Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Small victories

I've made no secret that I've kept a journal since I was eight years old. Even before I knew why I was interested in boys, I became interested in writing about them.

When I wasn't writing as a kid, I was reading. I was shy in my elementary school years, and would tear through books by Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Paula Danziger, and Lois Lowry faster than most other kids could get through a single chapter.

Somewhere between reading stories and telling stories, I got hooked on the writing. I found a bizarre pleasure in diagramming sentences in seventh grade grammar, and while I couldn't memorize an algebraic formula to save my life, I committed spelling lists to memory on-sight. When other kids handed in half-hearted essays on what they did during their summer vacation, I turned in pages of what, I thought, at least, passed as prose. My tongue loved being teased with concepts like "onomatopoeia," and I will never forget the most romantic words I learned while studying Romeo and Juliet: "iambic pentameter." Sigh.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved writing. But despite the journals and the A's in English, and, more recently, this blog, I've never felt entirely entitled to call myself a writer.

Until now.

I mentioned a while ago that I had some freelancing projects in the works, mostly corporate stuff similar to what I already do for a living. But then there was this one tiny thing I was drafting, a personal essay of sorts... that I found out today will be published in the LA Times.

This is huge for me. I am not a writer by trade, only partly by passion. Most freelance writers spend weeks perfecting pitches in the hopes of confirming a clip, boasting a byline. The essay isn't lengthy or very significant, but it is appearing in a national freaking newspaper and it is mine. All mine.

I've held off writing about this so as to not jinx my luck, and truthfully, I am still awaiting the date for when the piece will run. But I have the lightly copy-edited version in my Inbox with a "nicely done" from the editor, so I feel like even if it turns into a kill-fee, I've gained just a little bit more out of life.

Thanks, Bill.

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Friday, April 25, 2008

Finally, an excuse to make a day all about me

Guess what? I was just informed that today has been declared as Public Relations Appreciation Day! Or, at least it has in Tuscon.

Ironically, I don't think the publicists behind this movement promoted it very well; otherwise I would have had much more time to alert my bosses that appreciation for me is in order. I'd better get on that now for next year.

My friend Andra is coming into town tonight, so I am excited to have dinner with her. Tomorrow night is my friend Kim's birthday, so a bunch of us will be celebrating. I feel the need to note that I have gone out to dinner I think 8 out of the last 9 nights and all I want is a simple Boca Burger. And possibly a raise, to accommodate my recent spending. Which makes my getting the most out of this day all the more important.

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Monday, April 21, 2008

Belatedly came to my attention at 8:45

My mom used to work in advertising, and I always remember her saying that it didn't matter how creative the campaign, success was only achieved if you could recall the name of the product.

I wish the CW network had consulted my mom when creating their racy new ad for Gossip Girl.

I've been anticipating this show's return for months now - it's one of maybe only three scripted series I watch. Every day I read about Blake and Penn and Leighton in the gossip columns; I follow show and production news in the trades. I even read today that they will no longer be streaming full episodes online, which made me even more determined to watch it in real time, live! At 10 PM. Just like last year.



Except, oh, I'm sorry. What's that, there? You, in the tiny small font, right under the blasphemous F? Does that say 8PM?

Way to hide the most important information. Sorry, advertisers. Now I guess I'm going to have to watch The Hills. WTF?

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To my knowledge, the least expensive gas in the city

On the corner of Pico and Overland.



If you know of a cheaper place, please feel free to share. Mama needs a new pair of espadrilles. Looks like there will be more walking in my future.

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Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Days of Wonder

I'd just like to point out that Nicole, at approximately 6 months pregnant, looks pretty much the way I do at the end of any given day. Well, any day that may involve beer.



Also, Keith looks like he's been dipping into my foundation. And has applied it like Spackle.

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Saturday, April 12, 2008

Saturday update

Hi! Remember me? Apparently I haven't written in a few days. Nothing is really new. Except - hey! - tan lines! First beach day of the year! I'm currently in heaven.

I haven't had too much news to share this week, and there's no better way of calling attention to that than with the mundane Twitter updates I added to the bottom of my sidebar. I still don't really "get" Twitter. Like the Facebook status updates, I can see how they might be mildly addicting, but in the short time I've been Twittering, I haven't gotten too much out of it. Anyway, that's why I added it here. I figured maybe if I had more followers and more people to follow, perhaps I would have a better appreciation for the application. If you are on Twitter, please say hi! Let me know.

Until then, I am heading back outside.



Sunday, April 06, 2008

My meme

My, this is meta. Nicole tagged me in my own meme.

1. What prompted you to start blogging?

Honestly, it was a very off-the-cuff decision. I had just become aware of blogs through Dooce and my uncle, but I hadn't given great thought to starting one. I was playing around online one night, got curious, and quickly created my own. You can read a little bit about the lack of my thought process here.

2. Have you ever been the victim of a crime?

Nothing major, but I was pick-pocketed in London and had my wallet stolen from work once.

London: It was my second night abroad as part of a five week trip through Europe, and I made a conscious effort not to hang my purse strap over my shoulder, but drape it across my body so no one could grab it and run off. I hadn't considered turning the purse over so the flap faced my hip, and not the drunken, singing quartet jostling me on the subway. Fortunately they only got a night's worth of cash and my credit card, which I canceled. My passport and remaining money was safe in my hotel room.

Work: At my first PR job, we had bike messengers coming up to our office at least 10-20 times per day. My office was up front, and I must have left my purse in plain view of the reception desk, because when I came back from the ladies room, I had noticed my wallet missing. I reported it to the building, and only hours later they had found it in the trash can outside, cash and credit cards missing, but my drivers license intact. I had no money to get home, so I called my roommate Kristin to come pick me up in a cab. It didn't occur to either one of us, until we were both riding uptown, that she didn't have to come all the way downtown for me - she could have just met me outside the apartment and paid the fare.

3. Have you ever witnessed someone else being the victim of a crime?

Thankfully, no, although I did have a dream last night that someone boiled a cat alive. That was pretty horrible.

4. What is your favorite color? Why?

Black, for my wardrobe. It looks good on me and goes with everything. Orange and pink together. They are warm, fun colors that look good on me and around me. Maybe you've noticed this blog?

5. What talent or skill would you most like to have, that you feel you don't have?

I have always wished I could sing. Anyone who has ever heard me sing has always wished I wouldn't.

6. If you could go back and do one thing over in your life, what would it be? Would you make a change, or do everything exactly the same?

I would go back and relive college. Again. Exactly the same way.

7. What do you consider your most attractive asset? (Hair, legs, smile, etc.)

My smile, my legs, and my eyes are all pretty attractive if I do say so myself. My ego is not so bad, either.

8. When do you feel the most vulnerable?

When I'm at the gynecologist.

9. If you were a rap star, what would your stage name be?

Lori Lovebuckets. MacB TLC. MacBlizzle.

I don't even like rap. I copied this question from the Mediabistro bulletin board.

10. What is your favorite curse word?

Clusterfuck.

Use it in a sentence and tag five other bloggers you'd like to answer the same questions:

Trying to figure out who hasn't been tagged yet has turned this meme into a clusterfuck: Huphtur, Geekhiker, Keith, AmyBow, and Tiny E.



Saturday, April 05, 2008

Soap and glory

So, I went to my first Laker's game last night, and I had a blast. Our seats were about five rows up for the floor, so I had prime view of the many celebrities and industry execs in attendance: Jack Nicholson, Penny Marshall, Dyan Cannon, and, well, Topanga, to name a few.

Given the abundance of such high-powered star wattage, you'd think I wouldn't have been the most excited to see General Hospital's Mac Scorpio; but then, you would be wrong.

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Tuesday, April 01, 2008

The walls

Have I ever told you the story about how I got this apartment?

Of course I haven't. I haven't shared a lot of stories because I am not a big sharer, because that would mean my emotions might be on display and, despite my Jewey neuroses, I'm also half Puritan/Protestant. And we, as a general rule, aren't so big on the sharing. Or the emotions.

My friend ST passed this apartment down to me. It's a weird story, really. I hadn't spoken to ST in several years when he called me up in the spring of 2004. He had just broken up with his girlfriend and was finding himself at a crossroads - should he stay in LA or move back to Boston? I had been someone he'd always liked and for some reason, admired, and thought I might prove a worthy distraction while he nursed his broken heart across the country.

To backtrack, ST and I met my junior, his senior year of college. He flirted shamelessly with me in the bars, and charmed me with an ice cream date one warm fall day. We hung out a handful of times, and he romanced me enough that I started to fall for him. Naturally, as a senior, he had no interest in having a relationship, and he started giving me the brush-off as soon as he sensed my feelings might eclipse more than hooking up. I was pissed. I wasn't surprised, but I was annoyed, especially since he had spent the better part of a year wooing me, getting me to like him, and just when I decided to ask him to my sorority formal, got a case of the Shitheads.

Because I was a cool girl, though, I let it roll off my back and got on with my life. We'd never had anything official and I had plenty of options that year. About a month after the formal, though, he came up to me in a bar, and started apologizing for blowing me off. Only instead of saying "I'm sorry I blew you off", he said something to the effect of, "I'm so sorry I hurt you." And I thought to myself, "Huh?" Cue screeching record as the DJ stops mid-spin.

"Sorry you hurt me?" I laughed. "Uh, we were just having fun, hanging out." I was lying through my teeth, of course, he had hurt me, just a little, but there was no way I would ever have admitted it. Plus, it was not okay - I could still see some senior smugness through his apology. He wasn't particularly sorry he had hurt me; just sorry that I didn't think of him in the same light I had before. That got me enraged.

"I can't believe how arrogant you are!" I spat, surprised. "You really think you hurt me? Who do you think you are? I never realized you had such a large ego." I continued like this for a minute and I watched his face fall, first in genuine confusion and then shame. He apologized again, this time much more sincerely, but I was proud on my high horse by then, thrilled I had managed to mask my disappointment and put him in his place, to boot!

He spent the rest of the semester trying to apologize to me; I gave him the silent treatment. Finally, on the night of his graduation, he came back to me with the most sincere words I ever heard him speak, and I softened. We shared a summer of phone calls and nights in Boston, and we spent the following year corresponding by mail - him in DC, I back in school. We weren't exactly platonic, but we weren't dating, either. Rather, I would write him about my boy problems, and he would write back feeding my ego and telling me I should never settle. Something about the way I spoke to him that night in the bar changed the way he thought of me, and he held me up to a standard I knew even then I could never meet.

Our friendship continued like that for the next year or two, sporadic letters and emails between different cities, the occasional phone call here or there. Until the day he got back in touch, the last I had heard from him was shortly after September 11th; he had just moved to Los Angeles and was calling to make sure I was okay.

After that call, we both moved on and I didn't think of him much. However close we had gotten that first year after the fight, I never felt a strong connection with him, any reason to continue the friendship other than to stroke my ego. So when he called that day in 2004, I was happy to hear from him but never in a million years expected that would be the phone call that changed my life.

We spoke for two hours that night. And then two hours the next night. And almost every night after that. It wasn't romantic - although I could sense in his rebound state he wanted it to be - but we quickly became close friends again, confidantes. He fed my ego more than ever, and I, having been miserable and lonely in New York for a long time by then, ate it up, ignoring the voice in my head that reminded me I would never, ever live up to his inflated expectations.

Within two weeks of getting back in touch, ST had invited himself to New York for a long weekend. I know he was imagining a blossoming romance, or at least hoping to make up for that semester at school; by the time he came, though, I was dating someone else, and we spent the weekend in an uncomfortable haze of passive aggression. Only a week or two after that trip, however, my summer romance ended, and I quickly booked a trip out west to visit him and maybe, possibly see if I could see myself in LA.

The first night in LA was great. We were happy, drunk, free to be without significant others or time zones or curfews. In the light of the second day, however, things went downhill. He had planned a trip to the Del Mar racetrack where we'd meet a big group and then spend the night at his friends' house in Laguna. For the entire drive down to San Diego, I was enamored with the scenery of LA, the gorgeousness of the day, the ease of traveling between cities without the New Jersey Transit. I hated New York, and I wasn't afraid to mention that every chance I got. We met his friends; they all asked me what I did, where I lived. I explained that I worked in fashion PR, explained what that meant, why I was so over my job and so over New York. ST would tell me later, once he started talking to me again, that I sounded so pretentious, so fake, nothing like he would have expected from me. I embarrassed him. To this day, I maintain that all I was trying to do was explain why I liked it there - in LA - so much.

ST wouldn't speak to me for hours that night - in front of his friends. He wouldn't speak to me until we were half way back to LA the next day. And then it all came out. He was disappointed I wouldn't give him a chance in New York, he felt emasculated, I wasn't the person he thought I was after all this time. Even though, mind you, most of this person he thought I was, was not me. It was a composite of the girl I had been in college and what he wanted me to be when he was on the rebound. It's not my fault I couldn't be that person for him.

But it was awful. He made me feel awful. Things were said, things that even later, when we calmed down and got over ourselves, left a permanent stain on the weekend. I knew we'd never be close friends again.

Of course, calamities aside, that was the trip in which I decided I wanted, no, needed, to move to LA. ST or no ST, I had enough friends there, enough work contacts, enough confidence that I was going to do it as soon as my lease ran out in March. In November I called him. We had emailed a little since the trip, but nothing major. Things were still fairly tense. "I'm moving to LA", I said. "Probably in March or April."

"That's really funny," he replied. "I was going to call you to let you know I've decided to move back to Boston."

"When?" I asked.

"Around the same time. I've been offered a job and the contract starts April 8th."

"Oh, well you should let me take over your apartment."

"Actually," and I could hear him thinking, "if you did, that would be doing me a big favor because otherwise I will have to break my lease."

Shortly thereafter we decided that he'd move out on Monday, I'd move in on Friday, giving the landlord enough time to paint, steam the carpets and get out the "boy" smell I was sure permeated after he had lived there for four years. I arranged to buy his bed and his TV and some other items at a minimal cost; this kept him from having to move them and also allowed me some furniture here on my first night.

Arranging the details of the move kept us in touch, but we never quite got over the last spat. We fought a few times over the course of the next few months, not because I cared about Fed Exing the keys or because he was worried about the bills, but because we were both still nursing the wounds we had inflicted on each other on that last trip. I haven't talked to him in three years, and I don't expect to, nor really care to, ever again. Although part of me does feel I owe him my life.

Along the lines of my bus theory, I do believe people come into our lives for a reason. Throughout our odd post-college friendship, and especially in the summer of 2004, I often wondered why ST and I were friends. Why had he tried so persistently to apologize to me that year? Why did he continue to hold me in such high regard? And why do we continually cross paths, yet never quite feel star-crossed? I believe 100% that I was meant to know him, to have stayed friends with him all that time, so that he could be the catalyst to my LA life - appearing without warning before I even knew I needed him, and then disappearing off my radar as soon as everything was in place. I have no doubt he has played his role.

The reason I'm writing about this now is because over the last few weeks, as I have been dating this guy that I like very much, I have done a tremendous amount of introspecting. Why do I find it so hard to open up? Why do I worry, over and over again, about not living up to someone else's expectations? ST was by no means the most significant person to make me feel this way, but I think he was the first, and having earned his admiration through my bar scene indignation, I think I let myself believe I'll always have to act that tough to earn a guy's respect.

What I have realized, in just a few weeks, is that while boys may be initially attracted to the distance, to the air of the unaffected cool girl, I'm not doing anyone any favors by hiding the person underneath. I've realized that I have been carrying this armor around for 11 years now, trying to maintain some mask that really no one has asked me to put on, and now - now? Now I am just so tired. I think I am going to try just being myself.

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