My third piece is up on Gasm.org: Torn
Sometimes, instead of ranting here, I’ll be ranting on Gasm.org. You can see my latest article here:
The Too Young to be Old Conundrum
As of tomorrow I will have been home for three weeks. It’s been exhausting and action packed! I’ve been brunching and dinnering and partying and working and generally trying to keep myself busy.
Today I had my first paid article in ages “published” on a web site! My friend Jamye got me the gig. It’s supposed to become a recurring column and I’m hoping I didn’t screw it up by completely freaking out when I saw the image they’d run with the piece. The title is “Aging Gracelessly” and this is what they chose:
Uh, yeah. No. Nothing about my first person musings relate to this particular scenario. Nor am I interested in making fun of old women. I mean, I can make fun of myself. (You’d better not, but I can!) I’m not trying to be cruel to my, ummm, peers. They changed it, thank goodness. Go read it and see!
Anyway, back to my insanity. I celebrated Halloween a full seven times: The Haunted Halloween Bus in New Jersey, working the door at Honk, an oddball costume party at Coworkrs work share space (with DJ Spooky and a bunch of Orthodox Jews), the Nobot Heart party (in protest of the overpriced Robot Heart rave), working the door at Rubulad, Burning Man Happy Hour (where Pinky and I shared second place in the costume contest before we lost our prize at Dorian Gray) and Halloween itself, which featured a mad dash through the parade to catch up with the Kostume Kult float, followed by a stressful taxi ride to the Gene Frankel Theatre to emcee Ghostlight 2: The Haunted East Village, and finally, after taking down the decor at the theatre, catching the final few hours of KK’s big bash. By the time I went to bed Friday morning I was done! And didn’t even leave the house all day Friday. Check out Pinky and me in our gray scale ensembles!
It only took us a year to finally realize these costumes!
I’ve been making the tiniest bit of progress in cleaning out my storage space in an effort to return it to a functional costume closet. I brought up three boxes of…stuff…and unpacking them has been pretty damn depressing. Framed photos of my former life (my dad, standing, my husband, my cousin and her husband, my sister and her husband, all three of which are no longer husbands), more and more of the art nouveau boxes I collect — more and more all kinds of boxes, actually — which I’ve been cramming into my display case. I have plans to paint my walls. I want to hang the photos that don’t make me sad and all of the art that’s currently sitting on the floor. Moving back into my apartment has been a four-year-long process. I wish it could all just be finished already!
Oh, and I had another date tonight. It wasn’t…horrible. He was very aggressive about “booking” the date, even though I told him I was “skeptical.” Well, dinner was nice. He bought. But he’s a banker. A Republican. And 60. And he wore baggy khakis. Ack. When he said he’d like to see me again I told him it would be like taking money (or eating another dinner) under false pretenses. I did my best to talk him out of it, asking when he last stayed up all night on drugs or umm, partied at all. He told me that he was at Woodstock, which I’m guessing was to assure me he was, indeed, “cool.” I said I wasn’t talking about things he was interested in doing 30-plus years ago but, like, last weekend. He would not be dissuaded. In fact he practically insisted. Quite the salesman. However, I think I may have to tell him no. Is that awful of me? I mean, let’s be serious. A 60-yeard-old Republican banker? I just can’t. Not even for a free meal.
Okay, I gotta get some sleep.
Yesterday I particpated in a video shoot about female climaxes for gasm.org. My friend Jamye was moderator, posing questions about vibrators and masturbation, fantasies and female ejaculation. It was pretty fun. Plus I’ll do anything for Jamye. Or for 50 bucks!
The panel was supposed to include a variety of women and, for one comprised of only six, it was a success: ages ranged from 21 to 52 (me), married and single, and there was one woman of color. Our answers varied even more than who – or what – we were. One woman explained that she experiences her orgasms as colors. Others made allusions to threesomes and same-sex experimentation. The 21-year-old was — hmm, how to put this nicely? — the most vocal. When she cut off the quietest woman (for about the tenth time) by blurting, “I love to be the star! The center of attention!” I thought that quiet girl was gonna smack her. I sure would’ve liked to. And when the words “as you get older” actually came out of her mouth, in the context of “as you get older, your interest in sex decreases,” I swear, I almost lost it. Instead, I put my hands up and said, “Wait, wait just a minute here,” and disabused her of that notion. She back-pedaled, explaining that what she meant was “over time,” as in “over time, with one partner, your interest may decrease.” I’ll buy that. But again, coming from someone barely out of high school, it was a little difficult to swallow. When I asked Jamye what she thought of the shoot, she, too had been irritated with the youngster and said she felt compelled to let her know. I didn’t think it would be worth it.
Last night, as we drunkenly bumbled home from a long day of that shoot followed by her ex-boyfriend’s book party (and after telling me that I should give every blind date “at least three chances”) Jamye told me that people are afraid of me because I come off so angry. I suppose I do. It isn’t conscious. And I try not to be. I know people often take what I say way too seriously, hear me as more forceful than I mean to sound.
The gig I worked last weekend went well. I jumped in the second I got there, asking a woman who looked harried if I could help her before I’d even been told what to do. I elegantly solved a problem, efficiently ran a few errands and generally made myself useful. I wasn’t a whiner. And I don’t think anyone experienced me as angry. People I’m close to may see me that way but that’s mostly because, well, ’cause I’m being myself with them… I guess once you get to know me, you see my caustic side. But not everyone does. Sigh.
My sister and my mom both firmly believe that I am terminally unemployable. That I’ve been unable to keep myself from telling off every boss I’ve ever had. I don’t suffer fools gladly and I suck at faking how I feel, so if I think you’re an asshole, you’ll know it. Granted, it’s difficult to work for someone an idiot. But most of my bosses have been worthy of my respect.
Much of my anger comes from finding myself out of step. I feel like I’m perpetually ahead of the culture curve. A decade after I was doing something, it comes into vogue. Or gets good press. And becomes profitable. Maybe I just don’t have the right stick-to-it-ive-ness. Or the focus. Or perhaps I just get bored easily. But tell me, am I wrong to hope for one well-placed supporter? One person to “champion” my book proposal(s)? Advocate for me in a job situation? Is everyone too afraid, worried that my misplaced anger will cause me to implode?
That’s what I’m assuming. So here I sit, laptop on my lap, researching self-publishing sites and ready to do it on my own. I’ve stopped applying for jobs. And I won’t be expecting any favors. Fuck everyone else. Ya hear me? FUCK EVERYONE ELSE! How’s that for anger?