Today in News That Will Surprise Nobody Who Has Ever Met Me: I am easily distracted.
I don't know whether it's just an obnoxious personal quirk or (more likely) raging, untreated ADD, but focusing on the task at hand has always eluded me, unless of course the task at hand is eating ice cream, in which case my concentration is unassailable.
But hey, see what just happened there? It's like that. My brain is like a highly impressionable child in a room full of toys, able to maintain a sustained focus just long enough to embark on some really big project -- say, an awesome monochromatic crayon drawing of a hamburger wearing a dress -- before suddenly realizing mid-stroke that ooooooooooooooh, is that something shiny?! Chase it! Chase the shiny thing! Chase the shiny shiny shiny HEY LET'S GO RIDE BIKES.
(This metaphor is actually extra-appropriate since as a child, I would frequently be left alone in a clean room to play with a single toy... only to be discovered five minutes later, playing with said toy, but also sitting in the center of a toy maelstrom consisting of every other object in the room which I had pulled off the shelf, played with briefly, and then discarded in favor of something more interesting.)
As an adult, obviously, this problem manifests itself in somewhat different ways.
Today, for instance, I was midway through a freelance article when I noticed an old lipstick on my bedside table and decided to try it on.
Applying the lipstick using my glossy laptop screen as a mirror, I noticed that my hair was looking pretty grimy and decided to take a shower.
Removing my clothes, I noticed that the floor underneath my bare feet was covered in dog hair and dirt and decided to do some vacuuming.
Pulling the vacuum cleaner out, I saw a pair of sunglasses I'd been searching for poking out from under the couch.
Vacuuming the apartment with the sunglasses perched on my head, I noticed that a stray nail had popped up in the doorway between the bedroom and living room.
Leaving the vacuum where it was, I went to get the hammer.
And hammering the nail back into place, I heard a bunch of noise out back and went to investigate...
...which is how I came to be standing in my window and staring down into the crowded schoolyard behind my apartment -- covered in filth, holding a hammer, and wearing nothing but a pair of sunglasses and some lipstick.
Which I'm sure the police will completely understand.
Assuming I can concentrate long enough to get dressed before they show up.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Bridesmaidery.
This weekend, I am going to be a bridesmaid in the wedding of a very, very dear childhood friend. It's my first time bridesmaiding.
As you may have guessed from the fact that I just attempted to use "bridesmaid" as a verb, I have no idea what I'm doing.
Somehow, nobody has noticed yet. I like to think that it's because I've carefully strategized during the planning process in order to make sure I'm only assigned tasks which play to my strengths. Doilies and china and pastel party favors? Not exactly my oeuvre.
Getting people drunk?
Yes! That one!
So most of my efforts thus far have gone to the bachelorette party, the primary planning of which involved asking myself where I would like to go on a Saturday night, and then just insisting that everybody bend to my will. (The other part of this plan involved force-feeding vodka tonics to anyone who disagreed with the plans. Because people can't argue with you about the orchestration of the evening when they don't remember anything after 7pm.)
Fortunately, the bride is an understanding sort of girl. Last night, we did a trial run of her makeup for the wedding (one of those items on the list of "Random things I used to be interested in and can now do fairly well"), and the deep brown shadow I'd used to define her eyes -- which always looked natural and subtle on me -- was so harsh against her china-white skin that she came out looking less like a vision of soon-to-be-wedded beauty, and more like a tranny dressed as a geisha dressed as a zombie.
"Oh, it's lovely," she said. "But I think I'd like to try something a little less... dramatic?"
"You can just tell me that I've made you look like a brain-eating Japanese drag queen."
"Oh, no, it's not that."
Understanding, and so polite.
But now we're down to the wire, and must as I'd like to, I can't delegate myself the sole responsibility of running around the reception forcing cocktails down people's throats. ("God damn it, Great-Aunt Mildred, drink this mojito! CHUG it, you haggard octogenarian whore!") So, this is it. I will fall in, I will walk the aisle, and I will do this in precisely the same way that all the other 'maids do it -- by standing alongside the beautiful bride in a (surprisingly flattering!) teal dress, with a daisy in hand, smiling beatifically, and successfully resisting the urge to have a nuptial-ruining accident by silently, stealthily repeating to myself, "I will not get naked and set myself on fire. I will not get naked and set myself on fire. I will not get naked and set myself on fire."
That is what bridesmaids do, right?
Right. This is going to be awesome.
As you may have guessed from the fact that I just attempted to use "bridesmaid" as a verb, I have no idea what I'm doing.
Somehow, nobody has noticed yet. I like to think that it's because I've carefully strategized during the planning process in order to make sure I'm only assigned tasks which play to my strengths. Doilies and china and pastel party favors? Not exactly my oeuvre.
Getting people drunk?
Yes! That one!
So most of my efforts thus far have gone to the bachelorette party, the primary planning of which involved asking myself where I would like to go on a Saturday night, and then just insisting that everybody bend to my will. (The other part of this plan involved force-feeding vodka tonics to anyone who disagreed with the plans. Because people can't argue with you about the orchestration of the evening when they don't remember anything after 7pm.)
Fortunately, the bride is an understanding sort of girl. Last night, we did a trial run of her makeup for the wedding (one of those items on the list of "Random things I used to be interested in and can now do fairly well"), and the deep brown shadow I'd used to define her eyes -- which always looked natural and subtle on me -- was so harsh against her china-white skin that she came out looking less like a vision of soon-to-be-wedded beauty, and more like a tranny dressed as a geisha dressed as a zombie.
"Oh, it's lovely," she said. "But I think I'd like to try something a little less... dramatic?"
"You can just tell me that I've made you look like a brain-eating Japanese drag queen."
"Oh, no, it's not that."
Understanding, and so polite.
But now we're down to the wire, and must as I'd like to, I can't delegate myself the sole responsibility of running around the reception forcing cocktails down people's throats. ("God damn it, Great-Aunt Mildred, drink this mojito! CHUG it, you haggard octogenarian whore!") So, this is it. I will fall in, I will walk the aisle, and I will do this in precisely the same way that all the other 'maids do it -- by standing alongside the beautiful bride in a (surprisingly flattering!) teal dress, with a daisy in hand, smiling beatifically, and successfully resisting the urge to have a nuptial-ruining accident by silently, stealthily repeating to myself, "I will not get naked and set myself on fire. I will not get naked and set myself on fire. I will not get naked and set myself on fire."
That is what bridesmaids do, right?
Right. This is going to be awesome.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
And by the way...
Shameless self-promotion alert! If you've stopped by the blog over the past few weeks only to be annoyed at the lack of new material, don't forget that I can always be found elsewhere online. I write every day at SparkNotes, regularly at Crushable, and occasionally at MTV.com. One day, I'll get it together enough to keep an updated sidebar link to my work; in the meantime...On Crushable, my new bi-weekly advice column dealt with a surprise Facebook de-friending.
I also wrote a servicey piece on why you (and you!) ought to take a naked photo or two before you die...
...right after I told a bunch of teenagers that the D.A.R.E. program is full of crap and instructed them on dealing with grammar rage.
Oh, and remember that idiot graduation speaker who informed you that the previous four years were "the best of your life"? He's a filthy liar.
And if you don't mind quantity over quality, feel free to follow my more-frequent updates on Twitter and Tumblr, where I like to post random links, discuss recipes, and occasionally make jokes about having sex with panda bears.
Bet you're interested now.
Monday, May 10, 2010
I don't know what I want to do, and so I'm doing everything.
If writing is my one-and-only, then for the past three weeks, I've been having a torrid affair. I'm not even trying to hide it; once a week at midday, with my column filed and schedule safely cleared, I throw on sweats, skip out of the apartment, and travel to midtown west for an hour or so of silk-swaddled, airborne acrobatics that leave my muscles singing in the rain.
You've probably seen aerial silks performers at the circus or Cirque-de-something-or-other, lithe and lean and suspended by nothing but pure brute strength and artfully-wrapped fabric around a hip or ankle.
Suffice to say that my version of the practice isn't quite so elegant. Or airborne. I lack the upper-body strength to hold myself up and get tied in, and so instead, there's a lot of sweating, grunting, and giggling about my insufficiently-muscled noodle-arms from just a few feet above the floor -- all while the more-experienced class members look down on me (no literally, down, because they are fifteen feet in the air) and roll their eyes while simultaneously rocketing themselves skyward using only one toe.
(Note: Enjoy it while it lasts, you smugly superior twats. Because one day, I'm going to be better at this -- and then, I will gaily ascend the silk, gracefully brace my ankle in a perfectly-executed foot lock, and use my remaining foot to kick you in the teeth.)
Still, despite my novice status, I'm in love. Partly, it's that when you start from rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up -- and every extra inch stretched or new move learned feels like a coup. So much of adulthood involves savoring the small victories; the leaps-and-bounds accomplishment of learning something completely new is exhilarating. But more than that, it's the rediscovery of an old friend in my body, which used to do a lot more than just carry me from place to place. I stopped taking ballet seriously around the time that puberty assigned me a pair of child-bearing hips, stopped dancing altogether when the absence of free-and-easy college classes made it too inconvenient. But the extensions and long lines, the feel of bare feet on marley flooring, and the old dream of a life in motion... it's still there, if a little dusty.
Seven years ago, I briefly debated attending circus school post-college in lieu of a job-job; a lovely gentleman from the admissions office called me to chat, and asked what I was considering as a specialization.
"Contortion," I said.
"That's totally doable," he said, sounding genuinely thrilled, and then asked, "How's your pain threshold?"
I didn't end up at circus school, of course, but I've since thought, many times, that more prospective employers should ask that question.
Now, I feel like I'm looking back through time at my 21 year-old self and waving. Hello, I haven't forgotten you!
And don't worry -- I know it looks bad right now, but we're going to get that split back.
You've probably seen aerial silks performers at the circus or Cirque-de-something-or-other, lithe and lean and suspended by nothing but pure brute strength and artfully-wrapped fabric around a hip or ankle.
Suffice to say that my version of the practice isn't quite so elegant. Or airborne. I lack the upper-body strength to hold myself up and get tied in, and so instead, there's a lot of sweating, grunting, and giggling about my insufficiently-muscled noodle-arms from just a few feet above the floor -- all while the more-experienced class members look down on me (no literally, down, because they are fifteen feet in the air) and roll their eyes while simultaneously rocketing themselves skyward using only one toe.
(Note: Enjoy it while it lasts, you smugly superior twats. Because one day, I'm going to be better at this -- and then, I will gaily ascend the silk, gracefully brace my ankle in a perfectly-executed foot lock, and use my remaining foot to kick you in the teeth.)
Still, despite my novice status, I'm in love. Partly, it's that when you start from rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up -- and every extra inch stretched or new move learned feels like a coup. So much of adulthood involves savoring the small victories; the leaps-and-bounds accomplishment of learning something completely new is exhilarating. But more than that, it's the rediscovery of an old friend in my body, which used to do a lot more than just carry me from place to place. I stopped taking ballet seriously around the time that puberty assigned me a pair of child-bearing hips, stopped dancing altogether when the absence of free-and-easy college classes made it too inconvenient. But the extensions and long lines, the feel of bare feet on marley flooring, and the old dream of a life in motion... it's still there, if a little dusty.
Seven years ago, I briefly debated attending circus school post-college in lieu of a job-job; a lovely gentleman from the admissions office called me to chat, and asked what I was considering as a specialization.
"Contortion," I said.
"That's totally doable," he said, sounding genuinely thrilled, and then asked, "How's your pain threshold?"
I didn't end up at circus school, of course, but I've since thought, many times, that more prospective employers should ask that question.
Now, I feel like I'm looking back through time at my 21 year-old self and waving. Hello, I haven't forgotten you!
And don't worry -- I know it looks bad right now, but we're going to get that split back.
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