EDGY, WHOLESOME
Speaking of favorite things, this is my favorite bowl:
It’s one of the cheapest bowls ever purchased at Tarzhay and we own exactly one. So, don’t use it because it’s mine. My lens had a hard time seeing it alone but did better with getting the color right when there was something else to balance it. Here is my favorite bowl with a lemon:
And here it is with a tangelo:
But this one with the blueberries is the truest turquoise color to what my eye sees:
When I was fifteen my dad sent me to John Birch Society camp. The camp was in Colorado, and a group of people I’d never met before dropped by the house to give me a ride there. They all seemed a little odd but nice, in a granola kind of way. Granola that was extremely patriotic and wore flag shirts. I felt out of place the entire week.
There was a dance almost every night on the deck of the upper level of the main meeting hall. It smelled like trees and fresh and stars and snow, even though there was no snow at that time of year. The DJ, in an effort to not let in any Satan Music, played a lot of Huey Lewis and the News. It was better than the country music they played on the radio back home, so I went with it.
I slept in a cabin with 7 other girls. We all had our own bunks and sleeping bags and trunks that slid under the beds. I didn’t know any of them and most of them knew each other from years before. I was a little on the outside of the group but every time I started feeling sorry for myself I’d think, do I really want to fit in with these people? I’d feel better instantly and then visualize how awesome I’d be when I went home and told all my friends about how cool I was at this camp. In other words, lie.
Every girl in our cabin was full of their own personality quirks. One slightly heavy girl with acne took birth control pills but swore she was still a virgin. I didn’t believe her, but knowing what I know now, I wish I would have pretended to. Another girl, who had super long, dark hair and freckles and carried a Walkman with her everywhere, told lies and told us she told lies. It went something like this:
Her – ‘Hey, you guys. Last summer my parents took us all to Paris and then all around Europe. We ate crepes and frites. Do you even know what crepes and frites are?’
Me – ‘Um, ya, crepes are those thin-‘
Her – ‘Ohmygodyouguys, I lied! I totally lied. We never went to Europe last year.’
or
Her- ‘Once, when I was little, a snake got in our house and they found it in my bed.’
Me – ‘Did it bite you?’
Her – ‘Oh, no. It didn’t bit me. They got it in time. My dad got a gun and shot its head off.’
Some Other Girl – ‘Eww. That is gross. What kind was it?’
Me – ‘Did it make a huge mess and was you-‘
Her – ‘Ohmygodohmygodyouguys, that never happened! I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never even seen a snake!’
And then she would giggle for awhile, looking completely and utterly weird and the rest of us would just start talking about something else.
But the very most awesome girl there was a redheaded girl with natural curls that I was totally jealous of. She would tell us about fights she got into and then exclaim about how she had that redheaded temper. And she wore a red t shirt one day and told us that something about her complexion made it fine for her to wear red, in fact it looked great on her, when other redheaded people couldn’t.
The very first night, after we brushed teeth and got in bed, we all talked for a bit, said our goodnights. I’ve never been a heavy sleeper and I have a hard time going to sleep in the best of conditions. Sleeping in a new location with a bunch of new people, some of whom were mouth-breathers, wasn’t really conducive for my sleeping well. After about half an hour, everyone had fallen asleep but me. I could hear all their deep, heavy and sometimes slightly snoring rhythms and wished I could doze off.
Suddenly, the redheaded girl started talking. And not just kind of talking quietly, or a little bit of mumbling, either. I’m talking about a full-blown one-sided conversation with someone in her dream at regular talking volume. And it wasn’t even an interesting conversation. Something about going shopping and getting ready for school and getting her chores done before watching television. BORRiiing. Where’s the sex and the intrigue? I’d have at least liked a little mystery if I was going to be kept awake.
Eventually, everyone in the cabin was awake and telling her to shut it. But she wouldn’t wake up. She finally reached the next level of sleep and quit talking and everyone else went back to sleep. But it was the same story every night. There was talk of her being possessed by a demon. One of the girls, who’s father was a preacher, said she’d seen him cast out devils who did this kind of thing. I was impressionable then, and I might have believed her, except talking about grocery lists and riding a bike didn’t really sound that satanic.
Yesterday, as I was running across the street (JAYWALKING) after the LA G33K D1NNR, Devon (HE MADE ME DO IT) yanked on my arm really, really hard and almost shoved me into traffic (TRIED TO STOP ME FROM NOSEDIVING). So, of course, I pulled off to the side a bit to avoid death (MADE OUT WITH THE CONCRETE FOR HOURS).
If I was a commercial, I would say, ‘This is my knee. A normal knee.’ and I would show you this picture of a lovely woman’s knee, which mine doesn’t really look anything like, but GEEZ we’re just talking about anatomy here and you don’t really need to see MY actual knee. And then I would say, ‘And this is my knee on asphalt!’ and I would make you look at this horrible picture, which is actually kinda close to what my left knee looks like today. Tomorrow, I’m expecting more bruising and stiffness.
I’m sure there is a moral to the story somewhere. I just don’t know what it is (DON’T JAYWALK). But I can tell you that searching for bruises using the google image search might bring you many more disgusting results than you were prepared for, so maybe don’t do that.
Changing the subject – LA Bloggers Live! is next week and I have 2 readers spots left. You’d be joining the likes of Kevin and Colleen, so I wouldn’t wait if I were you.
I’m not sure where the weekend, Monday or today went, but suddenly it’s 5pm on Tuesday. I’ve been doing stuff. New projects (would you expect anything less) job interviews, new writing gigs etc. I hate doing the flirt, dash and run update but I’m afraid that’s all I have in me at the moment.
Look, it’s my daughter:
Umm, look! It’s Ants on a Log:
Look! It’s my genetic eyebrow showing up in my son:
Do you feel cheated? Do you still love me? Are you still coming over this weekend with a 6pack of Red Stripe?
In Pasadena right after the William Gibson reading at Vromans.
Sometimes, I am, in a word, Odd. I know this. For the most part I embrace it. But, it’s come to my attention that some of my favorite things are different than other people. In fact, it could be said that I have favorite things in some categories where others wouldn’t.
For example, ice. I like only a certain kind of ice – crushed but kind of soft so that the ice breaks apart easily between my teeth. I would rather have no ice than have the really hard, sharp crushed ice that, when chewed between my teeth, cuts my gums. And large cubes? No. I say no. None of that in my drink. But my really, really, really favorite part of crushed ice is when it comes out of my fridge door while I’m using the CRUSH feature and the tiny, tiny flecks get on the top along the rim of my glass and it reminds me of a snow cone or snow only better. When I finish filling my glass to 2/3rds full, I put it to my face, stick my tongue out and scoop those excruciatingly wonderful tiny flecks into my mouth. THAT is my favorite kind of ice.
I have a favorite spoon. Well, actually, spoonS. They are the only two of their kind and I have no idea where we got them. They don’t match anything and I don’t remember seeing them before we moved from San Diego a few years ago. They have a brushed silver finish, not too shiny, not too dull. The handle fits in my grasp in the most wonderful way. They have a perfect weight, not too heavy, not too light. The tip of the spoon is squared off but not harsh. The bowl of the large spoon is the perfect size for cereal and the bowl of the small spoon is perfect for ice cream. If you use one of these spoons and render it dirty for me to use next, I won’t say anything. You would probably never know they were my favorite. But, you might find that your pants are folded not as nice with the crease down the center next time. In this small way, I will be passive aggressive.
Speaking of ice cream, I don’t really like it. Except one kind – French Vanilla Bean made with all natural ingredients. And I only want one small scoop with an entire sliced banana on top and one squeeze of warmed hot fudge sauce on top. No whipped cream or nuts or cherry. And if you can get me one of those just the way I like it, I might make out with you for an hour. But, only if you are my husband. If you aren’t, I’ll just say a muffled thanks while I snarffle. And then I’ll make you a quilt or build you a house or something. But, I only want one of those once every couple of months or so.
Right up there next to the crushed ice is the smell of freshly rained-on concrete. Or bricks. I can’t really expound on those since they are as simple as what I wrote.
Links for today:
>Jason Calacanis wrote about what he’s learned about weight loss. I’ve reread it a few times now and I still like it.
>I got this little zine from Jen Lemen at Blogher. It’s inspirational and worth every cent.
>Do not click on this link if you value keeping your lunch in your stomach. But if you do click and have any idea who the demographic is for this product, I’d love to hear. (via)
Catherine Connors
AGE: 18
STORY: I was freshly moved away from home, and dating an ‘older’ boy – twenty – who I had met in a theater group. He had just decided to passionately re-embrace his Catholic roots. He didn’t think that I was virtuous-slash-pious enough, and I (still a virgin, though well-closeted as such) was struggling with how to be a grown-up and how to follow my heart and still be “good enough” for this guy, all at once. I was working out my story, what to say to him, and then lost my own thread when it came to making statements about sexuality and sacrifice. I had no idea what I was talking about.
It embarrasses me – deeply – to read this again. But I’m proud to say this: I never slept with this guy, and not because of some misguided idea of pious sacrifice. I’d moved on and forgotten him by that summer.
TEXT:
I will give you this.
I open myself to you. I tell you exactly what I feel, knowing that in all likelihood you will still just walk away, just so that you will know, and so that I, finally, will have sacrificed my pride for the sake of honesty. And even though you stand there with a knife with which to pierce my heart, I am not afraid, and venture to say that it would be a valuable wound, because it would not be borne of lies or manipulation. It would be a valuable wound.
I love you. I’m not sure why, simply I love you and am glad that I have experienced you. You haven’t tutored me, you haven’t guided me – you did bring some things to light, you triggered long forgotten musings, ideas. You showed me things. I don’t perceive you as stronger than me – I see you as older, more learned, mature. I don’t see you as a mentor, teacher. You are no better than I am.
I love you, and what I want is for us to try.
I know that on my own I can sacrifice sex, turn my back on temptation. Very easy to do. I ask for God’s forgiveness for my past transgressions and I go forward and sin no more. But it becomes twice as valuable if it is not only for myself and God, but also a sacrifice for someone important to me. It is very easy to embrace celibacy when you have no-one to spurn it with – not so easy when you are with someone.
I wonder how many people there are out there who will not have, or give up, sex before marriage.
Come to a live reading in Los Angeles @ L.A. Angst, in Brooklyn @ Cringe or in Seattle @ Salon of Shame! Want to send in your angst? Email me.
1) L.A. Bloggers Live! is on the 22nd. Sign up to read!
2) Tuesday afternoon I’ll be starting a new series which is really an extension of LA Angst. First, let me say this: there is no replacement for coming to a live show of Cringe, Salon of Shame or Angst. Being there in person is really just so awesome and fun and therapeutic that it’s hard to describe to someone else exactly what it’s like. So, if you live near Brooklyn, Seattle or Los Angeles, I urge to to make a live reading. That being said, I have so many friends and fellow-bloggers that will never be able to make an awesome live reading that want to share their angst. In order to accommodate them, tomorrow I’ll be posting the first installment where everyone online can enjoy it. If you want to share yours (You don’t have to be a blogger! This is for everyone with angst in their past.), scan in your journal entry along with a photo of you at the age you wrote it and send them to me. If there are parts that are illegible, feel free to include what it says in the email. Also – keep your eyes open for Sarah’s Cringe book coming out in March 2008!
On Wednesday, the kids go back to their dad’s home. I get them back a few days later for about a week. It’s all even-steven around here this summer. And that will be my last week for a long time and we’ll be back to Wednesday after school ’til 9pm and three weekends out of four a month.
At the beginning of the summer, I told the kids that we would try this half-and-half thing out. Just see how it goes. Just see if they like it. Just try it! You might like it! They reluctantly agreed. And I’ve been keeping an eye out for problems. Issues. What have yous. And for the most part, I think it’s worked. But that concern, that heavy sigh on trading day, that frustration at not having the right gear at the right time – it’s not gone away for them, despite my planning. You just can’t plan and remember everything.
I watch my boys grabbing clothes, sports equipment, Mp3 players, computer games and other things that you don’t think about. Daily use items that it’s not really possible to have at both houses. You can get two of things to a certain extent but there are some things that you just have one of and you only need one of and only want one of. I watch them try to think of everything so we don’t have to go back or make a special trip. And we always forget a few things, even when we make lists. Carrying everything back and forth is laborious enough without the forgetting part.
Finally, a few days in, things start moving smoothly and everything that’s needed is at our home. And then it’s trading day again and we do the same routine in reverse. With deep sighs.
My daughter is a bit different. She’s older, more mobile. If she forgets something, she just takes her car to go get it. There is an occasional sigh or two but it’s not as audible. It’s different for her because she’s never really moved in here like her brothers have. Yes, she is the first to decorate her room, but her heart doesn’t live here. She refused and has held her ground. She’ll stay a few nights but just as often she’s sleeping at a friend’s home or back at her dad’s. She comes and goes as she wants, which I suppose is fine and age appropriate. Her reasons are different than the boys. For her, it’s less a stress of logistics and more the fear of our relationship changing. We talked about it again just the other night. Me giving her curfews and talking to her as a mother would – no go. She wants us to be friends and she wants me to be the one she can confide in. If I’m her Mom, she can’t tell me all her secrets because I become The Mom. But if things between us don’t change, she tells me everything and I stay in the loop. I hardly know what to fight for anymore. Perhaps I need to stop fighting all together. What does John say? “Love more, fear less. Float more, steer less.” It’s the fighting part that gets me so tired.
School starts in a few weeks and things will go back to how they were. It’s not best for the boys to be stressed about where their stuff is. It’s not best for them to not have a centralized location, a place where they instinctively call home, a place where they are expected and needed and don’t have to think about – it just is home. I wanted so badly for it to work. For there to be two equal homes. Two places where they blend in and feel needed and fit and don’t have to think about, but that is not the case and something has to give. And that ends up being me.
It’s kind of like when the company goes through the firings during downsizing for the good of the company. Last one to be hired is the first one to go. The Kids At Their Dad’s Regime has been standing the longest, or at least as long as any of them remember. The Kids At Their Mom’s Regime came along later and thus is what gets cut. To hear them tell it, I just up and left one day and then another day, later on, decided to come back for whatever reason. It’s been ingrained in them and no matter how many times we talk about it or they ask me and I tell them again what happened, it’s just in their heads that way and it doesn’t change. That is their reality. And that is what I have to work with.
This is all the underneath stuff. The guts of the thing, if you will. The underpinnings that somehow allow the top layers to work and function. And the upper levels are all fine. The kids come over and sometimes stay the night. We laugh and hang out and play games. I run them places. We tease each other and hug and sit on the couch and eat popcorn. All the top layer things in our lives are fine. As long as I don’t want to be their mother, things are fine. As long as I remember to shut that part up and not resent that I don’t get to nurture them and do That Thing, whatever it is, things are fine. They shouldn’t be ashamed to feel how they feel. It’s my job, as their mother that loves them, to make it fine for them to be how they need to be and accommodate our relationships so they are comfortable and get everything they need. I’m the adult and must be selfless to some degree and allow them to call their dad and his wife ‘My parents’ to their friends and talk to me about their step mom as ‘my mom’ and not show how much it stings and eats away at my heart.
As long as I remember that the most important things are that they feel loved and have their needs met and are safe, everything is fine for them. But most of the time, it hurts me like hell.
A few people at BlogHer asked if I had T-shirts. Um, nope. I did not. But I do now. If you are so inclined, please go here to buy the very first official Leahpeah shirts which say “Flawed but Authentic.” Also to be had – a mug and a bag. I know, right?
Here is a close up of the design:
Now that I’ve started doing this, I don’t know if I can stop. It was pretty fun. And I haven’t even made a men’s version. Or a hat. Or a calendar or anything. I’m practically a N003. If there is anything you’d like made, please let me know. I’ll get’er made just special for you. I’m thinking a Goth design might be fun. Or maybe all primary colors. Or Spirograph!! Perhaps there is a better and less expensive printing option….?
Update: the Zazzle stuff is here. I had to use the name Leahpapeah because Leahpeah was taken. I swear it was by me last year but I have no documentation to prove it. Dang. : )
Thanks so much for all your thoughtful feedback on my last post. I’m very lucky to have such awesome people reading my blog. I’ve decided to write a letter to the CEO of the company to let them know what happened and then I plan to let it go. I don’t want to spend too much more time worrying about the negativity of that situation. I need all the room I can create for the positive, if you know what I mean.
That brings us to the assorted linkage of today’s program:
-Tomorrow we’re going to take the kids to the Promenade in Santa Monica and Alex and I are sneaking over to meet up with Thomas Hawk, Trevor Carpenter and some others for a Photowalk. The details can be found here at Upcoming.
–This is a very accurate and compelling story written by a woman raised in polygamy and struggling to get out.
–Cindy Samuels mentioned in an email the other day that my writing could be compared to Anne Lamott. Of course I then had to go reacquaint myself with her writing and found this gem. I think Lamott is fabulous and I had forgotten how much I identified with her truth. And it appears that where I’m getting to with religion might line up with her also. To think I might someday be as real and solid in my writing as her, well, it’s an honor just to be nominated.
-How many times do I have to ‘friend’ you before we are really and truly friends already? How many social networking sites have to spring up and be semi-successful before we begin using some kind universal ID system (maybe OpenID?) where I’m allowed to just suck in my already known and trusted ‘friends’ and stop having to go through the monotonous process or finding and friending you all again? Have Twitter, Facebook, Linkedin, Flickr, Involver, Upcoming and Pownce taught us nothing? And those are just the ones I use the most and the ones I can think of. There are many, many others. Make my life as end-user easier, already.
Finding a new job is hard for just about everyone. Unless you’re the guy who is being hounded by offers, I guess. I’m not sure who that guy is, but I know it happens. For me, finding a job entails lots of searching and networking and hustling. And also looking up in the thesaurus the difference between ‘excel’ and ‘proficient’ because good god that could mean a 5K difference in salary or an office with a view or one with just paper clips. It involves lots of sleepless nights and stomachaches while I remind myself how much I don’t qualify for anything and go down the list of If Only They Knew. And I’ve landed a few really great positions with excellent companies full of people that I hated leaving and wished I could work with forever. I know I did a great job working for/with them and I have a quiver of recommendation letters and references to prove it. But moving to be closer to my kids and being ill for a few months over a year ago necessitated changes in employment. I’ve tried to roll with the punches and embrace what’s next.
Recently, as I shined up the ol’ resume for a new go at things, I answered an ad which stated it required a 4-year degree. This is not new. I’ve done it many times before. I have no 4-year degree but, in past years, I’ve thought nothing of including in my cover letter something to the effect of, ‘You indicated a requirement of a 4-year degree. I have [X]# of years of experience and [X]# of references I could send to you by way of indicating my qualifications for this position in lieu of said degree blah blah blah.” To which I’ve never received a negative response. Until now.
Yes, quite possibly I’ve received no negative response because 9 out of 10 times, my resume went straight into the shredder. Or the recycling bin, as it were, since I was considered unqualified. And I’ve been OK with knowing that could be true. I’ve always held some sense of Universal Timing and felt in my bones that the right companies would still find me attractive and I would land the position I was meant to have when the time was right.
But never did I consider that I might be angering people on the other side. I didn’t feel that having to read through the first three lines of my cover letter would waste so much of the reader’s time as to do some type of permanent damage to their retina, as this last enraged reply implied.
Ms. Peterson,
You have no idea how insulting it is to receive you application for [this really awesome position] with [this slightly less attractive company] this afternoon. Our description said in very certain terms that we are looking for someone WITH a COLLEGE DEGREE. You DO NOT have a COLLEGE DEGREE. Perhaps if you had a COLLEGE DEGREE, you would not have wasted the very valuable time it has taken me to read your application LACKING a COLLEGE DEGREE and respond to you with this email. (Ed. – to be fair, I didn’t ask her to reply is she was going to be an asshole, just if she was interested in speaking with me. So I’m not sure that last part was accurate. But what do I know? I don’t have a COLLEGE DEGREE.) In the future, may I suggest you do not blunder in this way again and refrain from replying to job positions that explicitly require a COLLEGE DEGREE. A good way to smarten up – GO TO COLLEGE.
Very, very sincerely,
[Redacted] [Extremely less attractive company at this point]
And so, my friends, I’m smarting a little from embarrassment. I’d like a college degree, sure. But I don’t see me finishing 2 years of remaining school in the next couple of weeks. And I’m more than slightly worried about sending out more cover letters with the same information I’ve been sending out that so ticked off this woman with so little time, except just enough, to write me a stinging email. I do not want to burn bridges or get a poor reputation. I feel, in a word, stuck.
Will write stupid poetry as payment for constructive advice and helpful feedback.
