Revolutionizing the Resolution

I can't say that I began 2009 on the best foot. It was a barefoot, firstly, at a bar, secondly, and when I woke up at home a few hours later without a cellphone or wallet, I decided it was necessary that I make some New Years Resolutions. The only problem was that I don't really do resolutions. I mean, of course I try, but to some my vows may verge on impossible. Let's see if we arrive at a common conclusion at the bottom of my proposed "resolution list:"

1. Finish a completed working draft of my first book, to be titled BEEP, and to be in a form to send to agents.
2. Meet, date, and become engaged to someone.
3. Professionally pursue improv and stand-up comedy.

As of March 11th, 2009 here is my progress:
1a. Beep learned how to sit! And sit pretty! And we've gotten really good and snuggling and definitely playing fetch, because, like, now she knows when is playtime and when is not-playtime. Oh, is that not the same as writing a book?
2a. If you or anyone you know would be willing to go on a date with me, please leave a comment at the bottom of this post. There are nine months left in the year.
3a. At the end of this blog you can let me know if it's worth it.

So, let's ponder:
1b. Maybe instead of resolving to write a book ABOUT Beep I should resolve to actually train her.
2b. Rome wasn't built in a day. And I refuse to online date.
3b. A blog-post-a-month probably isn't going to get me agented.

The obvious problem here is aspiration. Ambition: good, yes, but too much of it can lead to not really doing anything. We all know people who fathom the kind of plans which make Obama's job seem simple. But how many of them actually follow through? I suspect that if more did, the "I can't believe you set your mind to something and did it" compliment wouldn't hold much significance. There's a reason why "babysteps" mean something. It's how people as a whole ever get anywhere. Sure, there are the revolutionaries who use ungodly persuasion to push masses in one direction, but for the rest of us, it might take years to truly get someplace. If too much changes too fast, the newness will never be normalized, and thus after a certain amount of time, "things" will go back to the old "normal," with whatever had changed categorized as a cultural or social "phase." I think we dub that a "trend."

I'm about to do something I rarely do, which is give credit to someone or something else. But as 2009 gets fully underway, I've decided to revise the resolution. Or at least my resolutions. Less big-picture thinking and more little, specific-picture thinking. And who knew - Horny Toad - you know that chic -meets-outdoorsy clothing line based in Santa Barbara, CA (Think fitted t-shirts with small-but-poignant images on the front) - has the answer:

'9 in 09' is their movement to ignite that sort of "babystep" change cataclysmic for revolutions. Basically, all you do is choose one thing (one tiny thing) that is green-based. Examples - eliminate a car ride a week, or plastic bags from grocery stores, or buy locally, or notably "hippier" acts like planting a tree or introducing someone to the outdoors by taking them on a hike. I can do this. Fine, living in New York makes it cheating if I resolve to "eliminate a car ride a week," but buying only local food is both feasible and not yet a habit.

I think, ultimately, Horny Toad is doing what more "green-oriented" organizations need to: encompass the babystep idea and making sure "green" isn't a trend, but a revolution. What's more, they're willing to bribe us avid-consumers. If you share your resolution with them (http://www.hornytoad.com/community/nine-in-09.html), you might win free stuff (namely gift certificates drawn bi-monthly on the 9th and 19th, and then a thousand buck certificate at the end). So, the resolution can be part of the revolution, versus part of the trend.

Another reason why I like the '9 in 09' campaign is that it doesn't encroach on my lifestyle or beliefs. They only ask that you start bringing your own bags to the market, not that you stop filling them with wine and beer and the kind of snacks you'd deny eating even if you were under oath.

A cynic may view this change of heart as the ultimate defeat. No, I'm not writing a book. Yes, I'm still sleeping alone. No, I'm not really as funny as those people on TV. But dammit I will jump in front of a bus before I go grocery shopping without a cloth bag again. So take that, 2009.

Love Story, by Taylor Swift

I'd venture a guess that anyone who hears this song - football players included - can't help but want a Romeo to come resuce them from hum-drum life. I hear Taylor belt out that little number and my skin melts into my clothes and suddenly freezes when I realize I'm not wearing a wedding dress. The good life. A girl can dream.

Many years ago my middle-school history teacher told me that she figures if you can drive down the road blasting a country song, you gotta be in a pretty good place. I would agree - you put on a little Rascal Flatts or Sugarland and I'm up on my couch with a hairbrush pretending I'm the next American Idol. But then what about that joke: What happens when you sing a country song backwards? You get your car back, your money back, your relationship back...

When I was a kid and my mom was going through a hard time, my brother and I used to fight over who had to ride in the car with her up to Vermont. This had nothing to do with our mother, but she played this one god-awful song by Mary Chapin Carpenter on repeat. I'll never forget when she decided THIS song perfectly encapsulated how she felt. We were watching television and she comes into the room and goes to my Dad, "Michael, you have to listen to this song. It's just... it's perfect." So, Michael Jr. and I saunter into the living room behind them and Mom pushes play. The lyrics: "You can have it, I don't want it, when you got it, I'll be gone. It don't matter what you're saying, because the damage has all been done..." You get the drift. No, not because you're familiar with the song, but that's because the lyrics don't actually stray from these lines. It's a three minute jingle. After that evening, the "you can have it" song became the family anthem.

So during the carride to Vermont, Mom would try to attempt subtlty in playing it over and over. An unsuspecting Mary Chapin Carpenter song would ambush the stereo: "Oh I love this song! 'Shut Up and Kiss Me!' It's so fun," she'd say, pretending that she didn't realize that the song after 'Shut Up and Kiss Me' (which, might I add has some controversial messages for an eleven-year-old girl) was the "you can have it" one. Then that song came on and all bets were off. The volume would turn up and Mom would get a distant look in her eye, and I knew I wasn't supposed to talk for a few minutes while she listened. Afterwards the whole reel would start again. "Oh, I love this song! 'Shut Up and Kiss Me!'" and so it went. You can imagine why Michael and I held bets for who got to ride up with Dad. Although in retrospect, he was listening to a lot of Camelot and Phantom of the Opera back then, so who got the better deal might be debatable.

I deliberately never learned that song's actual name, perhaps because I felt that by knowing it I'd never escape from that very first time we sat down as a family and listened. When you declare a song as your own, regardless of its cultural status, in many ways you are irrevocably attached to that first time hearing it. The lyrics encapsulate some sort of meaning, be it euphoria-inducing or that dark place you hide in when the days stretch on for too long. Whenever I break up with someone I immediately stress out about all of that music I'm losing. I'll start listening to the major songs I shared with my ex in an avid attempt to uninstall the memories connected to them. Once I even made a playlist and called it "Muscle Memories" with all of the songs I could think of that at one time applied to an old relationship. That didn't do very much, other than make my Ipod house a siv for where I could listen and feel sorry for my reluctantly-single self.

There was one in particular, perhaps the most depressing song ever written called "About Today" by The National, that I listened to repeatedly. It's about someone's inability to speak up, and once they do, it's too late. That was totally me, I figured. I'd kept my true feelings inside and neglected to come up with the sort of direct communication mandatory in functional relationships. This was exactly what I needed to listen to in order to move forward. This guy was sad, I was sad, today was ending and we were both alone. So, I listened. And you know what? Didn't get less sad. In fact, as time endeared and I was still depressed, I'd listen to it in order to justify the feeling. "It's a depressing song, of course I feel sad now," I'd tell friends, completely unconvincingly. Music not only comforts, it justifies.

Thankfully, I eventually got my wits about me and banished "About Today" from any and all playlists, and my mother hasn't listened to that unnamed song in years. My father still listens to showtunes, but I suspect that just as I listen to Taylor Swift and dream about Romeo saving me, so does Dad, dreaming about being King of Camelot.

Reasoning

Therapists are funny people. Think about their purpose: you meet a patient with whatever issues, and while your "goal" is to "fix" them, really your goal is to "manage" them and thus ensure that they'll never leave you. It's like, a bastardized "one door closes and another window opens" syndrome in which the patient arrives devestated about a break-up and six months later realizes her brother suffers from acute anxiety disorder and her sister is abusively competitive and her parents avoid it all by drinking, and the relationship was always doomed because the patient never developed the ability to ask for what she wants because she never believed her parents would give it to her. What? No. You date someone and break-up, that sucks. Period. If we try to tie everything together we inevitably get stuck in the cobweb of "connections" -- and like the serpent in Eden, the therapist dares you to try the fruit just once, and bam - you're seeing them twice a week and prescribed multiple pills a day. And I don't even have a sister. What?

May we never fall victim to this.

But, you ask, what if I already have?

So, Pandora's Box is open. Your issues have been laid out on the table and analyzed until you're ready to talk about new ones. Unfortunately, therapists, while sneaky, are genuises. I fell victim years ago - I was having a bad day and this nice man named Dr. something stopped me in the hall and asked if I needed to talk. Before I knew it I was in his office howling about how my friends would never understand me.

The key is to know how to shop for the right person.

1. During sophomore year of college I had a "counselor" (assigned because I was caught drinking underage by Middlebury officials) who was convinced - and nearly convinced me - that the root of all of my problems was that my parents didn't love me, and they didn't love me because they drank.

"But my parents and I are pretty close," I ventured during one of our earlier sessions. (While we had originally been assigned three sessions together, she quickly decided that I was a classic case of oldest-child-of-alcoholics and strongly recommended that we meet through the semester. I was brainwashed. I agreed.)
"You're close because you drink."
"But sometimes we don't drink. Like during the day. They both have pretty good jobs."
"That's because they are functional alcoholics."
"Oh."

This dialogue ensued over a couple months. By the end I not only blamed my propensity toward substances on them, I owed my emerging sexuality to their wino-tendencies. I was not gay, I was repressed from developing the emotional capacity to tell my family that I loved them. Nevermind that my parents both said "I love you" whenever we spoke, or that their friends had a basic blow-by-blow of my major happenings. Clearly, they didn't love me. And, they didn't love me because they drank.

2. My next therapist was so nice I felt like I'd truly been born evil. We all know those people - they smile genuinely, empathy is a way of life, they want you to know that they would never judge you. I don't like them because very few comprehend sarcasm, and they all judge. Secretly. They see those who don't find true beauty in a bikeride as lesser; those who think that a scarlet sunset would be enhanced with a joint as unable to appreciate the land for what it is. They do things like watch the nature channel while spinning. They don't wear heels. They bought organic before it was trendy. They've never blacked out. They've never even greyed-out. Hell, they've never felt bloated from drinking too much. Some haven't even consumed an entire beer before.

This woman empitomized the empathizer. I was in here to deal with depression, or "symptoms matching or alluding to depression," and every session was about finding my chi, and practicing my breathing, and choosing tea over wine.
"But you don't understand," I said more than once, "this isn't just stretching. I'm really not feeling myself."
"Would you like to go over the breathing techniques again?"
"But I'm not anxious."
"Let's work on regaining your core of emotions."
"Like I said, I'm having trouble getting out of bed."
"Are you stretching?"
"And I might fail one of my classes."
"What is your diet like?"
"I can't fall asleep unless I've had a drink or a pill or something."
"Yes, I think we have our problem."
"That I'm marginally suicidal?"
"You're dependent on things outside yourself."

This is why I believe those not limited by religious beliefs or diet should finish at least one beer in their lifetime, and try to improve a mood by means of indulgance. They'll see that while it doesn't truly "work," and deviates from an organic way of life, there's a reason why many of us do it: because it's worth the hour of feeling better. Even if it's just an hour.

3. I found a therapist in New York who I must commend on her ability to pinpoint me. But she's also setting herself up to win. On the first day she asked me if we "love or hate the parents." When I mentioned that previous therapists had questioned my drinking habits, she said "Vermont is not really a fair comparison to New York City. People there can do things that don't involve food or drink. We're not as inventive." In the middle of telling a superflouous and rather nonsenical story (which I do during most sessions), she cut in, "Liz you realize you're paying me, right? Laughing doesn't get you a discount." I like this woman.

**

The moral of the story: A therapist is only good if at no point is their goal to change you. And true genuises don't ever plant ideas in your mind. They convince you that these problems have been here all along. Dormant, waiting for the right inciting incident to emerge and declare themselve insurmountable without professional help. And medication.

You Sure You Missed This?

The best part about having a dog is that you don't get bored. Or in my case, I always have something to talk about. This is marginally ironic, considering most people I know would say that speechlessness has never been a problem. In fact, my stories verge on such a length that I can't remember the last time I told one without first apologizing for the length, then apologizing again once I've realized that I've relayed an irrelevant tangent, and then apologizing one last time, when I finally reach the climax and forget what I was talking about?

Oh yea, about how with a dog you never get bored.

Welcome Back, Americans

Just one more politically-minded post, and I promise to get back to the stuff that matters. You know, falling down stairs, going to a strip club for "feminist research," figuring out to ask out my extremely alluring hairdresser.

But.

Last night was an extremely elating experience (especially in New York, where circa four million of the six million votes went to Obama) - as if we - as a country, a people, and a democracy clawing to remain above water - delivered on a collective dream. What this election did more than anything was reignite the fire in Americanism. While 9/11 surged a wave of "patriotism" through the streets, it was a patriotism rooted in a fear, and consequently led to intensified racism, an unjust war, and an economic crisis I truly believe birthed out of panic. Obama's campaign roused an energy that touched even the staunchest of conservatives in that their perceived threat prompted a reaction. And isn't this the point of democracy? To place views and policies on the table and for people to dissect, disagree, challenge them?

In 2004, I remember an utter lack of caring. I can't count how many people I knew who "actively abstained" because they could not fathom supporting either candidate. When politicians evoke paralysis of opinion, we know there is a problem. Despite the accumulating holes in McCain's campaign and policy agenda (and his recent falterings really were too bad. Ahem, Sarah.), he was successful in stirring his own pot, and taking an active role in invigorating the American voters. I think we, as Americans, have been extremely lucky over the past year as these candidates have emerged as leaders and worked to steer America in a new, modernized direction. I don't think McCain was by any means the villain in this election; I think he was a crucial element to Obama's success because he embodied everything Obama was challenging. Obama has pledged the importance of true social reform, McCain dug his heels deeper into current social policy. Obama has made critical the point that Main Street must survive if Wall Street is to prosper, and McCain alleged Obama to be a modern-day Robin Hood. With Bush and Kerry, both men were so pathetically flaccid, when debates occurred, I felt like I was watching two spoiled, ivy league frat boys compete over whiskey shots. There is absolutely nothing wrong with said frat boys in said competition, just organize a campus-wide beer pong tournament like everybody else. I don't want to see my President as a beer-guzzling party animal. I have enough of those in my life. I want to revere the President; perceive him as a little different from others. The kind of different that at least fools me into believing their are capable of steering an entire country off the road to whatever those right-wing Christian fundamentalists thinks will happen to the gays.

All in, I don't think republicans should curse the results - regardless of the off-putting liberal fiscal policies, I think it is in the (I can't say our, I mean honestly.) children's best interest that for the first time, an African American man was elected as President. This is the first time in many years that social change is coming from the top down, and I think this revised model will be incalculably beneficial in the long run. It is impossible to teach children about social liberties if only a small percentage of them can fathom owning their own opportunities.

I think this is an exciting day - teeming with anticipation and possibility of what is to come.

Compromise

November 4th will only deliver good news. Either we get Barack Obama, or we get four years of Tina Fey impersonating Palin. Laugh through the tears, right?

Actually, I laugh through the tears at the red suit the GOP spent $75K on for Sarah. A genuine Saks Fifth Avenue purchase! Oh my! Who woulda thunk a hockey mom from Alaska would don a gen-u-ine outfit from Saks - all the way from New York! Joe Sixpack, look out - Sarah's on the prowl, and she's lookin' for you.

**

What concerns me the most is that I not only prefer Tina Fey's impersonation to the actual woman, I forget that somewhere outside the elite media's radar, she's actually contributing to the Republican campaign. I forget she's real, and thus a threat to most civil liberties I've spent my little idealistic, anti-American-residing-in-new-England-life enjoying. It's interesting, though, to think about the bullheadd ways in which she's standing behind her beliefs. She does not believe in abortion; she does not believe in sex education. Consequently, her daughter, seventeen and pregnant, will wed her boyfriend, a fun-loving hockey player who, I bet, did not see this coming one year ago. Is this kind of loyalty to one's convictions admirable, when beliefs override someone else's best interest? At what point does it change from loyalty to stubbornness? Flexibility and willingness to adopt other viewpoints, especially in the best interest of a loved one, are pinnacle to one's character. With versatility we don't stand a chance in upholding relationships, because everytime we hit disagreement, the only choice is to walk away. Same with political character. Politicians cannot simply "walk away" when someone (or, another country) does or decides on something they disagree with. I'm not comfortable with someone in office - someone "in charge of the senate" - who so stands by her beliefs that she was willing to publicly end her daughter's childhood.

Teenagers are morons. We all know this, we were all teenagers once. Hell on most days I still feel like a teenager. But the best part about teenagers is that they're transient. Adults will, however long it takes, ultimately emerge. Thus, how crucial it is to cushion some of their fall - no, I'm not saying kids that should be blindly forgiven and given a free pass whenever they mess-up. But, what parents have that children don't is perspective. My parents were careful to express their perspectives - versus their beliefs - in such a way that motivated me to to craft my own, and consequently, I always felt sure that my emerging identity (or, adulthood) was safe. While the President and the VP are not meant to be our parents, they are meant to present the sort of perspective that presents the possibility of change. The Republican social agenda, as it stands, emits a sense of social suffocation and paralysis. When a President is not willing to generate change, there is little left for us to do but sit and wait for the next election year. We're one of the freest nations on the planet. This kind of outlook is devastating. Further, if there's someone in office who would rather see her daughter married than revise her opinion regarding sex ed in high schools, I can't imagine where she'll stand in the name of a billion strangers.

Forget Palin going against feminist beliefs (and then ironically becoming iconicly feminist), or misspeaking as if Alaska employs a different language. What scares me the most is that she agreed to be co-pilot when she has no idea how to fly.

In the Meantime...

Watch this. These are my friends:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XR9V_aOCga0

[Sorry, I haven't learned how to enter in hyperlinks yet]

And watch this, not because you haven't seen it before, but because you know you're desperate to see it again:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFL58Jduryg

Do Dogs Get Bored?

The other day I asked my roommate if she thought dogs got bored. Her answer was simple: "No, because they aren't smart enough to know if they've been doing or not been doing something for hours."

She's right. Every time Beep sees her tennis ball it's like the first time. And whenever I throw her pink flamingo down the hallway, she runs as if she might not catch it. The other night we played fetch while I worked, and I must have thrown that f-ing pink flamingo seventy-five times. she.did.not.get.bored.

Here's my concern: Neither did I. I was obsessed with her properly retrieving the pink flamingo that not only was my work cast aside, each time I would throw this silly thing I would think, "Will she find it? Will she pick it up? Will she run back to me?" Yes, of course she would. Even if she couldn't remember, she'd already done it seventy-three times in the last forty-five minutes.

Perhaps I'm also nervous that almost the entire reason I humored her desire to chase said flamingo upwards of eighty times is that I felt like if I stopped, I would genuinely hurt her feelings. Let's get back to the beginning: dogs don't get bored. Chances are, they also don't get offended if their parents opt out of fetch for a little while. Or do they? My dilemma exactly. What if I'm hurting her feelings? What if, when I say "No more," and go about my Gossip Girl, Private Practice, Law & Order: SVU routine, she retreats to the corner thinking, "Does no one on this Earth love me?" How could I cause that kind of pain to such a small, innocent, sweetly-dressed animal? Am I so cruel that I would knowingly reject someone (okay, fine, something) whose second favorite thing to do (after getting a treat for using her pee-pad) is greeting me at the door?

I would like to answer plainly: No, I am not.

But still, what if I am?

This reminds me of the time my three friends gave me a swirly in eighth grade. I was in the library during study hall and they came in, saying that they really needed to tell me something, but since it was private, we should probably go to the bathroom. Then suddenly my hair was in a toilet, and I had three people holding me by the ankles.

Later that afternoon, after my Science teacher perfectly justifiably asked why my hair was wet and I didn't have a quick enough response, the four of us sat in the middle school headmistress's office with our advisers. The headmistress asked if these were the types of friends I wanted. They were, I explained triumphantly, they were just playing a joke. But they put your head in a toilet, the headmistress responded, kindly. Wait a second. She was right. They did try to flush my head in the lower-school bathroom. I hadn't even showered yet. It was the end of the day. The tip of my ponytail was... oh my god.

I responded, I think, in a perfectly appropriate fashion. I decided then and there that friends don't flush friends down the toilet. Literally, at least. The four of us left the office while the adults convened over necessary punishments. They decided that the ringleader deserved a suspension, and the remaining two would be forbidden to attend the homecoming dance. For eighth graders at an all-girl school, that was far, far worse than being suspended. The three of them looked at me incredulously, shocked at my ultimate betrayal. I might have toilet-water-stained clothing, but they weren't allowed at the dance. The Dance, they said in unison. I'm sorry, I said, but still, it was kind of crappy what you did.

Expectantly, news of this scandal reached far-and-wide across the middle school, and I was confronted with multiple people asking why I was so cruel. When I explained that I was sorry, and that I actually hadn't asked the school to suspend the ringleader, I was met with, "But the dance. It's Madonna themed." How could I do such a thing? Take a fucking shower, one especially ardent classmate told me. Thankfully we were thirteen and that meant that "situations" had a half-life of about three days. By the day of the Dance, everyone was fine. By the next Monday, we were all friends again. But a few weeks later, the three girls kindly let me know that while I was a fun and engaging friend, they couldn't quite trust me. I again apologized for admitting to the teachers that they'd given me a swirly, but they didn't want to hear it. I had betrayed their trust, and it was time to move on.

These two situations taught me something: I'm drawing a connection between my seventh-month-old puppy who loves nothing more than toys that squeak and the aftermath of a swirly in the eighth grade -- I really, really need to get a life.

I Wish I Could Turn Back Time

A friend of mine said that to her boss a few weeks ago, and I think it reigns as the all-time best response after making a mistake. What's better, my friend didn't make a mistake. Her boss asked for one thing and then changed her mind.

"I wish I could turn back time." I just like to practice saying it.

Sometimes I wonder if powerful people forget that while us young grasshoppers are willing to learn anything and do most things in hopes for successful careers, at no time are we capable of predicting, controlling, or resolving Manhattan traffic. Or any city traffic, for that matter. But perhaps this is part of the joke: if we could, we probably wouldn't be asked to sit in the same seat for so long.

Bridging the Gap

This past weekend I was lucky enough to sit next to my grandmother for dinner. It should be noted that while she joined our family only a mere thirteen years ago, she is absolutely part of the family, and thus I pay the same respect to her as I would anyone from the grandparent generation.

However, it should also be noted that she tends to avoid - at all costs - ever paying me a straight, direct, just-so-you-feel-good compliment. For instance, last Christmas, instead of saying that my haircut looked nice she said, "I love your haircut because your last one really fell on your face at all the wrong angles." Oh, okay, thanks.

Or, earlier this summer at a family BBQ, instead of saying I looked nice she said, "You look great, you must have lost weight because your figure is finally beginning to show." Er, I've been the same weight for three years, but yes, thanks.

Last Saturday was no different. Except this time I must give her the credit and mention that our conversation was extremely positive, and she did, ultimately, say some very nice things. But this was my favorite:

We were talking about how my politics and lifestyle may, er, deviate from the rest of my family. I was a little confused as to what she was talking about because we haven't really had "the talk" that would merit this statement, but I went with it. I agreed, and said, yes, I was a bit more liberal than the others but I really didn't think family needed to revolve around vice-presidential nominations. She responds,

"You're absolutely right, and I really respect your ability to bridge the two worlds. I have every confidence that if you started dating an affluent boy from Newport, you would absolutely hold your own, despite your not understanding his background."

She was right. I mean, just that afternoon my family had taken a cruise on my uncle's yacht to check out the palaces that skimmed the Newport coastline. What simpletons we were, sipping white wine and nibbling crab cakes, reaching for our cable knit sweaters and country-club-specific fleeces when the wind picked up just before sunset.

I wondered what my boyfriend in Newport would look like; if his house was on the water, or simply at the end of a private drive. Would his parents both work, or would one stay home to tend the household? Maybe he would have an older sister, who was brunette, and single, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.

"You're right," I finally responded. "I just hope the boy I finally end up with is able to embrace our many differences, and appreciate our similar interests."

Ten Stages of Drunkenness

1. Witty and Charming
2. Rich and Powerful
3. Benevolent
4. Fuck Dinner
5. Clairvoyant
6. Patriotic
7. Witty and Charming Part II
8. Let's Fire Up the Enola Gay
9. Invisible
10. Bulletproof

Baha Oklahoma

I'm Blogging on a Train!

I've always wanted to do that.

The Ex-it Strategy

Apparently there is something about me in a black dress that turns my ex into a "frat boy." Of course, this metaphor only stretches so far, as I have numerous "frat boy" friends, and my being in a black dress actually makes them substantially nicer to me. Unfortunately for this lucky individual, by "frat boy" she means "teenage boy" and thus reacts to said outfit with an edge of distaste and fear of cooties. This is all fine, we've been doing this dance for a few years now, and I try not to take it personally. 

Last Saturday I was so lucky as to be both wearing a black dress and in my ex's company, and it took only me arriving for the ridicule to start. I withstood these smirks for about forty-five minutes before it just got plain uncomfortable. That, and I'd finished my whiskey soda, so it was new drink or new party. I decided that as fun as frat boy was making my evening, I missed my similarly dressed friends on the lower east side.

Another comment hit me like a tennis ball and that was it! I'd had enough! No more comments! No more making me uncomfortable for looking nice! And I was very proud as I announced this to the room - with most of its guests not giving a shit if I was in a skirt or a towel - that I was Leaving! Goodbye! I turned to make my theatrical exit (take that, frat boy) when I walked into the wall.

I had a choice: show that my nose may or may not be bleeding or deal with it in a taxi.

Theatrical indeed.

The Picnic

When my father set out to be an organic farmer in Montana during the summer between his junior and senior years in college, it took him eight weeks to reach the most important realization of his life: It takes a long time for trees to grow. Appropriately, he moved to New York and entered the busy world of finance, and never looked back on "what could have been."

But despite this decision to engage with something else that is green, my father has passionately commanded that we, his children and wife, perceive as an unabashed "outdoor kid." OK, Dad. A wardrobe of fleece and gortex makes you a real mountain guide.

Unfortunately for my father, and especially for my mother, he chose a wife with staunch indoor leanings. Her ideal weekend is spent in front of the computer EBaying with HGTV on mute in the background and our dog, Cookie, gnawing on rawhide by her feet. At no point in the day should she feel cold. She loves our place in Vermont because she can entertain her favorite weekend activities with an impressively nicer view. You can take the lady outside... you get the picture.

Needless to say, my parents' commitment to each other has resulted in a lot of compromise. Dad knows that Mom has negative interest in cross country skiing, but Mom knows that she needs to commit to at least three hikes and seven days of skiing per year, non-negotiable terms. It's obvious my father appreciates this gesture, as those hikes and ski days tend to revolve around minimal incline and maximum lunch breaks.

One of those non-negotiable hike days occurred but a few weeks ago, when I met my parents for a couple days at their condo in Colorado. I'd flown in from Jackson Hole and was not only acclimated, but also ready for a good, solid day-hike. I assumed that because my father shared this desire, Mom would remain happily at the homestead undisturbed for the day. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived to Dad pleading her to join us.

"Weir, please come! We're going to this gorgeous lake."

At first, she held her own.

"I don't really want to, Michael. You and Liz go."

"But we can go as a family! [and in a kind of whispery tone] She's only here until tomorrow."

That tone, regardless of what he actually said, meant, "Liz, help me convince your mother."

"Yea, we'll have fun! Please, I really want you to come." I was up to the task. Obviously. The notion of my mother with a fanny pack is hilarious.

After a few more minutes of back-and-forth excuses, Mom conceded, and slowly put on her hiking gear.

Mom wore a grin as we drove down the highway toward our trail head. It was sunny; classical music accentuated the mountains; she even contributed to our order at the deli. This was going to be just fine, said the little twinkle in my father's eye. Truth me told, I was skeptical. Mom was being just a little too agreeable.

The first five minutes of our "hike" was actually walking up a road from the parking lot to the actual trail. She stopped three times to "look at the flowers." When we reached the trail head, she need to "look at the map," and then she needed to "double-check our route," and then her back was starting to hurt. In her defense, there were some pretty flowers in the private residences we passed; and the map did present an array of various routes to our destination.

I've never been a great leader - my pace is typically faster than my counterparts, and I get impatient quickly. Today was no different, especially because it seemed that with every step I took forward, Mother somehow took five steps back. I was careful not to encourage her too obviously; if my mother is anything it is independent, and unless she is the one acting the part, she doesn't like "cute."

After four minutes I had to say something. "Mom, come on. You can do this - just keep walking." This was worse than any twelve-year-old camper I'd pushed up a mountain.

She kind of grunted a response. Dad tried to interpret said grunt and offered that perhaps she'd like to take off one of her layers. Her expression said that his was a sort of good idea. Long-sleeve shirt off, tied around waist (over fanny-pack), hands on hips. My dad and I cautiously continue walking. Mom does not follow.

"I think I'm suffering from altitude sickness."

"No, you're not." I responded coolly.

Twenty more step. Twenty more steps for me means it was negative one hundred steps for her. My dad and I looked at her incredulously. She was actually teetering backwards.

"I'm looking at the god damned flowers, Michael."

We couldn't contain it any longer. Laughter awarded the mountains with a free concert.

"I have a headache." Dad and I shook our heads. I looked at my watch. We'd left the car fifteen minutes ago. This was at least an hour hike with normally-paced hikers.

I told them that they should keep walking (in place) and I would run ahead to see if we were getting close. It should be noted that by this point, three hiking groups had passed us. All of which were larger, and all of which had younger children trailing (ha) along.

It took me less than three minutes to know that we were nowhere near the lake. I walked back to my poor, ailing parents, and figured either we force mother to endure the worst day of her life, or we admit defeat, drop her off at home, and go on another hike. The choice seemed pretty obvious.

When I suggested the idea and added that we all sit down for lunch on a nice looking rock (as we hadn't exactly reached anywhere with a view), my father was a little hesitant. I could tell her really wanted Mom to reach the lake. My mother was also hesitant, though more to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic. But I tell you: I haven't seen her eyes light up like that in years. We sat down on the nearest rock and I passed around sandwiches - we'd all ordered turkey with mustard and lettuce. There hadn't been ten seconds of content silence before,

"This is peppered turkey."

"So?"

"Peppered turkey hurts my mouth."

Shit. I offered an apology along with my bread, mustard, and lettuce folded into a nice veggie sandwich.

"No. Too many carbs."

My father offered her a Pria bar.

"No. Too bad for my teeth."

We couldn't help smirking.

And then she said in by far the saddest, most defeated tone I've ever head, "All I wanted for lunch was a turkey sandwich. It was the one thing getting me through this afternoon."

I apologized again, but it was uttered through so much laughter I'm sure she could only appreciate it so much.

We finished lunch and started the 500-yard trek back to the car. Ironically, my mother's back was suddenly fine. Her had headache had lifted. Her feet felt wonderful. She did everything but trot to the car, ahead of both Dad and me, beaming like a horse finally returning to its stable...

What I've learned: Mom will win the battle, and she will win the war.

Signs You Know it Was Your Birthday

1. Sheets are not dry
2. Advil loose in my back pocket
3. Confidence that absolutely nothing has changed since last year.

Same Chip, Different Cookie

Coming out is like... a box of chocolates. No, that's not it. Coming out is like... lily tickled air on a summer day. No, that's not right either. Coming out is like... coming out sucks. It's nerve-wracking and awkward and even for a girl who needs to constantly remind herself that she's not in a movie, this stage was enormous and daunting. But even without a movie script in hand I still did as the celebs do: take advantage of the night hours.*

*This is one of those moments where substances
are part of the story.

Because I don't want to admit that Mr. Beam told my secret to the masses, I like to think it was the dark magic of nighttime that prompted my confessional. But let's be honest - I came out six times in two weeks at the beginning of Sophomore year. And I'm not talking six different pods of people. I'm talking same group of friends, present for every conversation that actually read like a script by the end. "Guys, I have something to tell you," I'd begin after five or six vodka shots. The girls would look at each other. Not this again. "What's up, Parker?" "You're not going to like this." What they didn't like was knowing that they had another thirty minutes before the conversation, the SAME conversation as the previous night, would come to a close - either someone would interrupt, or I'd forget what I was talking about and suggest another shot. To this, they unanimously agreed. The next morning(s) I would awake a little confused, thinking that I'd maybe come forward, but then assuming I hadn't because if I had I would totally remember, right? To my friends' credit, they humored me and let me know, each time, that it was okay if I "sometimes maybe dated a girl." I was not gay. No, that was too declarative. Too major. I wasn't techincally bi. Too trendy. I was "not straight."

When I came out to my dad it was on the eve of our annual Christmas party. I'd always wanted to be the child that comes home from college and uses the holiday cheer to cushion the blow of her sexuality. We were standing in the kitchen sipping late-night wine and he was telling me how his friends thought I'd grown-up so nicely. Apparently that was all I needed. Tears streamed down my face. Little, pathetic sobs made my shoulders shake. Dad, understandably, looked alarmed.

"Bird? You okay?" Clearly no.
"It's just... it's just, I have something to tell you."

He offered the classic and very loving, "Whatever it is you can tell me" while I tried to regain composure. He totally knew what was coming.

"I'm [choke] not [bite lip] straight." I'm not straight? What the hell does that even mean? Scoliosis?

Dad handled it well. He put one arm over his daughter's shoulders and used his free hand to grab a bottle of champagne. We sat in the living room and drank while I told him the story of how I came to like girls.

I still only rarely admit my sexuality in the daylight hours, and even rarer do I use the G word. And I don't even pretend to "be above labels," - I love Seven jeans and Whole Foods as much as the next person. It's not that I avoid the terminology, as I frequently lament the lack of lesbians in my life and make fun of bulldykes and call my good gay friend a queen, but I let on my own leanings by dropping a pronoun or referring to a obviously female ex. Never, "Hi, my name is Liz, I'm gay." Always, "Hi, my name is Liz, last night I hooked up with this girl, but she's probably straight. I'm not, though."

Thanks, Liz, for that clarification.

Camp Deerfield

It took me almost a month to realize that I was actually attending boarding school, and not year-round camp with classes. To this day I find it odd that neither parent motioned to inform me. We drove the two-hour ride on a Sunday morning in early September, our dark-green minivan surprisingly empty for so monumental a move. I packed for this new school like I’d always packed for camp: a trunk of clothes, a bag of linens, a shoebox of cherished pictures.

Ironically, the first person I encountered at Deerfield was an older girl from Teton Valley, further cementing my assumption that this was camp with homework. Camp was fun, homework was easy. Deerfield, I bragged to my parents, was going to be a cinch. Again, rather mysteriously, my parents simply nodded and helped transport luggage from car to dorm.

In retrospect, I think a simple, “Hey, Liz, this might not be just like camp,” or, “You know, high school is usually pretty hard,” might have helped in the grand scheme of things. While that first day progressed comfortably with a stream of orientation groups, and a school-wide sit-down meal, and an awkward hour of name games in the student center, Deerfield started in September for a reason. And I understand why we are urged not to consider first impressions absolutely; the succeeding week from this arrival day was an unequivocal omen that I would feel bruised, tangled, and exposed at this place.

Day One was a Monday, the first day of classes. Summer sunny, girls in skirts, boys sweltering from jackets and ties, chicken cutlets for lunch. I felt good about the contacts made thus far, and when I saw two girls walking slightly ahead of me after Spanish class, I hurried to catch-up. They greeted me and I broke into a story. Nothing new there.

Why I felt the need to wave my hands ferociously at the top of the stairs I'll never know, but unsurprisingly my ankle rolled and I tumbled down the stairs. The fall felt like it happened quite quickly, but when I opened my eyes on the ground floor, the students hovering around me looked like they’d had ample time to collect in a circle. The Classroom Building stairs wrap around a brief landing before a final flight delivers you to the front door. My body flew down the first flight with such force that I slid across the interim landing and continued to fall, only stopping once I surpassed the bottom step.

When classes let out at 3:05pm sharp, everyone tends to socialize in the building’s main foyer before walking outside. I think those kids who stood closest to me tried desperately not to stare at my now exposed bottom half. The khaki skirt I’d picked specifically for my first day of school was now wrapped around my shoulders and reached up to my chin (ask about my underwear and I'll let you know I was wearing minimal coverage garments). My black heels were nowhere in my vicinity, but a well-known senior boy emerged from the crowd to hand them to me. Someone asked if I was okay, and if it was permissible to laugh. I limped out of the building and my respondent laughter was the pride stifling my confession that I thought my hip was broken.

Day Two: Tuesday, soccer tryouts. I felt both determined and confident about making the team. I’ve never been one to back-down from competition, and when our last drill involved a two-person race from midfield to goal, I sprinted with my head tucked down, mind and body absolutely dedicated to winning. The fields were directly below the athletic complex, and often the school’s trainers would sit on a porch overlooking the various practices.

I reached the goal sooner than expected, my head still tucked down in track star form. When I finally looked up to compare my location with the other girl’s, my head shot through the soccer net. In an effort to free my now-stuck head, my left arm and right leg became caught in the net as well. I dangled a few inches above the ground, the net surprised at its own ability to render me immobile. It took a few minutes for the coach to realize my lingering by the goal was not a choice, but an imprisonment. The team gathered by the goal in a combination of guffaws and awestruck stares. I resembled a crustacean, claws connecting body to net.

Mr. Williams introduced himself as the head trainer and cut me out of the goal with a pair of dulled medical scissors. In an effort to pretend this was not happening and to avoid eye contact with the other athletes walking back from practice, I closed my eyes. And dropped to the grass with an even thud.

The next day at biology class, I overheard the teacher ask a girl sitting in front of me if she knew who had gotten their head stuck in a soccer net.

Day Three: Saturday of the same week, mid-afternoon, “free swim” (I realize this is in and of itself embarrassing). A group of new friends and I had discovered the pool, and especially loved the springy diving board. I somehow convinced myself, and these other unknowing acquaintances, that I could perform a back flip. I figured I’d dove a little in elementary school, and diving was sort of like riding a bike. You just take a deep breath and go.

High school, like camp, was all about taking chances. “Seriously, your body basically does the flip for you,” I reassured a fellow swimmer after he asked me if I could really do one. I should have known: justifying your ability to do something is life’s way of begging you to think twice.

My friend James was leading a tour-group through the Natatorium when I flailed my arms and attempted the dive. Upon completing the flip, I hit the board head first and rickashayed into the water, completely knocked-out. The tour-group stood watching as lifeguards and swimmers catapulted themselves into the pool, my body floating back up in the now-crimson liquid. James turned to the group and said, “We are proud to house an extremely capable medical staff here at Deerfield. Hopefully she’ll be just fine.”

“Hopefully,” agreed a sarcastic woman in large black sunglasses.

When I came to at the side of the pool, all I could muster was: “My head hurts. A lot.”

The school physician diagnosed me with a moderate concussion and used eight stitches to sew an even line perpendicular to my hair part.

Two days later at sit-down lunch, the athletic director made an announcement that due to unforeseen circumstances, the diving pool had been drained over the weekend, and water polo practice would resume by Wednesday.

By the second week of class, I was impressively well known for a freshman.

I'd Like to Thank My Friends and Family

While most children can tell a story or perform a dance and feel satisfied with a mere pat on the back, I felt like that pat on the back was a subtle way of saying, “I don’t care, and you aren’t good.” I was eight-years-old and passionate about anything that would grant me attention. I was both aggressive and scheming in this endeavor. I considered each performance, regardless of who constituted the audience, as a potentially life-altering experience. I’d seen Life with Mikey; I knew child show business was tough stuff. But I figured, like the little girl who made Sunshine Cookies what they are today, if my parents didn’t understand my talent, surely an agent walking down the street would.

Every morning during second grade, our teacher, Mrs. Bendish, would lead the class through the first verse of America the Beautiful. After roll call was finished, we mechanically aligned ourselves in a semi-circle facing the chalkboard, and watched her sway a miniature American Flag side to side, exclaiming: “Let’s show this flag what we’re made of!”

At first, this had felt odd. I understood we needed to celebrate our country, but I could not fathom why a country so important would manufacture a flag so small. However, one morning during the early winter, our lower school music teacher, Mrs. Meachin, walked by the classroom while we were singing. She stopped briefly in the doorway, leaning heavily on her cane, and smiled to the room before continuing down the hall. Suddenly it clicked: Mrs. Bendish was not making the class sing for the flag – she was making me sing in hopes that Mrs. Meachin would overhear and immediately put me on stage. The class was obviously a decoy so I would feel comfortable.

The next morning, I awoke with the feeling that today would be the day. I carefully buttoned my green uniform jumper, made sure my Cinderella socks were folded exactly three times over, and took a long look around my room. The stuffed animals knew something was different. They sat up straight on the bed, their faces flooded with trepidation. “Don’t worry,” I reassured them, collecting my reading and math folders. “Even when I’m famous, I’ll bring you wherever I go.” Mr. Bear and Baby-O seemed to relax after that.

I arrived to school anxious to begin our morning carol. When Mrs. Bendish called my name I resounded an exuberant “Here!” and stood up excitedly, beaming. Mrs. Bendish lightly coughed before reading the next name; students normally remained seated during attendance. Roll call continued uneventfully. I remained standing.

Before long Mrs. Bendish lined us up, her arm outstretched and swaying the American Flag. At first I felt a little put off – I assumed for my debut she would have at least found a larger flag. But then I figured she probably didn’t want to act conspicuously in front of the other students, lest they feel jealous when Mrs. Meachin arrived.

The class began singing: O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain… Mrs. Bendish joyfully conducting from the front. When the class reached: America! I jumped into the middle of the circle, belting the lyrics with all I had. I closed my eyes like Whitney Houston and faced the doorway, arms outstretched toward Mrs. Meachin.

And crown thy good, with brotherhood from sea to shining sea! I kept my eyes closed for a moment. This was special. I wanted Mrs. Meachin to know just how dedicated I was to my impending career. The air felt tense, like everyone was restlessly waiting to see what happened next.

I opened my eyes to an empty doorway. The room was silent. I turned back around to the class and met Mrs. Bendish’s gaze. Her look was of flabbergasted concern. “Why don’t we all sit down now,” she instructed, mouthing, stay-in-side-for-re-cess, before I walked back to my desk.

Mathematics and social studies rolled through the classroom before it was finally time for my “talk” with Mrs. Bendish. I wasn’t scared; we’d had “talks” before. They typically consisted of Mrs. Bendish explaining the “consequences of my actions”, and asking if I “understood why students didn’t behave in such-and-such manner.” I quickly learned after a fiasco with the class chicks in late September that it was best if I sat back and kept my mouth shut.

“Elizabeth,” she began today, furrowing her eyebrows. “Do you understand why you aren’t at recess right now?”

“Probably because I sang too loudly,” I conceded, letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. I’d failed. Everyone knew a vociferous voice murdered hopes of stardom.

“Elizabeth,” she tried again, realizing that my sigh was one of defeat, and not one of remorse. Screams from the playground bled through the windows and taunted the room’s silence.

“Elizabeth,” she repeated, louder.

“I’m sorry I disrupted the classroom,” I offered mechanically. Mrs. Bendish’s eyes softened a little. I added hurriedly: “Does this mean Mrs. Meachin didn’t like my singing? Because I’m sure if I sang a different song I could do better.”

Mrs. Bendish did not even try to conceal her exasperation. She looked at me incredulously.

“Elizabeth, in no way is the song important here…” Her reprimand quickly droned out as I imagined her graying hair as hot pink, her conservative navy skirt transformed into a black micro-mini covered in little red hearts. She was onstage, lecturing off tune. I giggled. She stopped dead in her tracks.

“All right let’s go,” she commanded, waving her hand harshly and walking toward the door. “This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

I’d done this before, too. We would walk the thirty steps down the third-grade hallway, pass the make shift library, and arrive at the principal’s office. She would tell Mrs. Young I was acting out, murmur something about me going to see such-and-such, and leave me to explain myself to a woman who considered her emaciated dog, Ginger, far superior to any Greenwich Academy student. Today I stayed in Mrs. Young’s office until lunchtime, instructed to “reflect on how I could be a better member of the classroom.” I decided I needed to pick a better song and choreograph a more sophisticated routine.

When my nanny picked me up from school that day, Mrs. Bendish handed her two sealed envelopes, and requested that each parent read both. Grietje looked back at me and raised her eyebrows.

“How come your brother never gets notes home?” I shrugged.

Our minivan dragged itself down the road and she turned on the soundtrack to “Camelot”. I shouted along, my eyes closed and arms outstretched. Michael covered his ears with both hands.

Is This Mama Bear?

Sometimes when I get too excited I overindulge. And sometimes when I overindulge, I confuse myself for a 225 lb football player on Spring Break. This confusion, while fun at the time, has unfortunately generated a wide spectrum of results, the majority of which I feel thankful to only partially remember.

Appropriately, the last time this distortion of self-perception occurred was at a lesbian bar. This is unsurprising - I lack the aesthetic lesbian hipster edge, so I overcompensate by drinking like a dude. Further, I was at said lesbian bar sandwiched between the ex of an ex and a straight girl who seems to think that tequila can make you gay.

The last thing I remember is taking a shot, chasing it with Bud Lite, kissing the straight girl after saying no to the ex of the ex, but stopping mid-kiss to explain that I was drunk and thus not bringing my A game. She didn't seem to notice, or care, or remember much the next morning.

Then: my father is shaking me. It is light out. I am on a bench. Inside. But where? People in uniform. Shiny floors. SVU? No, can't be. Olivia and Stabler are not real.

"Dad, I didn't come home last night, did I?" (Did I?)
"No, you didn't, that's the problem." I sat up and looked across the corridor. My head felt fuzzy.
"They made me sign a book. Did they make you sign a book?"
"No, Liz. They didn't."

My father nicely, though not exactly gently, led me outside to his car. The morning air settled onto my skin and I realized something: I had just woken up in jail, and my father had clearly driven in to retrieve me. Reality (or the leftover beer?) hit me like a ton of bricks and suddenly I was wailing. Dad was clearly uncomfortable. I mean, what do you even say in a moment like that? "Gee, daughter, don't be upset, we've all blacked out and woken up in prison." Or, "Come on, Liz, at least you didn't pee on the bench."

Instead he drove to my apartment and said calmly, "you are going to go upstairs and get your dog, and then come back down so I can drive you home for the weekend."

When I returned I spent a few minutes crying with my puppy (wait, I've done that before...) until finally asking what had actually happened.

Here's a basic intinerary:

12:30-3:00am - Liz is actually Larry, the fullback for the Middlebury Panthers
3:03am - Larry, wearing signs of Liz, gets into a cab and mumbles an address
3:03:30am - Liz decides there is no better place to take a nap than this backseat
3:30am - Cab arrives at mumbled address. Liz does not respond. Cabbie asks for money. Liz dreams of girl she met that night.
3:40am - Cabbie realizes this blond girl wearing gold shoes is not waking up anytime soon.
3:50am - Cabbie drops blond girl off at the Bowery Precinct
3:55-4:30am - Policeman on duty calls the following people in hopes to revive Elizabeth Lawrence Parker of Greenwich Connecticut:
Uncle Graham
Cousin Sage
Cousin Graham
Grandpa Parker
Grandma Bitsy Cell Phone
Brother
Mama Bear

(At home in Greenwich the phone rings. Mom assumes it's Japan and answers)
"Is this Mama Bear?" There's only one person who calls her that.
"Michael you need to handle this."
"Hello?"
"Yes, sir, we have your daughter, who is fine, but... needs someone to come get her."
"Oh shit. She drunk again?"
"Yessir."

The following night, my mother tried to console me.

"Liz, just limit yourself."
"That's the problem. Maybe I can't."
"Oh, no, that's silly. Do what I do. Drink two glasses of wine and stop."
"Yea but you go to bed at 9."
"Exactly. If you want to drink, you'll have to go to bed at 9."

Well folks, there's always brunch.