I said I wasn't going to blog during NaNoWriMo. I lied.
What has compelled me to break the serious and sacred bond of self-imposed cyber-silence? I'm so glad you asked.
Diani & Devine - the creative team behind horror comedy The Selling and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn [Robotic Edition], and other excellence - have launched a new Kickstarter campaign to raise funds for their latest project: Diani and Devine Meet the Apocalypse. If we really want to get technical about it, they launched it a couple weeks ago. While I threw my money at it on the first day, I've kind of been resting on my backer laurels since then, and that simply cannot continue to stand.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
On Creative Challenges (Or, Agreeing to Write a Novel in 30 Days...)
Ladies and gentlemen, if you are reading this the day it goes up, we have exactly two weeks until the first day of November. If it's after October 18th for you, that makes it even MORE pressing. And if it's before, well...maybe message me so that we can talk about your glorious time machine.
November is kind of a big deal. First and foremost, it is the month of my birth - let's never forget that. It's usually when the weather starts to get fiercely autumnal and awesome. Thanksgiving pops up, if you're in the U.S. Good movies always come out (Thor: The Dark World and Catching Fire, guys, I die). This year will bring us the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special (I am revived, that I may die again). As if all of this excellence wasn't enough, November also happens to be National Novel Writing Month.
November is kind of a big deal. First and foremost, it is the month of my birth - let's never forget that. It's usually when the weather starts to get fiercely autumnal and awesome. Thanksgiving pops up, if you're in the U.S. Good movies always come out (Thor: The Dark World and Catching Fire, guys, I die). This year will bring us the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special (I am revived, that I may die again). As if all of this excellence wasn't enough, November also happens to be National Novel Writing Month.
Friday, October 4, 2013
On The Modern Pop Star (Or, I Just Realized The Irony of Talking About Growing Pains In This Post)
First off, the sincerest of thank yous to everyone who did me the honor of reading, and in some cases responding to, my last post. It was a difficult thing to put out there, and the respect and support it received meant the world.
But let's focus on the present now, shall we?
So, the VMAs happened. I largely ignored them. That's not me taking a stand or having a position on them or anything - I just had other things I wanted to do instead. It was that simple.
Then the world...I shouldn't say world, I don't know that for a fact. Cyberworld? The internet and the continental US, for sure, exploded with words about Miley Cyrus' instantly infamous performance with Robin Thicke. Negative words. Positive words. All kinds of words.
I had no words for it, other than that I hadn't seen it and didn't care to. The fallout from the Twerk Heard 'Round the World ebbed and flowed, and I watched it all from afar. At its best, the firestorm prompted interesting discussions about gender roles, cultural appropriation, and the increasingly prevalent and disturbing trend of what has been dubbed, "slut-shaming." At its worst, it gave rise to rampant sexism and the kind of ugly speech that only seems to really come out when the curtain of anonymity that is the internet is drawn. In between was a mine (or a mine field, depending on how you look at it) of jokes.
Here's the thing: I've been trying to take a high road when it comes to celebrity gossip and controversy and controgossip or whatever. Part of the reason is because, for every Real Housewife or Kardashian who makes an active choice to commodify their lives, there are ten other people who just wanted to act or sing or write or whatever and are trying to be people the rest of the time. So yes, in an effort to be a more respectful citizen of the world, I follow the people I enjoy through official means (Twitter, their sites, etc.), where they get to choose which details of their lives will be disclosed, and actively try to avoid all the rest.
On a more selfish level, phasing out the fodder has been kind of good for my soul. Ultimately, celebrity gossip is just gossip, and involving yourself in that kind of drama passively can be just as damaging as being involved in it actively in your school or workplace or whatever. I have to get super hippiesh on you at least once a post, right? Just know that I'm being sincere when I say life's a lot more fun when you avoid inviting negative energy in.
For these reasons, I avoided Mileygate. I don't know the song, I didn't watch the performance, and - perhaps most important of all - I don't know her. Zero was the exact percentage of things I was qualified to discuss about the matter.
Now I have some things to say, but I do so with the disclaimer that this is all my opinion and is more of a reflection on my own experience, because again, I don't know any of the people I am about to mention, nor have I ever met them (aside from Amanda Palmer once, very briefly - she was lovely to me).
Yesterday, I read Sinead O'Connor's open letter (the first - it would seem that at least two subsequent letters now exist) to Cyrus (which you can find here), which the former appears to have been moved to write in response to comments made by the latter about the music video for, "Wrecking Ball," having been inspired in part by the video for, "Nothing Compares 2 U." It was a heartfelt letter, praising the young star's talent and begging her not to let the people she's surrounded herself with convince her that the only way to market that talent is by selling her body rather than her voice.
Amanda Palmer, solo artist and one half of The Dresden Dolls, responded with her own open letter to O'Connor, respectfully raising the counterpoints that, 1) to her credit, regardless of how arguably wise or appropriate her decisions are, Miley Cyrus seems to be running her own show, and 2) it is her right, as a person and a performer, to forge her own identity. To deny her that right, simply because we do not like what has emerged, would be a disservice to all people - young and old, women and men alike - who are trying to find themselves.
Another point that Palmer raised in her post was that she (along with most of us) was allowed to explore her artistic identity from within the safe confines of her room - I believe, "incubate," was the term she used, which I found very effective. Miley Cyrus spent her most formative years in front of a camera. Her image - her actual image - was part of an industry. There is little to no room for a child star to have growing pains, creatively or otherwise, in that situation.
That's what's happening here, if you really think about it. I look at the the pictures and the videos and the rest, and I don't see a, "slut," or even an, "idiot." What I see is a kid saying, "Fuck you, Mom & Dad, it's my life and you can't tell me what to do." It just so happens that, in this case, "Mom & Dad," refers to pop culture.
My growing pains were different, but ultimately they probably arose for the same reason: control. I wanted it, and I didn't have it. It's one of those things that makes being a teenager - or, really, just a person in the world - so frustrating sometimes, and why feeling misunderstood can almost be a perverse kind of release - there's a weird sense of mastery that comes with being the only one who, "gets it."
Now, am I endorsing the image that's being projected? No. I am no more a proponent of using sex as a sales pitch than I am of using it as a weapon. And that's an undeniable part of this - Cyrus might be naked because she just wants to be naked, but she's also consciously taking off her clothes in an effort to move herself to the head of the pop star pack. She's said as much, in an article I unfortunately cannot reference because I neglected to save the link. That's really the only thing I find terribly upsetting about the whole subject, but it's not unique to this situation. I was upset about it before the VMAs, and I'll be upset about it long after Miley Cyrus has either put on some pants or swung naked into the sunset on a piece of construction equipment.
There's an escalating trend of hypersexualization among women in pop music, and it's kind of a bummer. The Irish Times' Una Mullally does a good job of outlining it here, and it's something we should all think about. For me, I think it's indicative of the dearth of modern female pop artists on my radar. At this point in my life, I either wax nostalgic or turn to other genres, but I wonder sometimes how I'd perceive things if I were younger,
This isn't something that can be solved in a blog post, least of all one of mine. And maybe you're of the opinion that there's nothing to be solved at all. Maybe you're right. I suppose, in the interest of wrapping this up, what I can say is that, if you're not digging what Miley Cyrus and/or other folks are up to right now, you have a choice. Turn off the radio, put on your own music, change the channel, stop clicking links. If you're worried about your kids because the image that's being put out there doesn't match with your values, talk to them about it - calmly, and without condemnation. Help them see the value of their own sexuality, and that there are safe and healthy ways to express it. Media is everywhere - you can't control the flow of data anymore, not really, but you can choose how you respond to it.
But let's focus on the present now, shall we?
So, the VMAs happened. I largely ignored them. That's not me taking a stand or having a position on them or anything - I just had other things I wanted to do instead. It was that simple.
Then the world...I shouldn't say world, I don't know that for a fact. Cyberworld? The internet and the continental US, for sure, exploded with words about Miley Cyrus' instantly infamous performance with Robin Thicke. Negative words. Positive words. All kinds of words.
I had no words for it, other than that I hadn't seen it and didn't care to. The fallout from the Twerk Heard 'Round the World ebbed and flowed, and I watched it all from afar. At its best, the firestorm prompted interesting discussions about gender roles, cultural appropriation, and the increasingly prevalent and disturbing trend of what has been dubbed, "slut-shaming." At its worst, it gave rise to rampant sexism and the kind of ugly speech that only seems to really come out when the curtain of anonymity that is the internet is drawn. In between was a mine (or a mine field, depending on how you look at it) of jokes.
Here's the thing: I've been trying to take a high road when it comes to celebrity gossip and controversy and controgossip or whatever. Part of the reason is because, for every Real Housewife or Kardashian who makes an active choice to commodify their lives, there are ten other people who just wanted to act or sing or write or whatever and are trying to be people the rest of the time. So yes, in an effort to be a more respectful citizen of the world, I follow the people I enjoy through official means (Twitter, their sites, etc.), where they get to choose which details of their lives will be disclosed, and actively try to avoid all the rest.
On a more selfish level, phasing out the fodder has been kind of good for my soul. Ultimately, celebrity gossip is just gossip, and involving yourself in that kind of drama passively can be just as damaging as being involved in it actively in your school or workplace or whatever. I have to get super hippiesh on you at least once a post, right? Just know that I'm being sincere when I say life's a lot more fun when you avoid inviting negative energy in.
For these reasons, I avoided Mileygate. I don't know the song, I didn't watch the performance, and - perhaps most important of all - I don't know her. Zero was the exact percentage of things I was qualified to discuss about the matter.
Now I have some things to say, but I do so with the disclaimer that this is all my opinion and is more of a reflection on my own experience, because again, I don't know any of the people I am about to mention, nor have I ever met them (aside from Amanda Palmer once, very briefly - she was lovely to me).
Yesterday, I read Sinead O'Connor's open letter (the first - it would seem that at least two subsequent letters now exist) to Cyrus (which you can find here), which the former appears to have been moved to write in response to comments made by the latter about the music video for, "Wrecking Ball," having been inspired in part by the video for, "Nothing Compares 2 U." It was a heartfelt letter, praising the young star's talent and begging her not to let the people she's surrounded herself with convince her that the only way to market that talent is by selling her body rather than her voice.
Amanda Palmer, solo artist and one half of The Dresden Dolls, responded with her own open letter to O'Connor, respectfully raising the counterpoints that, 1) to her credit, regardless of how arguably wise or appropriate her decisions are, Miley Cyrus seems to be running her own show, and 2) it is her right, as a person and a performer, to forge her own identity. To deny her that right, simply because we do not like what has emerged, would be a disservice to all people - young and old, women and men alike - who are trying to find themselves.
Another point that Palmer raised in her post was that she (along with most of us) was allowed to explore her artistic identity from within the safe confines of her room - I believe, "incubate," was the term she used, which I found very effective. Miley Cyrus spent her most formative years in front of a camera. Her image - her actual image - was part of an industry. There is little to no room for a child star to have growing pains, creatively or otherwise, in that situation.
That's what's happening here, if you really think about it. I look at the the pictures and the videos and the rest, and I don't see a, "slut," or even an, "idiot." What I see is a kid saying, "Fuck you, Mom & Dad, it's my life and you can't tell me what to do." It just so happens that, in this case, "Mom & Dad," refers to pop culture.
My growing pains were different, but ultimately they probably arose for the same reason: control. I wanted it, and I didn't have it. It's one of those things that makes being a teenager - or, really, just a person in the world - so frustrating sometimes, and why feeling misunderstood can almost be a perverse kind of release - there's a weird sense of mastery that comes with being the only one who, "gets it."
Now, am I endorsing the image that's being projected? No. I am no more a proponent of using sex as a sales pitch than I am of using it as a weapon. And that's an undeniable part of this - Cyrus might be naked because she just wants to be naked, but she's also consciously taking off her clothes in an effort to move herself to the head of the pop star pack. She's said as much, in an article I unfortunately cannot reference because I neglected to save the link. That's really the only thing I find terribly upsetting about the whole subject, but it's not unique to this situation. I was upset about it before the VMAs, and I'll be upset about it long after Miley Cyrus has either put on some pants or swung naked into the sunset on a piece of construction equipment.
There's an escalating trend of hypersexualization among women in pop music, and it's kind of a bummer. The Irish Times' Una Mullally does a good job of outlining it here, and it's something we should all think about. For me, I think it's indicative of the dearth of modern female pop artists on my radar. At this point in my life, I either wax nostalgic or turn to other genres, but I wonder sometimes how I'd perceive things if I were younger,
This isn't something that can be solved in a blog post, least of all one of mine. And maybe you're of the opinion that there's nothing to be solved at all. Maybe you're right. I suppose, in the interest of wrapping this up, what I can say is that, if you're not digging what Miley Cyrus and/or other folks are up to right now, you have a choice. Turn off the radio, put on your own music, change the channel, stop clicking links. If you're worried about your kids because the image that's being put out there doesn't match with your values, talk to them about it - calmly, and without condemnation. Help them see the value of their own sexuality, and that there are safe and healthy ways to express it. Media is everywhere - you can't control the flow of data anymore, not really, but you can choose how you respond to it.
Monday, September 9, 2013
On Healing
I am going to tell you a thing.
I use, "you," in the broad sense of the word. It's funny, because if I was being 100% honest, I would say that I truly never think that anybody - friend or stranger - reads anything I say here, which is all at once very liberating and borderline embarrassing, because it feels like I just sign in to have a really elaborate conversation with myself every so often. Then I realize that, in a way, that's kind of the essence of my profession, and it doesn't feel quite as bad.
I'm stalling.
Did you (I...me...whatever) notice?
I use, "you," in the broad sense of the word. It's funny, because if I was being 100% honest, I would say that I truly never think that anybody - friend or stranger - reads anything I say here, which is all at once very liberating and borderline embarrassing, because it feels like I just sign in to have a really elaborate conversation with myself every so often. Then I realize that, in a way, that's kind of the essence of my profession, and it doesn't feel quite as bad.
I'm stalling.
Did you (I...me...whatever) notice?
Thursday, August 29, 2013
On Replacements (Or, That Time I Almost Blew Up My Food Processor)
This could be about how The Replacements totally reunited in Canada, which I'm very, very excited about. I used to put Tim, into my stereo in college and write for hours. Still, I've got to be honest with you: this isn't about Paul Westerberg so much as it's about another recipe. I know. But that's all I've got right now, and this totally justifies my recent need to Instagram everything I cook. So.
Part of transitioning to a vegan lifestyle is bidding adieu to quite a few delicious things that just don't make the cut anymore. If you're shifting your eating habits for purely or predominately ethical reasons, this is probably less difficult than if you're someone like me who's just looking for the right way to start making better life choices after realizing that still eating the last piece of cake even though you'd just dropped it on the floor was actually a rock bottom moment (not a hypothetical example so much as a thing I actually did six years ago - like I said here, impulse control).
We can all agree that not being able to eat a thing that is awesome sucks. As such, in this world of food allergies and alternative lifestyles, all sorts of enterprising folks have devised a number of, "replacements," for the things that we have to/chose to give up.
Now, I have no illusions about any of these substitutes being, "just like the real thing." Bacon is bacon, crispy tempeh strips are crispy tempeh strips. While they can serve the same purpose in a meal, they are not the same thing and never will be. Once you accept this, you will live a happier life of realistic expectations where you can enjoy things for what they are and not what you wish they were. I know. Next, I'll be posting about how to achieve world peace.
So please know, in your heart of hearts, that when you read and/or execute this recipe I'm about to share for raw, vegan, "Nutella," you will not be getting Nutella. In fact, the only reasons I'm attaching that brand to it are, A) that's how the original source labeled it, and B) it provides some context for how to use it. Do not prepare your senses for an experience they are not about to have.
Part of transitioning to a vegan lifestyle is bidding adieu to quite a few delicious things that just don't make the cut anymore. If you're shifting your eating habits for purely or predominately ethical reasons, this is probably less difficult than if you're someone like me who's just looking for the right way to start making better life choices after realizing that still eating the last piece of cake even though you'd just dropped it on the floor was actually a rock bottom moment (not a hypothetical example so much as a thing I actually did six years ago - like I said here, impulse control).
We can all agree that not being able to eat a thing that is awesome sucks. As such, in this world of food allergies and alternative lifestyles, all sorts of enterprising folks have devised a number of, "replacements," for the things that we have to/chose to give up.
Now, I have no illusions about any of these substitutes being, "just like the real thing." Bacon is bacon, crispy tempeh strips are crispy tempeh strips. While they can serve the same purpose in a meal, they are not the same thing and never will be. Once you accept this, you will live a happier life of realistic expectations where you can enjoy things for what they are and not what you wish they were. I know. Next, I'll be posting about how to achieve world peace.
So please know, in your heart of hearts, that when you read and/or execute this recipe I'm about to share for raw, vegan, "Nutella," you will not be getting Nutella. In fact, the only reasons I'm attaching that brand to it are, A) that's how the original source labeled it, and B) it provides some context for how to use it. Do not prepare your senses for an experience they are not about to have.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
On Breakfast (Or, Trying Not to Fail at My Own Life Plans)
So here's a thing that is true: breakfast is good for you.
I know. Stop the presses.
Now, whether or not breakfast is, "the most important meal of the day," as our parents and most after school programming would suggest, apparently remains to be seen. There are studies and articles and what have you floating around out there making the case for lunch and/or dinner. My non-scientific opinion is that all three meals are kind of equally important, as skipping any of them tends to throw life out of whack and/or send me spinning into a blind rage.
And yet...
It's just so easy to miss breakfast. Even now, when I'm fully aware of the consequences, it's one of the first parts of my morning routine to get cut when I'm bargaining for extra minutes of sleep. I don't know what it is - the proximity of the meal to what's often the most rushed part of the day, the popular idea that breakfast is really just first dessert (why did we even let Pop-Tarts become a thing?)(because they're disturbingly delicious slabs of sugar and chemicals, damn them)(triple parenthetical), the government (I needed a third thing) - but, despite my best intentions, I am a serial cereal skipper (I know, I'm so sorry - not sorry enough to delete it, but still).
Well, no longer. I am making this bold declaration to the universe, the cyberverse, and the 4ish people I can mostly guarantee will at least sort of skim this post: I will make breakfast a legitimate priority. And I don't mean I'm going to have a cup of tea and merrily skip off to start my day, satisfied that I have achieved my goal. Simply throwing something into the morning meal time slot will not necessarily allow you to reap the benefits of being a breakfast eater. Am I saying ditch your coffee and never look at a donut again? No. Donuts are amazing. And I mean, I'm not at all fond of coffee, but I don't begrudge you the right to enjoy it.
What I am saying is that, occasional indulgences aside, it's just as important to consider the nutritional value of the first meal of the day as it is the second and third. Because again, in a world full of pastries and pancakes and something called toaster strudel (again, why did we even...?), it's so easy to forget that you're meant to start most days with purpose, and that maybe pouring a bag of refined sugar onto your soul isn't necessarily going to be conducive to optimal brain function.
Now, does this mean we all need to resign ourselves to eating nutritionally enriched cardboard and living lives of sadness? No. Promise. What I'm reminding myself, as much as anyone else, is that crafting a dish that is both functional and phenomenal in the morning is neither impossible nor complicated. Exhibit A after the jump.
I know. Stop the presses.
Now, whether or not breakfast is, "the most important meal of the day," as our parents and most after school programming would suggest, apparently remains to be seen. There are studies and articles and what have you floating around out there making the case for lunch and/or dinner. My non-scientific opinion is that all three meals are kind of equally important, as skipping any of them tends to throw life out of whack and/or send me spinning into a blind rage.
And yet...
It's just so easy to miss breakfast. Even now, when I'm fully aware of the consequences, it's one of the first parts of my morning routine to get cut when I'm bargaining for extra minutes of sleep. I don't know what it is - the proximity of the meal to what's often the most rushed part of the day, the popular idea that breakfast is really just first dessert (why did we even let Pop-Tarts become a thing?)(because they're disturbingly delicious slabs of sugar and chemicals, damn them)(triple parenthetical), the government (I needed a third thing) - but, despite my best intentions, I am a serial cereal skipper (I know, I'm so sorry - not sorry enough to delete it, but still).
Well, no longer. I am making this bold declaration to the universe, the cyberverse, and the 4ish people I can mostly guarantee will at least sort of skim this post: I will make breakfast a legitimate priority. And I don't mean I'm going to have a cup of tea and merrily skip off to start my day, satisfied that I have achieved my goal. Simply throwing something into the morning meal time slot will not necessarily allow you to reap the benefits of being a breakfast eater. Am I saying ditch your coffee and never look at a donut again? No. Donuts are amazing. And I mean, I'm not at all fond of coffee, but I don't begrudge you the right to enjoy it.
What I am saying is that, occasional indulgences aside, it's just as important to consider the nutritional value of the first meal of the day as it is the second and third. Because again, in a world full of pastries and pancakes and something called toaster strudel (again, why did we even...?), it's so easy to forget that you're meant to start most days with purpose, and that maybe pouring a bag of refined sugar onto your soul isn't necessarily going to be conducive to optimal brain function.
Now, does this mean we all need to resign ourselves to eating nutritionally enriched cardboard and living lives of sadness? No. Promise. What I'm reminding myself, as much as anyone else, is that crafting a dish that is both functional and phenomenal in the morning is neither impossible nor complicated. Exhibit A after the jump.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
On My Tattoo (Or, Hey Guys, I Got a Tattoo)
So I got a tattoo a few months ago.
I wasn't planning on saying anything about it, as it was something that I did for myself and shouting about it on the internet right after would've felt like cheapening the moment somehow. However, enough time has passed (3 real life months is basically the same as 3 cyber years) and enough people have noticed it to make me realize that I really need to get better at telling this story.
So.
I got a tattoo a few months ago. Truth be told, it's not something I ever thought I'd do - not because of a problem with tattoos, but because of the permanence of it all. If you're going to have something etched onto your body, I feel like you've really got to be committed. Emotionally, I totally was. I knew exactly why I wanted to do it and what I wanted it to mean. The problem was settling on a visual that would represent that. Several times, I thought I had it, and I'd walk around all smug and satisfied and bad-ass-here-we-go until my old friend doubt would show up and ruin the party.
And here's the thing - I'm all about telling doubt to frak off, because otherwise I wouldn't get anything done. Ever. However, there are exceptions to just about every rule, and if your brain is saying, "Don't put that on yourself forever, idiot," maybe pay attention.
This went on for years - actual years - past my initial, "Maybe I'll get a tattoo...," thought, until I settled into a happy holding pattern of, "Yup, maybe I will, but really probably never..."
Then a thing happened.
At the beginning of May, I went to see Jen Kirkman at the Punch Line. She was doing a stand-up set followed by a book signing, and I was totally on board for all of that. I went alone, because I accepted long ago that while there would be plenty of things in life I'd be able to do with other people, sometimes I'd be the only one who wanted to go somewhere or do something. Flying solo is way preferable to missing out. However, there were two drawbacks to being by myself that evening: 1) There was nobody to watch my tea (shut up, it was cold and I don't drink alone) when I had to go to the bathroom, and very special episodes of every show I watched growing up told me this would lead to me being roofied (I wasn't). 2) I had no wingman to make sure I didn't make an ass of myself during the signing.
'Cause listen, I've had the honor and pleasure of attending several events that have given me the opportunity to meet people I think are awesome, and I love it. There's something kind of soul satisfying about looking someone who's given you a gift through a performance or a book or what have you in the eye and saying, "Thank you for making this thing that inspired me or helped me or just made me happy, and thank you for being here right now and signing this or taking this picture or whatever." The challenge is making those words come out of my mouth. I'm a human being. A shy, nervous, overthinker of a human being.
So while I stood there after the show, first in line (my secret signing nightmare), waiting and wishing I hadn't insisted on finishing that second tea, I decided that the exchange would go one of two ways: A) I would say, "Great show," and, "Thank you!" and then hope that my hands would stop shaking by the time I got to my bus stop, or B) I would say both of those things, then go the extra mile and mention that I'd really enjoyed her episode of The JV Club podcast, because I had.
I've spent so much of my life as an option A girl - safe but scared. That night, emboldened by nothing but green tea, I decided to go with B. And it went well. I left giddy, happy with the exchange and proud of myself for opening my mouth and saying words. A year ago, I wouldn't have done that. A year ago, I would've gotten dry-mouthed and tongue-tied and died a little because that's what any kind of social situation with strangers does to all of us (right?!?!?). Personal. Growth.
By the time I got on my bus, I knew. I knew what I wanted my tattoo to be. It was so clear, so beyond doubt, that it didn't even pop into my head as, "I think this is what I'll do," so much as, "This is it, duh."
The aforementioned JV Club podcast (which I posted about here), hosted by Janet Varney and full of hilarity, sincerity, and everything in between, has been kind of a game changer for me in the best of ways. It's so honest and thought-provoking and therapeutic that my actual therapist is pretty much giving me bonus points for being a listener (disclaimer: I don't think therapists actually give you points). Without going into extreme detail, the podcast has helped me move past so many of the roadblocks I put up in my own life through the simple act of helping me feel like I'm not alone, and I'm a better person for it. Not only that, I feel motivated to keep becoming a better person.
It's kind of funny and awesome that someone who's peripherally been a player in my life for years - Janet's been involved in a bunch of stuff that I'm a fan of and, along with Cole Stratton and David Owen, co-founded SF Sketchfest, which is pretty much Second Christmas - now feels kind of like a friend that I hang out with via headphones for an hour a week and just don't talk to. The conversations on the podcast are that casual and natural and fantastic.
I got the JV Club logo tattooed on my left wrist on May 19th by Kevin at Cold Steel. It's there to remind me that I make an active choice every single day to not be the frightened, angry person I was for so long. It's there to remind me that I am capable of getting through bad days (or months, or years), because they're still going to happen. It's also there to remind me that I have a gorgeous, phenomenal life full of love and light and pure joy that will just keep getting better if I get out of my own way. Once it was on my wrist, I knew I'd made the right call, because it felt like it always should have been there.
So I guess, what I'm trying to say is thanks, doubt. You helped me hold out for something pretty rad this time.
Side note: The day I got my tattoo also happened to be Bay to Breakers here in SF. If you're a runner, it's a race. If you're most of the city, it's a reason to put on a spandex tiger costume and start drinking in the street at 10 AM. Every year, I say I'm going to stay in the house all day, and every year, I manage to forget and make plans. However, the staff at the shop seemed to genuinely appreciate that I was sober and that my best friend, who accompanied me, did not have a tambourine.
Public Service Announcement: You can't donate blood for a year after getting a tattoo. I had a mini-crisis of conscience when I looked this up, because I'm a regular donor (and an in-demand type O donor, which just made it worse) and suddenly felt wildly selfish. I eased my guilt (a little) by donating a couple days before my appointment, and while it's maybe ill-advised to schedule back-to-back activities that result in blood loss, it all worked out. Consider donating in my stead and visit your local blood bank today.
When my best buddy Jennie got her tattoo a few years ago, I was on hand (literally - she's a hand holder) for the experience, and she was always adamant about returning the favor. I am not a hand holder, however, so she took my phone and documented the occasion. Pics after the jump.
I wasn't planning on saying anything about it, as it was something that I did for myself and shouting about it on the internet right after would've felt like cheapening the moment somehow. However, enough time has passed (3 real life months is basically the same as 3 cyber years) and enough people have noticed it to make me realize that I really need to get better at telling this story.
So.
I got a tattoo a few months ago. Truth be told, it's not something I ever thought I'd do - not because of a problem with tattoos, but because of the permanence of it all. If you're going to have something etched onto your body, I feel like you've really got to be committed. Emotionally, I totally was. I knew exactly why I wanted to do it and what I wanted it to mean. The problem was settling on a visual that would represent that. Several times, I thought I had it, and I'd walk around all smug and satisfied and bad-ass-here-we-go until my old friend doubt would show up and ruin the party.
And here's the thing - I'm all about telling doubt to frak off, because otherwise I wouldn't get anything done. Ever. However, there are exceptions to just about every rule, and if your brain is saying, "Don't put that on yourself forever, idiot," maybe pay attention.
This went on for years - actual years - past my initial, "Maybe I'll get a tattoo...," thought, until I settled into a happy holding pattern of, "Yup, maybe I will, but really probably never..."
Then a thing happened.
At the beginning of May, I went to see Jen Kirkman at the Punch Line. She was doing a stand-up set followed by a book signing, and I was totally on board for all of that. I went alone, because I accepted long ago that while there would be plenty of things in life I'd be able to do with other people, sometimes I'd be the only one who wanted to go somewhere or do something. Flying solo is way preferable to missing out. However, there were two drawbacks to being by myself that evening: 1) There was nobody to watch my tea (shut up, it was cold and I don't drink alone) when I had to go to the bathroom, and very special episodes of every show I watched growing up told me this would lead to me being roofied (I wasn't). 2) I had no wingman to make sure I didn't make an ass of myself during the signing.
'Cause listen, I've had the honor and pleasure of attending several events that have given me the opportunity to meet people I think are awesome, and I love it. There's something kind of soul satisfying about looking someone who's given you a gift through a performance or a book or what have you in the eye and saying, "Thank you for making this thing that inspired me or helped me or just made me happy, and thank you for being here right now and signing this or taking this picture or whatever." The challenge is making those words come out of my mouth. I'm a human being. A shy, nervous, overthinker of a human being.
So while I stood there after the show, first in line (my secret signing nightmare), waiting and wishing I hadn't insisted on finishing that second tea, I decided that the exchange would go one of two ways: A) I would say, "Great show," and, "Thank you!" and then hope that my hands would stop shaking by the time I got to my bus stop, or B) I would say both of those things, then go the extra mile and mention that I'd really enjoyed her episode of The JV Club podcast, because I had.
I've spent so much of my life as an option A girl - safe but scared. That night, emboldened by nothing but green tea, I decided to go with B. And it went well. I left giddy, happy with the exchange and proud of myself for opening my mouth and saying words. A year ago, I wouldn't have done that. A year ago, I would've gotten dry-mouthed and tongue-tied and died a little because that's what any kind of social situation with strangers does to all of us (right?!?!?). Personal. Growth.
By the time I got on my bus, I knew. I knew what I wanted my tattoo to be. It was so clear, so beyond doubt, that it didn't even pop into my head as, "I think this is what I'll do," so much as, "This is it, duh."
The aforementioned JV Club podcast (which I posted about here), hosted by Janet Varney and full of hilarity, sincerity, and everything in between, has been kind of a game changer for me in the best of ways. It's so honest and thought-provoking and therapeutic that my actual therapist is pretty much giving me bonus points for being a listener (disclaimer: I don't think therapists actually give you points). Without going into extreme detail, the podcast has helped me move past so many of the roadblocks I put up in my own life through the simple act of helping me feel like I'm not alone, and I'm a better person for it. Not only that, I feel motivated to keep becoming a better person.
It's kind of funny and awesome that someone who's peripherally been a player in my life for years - Janet's been involved in a bunch of stuff that I'm a fan of and, along with Cole Stratton and David Owen, co-founded SF Sketchfest, which is pretty much Second Christmas - now feels kind of like a friend that I hang out with via headphones for an hour a week and just don't talk to. The conversations on the podcast are that casual and natural and fantastic.
I got the JV Club logo tattooed on my left wrist on May 19th by Kevin at Cold Steel. It's there to remind me that I make an active choice every single day to not be the frightened, angry person I was for so long. It's there to remind me that I am capable of getting through bad days (or months, or years), because they're still going to happen. It's also there to remind me that I have a gorgeous, phenomenal life full of love and light and pure joy that will just keep getting better if I get out of my own way. Once it was on my wrist, I knew I'd made the right call, because it felt like it always should have been there.
So I guess, what I'm trying to say is thanks, doubt. You helped me hold out for something pretty rad this time.
Side note: The day I got my tattoo also happened to be Bay to Breakers here in SF. If you're a runner, it's a race. If you're most of the city, it's a reason to put on a spandex tiger costume and start drinking in the street at 10 AM. Every year, I say I'm going to stay in the house all day, and every year, I manage to forget and make plans. However, the staff at the shop seemed to genuinely appreciate that I was sober and that my best friend, who accompanied me, did not have a tambourine.
Public Service Announcement: You can't donate blood for a year after getting a tattoo. I had a mini-crisis of conscience when I looked this up, because I'm a regular donor (and an in-demand type O donor, which just made it worse) and suddenly felt wildly selfish. I eased my guilt (a little) by donating a couple days before my appointment, and while it's maybe ill-advised to schedule back-to-back activities that result in blood loss, it all worked out. Consider donating in my stead and visit your local blood bank today.
When my best buddy Jennie got her tattoo a few years ago, I was on hand (literally - she's a hand holder) for the experience, and she was always adamant about returning the favor. I am not a hand holder, however, so she took my phone and documented the occasion. Pics after the jump.
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