movin' on out.
May in the Bay is moving to http://mayinthe415bay.blogspot.com/.
Follow my adventures in suburbia there!
May in the Bay is moving to http://mayinthe415bay.blogspot.com/.
Follow my adventures in suburbia there!
just love the Internet? They keep finding more and more ways for us to communicate (e-mail, google talk, webtalk, etc.), but all these gadgets just make it harder to understand each other. Who hasn’t misread tone in an e-mail? Who hasn’t drunk-e-mailed or drunk-texted someone something they wouldn’t be able to say to their face? When Wifey posts a new entry to her blog, it goes without saying that I am one of the first to read it. And to leave mostly loving comments, but occasionally bitchy ones I know she’ll forgive, like “ye-ouch. i know of whom you speak. i know you've probably had five dirty martinis, but to be fair, she's going through a lot more than .5% of what you are going through. just because she's married doesn't make her the enemy.” Sometimes I forget we are the same heart beating in two different bodies, Siamese twins separated by too much continent, she the Amazon Queen of my heart. I don’t know how I could imagine she wouldn’t be one of the first to see my new entry, and to write back lovingly, understandingly, reacting without being bitchy unlike me (this is why she was always so good for me): “Dear Wifey, what i meant in my drunken stupor was that it seemed easier to dream the impossible dream when one has someone to make sure the bills are paid. obvs i love you MORE THAN ANYONE so whatever you did i would never judge. i only judge people i envy. and you and i are two souls too similar to ever stand apart, so i would never judge you. i would read whatever you wrote, whatever you didn't write. the point being that i love you beyond reason and hold you by none of the standards i blog about. forever, wifey.” This, I guess, is my point. She’s right, of course, it is easier to dream when someone else will pay your bills. In our fictitious friend’s case, the husband-type may have been able to pay more of the bills than, say, David would if tomorrow I decided to drop everything and become the Great American Novelist. If I did that, boy would I be a hungry and homeless one. But I get it and I shouldn’t niggle over the small details, because Wifey is right: While husband-types may not be able to support you completely, they are able to lubricate the way toward your dream. (Ew, that sounded gross. Maybe “pave the way” would be a better choice.) BUT in terms of support, therein lies my “rub.” In no other part of life would I trade Dave in (and here, I am glad, again, that he doesn’t read my blog), but in this one area, artistic support, I’m not sure I wouldn’t trade him in for all that I perceive Wifey as having. A community of fellow artists, driven by the need to pay their bills BUT ALSO to achieve their artistic zenith. Anyway, now she and I both know what we meant and so does the whole Internet. Whee.
I’ve been kicking around this theory on passion vs. discipline in the creative life. To take one example … I’ve always been very interested in using dialect in my creative writing, yet I’ve also staunchly maintained that one must learn proper grammatical rules before in essence “breaking” them. Consider another instance: that of any “traditional” art, such as hula or Hawaiian songwriting. On the one hand, innovation is key to keeping a thing alive, and what we see now as “tradition” is just a frozen moment in a series of innovations, but on the other hand you don’t want just anyone waltzing in and declaring themselves a kumu (teacher). You want innovation to be built on top of the collective history and methodology of the art.
In other words, it is a more powerful move to know the rules and choose to lay them aside than to never have “known better” at all.
I say this, but then I consider a simple fact: My prolificacy (in creative writing) has dramatically reduced since I went away to college. One might tally this up to just the upheaval of adolescence, or the fact that I’ve had to start worrying about rent and bills and such things, or even to the fact that I now work as an editor and sometimes the last thing I want to do after dealing with words all day is work with more. It is a combination of all these things and something else. Much as I loved every single writing workshop I was in at Sarah Lawrence, much as I cherish the dog-eared pages of novels I read “as a writer” that sit beloved on my shelves, I find that the true burning passion and the joy in creation has dwindled in the face of the sheer amount of rules, now knowing “how” to write.
I had finished two novels of over 200 pages each—not to mention a number of short stories and entire volumes of poetry—before I reached high school graduation, and I never realized I had anything to apologize for before I sat through workshops. I didn’t know that my dialogue tends to suck, that someone who has just begun to date probably shouldn’t write about boys because there is no way to NOT be melodramatic about it, or that my poetry was “bad.” I never used to apologize for any of it, I just wrote and wrote and wrote. I took myself so seriously. I didn’t have to make a schedule for myself because I wanted to be doing it every minute: creating and revising. I would read my stories aloud to myself, and I was enamored of the sound of my own voice reading my own writing.
Since Sarah Lawrence, I have been kicking around the same damn novel I’ve been writing since 1998. I have had probably over 50 different readers. I have gone through near as many revisions. I have scrapped the entire novel twice and tried to begin again from a different point of entry. But mostly I have stuck it on a shelf and let it collect dust. I’m comfortable with the characters, too comfortable in fact, I know them in and out and I have already imagined everything they are capable in their little lives. I’ve also written the libretto of an opera, Ka’ililauokekoa, which I built up to be this great thing—and it is, I am insanely proud of writing those lyrics—but it never did premiere. Then there is the trashy romance novel Wifey and I are trying to write cross-country, but it’s hard: When it’s good for her to write, it’s bad for me, and vice versa, and I fear we’ve lost our steam. I feel like my creativity is dying a slow death here. I am terrified I won’t create something else. And it is the worst kind of feeling, especially as I watch other friends enter MFA programs or have their plays be swept up into production Off-Off Broadway (shout out to FAMOUS Wifey and her play Giants). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge them their dreams, I just wish I could find my way to mine.
David mentioned the same sort of thing happening to him with music. He was child prodigy good at cello, and really at all things music: The man can play almost anything with strings, has a beautiful voice, and has the rhythm of a black man, seriously. And he used to play so often, with such joy, motivated only by himself. But when he went to college, he got sucked into the “how” of becoming a musician rather than the sheer joy of the playing itself, and he lost his way. He’s only recently begun to pick up the guitar again, once in a great while, and I feel like I hold my breath the entire time, not wanting to scare him away from it or spoil the moment. I sometimes see a bit of the old light in his eyes, and I wish there were a way to help him nurture the dream, but I know better than anyone that he has to want it badly enough for it to come true. “No one else can do it for you … the rest is yet unwritten … blah de blah blah blah.”
I read Wifey’s recent blog entry. I was sort of taken aback at first by the vehemence, but then I realized (as wifeys always do) that she’d probably been drinking *dirty* martinis with those Irishmen (tsk tsk, dear). And I don’t want to discount what she is saying at all, and I agree that—with the notable exception of Sex and the City—those that are single are often without a voice. But just because one might have a piece of jewelry on one’s left hand, and someone tucked in with her at night, that doesn’t mean that the “artistic life” is any easier to follow, or dreams any easier to achieve. It doesn’t even necessarily mean that the rent and bills are any easier to pay. It certainly doesn’t help with writer’s block, and it doesn’t even necessarily mean that she has more support. I guess the grass is always greener, but when I look at Wifey, I look long and hard and admiringly. I see someone who is so passionate and creative and driven, and I see her surrounded by a community of creative and artistic types that adore her, support her, and bounce off her with their own creative missions. And I miss that kind of community. I would absolutely buy Wifey and anyone like her “a pint” but not in consolation for the inequity of the situation but in camaraderie for what we have in common: a dream deferred, a dream picked back up again, a dream on a shelf, and a dream finally at long length pursued.
And so, I’m trying to rediscover the joy. To read as a reader would—voraciously, not with a mind for what I might tactically “glean” from a book in terms of craft. I’ve read six books in the last week. Here’s to hoping I can find a similar way back to the pen and paper.
... they're warmed. Despite all my kvetching about the upcoming nuptials and the stressing over the details, I'm finally--despite myself--getting excited about it.
Because my friends are coming. They're actually coming. The ones that live in Oahu and Kaua'i and the Big Island, they're coming. The ones that live in New Jersey, Seattle, Baltimore, and Alaska, they're coming. My New Yorkers (sigh), all scraping together their money and packing their bags. North and South California--check, check. And we've got people still trying to come from Texas to Maine; Oregon to Michigan; Arizona, Nevada, and Colorado; not to mention Toronto, Paris, London, and Tokyo.
Besides the groom who--SPOILER ALERT, SPOILER ALERT--I've wanted to marry since 11th grade (I know, ick, but I did warn you), this is the thing I am the most excited about. This is what makes it begin to feel real. I always knew my friends would *want* to help me celebrate, but for whatever reason I never imagined I'd really stand there and make such an important promise surrounded by so many important people. This warms me in a way I don't have a name for because when Dave and I first began planning this thing, two years back when we first got engaged, the *people* were the only part we were sure about. We decided we wanted each other, we decided we wanted good food, and we decided we wanted our loved ones to be there. (In our giddy newly engagedness, we didn't realize that we had already thrown our budget out the window by making sure that list included every single loved one ever.) But you know, despite the complaints and doubts I've had while planning, that is still a decision I stand by. I know how much easier and cheaper it would have been to (a) invite less people or (b) just give up and elope. But I know that nothing--not the dress, not the cake, not any first dance to any song, nihil, nada, niente, not a single thing--is going to mean as much to me or stick in my mind as much as looking out into the crowd and seeing so many truly beloved faces.
Which reminds me: I really need to see an optometrist so I *can* actually see this wedding.
And now I will blog about blogging and language by simply repasting a chat conversation I had earlier today. (Names changed to protect the innocent.) Because I'm lazy like that.
ME: true dat. it's the planning ... but honestly it is most of all the money. i actually blogged about it recently. oh, but don't read it, because my more recent entry is stupid
HIM: Funny you mention that...I just read it. :) (your blog, the most recent entry)
ME: great, how embarassing. But if im embarassed, i guess i shouldnt have blogged about it
HIM: And this is why I don't have one. I'm bound to open my mouth and say something which would be, in my case, stupid. Hell, I read things I wrote two years ago and think "Good lord."
ME: its refreshing to be honest about who you are and what you're thinking though. that's why i like the blog. its kind of like a secret diary, only i forget that people DO read the damn thing. Therefore = not secret. I had the nicest thing happen to me the other day though. Dave's classmate [who's our] SF friend was out to dinner with us and his new fiancee. And he told me that he has friends that read my blog and that they really like the way I write. But then he had to specify: Like ... they don't always dig the subject matter, but more so the way you write about whatever you're writing about. Besides it's kind of like a literary timeline. and an emotional timeline. you see, irrevocably, where you were and where you're at. THAT's why i like it. That's why I publish embarassingly real things about myself for the whole e-world to see.
HIM: Valid points all. I'll admit, I've debated the blog thing because it'd be nice to write again. But we'll see...I'm trying to find an appropriate place to do it (Friendster vs. MySpace vs. whatever),
ME: really i wanted to go with blogger or some other BLOGGING program, but you know what i liked about friendster? it's idiotproof. i don't know html from java (unless the java is actual coffee), and friendster just lets you write and publish. simple. steamlined. i like that.
[entire minutes pass]
HIM: True. MySpace is surprisingly blog unfriendly...it's very much more about the comments and collecting as many friends as possible. It's funny, it's rather appropriate for its audience: it's all flash and a facade, with little to no content. If I ever did anything, it'd probably be Friendster based. In large part, honestly, because you're there, and I know I'd at least have one reader. Well, I'd hope.
ME: oh now he's talking to me... ugh :)
HIM: Hey, I'm trying to work, too!
Trying being the operative word.
ME: yeah me too. just kidding. geez.
HIM: I know, I know.
ME: i just don't know whether or not to leave the chat window open, that's all. :)besides, I could use a little distraction: I'm eating some major crow right now
HIM: uh oh. it's been a bad work week for many, I've noticed.
ME: yeah. well, i have this fricken author from 2 issues ago all up in my shit
HIM: that sounds painful. but continue.
ME: he's mad because I "improved" his manuscript, ie. changed some language without notifying him. I should have, but honestly sometimes I don't have time. And anyway, it was the hugest issue we have published in the last 6 years, and I'm just thankful there are no glaring misspellings or typos. And he's all angry becuase of a tiny stylistic change, which makes sense to 99% of the world, i.e., the 99% not in his really specific subfield. sometimes i hate academics. basically i made a small change to make his language more readable for everyone not in the anthropological study of fishery and wildlife management. [... DELETED ... ANGRY PARTS ...]
HIM: I get what you're saying about the academics thing. I'm sure it's frustrating having to deal with highly intelligent, yet incredibly stupid, people. I have that issue with my dad all the time. So damn smart, but yet so amazingly daft.
ME: so true. ALSO, i hate that so many of them are brilliant academics but shitty writers. before they hand out phds, they should make people attend writing workshops. Or, like, grammar school.
HIM: That's so true. I know that it's a big thing in business school now to (re)teach basic writing and communications skills because so many MBAs like to bury their thoughts in buzzwords.
ME: well, thank you lord. i wish they did it for EVERYONE. honestly! Even editors take refresher grammar courses. And they're supposed to be the experts. Why shouldn't the rest of the world also be held responsible for bad language?
HIM: Just wait until the Internet generation kids really get going in the business world. Yikes. And, personally, I find being able to speak and write properly wildly attractive. Of course, I always liked girls with unique characteristics. Sadly, nowadays, proper use of English counts as a unique characteristic.
ME: When did it become the norm for people to not speak english well? seriously, the more they invent and technologically advance, the more stupid we get. back in the renaissance age, people could ride horses, do science, win wars, write each other love poetry, and rule countrys. now we're lucky if we can do the one thing we got a degree in well. even back in the 1940s, to take an example, screen stars had to be able to sing, dance, and act. now we're lucky if they can do one of the three, and its a novelty if they can do more than that. they get HYPHENS for christsake. "singer-actor extraordinaire" and et cetera'
HIM: You know. You should really blog about that.
ME: maybe i will. in fact, don't be surprised if I just cut and paste part of our conversation directly into friendster. it'd be easier. and I'll look more prolific.
HIM: Ooh. Prolific is a good word.
ME: it's a good concept too, and one which I don't often live up to. i wish i did. i need to start scheduling in writing time, i think. like maybe wake up before 8am, and make wakeup-noon time writing, and the rest of the day for real work wokr
work. bah, hate typos
HIM: Wake up before 8 AM? What fantasy world are you living in? Oh, right. The "I Work At Home" fantasy world. :) Personally, I'm surprised you don't have some writing time, what with you being at home and kinda/sorta/not really writing for a living.
ME: yeah, but you know, it's harder than it sounds... i thought it'd be so great and I'd be so motivated to schedule my own day to how i want it run, but really I get caught up in things like making dinner and dealing with the dishes from the night before and fantasizing about the hired help (LOL). i never write, i never read, i dont go to the gym, and my to do list moves from day to day, intact.
HIM: Well, dammit, you should at least write and read. The gym has moved a bit down my to do list as well, but the first two would seem to be very important to someone who edits for a living.
ME: actually, not. if you think about it, i spend all day (re)writing and reading. so when it comes to downtime, I want to relax with Law & ORder. or Missing persons show, i forget what its called. or Lword. or Desperate Housewives. the most I've written creatively in the last year have been letters to friends. bah
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And there you have it.
I am becoming irretrievably suburban. Aside from the US Weekly subscription, this is worse. I actually have a baby crush on the hired help.
It is times like these that I am glad David is loathe to read anything. Not because he has anything to worry about or that he should be jealous, but because this is *so* embarassing, he'd never let me live it down. Because this guy, sort of a cross between a landlord/handyman, is no Jesse Metcalf gardener type. No, this is completely inexplicable. He is not even cute. But he has this "shmo" thing going, this general likeableness, this honest-to-god nice guy part about him. As human natures go, his is on the sweet side of the spectrum. He is a big guy, tall and large framed. The times we first met with him, he was obviously coming from another job, fixing up or renovating or whatever, and he wore men's tank tops wtih sweat rings under the arms. (Sorry for the detail, but I noticed.) His face is kind of plain, or at least not handsome, and he has a little bit of a lisp. But he looks kind. Why then--why?!--would I possibly be at all attracted?
Am I that bored? Is that it? Is that why they can make shows like Desperate Housewives, because suburban women--at home most of the day, tidying the home, doing the dishes, having this whole daytime *life* that doesn't involve their partners or children, at home all day with themselves, having maybe forgotten sometimes who that is--really are that bored and thus the stereotype rings somewhat true for them? Or is it just so long since I've felt that ... delicious uncertainty of flirtation? How your nerve endings sizzle and it felt like all your neurons were firing or your synapses were on speed or something. How you feel all aflutter. So maybe it's not the individuals, it's just the situation and how it can make you feel so alive. Alive and headed towards you-don't-know what. That's flirtation. There are people filed away in my past whose names still quicken my pulse but moreso than them particularly it is the way it felt to not know where I was going to end up in terms of them.
Not--mind you--that I'm having "cold feet" or anything like that. (Unless you count wanting to toss the big party and elope in Tahiti, the ever-reoccurring dream.) It's not cold feet, or an inability to committ, or even about wanting to mentally entertain the idea of someone other than Dave. All that crap I wrote the other day about how D. still makes the knees weak is still true, it's just that it is only sometimes. I'm in love with him all the time, I love him all the time, but only sometimes can you get a thrill from someone you see every single day. Sometimes it gets boring to be in love. Not to be crude, but you know, to know exactly where your next ... ahem ... is coming from. Ironically, despite all the grief and heartache that being single can bring, I almost miss the wondering, the delicious uncertainty, and the utter adventure of it.
But only sometimes.
Update from the bride (a.k.a "daughter of a momzilla"), Weddingplanningland, USA:
As soon as you tell anyone you're getting married, they are happy for you. And they want to know about the proposal. And they want to know about your theme, and your colors, and make little clucking noises if you don't know. Even if you just got engaged. They want you to be excited; they look closely at your face for signs of cold feet, which is, in itself, kind of ironic. And you can't even get mad because it seems that it was just the memo book given out to everyone else on how to show THEIR excitement for YOUR wedding. sigh.
Weddings are exciting, but they are also a lot of work and money. I sort of feel guilty for such an ostentatious display of spending ability, although at least it is almost entirely funded by my fiance and I. And we're having the cheapest wedding possible in this day and age. But it still adds up with all the "things" you're supposed to do: You "have" to have a theme, and theme colors, and theme centerpieces, and 5 bridesmaids, and presents for all of them, and favors for everyone else, and food and entertainment that ties in the theme, and unity ceremonies, and ethnic traditions, and alcohol, and special "week-of" parties, and a photographer and videographer and ... Do you feel the panic and horror rising? I feel a little like a dodo driven by herd mentality off the cliff. I comfort myself that so far I've got the most important parts: 1. the fiance, 2. good food for the party, and 3. a really pretty (and affordable) dress. Sometimes I think if I had been smarter about the way forward, I would have just eloped to somewhere exotic like Tahiti and then we would have all this money saved up for other things: further education, a vacation, the start to a downpayment on a home. But on another level, despite the craziness and the sheer amount of money running through my hands, I am glad we're celebrating us, because it's been a long haul: We've been together seven years, 5 of which were long distance between CA and NY. We almost didn't make it many times. So, hey, why not, let's have a party.
The other night, Dave and I were just hanging out. It had been a day of boringness for us both: I had an AA deadline around the corner, thus lots of editing to do, and he had to study for his upcoming "check" at work (an oral exam that will "test" him out of his training period with Japan Air Lines). Anyway, we'd taken a little break and were just lying on the bed together, cuddling. I was looking at him, feeling--miraculously--so lucky and happy, still, these almost seven years later, and I blurted out: "What do you like the most about me?"
It is true testament to our relationship that my nonsequiturs and seemingly vain/fishing comments no longer faze him. But he sort of hemmed and hawed, because obviously I'd been gazing at him, considering all these things for the past few moments and he'd been, I don't know, fantasizing about my boobs, or worse, what was on TV. So I said I'd go first. I said, "well, there's that I'm *so* smart, and *so* pretty..." I cut it off though, when he rolled his eyes.
I tried to narrow it down to the #1 thing I liked single-handedly the best about him, but it seemed kind of weak, so eventually I picked the top 5. I picked:
1. his kindness/gentleness. (He is genuinely an amazingly warm and sweet person.)
2. his sense of humor. (This despite the fact that he, like me, takes extraordinary joy in bad puns.)
3. his passion. (Whether for music or airplanes or travel or what-have-you, when something really lights his fire, you can TELL. He becomes different somehow. He comes all sharp and into focus. It's rather magnificent.)
4. his intelligence. (He's really smart about all kinds of random things. Like how to put together a loft bed from scratch. Or a quiche. How to do taxes, and by that I mean his *and* mine. About investing/stocks. Oh, and obviously, music, weather, and airplanes.)
and not last for any reasons except I love the other qualities MORE...
5. his looks. (I mean, geez, can't leave *that* out. It was the first thing I noticed about him back in, oh, eleventh grade when I had a monster crush on him. He's hapa (Hawaiian-Chinese-Filipino), which is always a great start. Mutts are always the prettiest. He's got just enough of that tall, dark, handsome, old-school Hawaii to him to *still*, to this day, when I least expect it, make my knees go weak. He's this thick piece of pretty man, it's true, but really it's all about his big brown eyes, so warm and gentle on me, and his smile, at times genuinely enjoying a moment with a friend and every *other* time up to NO good.)
He was pleased. He was overwhelmed. He had on that bashful look, you know the kind, where someone won't meet your eyes but they also can't stop smiling. His look said, stop, stop... ok, fine, tell me more. Very sweetly, he answered with the single-handed most trite thing he could say, something along the lines of not knowing where to start. But then he started. He broke it down into two categories: looks and personality.
Surprisingly, in the looks category, the girls (boobs) hold positions 3 and 4, having been superceded by my eyes and smile, which he says both "sparkle" when I'm being genuine. He says that's how he can tell if I'm really happy about something or pretending.
And for personality, the #1 thing was my thoughtfulness. How I always get good gifts for people, how I think of them and think of the perfect thing for them. So, basically ... how I shop? Well, at least someone noticed. I might have hoped that it was my stellar wit or my cutting intelligence, but oh well ... at least I'm nice. And dammit, when I bother, I *do* give good gifts.
Word for word this is the entry I just sent in with Wifey to win matching Diane von Furstenberg Sidekicks.
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My best friend Laura and I are like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie
without the eating disorders, tv shows (for now), drugs, and the big
fight. And *they* had sidekicks. The two of us have been inseparable
from the day we met till the day, well, that we separated because I moved from NYC to the SF bay area. We were so close people used to joke we were married, and the sentiment stuck; we to this day refer to each other as "Wifey." However, we've been separated by a whole lot of continent for just about a year now, and we're trying to find ways to bridge the distance. We're writing a romance novel together, we are writing a dissertation together on the "Dance Movie Formula" TM, we text each other constantly, we call each other, plus she is my maid-of-honor for my upcoming wedding (May 2007).
We *need* the DVF sidekicks (& pretty dresses) because we are FABULOUS. Because we miss each other. Because we could have great brainstorming conversations for our novel cross-country without dealing with static ... like this:
may: ok, what about this: he pulled her womanly flesh against his rock hard body.
laura: she trembled, waves of passion threatening to overcome her.
would she surrender?
may: surrender!oh yeah! she should totally surrender
laura: i know, i love it when heroines surrender. ok fast forward to
the good part:
may: yeah, we're on chapter 8 & they've only just made it to the
bedroom. hurry up.
laura: ok, he runs his soft-yet-manly callused hands
may: man calluses! ha!
laura: along the lush bounty of her body, finallly, oh finally,
meeting her nether fleece
may: oh gross. you can't say nether fleece.
laura: whatev. you can totally say nether fleece
may: no
laura: yes
may: i will not put my byline on a romance novel that uses the words
nether fleece
laura: ok, you take over then
and scene.
We *need* those Sidekicks because we are each other's wells for
gossip. Because we share each other's bad poetry. Because I've
even--on occasion--written her my own bad poetry, as filled with love as I am. Such a conversation might go something like this:
may: i had a fight with my mom. you HAVE to hear the bad poem i wrote about it
laura: i love your bad poetry. LOVE it.
may: when you read it you have to pretend my voice is like james earl jones
laura: your voice is like james earl jones
may; only my bad poetry voice
laura: or you could call me and read it to me. this thing is a phone, you know.
may: oh yeah, can you see my blushing through the phone
laura: girl, you are pinker than this DVF fancy pretty faceplate.
may: omg it's like you have ESPN. you're psyhic - oh wait you're SIDEKICK. ha!
laura: ha!
may: call me
laura: stalk you
We *need* those Sidekicks with the cameras because she needs to
approve wedding and bridesmaids dresses, and I need to approve her makeout partners. We need the Sidekicks because she fills my life with joy and my phone with such hysterical text messages I actually write them down in my journal (esp. now that we are apart). Also, the texting is the way I keep up with her exciting actor's life in new york city without actually having to implant the phone on my ear for up-to-the-minute updates. Here's a sample:
9/17/05- Wife! I don't like leaving the house w/o you!
9/24/05- I made out w/ cuba gooding jr.
6/25/06- I need a jacket. My heart is frozen w out you.
8/5/06- I'm at a BBQ with Missy Elliott.
9/3/06- Luke & Amanda & I went all over nyc today taking pics of me in my bathing suit for my calendar.
9/10/06- Dancing is no fun without u. Boys just want you to keep the
beat or some shit like that. I'm like keep my beat bitch.
9/25/06- I know we joke about it but sometimes I do need the party
dress on the outside of my closet for emergencies.
10/26/06- OK. If I become kind of a dominatrix will you not tell
anyone and will you not judge me as long as I tell you all the
details?
We need the DVF Sidekicks because they are hip and hot. Because they are genius and gadety but fashionable too. Because we talk too much. Because our lives (and esp. hers) is constantly on the go. Because the Sidekicks have hot pink LIPS on them. Because they are smart and pretty and so are we.
We need the DVF Sidekicks because we *invented* the idea of sidekicks. We're so close people didn't even have a name for it, until we stumbled on the term "Wifeys." We're like CC and Hillary from Beaches without the cancer. We're Sonny and Cher without the divorce. Ike and Tina without the abuse. Whitney and Bobby without the drugs and questionable bathroom habits. Anais Nin and Henry Miller. We're like every great two that ended without the end. And the Sidekick will help make sure of that.
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aww. truer words have ne'er been spoken, yo.
During my recent trip to New York, I spent a long drive creep-crawling through the Holland Tunnel with a friend, discussing baby names for children neither of us have. He was in a borough/place-name phase, making such suggestions as Brooklyn (or Brooklynn to be cheeky), Gramercy, Madison, Houston, Thompson, and so forth. I usually opt for a more "ethnic" kick, more in the vein of the Jolie-Pitts with their Maddox, Zahara Marley, and Shiloh Nouvel. I like Tiare (a tahitian flower), or Anela (hawaiian for angel), I like Bijou (jewel), Pearl (just to be extra cheeky, since Dave's last name already means Pearl), Lia (the name of the Brazilian goddess in the trashy novel I am writing with Laura), Lux or Lucienne (both meaning light), Mahalia (denoting "tenderness" somewhere in Africa), Angelina (because I LOVE Ms. Jolie), Evangeline, Marina and Cordelia (both of which have to do with the sea), Nadia and Nadine, Talia (the gentle dew from heaven, I forget who translates that), Vera and Verena, Sloan and Sloane, Ava and Avery (for the last name I'm about to lose), even Yael (despite the unfortunate like sound and apparent typo to the more well-known YALE, as in... University).
All this despite the fact that I've had a serious talk with my womb: (1) we are not allowed to have babies anytime soon and (2) we are going to have at least two boys before we even consider any girls. (Girls are icky.)
For boys, I like Adair, Aidan (SatC, thanks), Avery, Damien, Dante, Diego, Ethan, Evan, Finn, Flynn, Grey or Gray, Jamal, Kai, Kieran, Omar, Rhys, Seymour, Wylie, Wills or Willem, Wyatt, Yael, and Zane.
I feel so dorky writing this on the Internet.
Anyway, the reason I started posting about this was this morning, before my cup o' joe, I was sort of staring off into space near my kitchen cabinet. It got me wondering how names become "ok." Hollywood and Rockerland, I am looking at YOU. As "The Trump" himself put it before unfortunately dubbing his child royalty with the monniker "Barron" (that kid is SO going to get beaten up in school), “I’m not sure why celebrities feel the need to do this to their kids. It’s hard enough for the children of famous people to have relatively normal lives. It doesn’t help when, on top of everything else, they have to go through life with a really weird name.”
You're really shaping someone's destiny by giving them a name. I think a baby is born with some unformed personality matter which is somewhat determined by the name the child is given. For example, my real name is Clarissa. Who the hell would know that, because I am so not a Clarissa. But what if my Japanese relatives had been able to wrap their tongues around Clarissa and we hadn't decided to just call me by my middle name, Mayumi? Would I *be* more of a Clarissa now? Would I want to be? Who would Clarissa be?
Back to that kitchen cabinet... when did it become ok to name children after spices? Basil. I can't believe that's actually a name. Then there's Ginger, Rosemary, and Bay. And why didn't some others catch on? Why aren't there any little Thymes running around? Cinnamons? Nutmeg--that's just *begging* to happen, you could even call her "Meg" for short. In fact, why draw the line? Some moviestar or rocker should name their kid "Chinese five-spice powder." This is a vast, unexplored territory when it comes to naming. I mean, cmon, we're *tired* of fruit (Apple), superhero (Kal-el), and just plain weird (Moxie Crimefighter, Pilot Inspektor, and Radio Science) names, not to mention ones better suited to a dog (Trixibelle, Peaches, Little Trixie, and Honeyblossom). (See: http://www.celebritybabynamesblog.com/ and http://gossip.about.com/od/pregnanciesbirths/a/wackybabyname.htm.)
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