Miscellany and other hodgepodge

1.

I saw Scott Pilgrim vs. The World last night, and while I was marvelously entertained and giggling maniacly throughout the film, the ending left me more than a little deflated, and also a touch offended. The whole premise of the movie, right, is that in order to date the girl of his dreams, Mr. Pilgrim has to defeat her 7 evil exes. (Not ex-boyfriends. Exes.) There's all manner of fun video-game hilarity along the way, some pretty chuckle-worthy band-geek humor, and the whole thing is very visually appealing.

And, for the first 6 exes, Mr. Pilgrim's need to fight them is just an interesting plot device. The girl in question (Ramona, which I had forgotten is really a pretty awesome name) has moved on from all of these men, learned her lessons, is over it.

But then we get to the last one. This one has some sort of creepy hold over her (she just can't control herself around him) that's explained in the film as a mind-control chip he's implanted in the nape of her neck. She leaves our hero for this guy, despite not really wanting him and thinking he's a creep. He treats her more like a pet than a girlfriend. At one point he's actually PETTING HER HAIR IN PUBLIC as she sits TWO STEPS BELOW HIM on his throne-like pyramid, wearing what looks suspiciously like a dog collar from a distance and with the most wooden, unhappy expression on her face you've ever seen. (Shades of Star Wars, anyone?)

In short, this guy is every creepy, controlling, bordering-on-abusive boyfriend that every girl has had at least one of.

And Scott Pilgrim defeats him. Not Ramona. Scott Pilgrim. He forever robs her of the chance to face her demons, figure out why she was ever attracted to this creep, and then cut him out of her life HERSELF. This is the point of bad relationships: so we can learn. And she doesn't get to, because Our Hero Scott Pilgrim takes it on himself to DO IT FOR HER. Equally creepy and controlling, for the record.

And then, as my friend (who is male, which I only bring up because it's interesting that he was most offended by the end because of how it left the male lead and I was most offended by how it left the female lead) pointed out, after all the personal growth that Mr. Pilgrim experiences while fighting Ramona's evil exes, he turns around and walks off into the starry morning with her. The whole point of personal growth is you MOVE THE FUCK ON. And, instead, he walks off into fantasy land with a woman who is now, for all intents and purposes, permanently broken. Obviously, his personal growth was a sham. All that warm fuzzy shit about "self-respect" that allows him to defeat Ramona's one TRULY evil ex is a lie. He's still just a pud trying to get in her pants using whatever means necessary.

So, great movie, until the last 15 minutes. I would like to completely rewrite the ending.

2.

I never thought I (or anyone else, for that matter) would ever utter this sentence, but WHY didn't I get a degree in something useful like Nonprofit Management?

Seriously. There's a job available here in Milwaukee with an awesome, awesome organization that I would be GREAT at, but I don't have the degree or the experience. Because I didn't do something useful in college. Like nonprofit management.

Perhaps this is just an expression of my subconscious need to move and travel, because I have been at this job for 18 months now and that's a long time in my life, but I really, really, REALLY wish that I had a shot at this job. I would like to move on, and this is perfect. Fundraising? Development? Event coordination? These are all the things that I am fucken fantastic at. And, you know, Urban Ecology Center. Great people, great mission, something I can really get behind and sink my teeth into.

Also, I need new challenges. See above re: 18 months/travel.

3.

Personal revelations of the week: I am ridiculous and also impatient and also hopelessly, incurably romantic and girly. Don't let the snide and snarky veneer fool you.

In Defense of Emotional Adolescence

I think I've developed some trust issues to go along with my intimacy issues.

While I think this is decently revelatory, considering my epic and on-going battle against the cynicism of the wider world, apparently it's not. The exact quote from a friend of mine who I made this revelation to yesterday:

"Of course you have? I mean, shit. You'd be a little dense not to have put up some walls."

I find this heartbreaking. Not for her; cynicism works for her. It doesn't work so well for me. Cynicism makes me bitter, nasty, small-minded and downright mean. I don't like being any of these things. I want to love the world, the whole world, every shining, beautiful, dark and dirty part of it. I want to be a good person. I want to make life better.

Life is hard for a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. You laugh, but I'm serious. It's hard. It's hard to care so much, to want to share so much, and end up with egg all over your face. Or, something that has a somewhat egg-white-esque consistency.

What? Was that dirty? Get out of the gutter.

It's difficult for me to acknowledge that I don't really trust anyone's motives and intentions anymore. I'm endlessly concerned with why someone is doing something: do they like me, does he just want in my pants, is she just trying to figure out if I'm a threat to her? I throw that last one in there for the sake of balance, but really, this is about dating. This is about men.

I don't trust you, penises. You're wily little buggers. Slippery snakes, if you'll pardon the alliterative allusion.

And despite the generalized life-angst I feel when I realize that I don't trust people anymore, there's a really very specific set of issues that come with not trusting those people that you're into dating, whatever that subset may be. Men. Women. Dwarves. Whatever.

Insecurity. Oh my god, is insecurity a killer. Insecurity will kill attraction faster than bad poetry. No joke. You might think that nothing kills attraction faster than a few bad sonnets, but you would be WRONG. Insecurity unleashes "the crazy" on the relationship. Insecurity makes you question motives and actions, not just the other person's, but your own AND the other person's interpretation of your own. This leaves you doing things like calling and/or texting all the goddamn time because you just have to explain yourself. And then explain your explanation. And then apologize for being so persistent. And then explain your continued persistence.

Ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

Attraction is based on mystery, you see. It's based on that thrill of the unknown. This is why people together for years have such a hard time maintaining their sex lives. Without any mystery, the attraction disappears. And without attraction, well, fucking just isn't any fun.

Luckily for me, I'm a chameleon. And a crazy person. So there will always be mystery.

I jest.

Ok, I sort of jest.

Attraction is based on mystery, and constant contact makes mystery impossible. Not only that, constant contact is annoying. It reeks of attention-whoring, it screams for validation. And when you're an emotional adolescent (like me!) two of the things you would desperately like to get from a partner are attention and validation. Preferably a steady stream, with a strong current of flirtatiousness.

Recap: I have trust issues. I don't like this in a generalized way, but I particularly don't like it when it comes to dating because mistrust in love leads to insecurity which leads to crazy.

In discussing this with another friend of mine, the necessity of wearing flame-retardant gloves after one's been burned a few times came up. (By the way, great tag line for a public ad campaign about using condoms.)

And this is where we really, really butt up against my emotional adolescence. I don't want to wear flame-retardant gloves. Being closed off to the world, barriering myself against it, is not something I ever want to do. It hurts to be vulnerable, but I really, REALLY don't like the alternatives. And this is the crux of why having developed trust issues is so bothersome to me, personally. It shows me that despite my best efforts, despite my active desire to remain open to the world and capable of showering love on everyone I meet, I'm becoming a cynic. I'm strapping on the armor and approaching every day as a battle to be lost or won. I'm protecting myself without meaning to.

And everyone's right, and I've got every reason to do so, to which my response is a (very mature) fuck that noise. This isn't what I want to be. Nah-nah-na-boo-boo, la-la-la, I can't hear you. And it's about as effective as slamming the door on your parents when you're 13.

Self-preservation is a bitch.

Can't we all just get along?

I've been a parental roll, lately. I suppose a solid four days off of work spent with my kid will do that to me.

But, it's been an enlightening (and awesome, for a variety of reasons) few days.

First, there I was, washing the dishes with my parents, and explaining to them the meaning of the new vernacular "helicopter parent." My dad got it immediately: he sees them every day on the playground when he takes G. He, himself, is a very hands-off parent. So hands-off that his theory of childrearing has been lovingly nicknamed "benign neglect" by my sisters and me. Or maybe he made that one up himself; I honestly don't remember.

So anyway, Dad gets it. My mom needs a little more explaining. She's the type that totally would have been one of these parents if a) the technology had been available and b) my dad hadn't been around to point out how silly she was being. But she does get it eventually, because when I get into the stories of parents calling their kids' college professors and employers (or again), the lightbulb goes on.

Then Dad and I backtrack and explain to her how the whole thing starts when a kid is two and you don't let them climb on the playground equipment without holding your hand. Literally. Two-year-olds that can't climb up to the slide.

There's a great article in Time (or at least, on their website) that touches very briefly on the benefits of allowing kids their space, their messes, their sneakiness. The author is referring to teenagers and adolescents, but I think that it applies to the little ones, too, in a way. Letting G throw the egg cartons around the dining room, and then explaining to her that she has to pick them up (and helping her do so, because she is, after all, TWO) is a valuable lesson. And if I didn't let her make the mess, she'd not learn it.

This is something my father understands instinctively, and I credit him with passing that knowledge on to me. Maybe it's part of the genes he gave me, or maybe it's that his upbringing did me so much good, but really, I think he's right on this one.

On the other hand, there's so much that we put into parenting these days, and how competitive it is, and how very rigid we get with our notions of what a good parent is and does. I cannot tell you how many shocked looks I get just walking down the street with mine. Do our unshod feet bother you that much? Or is that when she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and asks to do yoga, I lead her through a sun salutation or a triangle pose? Or perhaps it's listening to me explain to her that people often use the word "ironic" when they mean something more like "coincidental" or "serendipitous."

This offends people, apparently. I'm sorry. If you don't want me to lecture my two-year-old about the proper use of ironic, START USING IT CORRECTLY.

Oh, but that's not where I was going with this.

TOLERANCE. My point is tolerance. There's a lovely article on Salon about the dangers of rigidity and intolerance. Do we really need to make something as terrifying as being responsible for the growth and development of a human being into a contest? Are our tribal instincts so overpowering that we must throw to the wolves anyone that doesn't conform to our worldview? Or, childview. Whichever.

It's ridiculous. I'll do the best I can, and so will you, and I guarantee you that your best and my best do not look anything like each other. And that's cool, honestly. I may think helicopter parents are kind of sick, but maybe there is something to the whole "security" argument. Still, I couldn't pull it off. Not my style, and I'd be miserable, and if there's one thing I think almost anyone would agree with it's this:

Miserable parents raise miserable kids.

So be happy.

And let's all cut each other some slack, yeah? Sounds great.

I was born for this.

A few months back, someone told me that I was the most dramatic person he knew.

I scoffed, of course. And balked. Me? Dramatic?

You must be joking. I'm totes down-to-earth. I'm the chillest of girls-next-door. I'm the anti-drama.

Yeah, you can stop laughing now. I realize how defensive I'm being.

I *am* dramatic. I was born for drama. I was born to live through a war, a foreign occupation, an apocalypse, the gosh-darn Second Coming. Take your pick. I'll take any of them.

I was born for the long silences. I was born to inhabit a world with more time to think than anyone knows what to do with, and more work to do than can possibly leave time for thought. I was born to gaze at empty horizons and listen to wind whistle, unimpeded by voices. I was born for those moments when time and the spinning of the world stops and you can hear the pulse in someone's throat, the closing of a door down the street, a dog barking in the park.

I was born for the meaningful gazes, for the mindless chatter that covers up those gazes. I was born for Austen's repressed Regency or Chang's occupied Shanghai. I was born for Bombay after the British left, London in the late '30s, Kyoto in the '40s. I was born for Paris during WWII. I was born for Johannesburg when Mandela was coming to power, or Elroy's Los Angeles. I was born for Catherine's court, or for Rabat's Terror.

I was born to play these roles. Elizabeth Bennett, Wang Chia Chi, Nitta Sayuri, Anne Boleyn, Mary Magdalene: I was made for these archetypes. I was born for intrigue. I revel in betrayal. I delight in picking apart the personality and piecing together the puzzle. I was born to stand immobile in the face of unyielding pressure.

I am the most ridiculous of drama queens. And I love it.

Consider this my resignation.

I am resigning from the human race. I'm done being a good person.

Effective immediately.

So, the next time you want me to care about something, you'd better pull out your big guns. A text message isn't going to cut it. A phone call probably won't, either.

No, if you want me to care, you're going to have to show up on my doorstep, in the rain, soaking wet and probably catching pneumonia as you stand there and plead with me. Kneeling in a puddle that is six inches deep will not be going too far.

Visual aids are required. You must produce your crazy friend/injured cat/broken down car/alcoholic family IN PERSON. If they are not present, you can forget about getting anything from me. My heartstrings will not be tugged.

And really, because it's me, I want eloquence. I want simple, powerful prose that tells me whatever story you want to tell effectively. This means that you must choose the correct words, they must make sense, and they must be strung together properly. Any attempts at overblown alliteration/assonance/rhyme will be laughed at and mocked mercilessly. Likewise for grammatical errors, pronunciation errors and any other error I may think of as you beg me for compassion.

I have no mercy, world. I'm done with it. It's useless.

My conscience is in effective stasis. It will not be making any more appearances in this life. I will feel no guilt while I stare at you with steely eyes and joke about your dead babies, your health problems, your broken hearts.

I am a statue. I am stone. Nothing touches me, and nothing ever will, until I'm finally worn down by the nature of the world that kills us all.

Trying asking the rain for understanding. You might have better luck.

Jeux d'enfants

I watched a movie last night that I've been putting off watching. I was concerned about what this particular film would do to my rather delicate emotional equilibrium.

And good lord, was I right.

You know what I'm talking about. Those movies that you watch and think the entire time, "This was me. This could have been me. This could still be me."

It's unsettling, particularly when there's death, dismemberment and/or epic romance involved.

I think that the movie is supposed to be a cautionary tale against the dangers of the adrenaline rush, of the relationship that pushes you to ever-greater heights of outrageousness, that pushes you past caring about anything other than "What next? What now?" I mean, they do end up dead, buried together under a ton of concrete. And while the end of the movie flashes back through all the choices they could have made and shows them happy together, the fact remains they didn't make those choices and spent their adult lives completely miserable.

It's romanticized and beautifully filmed, but still, I think it's supposed to make you realize how unhealthy those kinds of relationships are.

Too fucking bad.

Have you ever played a sustained game of truth or dare with someone? Where you didn't get to pick whether you gave a truth or did a dare, but the other person did? One in which you had to finish the game?

I have.

"Buy a plane ticket, right now." No money, no job. Do it anyway.

"Pick me up in a company car." Could get fired, and who else is going to hire someone with a criminal record a mile long? Do it anyway.

"Lay in Anne Boleyn's bed."

"Fuck me in the choir loft of Temple Church."

"Roll this joint on the train so we can smoke it as soon as we get to the car."

"Let my spastic American ass drive your car through London traffic."

"Would you let me cut your feet off?"

"Would you teach me to fight?"

"Would you wait for me, if I got sent away again?"

And on. And on. And on.

And all the movie made me realize was how much I miss it. No one plays enough anymore. Everyone takes things too seriously, and not the right things. Even me. I've lost it. I've lost that absolute confidence, that unshakeable direction, that true north.

Now I'm ordinary.

Sex Appeal

Everyone has a "type" that they attract. Mine has always been "unavailable men." Usually, this takes the form of married men, but I've had a few "emotionall unavailable" thrown in there for fun, as well as the requisite number of "distance relationships."

But, married men love me. They flock to me. I have, at any given time, a veritable stable of them paying me sly compliments. I have always thought this is because I am a good flirt: I am playful, but I know where to draw the line, and how forcefully to draw it. This makes me fun, but invariably safe. I am not going to allow anyone to fall in love with me; I am not going to fall in love with anyone. I am not going to push things any farther than simple flirtation, ever.

As a side note, my problem with the "emotionally unavailable" has always stemmed from the fact that I will fall in love with them, and want them to reciprocate, because they should be available, and so I don't follow the strictures I usually place myself under. They, then, of course do not fall in love with me, and all manner of heartache ensues.

I like this explanation. It says that there's nothing inherently wrong with me, that I attract married men like flies. It's even pretty flattering of both my skill with manipulation and my self-control.

And who doesn't like a good ego-stroke, even if it is self-administered?

But I've been faced with the possibility lately that this explanation may be complete horseshit.

Certainly, the fact that I'm "safe" is probably the root of the reason that I seem to have so many married or otherwise involved or unavailable admirers. But my safety may have nothing to do with anything I consciously do or not do.

I may just be sexually unappealing. Period. Full stop.

It fits just as well. I'm good with words, I'm occasionally very witty, and I can be a lot of fun to be with. At the same time, lack of sex appeal would make me undeniably safe.

It also works with some of the more disastrous of my relationships. My ex-husband, for example, never wanted to lay a finger on me amorously. I always attributed this to his hang up, considering the other issues we faced. But maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was, in fact, me. My very first serious relationship was with a man when I was a senior in high school, and we didn't have sex for the last three months of our time together. I have always thought that that was because I stopped wanting to have sex with him, but maybe it was mutual.

And then there's the nebulous and hazy baby daddy. We had a very intense relationship, but we were very far apart for most of it. Perhaps ultimately he abandoned me because while our correspondence was intense and enlightening and thought-provoking and full of all manner of wonderful discovery and sparkling dialog, there was no corresponding physical spark.

It's an interesting possibility. And I say "interesting" in the most euphemistic way possible. Intellectually, it's interesting. Personally, it's pretty devastating.