Several celebrities who were at once point close to Michael Jackson have released statements expressing their regret over lack of closure. I was thinking about this the other day. We all know that we're supposed to tell the people we love or admire how we feel about them to prevent regret if tragedy strikes, but how many of us actually do it? I mean, in most cases, if a friend or family member of mine were to die suddenly, I'd be fairly confidant that said person knew I cared for them. But in almost every case, there's something more--sometimes much more--that I'd want to tell them before tragedy struck.

I was even thinking about sort of making a project of it, writing letters to everyone I know describing exactly how I feel about them. But isn't that kind of weird? I mean, if you got a letter from quiet_flame saying, "Hey, yourname, in case you die unexpectedly, I wanted you to know that I think you're really funny and pretty and nice, and I really liked that idea you posted about a senior citizen remake of Bonnie and Clyde featuring Betty White and Mickey Rooney" (What! It's a good idea, right?), would you be creeped out? Also, maybe the notion of someone caring enough about my silly little opinion to make such grand gestures necessary is completely presumptuous and arrogant. Still, it bothers me that we seem to praise people most after they're dead. Shouldn't we do that while they're still capable of appreciating it?

Speaking of things that bother me, I hate that women are considered accomplices in men's "inability" to control their sexual desires. Especially in religious circles, women are expected to dress modestly so as not to be "stumbling blocks" to their fellow believers, but even mainstream society is sympathetic toward men who verbally harass women who dress in a way they deem to be "procovative"--sometimes even toward men who assume a short skirt cancels out the word "no." The underlying idea here, I guess, is that male sexual desire is so strong--and willpower/sense of decency so weak--that men cannot possibly be expected to battle it alone. We have to help them not rape us. Male appetites are also allegedy stronger than females, so I guess us ladies should do our part by starving to death so dudes can have seconds. Fuck that, and give me back my fries if you wanted some you should've ordered your own. I mean, I can say with fairly significant certainty that penises are not wild dogs. They have no independent thought. It is totally possible for them to remain in the womb of their chinos when cleavage is in the vicinity. Also? Women have sexy thoughts too. We even have working genitals that feel tingly when they picture Hugh Jackman singing showtunes to them. Yet, somehow, we do not generally rabidly hump the first shirtless construction worker we see. We also do not demand that dudes refrain from removing their shirts at the beach because "they're asking for it." Again: rational adults capable of self-control.

Also if you like Drew Barrymore can you please explain to me why. I mean there is a fucking shark on her head.

Did you know that everyone I know is either moving, buying a house, or having a baby, and all I am doing is yelling at my cats for rimming each other (don't click that)? Did you know that the world is full of steaming cups of hot mucus who honk at you for using the tail-end of the crosswalk .033 seconds after the light has changed? Did you know that someone just left a comment on my friends' link to an article in favor of gay marriage insisting she should not have to hire or rent property to people who are "against God"? Did you know that somewhere right now someone is kicking a puppy? Did you know that my vagina looks like Pacman today? Did you know that yesterday I got sick from eating too healthy? Did you know that I am tired of trying to find the magic and beauty in a single leaf floating down from a tree? Did you know that I just want a baby and a million dollars and a waterbed with fish in it and fuck the beauty of a single leaf floating down from a tree? Did you know that doctors appointments comprise the bulk of my summer? Did you know I have a brand new baby niece that I may never get to see because I can't travel? Did you know that I go about in pity for myself? Did you know that I wish I could just shut the fuck up and be content like I'm supposed to be and focus on the positive and be the change I want to see in the world and work hard play hard and give a penny take a penny and I don't know what the hell is wrong with me but for some reason I just can't do it I'm stuck being a sad lump of bile? Did you know that I am fine I am just a little bit cranky is that against the law? Did you know that I love you guys? Did you know I can't tell the Jonas Brothers apart? Well? Did you?


basically.

I'm not a religious person, as I've mentioned here before, but one thing I really like about religion is the communal aspect. Not just communal, I guess--there's an element there that you won't find at a city council meeting, and I guess it's a collective form of reverence. I love the idea of a group of people coming together to marvel at the world and to explore how best to live in it, of strangers bonding through gratitude and wonder and sorrow and hope. I guess that's the Unitarian Universalist Church's mission, and it may very well be successful--there's a chapter in my city and Tim and I have been meaning to check it out for a long time; laziness is our only excuse. But I really wish that such spaces were a fundamental part of the fabric of society the way traditional churches are.

I also find the non-religious community to be disappointingly indifferent to rituals, which are an important part of bonding--with others and with, in a sense, life itself. When you hold hands and say grace before Thanksgiving dinner, it's almost impossible not to feel a sense of peace and gratitude. The act itself invites those feelings. You're not going to get the warm fuzzies just digging right into the mashed potatoes, because that's a different part of your brain, the part that's in survival mode and just wants to eat and get through the day. Rituals and ceremonies and traditions facilitate a unique brand of awareness because they, in a sense, socialize introspection; they allow everyone to share in a common thoughtfulness. I think that's why I love holidays. Nothing is about what it really is--baking cookies isn't about the technical act of eating, it's about nourishing each other and delighting in creating something together. Everything becomes deeper, in a way that affirms that life is meaningful and precious.

Tim recently mentioned that he might start using the term "secular humanist" instead of "atheist" to describe our beliefs. I like to describe myself as an atheist for the same reason I describe myself as fat--I feel like it makes those words less taboo, challenges the way they've been demonized. But I understand where Tim's coming from, because while "atheist" implies a lack of belief, "secular humanist" implies a kind of faith. And I like that perspective. Because, really, a lack of faith in God does not imply a lack of any faith at all. I believe that the earth is an incredible place, beautiful and functional, fragile and resilient. I believe that humans are astonishing, capable of art and technology and love. I believe that caring for each other and the world is the best thing we can do. I have been told that because I don't believe in a higher power, my life must be empty, but it is not an empty life. It's a life of constant wonder and amazement.

And that's why I wish folks like me had more outlets for expressing those feelings. We feel them as much as religious people do, but we feel them mostly in isolation, or under the guises of other things--poetry readings, for instance, or yoga class. And that's fine. But I want us to have our own special place, a place designated for no purpose other than reverence. I want to walk into a hushed, dusty building with sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows. I want to run my hand across the top of a polished pew. I want the sounds of joyful singing and quiet weeping. I want to bow my head and hold someone's hand while I thank no one in particular for this world I love--a love as holy as any other.

Went to Vegas last week with my parents. Stayed in a fabulous condo. Rented a convertible. Valet parking every time. Saw the Beatles LOVE show at the Mirage, during which I could not stop smiling. Watched horses ride across Red Rock Canyon at dusk. Gambled a total of $2. All in all, excellent vacation.

***

Yesterday, at a friend's house, I met a very smart and spunky little girl, who showed me how to catch frogs. It got me thinking about how adults automatically condescend to children, as if it is impossible to communicate with them without first establishing a hierarchy: Superior adult/inferior child. It is never okay to simply be two humans having a conversation. Tim says his father's refusal to talk down to him is probably the main reason he's smart and confidant as an adult. At sixth grade camp, we were made to sing Old McDonald. We were 12 years old! Some of us had already had sex. Not that we were ready for that, but damn, I had to make oinking noises when I had already read Shakespeare. Children shouldn't be thrown into an adult world before they're ready, but underestimating their intelligence is dangerous too.

***

I rarely talk politics here, but the murder of abortion provider Dr. George Tiller is really weighing on my heart. When women received the devastating news that their late-term fetuses were afflicted with health problems that would cause them to live very brief lives full of pain and suffering, they crossed state lines to receive compassionate care from Dr. Tiller. Now there is no Dr. Tiller. He was shot walking into his church. Risking his own life every day, enduring ceaseless attacks and harassment, to help desperate women when nobody else would--that was his crime. He was one of the few legal late-term abortion providers left in the country. Eventually, fundamentalists chanting "life"--the most perverse irony there ever was--will make them extinct. And women will be forced once again to bleed to death in back alleys. The criminal who killed Dr. Tiller didn't take just one life; he significantly contributed to the future deaths of countless women who will have no choice. My only consolation in this whole tragedy is that Dr. Tiller is finally at peace. I just wish his peace didn't have to come like this.

Well, I survived the party without crying at any point in the evening, so I'll declare it a success. Mingled non-stop with strangers for 4+ hours, which was really overwhelming for me, so I held up pretty well. It never ceases to amaze me how effortlessly good some people are at that kind of thing. You can ask them, "So, what do you think of the conflict in the Middle East?" and they'll instantly spout off some response that manages to be brilliant, witty and non-offensive at the same time, all while daintily nibbling questionable sushi, passing out business cards and mentally calculating the net worth of everyone in the room. Whereas I, when delivered a tough, thought-provoking inquiry like, say, "How are you?" will frantically wrack my brain for ten seconds, desperately sloughing through the random junk in my head, mostly donuts and bad puns and obscene images of Hugh Jackman, before coming up with some suave and enlightening retort, like "Um, keeping it real." (Yes, I actually said that.) I  think the high volume of conversations was actually a good thing for me, though. In almost every interaction I have, there's something I regret saying and obsessively beat myself up over afterward. This party was no exception, but there were so many conversations that I lost track of every stupid thing I said and thus had no ammunition with which to emotionally shoot myself. Also, I think someone took a picture of me scratching my nose. Hot.

***

People are always talking about how time flies. I feel the opposite. I've been alive for 24 years and each one was its own universe. Other people are flying private jets across their years and I'm trotting down a dirt road with a bindlestick over my shoulder. Time moves as lethargically now as it did when I was five years old, each season still weighed down with its own brand of drudgery. In a year, I will be a considerably different person. I will have cried about something I never expected to cry about. I will have read something that reformatted my brain. It's so strange to think that I've only known Tim for five years. Such a small number. What was I doing with myself then? How could anything have seemed important? Maybe five years from today I will wonder how I ever found significance in this moment, right now, writing in my livejournal in my pajamas and worrying about things that undoubtedly will be forgotten by then.

You know those people who are really zealous and perspire a lot and give things "110 percent" and are so energetic they're, like, throbbing with adrenaline and are always earnestly exclaiming about living life to the fullest and living like you're dying and living life out loud and giving it to life from behind like the whore it is, etc? Those people are so foreign to me. I just don't get that perspective, the metaphor as life as scaling a mountain or jumping from a plane or shoving 40 hot dogs down your gullet. To me, life is more like going to the botanical gardens with your family. The flowers are pretty, though not as pretty as the brochure showed, and it's hot, and your feet hurt, and your grandma keeps stopping every few seconds to read the information plaques, and the bottled water costs $7, and the landscaping really is nice, and hey look a butterfly. It's fucking boring. Slow and dull and made worthwhile by occasional beauty and joy. And that's fine. I don't want life to be an extreme sport. I'd rather my cause of death not be excessive puking. So can we stop it with that Tim McGraw song?

***

Remember when Paris Hilton went to jail? That was weird.

For two years before Tim popped the question, I fantasized about getting married. It was one of my most frequent daydreams. As is my way, I photoshopped the hell out of those fantasies, imagining myself tiny-waisted and marble-skinned in a ballgown on a cliff, my fear of heights evaportared along with my body fat and insecurities, barbie hair floating behind me as Tim professed his love for me while the soundtrack of Pride and Prejudice somehow swelled in the distance and seagulls broke out into an interpretive dance routine. It would be one thing if I just indulged in these little delusions as a private hobby, but instead I moaned and lamented and convinced myself that the distance between this dumb unengaged life and future perfect happy princess cake magic wonderland engaged life (gwen stefani should name her next baby that) was UNBEARABLE. I didn't want to wait. There's a reason my Dad used to call me "Veruca Salt" and start singing "I want it now" when my impatience reared its head (spoiled only child in the house!).

Anyway, I didn't die and Tim was smarter than me and he picked the perfect time, and though I was in my pajamas in my living room when I got engaged, and despite the complete lack of choreographed seagulls at my wedding, everything happened in a way that felt completely right for us. So, you'd think I could just shut the fuck up, enjoy my marriage, and finally go about some business unrelated to tiaras and flowers and shit. But no! Turns out Veruca Salt don't play that.

I don't even know how it began. See, I read like six blogs every day, off-LJ. And somehow, all six of these women got pregnant around the same time. For serious! The universe was conspiring to torture me or something. So every day I had to look at big blue baby eyes and soft pink onesies and I had to read all those stories about the first time they saw the baby and the magic and the love and the hand wrapped around the finger and soft heads and first laughs and strollers in the park and lullibies and I JUST CRACKED OK. I went to babycenter.com. It just happened! It didn't mean anything I swear. But soon I was haunted by these elaborate baby thoughts. I mean, it got serious. Thoughts like "I wonder if that birthing center I've passed on my way home from the office does water births," and "Would the baby's name look good stenciled on the wall or is it too long?" I know. This is some private crazy, but I'm putting it all out there.

I just have this inability to be content. Always have. The minute I got the Christmas edition Barbie (the kind that was so fancy my parents forbid me to take off her clothes and cut her hair, which was my favorite thing in life) I already wanted next year's Christmas Barbie. Surely her dress would be even SPARKLIER! It bears no reflection on the current state of my life. Like, I'm happy. Everything's good. Why can't I just be all zen and que cera and stuff? I don't even know. I'm leaving this post unresolved. I really hope I can figure out how to leave the future alone, because the sincere truth is, I don't think this is the best time for a baby. And my future baby is so awesome she deserves the best.

ETA: Actually, this post is totally resolved, because I just watched a natural birth video on YouTube that made Saw 2 look like the Sound of Music and now I am DO NOT WANT on the baby front. Sorry, future baby, I know I already named you and mentally designed your nursery and all, but I can't even handle the stomach flu, what do you want from me? I mean, that video was some medeival shit.

Current Mood: legs crossed

Thanks so much for your good wishes on my last post. It turned out to be a severe case of stomach flu, rather than something more serious, like appendicitis or gallstones, as I feared. I was still close to going to the hospital for an IV because I couldn't keep any fluids down. I was so dehydrated and exhausted from no sleep that I started having crazy delusions. I thought there were three German backpackers (?!) inside my stomach and they controlled which direction I turned to as I tried to get comfortable. This was after I decided there was an old English woman in my stomach churning it like a chunky chowder. I don't know what happened to her. Maybe they smooshed her with their backpacks.

I'm feeling much better this morning, thank Ceiling Cat. I've never had a flu that bad in my life. It's funny how being sick makes you grateful for the most basic of luxuries. I do not, for instance, generally delight in my ability to eat a cracker. I don't throw confetti when my bowel movements are solid. I don't brag about my aptitude at standing erect for minutes at a time (heh...I said "erect"). Yet, I will raise a ginger ale toast in celebration when I can do those things again. Yesterday, when I was super thirsty (and a little bit insane), I told Tim, "When I get better, I'm going to drink FIVE smoothies. EVERY DAY." Dream big. I probably will not actually adopt an all-smoothie diet, but I shouldn't take my smoothie-related freedom for granted. Really, the ability to enjoy anything and not be in horrible pain is something to be appreciated. May I remember that the next time I start to complain about my oily t-zone for the 394th time.

Tim stayed up all night with me night before last doing my bidding. Turns out I am kind of a baby when I have the flu (I WILL NOT DRINK THIS WATER AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!) and without him taking care of me I'd probably be in the hospital right now. Whenever my need to be cared for arises, I am always amazed at his immediate and whole-hearted willingness to fill it. Like, I married this hot brilliant talented fool who will give up his own comfort to tend to my own when I have puke in my hair and am mumbling "We have to get out of these woods"? And tells me he wishes he could be sick instead of me with as much sincerity in his eyes as a Precious Moments figurine? And hates the same SNL cast members as me? This husband and a fridge full of smoothie ingredients? Luckiest girl in the world.

Hey look! A picture of us that wasn't taken with our own awkwardly extended hands. That's Tim's really hot wine face. Anyway, this picture was taken by our dear friends Nate & Nicole. Yes, we have friends, bitch! And they're awesome and adorable. (How great is that picture of Tim & Nate? Guylove! Did I ever tell you about the dirty dream I had about Donald Faison? Moving on.) Anyway, Nicole & Nate are the perfect friends: sweet, hilarious, liberal, literary, and excellent cooks. We get together once a month to cook for each other and play ridiculous board games. I really wish we could see each other more often, but alas, they are busy and important with "ambitions" and "goals" and "life purpose." *theatrical eyeroll*

***

You know what infuriates me more than anything in the world? Well, besides Gwyneth Paltrow's face. When someone honks at you for no reason. FURY. Like tonight: busy intersection, left turn, crusted piece of old bologna nice lady behind me starts honking and waving her arms like a deranged monkey because I am not willing to fling myself into stream of RAPIDLY APPROACHING cars so she can get to her back-waxing appointment choir rehearsal three seconds faster. Homegirl seriously wanted me to die for her convinience! At such moments, I'm proud to say that I take a deep breath, smile serenely, and send energy beams of peace and love her way. I definitely do not say things like, "I hope you get the Mexican version of Swine Flu." I definitely do not break my don't-flip-people-off-cuz-you-might-get-cut rule by flipping her the questionably effective backwards middle finger. How dare you even suggest it!

***

Tim and I haven't had a decent night of sleep in weeks thanks to our resident troublemaker. As soon as we shut the bedroom door at night, he proceeds to scratch and paw at it for the rest of the night. We've tried everything. Confining him to the bathroom didn't work because it's right next to our bedroom and the noise is just as bad. Tried drenching him with squirt guns. Tried spraying it with that gross apple spray that cats hate. Tried scaring him with the vacuum cleaner. Nothing bothers this cat! We finally broke down and bought a large dog kennel, which we'll put downstairs and banish him to when he starts with the paws of doom shit. Which means we've spent $200 on the cats this month. Fuckers. Worth it though. Tim's words as he was hauling the kennel to the car: "You know what this is, baby? This is SLEEP IN A BOX!"

***

Watched "The Wrestler" a couple nights ago and could not.stop.crying. Tim was like, "Meh, overrated," as I'm sitting there gulping for air between sobs. I just thought it was unbearably sad. Felt so much for the character. Anyone else seen this? Curious as to what you thought.

***

That's all I got today. Slow week. MG out!

When I was in college, a friend dubbed me "Sandra Dee" within an hour of meeting me, right before he talked me into my first cigarette, which made me cough for about ten minutes. In high school, people were shocked when they found out how bad my grades are, because I had all the unattractiveness and social incompetence of a nerd, without actually being smart. Mormons, too, couldn't seem to figure out why I didn't want to join their clan--I mean, come on, I was so good at being pasty and sheltered and a general drag, and I didn't even get any afterlife points for it! Point is, I've always had a very squeaky-clean image, one that I've never felt quite comfortable with, because it's always been a conscious decision. A lot of my time and effort goes into the extremely emotional necessary act of Not Being Noticed. Dressing and behaving like Laura Ingalls with boobs successfully makes me invisible to rejection of any kind, but it almost means that, generally, when I'm public, I feel very little like myself, and very much like a character I'm forced to play. A character with the lamest costumes and dialogue ever.

Today I smiled like an idiot as a stranger shoved a needle through my nose. Because as ridiculously corny and dramatic as it sounds, it's not just a snot-tinged (ew) ring of metal in my schnozz, it's a symbol. It means I'm warming up to the idea of being visible, of possibly being stared at or thought about. It's one less layer of the camouflage I paint myself with every time I set foot outside my house. It's a conversation starter, and, ho boy, lord knows I hate a conversation starter. But such are the consequences of being brave enough to risk being seen as who I am. And who I am is a lot of things: a feminist and liberal and atheist and vegetarian and artist and sex-enthusiast (I really hope my mom isn't reading this) and duh, yeah, I totally have Anne of Green Gables marathons and if you take me to a rock concert I will wince and clutch my ears like your grandmother, but I am not Katie fucking Holmes, you know? I am not a brainless virginal robot who actually gives a shit about how unseasonably warm it is today or the most effective way to remove nail polish from a sofa, which are the only kinds of things strangers ever seem to ask me about. Like, I am an actual mammal with a full range of emotions, not the human version of Nicole Kidman's face. And, weirdly, I feel more like myself now.

Plus, Tim thinks it's sexy. So, there's that.

Anyway. Here's to self-actualization through surprisingly painless holes in my face. *raises Chamomile tea*

Well, whaddaya know, true to our word, we actually decided to get off our asses today and spent the afternoon at LACMA. Remember back in the day when I declared myself an anti-museumite? Apparently I was just on my period or something, because this makes two museums in the last month that I have not only not hated but totally enjoyed. I'm discovering my art preferences: love pop art, either love or really hate modern art, like renaissance art but only for the sinister purity of it, installation art is the shit, paintings of cottages by the sea are lame, and vases are the epitome of lame. (Seriously, fuck a vase.) All in all tho, I even had a pretty good time staring at an exhibit of early 19th century food storage containers (wtf?). Museums and I are cool. And now that I know that, there are plenty of future options to explore. Next stop: dinosaurs.

Also, added to my list of Jobs I'd Commit Seppuku Before Trying: Museum guard person. Saddest little man ever giving "I hate life" face to giant balloon dog statue.

***

Sometimes I wish people would invite me to their homes just so I can see how clean their houses are. Every time I find out someone cool has a messy house, I feel immense relief, followed by a rush of liberated thoughts like, "I should just embrace this! It's bohemian chic! That cat puke looks so EDGY on that purple rug!" And when I find out someone cool has an immaculate house, oh the shame, the betrayal. Et tu, Brute, with the clean tile cracks and the color-coordinated closet and no migratory pube on the shower wall? (That is ALL Tim.) I harbor a deep guilt about my stubbornly slobbish nature. I would love to be one of those people who can't sleep until the air vents are thoroughly dusted. I really would, OCD be damned. I love a clean house. I love the spaciousness, the shinyness, the slightly nauseating chemical fumes. I just really don't enjoy doing it. It's gross. There's dirt and hair and old food and sometimes bugs involved. Whereas lolcats contain none of the above. So I look at lolcats instead and the crack behind my refrigerator grows another tenticle. Again: lazy.

Tim is not much for the cleaning either, save for the occasional weirdly impulsive binge clean, and he cares way less about having a clean house than I do, so he's no help there. He needs to write a bestseller about gay vampies so we can afford a maid.

I was going to make a point about how I'm going to be more disciplined and make the time and not leave a used piece of floss on my desk for three days, but hey, look, a lolcat.

***

Please someone help me with this t-zone crisis. My forehead could keep a pizza place in business. Nothing works. I am willing to rub snail slime on myself at this point.

***

Tim had to talk me out of getting my nose pierced tonight. He thinks it's a Big Decision and I should Think About It. Whatever. He's not my real dad!