to radio station for this is 102.7 Kiss FM, so I dial it up. It's Ryan Seacrest and your typical Top 40 stuff, but I have noticed lately they've been inter-splicing some pretty heavy duty rap and hip hop.

If I'm alone in the car and not on the phone, I don't mind at all. I might even shake a little booty in my bucket seat and pop a weave or two. (You know, lead with the forehead and follow with the body. Then repeat in the other direction.) These infrequent but very special moments are a shout out to a fairly serious clubbing phase I had in college. Serious as in it was no big deal to drive from Birmingham to Atlanta and back again before class in the morning.

Before you mock preppy little me right out of the image you just conjured, you must know that I had two social goals in college - abstaining from sex and boos. From sex for many reasons, and from boos because it really helped with the abstaining from sex. You might be thinking how this could put a serious cramp in a co-ed's recreational activities, and therefore understand that I had to do something. So I danced. A lot.

This phase lasted until one Sunday morning when I skipped church to track down my driver's license at a classy little place called The Groove (yes, I managed to forget my ID even though I wasn't drinking). Clubs are creepy on Sunday mornings and so was my interaction with the very scary bouncer who wanted to hire me for his very shady music video since he saw my very hot moves the night before, and now, (holding my license) knows I'm over eighteen.

No mas clubbing for me.

Anywho…

I'm in my Mini Cooper, my USC baseball cap and my pink Adidas t-shirt. I'm head bopping to something Kelly Clarkson-ish, when, sure enough, on comes this song:

T Pain Cyclone

With the wind and the outside noise it's essential to crank the volume if I'm going to get into my little dance routine. The song is coming up on the first chorus right as I come up to a yellow light.

A silver Saab pulls up next to me. Both drivers do the natural head turn that always happens between the first two cars at a stop light.

Saab driver is a beautiful African-American woman with a funky watch and braids to die for. She sips her coffee from a shiny travel mug and I catch a glimpse of her pretty eyes as she slowly lifts her brows. Her tinted window is a modest halfway down.

I forget how much louder the radio is when you're at a standstill.
Saab lady has music on too. But you can't hear hers because mine is so. dang. loud.
She's impossibly cool and I'm impossibly white. Even my Mini Cooper is white.
We all know that to turn the music down or roll up the windows would be weird on a whole different level. We also all know that it's too loud for me to say something and what on earth would I say?

"I'm actually a pretty good dancer."

"I'm ok with this if you're ok with this."

"I'm sorry."

Or maybe,
"I have black friends."

Maybe she likes classical music. Maybe she likes me. Maybe she doesn't think I should feel weird at all. No, no. She's smiling. She's totally eating this up.
Meanwhile my car is literally bouncing from the base.

All I can do is own it. Just grip my little steering wheel and be totally cool (as cool as I can be in my baseball cap with no makeup). All bopping and weaving on my part has of course ceased, but unfortunately, the song has not.

Errybody wanna love her
But when she pop it boy
You betta run for cover

Come on, T-Pain. Really?

I'm not going to tell you how much I wish I was listening to Dave Mathews or The Dixie Chicks.

Shawty got looks and
Shawty got class
Shawty got hips and
Shawty got a**

I'm also not going to make any type of statement about whether white girls can dance or white men can jump or whether races claim music genres for cultural reasons, or whether we simply create stereotypes whenever the discussion comes up. I'm so not interested in weighing in on any of this.

When she hit the stage
She drop it down low, like
Eer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer

I am going to say that no matter how politically correct we become, no matter how understanding and culturally aware we are - sensitized, homogenized, pasteurized - a totally fly black girl is always allowed to stare down a chubby white girl in workout clothes blaring a song that wails about bodies and Maseratis. Always.

The light turns green and she pulls ahead, leaving me to beat box in her dust. The song morphs (you know, blended like a DJ would do it) into "Fergalicious" and I want to yell after her, "Hey, wait...Fergie's white!"

It takes me a few minutes to shake it off, and I shamefully put my decibel levels back to their legal limit.

Whatever, it's my Mini, and I can rap if I want to.

2010-07-08T14:04:00.000-07:00

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New York, New York
5th Avenue

Gucci Got Me

EXT. NEW YORK CITY - DAY
Newly engaged couple walks down 5th Avenue on a crisp, fall afternoon. SHE (21, bright eyed, idealistic) and HE (27, savvy, carries a lot of cash) flirt and laugh, oblivious to the annoyed New Yorkers dodging them on their way home from work. The year is 2004.

She's in a puffy red coat, and her fiancé in a handsome scarf. They're in a great place in their relationship - that shmoopy part of love where you coo to friends about how he opens doors, how you never thought there would be someone who looks at the world in the same way, and how you sit at dinner for hours after dessert (long before inlaws, arguing styles, does my butt look big in this, and budgets).
They're long distance, and their 3-day-weekends relationship is blissful. Right now, they're talking about some hypothetical situation simply because they love to hear each other's opinions. Suddenly, he makes a sharp right turn and tugs her into a store. She almost spills her Starbucks.

So if this particular day in my life was a movie, it would have been an adorable opening scene… followed by a not-so-adorable scene inside Gucci:
"I saw something in here the other day I wanna show you," my fiancé says coyly.
Silence washes over us as soon as the security guard closes the door, and I think to myself that this certainly can't be a store. The palpable hoity-toity aura around the clerks, and the "blue steel" glances from shoppers at the sound of my giggle, make it feel more like a museum.

Geez, I mutter under my breath. My fiancé is off talking to one of the ladies behind the desk, her nose so high up in the air I honestly think she's trying to keep it from running.

I smile at a shopper with three or four bags over her shoulder and take a sip of my cider. She makes a drinking motion with her hand and shakes her head before going back to her mirror. I assume this kind reminder means I can't have liquids in here, and turn to tell my fiancé I'll wait outside. He's coming at me with a red little thing in one hand a brown little thing in the other. Both have chains and resemble purses, but are so tiny. "Which one do you want?" He hands them both to me with a goofy grin.

I get the normal flush of embarrassment from him offering to buy me something, but I do the no, no thing and try to put them on the counter. The lady he was talking to quickly picks them up like they ought not touch a common surface area and my fiancé insists.

"No, really. Choose one. I want to get it for you."

I'm uncomfortable in this store whose name I can't pronounce, and even more uncomfortable with him buying something so, so…stiff. I like boys to win me stuffed animals, you know, share a drink with two straws, and take pictures with me in photo booths.

"You're nuts," I say. "I don't want this stuff."

"Honey, just let me treat you. It's a nice purse, I wanna get it for you."

I concede to looking at the purses. They're both $1100. "Are you freaking kidding me?" I wail. This coming from a girl who's never paid more than $50 for a purse, and usually a discounted Nine West or leather-something from my favorite store on earth -TJ Maxx.

"They're 60% off," he says, as if a high-end bargain is actually a bargain. It doesn't faze me.

"Honey, I'm insulted you think this is what I want from you" I say in a loud whisper. We're no longer flirty. My cider is getting cold and I want desperately to finish it in Central Park on a bench under a tree with pretty leaves while making out. Now that's romantic.

"You can't spend that much on a purse. It's just not right. It could buy so much stuff." I'm almost panicky at the prospect.

"It's relative" he offers calmly.

"What?" I say incredulously, and a bit too loud. I'm beginning to sound like a toddler throwing a reverse tantrum. No Mommy! Don't buy me the candy! I hate candy!

"I mean I have the money for it, so it's not insane. It's all relative."

I roll my eyes. "Well, my values aren't relative."

He rolls his eyes. "I might not always be blessed with the money, but I am right now. Let me get it for you."
(A quick pause to recognize the astounding irony in this statement. 2009 Brit wants to scream at 2004 Brit Take the purse, you little snot! Crippling recession and a whole new lifestyle up ahead!)

"What are we trying to prove? This is sick." I slam my cider down on the counter, and get a gnarly glance from the clerk. My fiancé puts his hand on my arm, frustrating me further. I don't give a flying flip if I'm being too loud.
"SICK!"

I proceed to give my 21-year-old-I-know-the-value-of-a-dollar speech, ending with what society does to women, convincing them they need to look a certain way and have certain things to be legitimized.

My fiancé is starting to look wounded at my tirade, and I certainly don't want to be thankless, so I eventually concede…to the tiny, impractical, over-priced example of poor stewardship and flagrant materialism. But I don't like it. Oh, and I refuse to choose one of the little Italian leather things over the other, so we leave the store with both.
***
Not more than a few months later I start noticing bags. I'm no longer a designer virgin, and I see bags everywhere. My boss's Prada. She must make a ton if she has no problem spending $3000 on a flipping bag. The Burberry thing on the chick next to me in the subway. I wonder why she spent so much on that purse if she has to take the subway? A Chanel on the girl next to me at the bar, a little Louis Vuitton on a woman at our favorite sushi restaurant, and a big, beautiful Marc Jacobs on one of my fiance's clients. What's the deal?

Maybe I'm missing something. Maybe these bags are some sort of "arrival" in this new, upper-class urban world I'm supposed to blend into. Maybe it's not about money, or keeping up with the Joneses. Maybe I've been too judgmental, and perhaps way out of touch with this essential accessory. These seem like high-class, educated women...not the confused teenagers pouring over glossies that I'm always worried about. Is fashion the new culture and I'm the ignorant one? Or is it all just leather and snaps and peer pressure hogwash?

I'm ashamed even as I type this that my fascination with purses slowly morphed into desire and the red-faced fiancé spewing cider over the flagrant misuse of money begins to fade.

Instead, I become the creepy girl outside storefronts fogging up the windows with breathy desire.

Shortly after we were married, I pool my birthday money and buy a Coach signature bag for $400. I figure Coach is more "me" and not so irresponsibly fashionable, so I walk right in and buy my choice purse. No sales, no TJ Maxx. The newest bag. Done. I love it for a few weeks and then it's just a purse. But there's something to this creepy game because I keep looking. Keep noticing. Keep wondering.
I loathe shopping, but purses are easy to buy. No trying on, no sizes. Just pick it up, throw it over your shoulder and love it. Instead of shoes, makeup, clothes…I buy more purses.

We move to California and find a barely affordable apartment in a posh beach community outside of LA.

So now in the land of skinny women and phat bags, my issue thrives. Bags everywhere. But I'm above it. No I'm not. I must need a real bag. I drop hints for a gift, and keep reviewing our funds to see where I could "squeeze in" this tiny little purchase.
Here's the doozie. My husband goes back to New York for a business trip and brings me back a Gucci shoulder bag. I'm ecstatic. He had a thousand dollars set aside that I didn't know about, and spent it all on this purse. Then my gut sinks in embarrassment. Embarrassment that if we took that money out of our monthly budget, we wouldn't be able to eat. Embarrassment that he actually knew which bag I wanted because I had spotted it on other women at least twenty times. Embarrassment that this is the very way in which he first tried to show his affection and I took grave offense. But the bag is very pretty.

Not too long after, my birthday comes around again and I receive a joint gift (from 4 people!) of an adorable, just-my-size, Louis Vuitton that…well, that I must have strongly mentioned at some point, maybe at Neiman's while getting makeup with my mother-in-law? Or else why would my entire family pool together to get it for me? This purse is also very pretty. Ugh. There's not much in life less disturbing than turning into what you hate.

The bags sit on my shelf for months. I go to use them and race through my usual dilemmas. I'm a poser, I don't have this kind of money. Who buys a bag for a thousand dollars? No, no, they were gifts from my husband and my family. I should use them. They're just bags. Then why did you want them so bad? And then my favorite: I love them, and I'm a materialistic whore.

Before I didn't like it when women wore these bags to show they had excess money. And now, when half my friends are jobless and the economy has tanked any sort of excess for us, I really shouldn't spend a thousand dollars on a bag, (should you ever?) so I don't like looking like I'm pretending to have the money. Goodness gracious.

Regardless, these purses say too much. They tell of my turmoil, and make statements I don't care to make either way. I think they should be burned. Or sold on eBay for grocery money. Then I think they are just bags and I'm giving them too much power, exactly what I don't want them to have. Don't play the game. If you like the purse, wear the purse. Who gives a crap what someone thinks it says about you? So I wear them, and only in circles where they'll blend in with the other women's over-priced purses. But then that feels awful, like I'm a clone, so I try to wear them everywhere. Then nowhere. The other day a lady in the mall said she loved my "Louis." I smiled and told her it was a fake.

I'm obviously still undecided.

2010-07-01T13:33:00.000-07:00

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Los Angeles, California
University of Southern California

Real Writers Don't Let Writers Write Blogs

It's the first day of class and I'm stoked. Stoked to have taken the GRE without hyperventilating, stoked to be accepted to a Master's program, and stoked to meet other friendly, passionate, writer types like myself. Ok, fine. I'm also stoked about my new pens and the very "writerish" Coach shoulder bag my husband bought me last week.

I arrive to class a very cool fifteen minutes early and set up shop with my non-fat latte, my "old school" composition notebook, (albeit a pink one) and pens (A full pack of bic rollers in every color).
The room fills up and I quickly realize I'm the youngest by at least fifteen years, and unequivocally the nicest. After a few enthusiastic but ignored "Hey! How's it goin's" I pipe down and tend to my latte.

Class starts with introductions. I love introductions, (darn my eternal interest in making friends) but these are different. These are post-graduate-scholarly-i-am-a-successful-writer-who-are-you introductions. These are introductions done over green tea and Nalgene bottles, grubby pencils, and tattered leather bags. These introductions don't wear makeup, don’t smile unnecessarily, and do make each other feel as insignificant as possible.

First the (highly successful) Television writer of fifteen years who is far too cool for eye contact.

Then the Eastern European who writes erotic poetry (whaa…?).
I'm distracted by the short, spiked hair. A girl or a dude? I wonder and look away before my gaze gets stale.

Then a striking blonde woman with three previous careers, nonchalantly coming back to work on yet another Masters degree. Her lips, (natural or enhanced?) are amazing.
Then a guy who uses so many big words I almost laugh a little latte through my nose. Ok, you're smart. We get it.

Then a middle aged brunette lady who's thrilled her children are gone so she can focus on her calling - novels infused with extra terrestrial violence. Awesome.
We get off topic about a new webzine accepting short stories of a similar nature and I use the opportunity to ask the professor a question.

"What's your take on blogs? I'm getting ready to start -"

"Oh, they've been over run by mindless drivel," she responds.

"Uncensored self-absorption," from the he/she in the corner.

"The internet is a complete disaster. Anyone can say anything, and with no accountability to an editor, a publisher…ppha!" The TV writer makes a feminine gesture with his hand. He looks like he needs a smoke.

"But isn't that sort of their glory? Uncensored expression from anyone about anything?" I ask as disgust washes over TV guy's face.

"I certainly don't want to hear from just anyone, " he says deliberately.
Ouch. And it's my turn to introduce myself. Double ouch.

"Hi!" I throw my best smile across the room and it comes right back to me, a boomerang of unrequited cheerfulness.

"My undergrad degree is in journalism…." I smack my gum a bit out of nervousness. "I went to a great little liberal arts school in Birmingham, AL. I studied Journalism, and I just loved the south. Then I got married and moved to New York … "
I continue to describe myself and end up talking twice as long about half as much as anyone else in the class before I conclude with a perky "Well, that's me in a nutshell!"

Awkward silence around the room for a good five seconds before the woman with the super sized lips says,

"You're marr-ied?" She draws out the word like it's fragile, unmentionable.
A few people chuckle. Mind you I've spent the first two years of my marriage in New York convincing people that matrimony isn't contagious, that, by spending time with me they will in no way have to compromise their beliefs of perpetual personal freedom, of being a slave to no one. (And that yes, I willingly became betrothed to the man I promise to love forever...at the age of twenty-two.)

Before I can make a smart joke, my good friend the TV writer squints his eyes and says,

"Where did you say you've been published?"
The he/she (that I've decided is a she for now) offers glibly,

"You could write a blog about the wonderful south…"
More chuckles and a few more backhanded comments. I suddenly wish my pontytail was a bit lower on my head, that I hadn't lipglossed with my Juicytube right before class, and that maybe I had on a different shirt. (Umm, the one I'm wearing is bright blue with "I heart Pepsi" on the front)Then I sit up straight. Mockery has a way of pissing off the bitch behind the southern belle, and If I'd learned anything in New York, it was never apologize for yourself. If they were going to learn anything today it was going to be never confuse young and sweet for naive and stupid.
I start with the lips lady.
I proudly flash my ring and say "When you know, you know!" like it's a secret shared only between married people. Then I let a little intensity into my smile. "But then again, not everyone finds love." *Sigh.
I also believe in Jesus, I want to add. And I love making dinner for my husband. But I decide not to get carried away.

I do turn to the TV writer with, "I'm actually in this program to get more published… But I'm curious as to why you would come back for a writing degree when the Television work has provided such a lucrative career for you." I try to look genuinely perplexed as he offers something under his breath.

"Los Angeles is just fascinating," I say with a twinge of southern accent and the air of a New Yorker. I do this as much for myself as for them. Any one of these jerks could have just as easily walked into a room full of me, I tell myself.
Just then I make a fuss of rummaging through my bag and pulling out my bright pink lipgloss tube. I glob on a bunch and give my lips a smack to even it out. I smile sweetly at the muttering poet across the room.

"Your turn!"

It was a great service to myself that I established my "right to write" during that first class, if only to a few pompous forty-somethings. I made it through the two-year program relatively unscathed and oddly enough never had the time or the creative energy to blog while I was there. I did, however, manage to snag some pretty awesome friends by diligently digging through the heaps of narcissism.
Only recently, when I gave my mother the book of poems called,
"When I am an Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple," I thought it might be my time.

While I am a young Woman, I shall Blog and Wear Lipgloss.