Daily affirmations of a word mercenary
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?
This saga has been cracking me up all day, and I simply must share. It all started with an email I received this morning:
Wait — have I never defined babycrack? I suppose I should do that. Babycrack is my way of explaining what it feels like to be a young breeder.
Readers who have had experiences with addictive behavior will understand that there are times when the little voice in your head (that voice you normally trust, the voice that reminds you to pee, eat, or sneeze) suggests that you do another line of coke, have another half-rack of beer, play another game of Craps or The Sims, or take another toke off that crackpipe.
Your conscious brain sits there and says, “Oh no: that’s not what I need right now. Not at all,” but the hungry little ghost inside says “Oh yes it is! Just one more line/sip/etc! Bet the farm: it doesn’t matter…just hurry up! Grab the mirror and the razor blade! Pick up the glass tube pipe! For godsake — the time is now!”
That, my dear friends, is what being a breeder girl in her late 20s feels like. You can know fully well that now is not the time to have a baby. Conscious brain says things like, “Gosh, I barely made rent and am totally emotionally unstable right now — probably not a good time to be thinking about reproduction,” but Babycrack brain says, “BUT LOOKIT LITTLE WIDDUM’S CUTIE WIDDLE BOTTOM!”
That, my friends is babycrack. And if a picture is worth a thousand words, here is a short visual essay on the subject. That’s me doing a big fat fucking line of quality-grade baby!
I spend a lot of time at home. Perhaps this is a slight misstatement, as it seems that a week will go by and I’ve left the house only to 1) go grocery shopping 2) attend dance class 3) there is no third time.
Perhaps I should worry that I’m becoming agoraphobic? That I’m going to be the scary woman in the crusted bathrobe who has the painfully distorted worldview — everything fish bowled like the front door peep-hole? That I’ll be that “she seemed like a nice person” who’s neighbors only know something is wrong when the a strange smells start coming from the apartment? The hermit who’s door will be broken down by policemen, only find me in a state of serious decomposition on the carpet, my darling pet rats sadly nibbling me as my body liquifies and dribbles through the floor, staining the stucco ceiling of my neighbor below?
Perhaps it should concern me that, despite living a few blocks from the beach, I like to hide inside, my heinous vertical blinds drawn against the sunlight, protecting me from the gazes of people eternally working on the exterior of my apartment building? Should it freak me out that I count going to fetch the mail as a “big day out”? Should my boyfriend be concerned that my first question when he gets home at night is, “What’s out like … out there,” a little quaver in my voice, a scared glance at the door, and my bible clutched with little varicosed hands? (Ok, now I’m exaggerating. I’ll reign it in.)
I’m not worried or concerned. It’s just that, despite the fact that I now live in Los Angeles, The Place Where Seasons Happen To Other People, I really am a Seattleite, and any sane Seattleite will tell you that once November rolls around, you stay inside. You’ve collected your nuts and berries all summer and fall, and now it’s time to hibernate with your carbohydrates, books, and significant other/vibrator.
Never mind the fact that it’s sunny and 60° F outside. In the land of Ariel, we’re going to pretend we can hear the reassuring fingertips of rain tapping on the roof. Never mind that there’s an apartment between the roof and me. Just let’s pretend that it’s misty and gray and cold and mildewy. That long sweaters and thick socks are required. That you can smell the leaves becoming soil outside. That you need to drink hot spiced cider or sangria to stay warm.
Saga of the Honda
30
Aug
2002
In: Favorite Posts
8:30am: I take the Honda with 360,000 miles on it to the mechanic. I say, “It’s a junker, and I know it’s not going to last long, but I just want to make sure it’s ok to get me to LA.”
3:00pm: The mechanic calls me. She tells me all the things that are wrong with the car, including only 5-10% of the front breaks left, and a serious front axle issue. I say, “Hmm, well, thanks. I’ll probably drive it anyway.” She says, “Um, I would highly recommend you rent a car.” I think, “Hmm, maybe she’s right.”
4:00pm: I price out rental cars. It would cost me $400 to get a car that I can drive one way to LA, and it would be a car, not a van or station wagon (they only go roundtrip), meaning I couldn’t fit much of anything in it anyway. Oh, and the trucks are all rented, since this is a big moving weekend. I wonder if maybe the mechanic’s suggestion wasn’t so good.
5:00pm: After looking at all the over-priced options, I decide that fuggit, I’m just going to risk the car breaking down and drive it. I’ll be caravaning with Andreas, and worst case scenario is that the Honda poops out, and I ride down to LA with him, then drive the truck back to where the Honda crapped out and switch over the contents, and tow the Honda to a wrecking yard. A gamble, sure, but not the end of the world.
5:30pm: I pick up the car. The mechanic I talked to is busy with another customer, and I’m helped by a different mechanic. He grimaces and says “Uh, good luck?” as he hands me the receipt.
5:32pm: I walk out to the Honda and start it up. As I release the emergency brake, my original mechanic comes running out. “I need to talk to you about this car,” she says. “Look, I know you’re not going to get it fixed, and I think that’s smart. It’s too old to be worth investing $1500 into. But please — please — don’t drive this to Los Angeles.” She explains what’s wrong with the car, and how it’s not that it would stop running or poop out on me, but that I would lose steering control…and then my breaks would go out. She says, “This isn’t a motor issue, this is a breaks and steering issue. This is very very serious. This car is fine for low speed surface street driving, but I’m begging you not to drive it on the freeway. And especially not all the way to LA. Please.”
I almost start crying because this woman is so genuinely worried and sincere in her concern. She was pleading with me just not to drive the car, for my sake, not for her income’s sake.
5:40pm: I drive home. What to do? We have too much stuff to just fit in the truck. I decide, on a whim, to call UHaul to see if they have a trailer we can hook to the back of the truck. I know they won’t have trucks to rent, but maybe just a trailer. It’ll mean only having one car in LA, but better that than losing control of a car going 70 on a freeway. The UHaul guy says yeah sure he has trailers available — in fact, he’s got 10. “Will I need to pay extra for a trailer hitch?” I ask, remembering what Jane had once said. “Not with the size you want,” he says, and informs me that the total cost will be $145. Wow! Great.
5:45pm: But what to do about the Honda? All the charities I could donate it to are closed for the holiday weekend, and I don’t have time to deal with taking it to a junkyard. And what about the nice stereo it has? It’s worth almost $200. I call Ben & Kara, my favorite radical activist family (they have a set of gas masks, including a couple for 2-year-old Ari), and offer it to them, saying maybe they can have the nice stereo in exchange for dealing with taking the car to charity. Kara explains that Ben loves fixer-uppers and actually they’ve been needing a second car for trips to the grocery store, and that they and would love to fiddle with the Honda. I make her promise that they’ll never take it on the freeway. She agrees. And, in exchange for my giving it to them, Kara volunteers that Ben could take my stereo out of the Honda so that we can get it installed into the truck.
WHEW.
They don’t call me Director of Logistics for nuthin, muthafucka.
[Postscript]
9:00pm: After having dinner at The Canterbury, Andreas and I walk passed the auto repair place just as my mechanic is locking up and walking out to her truck. “Hey!” I yell, running over. “I just wanted to let you know that I figured out a way to get to LA without the car! I’m renting a trailer to hook up to the truck, and giving the car to some friends who like fixer uppers. I told them not to take it on the freeway, and said that I could even tell them all about what’s wrong with it. I told them, ‘I just spent $70 today so that you can know exactly what’s broken.’ I just wanted to say thanks! I mean, you might have saved my life!”
“That’s what you spent the 70 bucks for,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “70 bucks for my life. I think that’s a pretty good deal.”
“Definitely,” she smiled.
There were not a whole lot of rules in my house when I was growing up, but the few that existed were strictly enforced. Clear your place after dinner was one. No more than an hour and a half of television was another. But the most strictly enforced was “No Barbies,” and its accompanying rule, no scales in the house.
The two were closely intertwined: my feminist mother didn’t want me to have either because she didn’t want me to get a warped body image. Barbie represented an unrealistic woman with inhuman proportions; triple-D breasts, 18 inch waist, and smooth hairless pubic area are not what most little girls will grow up to be, so I wasn’t allowed to play with one. I was allowed to have a Barbie head” one of those “beauty stations” where you could style her hair and paint on blue eye shadow. Apparently, mom wasn’t worried about me feeling ugly…just fat.
You can keep the little girl away from the Barbies, but you can’t get rid of her desire to brush hair and play dress-up with toys, so I had My Little Ponies instead. My Little Ponies have distinctly stumpy little bodies, with full rumps and pretty eyes, a perfect role model for someone with my bodytype.
I did, on occasion, play with friend’s Barbies, although even that was problematic — in kindergarten I got into a knock-down drag-out brawl with a playmate who insisted that those torpedoes on Barbie’s chest were called “boobies.” I’d never heard of such a thing, and corrected her by saying “No, those are Barbie’s breasts.” (Remember that in 1980 my mother was a registered nurse and midwife-in-training. She taught me the anatomical words.) Imagine my horror when, later that night, my mother explained that people have lots of silly terms for their body parts, and “boobies” was just one of many.
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- Tags: body image, feminism, weight loss
Ariel [in kitchen]: You ready for tea, love?
Dre [in bed]: Mrph.
Ariel: Ok. [Opens tea tin. Gasps.] There’s no tea!
Dre: Mrph.
Ariel: What’re we gonna do?!
Dre: Um.
Ariel: Remember when we were at the store last week? And I tried to get tea? And you said we didn’t need any!?
Dre: Mrph.
Ariel: …I hate you right now.
I may not be a coffee addict but don’t ever, but never get between me and my black tea in the morning. This green tea shit just doesn’t cut it.
It’s that time again. Every November I pause and wonder why an ex-boyfriend of mine persistently pops into my head. Then I remember that he died November 27th, 1998. Then I remember that every November his ghost drifts around to hang out on my shoulder, whispering memories in my ear: …remember how i was the vegetarian who hated vegetables? … remember the shirt i was wearing night we met? … remember that tattoo i gave you? …remember how i told you not to trust that roommate who ended up being bad news? …. remember the coal chute I slept in? ….remember the feeling? … remember the bleeding? …kid, do you remember? …
I remember a conversation we had over and over:
“I’m tired,” I’d complain around 5am during some raucous debaucherous night/morning. He would look at me.
“You ARE tired,” he would tease, using the word as an acrid insult.
I remember my anger when he died:
All my friends tip-toeing around me, reassuring me that they’d be there when the sadness hit. It never really did. I wrote a short anonymous essay for The Stranger and that pretty much summed up my feelings. Still does, really, although the anger has faded and, as I reach the age he was when he died, the pity begins.
As I write this, I received an email from a friend who was dated him when I did (long story). She reminds me that he would be 30 this year. He’s frozen at 27 for me, although his children continue to age. How old are they now? 10 and 7? They live with their mother. I heard they moved back to Florida. I wonder how well they will remember their father?
Today as Andreas and I walked to get some coffee, we walked behind a hospital where John once tried to teach me how to skateboard. It was a thankless task, trying to teach a 22 year old klutz to skate, but John gave it a try and we had fun as I went around in circles, trying not to fall over.
As Dre and I walked past the spot, I could see John trying to show off an “acid drop” on his board, and twisting his ankle pretty badly as he landed. I could see him realize that he was aging. He stood on the skateboard with one foot and held on to my shoulder as I walked back to the apartment, pulling him behind me. Pulling him behind me.
I was a graduation speaker for Bainbridge High School’s class of 1993. It was easy to be a graduation speaker: there were auditions, and only four of us showed up: Jake Haley (then the ASB president and now an algebra teacher and coach at BHS), myself (then an overly effusive thespian, now an overly effusive writer), and two other students who couldn’t talk above a whisper. It was clear who would be doing the talking come June 5th. And now, because I know you’re all TERRIBLY INTERESTED (please, humor me here: this is totally for my own entertainment), here’s an excerpt from my speech:
The Road To Perfection: How We Became Seniors
As high school seniors we have acquired a very…unique way of looking at life. We are perfect, and that is all. [insert sounds as parents chuckle knowingly] Now, without debating the actual validity of that perception [Don't you love these words? I was working so hard to sound so smart.], we need to remember and thank those who helped us reach this heightened plane of existence that we call seniordom.
Beginning with the obvious, we owe thanks to our families. As our parents love to remind us [leans back from microphone and shouts out to entire gym] “I changed your diapers for years!!” And as much as we’d like to deny it, we weren’t always as perfect as we are now, and once upon a time we did wear diapers, and our parents did in fact change them. From our families we have learned invaluable lessons about morals, love, trust, and how to change the kitty litter and wash the dishes. [insert polite laughter at stupid joke]
Thanks are also owed to the administrators of our schools. When we were young and innocent, the principle of a school didn’t play much of a role directly in our lives. The office was mainly a place to call home from and to visit the nurse. But as we have aged and become [pause] increasing perfect, the administration has become more and more a part of our lives. What’s a perfect senior to do when we just CAN’T go to a class? Well, inevitably the result is getting called down to the office. But administrators do more than discipline. Without them, we would simply have. no. school. So thank you Dave, Neil, Dean, Georgia, and the rest of the gang down at the office. [Insert gasping, as the entire gym realizes I've just called Mr. Ellick 'n' crew by their first names. The BLASPHEMY!]
We also need to be thankful for the simple things. Such as that we’re graduating the same year as the gang on “Beverly Hills, 90210.” No other class gets that honor. We need to be thankful for the fact that this year financial aid forms got just a little more complicated [insert groans].
We need to be thankful also to each other. Some of us have been classmates for 12 years. Others of us for only a few months. Regardless of how long we’ve been here, the class of 1993 is an intricate net of friendships and support groups [er, did I know what support group implied?]. I feel confident when I say that without the love and care that we’ve received from our friends, none of us would have survived. How would any of us made it without someone to call at 2:30 in the morning and beg a ride from? How could we have gotten through school without someone to proof-read our papers or to remind us that a certain assignment was due in 10 minutes? Or maybe on the RARE occasion, loan us a math assignment of two. [Nervous laughter from math teachers.] None of us would be here without each other’s help.
But we can’t give all the credit to others. I’m forgetting–WE’RE PERFECT! [Insert hoots and hollars from classmates.] We owe thanks to ourselves! No amount of encouragement of support or pushing from anyone else could get us to where we are today. We owe ourselves a huge pat on the back. We did it. Class of 1993, we made it. Now let’s go out and show the world just how perfect we really are.
Today I had the opportunity to accompany Andreas up to Vancouver, BC. He’s DJing at a club up there tonight, and unfortunately I’m a bad DJ girlfriend and am not going to dance right in front of the turntables and talk to strangers about how great he is (groan–I’ve never ever been that kind of girlfriend in the four years that I’ve been dating this DJ). We had planned to go plant the seeds of our future defection to Canada (shh–don’t tell), but I realized that I simply couldn’t deal with going up and partying when I’m a bit of an emo basketcase and all I feel like doing is sitting on my roof and appreciating the skyline.
I also couldn’t deal with the prospect of going into a social situation when I’m sort of dented. There’s nothing worse than being with a bunch of people, some you know well, some you don’t really know at all, and trying to maintain an air of light-hearted wahoo-ness. I just wasn’t up the challenge of keeping a good face about it all. Some of this has to do with this last week, and some of it has to do with other issues I’m working through right now (issues that, as much as I love my blog, simply aren’t appropriate for world wide web consumption).
Monday night, I had what under any other circumstances would have been a very difficult, emotional two hour long phone conversation. Naturally, by Tuesday morning my emotional issues were put aside for national level horror and grief. Who cares about my stupid emo bullshit when there’s people dieing? But last night I was reminded that the issues are still there, only now they’re tangled up with other overwhelming feelings. Once again, no matter where you go, there you are. Insecurities, fears, instabilities, and unsuredness in tow. And, quite honestly, I had no desire to go up to Vancouver BC and parade around some club with my own instability on my sleeve. Call me prideful, but some of us would rather stay home than force others to deal with our emotional incompetance.
So, I sat on the roof and appreciated the skyline, and then went sailing with my friend T. We drank wine, waved to bobbing sea lions, and enjoyed an amazing sunset.
stephen_hecht: I myself am possibly going to go out tonight.
arielmeadow: Really!
stephen_hecht: Some club. Some old tetch-know shite.
stephen_hecht: One unfortunate detail: this place is 18+, with no bar.
stephen_hecht: I sort of wonder what the drug of choice is among the 18+ tetchknow club crowd these days.
arielmeadow: Same as it ever was.
arielmeadow: Same as it ever was.
stephen_hecht: And the days go by.
stephen_hecht: And you may say to yourself: “This is not my Elmo backpack!”
stephen_hecht: And you may say to yourself: “This is not MDMA!”
stephen_hecht: And you may ask yourself: “Why did I come here?”
This saga has been cracking me up all day, and I simply must share. It all started with an email I received this morning:
Wait — have I never defined babycrack? I suppose I should do that. Babycrack is my way of explaining what it feels like to be a young breeder.
Readers who have had experiences with addictive behavior will understand that there are times when the little voice in your head (that voice you normally trust, the voice that reminds you to pee, eat, or sneeze) suggests that you do another line of coke, have another half-rack of beer, play another game of Craps or The Sims, or take another toke off that crackpipe.
Your conscious brain sits there and says, “Oh no: that’s not what I need right now. Not at all,” but the hungry little ghost inside says “Oh yes it is! Just one more line/sip/etc! Bet the farm: it doesn’t matter…just hurry up! Grab the mirror and the razor blade! Pick up the glass tube pipe! For godsake — the time is now!”
That, my dear friends, is what being a breeder girl in her late 20s feels like. You can know fully well that now is not the time to have a baby. Conscious brain says things like, “Gosh, I barely made rent and am totally emotionally unstable right now — probably not a good time to be thinking about reproduction,” but Babycrack brain says, “BUT LOOKIT LITTLE WIDDUM’S CUTIE WIDDLE BOTTOM!”
That, my friends is babycrack. And if a picture is worth a thousand words, here is a short visual essay on the subject. That’s me doing a big fat fucking line of quality-grade baby!
I spend a lot of time at home. Perhaps this is a slight misstatement, as it seems that a week will go by and I’ve left the house only to 1) go grocery shopping 2) attend dance class 3) there is no third time.
Perhaps I should worry that I’m becoming agoraphobic? That I’m going to be the scary woman in the crusted bathrobe who has the painfully distorted worldview — everything fish bowled like the front door peep-hole? That I’ll be that “she seemed like a nice person” who’s neighbors only know something is wrong when the a strange smells start coming from the apartment? The hermit who’s door will be broken down by policemen, only find me in a state of serious decomposition on the carpet, my darling pet rats sadly nibbling me as my body liquifies and dribbles through the floor, staining the stucco ceiling of my neighbor below?
Perhaps it should concern me that, despite living a few blocks from the beach, I like to hide inside, my heinous vertical blinds drawn against the sunlight, protecting me from the gazes of people eternally working on the exterior of my apartment building? Should it freak me out that I count going to fetch the mail as a “big day out”? Should my boyfriend be concerned that my first question when he gets home at night is, “What’s out like … out there,” a little quaver in my voice, a scared glance at the door, and my bible clutched with little varicosed hands? (Ok, now I’m exaggerating. I’ll reign it in.)
I’m not worried or concerned. It’s just that, despite the fact that I now live in Los Angeles, The Place Where Seasons Happen To Other People, I really am a Seattleite, and any sane Seattleite will tell you that once November rolls around, you stay inside. You’ve collected your nuts and berries all summer and fall, and now it’s time to hibernate with your carbohydrates, books, and significant other/vibrator.
Never mind the fact that it’s sunny and 60° F outside. In the land of Ariel, we’re going to pretend we can hear the reassuring fingertips of rain tapping on the roof. Never mind that there’s an apartment between the roof and me. Just let’s pretend that it’s misty and gray and cold and mildewy. That long sweaters and thick socks are required. That you can smell the leaves becoming soil outside. That you need to drink hot spiced cider or sangria to stay warm.
Saga of the Honda
30 Aug 2002 In: Favorite Posts8:30am: I take the Honda with 360,000 miles on it to the mechanic. I say, “It’s a junker, and I know it’s not going to last long, but I just want to make sure it’s ok to get me to LA.”
3:00pm: The mechanic calls me. She tells me all the things that are wrong with the car, including only 5-10% of the front breaks left, and a serious front axle issue. I say, “Hmm, well, thanks. I’ll probably drive it anyway.” She says, “Um, I would highly recommend you rent a car.” I think, “Hmm, maybe she’s right.”
4:00pm: I price out rental cars. It would cost me $400 to get a car that I can drive one way to LA, and it would be a car, not a van or station wagon (they only go roundtrip), meaning I couldn’t fit much of anything in it anyway. Oh, and the trucks are all rented, since this is a big moving weekend. I wonder if maybe the mechanic’s suggestion wasn’t so good.
5:00pm: After looking at all the over-priced options, I decide that fuggit, I’m just going to risk the car breaking down and drive it. I’ll be caravaning with Andreas, and worst case scenario is that the Honda poops out, and I ride down to LA with him, then drive the truck back to where the Honda crapped out and switch over the contents, and tow the Honda to a wrecking yard. A gamble, sure, but not the end of the world.
5:30pm: I pick up the car. The mechanic I talked to is busy with another customer, and I’m helped by a different mechanic. He grimaces and says “Uh, good luck?” as he hands me the receipt.
5:32pm: I walk out to the Honda and start it up. As I release the emergency brake, my original mechanic comes running out. “I need to talk to you about this car,” she says. “Look, I know you’re not going to get it fixed, and I think that’s smart. It’s too old to be worth investing $1500 into. But please — please — don’t drive this to Los Angeles.” She explains what’s wrong with the car, and how it’s not that it would stop running or poop out on me, but that I would lose steering control…and then my breaks would go out. She says, “This isn’t a motor issue, this is a breaks and steering issue. This is very very serious. This car is fine for low speed surface street driving, but I’m begging you not to drive it on the freeway. And especially not all the way to LA. Please.”
I almost start crying because this woman is so genuinely worried and sincere in her concern. She was pleading with me just not to drive the car, for my sake, not for her income’s sake.
5:40pm: I drive home. What to do? We have too much stuff to just fit in the truck. I decide, on a whim, to call UHaul to see if they have a trailer we can hook to the back of the truck. I know they won’t have trucks to rent, but maybe just a trailer. It’ll mean only having one car in LA, but better that than losing control of a car going 70 on a freeway. The UHaul guy says yeah sure he has trailers available — in fact, he’s got 10. “Will I need to pay extra for a trailer hitch?” I ask, remembering what Jane had once said. “Not with the size you want,” he says, and informs me that the total cost will be $145. Wow! Great.
5:45pm: But what to do about the Honda? All the charities I could donate it to are closed for the holiday weekend, and I don’t have time to deal with taking it to a junkyard. And what about the nice stereo it has? It’s worth almost $200. I call Ben & Kara, my favorite radical activist family (they have a set of gas masks, including a couple for 2-year-old Ari), and offer it to them, saying maybe they can have the nice stereo in exchange for dealing with taking the car to charity. Kara explains that Ben loves fixer-uppers and actually they’ve been needing a second car for trips to the grocery store, and that they and would love to fiddle with the Honda. I make her promise that they’ll never take it on the freeway. She agrees. And, in exchange for my giving it to them, Kara volunteers that Ben could take my stereo out of the Honda so that we can get it installed into the truck.
WHEW.
They don’t call me Director of Logistics for nuthin, muthafucka.
[Postscript]
9:00pm: After having dinner at The Canterbury, Andreas and I walk passed the auto repair place just as my mechanic is locking up and walking out to her truck. “Hey!” I yell, running over. “I just wanted to let you know that I figured out a way to get to LA without the car! I’m renting a trailer to hook up to the truck, and giving the car to some friends who like fixer uppers. I told them not to take it on the freeway, and said that I could even tell them all about what’s wrong with it. I told them, ‘I just spent $70 today so that you can know exactly what’s broken.’ I just wanted to say thanks! I mean, you might have saved my life!”
“That’s what you spent the 70 bucks for,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “70 bucks for my life. I think that’s a pretty good deal.”
“Definitely,” she smiled.
There were not a whole lot of rules in my house when I was growing up, but the few that existed were strictly enforced. Clear your place after dinner was one. No more than an hour and a half of television was another. But the most strictly enforced was “No Barbies,” and its accompanying rule, no scales in the house.
The two were closely intertwined: my feminist mother didn’t want me to have either because she didn’t want me to get a warped body image. Barbie represented an unrealistic woman with inhuman proportions; triple-D breasts, 18 inch waist, and smooth hairless pubic area are not what most little girls will grow up to be, so I wasn’t allowed to play with one. I was allowed to have a Barbie head” one of those “beauty stations” where you could style her hair and paint on blue eye shadow. Apparently, mom wasn’t worried about me feeling ugly…just fat.
You can keep the little girl away from the Barbies, but you can’t get rid of her desire to brush hair and play dress-up with toys, so I had My Little Ponies instead. My Little Ponies have distinctly stumpy little bodies, with full rumps and pretty eyes, a perfect role model for someone with my bodytype.
I did, on occasion, play with friend’s Barbies, although even that was problematic — in kindergarten I got into a knock-down drag-out brawl with a playmate who insisted that those torpedoes on Barbie’s chest were called “boobies.” I’d never heard of such a thing, and corrected her by saying “No, those are Barbie’s breasts.” (Remember that in 1980 my mother was a registered nurse and midwife-in-training. She taught me the anatomical words.) Imagine my horror when, later that night, my mother explained that people have lots of silly terms for their body parts, and “boobies” was just one of many.
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- Tags: body image, feminism, weight loss
Ariel [in kitchen]: You ready for tea, love?
Dre [in bed]: Mrph.
Ariel: Ok. [Opens tea tin. Gasps.] There’s no tea!
Dre: Mrph.
Ariel: What’re we gonna do?!
Dre: Um.
Ariel: Remember when we were at the store last week? And I tried to get tea? And you said we didn’t need any!?
Dre: Mrph.
Ariel: …I hate you right now.
I may not be a coffee addict but don’t ever, but never get between me and my black tea in the morning. This green tea shit just doesn’t cut it.
It’s that time again. Every November I pause and wonder why an ex-boyfriend of mine persistently pops into my head. Then I remember that he died November 27th, 1998. Then I remember that every November his ghost drifts around to hang out on my shoulder, whispering memories in my ear: …remember how i was the vegetarian who hated vegetables? … remember the shirt i was wearing night we met? … remember that tattoo i gave you? …remember how i told you not to trust that roommate who ended up being bad news? …. remember the coal chute I slept in? ….remember the feeling? … remember the bleeding? …kid, do you remember? …
I remember a conversation we had over and over:
“I’m tired,” I’d complain around 5am during some raucous debaucherous night/morning. He would look at me.
“You ARE tired,” he would tease, using the word as an acrid insult.
I remember my anger when he died:
All my friends tip-toeing around me, reassuring me that they’d be there when the sadness hit. It never really did. I wrote a short anonymous essay for The Stranger and that pretty much summed up my feelings. Still does, really, although the anger has faded and, as I reach the age he was when he died, the pity begins.
As I write this, I received an email from a friend who was dated him when I did (long story). She reminds me that he would be 30 this year. He’s frozen at 27 for me, although his children continue to age. How old are they now? 10 and 7? They live with their mother. I heard they moved back to Florida. I wonder how well they will remember their father?
Today as Andreas and I walked to get some coffee, we walked behind a hospital where John once tried to teach me how to skateboard. It was a thankless task, trying to teach a 22 year old klutz to skate, but John gave it a try and we had fun as I went around in circles, trying not to fall over.
As Dre and I walked past the spot, I could see John trying to show off an “acid drop” on his board, and twisting his ankle pretty badly as he landed. I could see him realize that he was aging. He stood on the skateboard with one foot and held on to my shoulder as I walked back to the apartment, pulling him behind me. Pulling him behind me.
I was a graduation speaker for Bainbridge High School’s class of 1993. It was easy to be a graduation speaker: there were auditions, and only four of us showed up: Jake Haley (then the ASB president and now an algebra teacher and coach at BHS), myself (then an overly effusive thespian, now an overly effusive writer), and two other students who couldn’t talk above a whisper. It was clear who would be doing the talking come June 5th. And now, because I know you’re all TERRIBLY INTERESTED (please, humor me here: this is totally for my own entertainment), here’s an excerpt from my speech:
The Road To Perfection: How We Became Seniors
As high school seniors we have acquired a very…unique way of looking at life. We are perfect, and that is all. [insert sounds as parents chuckle knowingly] Now, without debating the actual validity of that perception [Don't you love these words? I was working so hard to sound so smart.], we need to remember and thank those who helped us reach this heightened plane of existence that we call seniordom.
Beginning with the obvious, we owe thanks to our families. As our parents love to remind us [leans back from microphone and shouts out to entire gym] “I changed your diapers for years!!” And as much as we’d like to deny it, we weren’t always as perfect as we are now, and once upon a time we did wear diapers, and our parents did in fact change them. From our families we have learned invaluable lessons about morals, love, trust, and how to change the kitty litter and wash the dishes. [insert polite laughter at stupid joke]
Thanks are also owed to the administrators of our schools. When we were young and innocent, the principle of a school didn’t play much of a role directly in our lives. The office was mainly a place to call home from and to visit the nurse. But as we have aged and become [pause] increasing perfect, the administration has become more and more a part of our lives. What’s a perfect senior to do when we just CAN’T go to a class? Well, inevitably the result is getting called down to the office. But administrators do more than discipline. Without them, we would simply have. no. school. So thank you Dave, Neil, Dean, Georgia, and the rest of the gang down at the office. [Insert gasping, as the entire gym realizes I've just called Mr. Ellick 'n' crew by their first names. The BLASPHEMY!]
We also need to be thankful for the simple things. Such as that we’re graduating the same year as the gang on “Beverly Hills, 90210.” No other class gets that honor. We need to be thankful for the fact that this year financial aid forms got just a little more complicated [insert groans].
We need to be thankful also to each other. Some of us have been classmates for 12 years. Others of us for only a few months. Regardless of how long we’ve been here, the class of 1993 is an intricate net of friendships and support groups [er, did I know what support group implied?]. I feel confident when I say that without the love and care that we’ve received from our friends, none of us would have survived. How would any of us made it without someone to call at 2:30 in the morning and beg a ride from? How could we have gotten through school without someone to proof-read our papers or to remind us that a certain assignment was due in 10 minutes? Or maybe on the RARE occasion, loan us a math assignment of two. [Nervous laughter from math teachers.] None of us would be here without each other’s help.
But we can’t give all the credit to others. I’m forgetting–WE’RE PERFECT! [Insert hoots and hollars from classmates.] We owe thanks to ourselves! No amount of encouragement of support or pushing from anyone else could get us to where we are today. We owe ourselves a huge pat on the back. We did it. Class of 1993, we made it. Now let’s go out and show the world just how perfect we really are.
Today I had the opportunity to accompany Andreas up to Vancouver, BC. He’s DJing at a club up there tonight, and unfortunately I’m a bad DJ girlfriend and am not going to dance right in front of the turntables and talk to strangers about how great he is (groan–I’ve never ever been that kind of girlfriend in the four years that I’ve been dating this DJ). We had planned to go plant the seeds of our future defection to Canada (shh–don’t tell), but I realized that I simply couldn’t deal with going up and partying when I’m a bit of an emo basketcase and all I feel like doing is sitting on my roof and appreciating the skyline.
I also couldn’t deal with the prospect of going into a social situation when I’m sort of dented. There’s nothing worse than being with a bunch of people, some you know well, some you don’t really know at all, and trying to maintain an air of light-hearted wahoo-ness. I just wasn’t up the challenge of keeping a good face about it all. Some of this has to do with this last week, and some of it has to do with other issues I’m working through right now (issues that, as much as I love my blog, simply aren’t appropriate for world wide web consumption).
Monday night, I had what under any other circumstances would have been a very difficult, emotional two hour long phone conversation. Naturally, by Tuesday morning my emotional issues were put aside for national level horror and grief. Who cares about my stupid emo bullshit when there’s people dieing? But last night I was reminded that the issues are still there, only now they’re tangled up with other overwhelming feelings. Once again, no matter where you go, there you are. Insecurities, fears, instabilities, and unsuredness in tow. And, quite honestly, I had no desire to go up to Vancouver BC and parade around some club with my own instability on my sleeve. Call me prideful, but some of us would rather stay home than force others to deal with our emotional incompetance.
So, I sat on the roof and appreciated the skyline, and then went sailing with my friend T. We drank wine, waved to bobbing sea lions, and enjoyed an amazing sunset.
stephen_hecht: I myself am possibly going to go out tonight.
arielmeadow: Really!
stephen_hecht: Some club. Some old tetch-know shite.
stephen_hecht: One unfortunate detail: this place is 18+, with no bar.
stephen_hecht: I sort of wonder what the drug of choice is among the 18+ tetchknow club crowd these days.
arielmeadow: Same as it ever was.
arielmeadow: Same as it ever was.
stephen_hecht: And the days go by.
stephen_hecht: And you may say to yourself: “This is not my Elmo backpack!”
stephen_hecht: And you may say to yourself: “This is not MDMA!”
stephen_hecht: And you may ask yourself: “Why did I come here?”
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.
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