Elizabeth Dutton's Blog, page 15

Here's the thing: cleaning

I am trying to get myself into some semblance of order these days. It's working. I figure it's a new semester, I am in the process of getting a new (American) agent, I have a book coming out…blah blah blah. Pulling myself together and all that. But I am finding that getting rid of clutter also brings up lots of things I didn't want to address. Some things are better left in the bottom of a messy desk drawer or in the recesses of my email inbox. As an aside, I had over 3,000 messages in my inbox. All read, mind you. But that's a lot of crap. More on that later.

I went through my desk drawer and threw away old packs of gum and a petrified lone TUMS tablet at the very end of a ribbon of foil wrapping. I tossed dead pens and deteriorating rubber bands. I found well-preserved fortunes, fastidiously flattened and saved from cookies long ago. I discovered my undergraduate college ID card (hilaaaarious, by the way). I stumbled across lots of old black and white Polaroids taken inside bars I don't recognize. I found postcards advertising shows with bands I'd never heard of. There were greeting cards I'd purchased because I liked them and figured I would find a recipient for them eventually.  I came across three dog washing tokens for a place 2,700 miles from my house.

Here's the thing:  I am a pack rat. I save everything. I am not a Hoarder (as seen on A&E…wait, it's on A&E, right?). I don't have animal feces and lost siblings and 94 years of New York Times editions piled around me. But I have trouble letting go. I've got cigar boxes and drawers and bins brimming with mementos and scraps of paper with ideas that seem to come and go like spectres. In said desk drawer were three (THREE) maps of Venice, Italy. All of them were pocket-sized. I can remember my rationale for buying each. One I got for a trip to Venice some six years ago. The other two I got for my trip there last summer when I couldn't find the original map (probably because it was in the back of my desk drawer). I only need one. Hell, I probably don't even need one anymore.

Do I need these maps? No. Did I get rid of them? No. I seem to hang on to everything, whether the memories they hold are good, bad or indifferent.

This brings me to my email inbox. Of the 3,000+ missives, a good number of the emails were junk that I should have deleted immediately after reading: CNN breaking news alerts from two years ago, emails from students telling me why they missed class and asking for assignments, reminders about meeting that I never planned to attend. A significant portion, though, were from a fellow I used to care about very deeply. I cared, and it turned out he didn't. The end. Relationship over. But before that, we had what I thought were lovely times, times spend actually using those Venice maps to navigate the city, times spent laughing and listening and marveling and an incredible amount of time that I spent holding his anxieties as my own, working constantly to try to fix any and all problems that came his way. The emails are a record of all that. I should have just deleted them all. There were more than a thousand. But instead I picked through them in some sick act of self-flagellation.

Did I ever delete the emails? Nope. I put them in a folder that I promise myself I won't look in again. What the hell is wrong with me? Well, among other things, I am a pack rat. I carry all of this with me — the good, the bad, the indifferent. I should embrace impermanence and mental health and just get rid of everything. EVERYTHING. Emails, maps, old junk, ratty t-shirts, earrings I never wear. But I keep it…ALL. I can't help it. It's my history and it's me. I am composed of dimming photos and paperclips and souvenir pens and novelty key chains and bookmarks and funny news articles and nice things and broken things and five wristwatches (at the latest tally). And I guess that's okay.

And on that note, I shall close with a clip I wish I could use at the end of most conversations. It amuses me.

awesome/non-awesome

awesome:

 

dogs having ecstatic freak-outs over bacon grease

BLTs (that supply said bacon grease for said dogs)

a great haircut that looks good no matter what or how long ago you've showered

seeing everything as an opportunity and life as an experiment

 

non-awesome:

 

me, when it comes to self-promotion

writing query letters again

the return of early morning classes (boo hisssssss)

Here's the thing: small talk

I don't know what has happened to me. I used to enjoy social situations. I loved to chat and meet new people and drink far more than I should and laugh and the this and the that and whathaveyou. Now, though, it takes a lot of internal motivation to get me to go anywhere, particularly somewhere that involves dressing up. And by dressing up I mean slapping on the 'ol war paint and wearing something more put together than jeans and a t-shirt. I went to a party this weekend that was gorgeous. Everyone was dolled up, champagne was served, people were lovely. I popped a spinster's-little-helper and put on my game face and actually had a pleasant time. As I sat in a dimly lit room under the watchful gaze of a wobbly stuffed pheasant and a torn oil painting that looked a little like I would if I were of the pretty persuasion (By the by, this party took place at a house that managed to capture the menacing allure of Venice, Italy, despite being firmly planted in the South. Bravo, I say.), I wondered where my party confidence had gone, why my lust for socializing had vanished into the ether.

This reminiscing in such odd circumstances (Again, the party was delightful…the setting was just, um, unusual. The house was like a rabbit warren where one main house had been added onto and onto and onto over the years, like layers reapplied to an onion. The questionable provenance of some of the decor also added to the intrigue. But I digress…) brought back memories of the small talk in which I used to engage.

Here's the thing: I am an asshole.

I know this. I admit it. I usually am reminded of this fact when I start to remember the things I have done or said in my life. So in this Southern Doge's Palace, I began to recall two specific incidences when my small talk served to illustrate just how much of an asshole I can be. I used to say things just to entertain myself, with no concern about how my comments would be received. Witness:

In my mid-twenties, I went to a party at the family home of an old college friend. Accompanied by my best friend and her boyfriend, I caught up with old pals and chatted away. In talking to one particular old friend from college, I was asked the question that bores me most: "What do you do these days? Where are you working?" I don't ask people this because unless it's something they are super excited about, they won't bring it up. No one cares. And no one cared that I was working in the marketing department of a non-profit magazine. I certainly didn't. So when asked what I was doing as a means of employ, I told this gentleman that my best friend and I had formed a management company that represented Filipino girl pop groups on mall tours across America. He was incredulous at first, but as I rattled off names of "clients" (NVizun, PartyGirlz, PopLockExplode…) and kept a straight face, he started to buy it. Of course, when said best friend was called into the conversation to verify, she played right along and even elaborated on our mall tour plans. There is a reason she is my best friend. Her boyfriend at the time even offered an explanation as to how we got into "the biz." He claimed to be a sports agent who represented "mid-level" athletes in "C List" sports. Luge, indoor soccer, men's gymnastics, arena football, local wrestling. He was amazing. I think he really worked in a cubicle somewhere, but he didn't care and neither did I so I don't think he ever mentioned it. See? Anyway, I am pretty sure the guy I was talking to knew I was full of shit, but he rolled with it and I was entertained. NB: I would later go on to be involved in a romantic relationship with the fellow from the party. And then he would dump me because his ex-girlfriend came back into town. So karma, maybe? Whatevs.

Example number two happened just after my 30th birthday. I was in Paris. Paris, France. You know the place. Once again, with the best friend. She knew some cousins of friends who lived there and we made plans to have a night on the town with them. My stars, they were amazingly brilliant Eurotrash if ever there were some. They were "students" who lived in a giant marble abode right on L'Avenue des Champs-Élysées and who picked up exorbitant tabs everywhere we went. The drink tab for 5 of us at some trendy night spot topped 400 Euros. I think I had two drinks. It was unreal. Anyway, at this nightclub, I was introduced to the girlfriend of one of the guys. I took four years of French in high school and then repeated two of those years in college (why test out of the language requirement when you can get some easy As?). My French was…not so hot. But I found that the longer I was in Paris, the better it got. And also, oddly enough, the more alcohol I consumed, the better it got. Someone smart should do some sort of scientific study about that. Anyhoo part deux, I was introduced to this girl and we started up the small talk. She was studying law at the Sorbonne and was, apparently, a genius. I was living in Scotland and writing a book. Did I tell her this? No.

When she asked me what I did for a living, I told her I was a taxidermist. En français. Oui, I conducted this whole conversation in French. She was amazed that I would pursue such a calling. Incroyable! She asked me why I became a taxidermist. What drew me to this profession? I said, "Il y a…comment dit un… une sensation quand vous tenez le corps de l'animal…c'est très spirituel." I went on to talk about the spirits of the animals I would later stuff. It was some weird shit, even for me. Okay, maybe not.  But I was convincing. We ended the night pleading for the gents to take us back to our hotel and we had to tip-toe past their house staff who slept on the marble floors of the foyer. After a debate (again, in French) about the merits of weed from Amsterdam versus California's own and a wild ride in a SmartCar, we made it back to the hotel. I went to mass the next day, seeing as I wanted to be able to say I'd been when there was no Pope. Later that afternoon, all the church bells in Paris began to chime at once. My friend asked me what it was and I told her with certainty that there must be a new Pope. A dash to a nearby tv confirmed this. For a moment, my Catholic guilt took hold and I thought of how debauched and deceitful I'd been. But then I thought about all the Popes through history and figured that me lying about my profession paled in comparison to the shit they'd pulled. Three Hail Marys and I'd be square. Three Hail Marys and a good thought for all the taxidermied animals and Filipino girl bands. Right as rain.

27 more days

Boom.

Here's the thing: Staying upbeat

Sweet Holy Moses, it feels like everything is falling apart these days, doesn't it? Of course, there's the whole debt ceiling thing. All that has done is proven to voters, citizens and the rest of the world that politics is always about power and rarely about working together or the public interest. From the moment that human/turtle hybrid Mitch McConnell said all the Republicans were concerned about was making sure Obama was just a one term President, my irritation took hold. And President Obama has bummed me out, too, by not showing strong leadership when we really needed it. If Congress is going to act like rival factions on a preschool playground (immature, selfish, lacking logic), then the President needs to bring the hammer down and not attempt to reason with them. That's some Montessori shit that just won't work right now.  And while the deal may or may not have been met, it doesn't matter. The public is pissed, our economic standing is no better, there's still a chance we'll be downgraded, the impact of our idiocy will be felt worldwide. And throughout this whole mess, no one in Congress has had the stones to suggest taxing the shit out of the richest Americans and corporations. GE didn't have to pay taxes last year. Oil companies are still showing record profits. Spread the wealth, says this Socialist. (I was raised by a Communist grandmother, by the way). Yes, there is waste to cut in the budget, but the richest 1% need to give back to the rest of us, those who worked to make them rich in the first place. They earned their money on our backs, let's get what's ours.

Anyhoo, that's not the only thing that feels insane. There's one depressing or horrible news story after the next. We're all broke (me, especially). Famine is sweeping the nations in Northeast Africa. The Jasmine Revolution is spreading more blood than freedom. Norway is still in mourning. Rupert Murdoch will Mr. Burns his way out of being strung up for greed and basic evildoing. And I just finished grading what may be the worst collection of final essays I've ever had the displeasure of reading. I. Give. Up.

Here's the thing: we can't give up. We have to stay upbeat. Right? Right?!?! So to the handful of you reading these ramblings, what do you do to stay upbeat? How can we counteract the 2011 blues? Tell me something awesome. Tell me something lovely. Help restore my faith in humanity. Tell me how you stay positive when everything around us is, well, total garbage.

Right now, I am depending on these two fellas to get me through each day:

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xo. And I mean that.

Here's the thing: Songify

My latest obsession is the Songify app for the iPhone.

 

My first exposure to it was when a friend of mine posted what should have been a sweet song that his toddler niece "made" with the app, one in which she just said, "My name is [redacted]." Like I said, it should have been sweet. Instead, it was the most brilliantly creepy thing I'd heard in ages. The autotuned child's voice repeating an introduction over and over and over and over for almost a full minute, set to generic pop background music, was the stuff of nightmares. Someone mentioned that it was the type of thing someone would play for their stalkee. I longed to leave it on a random stranger's answering machine.

 

So, of course, I had to check out Songify for myself.

 

Here's the thing, I imagine that there are people who use this app to make legitimate dance tunes. I am not one of those people. I love the juxtaposition of cheesy pop music with bizarre lyrics. Confession: I love anything bizarre. Or weird. Or creepy. It's okay. I come in peace.

 

So here's my favorite Songify creation thus far:

 

Magic

 

This really needs to be the feel-good, omnipresent hit of the summer. Let's make it happen. It's MAGIC.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the thing: weddings schmeddings

I had the opportunity to attend a wedding this weekend. Not as a guest, but rather as the help. I am much more comfortable doing this than getting dolled up and attempting small talk with people.

 

Side note: I used to be quite the social butterfly and LOVED parties and social interaction. The older I get, though, the more this gives me terrible anxiety and I can now only take it in small doses. Perhaps it is due in part to the fact that my younger days were pretty heavily whiskey-soaked, but whatevs. I am too old for that now and the amount of drink it would take to get me through extended socialization would also probably land me in the ER.

 

Anyway, the wedding. I was there to help assemble and serve the wedding cake. I wore my modern-day scullery maid outfit: black slacks, black tee and white apron. I really enjoyed hanging out in the side storage room with other workers, shit talking and joking around. When I would venture out onto the fringes of the main room, people would flag me down and ask me for things like extra chairs, more booze, food that was not on offer, etc. I would inform them that I was sorry, but that I was "there with the cake." Every time I was asked for something outside my purview, I would add another strange detail to my explanation as to why I couldn't help. I'm here with the cake and my hand is broken (question asker looks at my unbandaged hands and walks away). I'm here with the cake and chairs scare me. I'm here with the cake and had a lot of cabbage for lunch. I'm here with the cake, but don't tell anyone…PLEASE (then I look away nervously and slink away).

 

Here's the thing: I've come to the conclusion that I hate weddings. I am all for marriage and marriage equality (and, by the way, anyone who opposes marriage equality needs to get their head out of their ass and learn some humanity), but weddings (especially receptions) irritate the berjerzees out of me. I can't stand the waste of money, the stupid traditions rooted in woman-as-possession garbage, the societal pressure to have a faux country club party that is way out of the comfort zone of most party-goers. In the event that I ever dupe some poor fella into marrying me, we're eloping. And if, at some later date when we have the money and the time, we'll throw a party for our friends and family. People will be able to wear whatever the hell they want. They won't have to give gifts. There will be no matchy-matchy flowers full of pesticides and flown in from wherever. Just have some fun. Have some fun and love each other. And maybe tell people we had a lot of cabbage for lunch. That's always fun.