|
|
I'm The One That I Want by Margaret Cho. I was so disappointed that I couldn't make the book fair at UCLA last weekend with my friend Tracey, so she thought to buy the book for me. I missed the one-woman show when I lived in New York, but Tracey and I went to see the film last fall in Santa Monica. If you want to know how much my friends rock, Tracey even had it autographed:
Erica
Good luck in New York!
-Margaret Cho
. . .
I'm also still reading Simple Indulgence: Easy, Everyday Things to Do for Me by Janet Eastman. I'm such a dork, I keep reading the quotes and ideas, but not doing the journalling portion.
__________
|
| "..." |
"Someday we'll find it
the rainbow connection
the lovers, the dreamers and me
alllll of us under it's spell."
-Kermit THE Frog
__________
|
|
Stuck in my head:
"Boogie-oogie-oogie get down."
Thank you, Disco Stu! (My favorite Simpsons sight gag-cum-character.)
I heard Britney Spears' "Bottom of My Broken Heart" while making a selection from the feminine hygeine aisle at Wal Mart and exclaimed, "Fucking Britney Spears...Gah!"
That's one of the videos I had to watch about a million times to select snippets for the web site and the enhanced CD single. Ever hearing it again is too much, too soon.
__________
|
|
The Simpsons, The Sopranos & Armistead Maupin's Further Tales of the City. I didn't even realize there were making another one, I just happened to see it listed. I'm going to have to finish the book series now, as I think I've only read through the fourth book and this mini-series is based on the third book.
__________
|
|
While you're visiting the Gallery of Regrettable Food, don't miss Meat!. This one in particular made me laugh until I couldn't breathe. "Sometimes meat likes to dress up and feel pretty."
Swanson Parade of Lost Identity -- women who, in probably their only 15 minutes of fame, were for the most part known only as Mrs. HisLastName.
. . .
Co-Author of The Rules to divorce! So you can't manipulate a man into marrying and staying married to you? Perhaps you have to come into it as two individuals and show who you really are from the beginning? I guess this means that no amount of growing your hair long, pretending not to be smart or funny, and "training" a man will make for a happy marriage.
. . .
Ever wonder where that dollar bill's been? Mine was in Chicago two months ago.
. . .
__________
|
|
Another Elvis dream (I'm doing the Memphis section of my color scrapbook now, but I haven't got to Graceland yet), this one cannibalistic.
What started out as an autopsy to discover THE TRUTH, turned into Elvis Stew. It was rich and beefy. Ewwwwwwwww!
__________
|
|
Why is it that the same personality quirks are taken as crazy and stalky by some, while loveably wacky by others? Is there some litmus test for this, so I stop wasting my time?
__________
|
 |
now I'm blogging what I'm eating, whoa.
Still literate as of 9/29/2000 12:20:01 AM
__________
|
 |
just what I needed...another dorkblog.
Jeepers, creepers, I last used my peepers on 9/29/2000 12:24:59 AM
__________
|
 |
My trip photographs, they're better than expected. Now to get them all organized, it's only been a year!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Friday, April 06, 2001
2:11 PM
 in excruciating pain. I'm waiting for the Nuprin substitute to, well, Nupe it. It's on the same side and feels very much like when my wisdom teeth got cranky a year ago.
If you've been reading me a long time, you may recall that a few days after having all four wisdom teeth extracted (because I knew I'd be quitting or getting fired and wanted them all taken care of before I lost my insurance), I felt what I thought was a loose tooth. At the first couple of meals that I tried to chew solid food, I heard a disconcerting scraping noise. At the second meal, a big hunk of tooth fell out.
At the time, I call the doctor in a panic, afraid that maybe he'd sliced an extra tooth or left the bottom half and root of a tooth in. He assured me it was fine and so did my other dentist, upon inspecting it the following week.
It's odd as hell that almost exactly a year later I wake up with the same sort of pain in the middle of the night.
[ link to this ]
+ + +
Thursday, April 05, 2001
9:17 AM
amazed sometimes at the sort of mail I get. I guess I should be even more amazed at the shit I write on bulletin boards and don't remember. I honestly think I was being facetious in this case, because I can only remember making fun of a guy with my friends in the case of the Boastful Brotha."I came across some comments you made regarding penis size on an online forum and you stated that you made fun of guys who were small with your other female friends. Were you making that up or were you telling the truth? Because despite what women say that "size doesn't matter" I've always felt the women say that just to make men feel good. I know this may sound rather foolish, but it is something that worries me a lot and a lot of other guys out there like me." Even I'm too embarassed to answer this one. Here I thought I knew no shame. I wrote a lengthy answer, but I'm not sending it.
I don't know, it's simple and complex at the same time. Size does matter, but not necessarily in the ways and to the degree that men think. I've been with teeny men who were big, pompous asses. I've been with men who realized they were small, so they made extra efforts in other ways.
I've been with a man who insisted Eric couldn't give me what I needed, because I needed a "brother" to satisfy me (because the complexity of my feelings for my first love just came down to a) his race and b) the size of his penis, which I had not yet seen at that point). When it came down to it, I asked him if that mythologically big, black schlong came in adult size. It didn't.
I've been with guys who worried, but had no need to, and one who was much too much by every measure and should've come with a label -- Warning: Waif boys may be hazardous to your Kegel muscles."
In the end, we all bring more than one feature to the table -- that I'm too fat, brown, butch, smart and short-haired for this culture's taste doesn't mean I'm not good in bed. In the end, physical measures are meaningless -- it's what you do with what you have that counts in the moment.
Of course, phallo-centric world that we're in, we presume a penis is necessary at all.
[ link to this ]
+ + +
8:12 PM
Even Steven, assuming you remember the Seinfeld episode. I get one sex email (though the one earlier today seemed an honest question, rather than the usual creep-o-gram), then I get one from a woman thanking me for something I've written."My name is R. (names abbreviated for writer's privacy) and I am a freshmen at M. College. I came across your paper "[Biracial] I-Dentity" as I am researching for a paper on how the biracial culture deals with prejudice, discrimination, social distance and stereotypes. I just wanted to thank you for writing such an inspiring and informing paper on the biracial culture and the struggle it goes through in the American society.
Seeing that I am biracial where my father was born in northern India and my mother is American with European decent, I can relate to many of the issues that were discussed. This paper has further encouraged and inspired me to major in Sociology with a concentration in Racial and Ethnic Studies. (I am even transferring out of my college to pursue this major.) It showed me that there are people out there who share my struggles. I want to help the people see that race does not identify who a person is... Thank you again Erica!"
Wow, I'm speechless. I write and I write because it's all I have. I don't have a family that accepts me for who I am (ironically, not because I'm biracial, but because I'm me), I don't have some myth of romantic love to delude myself over, I don't have nearly enough interaction with people my age because their time is taken up with family and significant others.
I've been really frustrated about that because it seems coming back to Southern California was pointless for all of those reasons.
What I do have is my words. Sometimes they don't seem enough, sometimes they seem pointless when you're all alone in the world. Yet, it helps to know they make a difference. I may not leave heirs behind, but I think mountains of words have a greater impact in the end.
[ link to this ]
+ + +
Sunday, April 01, 2001
1:23 AM
still waiting for Jake Ryan to show up -- sick of the party scene, so sauve, in a little red sports car with my panties, a birthday cake and the world's best bone structure -- that's my problem right there.
 How could I have missed it before? Manuel V. was nothing if not a Mexican Michael Schoeffling. Tall, dark and handsome, smoldering behind a decidedly cool exterior. The week the trio of gorgeous brothers V. transferred in, my high school was all abuzz.
Manny had the highest cheekbones in the freeworld. Also, as it was the mid-80s, one cannot discount the significance of his perfect hair. I think what really won me over about Manny was how serious and stern he looked when he concentrated on something or when answering a question in class. There was something at once smart and brooding about him.
He was a senior, and, by some stroke of luck, I'd been allowed to take Economics (as in macro, not home) even though I was a sophomore and it was restricted to upper classmen. There were only a few exceptions to this rule, Jason B. being the only other one I recall. (Jason B. is a story for another day.)
 Even at 15, I wasn't completely shallow. Manny could not have held my interest as long as he did if he didn't have the brains to back it up. If I were going to be shallow, I suppose I'd have fawned over his younger brother Roldan, who might just as well have been carved by Rodin.
So I pined and I pined, but of course Manny wasn't interested. He was friendly, though, which is more than I can say for most of the cool crowd in high school, let alone the guys I crushed on.
Years later, we ran into each other while registering for classes at the local community college. We hung out on campus now and again or went out for lunch. I finally got to ride in The Turtle, as Manny's '66 Volvo was known, both for its appearance and speed. He let me call him "Manly" because he thought "Manny" sounded too childish. I doubt he ever picked up on the Little House on the Prairie reference.
When Manny asked me to go to the beach with him, I ignored the fact that I've never been a big fan of the beach. The first time I went as a child, I thought the Land Shark was trying to gobble me down through the sand. It's a funny thing to grow up in Southern California when you don't like the beach.
Walking in the sand is tedious to me and even when I finally learned to swim, I thought the ocean was too filthy to go into very deep. I don't mind sitting on a blanket, or walking along the shore, so that's what I do at the beach. That night I sat on a blanket, enveloped in his Manny-scented sweatshirt and watched him surf into the sunset. It was beautiful, as sunsets tend to be. I marvelled at how he could stay on his board for so long and just keep going out there, no matter the pounding the Pacific gave him.
He looked spectacular in a wet suit, I must say. When he came back in, dripping from head to toe, his hair seemd blacker than ever, glistening in the moonlight. I had to give up the sweatshirt, but I was happy to help dry him off. I know, it's so wrong of me.
He moved to New York that summer, to some little town on Long Island or perhaps upstate that I never heard of and can no longer remember the name of. I've no idea what I did with all his letters, probably in a box somewhere or lost in my many moves.
I don't know whatever happened to Manny. I stopped writing back when he explained the reason he could never date me was my race. He said it meant we had different goals and priorities. I couldn't understand that. Silly me, but I thought the reason we had different goals and priorities was that he was a devout Seventh Day Adventist and I was a meat-eating heathen. Nevertheless, it didn't matter to me at the time, because, at the age of 20, I wasn't looking for Mr. Right. I was looking for Mr. Right Now. I still am.
[ link to this ]
+ + +
4:21 AM
springing ahead, folks. I've been running around all week on my bum knee with errands to do with moving to New York, Dorothy's birthday/housewarming and my cousin's first wedding anniversary.
Sometime between now and April 14, I still have to pack up my entire room, disassemble my heavy ass bed and sort out what I'm going to give up, what I'm going to store and what I'm going to take with me to New York. It seems like I'm walking underwater and not getting anywhere fast.
It wasn't enough that I had to bake two cakes today because Dorothy's expecting about 25 people. I walked into the kitchen to make the angel food cake and noticed the chocolate cake I'd made from scratch was broken in half and the right half was broken in several smaller pieces and shoved back into the pan. Part of it was sticking up, all askew.
It seems The Boy was asked to make mom a sandwich and, miffed about it, he slammed around the kitchen until he knocked the cake on the floor. He claims he was reaching for the bread, which makes no sense. The bread was on a shelf above the counter and the cake was cooling quite securely on the counter itself, about a foot below. We're thinking he picked it up and either tried to hold it with one hand while slapping the sandwich together or, as he's wont to do, placed it back on the edge of the counter and it fell then.
In any case, the cake was ruined. It was tasty, too. I made two cupcakes so I could be sure it tasted OK, having never used that recipe before. I gave one to The Boy, who was disappointed he couldn't go to the party because I won't get home until after 9 and it's a school night.
It really bothers me that he didn't even mention it. His excuse was that I was in the den with the door closed. My being in a room with the door closed never stopped him before, especially given the opportunity to eavesdrop on a conversation. Regardless, mom was right there in the living room. I don't know how she could not have heard it, but certainly, he could have mentioned it. I guess it's only lucky I had another cake to bake, or I might not have discovered it until late in the evening.
He does things like this and it just drives me nuts. Is he just uncoordinated? Is it sneakiness? Is he just being a kid and we're too hard on him? Is he doing it to get attention?
At any rate, though she'd already decided not to go to the store tonight (Saturday, as I think of it until I go to bed, no matter how late it is now), Mom took me to the grocery store to get replacement ingredients. When we turned the corner onto the street that runs alongside the supermarket, we marvelled at how dark it was. At first, we thought it was just because it was an older neighborhood, then we noticed the traffic signal ahead was out as well.
I guess now I've been through a rolling black out. My city actually has its own electrical source, but it's cooperating in the blackouts with the rest of California. Mighty kind of 'em, eh?
Anyway, so the grocery store was pitch black and mom thought it must not be open, but then the security guard waved a flashlight in the direction of the door. I gathered up my list and money and he said something obnoxious and stupid about didn't we understand him and laughed an unctuous laugh and waved the flashlight a half dozen times more. Then he did it all again.
If there's one thing I cannot stand, it's obnoxious people who think they're funny and act like you're a sourpuss when you don't laugh. Earlier, I went to Michael's to buy some things and only two registers were open, so the lines snaked back into the store. Who knew the crafts store was the place to be on Saturday night?
Finally, a third cashier annouced she'd take the next person in line, so I walked over. Unfortunately, she'd been facing the wrong direction and I ended up on the wrong side. Even though I said, "Oh, I thought you were on this side," she didn't ring me up first.
I walked back to my original register where the line was now shorter than the newly-opened one. I'm not sure if it had to do with the line debacle, but a woman came up behind me and said, "Here, you can pay for my stuff, too." I just don't know where that came from, so I was at a loss for words and pretended I didn't hear her.
"No, really, you can."
"Gee, that's mighty big of you, but I'll pass," I said.
I can't remember what she said next, but it was along the same lines. It's usually men who are obnoxious in their conviction that they are funny. I still don't get it.
Anyway, I was somehow able to decipher the security guard's advanced code language and determine that the supermarket was still open, so I walked in and he kept asking me if I "got it." Apparently so, as there I was walking into it.
I must say, I really rather liked shopping in the dark. I've never been a day person and I'm easily overstimulated. That makes the hyperlit, millions-of-choices, visually and audibily noisy state that's normal for supermarkets pretty much a nightmare for me. It causes my brain to shut down. It's why I take so long at the grocery store, and at stores of all kinds, which only makes my mother complain.
The store wasn't pitch black, not like New York in the blackout a few years back where you really couldn't see your hand in front of you. I didn't pay much attention, but it seemed they had back-up power of some kind and that perhaps 1 or 2 florescent lights, rather than 10, were lit above each aisle. Really, with all the mood lighting, all the grocery store needed was a little Barry White playing in the background.
It was only bothersome when I needed to read a label or when I tried to punch in the PIN to use the ATM card. I also couldn't find the small bottle of cream of tartar and couldn't see spending $6 for the big one that I'd only use once. I think by that point, I'd had enough.
The thought of possibly having two more homemade cakes destroyed by clumbsiness or whatever in one night was just too much to consider. I am ashamed to admit I bought two cake mixes -- devil's food and angel's food -- in lieu of more raw ingredients. My reputation as a great baker has been besmirched.
[ link to this ]
+ + +
|
| |
|
