Thursday, December 13, 2007

Random, Useless Discourse 27: Faking It-When You Care Enough To Send the Very Least, But Still Want Some Credit

also posted 12/13 -

Lying gets a bad rap. Let’s face it, somewhere between your mom, your teachers, your pastor, your girlfriend, your boyfriend, and those 2-tons-of-fun the Ten Commandments, lying is publicly flogged like a tired Clinton joke. It’s the whipping post of our sub-conscious, and it isn’t really fair.

Of course lying about a crime is wrong. You should admit those things. “Yes, I stole that." “Yes, I embezzled that.” “Yes, I stalked and hacked up my girlfriend, strategically placing bits of her along the landmarks of this fair city that came to represent our poisonous-hate filled-I-could-have-changed-for-her-really relationship. Careful, that over there is where we first confessed our love, the lying bitch. Guess what's buried.." – These are all confessions we should make. Especially the last one. Really. I’m not condoning that kind of conduct.

Yet the good-kind of lying, the sort of lying that rounds the edges of our daily lives, that’s the type of faking we should be a bit proud of and we aren’t. We toss it high onto our guilt-pile where we’ll drink it, snort it, or eat it into numbness.

What we are missing is the fact that we are bothering to fake it. Caring enough to lie means that you cared in the first place. Embrace that.

Okay, sure, your significant other is crying and you really, really, really want to feel something. But instead you don’t. You aren’t evil. You’re just tired. Either your day at the office also sucked or, well, you’re just tired of the crying. Whatever. They look up, all crystal eyed, and you freeze. What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO? (A) Yeah, that’s too bad, Alicia, I really want to help, I do. But honestly, you’ve started to bore me and, ya know, Janet wasn’t being a bitch after all. You were. (B) Make a sad face. Reach over and hug them, promising it’ll all be better. And agreeing to everything they say. - - - Obviously, unless, you know, you like drama, you choose B. Which is selfish, yes, because you avoided a fight and possible physical harm. But hey, step back, and think that out. Put the self-preservation aside and look what else you did. You didn’t laugh did you, Big Boy? Nope. You didn’t switch on the TV. Smart move. You knew that would hurt her feelings. So you faked it because you cared. Uh huh. Breathe it in. You got a win-win there, Sport. Drink it deep. Sometimes we just don’t feel it. We can’t muster up the sympathy or the empathy or any pathy what-so-ever.

And it just isn’t in our relationships. Work is all about the faking. Not because we are lazy, but because that’s the game and we care just enough to do it. Oh, come on, you’ve feigned a laugh at yet-another-story about the boss’s precocious sugar-plum-princess. You’ve cluelessly nodded in a conference room. And you’ve went with the flow when talking to a co-worker with a thick accent that you can’t follow because you’re too embarrassed to have them repeat.

It’s okay, people. We don’t have to always be honest with each other. We don’t WANT to be honest with each other. Did we want Jennifer Love-Hewitt to be truthful with us when she went swimming? No. We want to be lied to. We NEED to be lied to. I need to think my boyfriend hates the same nasty bitches I hate. I NEED my Hollywood celebrities to be flawless, size 0’s because if they aren’t , well that’s one less thing to hate myself for, and really, I’m kinda lazy and don't want to go looking for or creating a new self-hate.

So go ahead, Jimmy-Jack, lay back, grab the remote, and wrap your arm around your girl. Soothe her and tell her it’ll be okay. It might not be all real, but hey, you are caring just enough to fake, and you should get something for that.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Random, Useless Discourse 26: What My Two X-Chromosomes Get Me

- also posted 12/3/07 - -

This is not some grand academic exercise in post-modern feminist deconstruction of popular culture or media. If you want that, start with the basics (de Beauvior, Betty Freidan) and work your way up to Camille Paglia and Cristina Hoff Sommers. And I don't mean that as East Coast liberal as it sounds. Really, you should read that stuff.

And I must state, for the record, that I have been threatened with vaginal repossession not once, but twice. First by a dear purse-dropping friend (Turtles, you know the one, sweetie darling) who, upon hearing my dislike for f'me stilettos proclaimed, "That vagina is going back to the store because you just don't deserve it." The other time was in a classroom at Rutgers where I could no longer suppress the humor I was feeling. Seriously, there are few things more enjoyable than listening to a spoiled kid, who only 6months ago was angsting-it-up to Avril Lavigne and skipping school to stand outside the 'TRL' window, regurgitate that one semester of Feminist Theory with all the passion her 'I'm-just-experimenting', Ani DiFranco listening soul can muster. Dude, it's freakin' awesome.

But seriously, there are some things being a girl gets you that are, well, not fair. Don't get me wrong. It isn't easy being female. We have it comparatively pretty rough out here. I mean, other than figuring out how to sit down without crushing my very vital and precious organ, I think being a guy is suh-weet. Ya'll got it made-in-the-shade. And if you are Caucasian? Pfft. Fuh-getuhabit.

For example I can watch Lifetime and not be hassled for it. For some inexplicable reason, I find myself watching, often in writhing torture (remember kids, self-destructive) those stupid, stupid, stupid emotional movies. You know the ones. The stories of women coming back after being beaten down (often literally). Girl power for the menopausal. It's where 80s sitcom moms go to age gracefully in between their QVC appearances for their line of seasonal sweaters and stirrup pants. I swear, last night, I heard Meredith Baxter (don't call me Bernie) deliver the following line, with all the sincerity of David Spade helping you disembark, "It's a Christmas miracle that we are all together this year". Priceless. And very gay if you are a guy. Even if you are gay and a guy, it's pretty fucking gay. And as we all know, things that are pretty fucking gay will get your ass pretty fucking kicked.

Also, I get a pass when I do something stupid or manipulative. Ugh, cramps. Ugh, mood swing. Ugh, PMS. Sorry, Officer, just having one of those crazy girl moments *giggle giggle*. Air quotes included.

Yesterday I changed shirts before going to the store because I didn't want to wear a shirt I had bought to the store I had bought it from. When I told a friend this, and stated I already knew it was weird, he just laughed and said, "silly". But I'm a girl and that's ok. And it's kinda cute.

I'm not saying being a girl is all about emotion or clothes or quirks. It just is for me. I also told the same friend yesterday that I am my own emotional Indy 500. I see a brick wall and I want to run into it. Full speed. For the thrill and to say I did it. The bruises will heal. But I f'n did it. I'm out of control. I'm up and I'm down and, dear Lord almighty, I'm frequently side-ways and spiraling.

I'm a girl, though. So it's all ok. I don't have to be stagnant. I don't have to be constant and stable. It isn't fair. And I don't _mean_ to abuse the system. But I can't help it. Just like I can't help that I've lost the last 2hrs of my life waiting to see Judith Light locate that love-child she gave up 30yrs ago when she was 16 and scared. I think that is the name of it, btw, or it should be – "Sixteen and Scared: The Carrie Whethers Story".

My XX chromosomes can get me a lot of things. Unfortunately, though, no genetic preference can restore wasted time. Arggs! Now I'm late. Oh well, I'll just tell them I got caught up watching this movie. They'll understand. They are probably watching it too. Such girls!