It’s taken twenty years for me to get Little Debbie Swiss Rolls into this household. This victory is, like the classic snack cake itself, saccharine, almost too-good-to-be-true sweet, and possesses a chemical aftertaste. Mmm, delicious.
The reasons that exist when you’re an adult, the pros and cons of liking something, are much different than they are when you’re a kid. Things suddenly that should be, or would have been based on feelings, gut instincts and unclouded emotions, instinctual impulses towards one thing or the other, are now reducible to a list of whys and why nots. I miss falling in love just because.
Did anyone take Obama seriously? The young, debonair, African-Amerian Senator who was trailing? Who had to stand up against an American dynasty? Who now has to, with the help of the voices of the American people, shout down out of office the money and power mongering, self-interested villains holding up in our White House, ruining our nation and smearing our name?
The people have spoken, and their words sing of change we can indeed believe in. Thank God.
Barack Obama’s story is indeed a story of greatness; of rising up and overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds, a story of youth and progress trumping tired truisms and a failing bureaucracy. It’s also a story of American people, as one, denying the fate their corrupt government had prescribed for them, rallying around one small, and terrifically powerful word: hope.
Now, the real battle begins.
Hill’s campaign chairman/lead apostle Terry Mccullah claims that the AP report that his Lord and Master will acknowledge Obama’s lead in the delegates is “100% wrong” and that in her speech tonight in New York will contain no surprises.
In other words, the beat goes on. Boy, that Clinton pride sure is a force of it’s own.
Not too much earlier tonight, as my parents and I made our way into our neighborhood 24 hour diner Jack’s, I received coy glances from a boy, something that hasn’t happened in a dog’s age. Or at least it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve gotten any attention from the opposite sex. The male’s I’ve interacted with as of late are either friends or friends who, because of peculiar social obligations and unspoken codes of male-female ethics, are too timid to attempt a flirtatious exchange with me, or they’re just looking for a screw. And I just ain’t that kind of girl.
I told myself that this summer the very last thing I could do was get into a relationship, because, frankly, I need to be alone right now. Never did I think this would be a problem; I still don’t. There isn’t going to be anyone in South Florida alluring enough to catch my critical eye. However, that’s not the point. My last two summers were spent in unhealthy relationships, and I what I need now is not yet another toxin to bleed out before I wise up and head off brazenly into my future. I need to focus on myself. But, oh, how nice it felt to be noticed. To be looked at underneath eyelashes, secretly admired from afar, if only briefly. When his party (he was with an older man to whom he was not related and a woman who looked like his mother) paid and left, he lingered for a moment to turn and look at me one last time, which I had predicted and was prepared for with my most (and at 12 midnight after running and not showering, sitting with my parents, it was a feat) attractive “you think I’m cute?” counter-glance. It was so nice!
He reminded me of Clark, a high school ex I dated very briefly, in the way that, though he looked young, felt like a man. It’s funny that I find that presence, that strong, masculine aura so attractive, when the boy I spend my early mornings and late nights yearning for is such a lady. Well, maybe not a lady, but definitely effeminate. So, so, so adorable effeminate.
So, as a slightly obsessive-compulsive individual, I collect things. Occasionally, I will catalog them here. Consider this the beginning of my first collection: my favorite kisses. And here is number one:
Harold Crick (Will Ferrell) and Anna Pascal (Maggie Gyllenhaal) on Anna’s couch, interrupting Crick’s mellowed out rendition of “Whole Wide World” by Wreckless Eric on Anna’s acoustic guitar.
Whenever you start a new blog, there arises, among a few others, one very nagging and crucial question: who to tell. My mother, a writer and mortgage broker struggling with the idea, because of the real estate crisis, of changing careers at the age of fourty-something, has decided to start her very own blog. She has not, as of yet, managed to locate mine.
Now, before you can answer the “Well who will I share this link with in my personal life?” question, you have to decide what you’re going to write about. Is this a personal blog, essentially and e-diary, a public space to spew your daily musings? Or is this a sports blog? Food blog? Entertainment blog? Will these be subjective or objective observations? How much of yourself will you include in the writing? How close will you get to your readership? How many of your secrets are you going to peel the rind off of, exposing the fleshy, juicy wedges inside?
Well, this blog, For Viola, like my last blog, This Blows, is going to be a personal blog, a series of rambling posts about my life, my mission, my musings, which will hopefully coalesce into one being and reveal some deeper meaning, probably a reflection on what it means to be twenty-something and alive in a suffering middle-class America. But who knows?
This, essentially, requires that I include the names, details, and non-intimate secrets of the people involved in my life, since this is a record of my life. This category includes my mom. So do I tell her? Or do I let her toodle around in the WordPress universe until she finds me? And then do I let the fact that my life-giver has access to my self-narrated life, the innermost thoughts in my twisted mind reproduced on a computer screen, censor what I put down? Well, no.
I’ve gotten into trouble for these things before. When people are written about in public spaces, there’s a sense of vulnerability, of exposed-ness. Or, I go too far into detail about something that someone didn’t expect, and because of this realization, because I think/feel/believe things that someone I know didn’t expect of me they freak out a little. Suddenly, they don’t know me as well as they thought. Does this let them get closer to me? This new understanding? Or does it push them farther away? Making them feel like I’ve kept secrets all this time?
Who will get this link? Who that I love will be allowed to read? I don’t know. Maybe the people who know me will just find me, and maybe they won’t even want to look. Admittedly, it can get a little creepy in here.
Oh, well. Whatever will be, will be.
How do I miss these things?
Dance boys, dance.
Today was my first (really truly) official day of being a full-fledged waitress. And it’s not so bad. I mean, yes, it’s stressful, but the anxiety can only last as long as a dinner, then they pay the check and leave your life forever. It leads to a fair amount of ups and downs, but I think that might be why it’s fun. I’ve always been a big fan of high pressure. Btw, our special coctail = delicious. Strawberry. Like a smoothie, but with rum. Mmm.
I got a new haircut today. Earlier today. Way earlier. 11 am. My hairdresser, Kimmy, has been on hiatus with her musician boyfriend in of all places Minnesota. Apparently, his band is/was big there. Who the hell is big in Minnesota? Anyways, I didn’t catch the whole story (for I was otherwise occupied by an article in last month’s Vogue) but she’s back, and for the first time in a whole year I got my hair did. Professionally. It’s great. It’s ultra dark brown; kind of mahogany in the sun. Blunt bangs above the eyebrows, layered lightly around the face. I’d post a picture and save a thousand words but, lo, I don’t have a working digital camera. I know, bizarre.
