TV of a Certain Caliber

Pleasantly surprised by the TNT premiere of Men of a Certain Age. It's pretty depressing for basic cable. Like Sideways. Except without the raunchy sex. Which is even more depressing, I guess.

It also reminded me of Sex and the City. Except without the raunchy sex and amazing shoes. Now that's really depressing.

In all seriousness, I am surprised. While I presume it will pick up in the hope department (signaled, among other things, by the sexy young women who, improbably, show flickers of interest in these middle-aged losers), it was daringly bleak and low-energy for a show premiering in tough economic times. Where the failures and petty humiliations of the Entourage boys are cushioned by their sex-filled youth and a fantasy world of money and power, the MoaCA are actually vulnerable. They are paunchy, pasty and pitiable. One is separated with a gambling habit, another is a diabetic dragging himself into work at his father's Chevy dealership, and the third is a temp/actor coasting on the dregs of his looks and charm. No one wants to be these guys. Not one of them is living the dream.

This is rough stuff for mainstream TV. Are they banking on the mirror effect, i.e., people are struggling and they want to relate? Anyway, it's a nice change from whodunit melodramas like The Closer or Saving Grace. And I'm looking forward to Southland. Nice work, TNT.

Freudian Slip

For the record, Obama definitely uttered this sentence last night:

..."we are bringing the Iraq war to an irresponsible end."

Whoops!

Why Sleeping Is Better Than Anything

A long night's rest after a long week is one of life's best gifts. I lay there looking into the open doors of my messy, incoherent closets and felt I finally had the strength to pen the rant I've been developing for years. Opening line, something like: "2010 can't get here fast enough, because I need this era of fashion to end." From there I would outline my mounting frustration with a generation of garments I do not understand. From bulky belted sweaters to ultra-lowrise then ultra-highwaist pants to boxy tops with floppy frills where breasts should be, shopping since around 2005 has become a nightmare. If you don't have an extra-long torso, forget about t-shirts and tank tops. Bell-shaped skirts-- why not just wear a birdcage around my hips? Oh, and The Layered Look works great assuming you have more than bones. And skin. I'm a curvy 5'0-tall girl, size 2 - 4:  picture me in a t-shirt down to the tops of my thighs (at least!!), with a cropped vest, under a bulky sweater-jacket tied at my waist, and a big floppy scarf around my neck. With a fedora. I LOOK LIKE AN A**HOLE.

But Sheesh, you say, you don't have to shop at hipster boutiques... to this I reply, who can afford hipster boutiques?? I'm talking Bloomingdales, H&M, Anthropologie, freaking Banana Republic, even! At an age where most women (outside of New York City) forsake fashion for family obligations, I'm here and I still care. But fashion has forsaken me. I have been all but locked out of a kingdom that used to be mine. Goddammit.

So anyway, all this was to be part of my goofy rant. It was going to be organized, maybe even bulleted. But then I decided to call my mother first, and that only sent me outside with a cigarette and jumbled thoughts of myoclonus and pharmaceuticals and acupuncture and divorce and chronic family dysfunction and the movie Precious and a killing spree on a military base that only stirs the hornets nest of race, religion and identity.

We can talk about clothes another time, I guess.

File It

Anxiety is not just a problem or symptom. It is a method, a way of accomplishing what we want. What do we want? We want to not be aware of something. Pain, often. Or fear. To stop and sit and be honest and say, I feel abandoned, I feel bereft, I feel fear.

So anxious behavior, chaos, disorganization, these can be ways of avoiding unpleasant truth or unpleasant tasks, such as opening the mail and paying the bills, or returning phone calls. It can be a way of keeping the world at bay.

-Cary Tennis

Teasing Gravity

Last night I went to see my unfulfilled summer crush perform in a, er, quirky production of Chekov. A classic tale of reasonably well-off people who are so miserable that it's, well, funny. And this production definitely played up how ridiculous we are with all our unrequited longings, overwrought expectations and dreams deferred. The production didn't work all the way through, but for awhile it was fresh and delightful, all the subtext abandoning its usual restraint to wiggle its eyebrows like Groucho Marx. Hahaha, we chortled, delighting in the chance to lampoon our tiny furies. Hahaha, spiders trapped in their own webs, aren't they absurd!

After the show, we stuck around to say hello to my crush. He and I hardly see each other now, which is for the best. While I wasn't just imagining that the interest was mutual, it became clear early on that he was not going change anything about his circumstances. So I did my best to put a lid on my feelings and go about my business. Of course, if you've ever played with magnets, you know that if there's any hope of keeping them unstuck you have to maintain a certain amount of distance. The closer they get, the less control you have over the attraction and the harder it is to keep them apart. So as long as we were working together, it was too close for comfort.

There were days we barely spoke or made eye contact, and were in such foul moods that people asked if we were okay. Some days I would soften and give in to flirty smiles and quick shoulder rubs. Some days I needed those hugs. Sometimes I would go to the bathroom just to get out of the room. I was often angry (frsutrated) but, just as often, I could see that we were both trying to behave. Just clumsy and human. Once, in the last days of the project, I finished working on something and cheered. He cheered too and then, like a little boy who's been chastised for putting his hand in the cookie jar yet still wants a cookie, he looked up at me from his chair as I stood beside him and asked, "Can I hug you?" "Of course," I exclaimed, feeling a stab of sympathy and guilt. Yes, it was all absurd.

He didn't ask for a hug when he approached us after the show. He didn't have to. Now that we are a safe distance apart, a post-performance hug is natural without being costly. So, feeling free to offer a full dose of affection, I give him a long, full-bodied squeeze. Ahh... And then, as he starts to retreat, for a split-second I feel the pull of two objects reluctant to separate. My body cringes as though it's bracing for impact- Oh no! I don't want this to hurt. But then, in the next split second, I realize that the pull is not magnetic. No, actually it is... tactile?

It is the tug of tiny hooks and loops, known by the street name of Velcro.

As he's pulling away, the velcro strips on his nylon jacket are pulling at the loops of my finely-crotcheted emerald-green sweater. At the first tugs we look down, confused. Then we look up, our eyes meeting in surprise. "Whoa," he blurts, starting to laugh nervously. Burning with awkwardness, I join in. "Whoa!" Hahaha...ha...er... We are literally ripping ourselves apart.

The whole exchange takes 7 seconds. The faux laughter trails off, we both look elsewhere, and the others step in to congratulate him. I feel the corners of my lips twitch with real laughter and squeeze them shut. After all, I really enjoy when the universe makes a good joke at my expense. I look away, I look around, I desperately want to make eye contact with someone who is in the know, so we can have that "Oh my god, did you see that!" moment. But it is in vain! I am without confidantes. This will have to be replayed in text messages and emails.

Later, he joins us for a drink. We laugh and banter like old friends, our legs pressing furiously against each other under the table. Chekov's ghost is smiling in the corner.

Hot Mess

I'm kind of obsessing. And attempts to stop obsessing are... modest. A week ago this bothered me. Well, more than that, it induced a kind of hysteria re: how dysfunctional I am to want yet another unavailable man. But I've managed to ease up on myself a bit, and accept my humanity. After all, I'm not actively trying to break up a relationship, and I'm not deluding myself into thinking anything will happen between us. I just want. I desire. What's so wrong about that, anyway?

So I've given myself permission to explore a connection with this person with whom I feel mad chemistry on multiple levels. To be overwhelmed not by lust as much as by curiosity and interest and affection and empathy. To feel wonder at how at ease I feel around him. To appreciate that he seems to genuinely enjoy me, and I him. To feel blessed just to see him every day, for a brief interlude. To be reminded of what qualities I find attractive and valuable in a man. To play. To have my imagination stirred. To feel an urge to touch and hold the likes of which I have not felt in years. To be made to laugh often. To feel the edges of my heart smolder.

I have done a lot of mining of my psyche over the course of my adult life, so the temptation to frame these feelings in pathology is strong. But this time I reject the pathology paradigm outright. Because, yes, these feelings are inconvenient. But are they ugly? They can't all be coming from the broken places in me. After all, I didn't know at first that he isn't available. Why should I be expected to shut my feelings off immediately? And why should I hastily red flag my interest as inappropriate? Why should I feel shame?

I'm not even saying that there's external pressure to do this-- aside from some admonishments from friends who are just looking out for me, naturally --but I think that, internally, there was instant pressure to stanch not just my pursuit but even the flow of feeling. After all, it's not "right" to covet another woman's man. In this culture, it's simply not morally correct.

But we know why that is. Because morality is designed to minimize mess. Yet people make messes every day and life goes on. People tear things down to rebuild. Yes, there is plenty mess to cut down on in this world. Maybe this particular mess should escape the censors.

There is a little part of me that's sticking its chin out in defiance. I am not itching to make a mess. But nor, in this case, am I fully opposed to it. I don't want to hurt people if I can help it. I don't want to take things that aren't mine to take, just for the thrill of victory. I don't want to actively dismantle or blow up a relationship that is none of my business and was perhaps happily oblivious to my existence just weeks ago. But... I do want joy and bliss. Dare I say it: I want some justice that takes the form of two people who are right for each other being together. And I guess I don't think it's so bad if some mess needs to be made to accomplish this (grandiose? ridiculous? presumptuous? ah, selfish!) vision of justice of mine.

So, yeah-- screw the morality of the anti-mess, I say. If I were to come to believe that I could make him happier than she, and that he might think that, too, then I might just believe that a little mess would be a small price to pay.

But I don't know that's the case yet; it's far too early. And I won't incite it. It's not who I want to be, and, frankly, it's not who I am. So I will just be around, be myself, be the sign that reads, This Could Be Worth It.

Take notes, Silda et al.

Whoa! Finally, a cheating's pol's wife shows it's possible to have both a dignified and SANE public response.

Jenny Sanford, 46, was not in attendance at the news conference. She issued a statement later in the day saying that while she loves her husband, she asked him to leave the family two weeks ago in a trial separation.

“When I found out about my husband’s infidelity I worked immediately to first seek reconciliation through forgiveness, and then to work diligently to repair our marriage,” she said. “We reached a point where I felt it was important to look my sons in the eyes and maintain my dignity, self-respect, and my basic sense of right and wrong.” Because of the separation, she said, she did not know where he was in the last week.

-Gov. Sanford Admits Affair and Explains Disappearance