City Wendy

Wasted on the Young

I spent most of this blistering hot weekend at the Pitchfork music festival, which is as much--or more--a celebration of youth as it as of music.  Only the young can withstand long lines for every meal, a total lack of personal space for hours on end, no tp at the filled-to-the-brim porta-potties just baking in sweltering summer heat, and still manage to look pretty good and have lots of fun by the end of the evening.  I went both days, though Sunday was much more fun since I'd figured out exactly how little clothing I could get away with wearing and remembered to bring a chair and a Spanish fan.  Once I had a beer in hand, and some Hoppin' John salad, I was able to sit back, listen to some good music, and watch the comical mating rituals of all the hipster kids.  And then, because I'm kind of an asshole, I posted this missed connection on Craigslist when I got home just to fuck with people. 

At any rate, the festival gave me a chance to finally soak up a bit of summertime with my girlfriends, flirt with cute boys, and test drive a few new dance moves.  And while I was there, I got a call from the fancy university I interviewed at a couple of weeks ago offering me a job (my recent note to potential employers must have worked!). Of course, now I'm all, "Eh.  I'll think about it."  I've got some other employment options I have to weigh--you know, figure out which one is going to pay me the most to do the least amount of work and all.  I can't go from zero-60 like that, and anyway, I have to have time and money for all my various causes (booze, boys, biking, beach).

In other news, my eternally youthful dad, who reads this blog all the time and wonders where the hell he and my mom went so wrong, turns 60 today.  Happy birthday, pops!  And also, can I borrow some money?

Short Answer: NO!

To the person in Kathmandu who found my blog this morning by googling
"Is anyone normal?" :

This answer is a resounding NO!

To Potential Employers

Shit y'all, it's almost August and I still don't have a job.  Even my little part-time gig running writing workshops with the ex-cons is going to wrap up in two weeks, which means not only will I no longer have anymore hot date prospects, I'll be completely unemployed instead of just drastically and pathetically under-employed.  For the first half of the summer, I was so swamped finishing my thesis, I figured I'd pursue job-hunting full-force as soon as I turned the damn thing in.  Then, two days later, my parents, whom I rarely see because they live in Germany, came to town and I spent the next week "hanging out with them," otherwise known as "reading my mother's magazine clippings about cats and blogs and coping as a single woman when everyone you know is coupled and happy," as well as listening to them go on and on about what a shame it is that I'm now thousands of dollars in student loan debt with no prospect at all for a job...or a normal relationship.

The minute they left town I had a job interview that I thought went pretty well, but I was told I'd hear something by the end of the week and that was nearly two weeks ago and nothing...
I even wore a pantsuit.  And goddamn, fucking nylons.  I mean, that's worthy of a courtesy rejection phone call at least, don't you think?  NYLONS!  In the last 8 years, the only thing I've used nylons for are emergency make-shift ponytail holders when there was no one around to hold the hair out of my face when I puked after mixing too many gins in one night.

So, for the last couple of weeks, I have been scouring the classifieds, searching for anything remotely interesting that doesn't sound too soul-sucking and that might help finance the lavish lifestyle I've grown accustomed to (i.e. regular cupcakes, gossip magazines).  I've found exactly one job I'm the teeniest bit excited about and I mailed off my resume and cover letter right away.  I'm super qualified for the job, have all the preferred experience and requirements and then some, as well as a fresh pair of nylons never used once to hold the hair out of my face while I puke.  This could be it!  But then, that's what I thought last week and nothing happened.

Are potential employers googling my name and finding this blog, I wonder?  If so, what's the goddamn turn-off?  I don't understand!  Wouldn't people want a sassy, sarcastic, semi-bitter, pseudo-self-hating moron with a penchant for low-cut tops, bad haircuts, cheap dye jobs, an appetite for nerdy boys in glasses, Margaritas as big as her head, and a mouth like a fucking trucker on their team?

Potential employers, listen up!  I don't know what sort of impression you've gotten from this blog, but I assure you, I am responsible!  Um, a self-starter!  I have pantyhose, for christ's sake. AND, as if that weren't enough, I have been known to bake stuff from time to time.  Pies!  Muffins!  Cookies, and breads.  I mean, I'm just puttin' that out there.  Also, I'm good to have around for laughs what with all my inappropriate dressing and constantly fucking up my hair.  Did I already mention self-starter?  What about dependable?  Seriously!  I almost never call in sick.  Unless there's gonna be someone cool on 'The View' or something.  But, like I said -- almost never.  And if you paid me enough, I could just go ahead and get Tivo and then be real dependable and shit. 

Okay, but seriously -- the bit about me owning pantyhose?  You wouldn't really expect me wear them, would you? 

You ate the food, You drank the wine...

Perhaps you heard the story circulating around the web last week about the cheap guy from jdate, who two weeks after the fact, billed his date $50 for her half of the meal when he realized she had no intention of going out with him again.  Incase you missed it, you can read all the crazy email exchanges and listen to all stalker-ish voice mail messages here.  The incident became such a hot water-cooler topic last week, naturally someone made a shirt to mark the occasion.  I mentioned all this to a Jewish friend over the weekend and he said, "Oh great, now I'm going to have to tip people even more to fight the 'cheap' stereotype."

Anyway, all this got me thinking about bad dates.  Luckily, I've had relatively few bad dates.  As someone who has dipped a toe or two into online dating (and just as quickly recoiled), I have about 10,000 stories of scary, pathetic, and inappropriate messages from boys interested in taking me out (or something), but because I'm so, so picky about whom I spend my time with, I've managed to make pretty good decisions about which yahoos I actually meet up with in person.  Still, despite the wall around my cold, hardened heart and the lock on my little blackbook, I have managed to make a few mistakes and have ended up opposite total bore-fests over wine and pasta, and, like the heroine in the jdate fiasco, Joanne, after just one date, I've even been a recipient of mean-spirited text messages, voice mail, and email that accuse me of being 'heartless,' a 'lying bitch,' and 'a tease.' "You make me sick," one guy emailed after I told him I'd decided not to go out with him and "You're the kind who give women a bad name" is another phrase I've heard after refusing a guy a second date.  Now, after about 6 dates, fine.  You want to call me heartless?  A lying bitch?  Okay!  But after one date?  Just one measly little evening in my company?  Boys, you don't know 'heartless' yet.

So, I'm wondering about you all.  Do you have dating stories that rival Joanne's from jdate?  Could you make a cafepress t-shirt from some of the phrases hurled at you during or after a date?  Go ahead and a share.  After all, talking about it is the first step to healing.

Isn't This Nice?

My mullet and I just got back from a hair show tonight.  That is, we starred in a hair show.  I, barefoot and dressed in a dyed green vintage slip, and my mullet spiked high in a hawk-style in front and cruched curls in the back, took center stage down the runway as I did my best to perfect the vacant-eyed look found in the fashion magazines that line the salon's corridor.  "Pop your hip, pop your hip," one of the stylists instructed as I started my walk.  Not quite sure what popping one's hip entails, I sort of did this half-limp thing and imagined myself walking on eggshells real delicately, my toes turned in ever-so-slightly.

Back stage, one of the male models said to me, just the way the boys in high school used to as I walked down the halls with my vacant-eyed look and little pout meant to keep them all at arm's length, "Smile!  It's not that bad."
Just then, I caught a reflection of myself in someone's oversized suglasses.
"I have a hawk in front,"I replied --more to the sunglasses than anyone in partcular -- "crunched curls in back, green and gold eye shadow up to my brows, a fake eye lash accidently glued to me cheek, and I'm wearing a slip in public that doesn't quite fit me.  I'm afraid a smile might ruin my outfit."
"You have cute freckles, though," the boy model said, trying to charm me.
I responded with a vacant stare.

Appropos of absolutely nothing, I spent most of yesterday at the lakefront.  It was a gorgeous afternoon --the kind you dream of in the middle of January and count days to midway through March.  I grabbed a blanket and this boy and I rode bikes to the lake where we sat and did nothing for several hours, watching the sail boats drift by and the clouds slowly change shapes.  Remembering something Kurt Vonnegut said when I saw him speak once a few years ago about acknowledging happiness in those rare moments you feel it, I hugged my knees to my chest, sighed lazily and said, "Isn't this nice?  This is nice, isn't it?"  Then I asked the boy to run to the store and get a bottle of wine and a gossip magazine for me since 'nice' can always be 'nicer.'  He obliged, but forgot a corkscrew, so I then ran around the lakefront asking random people if they had corkscrews, and judging by the reaction I got from most, I might as well have been asking if they'd like to screw an elephant.  After the boy ran off to the store again for the forgotten corkscrew, we opened the wine and finished half a bottle before we headed home to get ready for a friend's birthday party.

That evening I caught up with friends who all said at different times, "Oh, it really is a mullet," and I just shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes, silently saying, "what are you gonna do?"  Someone advised me to just 'rock the mullet,' whatever that means, and quite a few people suggested I cut off the back, which, for someone who once spent two awkwardly bobby-pinned years growing out super-short hair, I kind of can't even fathom.  Besides, this weekend is the Pitchfork fest and if I can't rock a fucking mullet there and look relatively normal and cute, where can I?

Speaking of Pitchfork, somehow, I nodded off for a minute, woke up, and now it's the end of July.  Does anyone else feel the summer slipping away in that strange fashion that makes you nostalgic and sad and relieved all at once?  I'm turning 30 in just a few weeks and as the summer wanes and the days get shorter again and mornings come a little later, I feel strangely comfortable in my mixed-up jumbleness, like I've finally made peace -- or, am currently making peace -- with just how weird and fucked-up life is.  If there's one lesson I want to take to this new decade, it's to just relax and let the messes be made -- the mullets, and the forgotten corkscrews, the fake lashes stuck accidently to cheeks, and the un-perfected hip-popping runway walks that make you look more amatuer than couture.  Because in the end, whether you fret or not, the hair grows, the wine is poured, and later in the evening, after the show has ended,as you're changing back into your street clothes and catching one more glimpse of your hawk in a mirror before you shove it under a headband, someone might just catch your ear for a passing second and whisper, "everyone was talking about you."  And you, remembering something Vonnegut might have said, and because you're practicing a new life approach of assuming and embracing the best, will reply, "Isn't that nice?  It's nice, isn't it?"  And maybe you, in spite of yourself and that pout you haven't quite outgrown from high school, might actually smile. 
And mean it for a change.

Amazon Woman

I told you I'd let you know everytime it was available some place new.  Now you can buy the book on Amazon.  You can write a review for it, too (hint-hint).
Amazon!!

Shells

When my parents were visiting me last week, they gave me some savings bonds in my name that they'd been hanging on to for nearly 30 years.  "We wanted to wait and give you these when we thought you really needed the money.  It seems like you could use them now," they said. With interest, some of the bonds had more than doubled in amount several times over, and while the sum total wasn't a windfall, it would be enough to get me through this lean period following grad school while I look for more permanent employment.  Just when I didn't know how I'd manage to pay my bills next month, I suddenly had this unexpected money to help me out, and then, six hours after I deposited the money into my account, my car broke down and I had to have it towed to the auto shop where I was told I'd need a new transmission and some other dealy-thing, the cost of which would nearly deplete my account again.

Over the weekend, I traveled to Springfield, Illinois with my parents to visit my great-aunt Velda-- the only living relative I care about or really know on my father's side.  She's 94-years-old and just moved into an assisted living facility from the home her husband built and where she'd lived for over 40 years.  In the last year since I'd visited, her mental health has deteriorated drastically.  She has no attention span now, can't remember anything, and just doesn't seem "all there."  Even just two years ago, she was sharp as a tack and I marveled at her prowess.  Now she seems nearly a shell.

While we were in Springfield, we drove past my father's childhood home, the house I used to visit for a week or two every summer growing up.  Growing up, I moved so frequently, that it was my grandparents' homes -- on either side -- that served as a kind of home base for me.  I have so many fond memories of both sets of grandparents' houses during my annual summertime visits. 

My dad's parents had tons and tons of flowers and a huge tree in the yard that their back porch looked into.  My grandfather hung all sorts of bird feeders from the tree and would spend afternoons telling me the names of the different birds that would come visit.  Every morning, we'd raise the american flag together on the flag pole in the back yard and in the afternoons, I'd help my grandmother pick green beans and tomatoes and potatoes from the vegetable garden to take to my other grandmother back in St. Louis who would always exclaim, "These tomatoes are so beautiful I'm going to eat them like apples!" as she'd bite into one.

Before we drove past the house this past weekend, it had been at least ten years since I'd seen it, though I'd say I probably dream about it once a month.  I don't know why I do.  I dream about my other grandparents' house, too.  In my dreams both houses are exactly how I remember them and nothing's changed.  And then I saw one in real life this weekend: old, decrepit, much smaller than I remembered...just kind of a shell, really.

Yesterday I went to get my hair cut and colored.  The color turned out perfectly, but the student stylist, stressed from too many appointments, and from moving, and getting ready to graduate from the program in a few days, made a mistake with a razor blade, which resulted in the most horrible cut I've ever received.  I haven't replaced my digital camera yet or I'd take a picture and prove to you how awful it was, but when I did a search of "worst imaginable styles on Wendy ever" I found this picture which pretty much captures my look to a 'T' -- all spikey and shit in the front and long past my shoulders in the back.

So, last night I kept having nightmares about my hair and then I'd wake up and go to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror -- the spikes, the tapered ends --  and I'd remember it wasn't just a nightmare: it was reality.  I had the hair of a young David Bowie or maybe even a young Ellen DeGeneres just starting out in stand-up comedy.  Remember when she used to do the Tonight Show in her shoulder pads and mullet cuts?

This morning my mullet and I rented a car and drove out to a nearby suburb for a job interview at a fancy university.  I don't want to jinx anything, but I think, despite myself, it went pretty well.  Except for that one part where I bragged about being a "natural" and "gifted" college teacher before admitting that I hadn't actually really taught a college class before.

After the interview, my mullet and I drove to the salon and got ourselves fixed a little.  It's better now -- the mullet, I mean --  and not anything a headband for about 3 months can't disguise.

Tomorrow is the second day of another session teaching a writing workshop to ex-cons.  This new group is really great and when I asked during introductions if they had any questions for me, one guy raised his hand and said, "Yeah.  Wha'shoo like in high school?" 
"High school?"  I repeated.
"Yeah." he said, " Wha'shoo be like?"
"I was kind of a shell," I replied.
"Wha'shoo mean?"  he asked.
"I mean, I was depressed.  Real depressed, and some days I couldn't even fathom ever being happy.  But I read a lot and slept a lot and I guess that made me feel better.  Or it gave me some escape from the unhappiness I was feeling, anyway."
"A shell?"  another guy said.
"Yeah.  I guess so."  I replied.

After I got home this evening from my job interview and my hair intervention, I called my mom and asked for an update on my cousin who is still in a coma two weeks after his accident.
"The nurses say he's in there," my mom said, "When they shine lights in his eyes and do tests and sometimes when people talk to him, he shows signs of response.  He's in there," she said, "He's in there."

Last night on the phone I told my friend, Meg, I was feeling depressed, like everything was happening all at once and I couldn't get a grasp on anything and that for every bit of good, there was always something bad to cancel it out.

"You aren't your situation," she said calmly, "Everything is transient, everything changes so quickly that good or bad, you can't define yourself by your current situation."

And she's right, of course.  I'm the sum of all my experiences, I guess, not just some shell that reflects my current environment or my current state of mind.  None of us is a shell, but at any moment, we might break down, or deteriorate, or hide out somewhere...maybe lost for awhile.  Maybe lost for good.  But there's usually still someone in there, there's usually some reason still to hope.

Barring any more issues, my car should be ready to drive in the next couple of days, I might have a job or two or three lined up very soon for the next year, and maybe slowly I can start crawling a little bit out of debt.  This weekend, I'm getting a third visit from someone I met in New York in May.  He makes me laugh and cheers me up, which is about all I really want right now.  It's good.

So, for every bit of bad, there's still a bit of good.  And usually, some reason to hope.
And if you can't have hope, just cover it up with a some headbands for awhile.  Works for me.

BRB

I really thought this could be a magical summer.  I had high hopes.  But so far, it's been one thing after another after another.
And the latest thing is I need a new transmission.  Which will cost a bunch of money I don't have.

Anyway, I'm totally boring myself lately  (so I can only imagine how bored you must be), I can't seem to get past the funk I am in, and in recent weeks, the words I've written in this stupid blog have been used to publicly and privately mock me in ways that have deeply upset me.  In better spirit, I'd mock myself right back, but I'm feeling too down lately to take it in stride, so I think until I'm able to get a bit of my shit back together, I'm going to take a little blog hiatus.

Don't go too far, though -- it'll probably be a mere couple of hours before I'm pulled back into all the glory that is blogging of biking, and beaching, and boozing, and boys.

Awesome

My other blog, Awesome!, is Typepad's featured blog of the day today.  Well, yesterday actually, but because of some issues, yesterday is today or maybe today is yesterday...or something like that...I don't know.  Listen, my parents are still visiting...and my car broke down on the way to take my mother to get her hair done and I have no money to get it repaired, mercury's retrograde for another couple of weeks, I gained five pounds this month,  I haven't found a job yet and have no good answer when my mom says, "well, what are your plans, Wendy, what are you going to do now?", and my cousin's still in a coma a week after his accident.

Yesterday afternoon, I buried my head in my hands and in front of my dad, I sobbed like baby. 
"That's not going to do any good at all!" he barked, like when I was five and we had to give up the family dogs to our family seamstress in Korea when we moved to a small apartment in Tokyo.

"Sometimes crying just makes you feel better!" I wailed.

"Well, you look like you feel just great!" He retorted.

"Oh, shut up," I said, wiping a glob of snot across my face with the back of my hand.

The good news is my mom's hair turned out pretty well.

Thank god.

Family Harmony

My parents got in town Saturday afternoon for a week-long conference my dad will be attending downtown.  Before checking into their hotel on Michigan Avenue, they stopped by my place to say 'hi' to the 'grandcats.'  Between St. Louis, where my parents have set-up homebase while they're in the states for a month, and Chicago, my mother stopped at several pet supply stores to buy toys and treats for the cats.  By the time she made it to my place, she had an enormous bag filled with stuff, including about 10,000 various toys with feathers and bells and catnip and dangling strings, and about 13 million bags and cans of tasty treats.  As soon as she saw the grand cats, she started manically throwing things at them and speaking in a high-pitched baby voice that I've never heard before.

"Now, Wendy," she said, "I want you to hide this bag of toys and treats from them when I am gone and only bring it out when I'm here.  I want them to associate fun with me!"

"Oh dear," I answered, remembering how hard she worked at associating herself with fun when I was a child.

"It's grandma!" my mom squeeled in her odd baby voice to Simone," remember me??  We talk on the phone all the time!  Here are some treats!  Do you like the treats, hmm?  You like the treats?  Yeah, yeah, you like the treats, you like treats."

"Mom," I said, desperate to change her voice back to normal, "Did you bring your coupon book?"

Anytime my mother travels, she buys an entertainment coupon book for her destination city.  Filled with coupons for various restaurants, museums, and dry cleaners, the book provides endless fun and activity for my bargain-loving mom.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, "The book cost $13, so that's how much we have to save to break even!  I've dog-eared the pages of all the places I think sound good!" she said, handing me the book to peruse.

That evening, instead of heading to any of the 30 million restuarants offering free entrees with the purchase of two, or $10 off a purchse of $50, we headed to the sushi place across the street and paid full-price for our dinner because after studying the coupon book for over an hour, we were all too tired and hungry to commute to any of the bargains.

Yesterday afternoon, I met up with my parents in their hotel at about 11.  I brought my swimsuit, and hit the hotel pool for about 45 minutes while my mother got ready for the day.  My dad, awake since dawn, made himself busy walking around the neighborhood and chatting up strangers in the elevator.  My mother, however, spent the entire morning cutting out clipping from various magazines and newspapers for me and all my friends.

"Here," she said, handing me a bunch of clippings, as I got out of the shower after my swim, " There are some articles about cats and blogging for you, some clippings for your funeral director friend, some stuff for your acupuncturist friend, some stuff for-"

"Mom!" I interrupted, "It's 1 PM!  I'm hungry!  You haven't showered yet.  Quit looking at magazines and get ready!  It takes you 3 hours just to do your hair and make-up and my blood sugar is so low, if I don't eat lunch soon I'll fucking pass out!" I yelled.

"Oh, quit being so dramatic," she said, "And just eat some goddamn peanut M&M's.  They're good for you."

"Since when are M&M's good for me?"

"Peanuts!!!' she yelled, exasperated.

About five hours later we finally made it to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch where my mother immediately complained about how hot and noisy and crowded it was."

"You're right, Mom," I said, "we should have gone to that food court in Nordstrom you wanted to go to.  A FOOD COURT in a MALL in the BUSIEST PART of the SECOND BIGGEST CITY IN THE COUNTRY on a GODDAMN WEEKEND AFTERNOON wouldn't have been loud AT ALL!"

"This is very stressful," she said, fanning herself dramatically with the menu, "The Cheesecake Factory in Boston isn't like this at all.  I went to the Cheesecake Factory in Boston last summer and it was very relaxing!  This is not one bit relaxing, this is stressful!  I need some water.  Where's the waitress?  In Boston, the waitress constantly filled my water -- I didn't have to wait for one second for ice cold water." she said.

Oh, SHUT UP!" my father exploded, finally blowing off some of the steam that had building up all day, " just SHUT UP!"

After that we ate some bread and butter and the water finally came and things got better.

That evening, I accompanied my parents to the reception for my dad's conference.  My father introduced me to his boss and some of his colleagues.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to hear how young I look for my age, I extended my hand to everyone I met and said, " Hi, I'm Wendy, I'm almost 30!"

"I have two daughters who are 30," my dad's boss said," I finally got them both married off and one is expecting a baby."

"Oh," I said, suddenly wishing I'd kept my fucking mouth shut.

"So, do you work here?" he asked me.

"Uh," I said, "Mostly I just sort of, like, chase boys and drink a lot."

"She just got her masters degree," my dad jumped in, "and she published a book."

"Yeah," I said, "It's got lots of stories about vomit and jerking off."

"We're very proud of her," my dad said.

"Wendy!" my mom said, quickly changing the subject, "have you tried the coconut-baked shrimp?  Everyone try the coconut-baked shrimp," she instructed the table.

"I wish there were some goddamn Margaritas here," I sighed, "It seems a shame to fill up on coconut-baked shrimp without a pitcher or two of Margaritas to wash them down."

"I think I have a coupon for Margaritas!" My Mom said.

"Awesome!" I said, " That coupon book is finally fucking good for something."

"Very proud," my dad said, " just...so proud."

(In other family-related news, my cousin is still in a coma after his car accident last week, with a 50/50 chance of survival and very serious internal injuries, including a spot on the brain that is possibly an indicator of brain damage.  We continue to pray and be hopeful, and thank everyone for the well-wishes.  I'll keep you posted).