Favorite Posts Category
I’ve been blogging since late 2000, and I would never expect anyone to want to read it all. This category defines some of my favorite moments on Electrolicious — sort of a “Greatest Hits” collection, but without the televised advertisement of me standing next to a piano. If you happen across a post elsewhere on Electrolicious that you think should be in this category, won’t you let me know?
Last night I fell asleep early, having been carried to bed after Andreas bathed and oiled my feet. He said the process made him feel like Jesus. If he was Jesus, then I was definitely blessed.
It was warm last night, so I woke up and opened the door at one point to let in the night breeze and the sound of our pond’s gurgling fountain. At dawn this morning, I woke up slowly to the sound of water and air — our tiny backdoor wind-chime tinkling away over the sounds of the fish in the pond. I opened my eyes and was overwhelmed by the beauty of the pre-sunrise light and the fluttering flags hanging from the eaves and really, I can’t think of a much more lovely way to start a birthday.
… Except for then rolling over to find the most beautiful, splendid man in bed with me. So splendid, in fact, that he let me wake him up and agreed to go to a morning dance class with me. (”I’m tired,” he slurred. “But I want to be with you.” He was quiet for a while so I thought he’d fallen back asleep. Then his eyes opened and he looked at me and said, “I’ll go.”) Even better: he made me tea! Then he drove us to a dance class where we both woke up our brains, bodies, spirits and emotions (it’s a NIA thing) before trundling over to Victrola for morning beverages from my (yes, my) barista.
My wonderful beloved caught the bus to work and I drove home slowly in the morning light. I got arrived home to a flood of emails — love and photos and mp3s and happy thoughts. Then the phone rang — first my father, who verbally patted me on the head as I recounted freaking out about my book yesterday, and then my mother, who wished both a happy birth day, reminding me that as her only child, May 16th isn’t only the only day that I was birthed — it was the only day she’s ever given birth.
How am I so blessed? It’s so much that all I can do is sit here and cry (sob!) over how much abundance there is in my life. Even my problems are non-issues of blessed abundance. Sometimes I kid myself and think that I somehow earned this amazing thing that is my life; that I’ve worked hard and that I somehow deserve it, or am entitled to my own joy.
This is, of course, rock solid bullshit. I live a blessed, charmed life surrounded by some of the most amazing, beautiful people in one of the most amazing, beautiful places. 31 years of it. I’m a bit overwhelmed by it all sometimes (hence the sobbing with joy — who knew I could be so maudlin?), but mostly I’m just appreciative. Thank you all for being a part of my life.
This weekend I attended a writing workshop in Portland. I stuck out like a pink-tipped, sore thumb, but not really in a bad way. I was a little bit younger than the other writers (the bulk were in the 35-45 range), and since of course I look and act even younger than I am, I think I confused everyone a bit. At one point, the workshop leader (best-selling memoirist Jennifer Lauck) grouped me into her 7-year-old son’s generation, despite the fact that I’m in my early 30s.
Despite my alieness, I got a lot from the workshop. Friday night we each were assigned a topic to write two pages about for the next morning. I’m not completely sure how topics were chosen — some of them were based on readings we’d already done, some of them seemed random, and some of them (like mine) were oddly prescient. My assignment was to write two pages about my mother.
Gulp. Keep in mind that with my grandmother’s death last week, mother-daughter dynamics are in full effect.
As those of you who read this site know, my writing is mostly light and entertaining. And the first half of the piece was exactly that. The second half got into a small conflict my mother and I had over my being present at my grandmother’s deathbed, and then in the closing paragraphs I went for the emotional sucker-punches, aiming straight for the jugular and letting loose with such well-worn literary conceits as repeating the saddest parts for full effect.
I got mildly choked up while writing the piece, but steeled myself and vowed to keep my shit together when presenting during the workshop. I am not a weeper!
But of course, when my turn rolled around, there I was not just crying — but SOBBING. I was in good company (there was actually a box of tissues passed from reader to reader), but I was still somewhat mortified with myself. Me! Sobbing! Other people are allowed to sob during their readings but I am a pillar of emotional fortitude, and I am not accustomed to blubbering over my own writing. I laugh at myself a lot; but cry over myself almost never.
The piece was well-received and I decided that I would pass it on to my mom. It was an homage of sorts to her and my relationship, our shared quirks and communications styles. More than anything, it was about how much I loved her, and come on: what mother doesn’t want to be the star of the I Love You! show?
Perhaps my timing was off, what with my grandmother’s funeral and all, but my homage had exactly the opposite effect that I’d intended. My mother called me last night reporting that she’d read the piece and didn’t like the person it described (her!) and was sort of mortified and felt very hurt and cried a bunch. Gulp.
I guess it’s a little bit hard being turned into a character in someone else’s story, isn’t it?
I explained my intentions with the piece and she understood and it was all ok, but as I closed the conversation I reminded her, “You know, mom, that was just a two-page story. I’m writing a whole book right now …”
“But the book’s not about me,” she said. Erm, have you heard many wedding stories that don’t include the mother of the bride?
This brings up some interesting issues for me … not just with my mother, but with untold numbers of people. Andreas refuses to read any of my book drafts, arguing that he doesn’t want to impede my creative process — even when I beg him for feedback, he declines. He may regret this decision.
I use friends and family members to comedic effect through-out my book. Are these people going to hate me? Am I going to simultaneously celebrate the release of my first book while grieving over the fact that my friends have disowned me and that my in-laws won’t invite me home for Christmas? For godsake, what will Uncle Howie say? (That will make more sense after you read the book.)
I’m caught between refusal to change my writing out of fear and, well, wanting to avoid making my mother cry.
Also, for those who are curious, you can read the piece I wrote for my mother by clicking below.
I’m celebrating the 10 year anniversary of my relationship with my favorite armchair. Exactly a decade ago I was dating an over-caffeinated stylish fellow who had the nicest furniture I’d ever seen. At my then-house (Tha Muthaship), our couch was a dilapidated hand-me-down that came from my high school boyfriend’s older brother’s college house. It was shredded from several cats, saturated with years’ worth of collegiate beer and bongwater, and hidden under a patchwork of Indian bed spreads and blankets.
The then-boyfriend’s furniture, however, was all his. Granted, it was a little faded across the tops, but he had a three-piece living room set (…a set! Something I still don’t own!) which included a deep couch, a deep armchair, and a matching ottoman. From my 20-year-old perspective, this was the height of classy.
One night, early-on in our ill-fated three month relationship, the then-boyfriend and I went out on a fancy date. I went for my version of sexy, which include a retro-feel cocktail dress and thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. When I was young, thigh-high stockings with a garter belt were my oh-so-subtle ways of announcing what I wanted. It was clumsy, but there’s no arguing with the results. We had a nice enough date, which ended with me still mostly dressed in the arm chair and my then-boyfriend, uh, kneeling in front of it.
That was when I first fell in love with the chair.
Things didn’t work out for the then-boyfriend and me. We hit that three-month compromise-or-die point, and I wasn’t into compromising. We still had a class together though, so we stayed in touch. I moved on quickly, going to a lot of raves and generally enjoying my single self.
But I missed the chair. There were a couple occasions when, after a night of chemically-enhanced all-night dancing, I would call my ex-boyfriend to see if I could come over and nap in the chair. You see, it was made for me. The width between the chair’s low arms is exactly the length of my spine. I could rest my head on one arm rest, using it as a pillow, and my butt perfectly tucked lengthwise against the other arm. With the ottoman, the chair was a napping destination.
Probably tired of both his faded furniture and his faded, cracked-out ex-girlfriend, my ex decided to upgrade to a new leather furniture set, and offered me his cast-offs.
That was when the chair moved in with me. No more nap outsourcing. The chair was my beloved roommate and we slept together often. It followed me from Seattle to San Francisco, where it proved able to accommodate three insomniac ravers simultaneously. It followed me back up to Seattle, then down to Olympia. It didn’t come to New York with me, but it did make the trek down to Los Angeles with Andreas and I in 2002.
Last night I sat in the chair for three hours and finished a book. I sat in it cross legged, then sideways, then with my head on an armrest and my legs resting up the wall. The chair is always accommodating. The chair has seen me through four cities, many books, that one dirty encounter, and lots of snuggling. It’s welcomed the butts of hundreds of friends over the years. The chair has been my constant.
Here’s to another 10 years, chair! I love you!
Tonight I got a phone call from an old friend in San Francisco who wanted to let me know that an old-time acquaintance of ours was on his death bed stricken with AIDS.
The news threw me back to exactly 8 years ago, a weekend in January 1997. The weekend of my housewarming in the Lower Haight was a particularly debaucherous one. The house filled with glamorous and skanky people, skateboards lining the long Victorian hall downstairs. One roommate asked me if I would tell my friends to move their boards, and I reported that only one friend had his skateboard there (my semi-boyfriend, John, visiting from Seattle). My roomies and I had a shared moment of realizing the house was full of people we didn’t know. Shortly afterward, someone started smoking crack in the kitchen.
All my raver friends were in attendance of course, including a guy named Rick who was a friend of a friend. He brought his turntables in a big fancy coffin (for the uninitiated, that’s what portable tables are stored in: a coffin), and was playing jungle in the living room.
Eventually we decided that we had to kick everyone out, and the easiest way to do that was to GO out, so I headed into the late night with my pack of motley ravers, headed to some party that had the word “heart” in the title. We were on raver time, though, and showed up at 6am just as the party was shutting down. No matter: to the after-party!
Rick rode in my tiny car with John and I, and before we got out he informed us that he had his tackle box of drugs with him and offered us some. John, who had a whole tackle box of his own back in Seattle, was impressed by Rick’s collection and generosity, and so we took Rick up on his offer before heading into the after-party.
At this point, two sheets to the wind would probably be a pleasant euphemism for the state I was in. I was like laundry out on the line, flapping around the dancefloor and talking to some nice girl I met about how she’d just moved to San Francisco (”ME TOO!” I squealed through my clenched jaw). We held hands and sat down leaning against a wall, and she told me about how she’d just started stripping (”Oh — I work at a law firm,” I apologized.)
I have pictures of that night. I have an inhuman glint in my eye, and was with a friend who was dressed up like a drag queen with plastic leaves in her hair and 3″ long fake green eyelashes. She sticks out in my memory as the only person I’ve ever known to own a tooter. The friend who called me tonight was also there. He was wearing a bright orange shirt, was carrying a teddybear, and had his libret piercing in. Now he works for NASA, doing research for the Space Station. He, like me, made it out with his faculties intact.
The morning wore on, and things only got bleaker. The only people left on a dancefloor at 11am on a Sunday are pretty much wrong in every sense of the word, and there I was: totally wrong with the rest of them.
I left around noon with John and Rick, and we went back to my house to retrieve Rick’s turntables. I was starting to crash pretty hard, hours of sleep dep and chemical abuse catching up with me, but out came the tackle box and then John and Rick and I were up for another round.
It was at this point that even in my dulled, confused, heading up and down simultaneously state I started to realize that these two tackle box boys were sparring over me. John and I were casual (he lived out of town, we both saw other people), but he was always looking out for me, and Rick picked up on it. The two of them were subtley testing each other and prodding one-another to see what the deal was and who got what piece of the sorry-ass cracked out 21 year old raver girl with inverted bob and the glazed over eyes. What a sorry prize.
The two tackle box boys compared tackle box contents. Who had the windowpane? Who had the glass? Who had the orange microdots and who had the darker dank? Who had the blue shoes and who had the liquid? The two tackle box boys compared musical tastes and petty crime records. They laughed at each other’s jokes in that hard way that people do when they’re trying to size each other up.
At some point, I snuck downstairs and called my best friend in Seattle sobbing. My head was caving in, the boys were sparring, I’m so tired, but my heart’s pounding really hard, but I haven’t slept since Friday and I’m supposed to go to work in 16 hours and god knows what else I said. For years my friend wouldn’t tell me, and then she finally admitted that I hadn’t really said anything: I was mostly just crying and rambling and she couldn’t really understand much of it.
I couldn’t have known it then, but maybe I was crying over the fact that in eight years, one of the tackle box boys would be dead from drug-induced heart failure, and the other would be dieing of AIDS somewhere after several stints in jail and years of IV drug use. Maybe I was crying over the fact that I knew that this lifestyle was only temporary for me, but some of us would never find our way back out. Maybe I was crying because I realized that I wouldn’t always be 21, and at a certain point time would catch up to me and my futuristic, synthetic-loving friends and we’d all be hitting 30 and suddenly the party girls who passed out on the toilet are in jail for breaking probation, and the younger brothers who always seemed so wacky and wild would be on major rehabilitative medication after long stints in treatment, and all those little bad habits, too, those would catch up with you: the bad eating, the bitchy attitudes, the fake tanning, the cigarettes, the running of red lights. The first decade of adulthood comes to a close and things get reckoned with and some of us just don’t make it. The tackle box boys didn’t make it.
I consider myself inordinately blessed and lucky that, of the three of us hovered over that tackle box on a Sunday in January 1997, I am the only one who made it out. I have moments of feeling like it was a close call, but I look back in my journal and I can see that even then I knew where the tackle box boys were headed. I didn’t know why I was crying, but maybe I had a tiny glimmer of awareness. And for that I am glad.
UPDATE: For those who would like some pictures to go with this story, here are a few photos taken that night, including several of my ex, JTB.
I must take it as more than coincidence that in the span of a day, I had two different people tell me that I’m intimidating.
My first reaction is to think, “Intimidating?! Me?” What’s intimidating about by a semi-soft, nearsighted copywriter? I sit on a computer all day, people! I have crooked teeth, too many beauty marks, wear size 12 jeans from Eddie Bauer, and pick my nose. I’m developing a second chin and spin my wheels on projects for months without moving forward. What about self-dep week? How could that possibly be intimidating?
This is my first reflex, then: to minimize myself. Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be intimidated. Let me tell you all the ways I hate myself. See? Now you feel better about yourself.
… But wait a minute! How fucked up is that? Why does making others feel bigger have to be reliant on making myself smaller? Then I want to puff myself up and crow, “Hell yeah you should be intimidated — I KICK ASS. But don’t you see that you do too?” Instead of trying to make myself worse so that everyone else can feel better, why can’t I encourage everyone else to feel as good as they seem to think I do? (Key issue: don’t be fooled by the bluster, folks: even cocky bastards doubt themselves and struggle down their hallways of demons.)
I’m reminded of a conversation I had last year with an old friend. She sent me a long, carefully thought-out email explaining, in part, “When I looked at you, I saw so many great and wondrous qualities. I wanted those qualities in myself and felt I did not posses them or didn’t have the tools to possess them naturally. For years I felt this way and unfortunately I allowed this to get in the way of growing with you as a friend. I felt only half present in our discussions. The other half being consumed by the negative energies of my jealousy and envy which cost me both my vitality and love I have for you as a friend.”
Goodness gracious. How does one respond to such an email! I took my time to think it through, and here’ was my reply: “We all have crucial lessons to learn from each other (I learned a lot from your email!), and when I feel like I’m being put in a position of undeserved superiority, my immediate reaction is to brush it off and plead with the person not to put me on a pedestal. Or rather, if you’re going to put me on a pedestal, do so from your own pedestal! Does that make sense? You’re allowed to admire me, as long as you’re admiring yourself and allowing me to do so, too.”
I guess my perspective on intimidation is that it’s a way we have of minimizing ourselves; a way each of us denies our own capacity for power. In a way, this relates to that old post I wrote, The Inspirers. I’m wary of being held up too high because I’m so keenly aware that often when I do that to people, it’s because I’m not seeing that the things I admire in them that exist (or could exist) inside me. All too often, in my past I’ve not realized that the god I’m seeing in the other person’s character is actually a recognition of my own inner strength and potential. As the most infamous of cocky bastards says, “I’m simply celebrating my journey. I’m not saying I’m any better than anybody else. On the contrary, I think EVERYONE has the capacity to be truly great. I strive for greatness and encourage everyone to live their epic myth.” Amen, Reverend Hal.
I’ve met people who think they’re intimidating; some folks seem to cultivate it as an identity. But it’s like Dancer in the Dark or The Wizard of Oz: once you can see the levers being pulled, the emotional tricks stop working. That guy who spoke in rapid-fire mile-a-minute marketing jargon? He had no fucking clue what the hell he was saying. That client at The Paper who blustered into every meeting and interrupted your proposals with demands? She knew that if you thought she was pushy, you wouldn’t question her creative briefs. Once you can hear the clicking and whirring, these intimidators start looking like everyone else.
So now I want to talk about people who are intimidating. I’ll go first. I am intimidated by baristas. Especially at the coffee shop right around the corner from my house. They refuse to make eye contact with me, preferring instead to gossip with each other and glance at me only when ringing up my beverage. I am on the outside looking in, a lone tea drinker in a sea of hipper-than-thou coffee fiends. I always tip too much and leave feeling mildly humiliated. It’s pointless, but it’s true.
Having just finished my first year of college, the summer of 1994 found me looking to take a step up in my career. I’d spent a few months toddler-wrastling for a daycare, but really wanted to ascend to the world of retail … the cash register and lack of juice breaks made it seemed more glamorous, and I could make $6.25 an hour instead of $5.75.
I found a job at The Disney Store in downtown Seattle’s then-newish Westlake Mall. I thought the job would be so much fun…I was still a big Little Mermaid fan, and I figured that my experience with children at the daycare would translate perfectly into children’s retail.
My disillusionment began quickly. I had to sit through “orientation” which included two sessions watching lengthy bullshit corporate videos about synergy and the Customer Service Cycle. I was introduced to the tenets of the retail industry, the fantastically swishy sounding theory of FAB — Features And Benefits. The t-shirt is COTTON [feature] which makes it SOFT and ABSORBENT! [benefit] This stuffed Sebastian lobster doll is SAFE FOR BABIES [benefit] because it’s made from NON-TOXIC NON-ABSORBENT ACETATE! [feature]
If the orientation made me wary, I was soon overwhelmed by the level of control the company exacted over me. I learned never to ask a customer a question to which they could answer “No.” The question was not, “Can I help you?” but rather, “What can I help you find today?” I suppose the theory was that “Nothing” has two syllables, and that puts you at a better syllable-to-statement ratio with the customer. I’m confident many years of research have been conducted on this issue, and that it’s always better if you can get a duo-syllabic rejection.
I learned how to semantically assimilate with the Disney Corporation. I was a “Cast Member,” not an employee. It was the “Stage,” not the store floor. It was “Backstage,” not the storage room. As they are in many places now, customers were “Guests.” I learned how to wear my socks appropriately (folded down neatly over the ankles, bobby-sock style) and which color of nylons to wear under my uniform of grey shorts and faux letterman’s sweater.
Once, my chipper manager sent me Backstage to Windex my sneakers. “Gal,” she chirped “they’re looking a little dingey. You need to go clean those up Backstage!”
I learned never to hold my hands behind my back (”Looks shifty,” smiled the manager). I learned that since my hair was longer than shoulder length, I needed to put it back in either a ponytail or a bun, and that my hair restraining tool could only be black, brown, or gold and no more than ΒΌ” thick. Disney is not a scrunchy-friendly work place. No domestic partner benefits for those who wear scrunchies! Also: no hoop earrings. Gold, silver or diamond studs only. And no eye shadow. Only mascara in natural colors. Afros were to be tightly packed, I learned from the Employee Manual, and no more than 1″ long. No picks allowed. I am not making this up.
It started to get to me. My only joy was working near my favorite gay coworker, our arms clasped in front of us to avoid looking shifty. We would stack and restack Plushie Mountain — the pile of stuffed animals that lives against the back wall of every Disney Store worldwide — patrolling to ensure that all the animals met the “no backs, butts, or bellies” rule and were all facing upwards, expectant plastic eyes glistening with pixie dust.
My gay coworker and I would make up dirty renditions of the Disney tunes that cycle on permanent repeat over the store’s loud speakers. Clearly we had too much fun. We were separated within a few shifts of establishing our blossoming fag/hag relationship, and I was put on permanent Greeter rotation.
We all know the corporate retail Greeter — that person who is forced to put the “Ass” in “Sales Associate”; the unlucky sod stationed at the front of the store verbally assaulting every last person who walks through the mall entryway. But the Greeter can’t look like they’re just Greeting. No. Even Mickey Mouse acknowledges that such behavior might seem irritating or creepy. A Greeter’s true skill is looking remarkably busy, embodying that air of surprised genuine glee when someone walks through the door — Why, I didn’t see you there! Hello! Welcome to The Disney Store! What can I help you find today?
The busywork that I did most often when working my Greeter shift was folding. When working farther back on the Stage, I’d learned to use the folding square, a piece of plastic that ensured shirts were all neatly folded into rectangles of exactly the same size so that the stack would all show a screen-printed Tigger in the exact uniform place. The folding square was fine, but when you’re Greeting, you need to be more hands-on. There can’t be too many props between you and the customer. So I learned to fold shirts against my chest.
Over and over again, I’d fold the same shirt, glancing up with eyebrows raised in mock joy to smile, “Welcome to the Disney Store! What can I help you with today? Oh, don’t worry about interrupting me, I’d love to help you find that collectible Briar Rabbit porcelain figure!” I’d set the shirt down, and return to it a few minutes later to refold it and Greet the next Guest.
It became second nature — hold the shirt against my chest. Fold it laterally on one side, tucking the sleeve. Fold it laterally on the other side, tucking the sleeve. Then hold one hand and let gravity help you crease it in thirds — Why hello! Welcome to the Disney Store! What’s your favorite Lion King song? Wow, I like Hakuna Matata too!
Quickly, I learned to hate my job at The Disney Store. Too controlled! Too forced! The half-hour commute from the U-District to Westlake was stupid! My last hurrah (and dangerous act of rebellion) was stealing a Tinkerbell figurine that had been recalled due to a dangerously-pointy plastic wing. I entertained fantasies of poking a two-year-old’s eye with it and suing the company to make millions. Then I quit without giving notice.
But some things stayed with me. In 1995 I wrote an essay applying Erving Goffman’s theory of Total Institution to the Disney Store. There were some holes in my thesis, but I argued it well and got a 3.7 on the paper.
Last night, as Andreas and I folded laundry, he made me realize that the fucking Disney Fold has been permanently ingrained into my repertoire of laundry techniques. It makes sense — I worked there when I was just getting established as an adult living on my own, and the shirt folding technique was a good one. Dre struggled as he tried to learn it, and I laughed and laughed when I realized that here I am, 10 years later, still acting the role of Cast Member.
And now I’m here to share the magic with you! Below, please find the seven magical steps of The Disney Fold demonstrated by your favorite retired Greeter. This may be top secret stuff people — I could get sued! Then again, I could learn that this is how everyone folds their shirts, and my story could be ruined. Added bonus: you can see the jeans I was rambling about last week.
LAUNCH THE DISNEY FOLD GALLERY
(Instructions appear beneath each picture)
- 20 Comments
- Tags: disney, fashion, housekeeping
Last night I fell asleep early, having been carried to bed after Andreas bathed and oiled my feet. He said the process made him feel like Jesus. If he was Jesus, then I was definitely blessed.
It was warm last night, so I woke up and opened the door at one point to let in the night breeze and the sound of our pond’s gurgling fountain. At dawn this morning, I woke up slowly to the sound of water and air — our tiny backdoor wind-chime tinkling away over the sounds of the fish in the pond. I opened my eyes and was overwhelmed by the beauty of the pre-sunrise light and the fluttering flags hanging from the eaves and really, I can’t think of a much more lovely way to start a birthday.
… Except for then rolling over to find the most beautiful, splendid man in bed with me. So splendid, in fact, that he let me wake him up and agreed to go to a morning dance class with me. (”I’m tired,” he slurred. “But I want to be with you.” He was quiet for a while so I thought he’d fallen back asleep. Then his eyes opened and he looked at me and said, “I’ll go.”) Even better: he made me tea! Then he drove us to a dance class where we both woke up our brains, bodies, spirits and emotions (it’s a NIA thing) before trundling over to Victrola for morning beverages from my (yes, my) barista.
My wonderful beloved caught the bus to work and I drove home slowly in the morning light. I got arrived home to a flood of emails — love and photos and mp3s and happy thoughts. Then the phone rang — first my father, who verbally patted me on the head as I recounted freaking out about my book yesterday, and then my mother, who wished both a happy birth day, reminding me that as her only child, May 16th isn’t only the only day that I was birthed — it was the only day she’s ever given birth.
How am I so blessed? It’s so much that all I can do is sit here and cry (sob!) over how much abundance there is in my life. Even my problems are non-issues of blessed abundance. Sometimes I kid myself and think that I somehow earned this amazing thing that is my life; that I’ve worked hard and that I somehow deserve it, or am entitled to my own joy.
This is, of course, rock solid bullshit. I live a blessed, charmed life surrounded by some of the most amazing, beautiful people in one of the most amazing, beautiful places. 31 years of it. I’m a bit overwhelmed by it all sometimes (hence the sobbing with joy — who knew I could be so maudlin?), but mostly I’m just appreciative. Thank you all for being a part of my life.
This weekend I attended a writing workshop in Portland. I stuck out like a pink-tipped, sore thumb, but not really in a bad way. I was a little bit younger than the other writers (the bulk were in the 35-45 range), and since of course I look and act even younger than I am, I think I confused everyone a bit. At one point, the workshop leader (best-selling memoirist Jennifer Lauck) grouped me into her 7-year-old son’s generation, despite the fact that I’m in my early 30s.
Despite my alieness, I got a lot from the workshop. Friday night we each were assigned a topic to write two pages about for the next morning. I’m not completely sure how topics were chosen — some of them were based on readings we’d already done, some of them seemed random, and some of them (like mine) were oddly prescient. My assignment was to write two pages about my mother.
Gulp. Keep in mind that with my grandmother’s death last week, mother-daughter dynamics are in full effect.
As those of you who read this site know, my writing is mostly light and entertaining. And the first half of the piece was exactly that. The second half got into a small conflict my mother and I had over my being present at my grandmother’s deathbed, and then in the closing paragraphs I went for the emotional sucker-punches, aiming straight for the jugular and letting loose with such well-worn literary conceits as repeating the saddest parts for full effect.
I got mildly choked up while writing the piece, but steeled myself and vowed to keep my shit together when presenting during the workshop. I am not a weeper!
But of course, when my turn rolled around, there I was not just crying — but SOBBING. I was in good company (there was actually a box of tissues passed from reader to reader), but I was still somewhat mortified with myself. Me! Sobbing! Other people are allowed to sob during their readings but I am a pillar of emotional fortitude, and I am not accustomed to blubbering over my own writing. I laugh at myself a lot; but cry over myself almost never.
The piece was well-received and I decided that I would pass it on to my mom. It was an homage of sorts to her and my relationship, our shared quirks and communications styles. More than anything, it was about how much I loved her, and come on: what mother doesn’t want to be the star of the I Love You! show?
Perhaps my timing was off, what with my grandmother’s funeral and all, but my homage had exactly the opposite effect that I’d intended. My mother called me last night reporting that she’d read the piece and didn’t like the person it described (her!) and was sort of mortified and felt very hurt and cried a bunch. Gulp.
I guess it’s a little bit hard being turned into a character in someone else’s story, isn’t it?
I explained my intentions with the piece and she understood and it was all ok, but as I closed the conversation I reminded her, “You know, mom, that was just a two-page story. I’m writing a whole book right now …”
“But the book’s not about me,” she said. Erm, have you heard many wedding stories that don’t include the mother of the bride?
This brings up some interesting issues for me … not just with my mother, but with untold numbers of people. Andreas refuses to read any of my book drafts, arguing that he doesn’t want to impede my creative process — even when I beg him for feedback, he declines. He may regret this decision.
I use friends and family members to comedic effect through-out my book. Are these people going to hate me? Am I going to simultaneously celebrate the release of my first book while grieving over the fact that my friends have disowned me and that my in-laws won’t invite me home for Christmas? For godsake, what will Uncle Howie say? (That will make more sense after you read the book.)
I’m caught between refusal to change my writing out of fear and, well, wanting to avoid making my mother cry.
Also, for those who are curious, you can read the piece I wrote for my mother by clicking below.
I’m celebrating the 10 year anniversary of my relationship with my favorite armchair. Exactly a decade ago I was dating an over-caffeinated stylish fellow who had the nicest furniture I’d ever seen. At my then-house (Tha Muthaship), our couch was a dilapidated hand-me-down that came from my high school boyfriend’s older brother’s college house. It was shredded from several cats, saturated with years’ worth of collegiate beer and bongwater, and hidden under a patchwork of Indian bed spreads and blankets.
The then-boyfriend’s furniture, however, was all his. Granted, it was a little faded across the tops, but he had a three-piece living room set (…a set! Something I still don’t own!) which included a deep couch, a deep armchair, and a matching ottoman. From my 20-year-old perspective, this was the height of classy.
One night, early-on in our ill-fated three month relationship, the then-boyfriend and I went out on a fancy date. I went for my version of sexy, which include a retro-feel cocktail dress and thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. When I was young, thigh-high stockings with a garter belt were my oh-so-subtle ways of announcing what I wanted. It was clumsy, but there’s no arguing with the results. We had a nice enough date, which ended with me still mostly dressed in the arm chair and my then-boyfriend, uh, kneeling in front of it.
That was when I first fell in love with the chair.
Things didn’t work out for the then-boyfriend and me. We hit that three-month compromise-or-die point, and I wasn’t into compromising. We still had a class together though, so we stayed in touch. I moved on quickly, going to a lot of raves and generally enjoying my single self.
But I missed the chair. There were a couple occasions when, after a night of chemically-enhanced all-night dancing, I would call my ex-boyfriend to see if I could come over and nap in the chair. You see, it was made for me. The width between the chair’s low arms is exactly the length of my spine. I could rest my head on one arm rest, using it as a pillow, and my butt perfectly tucked lengthwise against the other arm. With the ottoman, the chair was a napping destination.
Probably tired of both his faded furniture and his faded, cracked-out ex-girlfriend, my ex decided to upgrade to a new leather furniture set, and offered me his cast-offs.
That was when the chair moved in with me. No more nap outsourcing. The chair was my beloved roommate and we slept together often. It followed me from Seattle to San Francisco, where it proved able to accommodate three insomniac ravers simultaneously. It followed me back up to Seattle, then down to Olympia. It didn’t come to New York with me, but it did make the trek down to Los Angeles with Andreas and I in 2002.
Last night I sat in the chair for three hours and finished a book. I sat in it cross legged, then sideways, then with my head on an armrest and my legs resting up the wall. The chair is always accommodating. The chair has seen me through four cities, many books, that one dirty encounter, and lots of snuggling. It’s welcomed the butts of hundreds of friends over the years. The chair has been my constant.
Here’s to another 10 years, chair! I love you!
Tonight I got a phone call from an old friend in San Francisco who wanted to let me know that an old-time acquaintance of ours was on his death bed stricken with AIDS.
The news threw me back to exactly 8 years ago, a weekend in January 1997. The weekend of my housewarming in the Lower Haight was a particularly debaucherous one. The house filled with glamorous and skanky people, skateboards lining the long Victorian hall downstairs. One roommate asked me if I would tell my friends to move their boards, and I reported that only one friend had his skateboard there (my semi-boyfriend, John, visiting from Seattle). My roomies and I had a shared moment of realizing the house was full of people we didn’t know. Shortly afterward, someone started smoking crack in the kitchen.
All my raver friends were in attendance of course, including a guy named Rick who was a friend of a friend. He brought his turntables in a big fancy coffin (for the uninitiated, that’s what portable tables are stored in: a coffin), and was playing jungle in the living room.
Eventually we decided that we had to kick everyone out, and the easiest way to do that was to GO out, so I headed into the late night with my pack of motley ravers, headed to some party that had the word “heart” in the title. We were on raver time, though, and showed up at 6am just as the party was shutting down. No matter: to the after-party!
Rick rode in my tiny car with John and I, and before we got out he informed us that he had his tackle box of drugs with him and offered us some. John, who had a whole tackle box of his own back in Seattle, was impressed by Rick’s collection and generosity, and so we took Rick up on his offer before heading into the after-party.
At this point, two sheets to the wind would probably be a pleasant euphemism for the state I was in. I was like laundry out on the line, flapping around the dancefloor and talking to some nice girl I met about how she’d just moved to San Francisco (”ME TOO!” I squealed through my clenched jaw). We held hands and sat down leaning against a wall, and she told me about how she’d just started stripping (”Oh — I work at a law firm,” I apologized.)
I have pictures of that night. I have an inhuman glint in my eye, and was with a friend who was dressed up like a drag queen with plastic leaves in her hair and 3″ long fake green eyelashes. She sticks out in my memory as the only person I’ve ever known to own a tooter. The friend who called me tonight was also there. He was wearing a bright orange shirt, was carrying a teddybear, and had his libret piercing in. Now he works for NASA, doing research for the Space Station. He, like me, made it out with his faculties intact.
The morning wore on, and things only got bleaker. The only people left on a dancefloor at 11am on a Sunday are pretty much wrong in every sense of the word, and there I was: totally wrong with the rest of them.
I left around noon with John and Rick, and we went back to my house to retrieve Rick’s turntables. I was starting to crash pretty hard, hours of sleep dep and chemical abuse catching up with me, but out came the tackle box and then John and Rick and I were up for another round.
It was at this point that even in my dulled, confused, heading up and down simultaneously state I started to realize that these two tackle box boys were sparring over me. John and I were casual (he lived out of town, we both saw other people), but he was always looking out for me, and Rick picked up on it. The two of them were subtley testing each other and prodding one-another to see what the deal was and who got what piece of the sorry-ass cracked out 21 year old raver girl with inverted bob and the glazed over eyes. What a sorry prize.
The two tackle box boys compared tackle box contents. Who had the windowpane? Who had the glass? Who had the orange microdots and who had the darker dank? Who had the blue shoes and who had the liquid? The two tackle box boys compared musical tastes and petty crime records. They laughed at each other’s jokes in that hard way that people do when they’re trying to size each other up.
At some point, I snuck downstairs and called my best friend in Seattle sobbing. My head was caving in, the boys were sparring, I’m so tired, but my heart’s pounding really hard, but I haven’t slept since Friday and I’m supposed to go to work in 16 hours and god knows what else I said. For years my friend wouldn’t tell me, and then she finally admitted that I hadn’t really said anything: I was mostly just crying and rambling and she couldn’t really understand much of it.
I couldn’t have known it then, but maybe I was crying over the fact that in eight years, one of the tackle box boys would be dead from drug-induced heart failure, and the other would be dieing of AIDS somewhere after several stints in jail and years of IV drug use. Maybe I was crying over the fact that I knew that this lifestyle was only temporary for me, but some of us would never find our way back out. Maybe I was crying because I realized that I wouldn’t always be 21, and at a certain point time would catch up to me and my futuristic, synthetic-loving friends and we’d all be hitting 30 and suddenly the party girls who passed out on the toilet are in jail for breaking probation, and the younger brothers who always seemed so wacky and wild would be on major rehabilitative medication after long stints in treatment, and all those little bad habits, too, those would catch up with you: the bad eating, the bitchy attitudes, the fake tanning, the cigarettes, the running of red lights. The first decade of adulthood comes to a close and things get reckoned with and some of us just don’t make it. The tackle box boys didn’t make it.
I consider myself inordinately blessed and lucky that, of the three of us hovered over that tackle box on a Sunday in January 1997, I am the only one who made it out. I have moments of feeling like it was a close call, but I look back in my journal and I can see that even then I knew where the tackle box boys were headed. I didn’t know why I was crying, but maybe I had a tiny glimmer of awareness. And for that I am glad.
UPDATE: For those who would like some pictures to go with this story, here are a few photos taken that night, including several of my ex, JTB.
I must take it as more than coincidence that in the span of a day, I had two different people tell me that I’m intimidating.
My first reaction is to think, “Intimidating?! Me?” What’s intimidating about by a semi-soft, nearsighted copywriter? I sit on a computer all day, people! I have crooked teeth, too many beauty marks, wear size 12 jeans from Eddie Bauer, and pick my nose. I’m developing a second chin and spin my wheels on projects for months without moving forward. What about self-dep week? How could that possibly be intimidating?
This is my first reflex, then: to minimize myself. Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be intimidated. Let me tell you all the ways I hate myself. See? Now you feel better about yourself.
… But wait a minute! How fucked up is that? Why does making others feel bigger have to be reliant on making myself smaller? Then I want to puff myself up and crow, “Hell yeah you should be intimidated — I KICK ASS. But don’t you see that you do too?” Instead of trying to make myself worse so that everyone else can feel better, why can’t I encourage everyone else to feel as good as they seem to think I do? (Key issue: don’t be fooled by the bluster, folks: even cocky bastards doubt themselves and struggle down their hallways of demons.)
I’m reminded of a conversation I had last year with an old friend. She sent me a long, carefully thought-out email explaining, in part, “When I looked at you, I saw so many great and wondrous qualities. I wanted those qualities in myself and felt I did not posses them or didn’t have the tools to possess them naturally. For years I felt this way and unfortunately I allowed this to get in the way of growing with you as a friend. I felt only half present in our discussions. The other half being consumed by the negative energies of my jealousy and envy which cost me both my vitality and love I have for you as a friend.”
Goodness gracious. How does one respond to such an email! I took my time to think it through, and here’ was my reply: “We all have crucial lessons to learn from each other (I learned a lot from your email!), and when I feel like I’m being put in a position of undeserved superiority, my immediate reaction is to brush it off and plead with the person not to put me on a pedestal. Or rather, if you’re going to put me on a pedestal, do so from your own pedestal! Does that make sense? You’re allowed to admire me, as long as you’re admiring yourself and allowing me to do so, too.”
I guess my perspective on intimidation is that it’s a way we have of minimizing ourselves; a way each of us denies our own capacity for power. In a way, this relates to that old post I wrote, The Inspirers. I’m wary of being held up too high because I’m so keenly aware that often when I do that to people, it’s because I’m not seeing that the things I admire in them that exist (or could exist) inside me. All too often, in my past I’ve not realized that the god I’m seeing in the other person’s character is actually a recognition of my own inner strength and potential. As the most infamous of cocky bastards says, “I’m simply celebrating my journey. I’m not saying I’m any better than anybody else. On the contrary, I think EVERYONE has the capacity to be truly great. I strive for greatness and encourage everyone to live their epic myth.” Amen, Reverend Hal.
I’ve met people who think they’re intimidating; some folks seem to cultivate it as an identity. But it’s like Dancer in the Dark or The Wizard of Oz: once you can see the levers being pulled, the emotional tricks stop working. That guy who spoke in rapid-fire mile-a-minute marketing jargon? He had no fucking clue what the hell he was saying. That client at The Paper who blustered into every meeting and interrupted your proposals with demands? She knew that if you thought she was pushy, you wouldn’t question her creative briefs. Once you can hear the clicking and whirring, these intimidators start looking like everyone else.
So now I want to talk about people who are intimidating. I’ll go first. I am intimidated by baristas. Especially at the coffee shop right around the corner from my house. They refuse to make eye contact with me, preferring instead to gossip with each other and glance at me only when ringing up my beverage. I am on the outside looking in, a lone tea drinker in a sea of hipper-than-thou coffee fiends. I always tip too much and leave feeling mildly humiliated. It’s pointless, but it’s true.
Having just finished my first year of college, the summer of 1994 found me looking to take a step up in my career. I’d spent a few months toddler-wrastling for a daycare, but really wanted to ascend to the world of retail … the cash register and lack of juice breaks made it seemed more glamorous, and I could make $6.25 an hour instead of $5.75.
I found a job at The Disney Store in downtown Seattle’s then-newish Westlake Mall. I thought the job would be so much fun…I was still a big Little Mermaid fan, and I figured that my experience with children at the daycare would translate perfectly into children’s retail.
My disillusionment began quickly. I had to sit through “orientation” which included two sessions watching lengthy bullshit corporate videos about synergy and the Customer Service Cycle. I was introduced to the tenets of the retail industry, the fantastically swishy sounding theory of FAB — Features And Benefits. The t-shirt is COTTON [feature] which makes it SOFT and ABSORBENT! [benefit] This stuffed Sebastian lobster doll is SAFE FOR BABIES [benefit] because it’s made from NON-TOXIC NON-ABSORBENT ACETATE! [feature]
If the orientation made me wary, I was soon overwhelmed by the level of control the company exacted over me. I learned never to ask a customer a question to which they could answer “No.” The question was not, “Can I help you?” but rather, “What can I help you find today?” I suppose the theory was that “Nothing” has two syllables, and that puts you at a better syllable-to-statement ratio with the customer. I’m confident many years of research have been conducted on this issue, and that it’s always better if you can get a duo-syllabic rejection.
I learned how to semantically assimilate with the Disney Corporation. I was a “Cast Member,” not an employee. It was the “Stage,” not the store floor. It was “Backstage,” not the storage room. As they are in many places now, customers were “Guests.” I learned how to wear my socks appropriately (folded down neatly over the ankles, bobby-sock style) and which color of nylons to wear under my uniform of grey shorts and faux letterman’s sweater.
Once, my chipper manager sent me Backstage to Windex my sneakers. “Gal,” she chirped “they’re looking a little dingey. You need to go clean those up Backstage!”
I learned never to hold my hands behind my back (”Looks shifty,” smiled the manager). I learned that since my hair was longer than shoulder length, I needed to put it back in either a ponytail or a bun, and that my hair restraining tool could only be black, brown, or gold and no more than ΒΌ” thick. Disney is not a scrunchy-friendly work place. No domestic partner benefits for those who wear scrunchies! Also: no hoop earrings. Gold, silver or diamond studs only. And no eye shadow. Only mascara in natural colors. Afros were to be tightly packed, I learned from the Employee Manual, and no more than 1″ long. No picks allowed. I am not making this up.
It started to get to me. My only joy was working near my favorite gay coworker, our arms clasped in front of us to avoid looking shifty. We would stack and restack Plushie Mountain — the pile of stuffed animals that lives against the back wall of every Disney Store worldwide — patrolling to ensure that all the animals met the “no backs, butts, or bellies” rule and were all facing upwards, expectant plastic eyes glistening with pixie dust.
My gay coworker and I would make up dirty renditions of the Disney tunes that cycle on permanent repeat over the store’s loud speakers. Clearly we had too much fun. We were separated within a few shifts of establishing our blossoming fag/hag relationship, and I was put on permanent Greeter rotation.
We all know the corporate retail Greeter — that person who is forced to put the “Ass” in “Sales Associate”; the unlucky sod stationed at the front of the store verbally assaulting every last person who walks through the mall entryway. But the Greeter can’t look like they’re just Greeting. No. Even Mickey Mouse acknowledges that such behavior might seem irritating or creepy. A Greeter’s true skill is looking remarkably busy, embodying that air of surprised genuine glee when someone walks through the door — Why, I didn’t see you there! Hello! Welcome to The Disney Store! What can I help you find today?
The busywork that I did most often when working my Greeter shift was folding. When working farther back on the Stage, I’d learned to use the folding square, a piece of plastic that ensured shirts were all neatly folded into rectangles of exactly the same size so that the stack would all show a screen-printed Tigger in the exact uniform place. The folding square was fine, but when you’re Greeting, you need to be more hands-on. There can’t be too many props between you and the customer. So I learned to fold shirts against my chest.
Over and over again, I’d fold the same shirt, glancing up with eyebrows raised in mock joy to smile, “Welcome to the Disney Store! What can I help you with today? Oh, don’t worry about interrupting me, I’d love to help you find that collectible Briar Rabbit porcelain figure!” I’d set the shirt down, and return to it a few minutes later to refold it and Greet the next Guest.
It became second nature — hold the shirt against my chest. Fold it laterally on one side, tucking the sleeve. Fold it laterally on the other side, tucking the sleeve. Then hold one hand and let gravity help you crease it in thirds — Why hello! Welcome to the Disney Store! What’s your favorite Lion King song? Wow, I like Hakuna Matata too!
Quickly, I learned to hate my job at The Disney Store. Too controlled! Too forced! The half-hour commute from the U-District to Westlake was stupid! My last hurrah (and dangerous act of rebellion) was stealing a Tinkerbell figurine that had been recalled due to a dangerously-pointy plastic wing. I entertained fantasies of poking a two-year-old’s eye with it and suing the company to make millions. Then I quit without giving notice.
But some things stayed with me. In 1995 I wrote an essay applying Erving Goffman’s theory of Total Institution to the Disney Store. There were some holes in my thesis, but I argued it well and got a 3.7 on the paper.
Last night, as Andreas and I folded laundry, he made me realize that the fucking Disney Fold has been permanently ingrained into my repertoire of laundry techniques. It makes sense — I worked there when I was just getting established as an adult living on my own, and the shirt folding technique was a good one. Dre struggled as he tried to learn it, and I laughed and laughed when I realized that here I am, 10 years later, still acting the role of Cast Member.
And now I’m here to share the magic with you! Below, please find the seven magical steps of The Disney Fold demonstrated by your favorite retired Greeter. This may be top secret stuff people — I could get sued! Then again, I could learn that this is how everyone folds their shirts, and my story could be ruined. Added bonus: you can see the jeans I was rambling about last week.
LAUNCH THE DISNEY FOLD GALLERY
(Instructions appear beneath each picture)
- 20 Comments
- Tags: disney, fashion, housekeeping
Hey there. I'm Ariel Meadow Stallings, a native Seattleite who's written my way up and down the Left Coast. Electrolicious is where I post daily randomata, but I also write for a living. My first book, Offbeat Bride, was published last year.
You're reading a page from the archives. Check the homepage for current content.
