I've sipped fizzy ginger mint juleps at the roger room.
I've climbed mountains, hiked canyons, and shimmied down valleys.
I've bought boxes of Sprinkles and spun them off at Pink Iron Gym.
I've cruised Mulholland Drive and bladed from Malibu to Venice.
I've had Maestro's steaks and Diddy Riese cookie sandwiches.
I've gone to the Majestic Crest alone on a rainy Wednesday night.
I've nibbled a chili dog at Pink's.
I've seen Beetlejuice in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
I've walked the Huntington Library and the Getty and the LACMA.
I've chased mini-crabs along the Santa Monica Pier.
I've paddle-boated in Echo Park and wore Ray Bans in Los Feliz.
I've deli-ed at Art's, Junior's, Factor's, Canter's, DuPar's, and Jerry's.
I've sung with Elayne at the Dresden.
I've mock-cheered the Angels, the Dodgers, and the Lakers.
I've ridden the horse at Sunset Ranch.
I've mingled in the Beverly Wilshire, and reunited at The Standard, and celebrated at The Roosevelt.
I've downed fine vodka at Bar Lubitsch.
I've played softball in December.
I've fallen in love with Sinatra at Jones.
It's been great. And now I'm ready to go.
8.02.2010
7.07.2009
What Every Recovered 13 Year Old Girl Wants to Learn
Dear That Girl Abbey Readers,
Today I learned something that made me feel so good. Maybe it was redemption...maybe it was historical wounds healed. I'm not sure, but it was good.
At one point I was 13 year old That Girl Abbey. I wore braces. I wore Doc Martens. I wore pastel turtlenecks.
I played the saxophone and my backpack probably smelled like a bologna sandwich. And I followed around a boy. I liked him very much. And he never, ever, under any circumstance, made me believe for one moment he saw any of the beauty in me I saw in him.
Once he hugged me in gym class when I made the winning goal in our soccer game. Very exciting. I wrote all about it that night in my diary. Oh yeah, big day.
My best guy friend of the time used to torment me. "Why do you like him? What's so great about him? He doesn't even know you're alive! He didn't even read the book you gave him! And his hair is too long!" (Looking back, this best guy friend was most certainly my "Ducky.") Anyway, Ducky or not, he was totally bogus because my crushes' hair was definitely not too long. It was perfect. Just like him.
So, a day came (post-braces) when I met my crush at the Y to play basketball. (I met him--he, of course, did not expect me to show up.) I beat him at horse and then we went to the local coney island for pitas and milkshakes. I quickly learned that not only hadn't he read the book I gave him, but he had never read any book. He was kinda stupid. Beautiful and stupid.
Because you haven't a clue what the hell you're doing when you're 13, I was stupid, too. I told him that he should come over sometime to hang out (despite his potential illiteracy.)
Most surprisingly, he did come over. He said he didn't want to shoot hoops because he hated losing to girls. (Wow, real winner, I know.) So, we went inside and made grilled cheeses. I flirted my little ass off trying to get his attention. Just then, once I was really getting desperate and thinking of lowering the 'v' in my tank, my older brother came into the kitchen and started talking to my crush.
Before the cheese could even melt, the bastard was downstairs playing video games with my brother. I logged on to AOL and i.m.ed my best girlfriend, who was naturally standing post online, anxiously awaiting the scoop. While I chomped on the two grilled cheeses and typed furiously, I heard my crush laugh more downstairs than he ever had with me. Fantastic.
So, needlesstosay, this beautiful boy absolutely never gave me the attention for which I ached. Nothing ever worked and I would have to accept the fact that I would never know how it was to kiss those perfect lips.
Within 14 months I was headed to a different high school (unbeknownst to me, filled with even more beautiful and even more idiotic boys,) and I never thought about the 7th grade crush until today...when I read that he's gay.
Maybe 13 year old That Girl Abbey wasn't so bad. Maybe I had moves. Maybe he wasn't out of my league. Maybe he was just in another league. Fantastic!
Today I learned something that made me feel so good. Maybe it was redemption...maybe it was historical wounds healed. I'm not sure, but it was good.
At one point I was 13 year old That Girl Abbey. I wore braces. I wore Doc Martens. I wore pastel turtlenecks.
I played the saxophone and my backpack probably smelled like a bologna sandwich. And I followed around a boy. I liked him very much. And he never, ever, under any circumstance, made me believe for one moment he saw any of the beauty in me I saw in him.
Once he hugged me in gym class when I made the winning goal in our soccer game. Very exciting. I wrote all about it that night in my diary. Oh yeah, big day.
My best guy friend of the time used to torment me. "Why do you like him? What's so great about him? He doesn't even know you're alive! He didn't even read the book you gave him! And his hair is too long!" (Looking back, this best guy friend was most certainly my "Ducky.") Anyway, Ducky or not, he was totally bogus because my crushes' hair was definitely not too long. It was perfect. Just like him.
So, a day came (post-braces) when I met my crush at the Y to play basketball. (I met him--he, of course, did not expect me to show up.) I beat him at horse and then we went to the local coney island for pitas and milkshakes. I quickly learned that not only hadn't he read the book I gave him, but he had never read any book. He was kinda stupid. Beautiful and stupid.
Because you haven't a clue what the hell you're doing when you're 13, I was stupid, too. I told him that he should come over sometime to hang out (despite his potential illiteracy.)
Most surprisingly, he did come over. He said he didn't want to shoot hoops because he hated losing to girls. (Wow, real winner, I know.) So, we went inside and made grilled cheeses. I flirted my little ass off trying to get his attention. Just then, once I was really getting desperate and thinking of lowering the 'v' in my tank, my older brother came into the kitchen and started talking to my crush.
Before the cheese could even melt, the bastard was downstairs playing video games with my brother. I logged on to AOL and i.m.ed my best girlfriend, who was naturally standing post online, anxiously awaiting the scoop. While I chomped on the two grilled cheeses and typed furiously, I heard my crush laugh more downstairs than he ever had with me. Fantastic.
So, needlesstosay, this beautiful boy absolutely never gave me the attention for which I ached. Nothing ever worked and I would have to accept the fact that I would never know how it was to kiss those perfect lips.
Within 14 months I was headed to a different high school (unbeknownst to me, filled with even more beautiful and even more idiotic boys,) and I never thought about the 7th grade crush until today...when I read that he's gay.
Maybe 13 year old That Girl Abbey wasn't so bad. Maybe I had moves. Maybe he wasn't out of my league. Maybe he was just in another league. Fantastic!
6.06.2009
Home
Like a happy, nappy sloth I lounge on the velvet couch with a blanket and a book and a half-eaten bag of pistachios.
Somehow, it smells like grilled cheese.
I look around to see red flowers and green carpets and soft yellow-glowing lamps. Here, it always looks a bit like Christmas.
Like a page out of Dickens, the doorbell rings and there's laughter in the kitchen and whispers in the hall. The sounds blend together to make a sort of comforting, domestic symphony.
A perfect soundtrack for a happy, nappy sloth on a velvet couch.
As the sun pours through the window, I close my sleepy eyes. In an instant, I'm back with my glittery pink toes in the grass, finishing a sticky slice of watermelon. I try to wipe the bicycle chain grease mark from my leg, when I see the older boys assembling.
I run across the lawn, clippings flying from my ankles. I'm told I can play as long as I run up the hill to retrieve the ball.
As I hurry, searching for a speck of white in the tall grass, I hear something. Something faint, something taunting, something nearing. I run to the top of the hill for some much-needed perspective.
And then, I see it!
I throw my hands into my jean short pockets. There's gotta be enough! Is there enough?...there is!
Minutes later, in typical little sister fashion, I return down the hill, this time strutting. I carry a dripping ice cream cone and a baseball.
Life is good.
In typical big brother fashion, I soon learn if I give my ice cream cone away I get to play shortstop. If not, catcher. So, I take the biggest bite my eight-year-old mouth can fit and hand off the rest. Sprinting on to the field to assume my rightful, favorite position, I know I've made the right decision.
These days, most decisions don't involve cones or cleats. They're bigger and tougher and much, much scarier.
Today I realize, it's nice that everything here always tastes a bit like grilled cheese and always looks a bit like Christmas. The sounds and the smells bring me back to a time when life's decisions really were about ice cream cones and baseballs and how many coins still clung to your pocket after a day of riding your bike.
As I wake on the velvet couch, I try to fit it all into my pocket for safe-keeping. Surely I'll need it in Los Angeles on one of those dreaded, cut-throat days full of red ink and roadblocks.
Until then, I'm going to go ride my bike.
Somehow, it smells like grilled cheese.
I look around to see red flowers and green carpets and soft yellow-glowing lamps. Here, it always looks a bit like Christmas.
Like a page out of Dickens, the doorbell rings and there's laughter in the kitchen and whispers in the hall. The sounds blend together to make a sort of comforting, domestic symphony.
A perfect soundtrack for a happy, nappy sloth on a velvet couch.
As the sun pours through the window, I close my sleepy eyes. In an instant, I'm back with my glittery pink toes in the grass, finishing a sticky slice of watermelon. I try to wipe the bicycle chain grease mark from my leg, when I see the older boys assembling.
I run across the lawn, clippings flying from my ankles. I'm told I can play as long as I run up the hill to retrieve the ball.
As I hurry, searching for a speck of white in the tall grass, I hear something. Something faint, something taunting, something nearing. I run to the top of the hill for some much-needed perspective.
And then, I see it!
I throw my hands into my jean short pockets. There's gotta be enough! Is there enough?...there is!
Minutes later, in typical little sister fashion, I return down the hill, this time strutting. I carry a dripping ice cream cone and a baseball.
Life is good.
In typical big brother fashion, I soon learn if I give my ice cream cone away I get to play shortstop. If not, catcher. So, I take the biggest bite my eight-year-old mouth can fit and hand off the rest. Sprinting on to the field to assume my rightful, favorite position, I know I've made the right decision.
These days, most decisions don't involve cones or cleats. They're bigger and tougher and much, much scarier.
Today I realize, it's nice that everything here always tastes a bit like grilled cheese and always looks a bit like Christmas. The sounds and the smells bring me back to a time when life's decisions really were about ice cream cones and baseballs and how many coins still clung to your pocket after a day of riding your bike.
As I wake on the velvet couch, I try to fit it all into my pocket for safe-keeping. Surely I'll need it in Los Angeles on one of those dreaded, cut-throat days full of red ink and roadblocks.
Until then, I'm going to go ride my bike.
5.30.2009
Mating Calls...(and whether you should answer.)
Alright, here’s the thing:
We be animals and we keep forgetting that we be animals.
Relationships really aren’t that complicated. I may be an analytical, deductive, communicative, dreamer type, but I’ve turned a new leaf. Attraction, marriage satisfaction, relationship longevity…it comes down to science and logic. (Sorry, Cinderella! I’m a big girl now and I gotta tell you, “Shame on you! Lies! All of them! Lies!”)
If you are biologically drawn to the potential mate, you are much, much more likely to have a long, (mostly) happy, and healthy relationship.
You can know (not feel) that you are biologically drawn to them by answering these important questions:
1. Do they smell good to you? (This is a good sign. It is an indication that your genetic make-up is dissimilar. This is Mother Nature’s way of saying “Procreate! Your babies will be healthy! Have lots and lots of sex!”)
2. Does their touch feel good to you? (Also, a good sign. It tells you that they are physically aware of your body and how to interpret even your most subtle facial expressions in order to please you.)
3. Is their voice attractive to you? (This is a biggie. Voice tenor and how your ears interpret it are directly related to how safe you feel in a person’s company. When you hear their voice, do you feel safe?)
4. When you kiss them, do they taste good to you? (In the early stages of courtship with your potential mate, this is the first time that all of your senses are engaged at once. Does this intimate combination make your stomach flip or ache? Listen to your gut on this one. If you love the taste, the sound, the touch, and the smell, you just may have found a winner!)
5. Are their mannerisms attractive to you? (If the way they move, stand, and breathe does not in anyway annoy you, you’ve dodged a lot of passive aggressive zingers. Often a disagreement between two people gains hostility and intensity because of how their mannerisms can subconsciously annoy. The other nice thing about this one: their mannerisms won’t change—you can work on their manners, but not their mannerisms.)
Things that will change:
Amount of hair.
Bank account balance.
Time allotted for “cuddling”.
Things that will never change (so, don’t expect you can change them!):
What makes them laugh. (Think about it, have you ever tried to not laugh at something that you just happen to naturally find hilarious? It’s hard. Your potential mate’s sense of humor won’t change. Accept it, or move on.)
What makes them cry. (Same concept. You can’t not cry at something that makes you cry. That’s it.)
Their understanding of family. (No one becomes their parents because they want to. Going into it, understand that your potential mate (like you) has been provided with only one first hand instance of family—their own. Whether they want to replicate it, mimic it, or burn every memory of it, it’s their only reference point.)
So, this takes care of the over-arching, “we be animals” categories that connect us all.
Here’s what I think can be done to add your “personal touch” (if you will) to your mate selection (and weeding out) process:
1. Make a list of things you absolutely need in a partner.
2. Make a list of things you absolutely want in a partner.
3. Make a list of the things you would like in a partner.
4. Make a list of the absolute deal-breakers.
5. Make a list of the things you would dislike in a partner.
*Note: Don’t feel the need to justify your answers. No one’s challenging you. If they seem frivolous, so what?! If they seem judgmental, so what?! If they seem predictable, so what?! The mate selection process is not the time to hold back due to courtesy, propriety, or embarrassment. Be yourself and stick to it. (Do you think a lady cardinal feels guilty for wanting a neon red dude cardinal instead of one with pale plumage? I think not!)
Okay, so we’ve answered the biological “red flag” questions, we’ve made our personal list, and we’re sticking to it, right?
So, what comes next? This is where this entry becomes like one of those “pick your own ending” stories from middle school. (“Do I want her to go to the Prom with him and wear the pink dress, or should she become a whore on Spring Break and get knocked up and miss the Prom altogether?” The choice is yours, my reader friend!)
Single: Go out into the jungle and find a potential mate! S/he MUST evoke only yeses in the biological section. S/he MUST have no deal-breakers, and fill ALL absolute needs. S/he should fulfill at least 2/3 of your absolute wants, and should not exhibit more than a 1/3 of your dislikes.
Informally Committed: Consider the above criteria for your current potential mate. Is s/he up to snuff?! If ANY of the biological answers are “no” or “sometimes”, kick s/he. There’s no beating your genes. Mother Nature will prevail! (No point in waiting until you’re wearing a veil! Okay…that was a cheap one, I admit.)
Formally Committed: Deal with it, your problem now!!
(just kidding…scared you though, didn’t I?)
So, if you are formally committed and happy, fanfuckingtastic for you. The world celebrates and rolls their eyes at your success in finding, securing, and keeping a mate.
If you are formally committed and unhappy, don’t worry. I hear it’s normal. I believe it should be expected. (Blame it on Cinderella and those horrible Hallmark movies…Wait a minute!)
Moving on….
Here’s the enlightened, demythified truth of it all:
Human beings are not biologically designed to be monogamous creatures. So, that’s where we already screwed up.
Because many of us have decided that we prefer to be monogamous (and reject our biology in the process), what can we do to make it more pleasant?
1. Lower your expectations: There’s a reason why we aren’t wired to be satisfied emotionally, intellectually, and physically by one other human. (It’s crazy rare to find it in one!) But, that’s okay. Just understand that the “you complete me” or “two become one” nonsense is just that. We can (and should) certainly expect, hope, and plan to live a fabulous, fulfilling, and stimulating life—but acknowledge that this is not contingent on the choice of mate. I say marry your best friend, marry the person who annoys you the least, marry someone you like to be around. S/he is not going to solve all your problems or fill some hole you have. Fill it yourself and stop expecting others to do it for you. Even if someone loves you the way you have always wanted and hoped to be loved, they’re gonna make you ball your eyes out or want to punch a hole in the wall. Expect it. It’ll save all that time later when you’re all devastated and shocked. S/he will disappoint you. (And you’ll disappoint them.) It happens.
2. Mate with someone you like to have sex with: Seems obvious, right? Many people miss this one, though. If you want to not sleep with other humans, you should make sure that you really, really like to sleep with your mate.
3. Prioritize each other: If you’re putting all this energy into not falling in love with anyone else, why not stay in love with each other? How do we do this? We prioritize our mate’s needs. Be reciprocal with how you treat one another and try to remind your mate why you picked them in the beginning.
4. Have a life: Happy people are more fun to be around because endorphins are contagious. Have a happy, fulfilling life on your own before and during your monogamous mating. (You think our lady cardinal stopped singing just because the neon red dude cardinal shares her nest? I think not!)
And, if all of this fails, and you have to go through all of the horrible heartache and paperwork of ending it with your first mate, don’t worry. You did a brave thing to walk away from a former mate. A thing that is never easy.
In the beginning you may have been reluctant to admit that “the One” doesn’t exist. “Bit cynical, Abbey, don’t cha think?” may have been your thought. Aren’t you glad now, though?
Admitting that “the One” doesn’t exist allows us as humans to know that if we lose the mate we thought of as “the One”, we have not lost the possibility of finding “another One.” So, brush yourself off, and get back into that jungle. Find one of those special humans who smell, sound, feel, and taste delicious to you, and remember to follow your animal instincts.
We be animals and we keep forgetting that we be animals.
Relationships really aren’t that complicated. I may be an analytical, deductive, communicative, dreamer type, but I’ve turned a new leaf. Attraction, marriage satisfaction, relationship longevity…it comes down to science and logic. (Sorry, Cinderella! I’m a big girl now and I gotta tell you, “Shame on you! Lies! All of them! Lies!”)
If you are biologically drawn to the potential mate, you are much, much more likely to have a long, (mostly) happy, and healthy relationship.
You can know (not feel) that you are biologically drawn to them by answering these important questions:
1. Do they smell good to you? (This is a good sign. It is an indication that your genetic make-up is dissimilar. This is Mother Nature’s way of saying “Procreate! Your babies will be healthy! Have lots and lots of sex!”)
2. Does their touch feel good to you? (Also, a good sign. It tells you that they are physically aware of your body and how to interpret even your most subtle facial expressions in order to please you.)
3. Is their voice attractive to you? (This is a biggie. Voice tenor and how your ears interpret it are directly related to how safe you feel in a person’s company. When you hear their voice, do you feel safe?)
4. When you kiss them, do they taste good to you? (In the early stages of courtship with your potential mate, this is the first time that all of your senses are engaged at once. Does this intimate combination make your stomach flip or ache? Listen to your gut on this one. If you love the taste, the sound, the touch, and the smell, you just may have found a winner!)
5. Are their mannerisms attractive to you? (If the way they move, stand, and breathe does not in anyway annoy you, you’ve dodged a lot of passive aggressive zingers. Often a disagreement between two people gains hostility and intensity because of how their mannerisms can subconsciously annoy. The other nice thing about this one: their mannerisms won’t change—you can work on their manners, but not their mannerisms.)
Things that will change:
Amount of hair.
Bank account balance.
Time allotted for “cuddling”.
Things that will never change (so, don’t expect you can change them!):
What makes them laugh. (Think about it, have you ever tried to not laugh at something that you just happen to naturally find hilarious? It’s hard. Your potential mate’s sense of humor won’t change. Accept it, or move on.)
What makes them cry. (Same concept. You can’t not cry at something that makes you cry. That’s it.)
Their understanding of family. (No one becomes their parents because they want to. Going into it, understand that your potential mate (like you) has been provided with only one first hand instance of family—their own. Whether they want to replicate it, mimic it, or burn every memory of it, it’s their only reference point.)
So, this takes care of the over-arching, “we be animals” categories that connect us all.
Here’s what I think can be done to add your “personal touch” (if you will) to your mate selection (and weeding out) process:
1. Make a list of things you absolutely need in a partner.
2. Make a list of things you absolutely want in a partner.
3. Make a list of the things you would like in a partner.
4. Make a list of the absolute deal-breakers.
5. Make a list of the things you would dislike in a partner.
*Note: Don’t feel the need to justify your answers. No one’s challenging you. If they seem frivolous, so what?! If they seem judgmental, so what?! If they seem predictable, so what?! The mate selection process is not the time to hold back due to courtesy, propriety, or embarrassment. Be yourself and stick to it. (Do you think a lady cardinal feels guilty for wanting a neon red dude cardinal instead of one with pale plumage? I think not!)
Okay, so we’ve answered the biological “red flag” questions, we’ve made our personal list, and we’re sticking to it, right?
So, what comes next? This is where this entry becomes like one of those “pick your own ending” stories from middle school. (“Do I want her to go to the Prom with him and wear the pink dress, or should she become a whore on Spring Break and get knocked up and miss the Prom altogether?” The choice is yours, my reader friend!)
Single: Go out into the jungle and find a potential mate! S/he MUST evoke only yeses in the biological section. S/he MUST have no deal-breakers, and fill ALL absolute needs. S/he should fulfill at least 2/3 of your absolute wants, and should not exhibit more than a 1/3 of your dislikes.
Informally Committed: Consider the above criteria for your current potential mate. Is s/he up to snuff?! If ANY of the biological answers are “no” or “sometimes”, kick s/he. There’s no beating your genes. Mother Nature will prevail! (No point in waiting until you’re wearing a veil! Okay…that was a cheap one, I admit.)
Formally Committed: Deal with it, your problem now!!
(just kidding…scared you though, didn’t I?)
So, if you are formally committed and happy, fanfuckingtastic for you. The world celebrates and rolls their eyes at your success in finding, securing, and keeping a mate.
If you are formally committed and unhappy, don’t worry. I hear it’s normal. I believe it should be expected. (Blame it on Cinderella and those horrible Hallmark movies…Wait a minute!)
Moving on….
Here’s the enlightened, demythified truth of it all:
Human beings are not biologically designed to be monogamous creatures. So, that’s where we already screwed up.
Because many of us have decided that we prefer to be monogamous (and reject our biology in the process), what can we do to make it more pleasant?
1. Lower your expectations: There’s a reason why we aren’t wired to be satisfied emotionally, intellectually, and physically by one other human. (It’s crazy rare to find it in one!) But, that’s okay. Just understand that the “you complete me” or “two become one” nonsense is just that. We can (and should) certainly expect, hope, and plan to live a fabulous, fulfilling, and stimulating life—but acknowledge that this is not contingent on the choice of mate. I say marry your best friend, marry the person who annoys you the least, marry someone you like to be around. S/he is not going to solve all your problems or fill some hole you have. Fill it yourself and stop expecting others to do it for you. Even if someone loves you the way you have always wanted and hoped to be loved, they’re gonna make you ball your eyes out or want to punch a hole in the wall. Expect it. It’ll save all that time later when you’re all devastated and shocked. S/he will disappoint you. (And you’ll disappoint them.) It happens.
2. Mate with someone you like to have sex with: Seems obvious, right? Many people miss this one, though. If you want to not sleep with other humans, you should make sure that you really, really like to sleep with your mate.
3. Prioritize each other: If you’re putting all this energy into not falling in love with anyone else, why not stay in love with each other? How do we do this? We prioritize our mate’s needs. Be reciprocal with how you treat one another and try to remind your mate why you picked them in the beginning.
4. Have a life: Happy people are more fun to be around because endorphins are contagious. Have a happy, fulfilling life on your own before and during your monogamous mating. (You think our lady cardinal stopped singing just because the neon red dude cardinal shares her nest? I think not!)
And, if all of this fails, and you have to go through all of the horrible heartache and paperwork of ending it with your first mate, don’t worry. You did a brave thing to walk away from a former mate. A thing that is never easy.
In the beginning you may have been reluctant to admit that “the One” doesn’t exist. “Bit cynical, Abbey, don’t cha think?” may have been your thought. Aren’t you glad now, though?
Admitting that “the One” doesn’t exist allows us as humans to know that if we lose the mate we thought of as “the One”, we have not lost the possibility of finding “another One.” So, brush yourself off, and get back into that jungle. Find one of those special humans who smell, sound, feel, and taste delicious to you, and remember to follow your animal instincts.
5.24.2009
The Happy Tractor & The Sad, Divorced, Bitter B.M.W.
Maybe all those cheesy country songs are on to something.
Story-telling, high school sweethearts, grassy fields, physical labor, simple goals, good whiskey…this may be what the happy ones really do think about.
Money. Prestige. Power. Higher Education. Maybe this really is over-rated. Maybe the happiest people on the planet feel the dirt between their fingers each day. Maybe they toil to contribute to something bigger than themselves. Maybe they drink lemonade and watch the sunset and think, "This is all I need."
I'm envious of these satisfied people. I wake up in the morning wondering what my gmail inbox holds. Before I see another human I'm scribbling about fictional ones on my whiteboard. When something mildly good occurs, the next daunting peak emerges, and I gear up immediately. I don't remember to sip lemonade and always think, "Mmmm. Lemonade is good." Although, this may be because it's usually instant mix Countrytime instead of fresh-squeezed.
Either way, I digress....
I'll be honest. I pity people who marry their high school sweethearts. Crazy saps never thought they could find better?! I realize this assessment is unfair and over-stated, and totally judgmental. But really now, shouldn't we be different people at 18 than at 28?
(T.G.A. Sidebar: 28 = T.G.A.'s ideal marriage age for American female.)
Continuing down the list,
I like grassy fields as long as they're lined and dragged for a ballgame.
I like physical labor as long as I get lots of water breaks (during which someone confirms that I am in fact looking more toned.)
I like simple goals as long as I can achieve them quickly.
(mail check, check mail, check out male.)
And I like good whiskey (though I prefer a stiff dirty martini anyday.)
Needlesstosay, I've never been confused for a country girl. I think their music is on to something, though. I think they're happy, and I think when people are happy it's helpful to ask, "why?"
For now, I'll say it's the whole "easy to please" thing. By lowering your standard of living maybe you higher your satisfaction rate. Seems like this could be so. It's a slippery slope, though. Saying "I'm satisfied with my 18" TV/VCR combo" since you cannot afford the fancy flat screen is quite different than saying "I'm satisfied with my horrible high school girlfriend" since you already have her and you don't want to have to hunt down another.
In the greater scheme of things, I'd rather be the happy tractor than the sad, divorced, bitter b.m.w. But, I must admit, couldn't I just be a moderately happy b.m.w.? There's gotta be a few of those driving around, don't you think?
Story-telling, high school sweethearts, grassy fields, physical labor, simple goals, good whiskey…this may be what the happy ones really do think about.
Money. Prestige. Power. Higher Education. Maybe this really is over-rated. Maybe the happiest people on the planet feel the dirt between their fingers each day. Maybe they toil to contribute to something bigger than themselves. Maybe they drink lemonade and watch the sunset and think, "This is all I need."
I'm envious of these satisfied people. I wake up in the morning wondering what my gmail inbox holds. Before I see another human I'm scribbling about fictional ones on my whiteboard. When something mildly good occurs, the next daunting peak emerges, and I gear up immediately. I don't remember to sip lemonade and always think, "Mmmm. Lemonade is good." Although, this may be because it's usually instant mix Countrytime instead of fresh-squeezed.
Either way, I digress....
I'll be honest. I pity people who marry their high school sweethearts. Crazy saps never thought they could find better?! I realize this assessment is unfair and over-stated, and totally judgmental. But really now, shouldn't we be different people at 18 than at 28?
(T.G.A. Sidebar: 28 = T.G.A.'s ideal marriage age for American female.)
Continuing down the list,
I like grassy fields as long as they're lined and dragged for a ballgame.
I like physical labor as long as I get lots of water breaks (during which someone confirms that I am in fact looking more toned.)
I like simple goals as long as I can achieve them quickly.
(mail check, check mail, check out male.)
And I like good whiskey (though I prefer a stiff dirty martini anyday.)
Needlesstosay, I've never been confused for a country girl. I think their music is on to something, though. I think they're happy, and I think when people are happy it's helpful to ask, "why?"
For now, I'll say it's the whole "easy to please" thing. By lowering your standard of living maybe you higher your satisfaction rate. Seems like this could be so. It's a slippery slope, though. Saying "I'm satisfied with my 18" TV/VCR combo" since you cannot afford the fancy flat screen is quite different than saying "I'm satisfied with my horrible high school girlfriend" since you already have her and you don't want to have to hunt down another.
In the greater scheme of things, I'd rather be the happy tractor than the sad, divorced, bitter b.m.w. But, I must admit, couldn't I just be a moderately happy b.m.w.? There's gotta be a few of those driving around, don't you think?
5.22.2009
T.G.A. on Thoughts:
Some of us live very exciting lives where we travel, or make exorbitant amounts of money, or we are physically or mentally challenged each day, or where we hold peoples' lives and well-being in our hands.
Some of us live very stable lives where we drive our commute and eat our lean cuisine and chat with the same friendly (or not so friendly) people in the same familiar place.
Either way, no matter what life you have chosen (or, in my case, what life may have chosen you), there are times when you cannot get away from certain thoughts.
You can throw yourself into your challenge or your lean cuisine, or your avoidance of that certain man in that certain cubicle, but you can't throw away your thoughts.
These thoughts come to you (and me) at moments you can't get away from. You can't work them away, or write them away, or chase them away. You can sleep them away. But then you could dream them, and that's no good, either.
They come to you (and me) when you brush your teeth. Pack your car. Inspect the oranges at the grocery store. When you tie your shoes or you wait for the very important executive's very oppressed assistant to call you back.
They sneak up on you and you can't hush them up. They're just there. The taunting voice-over narrative of our lives. Mine is in third person, but I think that's a writer woman quirk.
Mine says things like, "And Abbey knew at that moment that something fantastically marvelous would have to come to a screeching end." Or "Abbey thought it was a good idea, until every aspect of her fool-proof plan exploded into a thousand, individually horrific pieces." Or "And so they parted, and Abbey would never be the same."
It's hauntingly reflective and annoyingly piercing. Oh, the way those thoughts just stick around and linger in the air, giving us the undesired opportunity to hear, and more importantly feel, them again.
So I guess we can take comfort in the fact that no one can get away from their thoughts. If you are a horrible, despicable person, you know it before you fall asleep at night. If you are in constant denial, it will catch up with you while you're waiting for your chicken noodle soup to cool.
And, if you are like me, a well-intentioned person in the weeds (luckily overwhelmed with writing and a complicated personal life, not messy dishes and angry patrons), then you know, the thoughts just pop up, like weeds themselves, and you might as well accept them.
The little curiosities, reflections, and "what ifs" in our lives grow to define us. "He was a tall, passive aggressive man who always wanted to surf, but never saw the ocean." Or "She was always daydreaming off, imagining what her life would have been like had she possessed more courage when courage was called."
Walking among us in each family, at each dinner party, of each season are people thinking their thoughts-- the ones that just keep sticking around, despite strong intentions to shake them.
Last night I went out only to remember that I virtually hate being in public after hours. Oh, the stench of a place where everyone goes to meet someone of whom they've never met. Like a last call meat market on the bus to unwed hell.
I let the familiar narration roll over me, and, as I suspected, it kept me company. We'll see how long that can suffice.
Some of us live very stable lives where we drive our commute and eat our lean cuisine and chat with the same friendly (or not so friendly) people in the same familiar place.
Either way, no matter what life you have chosen (or, in my case, what life may have chosen you), there are times when you cannot get away from certain thoughts.
You can throw yourself into your challenge or your lean cuisine, or your avoidance of that certain man in that certain cubicle, but you can't throw away your thoughts.
These thoughts come to you (and me) at moments you can't get away from. You can't work them away, or write them away, or chase them away. You can sleep them away. But then you could dream them, and that's no good, either.
They come to you (and me) when you brush your teeth. Pack your car. Inspect the oranges at the grocery store. When you tie your shoes or you wait for the very important executive's very oppressed assistant to call you back.
They sneak up on you and you can't hush them up. They're just there. The taunting voice-over narrative of our lives. Mine is in third person, but I think that's a writer woman quirk.
Mine says things like, "And Abbey knew at that moment that something fantastically marvelous would have to come to a screeching end." Or "Abbey thought it was a good idea, until every aspect of her fool-proof plan exploded into a thousand, individually horrific pieces." Or "And so they parted, and Abbey would never be the same."
It's hauntingly reflective and annoyingly piercing. Oh, the way those thoughts just stick around and linger in the air, giving us the undesired opportunity to hear, and more importantly feel, them again.
So I guess we can take comfort in the fact that no one can get away from their thoughts. If you are a horrible, despicable person, you know it before you fall asleep at night. If you are in constant denial, it will catch up with you while you're waiting for your chicken noodle soup to cool.
And, if you are like me, a well-intentioned person in the weeds (luckily overwhelmed with writing and a complicated personal life, not messy dishes and angry patrons), then you know, the thoughts just pop up, like weeds themselves, and you might as well accept them.
The little curiosities, reflections, and "what ifs" in our lives grow to define us. "He was a tall, passive aggressive man who always wanted to surf, but never saw the ocean." Or "She was always daydreaming off, imagining what her life would have been like had she possessed more courage when courage was called."
Walking among us in each family, at each dinner party, of each season are people thinking their thoughts-- the ones that just keep sticking around, despite strong intentions to shake them.
Last night I went out only to remember that I virtually hate being in public after hours. Oh, the stench of a place where everyone goes to meet someone of whom they've never met. Like a last call meat market on the bus to unwed hell.
I let the familiar narration roll over me, and, as I suspected, it kept me company. We'll see how long that can suffice.
5.11.2009
Because it's sometimes nice for someone else to tell you how it is.
One of my favorites, Kahlil Gibran, once said, "If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don't, they never were."
Why do I like this, you ask? Because it has some logistics attached to it. No real room for interpretation here. Someone shows up, or they don't. They get on that plane, or they don't. They fight for you, or they don't. They come back, or they don't.
Although some may think of That Girl Abbey as a true Romantic, I appreciate some rules. I appreciate some logic, some black and white among the gray, some lines in the sand.
Do we believe this is true, though?
No one belongs to you if they don't always belong to you?
This part makes me a bit sad. Logistics in life are always the real clincher. How many people walk around thinking, "If I had only gotten that job" or "If I had only accepted that school" or "If I had only met her earlier" or "If I had only been there fifteen minutes before." Lifes tragedies and blessings occur in fleeting moments. And to make matters worse, we hardly ever know their importance until long after the fact.
With this one life to live, we have only one opportunity to lead an inspired, meaningful, thrilling existence. That's it.
If we don't live it up this time, when will we? If we don't become what and who we want, when will we? If we don't assemble that crucial cast of characters to walk through it with us, when will we?
If I had ten lives to live, I know how I would spend several of them.
In one I would live in Bath, England among the sheep and the libraries. I would write and walk and live a lovely eclectic life full of interesting people and lovers.
In another I would be a high-powered leader in Washington, D.C. I'd go to bed every night on a politico high, knowing that I did everything in my power that day to shake it up.
In another I would be a world class musician. I would have torrid love affairs with international conductors. I would carry an instrument case in and out of airports and people would say, "Is that her? The world class musician? I must go buy tickets!"
In another I would be an elementary school principal and a mommy in the middle of Ohio.
In another I think I would work in a Hawaiian hotel. I would enjoy the charming camaraderie with my co-workers and whenever we weren't working, we'd be on the beach, drinking, exploring, and playing. In my free time, I'd write a novel on my hammock. The novel would be about funny people who visit a Hawaiian hotel to get away from their problems. The novel would never be finished, because that wouldn't be the point.
In another I would be doing what I'm doing.
In another I would be a college English professor. I would wear a bit of velvet in every outfit and always smell like chalk.
In another I would play professional baseball. I'd spend the off season volunteering and starting global initiatives to help kids.
In another I would dance. I would always wear pink tights and leotards and look fantastic. Every time my husband saw me on stage he'd want to jump me.
In another I think I would own a children's book store like The Little Shop Around the Corner in You've Got Mail. I would live a small, simple life in the City and adore the little faces that would come to visit me and my puppets each day.
But, I don't have ten lives, and neither do you. So, I'll stay here for now, and live this one in the absolute most joyful, intense, risky, creative, and love-filled way I know how.
That's all I can do, and that's plenty for now.
Why do I like this, you ask? Because it has some logistics attached to it. No real room for interpretation here. Someone shows up, or they don't. They get on that plane, or they don't. They fight for you, or they don't. They come back, or they don't.
Although some may think of That Girl Abbey as a true Romantic, I appreciate some rules. I appreciate some logic, some black and white among the gray, some lines in the sand.
Do we believe this is true, though?
No one belongs to you if they don't always belong to you?
This part makes me a bit sad. Logistics in life are always the real clincher. How many people walk around thinking, "If I had only gotten that job" or "If I had only accepted that school" or "If I had only met her earlier" or "If I had only been there fifteen minutes before." Lifes tragedies and blessings occur in fleeting moments. And to make matters worse, we hardly ever know their importance until long after the fact.
With this one life to live, we have only one opportunity to lead an inspired, meaningful, thrilling existence. That's it.
If we don't live it up this time, when will we? If we don't become what and who we want, when will we? If we don't assemble that crucial cast of characters to walk through it with us, when will we?
If I had ten lives to live, I know how I would spend several of them.
In one I would live in Bath, England among the sheep and the libraries. I would write and walk and live a lovely eclectic life full of interesting people and lovers.
In another I would be a high-powered leader in Washington, D.C. I'd go to bed every night on a politico high, knowing that I did everything in my power that day to shake it up.
In another I would be a world class musician. I would have torrid love affairs with international conductors. I would carry an instrument case in and out of airports and people would say, "Is that her? The world class musician? I must go buy tickets!"
In another I would be an elementary school principal and a mommy in the middle of Ohio.
In another I think I would work in a Hawaiian hotel. I would enjoy the charming camaraderie with my co-workers and whenever we weren't working, we'd be on the beach, drinking, exploring, and playing. In my free time, I'd write a novel on my hammock. The novel would be about funny people who visit a Hawaiian hotel to get away from their problems. The novel would never be finished, because that wouldn't be the point.
In another I would be doing what I'm doing.
In another I would be a college English professor. I would wear a bit of velvet in every outfit and always smell like chalk.
In another I would play professional baseball. I'd spend the off season volunteering and starting global initiatives to help kids.
In another I would dance. I would always wear pink tights and leotards and look fantastic. Every time my husband saw me on stage he'd want to jump me.
In another I think I would own a children's book store like The Little Shop Around the Corner in You've Got Mail. I would live a small, simple life in the City and adore the little faces that would come to visit me and my puppets each day.
But, I don't have ten lives, and neither do you. So, I'll stay here for now, and live this one in the absolute most joyful, intense, risky, creative, and love-filled way I know how.
That's all I can do, and that's plenty for now.
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