Sometimes, my dreams are so vivid, (like the ones about my Dad) that I wake up thinking "WTF just happened?" I had a dream that he came back, the Magnificent Obsession. I was at an art show with ML, I think it was at Artspace. ML's brother was showing a video piece. Cat was there, lots of people were there. I'm looking around, talking to people, having a laugh and whatnot. I look up and there he is. Just walks through the door like he's been living in town the whole time. And I'm thinking, "Is that? No freaking way, can't be." But it is. He looked how I imagine he would look now: glasses, shorter hair, ten years older. He comes over to me, puts his arm around my waist, gives me a peck on the cheek and tells me how nice it is to see me. OOOKaaay. Here's the kicker: he's with my grade school crush! Um, WHAT? And then, THEN, it turns out that he has a piece in the show too. A performance piece. Seriously? Seriously. And yes, it's bad performance art, what else would it be? At least my subconscious spared me from having him turn up in my dream wearing a kilt (he was Scottish by way of Louisiana and would show up at parties wearing one from time to time, but that would have really been too much for me).
I know why I had this dream. ML and I were having a very nice dinner at Central Steakhouse and we were talking about all sorts of things. His record, my book, work, taking a vacation, you know, stuff. We got on the topic of dating and relationships and how people meet their significant others. So it came up: how I had seen Magnificent Obsession at a party and fallen head over heels on sight. Yup, love at first sight. I realize this makes me a bit cliche, but whatever, it happened. I was at a YSD party with my friends, sitting with Mr. Doug, having a drink. I looked up and saw him dancing across the room and that was it. I was all "Who IS that?" and Mr. Doug said "Oh, that's Magnificent Obsession (if you want his name, you'll have to read my book if it ever comes out)." And then I said, "I'm in love with him." Just like that, I knew, not the way you know about a good melon, but still, I knew. And for the next three years, though I spent time with other boys and men, he was it for me.
I told ML how being with Magnificent Obsession was the best worst thing I've ever done I also said that everyone should have the opportunity to have that feeling of all consuming, gotta have you even though it might be bad for me in the short term I will learn from this in the long term kind of passion. Because then you know you're capable of feeling something that strong and hopefully you will feel something similar for the next person. Similar, not exactly the same, because that shit happens only once in a lifetime for most people. And a lot of people don't end up with the person that they felt all of that for in the first place, because maybe it's too much and maybe it's a wee bit unhealthy, as it was in my case.Ok, more than wee bit. (No, I don't have stats on all that, I'm just saying.Just speaking from experience here.) Did a lot of crazy things happen over the course of the three years we were involved (not together, because we were never officially together)? Yes. Did I behave foolishly? Oh my God, DID I, and often. Was I, in a nutshell, what my gays call "a hot mess?" Absolutely, sometimes even a hot drunken mess, because the booze makes everything more vivid and dramatic. Do I still think about him? From time to time (obviously, I just had a dream about him). Do I have regrets? Nope. When the dust settled after that one, I picked up the good memories and I carry them with me to this day. Ok, first I sought psychiatric help, THEN I sorted out the good from the bad and that's what I keep with me. So, to sum up, I know what it feels like to fall in love hard and fast. I know what having my heart totally broken feels like (did you know that you can actually have chest pains due to a broken heart?) and I know that I can survive both. AND, some good poems came out of it all, so really, what do I have to complain about? My point exactly.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Defying Gravity
This beautiful young lady is my niece. She just turned 14 last week. We celebrated by going to her very first Broadway show. I met her and her mom (my sister) in the City and we had a nice meal. Then we went to the show. What show? Wicked. It was really beautiful and fun. Catchy tunes (listen to Popular and see if it doesn't get stuck in your head, go on, I dare you), amazing sets and costumes, cool little twists in the story, nice message. I cried a little at the end of the first act, and got choked up at the end, surprise. Good times.Oh, maybe you're wondering what that thing she's standing in is. That's Glinda's "bubble," the one she makes her entrance in at the top of the show. You see, when I mentioned to my theater friends that I was taking my niece to see her first show and that her first show would be Wicked, they managed to arrange for a backstage and onstage tour. Of course, I didn't tell her that was going to happen until we were at the stage door. SURPRISE!! You should have seen her face. So, big love to Cat, Kai and Mr. Doug for making this happen. And special thanks to Jordan the sound engineer for being a very gracious host/tour guide. It was so freaking cool. And yes, if you happened to walk past my little office on Friday, I was listening to the soundtrack on a continuous loop. (I would apologize to my coworkers, but sometimes, what they are listening to drives me bananas too. I didn't say it sucked!). I purchased a sweatshirt for my niece (don't know if she's taken it off yet) and baseball tees for my sister and me that say "defy gravity" (must wear a bra with this tee or else it's just a little bit sad). It meant a lot to me to be able to do this for my niece, who is also my god daughter and everything I wish I had been at her age. I'm hoping we can make it a tradition, which means I'm going to have to remember to invite my mother next time or risk catching hell again. Apparently, having a photo op with Jon Secada is not enough.
Speaking of Mr. Doug, after three plus years working on Wicked (click here for his hilarious and touching highlights of this gig), he's moving on, who knows where, but I know it's going to be wonderful. Good luck with whatever your next adventure may bring. I hope the wind blows you this way soon, so that we can catch up over some Malaysian food. And keep making those mixes! Oh, about this picture, yeah, high-larious.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Audrey Moment
Ok. So, forget that I totally alluded to this Audrey/Natalie comparison in a previous post. And try not to think about the fact that she gets to wear THE dress...one of the three Givenchy created for Audrey to wear in the film Breakfast at Tiffany's (the remaining two are in Madrid's Museum of Costume and in Givenchy's archive). This dress is going to be auctioned off at Christies South Kensington, London on December 5 with proceeds going to charity. It is valued at, oh, somewhere between, oh I don't know....50,000 to 70,000 pounds, but it will probably go for more than that easily. Sadly, I have no where near that money and I don't think Christies does the lay-away thing.
My point, and I do have one, is simple. Been there, done that.
This is me in the spring of 1997. Black column dress with interesting back view? Check. Pearl choker and earrings? Check. Coy over the shoulder look? Check. I was roughly the same age in this photo as Miss Portman is above, give or take a month and I was on my way to the Yale School of Drama's prom. No, I was not chaperoning.
I wonder where the hell that dress is. Damn.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The Hunger
I mentioned this in a June post, but it's been on my mind lately, so excuse the repetition. -Daisy
The classic Cuban diet was never a mystery to me. Breakfast is cafe con leche (that's espresso with hot milk) and a buttered roll. Lunch, if you're lucky, was a Cuban sandwich or, my favorite, a medianoche (same sandwich, different bread). Dinner consisted of any combination of the following: rice (white or yellow), beans (red, black, garbanzos), meat (chicken, steak, pork chops or chunks), plantains (double fried green or sweet yellow) and salad. Sometimes a salad meant sliced avocado or tomato on your plate, sometimes it was a bit more traditional. Of course, there were exceptions. Fish on Friday during Lent, ropa vieja (yes, it translates into old clothes), ox tail (truly delicious, don't make that face!) and on Christmas Eve, New Year's eve, any eve, really, a giant slab of roast pork with crispy skin. No tuna surprise or Hamburger Helper in our house. Dessert most nights consisted of a treat that my Dad would bring home. I went through phases that can only be described as compulsive: Kit Kat phase (separate each piece, eat around the edge, then eat the wafer), M&M phase (sort by color and count before eating), Hershey Bar phase (break into the individual squares before eating), Chunky phase (strangely no method. Must have been a short phase). Summer meant ice cream from Mister Softee. I could hear that truck coming from five blocks out and I was always ready. I was home from college one weekend and the truck pulled up in front of our building. I walked up for old times' sake and the driver recognized me. I was that good of a customer. The thing is, I love food. Give me a perfectly cooked steak, a side of salty french fries and a slice of chocolate cake a la mode and I am one happy girl. Hell, a good salad can turn my day around, but if you look at my history, there might be some doubt.
When I was kid, my parents had to give me medicine to increase my appetite. I remember taking the medicine (one giant spoonful before dinner) and I remember what it tasted like (cough syrup, but richer), but I don't remember not having an appetite (does this mean it worked? I guess). My sister will tell you that I was chubby for about ten minutes when I was a kid. I took gymnastics for about four years, but it wasn't the serious, crazy competitive kind. It was the twice a week after-school sponsored by the town's recreation program kind. I loved it so much, I showed up for my last meet ever with a fever so high, my shoulders were red. The coach thought I had a sunburn. It was the only time I fell during a performance and everyone in the gym heard me let an expletive loose on the mats. I slipped trying to nail a cartwheel, a freaking cartwheel! Maybe it was the serious, crazy competitive kind after all. I survived high school with the usual injuries (ok, one really bad one) and went off to college. I gained the freshman twenty. I had great friends, good professors and was studying something I loved. And then...
First semester senior year: first boyfriend, loss of virginity, death of a student in one of the dorms (I was a resident assistant, so I was doing a lot of damage control), death of a close family friend, finals, home for Christmas, dumped by boyfriend. My courseload consisted of six classes, and I had three jobs. I worked in the library, in one of the administrative offices and I was a resident assistant (which means, if I was in my room, I was working). My parents did not have to pay for room and board, so it was worth it. I had one semester to go before I went out into the world and I felt like things were out of control. Turns out I had to take a phys ed course before I graduated, so I signed up for muscle toning. The "professor" walked us through using the machines a couple of times and then we were responsible for making it to the gym 12 times before the end of the semester. I don't know when it happened, but I started going four times a week. This was also around the time when I decided I didn't need to eat as much, if at all. I didn't have time to eat, I was working and studying and spending time with my friends. I ate bagels, oranges, cereal, rice. I drank coffee (and beer). I smoked cigarettes instead of eating sometimes. When I ate a "big" meal, I did so right before or right after the gym, so I was burning the calories. I never said I was on diet because I didn't think I was on a diet. I didn't own a scale, I don't remember weighing myself ever, so how could I be dieting? I was sick, but I didn't realize it. Like I said, things were out of control, so the only thing I thought I had any control over was my body. I was punishing myself for not being perfect. Things would go "wrong" and I would punish myself by starving myself. I have no idea what I looked like back then, and I don't think I have any pictures, but I'm guessing I looked like hell. My cheeks will never not be chubby and I only wore baggy clothes, so how was anyone to know that I was shrinking? My friends knew it, and they tried to get me to eat, but I couldn't and wouldn't. Luckily, I graduated and had to move back home, where there is no such thing as not eating. I was saved! But not really.
Summer, 2003: my father was dying, work was getting more stressful, ML and I moved in together, I was in a friend's wedding and it all started to get to me. I felt like things were out of control and the switch flipped. I only had coffee for breakfast, I "ran errands" at lunch so that I could sit on a park bench by myself and cry, I ate tiny dinners. I was too upset to eat, too busy, too tired. By September (more likely July), my pants were looser, I felt like hell and I'm guessing it showed. When my Dad slipped into the coma, I had to go home, I had to eat. People brought us food everyday, I had to eat. I had to get my strength up so that I could help my siblings care for my father and support my mother. I did it, not perfectly, but I did it. I was there. And I was eating.
When I see Ellen Pompeo or Calista Flockhart or Nicole Richie looking like a strong gust is going to blow them away, I get mad. Not because I hate them for being thin (maybe they are naturally that way, I don't know, I can't say), but because they make me think about of what I might have looked like when I was sick and that scares me. It's still a slippery slope, this not eating thing. Sometimes, I start to slip and I have to catch myself (or someone else catches me and hands me a sandwich). I know I have to be careful with this for the rest of my life. I know deep down that the flaws (and fat) I see in the mirror probably aren't there. I know that when my mother calls me gordy, she isn't actually saying I am fat, it's a term of endearment, one she won't be trading in any time soon. I know I have to be good to myself and not punish myself when I make a mistake or think I've messed up. I know I have to find better ways to handle stress (writing a blog for example). Most importantly, I know I have to eat.
The classic Cuban diet was never a mystery to me. Breakfast is cafe con leche (that's espresso with hot milk) and a buttered roll. Lunch, if you're lucky, was a Cuban sandwich or, my favorite, a medianoche (same sandwich, different bread). Dinner consisted of any combination of the following: rice (white or yellow), beans (red, black, garbanzos), meat (chicken, steak, pork chops or chunks), plantains (double fried green or sweet yellow) and salad. Sometimes a salad meant sliced avocado or tomato on your plate, sometimes it was a bit more traditional. Of course, there were exceptions. Fish on Friday during Lent, ropa vieja (yes, it translates into old clothes), ox tail (truly delicious, don't make that face!) and on Christmas Eve, New Year's eve, any eve, really, a giant slab of roast pork with crispy skin. No tuna surprise or Hamburger Helper in our house. Dessert most nights consisted of a treat that my Dad would bring home. I went through phases that can only be described as compulsive: Kit Kat phase (separate each piece, eat around the edge, then eat the wafer), M&M phase (sort by color and count before eating), Hershey Bar phase (break into the individual squares before eating), Chunky phase (strangely no method. Must have been a short phase). Summer meant ice cream from Mister Softee. I could hear that truck coming from five blocks out and I was always ready. I was home from college one weekend and the truck pulled up in front of our building. I walked up for old times' sake and the driver recognized me. I was that good of a customer. The thing is, I love food. Give me a perfectly cooked steak, a side of salty french fries and a slice of chocolate cake a la mode and I am one happy girl. Hell, a good salad can turn my day around, but if you look at my history, there might be some doubt.
When I was kid, my parents had to give me medicine to increase my appetite. I remember taking the medicine (one giant spoonful before dinner) and I remember what it tasted like (cough syrup, but richer), but I don't remember not having an appetite (does this mean it worked? I guess). My sister will tell you that I was chubby for about ten minutes when I was a kid. I took gymnastics for about four years, but it wasn't the serious, crazy competitive kind. It was the twice a week after-school sponsored by the town's recreation program kind. I loved it so much, I showed up for my last meet ever with a fever so high, my shoulders were red. The coach thought I had a sunburn. It was the only time I fell during a performance and everyone in the gym heard me let an expletive loose on the mats. I slipped trying to nail a cartwheel, a freaking cartwheel! Maybe it was the serious, crazy competitive kind after all. I survived high school with the usual injuries (ok, one really bad one) and went off to college. I gained the freshman twenty. I had great friends, good professors and was studying something I loved. And then...
First semester senior year: first boyfriend, loss of virginity, death of a student in one of the dorms (I was a resident assistant, so I was doing a lot of damage control), death of a close family friend, finals, home for Christmas, dumped by boyfriend. My courseload consisted of six classes, and I had three jobs. I worked in the library, in one of the administrative offices and I was a resident assistant (which means, if I was in my room, I was working). My parents did not have to pay for room and board, so it was worth it. I had one semester to go before I went out into the world and I felt like things were out of control. Turns out I had to take a phys ed course before I graduated, so I signed up for muscle toning. The "professor" walked us through using the machines a couple of times and then we were responsible for making it to the gym 12 times before the end of the semester. I don't know when it happened, but I started going four times a week. This was also around the time when I decided I didn't need to eat as much, if at all. I didn't have time to eat, I was working and studying and spending time with my friends. I ate bagels, oranges, cereal, rice. I drank coffee (and beer). I smoked cigarettes instead of eating sometimes. When I ate a "big" meal, I did so right before or right after the gym, so I was burning the calories. I never said I was on diet because I didn't think I was on a diet. I didn't own a scale, I don't remember weighing myself ever, so how could I be dieting? I was sick, but I didn't realize it. Like I said, things were out of control, so the only thing I thought I had any control over was my body. I was punishing myself for not being perfect. Things would go "wrong" and I would punish myself by starving myself. I have no idea what I looked like back then, and I don't think I have any pictures, but I'm guessing I looked like hell. My cheeks will never not be chubby and I only wore baggy clothes, so how was anyone to know that I was shrinking? My friends knew it, and they tried to get me to eat, but I couldn't and wouldn't. Luckily, I graduated and had to move back home, where there is no such thing as not eating. I was saved! But not really.
Summer, 2003: my father was dying, work was getting more stressful, ML and I moved in together, I was in a friend's wedding and it all started to get to me. I felt like things were out of control and the switch flipped. I only had coffee for breakfast, I "ran errands" at lunch so that I could sit on a park bench by myself and cry, I ate tiny dinners. I was too upset to eat, too busy, too tired. By September (more likely July), my pants were looser, I felt like hell and I'm guessing it showed. When my Dad slipped into the coma, I had to go home, I had to eat. People brought us food everyday, I had to eat. I had to get my strength up so that I could help my siblings care for my father and support my mother. I did it, not perfectly, but I did it. I was there. And I was eating.
When I see Ellen Pompeo or Calista Flockhart or Nicole Richie looking like a strong gust is going to blow them away, I get mad. Not because I hate them for being thin (maybe they are naturally that way, I don't know, I can't say), but because they make me think about of what I might have looked like when I was sick and that scares me. It's still a slippery slope, this not eating thing. Sometimes, I start to slip and I have to catch myself (or someone else catches me and hands me a sandwich). I know I have to be careful with this for the rest of my life. I know deep down that the flaws (and fat) I see in the mirror probably aren't there. I know that when my mother calls me gordy, she isn't actually saying I am fat, it's a term of endearment, one she won't be trading in any time soon. I know I have to be good to myself and not punish myself when I make a mistake or think I've messed up. I know I have to find better ways to handle stress (writing a blog for example). Most importantly, I know I have to eat.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
My Huckleberry Friend
Yeah, I know. Gorgeous. Seriously, look at her!So, you've seen the GAP ad, right? Audrey's dancing scene from Funny Face remixed to AC/DC's Back in Black? Right. I don't know how I feel about it. First, I was dumbfounded. Like, "Did I just see that?" And then I was all, "My worlds have officially collided." But now I'm just happy to see her. In a world where this seems to be the standard, I'm glad that someone so beautiful, so graceful, so...Audrey, is still relevant. Granted, the imagery is being used in an ad for pants, but that's not the point. The point is...simplicity and modesty are still lovely. Right on!
Exhibit A: Natalie Portman rocking classic Audrey at the Golden Globes.
Little Black Dress? Check (vintage Chanel Haute Couture. NICE.) Pixie cut? Check. Elegant makeup and super simple jewelry? Double check. When someone invokes the phrase, "that's so Audrey," make no mistake, this is what they mean. God knows I've tried to do it. There was a time in my life when I owned, oh, I don't know, SEVEN black dresses. I'm down to three (one vintage, one fancy, one super-fancy) but the message is the same: Keep it simple and nobody gets hurt. When did I first love Audrey? New Years' Eve, 1988. My parents were going to their social club and I had no plans, so I decided to stay in and rent a movie I'd never seen. Something black and white, an old school romantic comedy. My pick? Roman Holiday, 1953.
Here's the breakdown as provided by IMDB: "A young princess, tired of the constraints her position brings, runs away. She doesn't know the man who befriends her is a reporter out for a story." Sounds good, right? I also credit this movie with giving me a very serious case of "I heart Gregory Peck (damn, he's beautiful)." PS: pre-Green Acres Eddie Albert costars as the crafty sidekick. Who knew? I LOVED IT. It's still my favorite Audrey movie. Maybe because it was her first, maybe because it was my first. She's just good in it. Oscar winning good. From then on, I could not get enough. Wait Until Dark still scares the bejeebus out of me (Alan Arkin=scary), Love in the Afternoon still breaks my heart (Gary Cooper=dreamy) and Charade, well, I don't think it gets better than that (Cary Grant=no equal). Yes, yes, I know, Breakfast at Tiffany's. I love it, you know I do. I shouldn't even have to mention it. Pre-A-Team George Peppard is swoon-inducing, Patricia Neal kills it (do you think they dressed her to look like the Wicked Queen from Snow White on purpose?) and Givenchy whips up some timeless dresses (the pink one? When she gets the telegram? If you're going to receive a telegram and trash your apartment, why not be in a dress like that?)
Yes, the woman was beautiful and talented and an icon, probably a reluctant one. But more than that, she stood for something, something that probably made me love her from the moment I saw her, but I didn't realize at the time. Acceptance of self. She conveyed a certain confidence without being smug. What people forget is that when Audrey came on the scene in the1950s, her look was not the standard of beauty. She came along when Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Jane Russell and all those super shapely women were IT. One of her many strengths, I think, was that she knew she was different, but she wasn't going to change herself. She was beautiful on her terms, not the studio or magazine terms.
When I'm feeling crappy--perhaps suffering from the mean reds--and I can't hop the train and go to Tiffany's (although, seriously? That works. "Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there."), I rock out a little Audrey singing Moon River on the ipod. It's the next best thing. Try it sometime. Here. Watch this and tell me you don't feel better. Told you.
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