Day 42

I was up for a job that I didn’t get. This feeling of rejection kind of sucks, but I’m using it to fuel my creativity. I’ve had two conversations in the past 24 hours about who I am, why I write, how I express myself, etc. I hate these kinds of discussions, because I feel like I have to defend myself, which really isn’t fair.

I am honest, sometimes blatantly so. This can unnerve people. I don’t believe in censorship. I’m not a buffet where you can pick and choose what you like; I’m not an edited-for-TV version of Scarface. I don’t fucking care if you like it. For the first time in my life, I’m being honest with myself. I tend to be a doormat. I let people walk all over me and get their way and I refuse to let it happen anymore. I’m a person, not something you wipe your feet on.

The person who said, “honesty is the best policy” is probably kind of full of shit. Honesty can get you in a lot of trouble. The truth isn’t always pretty. I think I get a bad rep for speaking my mind. We live in a pretty bleak world, how am I not supposed to have some serious point of views? I’m real and that means taking the good and the bad. I don’t fucking care if you like it.

As for why I write about my life and my thoughts… I wrote a graphic novel in college and I got the same question in a critique. It was difficult to answer because it’s kind of like having some asshole heckle you, “Why is your life so great? Why should people care?” I’m sure they phrased it more politely, but that’s kind of the heart of the question. Why the fuck are you so great? Why are you worth the millisecond of attention our ADD generation will spend on you? Here’s the thing: I don’t really know. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to be writing about, but people always say “write what you know.” Not that I know myself all that much, but I know what I experience. I think that I have an interesting point of view and because I write about my life doesn’t mean that I think your life isn’t worth writing about. It’s not a competition; it’s a means of expression. It’s not a social status; it’s a creative calling. I’m sure that this questioning of why I write comes from my middle- class upbringing and my father constantly telling my not to waste time on my creative endeavors. However, having to deal with these questions and criticisms have made me realize my true passion is creating; it’s telling stories, making movies, painting, drawing, sewing, dancing… It’s thickened my skin and made me impervious to the haters. I don’t fucking care if you like it. Do you ask a bird why it flies? Do you ask a fish why it swims? They do it to survive; it’s how they get by. For me, writing is no different. Making movies, painting, drawing, sewing, and dancing are no different. I need them to survive; I need them to get by.

I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I don’t think I’m Charles Dickens, Judy Blume, or Chuck Klosterman. I’m not Lenny Bruce or Stephen King. Will my ramblings ever be published? Bastardized into a movie or TV show? I don’t know, and I kind of don’t care. I am creative because if I don’t let the beast out, I’m pretty sure it will cause me to implode. Not pretty.

Before I started this blog, I was just going to write it as a book. I thought, “Why give away my content for free?” Okay, that was my delusional-self referring to my writing as “content.” Fuck me. I realized that it’s not as if I have some finite amount of thoughts. It’s not like I’m going to run out of shit to inspire me. My mind is a wellspring of constant inspiration. It’s a fucking natural resource. Not that all of my ideas are golden nuggets, but they exist. I had an idea to add corn to this pasta dish I made… that was a TERRIBLE idea. I once tried to screen-print a Che Guevara pattern on to some shoes… but you can’t really screen-print on 3-dimensional objects without royally screwing it up. HORRIFIC IDEA.

So, in conclusion, thanks for reading this far. I appreciate your interest, support, encouragement, criticism, and hatred. But most of all, I don’t fucking care if you like it. I'M BLONDE.

Today gets 4 Barbie Warhols:

Day 40

It’s Mother’s Day weekend. Everyone thinks that their mom is the best; it’s genetically ingrained into our systems. If you don’t think you’re mom’s awesome, it’s kind of fucked up. That’s why Norman Bates was weird, but not super scary. He just loved his mom too much. How do you express to your mother that you’re really happy that she carried you around for 9 months and gave birth to you, only to have to continue carrying you around and changing your diaper? Flowers? Candy? Muscial Hallmark card?

My sister and I got my mom a Harry Potter cookbook and a homemade birdhouse thingy. These are just tokens of my appreciation, but really I think that moms should have gifts showered on them all the time. My mom sends me silly cards almost every week. Usually they contain pearls of wisdom, coupons, and at least $5. My mom knows me so well; she usually sends me coupons for yogurt, pie, or pizza. I try to reciprocate and send her stuff that she would enjoy. I once sent her a care package with a Harry Potter t-shirt and a new lunch box, which made me feel like I was sponsoring some sort of 11-year-old child, but those are things my mom liked.

My mom wasn’t so thrilled with the idea of me being blonde, but her reaction to the photo was “it’s not so bad, I guess.” A real confidence boost, ma! I laughed inside since I know my hair does not photograph as blonde as it really is. “Just don’t go Marilyn,” she says. Oh mom, that’s the goal: to become like Marilyn, the ultimate blonde. I may never star in movies or have a tryst with a Kennedy, but I can stand over a subway grate! She really won’t know what to do when she comes to visit me and she realizes that she has a warped feminist Barbie/Marilyn hybrid for a daughter. I can’t wait.

Today gets 3 Barbie Warhols:

Day 39

BLONDE SH*T THAT ROCKS: THOR

I have yet to see the new movie, but Thor has flowing blonde locks that just don’t quit. I will base my thoughts on my knowledge of the comics and Vincent D’Onofrio’s cameo in Adventures in Babysitting. The movie looks pretty badass, but I just have yet to get off my ass and go see it.

1. Thor has blonde hair. That’s just awesome. Not very many dudes can pull off the towheaded look, but he’s pretty foxy all the same.

2. He’s strong. He’s the God of Thunder and shit, but he’s also a bad boy because he was cast out of Asgard by his dad Odin for being a douchebag.

3. He has really awesome accessories: his helmet with the wings and his mystical hammer. He even rocks a cape without looking like a LARPing jackass.

4. Thor can summon thunder, lightning, snow, etc.

5. Dawson in Adventures in Babysitting has platinum blonde hair, bulging muscles, and a sledgehammer. He lets Chris have her car even when she’s $5 short of the cost of the new tire. That’s kind of godlike. He’s touched when Sara offers him her Thor helmet and she pledges her allegiance to him, thinking he’s the real Thor.

That’s one awesome blonde. I know that he’s not a powerful god in human form because of his blonde hair, but one can hope.

Today gets 3 Barbie Warhols:

Day 38

Happy Cinco de Mayo! I did not eat tacos today or drink Coronas or do shots of tequila. This is probably good for my diet, but god knows I love a good holiday. Any holiday is good for me. I like having a theme to my day (it helps me figure out what to wear). Cinco de Mayo is a wonderful excuse to dig out those sombreros and maxi peasant skirts. I did neither, which means that there may be something wrong with me.

On St. Patrick’s Day, I wear a lot of green and try to drink only Guinness and/or Jameson. At Halloween, I dress up even if I don’t go anywhere. I buy candy for trick-or-treaters despite the fact that I live in a gated apartment complex where I have never had a trick-or-treater. I end up eating it until Christmas (why can’t they make a bag of only strawberry Laffy Taffy?). During pretty much the entire month of December I become one of Santa’s elves. I bake cookies, wrap presents, deck the halls, and make the best holiday mixed CDs you’ll ever hear.

Granted, Cinco de Mayo is not a widely celebrated holiday, but I didn’t do anything. Some of my neighbors shouted obnoxiously at each other, but other than that, it was a normal day. It was a busy day.

Today gets 2 Barbie Warhols:

Day 37

Today is Star Wars Day. I guess the date originates from how “may the force be with you” sounds like “may the 4^th be with you.” I really love that there is an entire day devoted to geekdom. It’s awesome. I watched my VHS-converted DVD of Star Wars today for extra analog nostalgia. Sometimes there’s nothing better than shitty picture quality. Sometimes movies are supposed to look old (Mr. Lucas, please stop messing with them).

I can’t remember the first time I saw Star Wars. I’m very lucky to have never had to be without it (I do remember the first time I saw Alien 3. I was in the basement eating Gardetto’s and as soon as I saw the eggs opening and heard goo gurgling I wanted to vomit). Star Wars has just always existed; a blur in the background of my life. In 3^rd grade, I do remember coming home and watching Return of the Jedi in the basement. I was upset about bullies or something and imagined that they were all Jabba the Hut (who I thought should have gone on to become the spokesperson for Pizza Hut, but I guess they don’t want people thinking that their pizza is fattening). We had a cool basement. I used to watch movies down there ALL. THE. TIME. It was the hangout and our own little movie theater - full of my parent’s discarded furniture and wallpapered with movie posters (trophies from my siblings’ movie theater jobs). It was the coolest (for a long time I thought all kids had basements like this, but then realized that ours was truly one of a kind).

For me, Star Wars is more than just a movie or some crazy cultural phenomenon (I think I’m being bold by claiming it’s more than a phenomenon). It was the trilogy I often turned to for comfort and direction. I knew that it would always be there, and if I got bored with one of them there were 2 more movies! My older brother and I would watch Star Wars and Indiana Jones ad infinitum. As a family, we all agreed on Indiana Jones, but Star Wars somewhat divided the siblings. My other brother was all right with it, but not bonkers like me and bro #1. And my sister will never watch them. I think she went to see one of the prequels at the drive-in (which is always a double feature, so she probs went for the other movie) or something, but that doesn’t really help our case much. I think some people just have the force and others don’t.

(I may or may not have cut school when the original trilogy was re-released in theaters. My brother(s) may or may not have been party to this. We may or may not have smuggled an entire bag of Wendy’s into The Empire Strikes Back when it was released on my twelfth birthday.)

I’m glad the force is strong with me. I am a Jedi. I grew up idolizing Princess Leia (um, who didn’t?). I was pretty upset/intrigued when I realized that Star Wars was not a magic historical record of actual events; it was a movie. From that moment on, I knew I wanted to be a part of the magic of making movies. That sounds pretty idyllic, huh? Yeah, I was pretty awesome. I used to hide my mom’s knick-knacks (usually brass or shiny) and draw maps to them in my Minnie Mouse address book. I often referred to it as my “grail diary” and kept a rubber band around it, just like Indy. Sometimes I would take rocks from my mom’s flowerbed, put scratches on them (Sankara stones!), hide them, and do it all over again. This was way more fun when my parents were having construction done to the house and our entire backyard was dug up – lots of “I can reach it” stuff, etc. I remember my mom being mad that I had managed to cake a solid two inches on mud on the bottom of my pink “My Little Pony” sneakers (Velcro-closure because I hated tying shoelaces at this point). I used to take broken tree branches and they would be my lightsaber as I fought Darth Vader all over my back yard. Because I was the youngest, I was usually playing by myself (this makes me sound a bit crazy), so often I would be lightsabering against trees that I would call “Darth Maple,” “Darth Evergreen,” or “Darth Tree” (I never remembered the kind of tree that was directly behind my parents’ house). This seems a bit sad, but also hilarious (imagine little me reenacting movies in my backyard where all of the characters are pretty much played my me- and I’m like, a 6-year-old girl). I was never sad; sometimes the neighborhood kids and my sister would leave me out on purpose and I would cry to my mom, but that didn’t really do anything. So, I just played how I wanted to play. My fucking huge imagination never let me feel lonely. I think being introduced to Star Wars so young (thanks, bro) helped shape me into the well-adjusted, imaginative, creative, rebellious, blonde Jedi that I am today.

(Is Luke Skywalker considered a blonde? I think I’m going to go with sandy blonde. So, a blonde helped the Rebel Alliance defeat the Galactic Empire. Boom.)

Also, this is pretty awesome: #replaceawordinastarwarslinewithpants

Today gets 5 Barbie Warhols:

Day 36

(found this on http://lipstick-feminists.org that site is so awesome)

I went to the bank today and as I walked in, a guy was coming out and I got a “Damn girl.” I was wearing my yellow skirt with white polka dots. I think that had to be it, but his comment got me thinking… What motivates my apparel? Am I actively pursuing the male gaze? Granted, today I was wearing a t-shirt and a skirt, but when I do dress provocatively, why do I do so? Most of the time I think it’s because I enjoy being fashionable and like feeling confident. It's not my fault how people perceive me. I finished reading Tina Fey's Bossypants and aside from some blonde-bashing (she gets upset with her daughter liking blonde Sleeping Beauty more than brunette Snow White and refers to blondes as yellow-haired), she does have some great moments in the book that stuck with me. This is one of them:

"Amy [Poehler] was in the middle of some such nonsense with Seth Myers across the table, and she did something vulgar as a joke. I can’t remember what it was exactly, except it was dirty and loud and ‘unladylike.’
Jimmy Fallon, who was arguably the star of the show at the time, turned to her and in a faux-squeamish voice said, ‘Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it.’
Amy dropped what she was doing, went black in the eyes for a second, and wheeled around on him. ‘I don’t fucking care if you like it.’ Jimmy was visibly startled. Amy went right back to enjoying her ridiculous bit. I should make it clear that Jimmy and Amy are very good friends and there was never any real beef between them. (Insert penis joke here.)
With that exchange, a comic shift took place. Amy made it clear that she wasn’t there to be cute. She wasn’t there to play wives and girlfriends in the boys’ scenes. She was there to do what she wanted to do and she did not fucking care if you like it."

Thanks, Tina and Amy, I found my new motto: “I don’t fucking care if you like it.”

I think it’s a very antiquated ideal for men to whistle at broads as they walk by to express their desire. Most of the time, I just ignore any catcalls and go on with my life. I used to look at it as a compliment, but now I’m just kind of… put off by it. You don’t see women doing that to men and if we did, it would probably be considered outrageous (I’m pretty sure this would only occur on an episode of “The Bad Girls’ Club,” not that I’ve seen an entire episode of that show). It’s one of many double standards between the sexes. I’m not about to let my eyebrows get unruly, but not because of dudes, it’s because I like them that way. Either way, I don’t fucking care if you like it.

For example, I tinted and waxed my own eyebrows today. It was not a disaster. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it. I found it incredibly ironic that I tinted my eyebrows using “Just for Men: Beard and Mustache.” I’m sure that most men would never admit to using such a product, let alone on their eyebrows. If men waxed their eyebrows, they would be derided as being “gay” (don’t get me started on that term). It got me singing the Madonna song “What It Feels Like For a Girl”:

Girls can wear jeans

And cut their hair short

Wear shirts and boots

'Cause it's OK to be a boy

But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading

'Cause you think that being a girl is degrading

I’m a feminist, and I’m okay with that. I don’t fucking care if you like it. I’ve never gone all Rosie the Riveter or anything before (okay, so I was in The Vagina Monologues in college, but whatevs), but sometimes the shit I see and hear makes me angry. I overhear my neighbor argue with his girlfriend and it’s kind of appalling. “You’re like a little girl crying when she doesn’t get an ice cream cone.” “Babe, that beer’s skunked because you left it in the car. I’m not fucking drinking it.” Granted, she’s annoying as hell, but the way he talks to her makes me want to VOM. I also wish my walls were better insulated.

Who knew being blonde could make you a feminist? I don’t fucking care if you like it. I love it.

Today gets 5 Barbie Warhols (and I don’t fucking care if you like it):

Day 35

I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. It’s not really all that serious since I’m working freelance, but I kind of feel like I’m a teenager or Marilyn Manson with my strange hours. My mom still teases me by saying, “your heart doesn’t start beating till noon.” She’s probably right, but that makes me sound a bit like a vampire. My natural sleep pattern would be 3AM to 12PM. I also think that there is something about the night that can be magical.

Every kid wanted to stay up past their bedtime – for whatever reason. I used to want to stay up to watch Letterman’s Top Ten list, which I inevitably did not get. I would want to stay up because Santa was on his way. I would want to stay up because my brothers were watching a scary movie. There was always a reason. I think that because staying up late was kind of taboo, I loved it. I still do, forever the rebel.

Night has an energy all its own and I think that I feed off it. I’m more creative at night; I’m more productive at night; I’m happier at night. With everyone else asleep, it’s as if I have the world all to myself. Things can look one-way in the light of day, and completely different under the cover of darkness. It’s quieter. It’s cooler. Night always seems full of possibilities. I’ve heard it said “nothing good happens after 2AM.” This depends on your definition of “good.” I think that night tends to get a bad rep. Not all bad things happen at night. You can get mugged, raped, and killed in broad daylight just as easily as you can at night. Car accidents happen 24/7.

I think that you’re either born a day person or a night person. Day people tend to wake up early, welcome the day with a smile, and are probably descendents of angels or something. Night people would sleep all day if permitted, survive the daylight on a steady intake of caffeine, and are probably vampires. I can sometimes trick myself into acting like a day person, but I always end up reverting back to the darkness.

This is not to say that I’m some sort of night-owl-party-animal. I’m usually quite the opposite. I like to be productive at night, which usually means I’m working solo. It’s hard for me to enjoy going out to a bar at night because that’s when inspiration strikes. If someone invited me out to a bar at 4PM, I would probably be more likely to have fun. I’m weird.

These sleep patterns have gotten worse since I’ve been blonde, but I can’t really find a correlation between the two. Perhaps the bleach soaked into my brain and fried some neurons or receptors or something. Or I’m happier and therefore having more free thoughts and putting those thoughts into actions with hobbies and whatnot. I can’t really be sure without hooking my brain up to some computer and I don’t have those kinds of resources (yet). I’ll keep you posted.

Today gets 2 Barbie Warhols: