Tagged: Life

March 19, 2012

What’s Up with the Blog? – Part 1

You may have noticed that this blog has been updating Monday through Friday for awhile now, you may wonder about the sudden burst of content. I sort of wonder about it myself. Given that I don’t know what I’m doing, I do know my motivation, which all stems from a conversation I’ve been having with my amazing boyfriend Ben for several months now. As many of you may know, Ben is from Western Oregon, and he misses it terribly. As a born and bred Los Angeleno, I never thought I would want to live anywhere else. During the time I spent as a kid with my father and his family in Eastern Oregon (they’re really two different states), the time I spent in East LA County in high school, and the time I spent in college in Orange County (check out my blog about moving back to LA) I learned that I did not enjoy places that weren’t Los Angeles. I thought that it would never change, that I everything I wanted was in LA.

The beach is 15 minutes from my house, the mountains are 30 minutes. Within an hour, I can drive to any one of a number of amazingly beautiful or inspiring locations from the naturally occurring to the entirely man made. I can buy anything from any culture or lifestyle, at nearly any time of night or day. Los Angeles is amazing, it really is. It will always be my first home and it will always have a special place in my heart. But as much amazing stuff is everywhere around me, I don’t see it. I don’t experience it or enjoy it.

I don’t go to the beach on certain days or holidays because it’s a nightmare. A 6 mile drive that normally takes 15 minutes turns into a half an hour of lurching the car forward amid a mass of weekend beach goers. Trying to find parking is a chore that you usually have to pay for the privilege of doing, and any restaurant has a wait of 30 minutes. Once you get to the ocean, there’s trash and people everywhere, and when you decide to go home you have an hour of frustrating walk back to the car, fighting traffic back home before you’re back at your house. The same goes for any destination in Los Angeles. Everything costs money, and if there’s even a little traffic you double your commute time.

The work of driving through traffic an hour to work and an hour back every day leaves me drained. I usually insist that Ben drive us everywhere over the weekends, because I have become a person who doesn’t like to drive.

When I was a baby, the car used to put me to sleep. I went on countless road trips with my dad and my grandma growing up and they are happy memories for me. I feel an attachment to my car, I used to love being in the car, but that has changed. I get angry when I’m in the car now, even if it’s a weekend and I have nowhere to be. I’m constantly listening to audiobooks and podcasts to keep myself distracted from the traffic all around me.

I’m starting to think that, even though it’s the perfect geographic location, LA is not my cultural home. The traffic, the noise and the crowds meet with the Hollywood influence, and the weirdly glad-handing social practices to create the perfect douche bag factory. My priorities in life are not to make money, or achieve status, which is good, because I don’t have either. But in this environment, I feel like I’m not able to take time for the things I do find important: my friends, my chosen family and myself. It’s difficult to exercise when every work out has another 30 minutes tacked on for commute. It’s hard to see my friends when they are all an hour drive in traffic away, or even the closer ones don’t see me because I am too tired from driving all week or all day. It’s hard to just walk outside when my neighborhood, while filled with good, hard working people, is not a pretty sight.

We can’t afford to move someplace nicer without endangering our safety (there are some really nice houses in gang territory) or lengthening at least one of our commutes (most likely mine, which is already long). If either of us made any less money we wouldn’t be able to afford our lives, it’s only this year that Ben and I have manged to collect any semblance of savings. And our luxury items tend to run towards organic foods rather than expensive toys, although we both do have tablets, we’re working on old computers and wearing Target or Thrift Store clothes.

We’re both working like dogs, and for the most part, we both enjoy our jobs. We have great co-workers, work on fun projects that we enjoy and learn from, and are relatively respected in our offices and in our respective niches of the industries we work in. But is that enough? This is the conversation we’ve been having the last few months. When you work your butt off Monday through Friday, frequently working extra hours or on the weekend, and you don’t get paid very much and at least you enjoy what you do, but it leaves you unable to enjoy your life outside of work, is that enough?

Maybe if every work day wasn’t lengthened by two hours of mind-numbing traffic, and maybe if every time we wanted to go anywhere we didn’t have to get in the car and drive out of the ghetto to do so, I could say yes. But the conclusion I’ve come to over the last several months is that it’s not. Not for the long term.

March 9, 2012

How To Be Better Than Your Parents in Three Easy Steps

First off, try to have crappy parents. When your parents are shit, the sky’s the limit. If your mother’s currently serving life in prison for murdering your father because she was a regular hooker and he was a tranny hooker trying to steal her John, and you’ve managed to hold a job as a Chevron attendant for six whole months then you’re a genius! But for the rest of us who only have moderately bad to actually good parents, a higher bar is set.

First off, let me clarify: There are certain things ones parents will always exceed at. My mother, for example, is very good at being a heroin addict. One could say it is her calling. I’m not after her heroin glory. I do, however want to learn from her mistakes. In my experience, that’s just three easy steps away.

The fist step is to figure out where your parents are lacking that coincides with where you want to succeed. All of us, even those of us with wonderful parents can look at them and see what they could do but don’t. My father is a wonderful storyteller, a creative and charming man. As much as he fantasizes about it, he has never been able to make money from his writing. I would like to succeed where he has (thus far) failed.

The second step is to get outside help. If you parent’s don’t know how to do something, and they taught you how to be a person, chances are you don’t know how to do it either. This can mean different things based on what your goals are, but chances are, if no one in your family understands what you’re doing (in therapy, at school, in an internship) but your friends do, you’re on the right track. Be warned, the “my parents don’t understand me but my friends do” defense only works if you’re not a teenager, not a bad person, and not doing bad things.

The third step is to never give up, but to know when to quit. I know, it’s so cryptic, but what did you expect with three easy steps?! Nobody gets it right the first try. Say you’ve always wanted to be musical, unlike your tone-deaf parents who think KISS stands for “Knights in Satan’s Service,” and that it’s a bad thing. After 2 months of guitar lessons, you’re no closer to shredding, your fingers hurt and the downstairs neighbor keeps pounding on the ceiling with a broom. Well, have you considered quitting the guitar in favor of the ukulele? It has less strings, and makes less noise. Also, it’s easy to carry. Not a hipster, and not interested in becoming one? There are literally thousands of other instruments at your disposal, the world is your oyster.

If you want to do better than your parents did, get out of your comfort zone. Try new things, go new places. Experience life. Take all the good things they taught you and add your own gems to the mix. Don’t do it for your kids (you might not have any) or your parents (they might not care.) Do it for yourself as a human. You were made to be awesome, so be awesome!

August 20, 2010

Twitter Tells Me To – Aug. 20, 2010

ThereminJelly: @Marinaisgo A blog post arguing about why a complete homosexual re-branding of Batman would be a good thing.

Oh. My. God. Besides being my very own pre-teen wet dream come to life before my eyes?!

Not only have I pretty much always wanted to be Batman, I’ve pretty much always wanted to fuck Batman. And if I could have fucked Batman as Batman, my little heart would have exploded right out of my big gay, gray unitarded bat-chest.

I’m probably not the only person to admit that some of my first homoerotic fantasies starred Adam West and Burt Ward. I know there are a whole bunch of us out there, who sat on the living room floor, tensions mounting as the dynamic duo struggled-seemingly in vain-tied to a giant penny, or a giant gramophone, or a giant wrecking ball, only to break free at the last moment and somersault to safety. How many times can a man and another, younger man be tied to each other and also to a giant thing before dramatic tension turns to sexual tension, and the rush of freedom also brings the rush of love, of passion? For me, it was about three times.

But enough about why I like to be tied to giant things while wearing a tool belt.

A gay redesign of Batman is exactly what this country needs. DC threw us a homo-bone when they made Batwoman a dyke (like she wasn’t already, amirightoramiright?) but they were just trying to draw the gay rumors away from their moneymaker Bruce. Let’s be honest, every real batfan knows that their man Bruce Wayne is a fruit. An ass-kicking, super-smart, millionaire playboy nightmare fruit. And the sooner Batman comes clean, the sooner. all of my childhood dreams can come true.

——–

Mr_Bithead: @Marinaisgo I’ve been trying to switch careers to something I’m more passionate about.. Write about something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t, and why (not).

There are so many things! This deserves a bulleted list.

Move far away by myself (So far as as adult, I haven’t had the opportunity to move far away or be by myself, and my life here with Ben is so consistently awesome, why would I want to force that eventuality?)
Successfully start and run my own business. (I actually have had a few little ventures of my own, and I guess they were successful in that they never cost me more than they made, but they were little more than lucrative hobbies. I’d like something more substantial.)
Write a Book (I love to write, I’ve been told I’m good at it, but I don’t have enough drive or focus for a long-form project at this point. Plus, I’m afraid of the inevitable rejection, also the editing process.)

There’s other things, but those are the top 3 at the moment. The thing is, I’m very happy with my life right now. Even when I become frustrated with it, I know it’s not time to make any major changes. In my experience things change dramatically all by themselves, when it’s least expected. I always strive for my general goals of health, happiness and comfort, but other than that, life is exciting enough.

——–

Pengui: @Marinaisgo Is religion is a dangerous thing or do you think it serves a real purpose?

Both. I’d be hard pressed to think of a single person who doesn’t require some manifestation of the concept of infinity in order to keep themselves sane. Organized religion can be a backbone for people who need one. Just think of what Dr. King was able to accomplish with religion backing him up. I wouldn’t take that away from anyone. People don’t need religion to fuck with each other. If they didn’t have it, they’d just find something else.

July 11, 2010

7.11.2010 Update

I haven’t been very happy with any of my artwork or writing lately. I start things and never finish them, every word or brush stroke after the first is another brick in the wall of it’s shitiness. In terms of writing, I’ve made things in the past that I appreciated, even feel proud of. Artwork for me is never good. My burned out artist grandparents echo in my head with every sketch I start. It’s never good enough, it’s never original enough, or well composed or executed. But I must be a glutton for punishment because I keep on trying to make something, anything that I don’t instantly want to rip in half.

I got in a car accident a couple of weeks ago, totaled my car. Aside from a few bruises and a cool-looking chemical burn from the air bag, I’m fine but I’ve been up and down ever since. I got a new car, and a new car payment. The new car is awesome, but the payment’s a burden I didn’t expect to have. I can afford it, but I’ll have to be a lot more strict about my budget, which I haven’t been for the last few months. My friend told me that feeling depressed like this is normal after an accident. It makes sense–I mean, I lost my car, endangered my life and cost myself a ton of money. But I’m still frustrated. The first week after the accident, I was actually felling better than I had in months. I was so grateful I was okay, so happy that it happened on the freeway on-ramp and not on the freeway it’s self and that I was the car with the most damage because I couldn’t have lived with myself if someone had been hurt. The second week I spent panicky and angry about money, about the inconvenience, worrying about the car payment. No matter how many times I added up my budget, and saw that I was fine, I just couldn’t let go of the nagging idea I was fucked–totally, incontrovertibly fucked. It didn’t help that right when I decided that I would be fine, that I had enough food in the fridge to keep the grocery bill low and make up for the money I spent in the weeks following the accident, my fridge broke and all the food spoiled. It was almost cosmic. Of course, I was still fine, even with all the food spoiled. I just bought more, it’s only money. As uptight as I am about it, you’d think I was about to die.

I spent so many years feeling like I was living on some sort of edge, financially, emotionally, physically. The irony is ridiculous. I worked my ass off to be somewhat sane and stable, and when I find out that my life is actually sane and stable, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

March 26, 2009

I am Not a Swiss Cheese Person

So… this is about to get really lame. Stop reading if you’re tired of hearing about my stupid momma drama. I’m hoping that this won’t just be another of the millions of poor me, I cut my self and the sadness pours out of me, LJ-style pity-fests, so here goes nothing.

Monday my mom called me, and if you know me, you know that I haven’t really talked with her since May of 07. After years of trying to be a good daughter and have loving compassion for her as a child of god despite her pill addiction and various other crippling, untreated personality disorders I decided that the only way to be a good daughter to her while still preserving my self respect was to take a break from her. Well, she never really understood the meaning of the word “no,” so she continues to call me every so often, much to my distress. While this will probably sound crazy to all you normal people out there, it makes very specific sense to me and probably will to you if you are lucky enough to have a chronically lying, manipulative addict for a mother like myself (and if you do, God bless you and thank you for not shooting yourself in the head).

Anyway, I recently moved from Anaheim (see Seven Years with Good Rent) to Hawthorne-surprisingly without a rent raise BTW-to be closer to work. I chose not to tell her I was moving, and not to tell her when I moved and not to give her my new address. Not so much because I mind her having these things, but really because I still don’t want to talk to her, and I see no need for her to have this information. So much for that.

So on Monday, I get a message from her that her crazy money hungry grifter of a fake Hindu holy man is coming to Hawthorne “I believe that’s the town you moved to” and would I like to come listen to this wack-job promise me eternal whatever the fuck I want for the low low price of $500 + every paycheck I’ll earn after he ropes me in + my estate after I die, especially if I am rich and old. Every normal person who’s reading this is probably just thinking ‘she’s in a cult, it’s what they do.’ First, let me just say: aren’t cult leaders supposed to discourage their members from family contact? The one good thing about my mother being in a cult is that this fuck could keep her locked up in his fake ashram and far away from me. I’ll bet he knows she’s insane and has her calling me in the hopes that I’ll hire a team of anti-cult activists in a van to kidnap her and take her off his hands. No deal swami gimmi monie, no fucking deal at all.

Back to the facts. The facts which are this: The only important part of that message is the part where she lets me know that she knows what city I live in despite the fact that I did not tell her this thing. Remember when I said that I really don’t mind her having my address? I kind of don’t, but now I actually do, because she can’t just have my address and take solace in the fact that someone in this family is still dumb enough to communicate with her tongue chewing, toxic, carcass (Grandma, I’m looking at you-you’re a sweet old lady, but you’re letting the wolf in). She has to call me and lie through her teeth about something which she knows I care nothing for, all the while trusting that her secret mom-code will worm it’s way out of the phone speaker and into my brain like a fungus of anger and guilt. It totally worked.

So now I’m obsessed with the concept of her baffling ability to get under my skin a full year and a half after I decided that the door was closed, that the deal was done, and that she wasn’t allowed inside my fucking head again. She’s back like a cockroach, shitting and reproducing behind the stove of my subconscious, eating away at my mental property value shit by shit. Why do I do this?! Why is it that I absolutely lack the ability to be corporeal when faced with the succubus that is my mother and she’s not even here?

A co-worker had to point out to me that I didn’t have to listen to her voicemail. To be honest, it never occurred to me not to. Here I just opened the door and said “please do come in, vampire queen, tear my heart out and eat it, shit it out and jam it back into my gaping, bloody chest wound. Can I take your coat?” What is so important that this woman has to say to me that I can’t hear it from somebody else faster and more accurately?

I don’t know what’s worse, the idea that this is the relationship that I get to have with my mother who used to be a real person, and not this cliche sack of nastiness, or the fact that I’ve done this to myself. I hold the only key into my mind and heart and I give it to her every fucking time. I don’t have to listen to a word she has to say. If there is anyone alive in this world who has lost the ability to command my attention, it should be her, and yet, I waste my time thinking about her intent, her process, her cruel and selfish actions. Why do I do it, why do I open the door like this? I guess I really have to know that every time she’s going to fuck with my head, I have to test the oven to see if it’s still hot, every single time.

The good thing that comes out of this for me is that next time I’ll be less likely to listen to the message, and the next time I’ll be even less likely than that. I think I just have to know a thing a hundred percent. I have to be sure that the mom that I knew from when she was sober; the good, loving woman that I trusted and cared about, who I learned from and looked to for guidance and comfort is completely dead. And no matter if I answer the phone or don’t, if I listen to a thousand messages from her or I never hear from her again, that trust is broken. I guess sometimes it’s better for me to check the message, just to be sure than to never check the message and think that I could have seen the person I loved again, if only for a little bit. But the truth is that there’s no romantic come-back. There were only 9 years of her life where she wasn’t a miserable cunt and just because I was there for them doesn’t mean anything now. I have a life that I cherish, that I built from practically nothing, and I can’t let the shadow of her addiction, of her depression and desperation cast itself over what I’ve worked so hard to carve out for myself in an otherwise dark and uncaring world. It’s sad that she’s such a mess, but I can’t fall apart because of it

If you managed to slog through all that I hope it was entertaining enough. I tried to make it at least a little bit funny in the middle even if it got pretty sad at the end.

February 7, 2009

It’s Like the Giving Tree, Only Not Stupid

I’ve just been thinking about the arboreal nature of human development.

Have you ever met a person who was like a seed, and every once in awhile you have the opportunity to see how they’ve grown, and you remember them as a seed? It’s baffling.

Seeds are so amazing, they have all this knowledge, height, time, and energy packed into this tiny little space. They’re like reverse atom bombs, waiting to burst out with life in every direction.

As you can probably tell, I’m feeling sentimental, looking outward at the world, visiting trees I have no business standing under, imagining. And before you get all worked up, I’m not talking about you, or me, or anyone who will ever read this. But at the same time I am talking about all of us. I do this thing where I forget that the angle at which I look at others is so much more obtuse than the angle at which I look at myself. It’s like standing in the driveway of someone else’s house and comparing it to my own house, which I know inside and out.

And I don’t want to live in a nineteenth century Victorian, and I don’t want white carpets or a TV that takes up an entire wall, but it looks so good through someone else’s window that I forget how much I like my house, where everything inside of it is mine, bought and paid for. Is there a way that I can make this house metaphor more painful?

Sometimes I have to check in and make sure that this is where I really want to be, because it seems so tame to me. But I think I spent enough time in a chaotic state of uncertainty, at least for now. All I want is my dinner, my boyfriend and my bed…. and the various other electronics, clothes, pets, knick knacks and media that we’ve managed to amass.

Alright, goodnight.

December 10, 2008

You Down With O.P.P?

No.

I’m not even down with the idea that P can belong to OP, that is P that are O than the person the aforementioned P is actually attached to and a part of.

But that’s just one woman’s opinion.

Anyway, I’ve been spending time on the Facebooks lately, and I’ve been looking at the facebook pages of some old high school friends with that Dust In the Wind song by Kansas playing inside my head a little bit. Not sure why. Maybe because it’s Christmas and I’m still not speaking with my mother. Maybe it’s because my 5 year anniversary just passed with Ben.

All I know is that the scary fake and contemporary family style togetherness featured in mainstream media around this time of year just makes me angry. But that’s juxtaposed with the fact that this Christmas will be spent up in Oregon–possibly in the snow–with Ben’s perfect nuclear family. Sooo I’m going to be smack in the middle of the Christmas I always wanted… when I was 7. But instead of being the happy 7 year old I always wanted to be in the middle of a Christmas with Mom, Dad, Siblings, Snow in A Quaint Two Story Cottage House, I’ll be playing the part of Freaky LA Slut Who Is Fucking Your Son! What’s not to love really?

All I know is that there’s definitely some anxiety there. Primarily about Christmas in general and about how emotional and weird it can get without even trying. Secondly, I always have anxiety around Ben’s adorable parents and their perfect family. I don’t know thing one about positive and healthy family relations, especially in this type of situation (and by this type I mean the one where you birth a child, raise him right, send him off into the world only to find that he’s decided not to bring home a normal girl, and insists on bringing me instead). Is it too much to ask that December and it’s corresponding stressful family togetherness holidays be wiped off the map of our lives and memories? I guess that would be mean to people who’s family’s don’t suck.

I encourage you to click on the links. I tried to make them not only informative, but amusing as well.