The Misuse of Information for My Own Entertainment or Lying for Fun

My high school pals wanna go to a reunion. It's not really ours, but the class that graduated a year before us has invited us to come. We went to a rather unconventional school, so it's at someone's home. Chrystal was in the actual class - a year ahead of me - so of course she wants me to go. But it is a bit odd going to your not-quite reunion. It's like foreplay, but not exactly the real thing. Or maybe watching someone else do it? And the people you really loathed, or lusted after, because that's kind of at the heart of it, right? Well they may or may not be there. The real draw is probably the people who rouse one's curiosity: the dork who's a millionaire; the cool guy who's definitely not; the one you got it on with and then regretted it every day thereafter.

I'd like to be one of those people who's just friendly to everyone, and I am pretty friendly. I say hello to people as they stroll by. But overly-friendly truly sours my stomach. The smile a bit too long, the sustained interest in my kids, etc. So why would I even consider going? I think it's because of the friends from my class who I am so happy to be getting re-acquainted with. Charlotte, for example, was always full of information, a walking trivia bank, and also hilarious. Roberta lives quite closeby, and has managed to stay in touch with a remarkable number of people from our school. She was The Babe, and The Intelligent Babe, with an aura about her so strong that even as a close friend I only discovered recently some very basic information about her. I had assumed her life was perfect in every way. Let's just say I may not have been quite as clever as I obviously am now.

Pondering my quandary about the reunion - since Chrystal does want me to go, and Charlotte is campaigning as well, I spoke to another friend from Chrystal's class. He's a way cool California guy, much sweeter than I'll ever be, but in touch with his sense of humor. I had decided at that time that creating a monumental lie would be the best way to enjoy myself. I sometimes entertain myself by creating such projects in public places - one of my favorites was when I suddenly began yelling at an older friend- "Mom! I don't want that!" in the supermarket. Ooh, that was evil. My sister-in-law, Betty, has suffered on the subway platform as I've hollered at her in a Southern accent, creating kooky names like, well, Betty. I have a local friend who partners up whenever we meet anywhere, and we've had some great public disputes.

Anyway, the idea that my cool California chum, Barney, had, was to feign Tourrette's Syndrome. We went to a progressive school and it was, and apparently is, important to be politically correct. As someone who actually is p.c. in many ways, I enjoy making fun of myself. (How's that for a rationale?) Anyway, feigning Tourrette's has a double purpose: you can say whatever you want about the pretentious bitch who you never liked and you can garner sympathy from old classmates as you apologize excessively for the expletives hurled at the she-devil who hasn't changed a bit. (She doesn't deserve a name, but I'll call her Voldemort, just for clarity.) This would be particularly effective because I actually did have a mild form of epilepsy when I was a teenager. Finally, all that shaking and stuttering could be put to good use.

I am not sure that Roberta, Charlotte, Chrystal et al would actually go for my ploy, as they may want to do the friendly thing. How cliche. But of course they are accomplished professionals and, well, I'm a professional, but I am not in the mood to discuss anything like the work I do, how cute my children are (I hate that crap), or what anyone else thinks about anything. However, if someone wants to sit around, drink, and tell tasteless and offensive stories with swear-words - that I might go for.

My Friends Are Not Dentists

Going to the dentist sucks. Going to the dentist is fucking torture at seven a.m. What was I thinking? While I was waiting, Jude and Rugelah tipped over and back in their seats, eyeballs dipping to the floor, shoulders sagging in grave disappointment. Their mother was the conduit between life and early morning misery. In an effort to repress my guilt, I scanned a magazine casually. I came across a questionnaire for bipolar disorder. Another opportunity for self-diagnosis - oh boy! Then I realized, as I sucked in the faint detergent smell of a "clean" office, that I almost fit the bill, and that I had blogged about it. So for the three of you our there reading this, including my dog, I am not thinking I can jump off buildings, I am not arguing with people over nothing, and I am not calling friends in the middle of the night with ideas about new inventions. I am not manic, but it definitely sounds worthy of a short story, or at least a wacky dream.

However, last night I went with Beccato see Friends with Money, and there was a character who seemed to be heading toward a froth, perhaps even a manic episode. No more revealed, but I do love a humane portrayal of people who are fucked up. The movie was excellent because it actually built a plot on complex relationships between people with varied personalities and sensibilities, the most compelling of which was portrayed by Jennifer Aniston! Now this is a new discovery. I hereby renounce my former 'what's-the-big-deal' attitude about this actress. She was the topic, and she almost stole the show from her formidable colleagues: Frances MacDormand (love her), Joan Cusack (loved her for years), and Catherine Keener (just discovered her and love her).

This is what I noticed second about Ms. Aniston, after her facial expressions: the texture of her skin. She looked very beautiful, and one could see her actual skin, as if she was more human than her friends somehow. I'd only seen her prettied up, but in the film, she was vivid. I was with Becca, as noted above, and it was a bit hard not to reflect on the movie in contrast to our lives. I will leave the more personal reflection for another place, but it is notable when one can forget a parking stub, lose the parking stub, find the parking stub as friend gets dough from ATM, and end up being treated to french fries and martini as a result. That's what happens when you have friends with money.

Five hours later, in the dentist's chair, the lovely hygeinist, Smiling Torture Lady, is brushing my teeth with a little brush that feels like dry cotton on dry teeth and it makes me wanna shout "pleh pleh pleh" or maybe "get that outta my mouth, bitch," to the otherwise perfectly pleasant woman. I cannot abide weird sensations in my mouth. Foods of all sorts, yes. Other sexually-related items, of course. Furry little brushes with chemical tastes - no no no no. I am still salivating in disgust as I write this.

So I had a very pleasant experience last night and an extremely unpleasant one this morning. Dentists are an odd lot: sadistic, particular, and oddly enthralled by the crap in my mouth. Friends, in contrast, tell you if there's food in your teeth, but give you the freedom to take it out yourself. They rarely cause pain to shoot through one's jaw, and in this particular case, one may even provide an anesthetic, a carb, and ketchup, all free of charge. New diagnosis: martinic. Definition: a state in which a previously depressed person, after sucking the pimento out of an olive, realizes that, despite the fries and the good company, she has 4 goddamn hours to sleep before Torture Lady will create dire oral pain. May cause ingestion of additional martini.

Hither and Thither in The Springtime

Omigosh I haven't posted in so long and ya wanna know why? It's spring out there, the crocuses are up and so are the daffodils, along with my caffeine consumption, I'm applying for jobs hither and thither, and I have been a wee bit depressed. But see my depressed is far more exciting than your depressed. It's because of the cycles. After a bit of depressed, I become like obsessed, and kinda happy, and I listen to loud music, pluck my eyebrows, and sort through old jewelry. Also, I am excellent at creating a pseudo-healthy dinner out of virtually nothing. If you have frozen peas and frozen tortellinis it actually becomes something, especially if you give them milk, too. Not the peas and tortellinis - the kids. Now I get a footnote in The Good Mother Book. Woo-hoo, a good day's work. Then, regarding my other depression cycle skills, I can also speed-talk on the phone, or speed-listen. What's speed-listening? That's talking to Chrystal. She and I are quite alike except that she doesn't obsess sometimes; she does it non-stop. She apologizes all the way through, and then I listen, truly, to the whole monologue. My own kid, Rugelah, also does the monologue, but she is describing the building or the idea she has imagined in all its intricacies and if I am to get into the Good Mother Book for real (a heading, maybe) I am compelled to listen. Her ideas are rather exciting at times, so it's an easy one. Oops - I gotta go now because I am bound to call my neighbor about the fact that some of the rich people where I live wanna tear down lots of regular people trees near the regular people neighborhood so they can save the rich people trees. Can ya see how busy a gal can get? Depression is rough, especially when you use caffeine as your medication of choice.

Becoming George

A lotta gals appear to be reading my blog which is lovely and feministic but it does change one's perspective when it is not just the three friends, the cousin, and the dog. My friend Paloma and I rented Thelma and Louise from blockbuster aka Ovary-buster. The DVD was cracked. I had planned the entire evening: invited myself over, made the margueritas, and Paloma provided food on which to gorge. And then we were Blockbustered.

We watched old Seinfeld episodes instead. I had never seen the episode in which George plays the opposite game and becomes successful, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus becomes... George! Ack! It got me to thinking, as all good t.v. shows do - that maybe I, too, am turning into George. I am about to quit my job before I get booted, my excellent haircut is growing out and I look like a troll, and, and, I walked into a pole the other day and I have a huge bruise on my nose. Yes, I did. I was chatting up a curriculum director, all professional, and as I turned to go, a pole rammed me in the face. Did I mention that I need new glasses? I went to a work-sponsored health fair that was, strangely, required, and discovered that I'm hypoglycemic, sun-damaged, and I need bifocals. That answers a few burning questions you may not have had about me, and questions even I did not have about me, but at least now I know why it's so hard to read a bedtime story aloud to Rugelah lately. Plus my own reading had taken a sudden nose-dive: a few pages, burning eyes, and I'd realize that my concentration was shot. I had no idea that when the letters do little polkas on the page that perhaps one needs to visit the eye doctor.

Anyhoo, back to the premise, if there was one, I may be George. Problem is, he is a television character. Worse, he ended up doing Kentucky-Fried commercials that were so bad I was embarrassed for him. KFC makes me throw up - always has. Even as a tyke, I'd eat that hearty meal and hurl it back within the half-hour. McDonald's, yes. Burger King, yes. Four Donuts Sunday morning, sure. No KFC. You can imagine my conundrum. I am turning into a big fat hairy loser, to use my sister, Kitty's expression, yet I am unable to fully embrace even that role. Over the weekend I discovered that the job I really want has 6 - count em in any language, including pig fucking latin - 6 "strong final applicants." That's way too fucking many experienced solid people and one of them is, bizarrely, me. Aw, cut the 'another woman dragging herself down' crap. I know where my strengths lie. And at this point, well, reminiscing about puking works for me.

Aw, crap, I gotta go get ready for my militaristic yoga teacher. She gets pissed if I'm late.