The Worst

I have an uncanny ability to remember the awkward, embarrassing or negative things that I do or say. It's not that I can't recall positive things-- I do. The problem is that I remember the less positive with amazing and excruciating detail.

Am I alone in this, or is this just human nature? Do you remember every time you've accidentally said something that was taken the wrong way? Do you remember the mistakes more often than you reminisce about the victories?

I'm sitting in a hotel bar in New York (more on that later), and at any given moment I could bring to mind a hundred arguments that went awry, things I didn't mean to say and things I should have said. In each case, I can still conjure up the feeling of my stomach dropping, a sweat breaking out, and the desperate desire to undo whatever had just been done, or unsay what had just accidentally been uttered.

That kind of vivid recall just isn't available to me for positive things. I remember them, but I can't recall the associated feelings. There are no flashes of what I was wearing, or the look on the other person's face. There is no panic at the imagined "foot in mouth" induced silence that befell once riotous conversation.

Does that mean regret is more powerful than pleasure? It seems like a grim prognosis, but it's possible. Or maybe it's because often the regret is directed at my behavior towards others and the positives are directed at me; and therefore frequently dismissed as inconsequential or less valid than the criticisms? Perhaps my own expectations for my behavior are so high that my disappointment at committing a faux paus automatically outweighs a colleague's "well done." Perhaps self-flagellation is more comfortable than "thank you."

I'd like to say that as I grow as a person this will change, but, currently, the cringe-worthy responses have a starring role. For the moment, I can only hope that the people I think I've wounded don't have the same clarity of memory, and that missed opportunities come around once again.

Some Fun on a Monday

I helped out with some short YouTube videos over the weekend, and I thought I'd share. And just remember, we kid because we love. Mostly.

Social Calendar

Every once in a while, I gaze into my closet in the hopes of seeing something that might actually fit me, or that will suddenly transform me into a 5 ft 10 inch super model. Neither wish is any closer to being granted. However, I have the sneaking suspicion that my wardrobe has a rather engaging social life, full of balls and parties every night (just like those awaiting Lydia Bennet with the officers in Brighton). For instance, I ran across this 50s/60s inspired cocktail dress while rummaging through the bedroom last evening.

I'm uncertain who was supposed to wear it, or where it was going, but it's very cute. Perhaps I was shopping in a fugue state and unaware that I'm usually much less formally attired while watching House Hunters? Perhaps someone younger and more playful bought it, and it has been buried in a time capsule for years? Of course, there is a possibility that I was having nightmares about being stuck on the set of Mad Men with nothing to wear, and quickly updated my wardrobe. In reality, the most likely explanation is that my closet is making its own decisions, and helpfully expelling in my direction hints about what my life should look like, rather than what it does.

That's fine. But it should be warned that if the next thing out the door is a wedding dress, I'm torching it and starting over.

The Thoughts in my Head

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the thoughts in my head:

I need gray boots.

Do they still make gray boots?

The 80s were a great time for gray boots.

Everyone had gray boots in the 80s.

I miss the 80s.

 

I feel like my mental capacity might be diminishing ever so slightly.

True Story

True Story
(aka Things About Me That Would Surprise Absolutely No One)

When I was young, I could not watch soap operas without running out of the room when the kissing started. You see, I understood that the people on television were actors and that what I saw on TV was not real. So, in my mind, because they were actors and not deeply in love, the kissing was wrong. You could not kiss someone you didn’t love (I’m not saying I still think this is true… but I might).

Then I started to rationalize: it would be ok, if they were wearing some sort of mouth guard. I remember staring very intently at some characters on One Life to Live in order to spot what was surely some sort of plastic wrap that would protect them from accidentally making mouth to mouth contact with someone they weren’t “with” in real life. Shockingly, I never found it. Those make-up artists are good.

Venice in the Afternoon

It was mid-morning of December 30^th when J and I emerged from the train in Venice. Watching the sun rise over the waters and feeling the not all together unpleasant breeze, we knew we had made the best decision possible. The day before we had been in Vienna—it was beautiful, but, as anyone can tell you, there are few places colder than Vienna in December, and we were in need of some rejuvenation. It didn't hurt that we also needed a night train. Light on cash and unable to return to our friend's apartment while her boyfriend "visited," it was an adventure too timely to reject.

As Venice woke up around us, we wandered over to the Grand Canal partaking in only the finest of breakfasts: fresh baked rolls and … Pepsi. What can I say; it's ubiquitous and easy to obtain no matter what language you are working in (and my Italian is so poor that I asked the train porter if he spoke English in what turned out to be junior high school Spanish without noticing the slip until he rolled his eyes). While probably only in the mid-50's, the rising sun gave off a welcome heat, as we took in the new city. We museum hopped much in the same way we had pub crawled not two weeks earlier—slowly, with reverence and with just a taste at each location (though I will admit to trying to absorb The Madonna and The Tempest into my brain so the memory would be vivid enough to revisit years later).

Late afternoon and the water began its siren call. We gleefully brought pizza to the dock and watched the flow from the Adriatic lap against the planks. I was at peace; something that seemed antithetical to the vagabond life I was experiencing, but there it was. Perhaps the openness of my countenance is what attracted him first, or maybe I radiated a kind of innocence that some men find appealing. It certainly wasn't my stylish attire—I was dressed for travel and warmth, not seduction. Still, when he approached with his friend, my confusion was tempered with amusement, and I found myself flattered.

He was an artist. His friend was a professor (though he didn't teach). I'd estimated he was in his early 50s. Dapper in the way of very successful Italian men, his gallery tales told in halting English were charming. Apparently, he was moved by me; so much so that he grabbed the empty pizza box from between us, in order to begin his creation immediately. My visage had inspired him to take pen to pizza box and craft a portrait of a traveler. Much to my increasing amusement, he used J's head as a table. I'm not certain she found it as entertaining. Then again, she was used to being the center of male attention more than I (she was willowy with flame red hair—quite striking even in travel gear). Perhaps he sensed this as he kept telling her not be jealous of his attentions as he continued to draw. He kept telling me to sit up.

I'll have to say, as encounters go, it was unique. He used the two grease spots to form my eyes, so I was beginning to look a bit cross-eyed in the portrait, but I could tell he was moving swiftly to flesh out the version of me he wanted the world to see. It was a natural evolution for him to invite us back to the gallery. It only momentarily startled his friend, but I'm sure the professor was used to having the artist offer to bring women back to his gallery to see his work. Other than his interest in me, there really hadn't been anything untoward, and yet I began to second guess the plan.

He asked if I was Italian, and if I had family or friends in the area. It could have been idle curiosity, but I started to get the feeling that he was checking to see if anyone would miss us if we didn't make our train. He looked deep into my eyes and told me that he was taken with me. He told me he was Italian and didn't need me because he could have any woman he wanted, but that he was honoring me, and I shouldn't be frightened. I looked into his eyes—a bit dazed by it all as he began to speak the words every woman longs to hear: "You aren't beautiful. You have no figure. You are nothing, and no one has made you more famous than I have just made you."

Much to his dismay, and growing irritation, I cut off the discussion of what wine (and other things) he would introduce me to with a quickly invented train schedule conflict (and a silent vow to avoid that particular canal area if I was to ever return). Our departure was… swift.

And that's what happens when I meet a man on vacation.

One of Those Internet Surveys

I haven't sat down with one of these random internet surveys in a while. Lucky you! Now, let's see…

1. Do you do anything in private that would shock your friends?
   LOL! Oh yeah, but probably not what this question had in mind. It's Broadway up in here. Seriously, the door closes, and I'm singing, dancing and graciously accepting the roses thrown at my feet. I'm really a dynamic performer and have quite a career in my mind.
   
2. First thing you notice about the opposite sex?
   Them running away.
   
3. Strangest thing you've seen on Twitter?
   That's difficult because I see a lot of strange things on Twitter. For instance, I think it's incredibly strange when porn stars follow me (and also, could you please stop putting your vagina in your profile icon—ick). I will say that I just ran across a twitter profile called @duchovnysdick (it showed up in one of those helpful "people you might want to follow" kind of twitter suggestions). After I stopped laughing from pure shock, I will admit that I clicked on it. I had this perverse idea that someone had created a twitter profile that would tweet as though his penis was actually chatting (sort of a variation on the dogs chatting with each other). Sadly, it was not what I thought it was.
   
4. Ever been given an engagement ring?
   Screw you.
   
5. First friend you'd call if you won the lottery?
   I would have to say Pen because I feel like she would take an immediate sick day to drive to Sacramento with me (and protect the ticket from poachers). Secretly, my second call would be to Colin Firth's agent. With that kind of money, I could cast him something and actually pay his quote. It might end up being the most expensive web series ever, but damn it, it would be worth a shot.
   
6. Best kisser?
   On the planet? I'm not sure. If I were friskier, I'd take a survey. As it is, I'm going to go with Clooney. He's had some practice, and he looks like he knows what he's doing by now.
   
7. One thing you never leave the house without?
   Underwear. Apparently, this puts me in the minority here in Los Angeles.
   
8. Do long distance relationships work?
   Yes. The less I see of the guy, the greater the chances are of it lasting.
   
9. Who sleeps with you every night?
   The ghost of opportunities past seems to be joining me more and more.
   
10. Sleep with or without clothes?
    With. Nobody needs to see me naked, including me.
    
11. Have you ever internet stalked anyone?
    My lawyer would not characterize my activities that way, no.
    

Your turn.