sap sticks to your hands

I opened my mail today to see the face of a tall, skinny, white woman draped with something translucent and bedecked with flowers. She looked very pleased, perhaps because she had just learned from the accompanying text that “DREAMS ARE POSSIBLE!”

Not if you’ve just been killed by a rocket fired by someone in an adjoining country who doesn’t know you yet cheerfully hates you on principle; but if you’re a typical tall skinny white woman? Sure, why not. On that note, I have to wonder why Israel is bothering bombing the middleman, as it were. Yes, Lebanon serves as Hezbollah’s happy host. If Syria and Iran are funding the crazies, though, you have to assume the craziness won’t stop until you attack them. Of course that might be suicide, but there’s a certain nobility (not to mention efficiency) in trying to destroy the nerve center, as opposed to just hacking at tentacles and not caring what innocents you hit along the way.

I’m not sure how many metaphors I mixed there; let’s just move on. I was going to talk about weddings! They’re way easier to make light of than war, especially when cities you get really nostalgic for are being targeted. (“Dear Sir or Madam Hezbollah: Perhaps you know that your rockets are hitting Haifa. Haifa is a very pretty, apolitical city, and Jewish-Israelis and Arab-Israelis have a record of getting along well inside it. Also there are Bahi gardens. Have you been? They’re splendid, almost as splendid as the beaches. Please aim elsewhere. Sincerely yours, An Infidel.”)

One of the charming women in my book club — which basically consists of six post-menopausal women named Jane, and me — gave me a copy of I Do, But I Don’t: Walking Down the Aisle Without Losing Your Mind. Author Kamy Wicoff struggles in retrospect with all of the societal nonsense that surrounded her wedding like The Fog, rendering obscure her feminist objections to the process. Essentially Wicoff, having been a relatively typical bride despite herself, is trying to atone for that sin by writing about it. Since I’m sure she received a hefty advance and got, you know, published in the first place, I’m a little skeptical: isn’t she basically trying to have her wedding cake and eat it too?

Still, Wicoff comes off as an honest narrator. She exposes her flaws as well as her decision-making processes as she attempts to retrace her steps from Thinking Feminist Person to Drone Bride #1,140,562,311. It’s interesting reading for me. Some of it doesn’t apply since luckily my mother, a party-planning goddess, has taken charge of everything stressful; and I’m young, and not a lot is expected of me as a Woman, let alone a Wife in Training, yet. But a lot of it rings true. The nahrishkeit about the diamond ring, for example. Oy! Who needs it. The idea of carrying your wealth around with you on your hand makes me tired, and that’s before I even start to think in terms of carats and cartels.

It is odd, being so young a person and having a wedding in the works. It means that in many respects the thing seems like a second bat-mitzvah. I get to make some decisions; my mother retains most of the control and the veto power. On the other hand, the resulting event, I’m sure, will be more memorable and classy than anything I could arrange, and we have compromised on most things that matter. And I do get to occupy myself with wondering Who Will Come to the Wedding?, an inversion of the question I used to ask my morbid teen self, Who Will Come to my Funeral? That morbid part of me still wonders to what extent the guest lists will overlap.

crazy vampire doctor and his blown-up house

I’m not sure if this awesome story made it out of New York and I’d hate for you folks not lucky enough to be here to miss it. Precis: an Eastern-European immigrant, Dr. Bartha, marries, moves to America, buys a house, succeeds. Has two little girls. House appreciates in value. It’s the American dream!

However. (Cue the ominous music.) Things begin to go sour between the doctor and his wife. Husband is dark, angry, abusive. His harrassment includes decorating the house with swastikas. Wife, whose Dutch Jewish family was persecuted in Nazi-occupied Holland, cannot stand it anymore and moves with her daughters to a tiny apartment in Washington Heights. Begins divorce proceedings. House is valued at $12 million. Wife feels entitled to part of that money. Judge agrees.

Dr. Bartha says, Over my dead body. And, with a consistency I frankly find refreshing, next thing you know, Dr. Bartha’s charred body is being dragged from the 62nd street rubble. Not dead, though — those who want to die never do. They end up wasting away, increasingly bitter and frail, until their expiration comes not as relief but as the ironic nail in the coffin. (Viz., Dorothy Parker.) Besides, in my professional opinion, Dr. Bartha is a vampire, and it takes more than some gas and brick to kill one of those.

The other great spat currently accesible over the internet is between Katha Pollit and Ana Marie Cox. As you may or may not be aware, Cox panned Pollit’s new book last weekend in the NYT book review. Pollit responded today with an Op-Ed: “Thank You for Hating My Book.” Now you might think these intelligent, talented, professional women were arguing about the state of feminism in this country. The second wave vs. the third wave! The old vs. the young! The rational vs. the sexy! The past vs. the future! In actuality, I think the disagreement is more subtle (and the review less damning) than it seems.

Let’s add it up. Ana Marie Cox once helmed the almighty site, Wonkette. Was funny, nasty, raunchy, smart, but was not confined to Sex and the City and so was also taken seriously. +5
Cox left Wonkette at the height of her popularity. +2
Wrote a disappointing book that didn’t end up doing very well, causing people to wonder, Was she overrated in the first place? And why aren’t those new Wonkettes very funny? -2
Hasn’t done much since the book to resume vaunted place in spotlight. -1
In review, bashes “feminism” while calling herself a feminist. References high heels and Hilary Clinton, bra burning, and other cliches. Tries to be snarky, yet profound; kinda fails at both. Does, however, make the valid point that people just aren’t on the Pollit wavelength anymore; acknowledges war on contraception/abortion; nods at complexity of situation. 0
(Bonus points for being sexy AND funny: +3)

Total score = 7

Katha Pollit writes for The Nation and has been around, making herself heard as unapologetic and intelligent, for decades, without getting written off as a Crazy. +5
She spoke at Swarthmore though and actually wasn’t that great. -1
Has written books, articles, poetry, op-eds up the wazoo. +2
Her most recent book was panned (or didn’t you hear?) -1
Although she then wrote a funny piece about the experience, which takes some serious can’t-buy-’em-online balls of steels. Also, her title “Virginity or Death!” is a reference, whether inadvertent or not, to the fantastic Eddie Izzard “Cake or Death!” routine. +2

Total score = 7

Holy smokes, it’s a tie! What are we going to do? Examine the funny in their respective recent works to see who really holds sway? No! This is America! The bottom line is THE BOTTOM LINE: the Amazon sales rank. Virginity or Death is currently #423. Dog Days? #137,949. Today, at least, Katha Pollit wins the title. Better luck next time, Cox.

music

I realized this evening, as I sat at one of those tiny black CBGB tables that will soon be a dimly-lit memory, that the only music shows I see in the city are those of my friends who need bodies in their audience. There are worse things than seeing your friends do what they love, brazenly; I’m not complaining. Tonight it was my friend Erin and her sci-fi harp band, the Telepathic Space Rats. Despite the line around the block of mini-punks to see 30 Degrees to Mars next door — I think that the name the skinny white boy with the mohawk and the “no fur” button told me — she had a good crowd. Unfortunately, it included all these people I used to work with at the Very Important Talent Agency: actors I last saw a year ago when I left that wretched place, actors I never expected to see again.

One of these actors once, when displeased with me in the voiceover booth because I wouldn’t let her audition for something she wasn’t scheduled for, grabbed my hair. That’s not something I forgive, unless maybe the perpetrator is a six year old. MAYBE. Still, I was polite and friendly. When she asked me what I was doing now, and I told her publishing, her face blanked over, like the page had turned.

Well, she might not be impressed that I’m no longer in entertainment, but I’m in employee heaven. I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to go to the bathroom! People occasionally say “thank you” when I do something for them! Nobody even THINKS of touching my hair. I have no regrets.

Still, when the next actor who asked what I was doing now, I replied, “I wrote a novel, got engaged, and now I’m working in publishing.” Cuz it couldn’t hurt to be precise, could it?

“my goal is – i’d like a career or something”

Reality Bites isn’t even my favorite Isn’t Winona Ryder Annoying? movie. That would be Heathers, followed by Girl, Interrupted, and maybe even Beetlejuice. In my personal teen movie pantheon, it comes in way under Empire Records and Clueless — although, yes, way above Say Anything. John Cusack is cute, sure, but there’s no chemistry at all between him and his weird-looking love interest. And the whole dad going to prison subplot? What is that about? The best scene in that flick is the last one and I have to admit I still of that from time to time when I’m on a plane.

Fun fact: Winona Ryder’s boss in Reality Bites, the host of the unbelievably low-tech morning show, though, does play the dad who goes to jail in Say Anything. I think he’s in every movie this late 80s – early 90s era has to offer.

Fun fact II: “Baby I Love Your Way” by peter frampton plays a pivotal role in this movie as well as in that other, way better john cusack one, High Fidelity.

But the uneven Reality Bites does feature some super quotable quotes and a fantastic Janeane Garofolo (with bangs!) Just fast-forward through the Ben Stiller courtship scenes.

My job continues to be lovely, even more so since I’ve received my very first paycheck. I haven’t been able to conceive of it as permanent yet — time will do that for me. Very slowly, I imagine. If nothing goes wrong.

dude. so proud (of you)

In honor of Pride weekend, though I didn’t get to see any parades or strip down on a club dance floor to the intoxicating sounds of 80s Madonna, I got to see the almighty Alison Bechdel at the NYGLTQ center. The room was draped in floor-to-ceiling rainbows for the occasion and it just shuddered with anticipation as all the sensibly-clad audience members waited for the Dyke to Watch Out For herself to read to us.

She really is incredible, in case you don’t know. When someone asked whether she bases her comic strip characters on a real life queer community in Vermont, she said, “No. It’s just me up there. They’re all my imaginary friends.”

Her new graphic-novel memoir is a morbid, totally funny examination of her growing up butch in contrast to her distant, demanding dad who ran a funeral home, taught English literature, forced all of his children to become slaves to his fierce opinions about interior design, and — Alison eventually learns — had sex with boys. It’s intense stuff done with a light touch.

Also in the spirit of the weekend, I met for lunch a boy I last saw ten years ago, when we were both at camp together. He found me via a mass email my new publishing company sent out, a sort of “let’s welcome the new employees to the family!” thing, and he emailed to ask if I was the ester he remembered. (Existential question: Am I? Essential answer: Well, yes. Same height, too!)

This boy was one of my first in a short string of -friends, as well as my second kiss. Now he’s gay. He looks about 30, which is more alarming, and he’s really sweet. We had fun picnicing in Union Square, catching each other up on our narrative arcs from the past decade.

And what, I asked, does he remember of little ester from way back when? He pauses to think for a minute, then replies, “You were pretty cynical for a twelve year old.”

ages and ages

The combination of no internet in the apartment and a full-time job has not been kind to my blogging intentions. There’s so much to relate, too. For instance, I have set a RECORD for wedding dress shopping. It was such an amazing record, Guiness couldn’t even contain it; they had to issue a whole new book, exclusively for me, and containing nothing but this achievement.

Wedding dress shopping time, from start to finish: 2 hrs, 0 minutes.

Mind you, the dress we found is no “it has a skirt and a top: it’ll do” satisfizer dress. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Among its other qualities, it’s criticism-proof: it faced an array of critics — Mr. Ben, my mother, my father, my grandmother, my uncle, and even my oldest friend (and her new girlfriend) — and emerged absolutely unscathed. There is nothing to say about this dress except that it is beautiful. It’s even NOT WHITE and nobody cares, because that is how outstanding it is.

It’ll be a year or so before we see each other again, my dress and I. The little fancy frock store where we found it, with the help of a career saleslady (my favorite kind!), is kindly storing it for us until time comes to cut it down to my size. It is crazy to realize that this wedding shebang is over a year away, when so much feels like it has be done RIGHT NOW.

Meanwhile I have also spent a week and a half at my new job, whose loveliness cannot be compared to anything I have known, except the summer I spent interning at Americans United for the Separation of Church and State. As I did there, in this office, I have freedom and responsibility, intelligent people to talk to, and my own computer. The atmosphere is civil and civilized. Apart from being over-airconditioned, in fact, I have nothing bad to say about it at all. Cross your fingers that that continues.

luckily flourescent lighting is a good look for me

I feel like Goldilocks. The first office was too big, the second office was too small … the third office? Comes with SNACKS. Free snacks, in the kitchen! And I have my own desk! Fo shizzle. There’s my name on it and everything. And when I answer the phone, I can say ANYTHING I WANT. Granted, I haven’t really tested that, but for the first time in my employment history, no one has given me direction.

It’s kind of astounding. I’ve never been treated this well. They took me out to lunch my first day, and get this. No one has yelled at me yet. I know! Crazy! I can’t explain it. I’m just doing my best not to fuck it up.

still here …

I’m not starting the new job until Wednesday, as it turns out. I’m pretty excited, about as excited as I could be, I think, to be exchanging a subsidized 2-day workweek for a regular old 40 hour one. I don’t feel comfortable talking about it in too much detail, except to say I’ll be an editorial assistant at a publishing company in the city. I’m going to be a paper-pusher! A wordsmith! It is a dream come true, and the cherry on the sundae is that I’ll be near Trader Joe’s.

Still, I have a couple more breakdowns scheduled before I’m cool with everything that’s happening. I’m never allowed to forget about the impending wedding for more than 48 hours at a stretch because I’m guaranteed a call from one of my parents within that time frame with a new question or comment. I can’t hold their excitement against them — of couse I’d rather they be thrilled than passive & sullen; and Mr. Ben and I are going to be in DC this coming weekend to encourage them.

But it’s a lot to digest.

At Mr. Ben’s law firm’s clambake yesterday at a majesterial estate in Larchmont, a fellow who is a year closer to his wedding than I am to mine had lots of advice for me, much of it delivered as he held me by the shoulders. He is attempting to coordinate an interfaith, 400 person mega-marriage in New Jersey. Good luck, friend!

I am not so ambitious. I did, however, wonder idly about how many romance novels I’d have to write and sell to afford a gorgeous 1770s farmhouse on Long Island Sound, complete with barn cum guest house, a croquet lawn, kayaks, a pool table, a ping pong table, and the means to offer my hundred guests a raw bar, a regular bar, and a buffet lobster dinner.

anyung! gobias!

There should be a word that captures the feeling of laughing while feeling guilty about it, laughing even when you KNOW it’s kind of wrong. There probably is a word, actually, in German. The Germans have all the good words.

That magical German word would capture exactly how it feels to watch Arrested Development, which I’m doing now, courtesy of Netflix, by the DVD-full. Part of it is in celebration of new status!: ALMOST EMPLOYED. Yes, you read that right. If all goes well, I start my new job on Monday!

For the record, I received that job offer on 6/6/06. I wonder if that means this new job is cursed, or somehow related to the Beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born. … Well, as long as it comes with health insurance, who can complain?

6/6/06

Apparently today’s the day that the apocalypse is supposed to start. Sixth day of the sixth month in the six year of the new millenium.

Yesterday I was tense from 5:30 AM (when I woke up) until I went to sleep, so tense that today my shoulder muscles are SORE — and I was just waiting to hear about a job. I wish I’d realized we were waiting for the Beast today; I could have consolidated. Maybe both will happen! Maybe I’ll get the job offer, and then the world will end. As long as it’s not vice versa.

I’ll be pretty upset if it turns out I spent my last full day on earth with my shoulders hunched up next to my ears, staring at my cell phone, knowing that a strong wind would be enough to start me crying. Could have been worse, I guess? (How could it have been worse?)