There are a million websites—okay, a couple of hundred thousand—that will tell you to curtail your email time.

Your chat time.

Your surfing time.

Here’s the thing: what they’re really telling you to do is to limit the amount of time you spend on things that net you little-to-nothing, and max out the time you spend doing the stuff that nets you bigtime.

You’ve got to keep body and soul together, yes.

You’ve got to keep Making Things—putting good things out there into the world that you make, yourself, out of sweat and twine and (your preferred medium).

But sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is to pick up the phone when it rings and talk to the (relative, soon-to-be-not) (and brave!) stranger on the other end.

Sometimes, the best use of your time is to reach out to a bunch of people you haven’t connected with in a while and share a few words, regardless of how many (or few) people will read them.

Sometimes, it’s just about…wandering. And seeing where the wandering will lead you.

We Virgos, we tend to forget that. We like forward motion, and checking things off lists. We like making a plan, and tend to think that deviation from it spells certain doom.

Here’s the thing: I veered about as far off the proscribed list today as was possible. As in, I did not start Working until 1. Or so. Up until then, I spent my day talking and wandering and musing.

But then? I sat down and wrote me a big, Shitty First Draft of Chapter Something. Even smiled a few times while writing it. Oh, it’ll all be thrown out, but it don’t matter none. It’s all in the doing.

Extend extend extend yourself.

Or oh, what you and the world might miss out on.

xxx
c

The BF and I went to dinner tonight with the Happy Couple—an impromptu sort of a thing, as we all worked up a mighty hunger looking at yet another example of moderately-priced Los Angeles real estate. So many abound!

Anyway, we went to a neighborhood joint—The BF’s neighborhood, which ain’t the ‘hood, but ain’t fancy, neither. And it’s Sunday, right? A day of (putative, anyway) rest. Low-key is the operative word. And the place is hummin’, albeit in a decidedly non-partying, non-alcoholic, school-night-y way, because (remember?) it’s Sunday! We’re eating our beet salad and high-end ribs in our jeans, the people next to us are eating their pistachio-crusted salmon in their jeans, the people next to them are eating their high-end meatloaf & mash in their jeans.

And as we’re mopping up the last of the delicious broth from the grilled calamari, in walks Sister Satiddy Night, rocking the cha-cha like she’s there four days early for a big Valentine’s Day out. Tight, shoulderless dress with boobage. Four-inch heels. Hair. Makeup. The whole, uncomfortable works, including her slightly homely fella in slightly less fancy fella-garb, whom I’m guessing—and I know, I know…I’m totally guessing—was picking up the check.

Now, of course they could have been coming from a wedding. Lots of people have them on Sunday because it’s cheaper and hey—if you’re being frugal, maybe you’re saving by not having a meal, either. Maybe they work regular nights out and this is their big, do-it-up night. Maybe a million things. But on top of it all, that dress is not comfortable. No, I’ve never worn it, but I’ve worn plenty of uncomfortable dresses and heels and I know. I know.

The last time I wore a serious cha-cha outfit without getting paid for it was on a particularly pathetic birthday—my 26th, maybe, or my 27th. Between when I dated the Republican and married the Chief Atheist. I had no date, not a lot of friends, and one good, fun, funny, kind male friend agreed to go out with me on my birthday. I’m not certain, but I’m fairly sure we split it down the middle. Outside of a regular relationship, that’s how I roll, as my feminist mother drilled into me that to do otherwise was tantamount to selling cooch for steak. Plus he was a kind friend, but a cheap one.

So I was in the cab—which again, I’m fairly sure we split—and I got attacked. Full-on mauled by my good, fun, funny, kind male friend: the whole gimme-baby, Radio Tokyo thing. My umbrage, shock and dismay were at least equalled by his. Why, if I didn’t want to act like a ho, was I dressing like one?

A very good question.

Because my boyfriend had dumped me.

Because I was turning 26 or 27 and I honestly thought my stock was falling.

Because that cursed Robert Palmer video came out with the impossibly hot chicks in the impossibly tight black spandex dresses.

Because I was sad. Because I was angry.

Because I hated myself.

Because I wanted people to love me.

Because I could. Because they sold them in stores so regular ladies (okay, girls) could buy them and turn themselves from good-looking people to good-looking objects.

Because I wanted to be pretty. Because I wasn’t pretty enough.

Because I wasn’t enough.

That’s really it, isn’t it? Because there are ways to look good without the cha-cha, just as there are ways to be in relationships without compromising your integral self. Good luck finding them in this world, though, without a lot of trial and error and a lot of looking. It is almost impossible to raise a girl in this world with enough self-esteem to say no to the cha-cha, to believe in herself enough to not compromise herself, to know that she can look great without putting the goods on display. I know; my mom tried. “Don’t get too attached to your looks,” this breathtaking natural beauty would say. “One run-in with a bus, and it’s all over.”

And then she would put on a little lipstick, because that made anyone feel better.

I’m not advocating the burkha any more than I’m advocating dumping on sisters who, for whatever reason, choose the cha-cha. I know a few for whom it really seems to be an outgrowth of their personality. But I see a lot more of us putting it on, trying to be someone else—someone else who’s really, really slutty-looking—because of some bullshit notion we picked up from a million signals around us suggesting that it’s a logical, desirable way for all of us to be. That to not choose it is to choose invisibility or un-sexiness or some other undesirable state. And I’m calling bullshit.

If it’s in your stars, go ahead—go for the cha-cha. But for god’s sake, have a Plan B. Your tits and ass are not a retirement plan. Your pretty face is not job security. Do not get wrapped up in some crazy notion that by putting on the cha-cha, you are investing in yourself.

If nothing else, have a sense of humor about it. Know that it’s drag, and own it. Know who you are underneath and own that. I had a dentist once whom I called Dr. Cha-Cha. She was a good dentist and hey, if she felt like pouring herself into a porn-a-licious dentist outfit and fuck-me pumps to scrape my teeth, more power to her. But that is the natural order of things, ladies: work first, cha-cha second. Not cha-cha for cash. Not cha-cha so a dude will buy you dinner and maybe later, a ring and a car and a house.

And for the love of all that is holy, if you do opt for the cha-cha, do it on your own damned terms. To squeeze or push or starve yourself to become someone else’s idea of fabulous, for love or money, is a fool’s game.

Of course, all this from someone who’s not even sure what color her hair is under all that dye. But hey, I never said I was consistent.

Just comfortably dressed on a Sunday night…

Image by edward olive via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: change, Feminism.

This is Day 2 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in the comedy classic of my generation, Animal House.

One side effect of carrying around a few extra el-bees is a proportional increase in the chestal area. For the first time since…oh, hell—high school? college? (maybe some of you lurking ex-es could chime in), I have significant boobage.

From the cultural cues that surround us, you’d think this would be a good thing. In most respects, however, it’s a colossal pain in the assets. I’ve always liked small boobs, both from an aesthetic and practical point of view. As have my various partners. (At least, as far as I know. Lurker exes?) Not only did my tiny breasteses look great in and out of clothes, but unlike those of my well-endowed sisters, my own girls required virtually no maintenance from a containment perspective.

No more. I’ve been sensing for a while now that my old “bras” (aka a wardrobe of dago tees) weren’t cutting it anymore. No matter that I wash and dry them on the hottest settings, replace them dutifully each spring, and wear a fresh, tight one each day: I’ve moved from a barely-A to a big man-handful, and no amount of cotton ribbing and denial is enough to keep things under control. And the few actual brassieres I bought for Casual Mom audition drag are a good six years and 1.5 cup sizes past their usefulness.

Because brother, I hate bra shopping almost as much as I hate bra-wearing. From a physical or political perspective, they’re equally annoying. Why the hell should I have to sacrifice time, money and comfort for the sake of propriety, otherwise known as the reigning sex’s inability to keep their eyes off the prizes? If I don’t mind my tits winding up the low-hanging victims of gravity, how they dangle should be my own damned business.

Alas, I live in a world where others will look, either askance or lecherously, and I’m not enough of a booby buddha to not let it get to me. So for all my feminist decrying, the bottom line is that mainly, I’ve just been too cheap and too lazy to do anything about it.

Until yesterday. I had an errand to run in that hideous sprawl just east of Los Angeles known as the Inland Empire, home to the biggest IKEA in all the Southland as well as, it seems, some of our more revolting specimens of masculinity. Despite my very obviously being dressed so as to not solicit attention of any kind—baggy cargos, loose, long-sleeved tee and the ubiquitous dago underneath—many of these charming gents gave me the surreptitious once-over. Whatever. Some people really don’t have enough excitement in their lives.

Then, in the parking lot of an adjacent mall, one of them openly stared straight at my boobs and—before he was out of eyeline, much less earshot—cracked to his equally vile friend, “See? Like those, bouncing all over the place.”

At first, I was incensed. This roly-poly cholo—this marginalized weeble in oversized baby clothes—dares malign me and my few extra ounces of bouncy old lady-flesh? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you, esé. I’m the revolution, baby; I’m an Agent of Change. I’m your mother, your sister, your daughter (well, more like your abuelita, really); how would you feel if some punk piece of trash guero caught one of them in their own vile line of fire?

And just as quickly, the flame of anger burned off and I realized the truth: I was no better, and arguably far worse than they. My lowest-common-denominator thinking, my impulse to objectify them rather connect with any common humanity was as foul as anything I was condemning in them. So what if I wasn’t as out-loud-obnoxious about it? That sprung from common sense and an instinct for survival, not anything noble.

Plus, there was the stark physical truth that they had pointed out, however rudely: my containment system was overtaxed, my meatflaps were flopping all over, and if I wanted to continue to fly under the radar, it was time to walk into Ross Dress for Less and, er, take matters in hand. Which I did, albeit in a grumbling sort of way. (If bra shopping is ever fun, it is not under these circumstances.) The universe, sensing my delicate mood, graciously directed me to six models on the tangled rack, three of which not only fit, but set me back a mere twenty bucks total. I did a patented actor change in the car, and poof! back under the radar I went.

Teachers: wherever you are, I thank you. I thank you for reminding me that I, too, am a pig, that some hills are not worth dying on and that sometimes, the solution is actually crazy simple.

Two boobs from the barrio put two boobs in a bra.

Nice symmetry, that…

xxx
c

Image by wolfheadfilms via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: 21 day salutes, Los Angeles, Rants, thank you sir may i have another.

I make no secret of my age. (46, and if you haven’t wished me a “happy” yet, feel free to!)

I’m up front about my struggles to get organized, to get happy, to get my bowels in working order.

So why, oh, why am I having such a problem letting my hair go gray?

A little backstory: unlike many of the women on my mother’s side, while I had a few stray grays pop up as early as my 20s, I didn’t need to start actively coloring to cover them until my late 30s. And I was earning a nice living via acting at that point (with good health insurance…sigh…), so it made sense to make sure my hair matched my face, which for some reason insisted on looking 5 - 10 years younger than the rat’s nest on top of it.

But if I’m honest—and dammit, if I’m not, there’s little point to anything anymore—I wanted to look chronologically younger for me, too. In the late 90s, I’d just left my marriage of 8 1/2 years for a man 12 years younger than I, who looked 5 - 7 years younger than he really was. And who was also, shall we say, empirically good looking. It was frustrating enough for me and my fragile self-esteem to flit about with The Youngster in public; add to that the subtle and ongoing pressure from him to “look my best” (what is it with these empirically good looking people?) and you have a perfect storm for public deceit.

Well, I’m not acting anymore. And dye, in addition to being not inexpensive, is toxic and time-consuming. What could I do with those extra two hours per month? Those extra 1000 or so cancer-free years days of my life? Or, while we’re at it, the extra 750 bucks a year? (A steal in L.A., but still.)

I find myself obsessing over gray hair. It seems to be a trend, or a meme—the ladies lettin’ it go, perhaps kicked off by Meryl Streep in the otherwise forgettable Devil Wears Prada. Someone wrote a book about it. There’s a Yahoo! group devoted to it, a graying Botticelli’s Venus as their icon. (I joined.) There’s that idiotic Dove campaign.

I think it comes down to this: vanity.

Not vanity about looking my age, but about looking good for my age. Or maybe just looking good, period. I quit wearing makeup long ago, and I’ve let myself get woefully squishy around the middle; strictly from a design/style perspective, hair dye saves my beauty bacon. It’s the lazy gal’s way to look good (at least, until your face and skin tone stop coordinating well with dark hair. I am going to look like a raggedy-ass schlub growing out my gray if I don’t work a little harder to look good in other departments, like clothes and fitness.

Maybe that’s the thing: put “Pilates body” on the to-do list. Make it a big goal for…say…2010, and get crackin’. Then, once I’m leading the yoga class, shave my damned globey-head bald and wear all black or something.

It’s an option I’ve discussed with my patient, generous colorist. He’s amazing, really—basically helping me figure out how and when to fire him.

There are no easy answers to this. I would like to think I’m “there”, but clearly, it ain’t so. Whether I like it or not, going gray is a political statement in a patriarchal society where a woman’s currency is tied to her looks and reproductive status. As is toeing the party line with a box of dye.

I do not like the lies I am telling, and yet, here I am.

Now, where’s the way out, I wonder…

xxx
c

UPDATE 9/19: I wrote another blog post about aging (and lying about aging) here that may help illuminate some of this thinking.

Image by s.o.f.t. via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: ageism, change, communicatrix, fear, Feminism, going gray, gray hair, graygirls, happiness, truth.

Let’s get this over with right up front: I’m a believer in the apocalypse, at least the man-manufactured one that seems, barring a late-Act III entrance from some serious, ass-kicking deus ex machina, inevitable.

Additionally, I must confess that I came to my knowledge/world view late in the game, getting turned on to Kunstler and peak oil and other earthly delights after the vanguard, but apparently before the bulge of the curve. Ironically, I find this unbelievable: how can a political dunderhead like me be early to the party? Is it possible that the majority of my countrymen are more preoccupied, more obstinate, more—okay, stupider than I? For chrissakes, Will Rogers, American icon, pointed out the folly of ignoring the obvious more than 50 years ago; are people really so dense as to not get that, like land, at some point we will have burned through our supply of dead dinosaurs?

And really—really—does anyone actually believe in suburbs as an inalienable right? Of sprawl as manifest destiny? While we’re at it, does anyone actually believe in Manifest Destiny anymore? That some unseen power said “Poof! lucky white dudes! You really are my favorites! Grab what you want, pave over the rest and throw up a Starbucks every 500 yards! And get me a decaf Venti soy latte, while you’re at it—I’m cutting back on my caffeine intake.”

Besides, as Kunstler himself points out in, among other writings, this excellent review (of what looks like an egregiously irresponsible book), for this you’re chewing up resources? For 99¢ tacos and “Tuscan” minimalls and 3-Day Blinds and Axe? I’m no purist—I love In-and-Out and I drive my Corolla and I spend most of my waking life in front of a computer that will eventually kill off a square mile of rainforest or something when it hits the landfill, but Bratz dolls? Putting aside the allocation of precious resources to perpetuate several particularly nasty features of the patriarchy, on a purely aesthetic level, they are ass.

Like I said, I’m as bad as anyone else when it comes to much of my consumption, meaning it is thoughtless. I do not think about blood-stained oil when I curse the traffic on the way to my shrink appointment; I’m adding to the problem with almost everything I do, and thinking about the extent to which I’m stomping the world to death with boots—Australian Blundstones, borne to me across the ocean on fairy wings, natch—makes my head throb. How do I change!?! Where do I start!?!

Alertness, right now, is all I know I can do. And I know it is the thing to do in part because practicing it is so alarming. How starkly I am struck by my ability to take things for granted when the power goes out for 26 hours. 26, you see? Every last minute counted.

I’ve implemented a few things to help me stay aware and awake, which I’ll share not to lord it over anyone (who am I to talk?), but in hopes that it might help a few overwhelmed types like me find a place to start:

1. I’ve trimmed down my possessions to the point where everything has a place, I can put my hands on most of them without too much thought, and there is plenty of space in between them.
2. For the most part, I did it by reasonably “responsible” methods of recycling and reducing consumption. On the recycling side, I’ve increased my reuse of items—paper, mostly—before sending things off to the Magical Recycling Place. (I’ve always been a fanatic about reusing bags and rubber bands.)
3. On the consumption side, I simply buy far, far less than I used to, purchasing used items where I can, borrowing where appropriate (e.g. the library instead of the bookstore), buying fewer trendy/disposable items and thinking about whether I can wait or do without before I buy.
4. Also concerning consumption, I’ve dramatically reduced the amount of fuel I use by quitting acting (which is mostly auditioning, which is mostly driving) and working from a home office. I live a little too far from the public rail system to make use of it, and buses are notoriously slow here in L.A., caught in the same traffic as cars, so I still drive my beloved Corolla. I’ve toyed with getting a Prius or a biodiesel conversion, but without retiring my car, I don’t know how much good I’d be doing. The only long “commute” I have now is my weekly Toastmasters meeting, 10 miles away in the Marina. My plan is to finish out the year there, then look for a Toastmasters within walking distance of my home.

Not that much, really, but a start. And for anyone who’s interested, #1 has improved my life in many ways besides feeling better about not being such a piggy. My stress level is down and my productivity up—if not in all areas of my life, at least in some.

Besides the peace of mind that comes with a reasonable baseline of organization has got to have some salubrious effect on the world, as well, if only in that it frees me up to think more about serious matters. Right?

xxx
c

Image by C-Monster via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license
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TOPICS: change, Environment.