Comment: 25 Things

I’ve been receiving these Facebook entries from friends this past week or so that consist of a list of 25 things we don’t already know about them. They’re really interesting. I’m seeing and learning things that I don’t think some of these folks would bring up in casual conversation. The confessional and personal nature of Facebook seems to let the floodgates open.

In the non-mocking spirit of such a list, here are 25 things about me you may (or not) really want to know, but are being rewarded/punished with as a faithful reader of this blog.


Facts about The Queen of Italics a.k.a “Emi Ha”:

1. I don’t hate “Womanizer” yet, but it is wearing on me a bit.
2. I love to run.
3. My hair changes color periodically and has since I was a teenager.
4. I think Courtney Love is more talented than people give her credit for (though her social skills? Not so much.)
5. I’m delighted and amazed to hear from old friends and bask in the reflected glow of their successes.
6. Sometimes I forget to floss.
7. Although I’ve lived in the US for many years, I still say “eh” in my native Canadian tongue.
8. My feet are not symmetrical. (And no, I don’t want to talk about it.)
9. I love sleeping in.
10. Most days don’t go by without an ingestion of chocolate in some form.
11. I have a long and deep-seated fear of being ordinary.
12. “Bright as Yellow” is one of my all-time favorite songs.
13. What happened to Neneh Cherry? She was so awesome and then she dropped off the map, only to return with a mediocre import-only CD.
14. I’m still watching “Lost” on my laptop screen.
15. In spite of living in Pasadena, CA for ten years, I only saw part of one Rose Bowl Parade, and that was from quite a distance.
16. I used to be a professional actor who was good at improv comedy.
17. I think The Clash are the all-time best band ever in the history of the universe.
18. I never exaggerate.
19. I’m very lucky to have the life I have.
20. Very lucky.
21. Seriously.
22. I enjoy baby showers as long as they don’t involve the melted chocolate bar in the diaper guessing game.
23. I hate rats.
24. If I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be cereal.
25. I love to dance, but I’m more along the lines of Elaine Benes than Beyonce.

Comment: On Social Interaction

I’ve noticed that in informal and casual acquaintanceships, I tend to exile myself to the sidelines; for fear being left out, I preemptively leave myself out. Or, possibly worse, I start yapping away, taking center stage when maybe I should just hush. (This never happens with close friends. I yap, but I know it’s okay.)

I watch my son in social situations and I see how desperately he needs to be invited into things. I remember that in myself as a child (and now, to a thankfully lesser extent); it wasn’t enough to just join the teeming mob of kids running amok on our safe suburban streets, I needed to be invited. I was high maintenance back then, too. Ah well.

So I see in him what I perceive to be universal—the desire to be included, the need to be invited, beckoned, enveloped in love from others, if you will. (And I will.)

And it kills me to see kids, especially, struggling with it. But if even I, a raging extrovert, find it hard sometimes to join in and feel comfortable around people I know only slightly, how hard must it be for shyer types?

For years I assumed that everyone around me knew each other better, was more comfortable and having a better time that me, but I don’t think that’s actually true. Aren’t we, underneath it all, seething lumps of insecurities and ego issues?

Friendship is harder to find when you’re following your children around. Gone are the halcyon days of college when you were surrounded by an ocean of your peers, free to pick from the vast array of possibilities. Social situations are plentiful but not usually deep. So how do you navigate these waters?

It also comes down to how you define your friends. My son is refreshingly candid about these things. He’ll say to me, “Albert isn’t my friend” and he bears young Albert no malice. What he means is that he doesn’t play with Albert. I’ve tried to teach him that it isn’t kind to tell someone you’re not his or her friend, but as my son sees it, if the shoe fits, you know…it’s simple. You play with your friends. Other people? You just know them. And sometimes that makes it hard to interact with them on a casual basis. I see it in my son at birthday parties, and I share his feelings. Sometimes you just don’t know where you fit.

What does that mean for adults and our ego-entrapped selves, all enigmas wrapped up in riddles wrapped up in grown-up clothes? We talk to people all day, but who among these are our friends?

The definition of friend has dogged me for years. It’s partly due to my obsessively semantically-accurate nature that I need to know what a friend is, and I need to know if the person I think is a friend IS in fact my friend, that is, they see me as a friend.

But grownups can’t go around asking each other “Are we friends?”, “How bout now?” Because we would lose further popularity for being so blazingly neurotic; we would be insufferable.

With Facebook, we have so many “friends”, but how many of them truly know you? And truly like you? I ponder these questions, because the word friend is used so casually nowadays. You can be friends with someone you’ve never met. I don’t know if I buy that, though. With the influx of Gen Xers to Facebook, I’ve been lucky enough to come back in contact with many old friends; and they are friends, because I hung out with them in my formative years and they were nice to me in spite of my flaws.

But ultimately,we have to have our own personal definition of friendship, I guess, and not sweat the rest. I know what a close friend is: I have a few of those. That’s easy—I can be myself around them and tell them anything and they don’t cringe or head for the hills.

I guess that’s really what a friend is—someone you can be yourself with. One hopes that said friend feels the same way around you, otherwise it’s a one-way friendship, and those are doomed.

The moms at school pick-up are not all my friends, but sometimes I talk to them. But they don’t know me. And that’s okay. I try to zero in on women I would like to be friends with, but it’s hard to develop a friendship in three minute increments every weekday. You just can’t get a whole lot of depth with these casual acquaintances. So how does one take the relationship to the next level? Ahh, that’s Mommy Dating ™, and that’s a subject for another day.

Just know this: if you know me, and you like me, and I act like a goof in front of you, I consider you my friend; and I hope you feel the same way.

Comment: Ode to Mayo

So it’s come down to this, again. By a 3 to 1 margin, the rabid readers of QCC are laying it out there for mayonnaise. Give it up for the fattiest, most delicious condiment of all time! (or at least, this month)

Sure, ketchup has its place, but I’ve always preferred vinegar on my fries (as per my Quebec heritage) or, drool, the blessed mayonnaise we love. Have you had mayonnaise on fries? It’s exquisite.

Mustard is useful in the sandwich realm, you know, processed meats enjoy it; and hot sauce is fine for those who have a thing for watery eyes and burnt tracheas.

But mayonnaise, dear mayo, you are the Ruler of All Condiments, the RAC.

I know it’s not really that good for you, but it does contain eggs, and that’s protein, baby. There’s something comforting about mayonnaise. I think that’s why it won the poll. You can’t be comforted by ketchup—delighted, maybe, but not comforted.

And neither mustard nor hot sauce can be considered comforting by any stretch of the imagination. They’re too tangy, too zippy, too in your face.

Give me mayonnaise in times of trouble. It’s the balm that soothes.

Question: Feeling a little...lost?

So it finally happened. The snake has swallowed its own tail. (Actually, that’s not really true, but I love saying that.)

I will say this: Lost is back, and as convoluted and filled with a sweaty, shirtless Sawyer as ever.

There’s an end date in sight, (next season), so the creators of this complex little show have an awful lot to do. There are many, many threads that have either been dropped or twisted around so completely that I’m starting to wonder if the writers even know what’s going on. And how many writers are there? From the looks of it, plenty.

Part of my problem, I’ll admit, is the mode in which I watched last week’s series premiere. I watched in on abc.com on a computer that can just barely handle the task. So it was very jerky and the sound was synched way off so it was a little like watching a Japanese B movie. But I was dogged and determined to see the show that I have stuck with through thick and thin.

Now that the island and/or the survivors are traveling through time, it’s getting dicier figuring out when things are actually happening, although so far the clues have been pretty clear. (Locke went back in time, saw the heroin-filled Mary statues, and the plane crash; shortly thereafter, the victim of the crash is but a skeleton. It’s back to the future! We get it, sheesh.)

But the two-hour season premiere left me a little cold. Again, it may be the way I watched it. The cinematic Lost has always played better on a large screen with few to no commercials. Watching on my rinky dink laptop at a slow speed with multiple commercial interruptions (limited, my ass) probably doomed the whole enterprise.

But still I watched.

It’s just that I have so many questions.

Why is Desmond special? Does this relate back to the whole constant thing? Why doesn’t Penelope call her psycho dad off? How did he ever even find the island? Nobody else can. What happened to Nikki and that guy who got buried alive way back when? Are we supposed to believe that Ben Linus is a good guy? Is he messing with our heads personally? Where’s the smoke monster these days? Haunting a Club Med in Fiji? Why doesn’t Richard age, and does he have permanent eyeliner on or is it his natural look, and if so, does it mean something symbolic? Why aren’t all the survivors on the island really tan? They can’t still have sunscreen. The only tan one is Sawyer, and we’re treated to his bare chest every other scene, it seems. (Not that I’m complaining, but what about some of the other Lost hotties? I kind of like the nerd vibe of Daniel, but I bet his chest could act as a reflector.)

I feel a little bit like I have to see this series through, even though I will probably be disappointed. How can any ending tie everything together and leave the viewer satisfied? I don’t think it’s possible. Maybe that’s the whole existential point. Life doesn’t make sense, so why should this show? The metaphysical is inexplicable, dude! It’s all been Libby’s dream. Fade to black, crank up the Journey song.

Or maybe I’m not giving the writers enough credit. Maybe they’re just going to go balls-out in the last season and explain EVERYTHING. But I doubt it.

We’ll probably feel just as lost when it’s over as we did when it started.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the whole point.

But at least there won't be any Journey playing at the end.

Comment: I like it.

"Boy you don’t try to front I-I-I know just just what you ah-ah-are."

I’m currently obsessed with Britney Spears’ song, “Womanizer.” It’s not even that good, but boy does it have a hook. It’s like a sickness. I can’t stop playing it over and over. This happens to me from time to time, but I’ve got it bad with this one. The song isn’t really anything new, but it is catchy as all get out, which means once it’s in your head, that’s it for the duration.

And others evidently feel the same way. It’s already inspired three covers on YouTube/Yahoo Music. And that’s just professional musicians. I’m sure there are more non-pro covers out there. If you want to have a good laugh, check out the version by “The All-American Rejects.” I didn’t know who they are (I’m old) but they do a great acoustic version of the song. In some ways, they transcend Britney’s version. The lead singer uses his range way better than she does. I know that she can actually sing, so it’s annoying to hear her lamely not-singing, all gussied up on her version. Lily Allen does a great version of it, too; you can actually hear her eyebrow raised as she sings.

There are plenty of cheestastic electro-effects and predictable back up vocals, and the lyrics aren’t anything to write home about (unless you’re in seventh grade) but Britney taps into something universal: the lothario who leaves victims of lust in his wake gets his comeuppance. (There’s a really lame pun about lollipops vs. suckers. Oh well.) It’s a great f-you song for high school girls. It’s the kind of song you expect from a performer even younger than Britney, who’s been married twice and has two kids. (Or maybe that makes it more apt?)

But when you think about it, she’s still a child. This is the person who said “hit me baby one more time” when she was barely out of braces and went on to sweat with a cobra on stage and make videos where all she wore was a translucent suit of diamond-like jewels.

Lest you think I’m being glib, let me say this: I have sympathy for Britney. Not as much maybe as that rabid fan on YouTube awhile back, but I honestly feel for her. Because her life has been under a microscope since before she hit puberty, and it seems clear from some of her behavior last year that she has some fairly significant problems of a mental nature. Not to be casting stones; I think it makes perfect sense that she had some sort of breakdown. She’s a kid in a woman’s body (which got dissed ferociously last year, and I’d just like to say for someone who had two kids she looked just fine, thank you very much). I hope she got some real help, and not some bullshit pseudo-therapist who was looking for fame or recognition. I really don’t know. She appears to be having a comeback.

And what I love is the moxie this woman has. In “Womanizer” she actually says “You say I‘m crazy? I got your crazy.” Damn straight, Britney. You went through a lot and you’ve come out (hopefully, anyway) the other side looking good and selling records, er, CDs, er downloads.

I watched the video of “Womanizer” and it’s pretty classic early-to-mid Britney. It’s your basic formulaic pop tart stuff: the requisite multiple identity/four costume-change and lots of herky-jerky dance moves in bad wigs. Britney has some racy scenes in a sauna that are arguably pornographic. There is NO evidence in this particular video that this woman ever bore children, FYI.

Anyway, I’m hooked on this song and I’m not sorry. I’m routing for Britney and her angry, sassy, catchy song.



PS-Re: lyrics: At the risk of losing what little street cred I had (umm, zero?), what the hell is a “re-up?”

Question: If you could go back, would you?

In time, that is. And if so, what would you say?

All these Facebook reconnections are reminding me of days gone by. The people I’m in touch with come from many different eras of my life. The one area that’s taboo, of course, is exes. There cannot be contact with any serious boyfriends. Not as an old married lady.

But the renaissance of Facebook Friends has got me reminiscing about both good and bad guys I went out with.

It brings to mind a sketch from “The Kids in the Hall.” Dave Foley and Scott Thompson played the two C/Kathys, and were not only brilliant cross dressers, but they made spot on social commentary along with their dew drop Tootsie-style glasses and lacquered hair.

There was one point where the two K/Cathys were mocking a temp, calling her a slut, actually. Then Cathy said, “I don’t mean to be a prude, but I think all of your exes…should fit on a bus.” Then the other Kathy says “Not that you’d ever want to be on that bus.”

But what if you were? What if you woke up one day and all your nightmares came true and you found yourself sitting on a bus, alone with every guy you ever went out with?

What kind of comments would you make? Would you hope to be looking fabulous so you could be vindictive and say, “Ha ha, look what you’re missing out on!” or would you take the Oprah approach and sit and tell them what they did wrong and how they need to make it right? Or maybe you could be the other Oprah, who wants to share and talk and find out about your life and how it’s been and wish you the best.

I’m not sure which Oprah I’d be. Or how I’d want to be dressed. But I do feel queasy at the thought of the experience. Every other guy I went out with was wonderful. And I screwed up a lot of relationships due to immaturity, significant issues, flakiness, etc. But that means that every other guy I went out with was NOT wonderful. Honey, I made some bad choices. I picked guys who weren’t nice to me and didn’t respect me but for some reason appealed to me. I fit right into the textbook of the girl who has really nice guy friends she should be dating, but isn’t. Instead, I dated assholes (at least 50%) of the time because I didn’t know better.

So many young women do that, much to the chagrin of the nice guys who are their friends but want to be more than that. Looking back on it, it’s sort of pathetic the way my girlfriends and I would swoon over the “bad boys” and then get hurt and wonder why. Apparently we weren’t really quick on the dating learning curve. But, let’s be honest, most young guys are kind of obnoxious and immature and self-centered. There are some nice ones in there, to be sure, but really, most young guys just want to get laid.

So I don’t want to ride the particular Facebook bus that brings me back in touch with former flames. If we became friends later, sure, it’s fine, the relationship is neutralized and the two of us can be sociable without repercussions, because there was that chapter when we hung out in a friendly and platonic matter. But nasty break-ups? Long term boyfriends? Not on my bus.

Sure, it would be interesting to see how people have aged, what they’re up to, if they realize they were utter shmucks back in the day, but ultimately? It just doesn’t matter.

Know what I did when I finally got my act together and met a guy who treated me nice? I married him. He and I are the only ones on my bus.

Question: How do you do it?

When you see a piece of clothing on a rack, do you imagine not just yourself in it (looking fabulous, natch), but your whole life improving as a result of this particular purchase?

Shopping is a magical activity for most women that I don’t think most men understand. When we look at a cute blouse, it’s not just a cute blouse. We see the potential to change our lives; when we imagine ourselves in said cute blouse, we are undergoing a transformative process, whereby the properties of the blouse combined with our bodies will meld together to create: CuteBlouseGal (CBG).

When I wear this blouse, I won’t be plain old me; I’ll be the kind of woman who wears that exact kind of cute blouse, who is breezy and articulate and handles stress well. CBG looks people in the eye, has a sassy spirit, but is friend to all who seek her out, and she loves a good mocha latte (or a good pinot noir) once in awhile.

CBG doesn’t complain, sometimes hums hip songs to herself, and always has cute purses. Men think she’s fabulous and flirty, never skanky. Women love her chic style and positive attitude. She’s peppy, but not nauseatingly so. She’s edgy, but can conform to the mainstream when absolutely necessary.

That’s a pretty tall order for a blouse.

I look at that blouse and my future as CBG and yes, I want that blouse right now!

Do you see why it takes so long for us to decide what to wear in the morning? Or what to buy?

We’re trying on an identity when we try on clothes. And we’re looking for a better version of ourselves. We’re trying on who we’d like to be, as opposed to who we are.

Sometimes a blouse isn’t just a blouse.

Clothing as self-expression is nothing new. I’m sure Australopithecus Woman figured out a way to distinguish herself from the other cave gals pretty quickly by placing her palm leaves just so, or wrapping her mastodon fur rug insouciantly over her shoulder. Fashion has been around as long as we have.

But transformative shopping, the alchemy of merging self with better-self-through-object, while highly encouraged by advertisers, still strikes something deep in the core of the shopper. We all want to be better people; will this skirt help? Am I the person who can pull off this skirt? Will I learn to assert myself better if I wear this scarf?

When we shop, we want to change, to be better, cuter, hipper, funnier, fill-in-the-blankier.

And lately, as in the last six years, I’ve gotten into the habit of not trying on clothes. Since I had kids, that pretty much obliterated out any possibility trying clothes on at my leisure and assessing them assiduously in the tri-mirrored dressing room.

I literally cannot remember the last time I tried on anything in a store. And yet I remain consistently clothed. I just end of spying a shirt I like, seeing some idealized version of myself in said shirt, and poof, into my eager arms it goes, and off to the check out we fly.

It’s not until I get home that I try my new article of magical clothing on and realize that it just about never lives up to the hype. (One should really try clothes on in the store. But who has the time?)

I’ve lately been on a ruffly blouse kick (probably ill-advised). If you know me, you’re now busting a gut, because I’m not really the ruffly blouse type, per se. Combat boots and vintage overcoats, more like.

But maybe I could be—aye, there’s the rub. Maybe I could be the kind of person who wears ruffly blouses.

So I now own three ruffly blouses that sounded great in the store, but in reality? Not so much.

Because I imagined myself rocking those blouses. I’d subvert the ruffly blouse paradigm. I’d turn convention on its head and wear a ruffly blouse with cargo pants, and Doc Martens, I’d be a grunge/post-punk/girly-girl…something! Push the envelope! Rock the vote! I was going to have it all!

Instead, my ruffly blouses sit in my closet, a testament to my dreams, imploring me to take a chance on a new identity, take a risk and be a CBG, if only for a day.

Maybe I’ll wear one tomorrow.