Things I Want

I want this.

"Pregnant Women are Smug"

You laughed. Do not lie, because you laughed. (I laughed the hardest at the boy/girl, baby names, baby father interlude.)

Plus, it falls under the category of "funny because it's true"; we have all known pregnant women who automatically assume that because they are pushing out a baby (like everyone else in the history of life), they have attained a position of privilege and wisdom that the rest of us plebs cannot possibly understand. Just mention that you don't have any plans to have kids and watch their eyes widen as they contemplate what a miserable, lonely, selfish bitch you are. I actually did mention that I wasn't 100% sold on having kids of my own to a friend and her then-fiance, now-husband. He seemed horrified, she looked confused. As if my opinion was suddenly rocking the world they had, until then, assumed operated in a certain fixed and unmovable sequence involving the imperative that women MUST want kids and MUST be excited over pregnancy and MUST be counting down the days until they too will have their very own pwecious-wecious, itsy-bitsy baby...waby. Erm, no thanks. I like kids, I really do, they can be funny and creative and excited about life, but at the end of the day I'd really like to hand them back to their keepers and then do things I want to do. Personal freedom, suck it world!

I suppose it should be mentioned (although it is obvious without saying) that not all pregnant women are, in fact, smug. My sister-in-law is a shining example of this: she hasn't had the easiest pregnancy in the world and I'll be impressed/intimidated if she goes for it again, but she continues to be the kind, compassionate, thoughtful woman she is, all with a sense of humor. She would laugh at this video, I hope, not taking offense at any of the jabs and maybe adding an observation or two of her own.

In defense of the pregnant women out there, I must say that you all seem to be handle the worst invasions of privacy and personal space that occur in the most casual of ways: belly-rubbing/touching. Oh. My. Gosh. I would freak the hell out if anyone attempted to pat my belly and give advice all while I'm wondering who the fuck these people are and why are they talking to me. I don't even like it when people are invading my personal space for routine chitchat, let alone touch me, and I'm not even dealing with incubating a baby with my body! (The worst violations of my personal space always occurred at church. No lies, people have no problem getting all up in your face when they're in JC's house. I don't know if it's an expression of community, lack of manners or asserting authority/dominance, but it's rude. Back off.) I seriously think it stems from an outdated assumption that these women, as baby-makers/breeders, are no longer subject to personal privacy; their decision to have a child puts them into a realm of public opinion and physicality, with no space left for the woman as an individual. This mindset, of course, is all the result of the long history of women as property and marriage being an economic arrangement, etc., etc. Are there any pregnant women who have let others know that their touching, comments are not welcome? I'd love to hear those stories.

A baby winked at me the other day

At Robert's sister's graduation luncheon (Korean BBQ, always a winning choice) I was winked at by a baby. And it was totally in the correct context!

Let me back up a moment here...at the table was Robert's mother, his two aunts, one of his younger cousins and his baby cousin, Angelito. Little Angel isn't even two yet, can't speak and sits in a high chair where he was content to wave happily at anyone and everyone he saw. After gorging ourselves countless plates of BBQ (myself, I stuck to massive amounts of kimchi), I got up to go get an ice cream cone with the little girl cousin and brought one back for Angel who lit up like Christmas when he saw it. Gazing rapturously at the cone in silence for a brief moment, the baby lifted his eyes to me and his expression seemed as if the Virgin herself had delivered unto him that double chocolate fudge cone; he watched as I made my way to my seat on the other end of the table before taking the first few bites and gurgling happy baby noises.

The next time I looked his direction, Angel was smiling full force at me, coyly "hiding" behind his ice cream cone and peering around it before diving behind the shelter a waffle cone provides. Aha, I thought, peek-a-boo! I returned the gesture with a smile of my one, noting that kids have always had an affinity for me, when Angel peered out from behind his ice cream again, looked me directly in the eye with a mischievous smile and winked. I'll repeat that in case it didn't quite hit you: a baby, who cannot even say "mama" yet, winked at me. Winked at me after I had brought him an ice cream cone. Winked, flashed a smile, and then lifted his ice cream aloft as if he was toasting me.

You know how in Star Wars much is made of Luke Skywalker's innate connection with the Force? Yeah, this kid is clearly in touch with the Game on a similar level. (And by Game, I am referring to the one that players are always exhorting us to transfer our hate to.) Perhaps Angelito may never be a doctor or a lawyer, but how many of us can remember Casanova's church career? Destiny, little Angel, destiny.

I don't have a plan.

Not really. I mean, I have ideas, allusions, inspirations, but despite my love for all things organized and categorized, I personally swirl about in a semi-solid cast of decisions. No map, just taking things as they come, with speculations abound. I don't know anyone who has a plan, or that actually sticks to one step-by-step, maybe those gloriously dutiful people exist somewhere out there in the blogosphere or maybe they too are a myth like the Loch Ness or Lindsay Lohan's comeback.

I'm clever, but not nearly clever enough and I do know that I can toe the line of being cloyingly precocious. The kind you want to punch in the teeth. I like to think of myself as intellectually capable, but I wish I had genius. Genius is sexy. Genius makes money.

(On the other hand, genius can also mean that one minute you are an unbelievable chess champion, the next a bitter, old anti-Semite, like the late Bobby Fischer. I, on the other hand, am a really nice person, is this my trade-off?)

Not entirely certain why I felt like bringing this up, but I guess I just cannot get this simple, meaningless exchange out of my head. I was at a childhood friend's wedding the other night (which was absolutely beautiful and I am not one to gush about weddings) and I was chatting with another old friend of mine, complimenting each other's sundresses when her new husband pointed at my shawl and asked what was on it.

It is a printed green shawl, with images of Ganesha stamped on it and Sanskrit lettering* and I told him as much, with a smile until he pointed to the lettering and asked, "So, what does that mean?" Here his tone turned mocking as he continued, " 'Cows are God?' " He laughed a bit at that, I cannot remember what his wife did, nor can I picture what my expression was (I have this gift of conveying instant disgust or offense), but I did manage another, sweeter smile and corrected him on its meaning, while adding that Ganesha brings joy and good luck, perfect for a wedding.

And here I have to ask...why did he have to say that? What purpose was he trying to achieve by sounding ignorant at best and extremely rude at worst? After all, he had no idea why I was wearing it, he has no idea what my personal beliefs are. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised at him making assumptions about my religious identity-- everyone there is or was raised in a Protestant Christian household-- but why go the extra mile and sound so narrow-minded and chauvinistic? I would never make an insulting remark about another faith in mixed company, although hopefully I would refrain from being insulting in all occasions, but the glaring cultural insensitivity struck me. This is from a guy who is supposed to be a leader at his church? Yikes. Let me clarify, I wasn't personally offended, just kind of embarressed to be in a converastion with someone who approaches anything "other" with that kind of childish mentality.

I find this attitude running rampant through those tightly-knit communitites where any interest in what may lie outside of the established orthodoxy is viewed with suspicion, shock and disdain. It reminds me of another religiously-themed discussion that took a sudden detour into the judgmental and ignorant: I was talking to a friend's mother when I was 17 about the book I was reading (which happened to be the Dalai Lama's autobiography, "My Land, My People") and had barely noticed her look of discomfort as I was mentioning the architecture of this Buddhist temple that has been across the street from my childhood home from the last 20+ years. I wanted to discuss religious architecture in general and its influences and similarities and had literally said, "The inside of the temple gives off this feeling of..." when she cut me off with a snap response: "Evil!" I was not quite as composed at 17 as I am now (was anyone?) but I did manage to respond with, "Um...no. Not at all." I then quickly mentioned the high ceilings that are so common in religious architecture of all faiths to convey the transcedence and permeating presence of the ineffable before scuttling off to talk to a friend of mine.

So I guess...wtf people? Why the fear and intolerance?



*I was informed by a gentleman in Laguna Beach that the Sanskrit more or less meant "hare Krishna", which in turn is translated, in its full devotional form, to "O energy of God, O God (Krishna), please engage me in Your service". I do not claim to have bought this shawl specifically for the lettering beyond its aesthetics, but I think it's only fair to understand what I'm wearing in a cultural context. Plus, how much smarter do I appear when I can translate the Sanskrit on my wrap?

My knee hurts from standing too long at work. Or maybe because I'm starting to feel a little aged. Speaking of age, I finally figured out why I like all the technicolor dream prints at work laid over cheesy-ass tiger/leopard/zebra print...two words: Lisa. Frank.

My girls of the 90s will know what I'm talking about. (They'll also know these initials: JTT. How's that blast from your tween past for ya?) Lisa Frank and the orgy of ponies, dolphins, tigers and unicorns frolicking through an LSD-wonderland all over our trapper keepers (Damn, these references just keep rolling along, don't they?), pencils/pencil cases/erasers, and other lumps of pink sparkle plastic masquerading as school supplies.


(Isn't that dolphin picture amazing? What would the world be like if we contemplated that for a half hour a day? I'm up for hearing some suggestions!)


Um...are they pooping shards of rainbow?

In defense of fashion...Pt. 1

I love fashion the way many people (including myself) love sports: I follow designers and await their new collections the way fantasy league-ers track the draft and speculate trades. I know a lot of people are fond of turning up their noses at the idea of being a fashion "fan", triumphantly crowing about how superficial and vapid it all is, very similar to the way that pretentious douchebags proclaim that they don't watch T.V. when you ask if they saw the epic season finale of "Dexter". (A simple "no" would suffice. Dick.) Fashion is not just pretty clothes. Hell, sometimes they aren't even that pretty, but that's not exactly the point. Fashion is an art. No, seriously. Those insane, completely unwearable creations that are sent tottering down runways in Paris, Milan, New York and London? They are the product of a designer's imagination and inspiration, taking influence from the world around and the mind within, and made into a tangible reality. If that's not the definition of "art" I don't know what is. But fashion doesn't just end with the realization of an idea, from there it takes on an entirely new momentum in the billion-dollar industry that it fuels. Fashion is business, and serious business at that. Anyone who doesn't believe has two options they can choose: rent "The Devil Wears Prada" and watch the scene in which Meryl Streep (as the aforementioned devil, based on Vogue's Anna Wintour) quietly and effectively tears Anne Hathaway's character a new one when she attempts to giggle about the so-called silliness of the business in which she works. In a couple minutes, Streep makes it abundantly clear that fashion is not only a massive industry, but it seeps into our everyday lives in so subtle a way, even those uninterested in clothing are affected. It's brilliant, it's brutal, it's sexy.

(I say sexy because of what my boyfriend had to say upon seeing "The Devil Wears Prada" for the first time. Rather than sympathizing with Hathaway's friends and boyfriend who can't understand this absurd, frivolous industry [while expecting her to drop everything to come to whatever occupational-related events they have going on], he cheered for Streep, claiming that any man who thought she was a ball-buster or a bitch and would rather be with the compliant Hathway, was scared of powerful women and not much of a man in the first place. Have I mentioned how much I love him?)

The other film I recommend is "Valentino: The Last Emperor", which chronicles legendary designer Valentino's 45 years in the fashion industry and intimately profiles the designer as a soiree in his honor is being planned while the majority share of his company (and his name) is being bought out from under him. The amount of work that goes into a single dress is staggering, employing a wide array of people, all of whom are exceptionally skilled. It's easy to shrug at a pretty frock when all we see is the model wearing it, but the attention to detail and the meticulous design process are enough to make an engineer recognize a peer. Another point to consider is the sheer number of people employed by the fashion industry: Valentino's featured dress (singular) had at least ten seamstresses working on it personally, not to mention his advisors, accountants, personal assistants and the production team utilized for a fashion show. (stage designers, lighting designers, audio designers, the technical director, stage managers, roadies, etc.) To sneer at fashion as a trivial pursuit is to sneer at all of these people who put in countless hours of rarely-recognized work, and who are operating at the very pinnacle of their industry. How many people can say they are the epitome of what they do?

Coming up next, I will address the actual runway show itself, concentrating on "unwearable" fashions and the controversy of skinny models...