Still Breathing

“There are two things I always tried to believe, but couldn’t; one was that there is a perfect man waiting out there for every woman, the other is that true love gives you happiness. In real life I spent so many years dodging men who were so much less than perfect, and when I did fall in love… happiness never came. So I grew up and put away those childish things and finally stopped holding my breath for a man.”

I remember when I was little I used to try and hold my breath for as long as humanly possible; whether I was in a pool, in the tub, or just laying in the grass outside as the warm sun spread it’s blanket of light gently over me. I knew it couldn’t be good for me because my lungs would start to hurt and my head would get so hot it felt as if it would explode. Then, just the moment before I felt as if I would burst into tears I would open my mouth and take in the sweetest gulp of air that would fit into my tiny lungs. It was delicious, cool, and lifesaving…. Moments later I would do it all over again.

As an adult I found that relationships, dates even, are very much like holding your breath. We do it to challenge ourselves; to see what it will feel like to be in pain on our own terms. The fun comes in seeing how long it will last. When we get to that breaking point, the point where all we want to do is cry, we let go. The strange thing is that we let go with great difficulty knowing that perhaps we could have held on just a little…bit…longer.

Perhaps it was being raised on Disney films and losing myself completely between the tower of books at my local libraries. Perhaps it was the knowledge that though my parents love for each other had waned long before I was even able to take my very first steps, I always wanted to find someone who would make me feel as if I never had to hold my breath again. I wanted to breathe without the challenge of seeing how long I could last before getting hurt, before I stopped breathing altogether….

There is a movie I have had a love affair with for quite some time now; it is called “Still Breathing” and it stars the ever wonderful Brendan Fraser, who has incidentally, long since been the man of my dreams. He plays a man, so eccentric, so gentle, so… perfect, that the first time I saw this movie I thought what every woman who has gone through multiple failed relationships would think “Yeah. Right.” I have long since stopped believing in fairy tales and soul mates. I gave them up officially the last time I held my breath too long…. I had come to the conclusion that love was not worth the pain; that the pain of losing someone was not worth the pain of perhaps losing yourself. And then this movie fell into my life like a flower from the sky when there aren’t even any trees or shrubs around for flowers to grow on.

In a time when movies are afraid to believe in magic almost as much as people are, this movie was a breath of fresh air. The leading lady has become a cynic, a pessimist. She is jaded and has made it a career out of men falling in love with her so that she may use them and discard of them as easily as one might a tissue. The leading man, played exquisitely by Mr. Fraser is, ironically, a puppeteer, much like she is; however the big difference is that he uses his talents to manipulate people into smiling. His joy comes from entertaining young children with his whimsical puppets by day and dreaming of his lady love by night. Endlessly, he searches for her in his subconscious; trying desperately to piece her face together with images handed to him by fate. Under normal circumstances I would roll my eyes at this type of film and reach for another movie before even the intro credits stopped rolling. Something about this film, as fanciful as it is with its vast Texan shots of ivy and great big magnolia blossoms… something about it made me want to believe again; believe that love could exist completely between two people; believe that maybe, just maybe there was someone out there thinking of someone like me, wondering if I would ever fall out of the sky even when there no shrubs or trees for flowers to bloom upon…. I no longer believe in fairy tales, but I sure as hell believe in love, even with all its flaws.

Fletcher, Brendan Fraser’s character, may be just a character in a movie, but I would take him over all the Clooneys and Pitts out there any day of the week. He is a gentleman who does not have a fortune stashed away in investments or stocks, he is gangly and handsome in an unconventional way, he is steadfast and determined to the point of seeming like a stalker, but just controlled enough to know when it is time to walk away. He is someone who seems as if he has never felt the need to ever hold his breath….

As I type this, I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps my love affair (and love for Fletcher) goes beyond wanting to find someone like him (because aside from his own love affair with WOW my fiancé could very well be him), perhaps it is a matter of me wishing I could be more like him. That childlike innocence that I have all but replaced with cynicism and doubt is encompassed in his smile. If you don’t believe me just take another look at the picture above.

I may be more cynical and pessimistic than I was ten years ago. I may have had my heart broken a few more times than I would have liked, worse yet, I may have broken more hearts than I would have liked; and yes, when everyone else is splashing around in a pool you will still catch me quietly sitting below the water, silently holding my breath until my lungs feel as if they are on fire and my head threatens to explode. Just before that moment of excruciating pain threatens to engulf me and all I want to do is cry, I’ll pull myself out and take in the sweetest gulp of air I’ve ever tasted in my life. As I look around at the people laughing and enjoying the cool water, life seems to move in slow motion.... I will sit back and appreciate the fact that even though love is painful as it is wonderful… I am still breathing….

Disney Dreams Deferred

What is Valentine's day really all about? Even when I have someone in my life to share the day with, we usually end up wanting to celebrate some sort of anti-valentine's day. Has anyone ever really taken the time to notice how pathetic those people look? You know, the ones in line at the supermarket the night before buying the wilted flowers and cheap boxes of chocolate; the chocolate that shouldn't even pass for chocolate in the first place? You know who you are because I'm one of those people too. We'd all like to be the type of person who puts thought and time and effort into Valentine's day gifts, but we don't. We scoff at it and secretly want the other person to forget so that we can hold up our five dollar flowers in a guilt-induced declaration in hopes that we get to call the shots in the relationship for the entire subsequent week. Even now, as I sit here at Disneyland, supposedly the "happiest place on earth," all I want to do is hit the next princess I see on the snout and beat the shit out of her prince. Which brings to mind a question: if the two of those diabetes inducing assholes ended up happily ever after, why are they never out walking the park together? You never see them holding hands and bursting into spontaneous song; no, she's always alone under two pounds of cakey makeup surrounded by deluded little girls all hoping for their own happy-ever-after endings. So where are the fucking guys? The ones who fight dragons and witches and evil family members all for "true love?" I'll tell you where they are, they're off in some seedy underground speakeasy hidden within the bowels of the magic kingdom playing video games and drinking hard liqour while porn plays in the background.

They've shed their tights for comfortable jeans, worn t-shirts that have their "Neverland University" alma matter etched on the front. They're playing poker, making jokes and laughing at their own farts while the princesses they "saved" are off keeping up the pristine squeaky clean Taylor Swift image so as not to scare the kiddies. You know what I say to to that? Fuck. That. Shit. Uh-uh. That is not for me. Pass the Jack because I'm no fucking princess. I'm no prince either. What? So when the thrill of the hunt is gone, when there are no more innocent dragons to slay or stepmothers to vanquish they can just start distancing themselves from the pastel-loving princess until they absolutely have to make a quick apearance in the fucking parade you can't even see because of all the damn kids sitting on their father's shoulders? Hey, some of us adults actually want to watch that shit too.

No, if you want to find me I'll be hanging with Cruella, Hook, and my all time favorite villain, Malificent. Incidentally, I'd be pissed too if I didn't get an invite to the party just because I have a bit of a dark side. That's just as bad as being racist, that's being Villainist. They may be evil motherfuckers but at least they tell it like it is. No sugar coated shit here. So after we go over to the Pansy Prince Gentleman's Club, beat the shit out of them with their own plastic swords (which won't be hard cause you know princes can't fight worth shit), and steal their liquour (daddy can afford to buy them more), we'll head down to New Orleans Square and get pissed while listening to jazz. All characters allowed except for those deemed as "royalty." And after we all jump in the river and stop singing "Heal the World" we can toilette paper the castles and throw bags of shit at the entrance (thanks Pluto). Snow White's evil stepmother can brew up some bad ass hangover cure and in the morning, we can do it all over again.... Now that's Disney.

By the way, there was one Prince signing autographs alongside his lady love: Aladdin. That's because he's not a cowardly little pansy raised with money. Boy grew up on the streets and had to actually try to earn her love. Jasmine's OK too since she fell in love with him when he was poor. Guess there are exceptions.... But you'll still find me drunk with that darker side of Disney.

Sexist Deodorant?

OK, I consider myself a pretty laid back feminist (I'm one of those feminine feminists who can't wait to watch the superbowl later and down jello shots), but I saw a product today that actually made me raise an eyebrow and say "Oh no they din't!"

The product is a tried and true one that I have been using for many, many years: Degree for women in the "Sheer Powder" scent. I don't use any other kind because it has never let me down. Until recently.

Years ago, when they first began launching this "body responsive" campaign, I was immediately drawn to the ad in my "Seventeen" magazine. There, in a full page glossy color, was the picture of a young female director behind a camera looking over her scene. All around her were problems written that had arisen during her day like "Your lead actress is stuck in traffic," or "Boom just collapsed onto the scene," and for good measure "Studio execs paying a visit after lunch." All these problems were followed by their famous slogan of "When the heat turns up, Degree turns on!" Or something like that.... I loved this ad so much, because it portrayed a strong young woman who was not going to be intimidated by the daily problems handed to her unexpectedly; she was not only going to face those problems head-on, she was going to bulldoze through them full force... and all with the help of Degree. I was so moved by this ad I even tore it from the magazine and kept it.

Fast forward thirteen years. I ran out of deoderant so I went to the store and immediately reach for my faithful product only to stop short upon reading the new slogan on the cap. Get ready for it..."Extra RESPONSIVE in EMOTIONAL moments." What the fuuuuuuuuuuck? Oh. No. They. Didn't.

I grabbed it anyway because the product works and I wanted to take a picture of it so I would have proof that I was not hallucinating, but let me tell you, it is enough to make me go in search for another deodorant with a demographic that does not target a massive group of "emotional" sweaty women. Last time I checked, I was sweating because I went for a hike not crying because I had just watched "The Way We Were." In fact, that movie evokes more eyerolls than beads of sweat from me.

Ironically, their main slogan on the website is "Degree: It Won't Let You Down." Sorry Degree, but I disagree. Maybe your next slogan should be "Degree: Body responsive to control your sweat while you slave over the pot roast you've been working on all day because you have no life."

Can It Be Done?

On dewy, overcast days my favorite thing to do is hang out in my bedroom with my space heater on and all my kids curled up sleeping on the bed. The blinds are pulled up to let the soft, filtered light absolutely pour through the large window and my silent cup of coffee sits patiently on my windowsill, waiting for me to take another sip....

There is a wooden fence right outside that soaks up the last bit of rain that washed through the desert during the cold night. Every now and then the sun peaks through the clouds as if it is making sure it hasn't gotten too cold, like a matronly guardian checking up on sleeping children.

It is days like today when all I want to do... is write; work on my novel, finish one more chapter until that moment comes when I can place the final punctuation mark on the final sentence of the final chapter, and whisper "The End," to no one in particular. Yet, I don't.

Instead, I find some excuse not to; the room is getting too dusty, so I reach for the dustpan; the clothes need washing, so I reach for the detergent; the floor needs sweeping, so I reach for the broom; I haven't perfected my hollandaise, so I reach for the whisk; my German Shepherd needs fresh air, so I reach for the leash. Lately, I seem to be reaching for everything but a pen!

Well, I'm done. If I can make time in the day to watch an episode of "Sex and The City" or re-hang a painting on the north wall because the lighting was all wrong on the east one, I can certainly make time to work on my novel for at least one hour a day. And so this blog is going to take a dramatic turn, at least for me. I am going to challenge myself the way I should have a long time ago.... In the past I've said that a true writer is simply someone who loves to write. Wrong.

I would like to add to my definition of what it takes to be a writer: A true writer is someone who takes their writing seriously, who gives themselves deadlines the way a publisher might, and more importantly... someone who finishes what they start.

A book, like a relationship, is something you must work at, through good times and bad, no matter what might have transpired throughout your day, you must make time for it; because really... "the only way out is through."

I am giving myself 365 days to completely finish my novel. Any of the ones I am working on. I will write about my progress and try to make it as interesting as possible for those of you following me (thank you by the way!). If on that 365th day I have not sent my completed "masterpiece" or "complete piece of shit" (depending on your taste), I will not only have failed this challenge, but I will also be forced to take a good, long look at myself and contemplate whether or not I can truly call myself a writer....

Though I am a bit curious, look at the picture above. Doesn't my painting look better over the sofa? It really was lost on the East wall.... But my hollandaise still sucks.