I Have No Ideas and Nothing Interesting To Say

This title is from one of my favorite lines from Annie Hall, when Alvy asks this couple on the street how it is they seem like such a happy couple. And the girl replies, “Uh, I’m very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.” And her handsome beauhunk echoes her, “And I’m exactly the same way.”

Apparently, that strategy is working out for me, too.

I had a few ideas about what I might write about today, all of which I rejected as ridiculous or worse — BORING. The rejects:

1. Why I love that headbands are back in. Thank you, Savior of Bad Hair Days. Or, more apt, Enabler of Not Showering.


2. How law school has turned me into some kind of Inquisitioner. I may actually explain my theory about this later.


3. What I did this weekend. Namely, almost nothing. I was vaguely sick and precisely grumpy.


4. Why I think it’s messed up that there is a new TV show called “Miracle Workers.” Should EVERYONE be entitled to that level of care, not just those featured on TV?


5. My nuanced, ever-evolving feelings about “The Bachelor.” A decidedly un-nuanced, dead-end show.

Anyway. Paris is THREE WEEKS AWAY. And I have not begun to outline for finals, and I have four in a row, three closed book. And I have not yet re-mastered French. And my mother has called me every three days for the last two weeks to find out if I’ve mailed her a copy of my keys yet (I haven’t; I am horrible). Because, my mother? The kind of woman that drives 8 hours down to stay in my cramped little apartment for four days to take care of her (as she calls them) “grand-kitties.” I can just picture them (Mom, Fred, Ethel) all snockered out on my couch at four in the afternoon every day while I’m gone.

All I can hope is that Fred contains his 4 a.m. toe-biting and stomach-pouncing while I’m gone.

See? I told you. No ideas, nothing interesting to say.

C’est la vie.

Un-Easy Chair

So on my recent date, I accidentally admitted I had interned at NOW for a semester during undergrad. I say accidentally because this is usually something I save for oh, say, date 12 to reveal. I think I also revealed that I knit, but I am saving the two cats for dates 5 or 6, if they come.

Not because I am ashamed of any of these things, but hello?! I may have ideals but I am also a realist and I know the first thing a man wonders when he hears you’re a feminist is whether you shave your ‘pits (answer: yes, for the sensory comfort of all around me).

Anyhoo, I also admitted on this date that one of my favorite hip-hop songs is “Ain’t No Fun (If the Homeys Can’t Have None).” Which. Seriously? ONE OF THE MOST MISOGYNIST SONGS EVER. But SOOO fun to dance to. Urs, you know you freaked to this one with me during some Market St. party, yes?

And my date wondered how the hell I reconciled the two and you know? I have no idea.

But this did get me thinking about how far from or close to my feminist roots I remain.

So (of course!) I made a chart.

And also, I thought of my mother. Who was a card-carrying member of NOW for years, and who was the only woman in Tennessee in the early 1970s that my dad had met who lived on her own, and had two pets, and thought for herself. And who, when I left for New York, as (finally) A WOMAN, gave me a cashmere sweater and pearl necklace and earrings. Which is what Every (Good) Woman Needs.

So. I didn’t come up with any grand realizations about how much of a feminist I am. I try. I hope I’m not an armchair feminist. Sometimes I may take a seat, sit down on the job, it’s true. But sometimes I get up to send $100 to NARAL, or refuse to date anyone who watches porn, or tell someone I’m not his fucking vessel.

For now, that’s as much as I can do, and definitly NOT as easy as it seems. ‘Cuz it ain’t no fun, if the ladies don’t have none. Respect, that is. And a comfortable place to sit and paint our nails.

You Wanna Tussle?

OK, I love Patrick “Dr. McDreamy” as much as the next heterosexual female with a pulse. Loved him since Can’t Buy Me Love and his adorable African anteater ritual dance.

But you know who else is slowly overtaking him in the Grey’s Anatomy race for my heart? No, not Dr. McSteamy, even though HE IS HOT and I hope he and Addison have a nice life together. Nay. It’s Dr. “McFree-me-from-my-panties” Preston Burke. Because you know, if you saw the last episode, HE IS PRESTON BURKE.

And you know what? I saw him today! Apparently Grey’s must be filming on campus, and there he was, driving his silver Audi A8 out of the UCLA garage and really, there was one coarse phrase I could use to describe my reaction which may involve some relation to tapioca and undies but I am not that kind of girl (although props to you if you know the phrase of which I speak, you harlot!).

No, all I will say is that yes, Isaiah, yes I wanna tussle with you.

Those in Glass Houses…

So tonight I was (what else? I am SICK) watching The Bachelor: The Women Tell All, and smugly thinking about how much better BEHAVED I would be if I were on national television. I mean, were these women all raised in a barn? And I realize that “were you raised in a barn?” is usually what (my) parents say when you leave the door open, but somehow to me the phrase has come to represent a reprimand for all the other things I was not supposed to do in life, like:

a) Leave the lights on when I’m not in the room.
b) Forget to thank someone for, oh, ANYTHING.
c) Be racist.
d) Be catty.
e) Talk with my mouth full.

So anyway, I was sitting there, smug as a bug in a rug, like, I would totally not talk smack about my housemates, or about my eggs rotting, or try to steal a man away from others.

And you know what? I would. Or rather, I have. I have talked smack about my housemates. I have freaked out about my reproductive health. I have (twice) kissed the boyfriend of another (to be fair, one of those times was only after she had slept with my boyfriend less than EIGHT HOURS after I had slept with him for the first time).

So I am not going to throw stones.

Instead, I am really going to try to remember the words of Sri Sarada Devi:

I tell you one thing – if you want peace of mind, do not find fault with others. Rather learn to see your own faults. Learn to make the whole world your own. No one is a stranger, my child; this whole world is your own.

Because what’s cooler than that no one is a stranger? It certainly makes this odd innernets thing we do that much more warm. And also explains why every time I post something about myself I think is weird, or silly, or overkill (like my recent date preparation), someone else has done the same damn thing.

So we all live in glass houses? At least we don’t live in barns!

Sir, Yes, Sir!

I don’t know if it’s the Capricorn in me. Or the first-born. Or what.

But I tell you, I prepare for a first date like I do an interview. I research. I consult (to the chagrin of all my friends and loved ones, I’m sure). I train:

Three or four outfits ready?

“Sir, yes, sir!”

All unwanted hair plucked, depilatorized or bleached?

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Teeth whitened?

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Friends consulted 29 times re: said outfits?

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Sit-ups complete, callanetics exercises done?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Toenails and fingernails freshly buffed, painted and clipped?

“Sir, yes, sir!”

I don’t know why I put myself through this. It’s not like if my third fingernail is cut square while the rest are cut round I’ll be on KP duty for a week. Or, you know, I don’t THINK a girl has ever been passed up for a second date for such a transgression.

Wait.

I do know why I do this.

It’s because it’s FUN. An agonizing, I’m in love with my AP chemistry lab partner so I have to pretend like I can’t figure out how to work the bunsen burner so he can rescue me and I can giggle (can you EVEN BELIEVE I AM A FEMINIST? Egads!) kind of fun. But fun nonetheless.

So I’m not going to tell you how my date goes probably. Unless it’s so atrocious I’ll never see him again. Or unless, eventually, it goes so well I have to tell you.

But in the meantime, I’ll be reacquainting myself with this thing called SHOWERING. And plucking my eyebrows. And buying more clothes I can’t afford.

IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL FUN, PRIVATE?

“Sir, yes, sir!”

p.s. Gwen found the funniest thing ever.

In Which iBattle Some Pink Robots

Today was my first foray into listening to my iPod while walking. I’m not sure that it won’t be my last.

So I was walking along to campus thinking really ridiculous thoughts like, “Wow, groovy, it’s like I am floating through my own dimension of space and time (I was listening to The Flaming Lips, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots).”

And, “I am an island.”

And, “It’s like I am the only one on the earth.”

And, “Wait! Why aren’t I seeing any other people?!”

And I totally freaked out for about 30 seconds until finally a maintenance truck rolled on by and I knew that using my iPod while walking hadn’t started a chain reaction that had unravelled the very fabric of the space-time continuum and destroyed everyone in the universe but me.

Whew!

But I don’t know if I’m willing to chance it again.

Ah, Sweet, Sweet Indifference

I might be more inclined to be grumpy about Valentine’s Day being today if all the bizarre, misshapen heart jewelry they’re hawking on TV this year weren’t SO DAMN UGLY.

A Few Notes

1. SPOILER ALERT for TiVo-ers of Grey’s Anatomy — I can’t believe they blew up the bomb squad dude. I was really hoping he and Meredith could have some hot post-trauma sex a la Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock in Speed that would drive Dr. McDreamy mad and prod him into leaving Addison.

2. I got so excited about the thought of actually making money this summer that I recklessly bought an iPod (iLove you, iPod!) and new shoes. The shoes in a shopping trip with Penny in which she bought a new Marc Jacobs purse. Who is jealous? Me! Me!

Why did I buy myself espadrilles in February you might ask? Because it is practically 90 degrees here! Who is jealous? You! You!

3. I am still sore from Tae Bo on Saturday. Guess who helped lead our session? Magic Johnson! It was so weird to see him up there doing knee raises to the beat. He is HUGE.

4. On Saturday, Laurie, Amber, Gloria and I got together over at Laurie’s to watch French movies and drink French wine and eat French cheese in preparation for our Paris trip.

Movies watched: 0.

Conversation topics covered: Oh, thousands. Including but not limited to: NAFTA, avian flu, boys, earthquake plans, the anti-inflammation diet, the alternative minimum tax, boys, next’s year’s Christmas vacation plans, currency valuation, exes, and omega 3s.

Read Laurie’s account of our night here.
Read Gloria’s account of making the Glorious madeleines she brought here.

Bodes well for our trip, oui?

Bang for Your Buck

I know I complained about dating yesterday. But I am a girl, and girls are entitled to do a complete 180 on their positions on a subject in 24 hours. It’s just our way.

So let me say that while dating still sucks, do you know HOW MUCH MORE entertaining it is to dissect an e-mail than it is to do my Business Associations reading?

Back in the Saddle Again (Reluctantly)

January 1 was the expiration date on my self-imposed man hiatus. And it has taken me a month and a half to work myself up to it, but FINALLY, I have set up a date.

Am I excited? No. I wouldn’t even book it for this week because I need another 10 days to convince myself not to cancel and to find something to wear.

Ugh.

So sad to think of the difference between me now, at 29, and how I felt about dating at 26. After Allan and I broke up, I tanned (well, for me I did — this meant I achieved something close to a pale taupe instead of my usual porcelain), I bikini waxed, I bought a bunch of cute outfits I couldn’t afford. I was DETERMINED.

And as a result, I dated some completely inappropriate men. Someone who still lived with his parents. Someone who scored 117 on an internet IQ test.

Now? I am just happy that most of this was arranged over text messages so I didn’t even have to TALK to my date.

I guess I will have to talk to him eventually, but I don’t have to think about that just yet. I’ve got a week.

All I can hope for is that my paralyzing dread will translate into me not dating anyone I don’t really care for. Why go through root canal unless you REALLY, REALLY want to save that tooth?

UPDATE:: Just so you don’t think I’m a big ole meanie who is going out on dates with people she doesn’t even like: Actually, I am just a big ole whiner. I do want to date again. It’s just like when you start going to the gym again. You just have to get over the three-week hump and then you remember the joys of cardiovascular fitness. Well. Something like that anyway.