my two dads

i have a complicated relationship with my father. my biological father. the man my mother married to get away from her own mother. the man who left her for another woman. the man who hasn't spoken to his "other children" in almost 10 years. the man who didn't speak to his own mother for 5 years when she was battling leukemia.
it's damn hard to explain.
i have these golden, perfect memories of my childhood with him, when his role as a parent was only delegated to two weekends a month. i knew i was daddy's favourite. i was a good kid. no, i was a GREAT kid. i was respectful and happy. i didn't throw tantrums or get into trouble. i was never sent to the principal's office and always got straight a's. i was the pretty blonde ballerina princess who always helped in the kitchen without ever being asked. it's no mystery why my half brother and half sister hated me.
i remember my dad packing up his musical equipment to play weddings and bar mitzvahs every saturday night, leaving me to the care of philip & debbie. they were much older than me- 9 & 7 years respectively. my then stepmother denise would skulk off to their bedroom to roll clandestine joints & recline on their silk-sheeted bed to watch reruns on their small black & white tv while painting her nails. once in a while, she'd let me in to dig through her drawer of barrettes and play with her long, silky hair. most of the time, i would just sit in the living room, reading, while my siblings shut the door to philip's bedroom (plastered with posters of ozzy osbourne & iron maiden) to play big kid's games or fight over who got to use the atari. i was never invited.
one night, i felt lonely & knocked on the door meekly, hoping to play with them. when they opened the door, i was pummeled with rolled up socks was they shouted, "go away! you're not our sister!" i was six years old.
i didn't tell my father about the incident for 10 years.
he would wake us up early with sandwiches packed carefully in a wicker basket to go to the beach & watch the sunrise. he let me bury him deep in the sand & carve a mermaid's tail above his submerged body while my brother & sister played frisbee. he would make us dolphin-shaped pancakes flavored with almond & tinted aqua with food coloring.
he had us paint the laundry room of his small north miami house. we unanimously agreed on an underwater theme and created our own fish. mine was a jellyfish, made out of a jar of grape jelly and long, menacing purple tentacles.
i idolized my father for most of my adolescence. wore the chunky silver id bracelet with his name engraved on it proudly. it must have killed my mum & stepdad at the time.
as i got older, i realized that my father wasn't the invincible god i had placed on the highest pedestal. he shrewdly manipulated me against my mother. ah, the fights during the holiday season, the unpaid child support, the snide little comments inserted in our weekly dinners...
it was plainly clear to me by the time i was 20.
my dad was incredibly talented and warm. he was open-minded & creative & fun when i was younger, but turned into a prejudiced, born-again right-winger as i grew older. it seemed that, by the time i was 22, the only fair game topics to discuss were films & movies. any comments about the state of the country, foreign policy, travel, politics,war would result in my father screaming at me that i had no idea about how the world really worked.
such a drastic difference from the way my stepfather spoke to me...
my stepfather IS my father now. he married my mum when i was 5 and was always the voice of reason in my sometimes tumultuous home life. he put me through college and always spoke up for me when my mum unleashed her violent agression at me, leaving me sobbing quietly in my room only to hear scream about what a terrible daughter i was. he has always supported me unconditionally and spoken to me with the greatest respect. to even begin to describe our relationship now would take days... he is just that good to me... and my friends, and my boyfriend. i find myself craving time to just sit down & talk to him now i live so far away. he doesn't really call to see how i'm doing, yet i'm not bothered by it at all.
i hadn't spoken to my "real" father for over a year and a half when he called me two months ago to tell me of his partner's stroke. i was immediately saddened and felt guiltier than i ever have. his bizarre patterns in familial relationships seemed to have impacted me greatly... but, to be honest, my mum & stepdad are all the family i've ever really needed.
i spoke with him daily until his partner seemed to have made a marked improvement. upon our last conversation, he said, "so i guess we'll keep in touch?" that was two months ago and i haven't heard from him since.
i'm scared to call him- and i don't know why. he, much like my mother (at least, when i was younger), has always had the power to make me feel smaller than anyone. they had both convinced me that i was selfish & uncaring, though my mother has long since become my biggest fan. she once chastised me, told me i made myself ugly & that it was no wonder i didn't have any friends. she also once sneered that i should go ahead & kill myself already.
she tells me how much she loves me & how proud she is of me every time we speak now. funny, how women change as they age.
i recently learned that my stepfather is on anti-depressants, which kept me in a state of confusion & silence for over a week. he's my best friend in the world, yet i have no clue whatsoever on how to approach him about this.
i can't speak to either of my fathers, and it leaves a black stain on every minute i'm alone.
my stepfather has never said, "i love you." he doesn't need to. unlike my "father," his actions prove it more than mere words ever could.
funny, how the wordsmith girl is left silent when it comes time to say something to the two people who need to hear her most...

holy crip! it's a crapple

i'm turning into a gym rat. a filthy, sweaty gym rat...
and now i'm paying for it.
for the past five months, i've been on an on-again-off-again exercise craze. i've been taking lots of cardio dance-type classes, which is humorous, at best. i live on south beach, where everyone is a bloody model. they don't hold actual jobs, but spend hours between getting manicured-waxed-tanned to velvet rope perfection.
i am the fat girl at the gym.
i went back to weights this weekend and decided to attack my legs.
silly me. now i can't walk. i'm hobbling like a sad old lady, groaning every time i sit down or stand up. mind you, that was on saturday. i'm bloody miserable.
something of more substance shall follow soon, once i get over the agonizing pain.

let's blow this popsicle stand

ah, monday. another day when the oppressive heat urges me to stay inside as much as possible. one can't dance to blur in her tighty whiteys (okay, tighty camouflage-ys) on the street, can one?
went to the nicest french restaurant on friday. had a big plate of steak frites washed down with a glass of red wine. the creme brulee was orgasmic. it made me think of how, if i hadn't decided to go to adschool, i'd be in paris now.
there's a bloody good chance i'll be leaving the states soon, if only temporarily.
we've applied to programs in amsterdam & london.
the mere thought of going back to london had me high all weekend. the saatchi office is in camden, 3 tube stops away from my neighborhood. the thought of being in london for my favourite season- when you can smell the dampness of the earth beneath a blanket of leaves, when it's cold enough to inspire a quickness in your step but warm enough to make you rise from bed with a sense of purpose & delight, when tea tastes even better- thrills me.
it's been two years since i went back and i miss my family. i miss night buses & blistering curries. i miss museums & plays on a sunday afternoon. i miss, well, everything.

100thing, part deux

51. my first kiss occurred in the back of a bus on a gifted trip to seacamp
52. my first shakespeare played was petruchio (3rd grade)
53. then mercutio (4th grade)
54. then juliet (5th grade)
55. then, well, too many to remember. but they were all female after that.
56. i had chicken pox on my 5th birthday & my party at pirates was cancelled.
57. i've never broken a bone.
58. i start every morning in front of my ibook, smoking a clove.
59. i once harboured grand fantasies of taking a cross-country road trip & writing the next great american novel.
60. that, of course, was when i was 17 and obsessed with beat lit...
61. and was extremely maladjusted.
62. i also wanted to open a coffee shop that had a black box theater & art gallery in order to start my own artists' community
63. that is a lofty goal i have not yet abandoned.
64. i was eerily intrigued by vampires as a little girl
65. and thought that if i bathed my neck in cold water (to constrict the veins) & tied a red ribbon around my throat, that they would think i was "one of them" & wouldn't attack me while i slept.
66. that says a lot about my brief courtship with the goth scene.
67. my mum once gave me the nickname 'tish' (morticia) because of my all-black wardrobe
68. and i called myself that for the better part of my sophomore year.
69. my favourite trip ever was to venice.
70. i long to go to china, morocco, india, turkey...
71. my stepfather is my best friend in the universe
72. and all my friends adore him.
73. i become infatuated very easily
74. and am hyper-sensitive.
75. boys rarely approached me
76. my friends would insist that it was because i was "intimidating"
77. i always thought it was because i have no mystery, no magnetism.
78. i've had recurrent dreams about my ex for the past four years.
79. i suffer from a horrendous case of writers block
80. and never think my work is decent.
81. the best part of my day is waking up next to m., with czarina curled up by my side.
82. i'm obsessed with her. she's a damn great cat.
83. i love entertaining & host legendary barbecues.
84. i'm a pisces
85. the few things i always have in my fridge are limes, fresh ginger, orange vitamin water, green apples, and a bottle of thai sesame lime dressing.
86. i frequently drink shiraz.
87. i got into a number of great schools when i applied to college (sarah lawrence, university of chicago, smu for theatre, etc)
88. but wound up at fsu at first & hated it. i left after my first year & bounced around, changing majors.
89. i still have one bloody linguistics class to finish my english degree.
90. i'm deathly afraid of snakes.
91. i listen to more music that was released 10 years ago than recent releases.
92. i used to go skiing in the french alps every year
93. but was terrible at it.
94. i hate tv
95. but love seinfeld, six feet under, the simpsons, family guy, and the naked chef.
96. i have the humor of a 12 year old boy
97. and still play video games.
98. i tutor (and love it)
99. and read the dictionary to find new words while i'm working.
100. i smile when my students call me "miss erica." it reminds me of how i called my dance teacher "miss deborah."

100things, part one

i'm a copycat. imitation, flattery, plagiarism, whatever.

1. i was born 2.5 months premature and had to be resuscitated. baby defibrillators 'n all.
2. my father donated blood for the first time in order to supply me with grade a+. literally.
3. my hospital bracelet said i was a boy.
4. which is incredibly humorous, considering my adult 'attributes.'
5. i had red hair that turned blonde
6. which i later turned back to red
7. and blue eyes that turned green.
8. i cursed at my mother as a child ("this soup is too bloody hot!" age 3).
9. i also acted spoiled ("buy me merchandise" age 3.5)
10. and prematurely snobby ("i'd like a glass of white wine, please" age 4).
11. i once tried to fly a kite inside the two story home i grew up in
12. and had more success indoors than i did at my school's actual kite day.
13. i took ballet, tap, and jazz classes religiously for over nine years,
14. but couldn't stay in hebrew school for over a month.
15. i was the joker in my dance recital when all the other girls were batm(e)n
16. and made the younger girls cry, with my neon green hair and saltwater taffy smile.
17. i always eat the spiciest food imaginable
18. i have ugly deformed dancer's feet that tell stories about my lost youth as a budding ballerina.
19. i was accepted into the joffrey ballet summer program
20. but abandoned my dreams once my boobs appeared (age 13).
21. by 15, i was incessantly made fun of.
22. by 20, every gay man i knew had tried to grab 'em.
23. by 25, i was over them. the twins, not the boys.
24. i have a coffee stain- mimicking birthmark on my left hip
25. and abhor patchouli
26. but not as much as abercrombie...
27. i distinctly remember performing at the jcc summer camp, dancing to "new attitude" by patti labelle, in a black suspender-y leotard with red & black paint splattered t-shirt, leqwarmers, headband, and wristbands.
28. needless to say, i was damn cute then.
29. i drink gin & tonic like water
30. preferably bombay sapphire.
31. i once thought i would spend my life in a new york loft, walking barefoot on wood floors as a black cat snaked around my ankles while i listened to sade's "love deluxe" & orchestrated the grandest of dinner parties for my artiste friends.
32. i also thought i would be sharing this life with another woman.
33. i went to an arts high school for music theater
34. and had nauseating bouts of stage fright every time i had to sing in public.
35. i later switched to acting & playwriting.
36. my only produced play was a series of six female monologues i had intended to be a one-woman show.
37. it was called (puke) "silent all these years"
38. and no record of it remains.
39. there's a very long story involving a bizarre synchronicity with my then best friend, our respective plays, and the death of my grandmother. i won't even try to approach it here, but it might entertain her to see mention of it here...
40. i sang in an indie pop stereolab-wannabe band- and got kicked out.
41. my karaoke skills are unparalleled. just ask what my set list is...
42. i take the best random digi-cam self portraits
43. but never look like the same person.
44. i cook like a maniac- but always make the same basic menus.
45. i always slip back into bed after showering, a towel on my head and the dampness holding fast to the creases behind my ears and knees.
46. i'm not as fond of shoes as other girls are...
47. but have an unhealthy obsession with ebay.
48. i miss the smell of london bus seats- chip grease, imported tobacco, mint POLOs, and a trace of vindaloo
49. and long to retrace my familiar path to highgate woods.
50. i didn't know marx was buried there until two years ago. bloody brilliant.

if you publish a blog and no-one reads it, are you still a writer?

i have mastered the fine art of procrastinating on my copywriting projects until the very last minute. the only problem with that is, my teacher actually likes them. not that he doesn't give every student positive feedback, but ALL of my teachers seem to actually like most of my ideas. even my half-assed guerilla idea for la-z boy that involves a militant group called las pararillas who refuse to sit in anything but recliners & rampage through cities, leaving propaganda posters, their manifesto, & foot-shaped sticker that call people to action by standing. ha. how literal.
it's another example of me getting away with murder and feeling guilty about it. i s'pose i can owe all of it to being the only child of a jewish mother.
ah, jewish mothers... i find myself looking more & more jewish as i get older, though i distance myself from any of the empty traditions i practiced as achild. odd, now, that i have to revisit these themes to come up with work for the san fran jewish film fest. i'm working with the idea of making b-movie style horror film posters, featuring horrific portrayls of nagging yentas & menacing moyls. oy.
i have to tackle the task of rebranding america, making people respect & admire americans again, which scares the bloody hell out of me. how can i do this effectively when i cringe every day, listening to npr, reading about the push for educating elementary school children about intelligent design, lamenting the future of this country (the future of the world, no less)?
i watched the battle of algiers this weekend and cried like a baby. have found myself recently moved to tears by the actions of vehement fundamentalists and the people who take violent actions against them, in turn. i can't seem to side with anyone, but am profoundly distressed and dismayed by faraway, not-so-random acts of violence that penetrate my quiet little existence. after the incidents in london, i became nauseous every time i read the newspaper or someone asked me about my family. the line that goes straight to my old neighborhood was closed temporarily.
enough on this note... i'm trembling from too much coffee & babbling incoherently anyway...

quiet

le boi went back to france for 2 weeks, leaving me quite quizzical in my flat. i have always lived with someone; be it a roommate, my parents, my lover. this time on my own seems indulgent, but ever so quiet.
things seem more organized without mathieu here. i find myself cleaning compulsively and trying to maintain order. somehow, this makes my small, one bedroom space appear even emptier. we haven't fully committed to decorating this place fully, as we know we won't be here past december (when we venture overseas for one of the quarter away programs our school offers). but it isn't the sparseness of my home that unnerves me now- it's the impenetrable quiet.
i have abandoned my cd collection in favor of itunes, but hate the sound of music on my laptop's meager speakers. my television is not hooked up to cable of any kind and i've watched every movie in my dvd collection at least a dozen times. there is no way to combat this silence but to talk to my cat, which only confirms my madness.
sunday night, i hung out with three high school buddies, including the girl i was infatuated with throughout my senior year. i had not seen her since i was about 19 and was trembling of the thought of seeing her. she was just so damn intimidating back in the day. besides, i had quite embarassingly kissed her shortly after graduation and we had never discussed it afterwards.
she was radiant in her typically effortless, natural grace. it made me feel contrived, in my carefully planned outfit & delicately applied eyeliner. nevertheless, we shared beers, laughed, and danced to james brown as if a mere week had passed since our last time together.
we mused about how our friends are settling down, getting married. even after two serious relationships, the idea seems bizarre to me. a long-term goal for the future, but utterly inconceivable now.i still feel sometimes that i'm the serious girl clad in black, journal by my side, ready to change the world. in truth, i'm just the homecoming queen who works at the 7-11.
i was supposed to have been one of the successful kids- and my so called achievements have somehow paled in comparisons to the weighty expectations i had placed upon myself.
high school stroked my fragile ego- and life afterwards, almost ten years later, is very different than the one i had hoped for.

wish it was sunday, 'cause that's my fun day.

so it's monday and i feel once again that i wasted a perfectly splendid weekend.

it all started friday. i had made plans with some of my classmates to head down to the shelbourne for some karaoke, followed by a few drinks at the pawn shop with all of the hipsters. so i called ever hour or so & waited. and waited. and waited. i fell asleep by midnight & found out that, not only had they gone without me, but that my newest teacher crush (name: ronny. occupation: copywriter at crispin porter bogusky. weapons of choice: quick witticisms and devastating smile) was there, too. great. in all honesty, we would have probably wound up talking about how great m's work is and i would have been dreadfully embarrassed.

this is my second teacher crush. the first one was back at theater school, but he doesn't count. all the girls had a crush on him and he wound up seducing the illegal ones. the thought of him simply makes me blush and wish that all the drugs i did in my early twenties had wiped the slate clean of his name. it's an embarassing story i don't care to delve into...

saturday comprised of taking photos at the airport with my increasingly grumpy boyfriend and then heading out to the miami new times best of 2005 party in downtown. if the best that miami has to offer is a bunch of balding men in khakis and drunk girls in ponchos & matching moccasins, i'm outta here.

sunday was spent trying to take more photos, watching "some like it hot", and ordering in hunan chicken. how absolutely stimulating.

i remember the languid weekends m & i once spent, lounging in bed until 3, making brunch then falling back in to bed with tangled limbs and hair to make love again. now, i wouldn't at all surprised if i wake up surreptitiously humping my mattress. we're hitting the dreaded two year mark, when i get restless and the boys become disinterested. maybe i'm preparing myself for it by letting him annoy me daily, losing my patience. perhaps i've lulled myself into the sick security that i won't let this work, simply because it so easily could. perhaps that's why i find myself getting so perturbed by missing a chance encounter with a guy i barely know (a teacher at my school, no less) because i know i would never act on any flirtation simply because my relationship, as mundane as it is lately, is just so good.

proof that i'm naturally blonde

last night, i did something rather interesting. i had been invited out to have a few drinks with an old friend and fought frantically to find a suitable outfit to wear. finding that the very skirt i wanted to don was dirty, i handwashed it & a matching white v-string (note: my only pair of white underwear). after turning my entire flat upside down looking for change for the dryer in my building, i found myself resorting to the ol' hair dryer method. as my wrist grew increasingly tired, i had a (not so) bright idea.
i remembered the seinfeld episode where kramer is obsessed with putting his clothes in the oven to make them toasty (the very same calzone & "pockets full of pennies" episode). as i chuckled to myself, i realized that putting my clothes in a gas oven would probably be quite hazardous. all of a sudden, my green eyes flashed open with what i thought was the perfect alternative- the microwave!!! this wonderous invention would certainly dry my clothes in less time!!!
i decided that my bbv v-string would be a suitable test subject and skipped to the kitchen happily to give my theory a try. i set the timer for 1.5 minutes and went back to my trusty blowdryer, anxious to see the results.
90 seconds later- i return to the kitchen an open the door of the microwave. not yet noticing the acrid smell. oh yes, my thong was dry, but it now had black burn marks along the crotch.
i had forgotten that my v-string was made of 25% polyester.
nuking underwear only proves that i'm naturally blonde.

at long bloody last

i finally take the time to sit down and post. it's far easier to just sit back & laugh at jinius's brilliant blog & seethe quietly as i beat myself up for never writing.
so i'm finally challenged by school. to be honest, i've always had the charm to exert minimal effort & still wow my professors. ad school is different. for the first time, i'm not the wittiest or the most talented. indulge me in this one minor display of alphafemale superiority- i'm not the arrogant bitch, never have been. i had to do a brand/ creative strategy presentation based on myself in front of class last week and had my first dose of stagefright. the whole process reminded me of all the "who am i?" crap i did in theater school, when i watched my classmates divulge what they thought was significant about their post-adolescent angst. those performances always seemed to be thinly-veiled cries for attention parading as "expression." the whole palaver just seems self-indulgent in retrospect. this time, i chose to have a good laugh about my prior dabblings, when i sought to define myself as an artist & took myself all too seriously. the only things left over from those days are my addictions to black eyeliner & cloves... i digress...
my entire presentation was based on how i was once the epitome of the "tortured artist." i spent years in misery believing i was complete crap at everything and moved from one form of artistic expression to the next without spending a decent amount of time committed to anything. now, i'd rather believe i try "to be a multi-tasking maniac whose creative strength & promise lies not in singular genius, but in versatility." that's me. "jane of all trades" (verbatim).
i haven't picked up a paintbrush in years- my photos are crap- it's been 5 years since i performed in a play- the only time i do anything musically is when i get onstage to command wild karaoke nights- i'm too voluptuous to exert the energy necessary to play out the choreography in my head... but i no longer waste pages in my journal whining about how blank i am.
ha!!!! apparently, now i just choose to do it online.
life is freaking brilliant, and, for the first time in years, i have nothing to complain about.

mindless monday musings

i'm half-drunk in my newly painted flat, all cheery in its citrine warmth. my home positively hums with the comings & goings of beautiful foreigners that have found m. & i in a particularly welcoming state of mind, and, for the past week, we have quickly obliterated what was left from my birthday stash. for the first time in years, i feel like i have friends, besides the missed few who live too far away to indulge in our early spring hospitality. i have found that i grimace when looking in the mirror less- have learned to love the fine lines that frame my pout. these lines, i learn, tell stories. after years of yearning to be mysterious and alluring, i've found that the most attractive quality i have is my humor. yet, for years, i never allowed myself to smile, out of of fear that my trademark pout would be marred. while i have gained acceptance of my numerous faults, i have, admittedly, become far more intolerent of others.earlier this evening, i actually went on a five minute tirade about how "hotel california" should be banned from bar jukeboxes and did a fairly accurate impersonation of the balding ex frat boys that demand to belt off key renditions of "what's going on?" (don't think marvin gaye or i shall be forced to smear wasabi on your gaping wounds- four non blondes "whats' going on" because linda perry in a talentless ageing california reject whose only recent credentials are hanging with PINK). god forgive me for my not-so-minor indiscretions. more later, when i'm more coherent, perhaps.