February 2007 Archives

Airports are funny places--the normal rules that apply to one's life seem to be discarded the moment one enters the airport. 10 days ago, I found myself eating tempura udon at 8 am at SFO. I wasn't the only one, though. I was surrounded by seemingly normal looking people eating triple-decker burgers and refrigerated sushi platters at a time that most of us would be warily eyeing a coffee. A full meal before a flight, no matter what the length, seems perfectly justified. At any other time fast food tempura udon would not be acceptable, but in the airport, it's breakfast.

I've been spending a lot of time in airports lately. I know which ones I hate (Charles De Galle makes me want to tear my eyes out, Heathrow's 2 mile walks between terminals, shopping mall and depressing food choices have added it to the list) and which I like, (Zurich has got to have the cleanest airport I've ever seem in my life, and both Munich and Hamburg were so orderly! so effecient!).

I was looking through my passport today while filling out another customs form, and started to finally realize that I'm getting the life I had wanted for so long. In my early twenties, my inability to travel had me sobbing in fetal position more times than I could count. I resented my parents for getting to travel and live abroad without having to actually work to get there. I resented them for their refusal to give me the same opportunities that were handed to them on a silver platter. I'm not going to lie, I still resent the hell out of them for this. But I'm really freaking proud of myself for creating these opportunities for myself, without anyone's help. In the last two-and-a-half years, I've gotten 27 stamps in my passport.

In the last year or so, I've been to Spain, Italy, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Turkey and the Czech Republic. And save for the trip to Rome that nearly destroyed my life and psyche, I did all of it on my own. I got to live in Ireland for nearly four months with an expense account, and my teeth are like gleaming Chickets lodged in my gums. I've been granted a work permit to the UK, and I have one for Ireland pending. If all goes well, I hope to move to Dublin permanently in March.

The Polack and I have titled, and I am now officially be introduced as "the girlfriend." This is terrifying, but at the same time I feel optimistic (the self-help books must be working!). At least, it gives me hope that I can successfully date men that are freaking hot even if this one doesn't work out. My last run-in with a real hottie was approximately six years ago--a male model who shouted "I'm married" during an intimate moment that quickly became a me-running-out-the-door moment.

I was at a party with the Polack on Friday night and two separate girls pulled me aside to tell me how hot he is, how lucky I am. One of them used the term 'gorgeous' which in Irish-speak can mean either incredibly attractive or just generally wonderful. Another also tried to physically molest him in my presence, which I was less thrilled about. The whole thing is just so weird, still. I'm so happy about it, about him, but that's usually how I feel just before some emotionally manipulative egomaniac stomps on my heart. So I'm trying to relax and think about all of the horrible things that may happen to me in the future as little as possible.

As part of my attempt to chill out, I'm currently flying from Dublin to New York where I will spend a week (and my birthday!) before going back to California. I plan to engage in any number of decadent activities, most of them food-related and all bound to be incredibly gratifying.

Unfortunately, I have too much material. Sadly, I feel unable to harness the power of said material as it always causes problems. My friends don't like it when I post their secrets, but their secrets are so much better than mine. Every time I write about my family, I get a barrage of enraged emails and instant messages. Since I talk to most of them so rarely, the amount of material I get from them is limited. The rest isn't worth the grief I would get from writing about it. Today I realized that I had inadvertently given the Pole a clue to this site, and had to go through and delete all references that referenced him in a positive light. I can't write too much about my exes as they are the only ones that regularly read my site (and my cousin Laura, props!). I worry if I say the things I want to say, one of them may, god forbid, contact me. I don't write about the things I do and say because they are either so boring, racist or liable to get me fired or destroy my future political career. I mean, should I really post about the handjob class that I took or about my incredibly self-destructive shopping problem? Like I need to give my friends and family any more reasons to shun me.

The only decent news I have right now is that I tried *snowboarding*. Yes, I know it's unbelievable. I managed to stay upright for more than 30 seconds at a time, but was so scared every time I started picking up speed that I would immediately throw myself face-first into the snow. I emerged covered in bruises, nearly unable to walk, but with a sense of quiet dignity--victory over inertia and the psychological inability to try new things.

In other news, I've Googled variations of the term "live for the anecdote," and it appears that I was the first to coin this term on the Internet. If you find out different, don't tell me. Let me have my moment.

-- Joyce Carol Oates

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The last three-and-a-half months in Dublin have destroyed me physically. I'm not sure if it's the damp weather, socializing every night, or the proximity to attractive men, but my body has begun to deteriorate at an unheard of rate. Said deterioration includes the yearly bout with bronchitis, but also at least two broken toes.

I'm on the plane back to California right now, where I have to stay for approximately 8 weeks while I wait for my visa/work permit. I already have four doctors appointments lined up for tomorrow, all of which I suspect will help turn me into a better person.

That's what I've decided. I'm going to use the eight weeks I'm back home to become a better, more attractive person. I've purchased the books 'Learned Optimism' and '10 Days to Self-Esteem,' and am hoping to start a self-help book group with my morbidly depressed (and self-help accepting) American friends.

Other things I'm hoping to do during these 8 weeks:

I wonder if he's right, or if I just haven't found the right combination of meds yet. I've bought five self-help books in the last two weeks, and I'm hoping that if I actually read them, I will become a normal person. Wish me luck.