tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-122298382024-03-23T18:13:14.511+00:00EJ Takes LifeEJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.comBlogger383125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-47537576887113006632008-01-09T20:29:00.000+00:002008-01-09T21:05:31.084+00:00new site at tumblrHello...?<br /><br /><em>*crickets*</em><br /><br />So... you may have noticed I was gone for a while. That was kind of intentional on my part. For a time, I had three big things occupying my mind. One of them was paper that tried very hard to break my brain. It only partly succeeded. The second was a boy situation that I knew was a bad idea, that the boy knew was a bad idea, that the very few people I told about it told me was a bad idea, but I went ahead with it anyways. Because I'm a sucker for lost causes, and because it gets lonely at the holidays. That's done now, hopefully for good, and everyone emerged unscathed. But it was something that, for a lot of reasons, I didn't and won't write about again, at least not until I get some much-needed distance. Like, say, to another continent. <br /><br />The final reason was the family situation to which I alluded a while ago. It got worse, much worse, and though it too has somewhat resolved itself, not everybody emerged as unscathed. People said some very hurtful, even unforgivable things in the course of it, and it took a lot out everyone involved. I was expressly forbidden from writing about it, in part because there could have been legal ramifications and there almost certainly would have been emotional ones. Someday I might write about the lessons I took from it, because I watched carefully from the sidelines and learned a lot about how to communicate with people whose views clash with your own, how to get your desired outcome on someone else's terms and when to stop talking even though you have more to say. But for now, it's way too soon and way too messy to write on it, even for private consumption only.<br /><br />People in bad or boring situations generally don't write well. They <em>whine</em> well, but there's plenty of that in the world and I didn't want to contribute more. I would rather not blog at all than have a "here's what I ate for lunch today" or "why I'm voting for Obama" or "what my New Year's resolutions are" blog. There's a place for that kind of writing, and it's called a journal. I don't begrudge people who write indulgently, lazily, or selfishly. That is their right, and usually, if they intend to become good writers, a necessary evil. Good writers are made, not born, and everyone has off days, weeks, even off seasons. But whether people want to admit it or not, there is a huge pool of mediocrity in personal blogging, one that, by starting dozens of entries complaining about life in unspecific and highly unoriginal terms, I felt like I was contributing to. <br /><br />Some people power through and manage to break out of a bad cycle. I turn to a different platform for inspiration.<br /><br />I started a blog at Tumblr on a whim and found myself really liking it. If Blogger and Typepad can be thought of as journals or diaries, Tumblr is a scrapbook. I enjoy the encouragement to post frequently and without excessive text. It's been a fun challenge to keep myself from rambling on like I usually do, to make words and phrases count for more and let content speak for itself. Perhaps most blessedly of all, this format help keep a blog largely free of the triteness that plagues so much of personal blogging (a crime that I do not in any way exempt myself from-- there may well be a screenshot of EJ Takes Life in the dictionary under "Navel-Gazing"). <br /><br />I may come back to Blogger eventually, but right now am really enjoying Tumblr. So please, update your bookmarks and links, because EJ is settling in for the long haul over there.<br /><br />Oh, and if you didn't know what "EJ" stood for:<br /><br /><a href="http://emmyjean.tumblr.com/">emmyjean.tumblr.com</a>EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-14089757933407781442007-11-30T23:10:00.000+00:002007-12-01T01:56:01.623+00:00amusing things my dad says vol. IIIOn our collected response to the latest family crisis:<br /><br />"We are a bunch of nerdy, anal-retentive-y... <span style="font-style: italic;">nerds</span>."EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-35366381270434671322007-11-27T19:59:00.000+00:002007-11-27T20:29:00.504+00:00heart smartDue to some recent Human Resources shenanigans at work, I've been tracking my paycheck deposits pretty closely over the last few weeks. Traditionally I've not always been the greatest with money. Though I'm now ruthless about paying off my credit card in full each month and, after some pretty typical post college carelessness (oops, Verizon bill fell behind the bar again!) generally am not late with things, I really have no idea how my paycheck is calculated each month. To ape the <em>Friends</em> episode, I don't really know who FICA is or why the hell he gets all my money. I have no idea why I've paid over a thousand dollars out of pocket for medical bills in the last year when insurance gobbles up a chunk of my salary. I just know that magic money faeries put enough money into my checking account every other week to keep me from having to borrow nickels to pay for a Metro fare, like I did immediately following college graduation. That was not a fun time for EJ.<br /><br />Like most overeducated and underemployed young adults in DC, I live paycheck to paycheck. I've never known anything else and, given my education and professional choices, probably won't know anything else for a long time. I figure I'll just marry rich and then justify my shallowness by calling it fourth-wave feminism. Perhaps I'll become one of those fabulous stay-at-home moms I see in <em>Washingtonian</em> who live in Georgetown and wear lots of Lilly Pulitzer. I'll run a "freelance lifestyle consulting business" where I charge clients several thousand dollars for advice such as "live in Georgetown" and "wear lots of Lilly Pulitzer."<br /><br />But for now I'm okay with the job I have and track I'm on because there are other benefits, financial and otherwise. It pays my tuition. It exposes me to lots of interesting and brilliant people. It gives me a super-cheap gym membership.<br /><br />Let's consider that last a bit, yes?<br /><br />In my obsessive monitoring, I noticed an out-of-cycle deposit for over $500. Though my employer owed me a rather large sum, this didn't fit the deposit schedule I'd worked out with HR. So I clicked on the electronic check to see what was up, only to see that it was a refund from my gym.<br /><br />That's right. My gym has refunded my last year's worth of payments. My gym has given up on me. <br /><br />In my defense, I hate my gym. I hate that it's full of 90-pound teenagers who hog the ellipticals while sporting full makeup and cropped Prada workout uniforms. I'm sure that when they look at me, in my pilly GAP circa-1998 bootcut running pants and whatever T-shirt I got from a college teambuilding retreat, they shudder and say to themselves "please let that never be me." Which is a totally understandable reaction, since when I work out I'm projecting frustration, anger and perspiration in equal and substantial amounts. <br /><br />And it's not like I haven't been working out. There are the dance classes, the weights at home, the despised morning and late night runs...<br /><br />Oh, forget it. Who am I kidding? My gym totally gave up on me. Some asshole with 3% body fat probably saw my record and said "this girl clearly needs more money for Hostess Cupcakes. Let's take pity on her." <br /><br />Well, joke's on you, Anonymous Archetypal Gym Person! I don't even <em>eat</em> any Hostess products! I'm totally taking my $500 and investing it in heart-smart vegetables, whole grains and lean proteins, right after I finish this chocolate croissant and venti vanilla latte. HAH.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-668787006370168682007-11-27T02:14:00.001+00:002008-12-09T07:33:36.007+00:00the planning for urban orphan thanksgiving 2008 starts now<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGOjBH7WSJqgCxuL3ooRjK5z0sVo1QDUvwpUNuSDZ1BXmjDzQeM2pWlSqup_vljzgRcJyJNSvpCak-KBrkHlraz1PJZU9W5CzdeTZV8uzH03PzgnbyBY6EQ76NqKd1mE_JHYpN3Q/s1600-h/IMG_0189.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137338011716226498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGOjBH7WSJqgCxuL3ooRjK5z0sVo1QDUvwpUNuSDZ1BXmjDzQeM2pWlSqup_vljzgRcJyJNSvpCak-KBrkHlraz1PJZU9W5CzdeTZV8uzH03PzgnbyBY6EQ76NqKd1mE_JHYpN3Q/s400/IMG_0189.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is a drawing my cousin's son did on Thanksgiving. It shows me at the top of the "Kids" section.<br /><br />It, and my father's cornbread stuffing, were pretty much the highlights of the holiday. Not that the holiday or the 20+ character family reunion were in and of themselves awful, any more so than any single 25-year old woman's Thanksgiving in rural Indiana. It was more what happened after my plane left on Saturday that has left me wondering exactly when my family became one of those families who has to deal with crap that we were only supposed to see on blurry late-night reruns of <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">COPS</span>. We were not supposed to be one of those families.<br /><br />I don't know yet if or how I'll ever write about the news my grandfather's wife dumped on the family after I left on Saturday morning. Suffice it to say that it was bad, and it was very good that I wasn't there when she called this particular family meeting, because my response since finding out about it has employed a vocabulary that would most certainly not be welcome at the kids' table.<br /><br />I hope that you all had a very lovely Thanksgiving, and that the worst thing you had to deal with was your mother loudly sighing that she wishes you'd find a nice boy/girlfriend. I miss when that was the worst part of my Thanksgiving.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-74964773955520818872007-11-21T18:37:00.000+00:002007-11-21T19:15:16.949+00:00sparks may cause punctuation and caps lock abuse. please consume responsibly.Look, some people just have to learn the hard way that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sparks_(drink)">Sparks</a> is a bad, bad, bad drink. They don't <em>listen </em>when their friends tell them horror stories of waking up in the middle of the night with severe heart palpitations several days later, or of snapping out of a fog at their desk the next morning and realizing <em>they have no idea how they drove from Dupont to Dulles</em> but are still way too drunk to drive home but way too wired to stay at work and not have co-workers wonder what they've been snorting, so the only alternative is to tell people that they were going home sick and then sleep it off in the car until they sobered up enough to drive home.<br /><br />After last night I now can say from experience that the combination of Sparks, four vodka Red Bulls, Art Brut and the Hold Steady will do at least one if not all of the following to the average, healthy American female:<br /><br />1) dance and screech with such enthusiasm that the soreness of her feet is topped only by the soreness of her throat<br />2) loudly inform her friend that she's so wired she's going to grab that guy over there and either punch him or make out with him, maybe both, then quickly realize that she said this with enough forcefulness and volume that the guy heard her and consequently looks rather terrified and is backing away<br />3) cause her to get up in the middle of the night for water, run into a wall, then <em>punch the wall</em> because it was TOTALLY THE WALL'S FAULT<br />4) oversleep until the exact moment she is supposed to BE at the office, then <em>punch the same wall again</em> BECAUSE IT IS STILL TOTALLY THE WALL'S FAULT<br />5) show up at the office late sporting jeans, unwashed postconcert hair and a giant black smudge on her cheek from sleeping on her stamped hand, prompting a co-worker to take one look at her and start laughing hard enough to give himself a hernia<br />6) order and consume an entire super-size Wendy's # 3 meal at 11 AM<br />7) be so wired and jittery thirteen hours later that typing a short blog post takes a good 35 minutes<br /><br />Over Thanksgiving dinner my bitchy aunt will ask me what the heck I'm doing with my life down there in our nation's capital. I anticipate it being the <a href="http://ejtakeslife.blogspot.com/2007/07/why-i-should-not-be-allowed-to-talk-to.html">second time in my life</a> I am completely and totally without any kind of response whatsoever.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-35126092211363036372007-11-15T20:01:00.000+00:002007-11-15T21:21:14.011+00:00vigilanteYesterday while reading Jezebel I came across the <a href="http://jezebel.com/gossip/hell-is-other-people/if-you-can-handle-a-really-depressing-teen-suicide-story-right-now-322888.php">story of a Missouri teenager who committed suicide</a> after receiving mean messages from a boy she liked on MySpace. Oh, but it gets so much worse. The "boy" was actually her ex-friend's mother. The mother knew that this girl had struggled with depression. The mother, upon learning the girl had killed herself, expressed no remorse because the poor girl had tried to hurt herself before. <br /><br />It is so very sickening, I can't recount all the horrible details. Suffice it to say that reading the story of this poor girl's life and death, I understand the vigilante urge for mob justice. I want to call this woman and scream at her that she's the reason a child is dead. I want to show up at her business and spit on her. I want to stand on her front lawn and wait until she comes out to get her mail and then lash out at her with my fists and words. <br /><br />Obviously I won't be doing any of those things, but it's noteworthy that I want to because I'm not an especially violent or vengeful person. I'm firmly in the "eye-for-an-eye makes everyone blind" approach to justice. <br /><br />In 2001, when the DC sniper was crawling around local parking lots shooting strangers at random, I appeared on an MSNBC talk show to talk about what it was like going to school in DC in a post-September 11 world (no, I don't remember which show-- it was MSNBC, aren't they all the same?). When the host asked me if I thought the DC sniper should get the death penalty when he was caught, I said no. The host really pressed me, saying things like "but he's obviously evil and disturbed," and "so would you want him living next door to you?" I kept my cool and responded that morals only meant something if you held to them under the toughest circumstances, so no, I would not want the death penalty for the DC sniper. The host got pissed that he couldn't break me and went to commercial.<br /><br />Overlooking the fact that I managed to be <strong>so</strong> sanctimonious at nineteen, you can get my basic point. I'm not a violent person. I use my words, and I use lots of them. But I think of this woman, her total lack of remorse, the fact that there are no laws on the books to protect people from online harassment, the gall it takes to press charges for property destruction against the parents of the child you drove to suicide, and I want to cause her pain. <br /><br />It seems especially cruel that an adult woman would inflict those kind of mind games on a teenage girl. Believe me when I say that every day, I'm thankful that I never have to go back and do adolescence again. It was bad enough the first time, and not to sound too critical of today's whippersnappers, it was still not <em>this</em> bad back in my day. I can watch <em>My Super Sweet 16</em> as an adult and make grand pronouncements about Today's Youth and Consumer Culture, but I never had one of those girls running my sophomore class. I had other girls say mean things about me in the halls (and to be fair, I also said mean things about other girls in the halls) but they were never captured and preserved for posterity online. There's not enough money in the world to make me repeat those years, but much rather I'd do it again as I experienced it than start over again today.<br /><br />Since both geography and the bounds of human decency keep me from lashing out at this woman the way I would like to, I would add here for any teenage girls who happen to stumble across: I'm so sorry. This totally the worst time in your life. I get it, I really do. You have to get up really early and spend all day learning a lot of stuff you won't ever use, surrounded by a lot of people who can be really, really mean. And the adults around you... well, a lot of them don't get that it sucks. A few do, but they are few and far between, and their hands are tied by all sorts of regulations and rules and they're crazy busy and overworked. And a lot of stuff like, oh, watching out for the kind of non-violent but insanely cruel mental warfare that only teenage girls can inflict with such brutality... well, it gets lost in the shuffle. I totally get why you think life sucks. If I had to do that all over again, I would think life sucked, too.<br /><br />So take this lesson from your Big Sis EJ to heart: right now it sucks, but it gets so much better. I promise! People start to chill out around your junior year of high school, and from there it's only a short time until college. And you can be anything you want in college! Experiment with bisexuality and Republican politics in the same year! Go to Italy on study abroad and make out with a European dude! Take Psych 101 and later tell all your roommates about how sad the monkey experiment was! <br /><br />And then you go to work, where they have rules about the people you spend your days with being awful bitches to one another (unless you work in fashion, media or in politics, in which case... well, good luck). Trust me, your harried seventh-grade homeroom teacher has nothing on a Human Resources department. <br /><br />Just hold on, and know that everyone-- and I do mean everyone-- is secretly terrified that they are weird and abnormal and strange and that <em>everyone else knows it</em>. <br /><br />Oh, and my own little contribution besides posting here? I forwarded this to <a href="http://s-inthecity.blogspot.com/">a friend</a> who forwarded it to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Turley">this guy</a>. Who wrote <a href="http://jonathanturley.org/2007/11/15/girl-commits-suicide-after-adult-neighbors-fake-a-myspace-personality-to-become-her-friend-and-then-attack-her/">this</a>. And yes, there is some kind of poetic justice in that the internet, the same medium, they used to destroy this girl, is the same tool that is <a href="http://jezebel.com/gossip/drew-no-blood/are-the-parents-who-myspace+tormented-megan-meier-into-killing-herself-ready-to-atone-um-323254.php">going to hold them accountable</a>.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-43904304930244665452007-11-12T04:39:00.000+00:002007-11-12T05:53:12.067+00:00anatomy of an unsuccessful booty callStep 1: Attend multiple parties, overdrinking cheap red wine all the while, before ending up at a sex toy party.<br /><br />Step 2: Spend money you do not have on items of dubious morality. Later, you will blame your subsequent credit card bill on the combination of said red wine, peer pressure and a surprisingly persuasive saleswoman. For the time being, giddily compare your new purchases with those of your other friends.<br /><br />Step 3: Cab to Adams Morgan.<br /><br />Step 4: Adams Morgan hideously Adams Morgan-y. No one should have to deal with two consecutive nights of drunken AU sophomores, Amstel Lite and Fergie. Split.<br /><br />Step 5: Decide new purchases warrant immediate testing. Mull over who to call in for help with said testing: Option A or Option B. Decide it's too soon for Option A, text Option B.<br /><br />Step 6: Exchange increasingly R-rated series of texts with Option B. Option B being obnoxiously recalcitrant, expressing concern about the wisdom of the acts being proposed and wondering "if this is such a good idea." Get very frustrated. Hello! Trying to make a stupid but entertaining decision here! Now is not the time to develop a protective concern for emotional well-being!<br /><br />Step 7: Get very salty and belligerent that Option B did not immediately drop his plans and hoof it over to your apartment. Stumble back into apartment, pour self another glass of wine, keep CFM boots on in case Option B does get his act together and come over right away.<br /><br />Step 8: Receive text: "are u going to be up for a while?" Think to yourself "hell to the nawh!" Text back never to mind, manage to remove CFM boots, pass out on couch watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Dazed and Confused</span>. <br /><br />Step 9: Option B upgrades to calling: "are you sure you don't want me to come over?" Respond curtly that the moment has passed and slap your phone shut. <br /><br />Step 10: Briefly consider Option A again, but quickly remind yourself that no, the only idea worse than Option B right now would be Option A. <br /><br />Step 11: Receive text from Option B apologizing for being lame. Saucily respond that he should be, you were at a sex toy party earlier in the night. Smile as you picture the expression on his face when he reads this text. <br /><br />Step 12: Don't acknowledge next text from Option B, though it has moved into decidedly X-rated territory. He had his chance earlier.<br /><br />Now, where did you put the triple-A batteries?EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-91280202266576475372007-11-09T18:06:00.000+00:002008-12-09T07:33:36.172+00:00and don't even think about wearing your ironic hipster burqa to class<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7YCAN1aBK3fsjz9N4tKhZ3er8IpJwp1x5pNbmh6pNt4ep08vaZy7hkUeFV8uCN5b4WrC37v6ThqxTgt1QEejnkxDmcwH9LSTY3N-ntjdf8cYeMMYdUdZwmozFF5tyhd2-HbXNQ/s1600-h/kaffiyeh.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130903768940685426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7YCAN1aBK3fsjz9N4tKhZ3er8IpJwp1x5pNbmh6pNt4ep08vaZy7hkUeFV8uCN5b4WrC37v6ThqxTgt1QEejnkxDmcwH9LSTY3N-ntjdf8cYeMMYdUdZwmozFF5tyhd2-HbXNQ/s400/kaffiyeh.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br />To: The Female Student Body of The Education Corporation<br /><br />From: EJ, Associate Provost for Unsolicited Opinions, Office of the Prevention of Questionable Fashion<br /><br />Re: The Keffiyeh as Accessory<br />_____________________________________________________<br /><br />Dear Women of the Education Corporation,<br /><br />It has come to our attention that a significant portion of you have recently been wearing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keffiyeh">keffiyeh</a> as an accessory, most commonly as a scarf. On a recent stroll around campus, no less than five of you were spotted with keffiyeh jauntily wrapped around your necks. Of this pool, all subjects were also wearing leggings, three subjects were wearing Ugg or Ugg-esque boots and one subject was sporting a sweatshirt bearing the Greek letters for a Jewish sorority, a juxtaposition that caused at least one Corporation administrator to ask her companion "Am I actually seeing this, or did an IED just go off in my brain?"<br /><br />The administration of the Education Corporation cannot condone such wardrobe choices on the part of its student body.<br /><br />You students may well have "had, like, a <em>totally spiritual experience</em>" while on your birthright trips over the summer. However, the fact that you once spent a day on a kibbutz with other nineteen-year-olds from Syosset does not mean you may, with any authenticity or credibility, wear keffiyeh on your person. That you purchased the keffiyeh at Urban Outfitters, alongside a <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/catalog/productdetail.jsp;jsessionid=6A0BAD1E3C5F1B701E53B6DAADA4F5D4.app11-node8?itemdescription=true&itemCount=60&id=13810809&parentid=W_APP_TEES&sortProperties=+product.marketingPriority,-product.startDate&navCount=4&navAction=poppush&color=">$32 Transformers t-shirt</a>, does not help your case.<br /><br />We are prepared to offer case-by-case exceptions to individuals who can demonstrate that they are of Palestinian origin and/or express a sophisticated identification with and sympathy for the PLO. Moreover, the administration of the Education Corporation is sensitive to the fact that college is a time to try on new identities, often with varying degrees of success. To that end, we remain sympathetic to any undergraduate who allows his or her daily behavior, personality and approach to personal hygiene to be affected by any of the following:<br /><br />Ayn Rand<br />Clove cigarettes<br />Jean-Paul Sartre<br />The entire oeuvre of Ingmar Bergman. And Lasse Hallstrom. Basically, Swedish cinema in general<br />Immanuel Kant<br />Che Guevara<br />Interpol<br />The belief that Communism <em>could </em>be a valid method of social and political organization, it's just that it hasn't yet been adopted under the proper circumstances<br /><br />The Education Corporation has a tradition of success of ending unfortunate trends in neckwear, most notably bringing to a close the Great Burberry Plague of 2001-2004. We now appeal to your common sense, asking you to recognize that by <em>en masse</em> donning a symbol of anti-establishment rebellion, you drain the keffiyeh of all its political and social significance. Plus, you look stupid.<br /><br />We wish you the best of luck with the end of the semester, and look forward to seeing your more culturally-sensitive accessories in the New Year.<br /><br />Regards,<br /><br />EJEJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-45896197177576852782007-11-06T20:39:00.000+00:002007-11-13T03:50:33.189+00:00almostWhen I first decided to do NaBloPoMo this year, I didn't have much of a plan for how I would actually fulfill the daily posting requirement. A few days later, having already fallen off the wagon, it occurred to me that I should really be writing more about my family. Not the writing I often do, where I bitch about various extended family members who themselves bitch about me, but documenting stories of the people and memories I cherish.<br /><br />My father almost died this year. It sounds so melodramatic to phrase <a href="http://ejtakeslife.blogspot.com/2006/10/my-dad-is-sick.html">his illness</a>, <a href="http://ejtakeslife.blogspot.com/2006/12/bow-people.html">subsequent surgery</a> and <a href="http://ejtakeslife.blogspot.com/2007/01/breakdown-on-blue-line.html">post-surgery complications </a>like this. He would never use these words to describe his encounters with medicine over the last twelve months. I have never used them when talking about his health with him or another family member, despite being there for the <a href="http://ejtakeslife.blogspot.com/2007/01/glitter-and-hand-me-downs.html">especially painful aftermath</a>.<br /><br />Being in the thick of it, focusing on trying to stay positive and celebrating that he was getting the royal treatment at a great hospital, kept all of us from acknowledging the reality of the situation. It took a close family friend squeezing my hand several weeks after his surgery, her eyes swimming with maternal tears as she said "You know your father almost died, right?" for me to realize, oh, wow. Dad <em>did</em> almost die. And I was in no way ready to say goodbye to him.<br /><br />My memory of the weeks leading up to his surgery last December is fuzzy at best, but I remember feeling spectacularly guilty that he was dealing with this alone. I remember my irrational, unhelpful anger at my mother for not being able to leave her new job to be with him, at my sister's school for having the nerve to give her finals right as he was dealing with the possibility that his heart would give out at any moment. My fury at my own work for keeping me chained to a desk in Washington as Dad sat a dark, empty house in Michigan, a malfunctioning time bomb ticking in his chest. I pictured him sitting quietly with our elderly family cat curled up in his lap, the two of them bathed in the tinny blue glow of <em>Law and Order</em> reruns, trying not to think about the life-saving surgery that kept being postponed and falling asleep alone on the sofa, and my own heart broke.<br /><br />The surgery was a success and he began healing faster than anyone expected. Dad was determined to be the valedictorian of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy and would push himself to walk extra laps past the nurses' station and the courtyard. If other people recovered in five days, he would do it in three. He surprised everyone by coming home several days earlier than expected with a clean bill of health and very positive prognosis. Our immediate family spent a perfect Christmas together at our cabin, the women of the family eating and drinking Dad's share of the holiday feast and all of us stinking up the joint in our grungy pajamas as we watched endless DVDs and played Operation, congratulating ourselves on our gallows humor. We split off at the New Year to our four separate homes, Dad going back downstate to camp out in our old house with his aunt and uncle until he was safe to be alone.<br /><br />Dad was pan-frying pork chops in vinegar when he got the first pangs. He wrote them off as more soreness from the incision and didn't tell his aunt and uncle something was wrong. Less than a day later he was doubled over, practically hallucinating from the pain. In not wanting to make a big deal and worry his family, he ignored what turned out to be a major abscess on his gallbladder. By the time he told his aunt and uncle, the infection had destroyed his gallbladder and was starting to attack his other internal organs. Dad was in so much pain his uncle decided they shouldn't wait for an ambulance. Somehow they loaded him into the back of the car and set off for the hospital, but Dad was so out of it he couldn't give them directions and, being from out of state, they had no idea where to go.<br /><br />Luckily, they drove by a police car. When they told the officer what was going on he told them to follow him. The cops put on their sirens and escorted them to the nearest hospital, speeding through the streets of downtown Lansing. When they got to the ER, Dad couldn't sit or stand up, much less get out of the car. They managed to get him inside, where he blacked out from the pain. He only dimly remembers being told he needed emergency surgery to remove his gallbladder or any of the 48 hours that followed. He did tell me several weeks later that he remembered thinking this was it. He said he was in no way ready to go because his family wasn't with him, but that he knew he was loved.<br /><br />Even then, I don't know if I got how bad it was. I read back over the various blog posts I wrote during those weeks about returning to Michigan to take care of him as he recovered from his second surgery, and I'm embarrassed at how little they have to do with <em>him</em>. By focusing on the details of the HR paperwork to take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act, or venting my feelings on friends and strangers, I put off acknowledging the fact that my father almost died and I wasn't there with him. That for how close my family is, how much we genuinely enjoy one another's company and value each other, however generous we are with our phone calls and "I love yous" and advice, one of us almost died and the rest of us were too busy with life to be there when it happened. By focusing on the obnoxious, irrelevant minutiae of the situation I wrote myself a free pass for this unforgivable truth.<br /><br />Of course, he would never in a million years hold this against me or any other member of our family. He says he now looks back on the whole thing as a learning experience, something that has taught him that he's not Superman and that he needs to pay attention to his limits. He still works way too hard and holds himself to impossible standards, but he's also more attuned to his priorities. After he recovered from the gallbladder surgery he started making inroads to repair major rifts in our extended family, efforts that have already begun to pay off in emailed family legends and wedding invitations from long-lost cousins. It would be a stretch to say that he's grateful for the experience, but he's certainly handled his dalliance with mortality with more grace and diginity than most people would.<br /><br />Thinking of where he and our family are this holiday season, versus where we were a year ago, I feel much like I do when I walk by the White House or Capitol. Having lived in DC during September 11, I'm acutely aware of the sacrifice of people of United Flight 93. Today when I walk by the White House or Capitol I can't help but think "there but for the grace of God...," and it's the same with Dad. Had he stayed with the first cardiologist who told him he needed more exercise, had he not had the Mick Jagger of cardiothoracic surgeons, had he waited even an hour longer to tell his aunt and uncle he was in pain, had that police car not been there to escort them to the hospital... these few small decisions and coincidences are why he is still here today.<br /><br />Much as I am with the sacrifice of the passengers of United 93, I find myself knocked over with gratitude for whatever force in the universe allowed that period to unfold as it did. I am humbled by a chain of events that I don't understand. I am overwhelmed with love for my father and my family. To say that I will never again take them for granted would be unrealistically Pollyanna-ish of me, but to this day, I remain enthralled by my capacity to love them ferociously and endlessly, without condition or hesitation.<br /><br />And in my own myopic, navel-gazing way, I am thankful for the reminder that they will not be here forever and that there are only so many days to tell people that they are loved.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-44169736063136754912007-11-05T21:13:00.001+00:002007-11-05T21:22:15.290+00:00amusing things my father has said in the last seventy-two hours"I don't think I should be sending flowers to my gay boss."<br /><br />"Your mother keeps buying red leather couches. Our house is starting to look like the set of <em>Caligula</em> as interpreted by Pottery Barn."<br /><br /><em>Responding to my noting that it didn't seem very nice to be talking about another family member behind her back:</em> "But sweetie, that's why people have backs."EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-50214582654269821102007-11-02T20:53:00.000+00:002007-11-02T21:31:43.453+00:00but it's the last time i have to go there for another two yearsI recently had to spend a Saturday afternoon at the DMV to take care of some paperwork. Normally, this would be about as fun as... well, spending a Saturday afternoon at the DMV to take care of some paperwork. But a strange combination of unseasonably warm weather, a jolly female security guard who went around assigning nicknames to various patrons (most notably "Clark Gable, Jr." to one especially well-dimpled guy) and speedy lines wound up creating a carnival-like atmosphere in the waiting room. People were laughing with strangers. People were smiling. There was actual <span style="font-style: italic;">applause</span> when they shut the doors and announced that they weren't taking new people. <br /><br />A cute guy took the seat next to me and we wound up chatting, despite the fact that I was wearing a ratty tee from the summer camp I was a counselor at in college and the only concessions I'd made to personal hygiene were brushing my teeth and slapping on deodorant. It was entirely on the basis of my sparkling wit and innate charm that after two hours of waiting and talking, when I finally made it up to the teller, the guy came up behind me and handed me his number and email written on the back of his ticker number.<br /><br />Did I mention he was a Republican male model? Because he was a Republican male model. <br /><br />Contrast this ridiculously entertaining encounter with DC bureaucracy to this morning. I went in to work only to get my doctor's name from my Outlook, as the cold I've been fighting for three weeks finally broke into a vile hacking cough that rattled my lungs. My doctor is by Georgetown, and since I had some time to kill before he saw me, I thought I'd swing by the DMV in the <a href="http://www.shopsatgeorgetownpark.com/html/">Mall That Happiness Forgot</a> to finish up the last bit of documentation. Because this is how my brilliant mind works. <span style="font-style: italic;">Fever? Phlegmy cough? Unshowered and greasy bangs matted to forehead? Wearing glasses? Perfect time to get a new driver's license photo!</span><br /><br />In my defense, I was just trying to update my parking sticker. I didn't intend to get a new license with my new address. The DMV Lady, however, had other plans and held my new sticker hostage until I got my license updated with my new address (y'know, the one I moved into in April. I'm so on top of things). This broke my heart because my old license photo was one of the best pictures ever taken of me. It's seriously more flattering than my high school senior portraits. Replacing it with something doomed to be unflattering, even ugly, would make me emotional even if I wasn't so stopped up that my entire head already felt like it was leaking. <br /><br />In the end, the picture wasn't hideous. But it's not good, either. Both the cold and my contempt for District bureaucracy are written all over my face. I'm wearing the same sweatshirt I'm wearing in my passport picture, which was taken outside the US Consulate in Barcelona after my traveler's wallet was stolen in the spring of 2005. So that's some nice synchronicity, I suppose.<br /><br />But most annoyingly, I didn't even pick up a male model. Just as soon as I started to think the DMV was a magical place, reality brought me crashing back down to earth.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-78096623066217049312007-11-01T17:44:00.000+00:002008-12-09T07:33:36.439+00:00the road to hell...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqp7yrd_pcByOKtgr1dG7dDhOm2GV9R3787jX3hnU9so7aT13uo-_WVfm86cM27_4bsUdItXSwshOgRbtQ4yNrLZMv23dOyB0YBDj_rjwMPI7bNFJI9KUx-N_bDgQAP4KP3Bj5Q/s1600-h/nablo07.120x90[1].jpe"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127929315957764850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqp7yrd_pcByOKtgr1dG7dDhOm2GV9R3787jX3hnU9so7aT13uo-_WVfm86cM27_4bsUdItXSwshOgRbtQ4yNrLZMv23dOyB0YBDj_rjwMPI7bNFJI9KUx-N_bDgQAP4KP3Bj5Q/s400/nablo07.120x90%5B1%5D.jpe" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I'm going to try <a href="http://nablopomo.ning.com/">NaBloPoMo</a> again. Last year I made it up to Thanksgiving, but was ultimately thwarted by a lack of internet connection and inspiration. This year I begin my quest encumbered by school and language lessons, but for now I remain optimistic that I'll sack up and manage to at least post a cheeky Youtube clip once a day for the next month.<br /><br />I've got a few ideas for posts percolating, but could use some suggestions. Anything you want to know? Anything I should avoid like the plague? For other bloggers, what is your favorite device for filling space when you can't think of anything remotely interesting but your last post has been lingering at the top of your page for so long it's starting to smell funky?EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-34050513858526684262007-10-31T01:20:00.001+00:002007-10-31T01:25:24.755+00:00robert goulet, robert goulet, my god, robert goulet!I hope that I'm this much of a mischievous rapscallion right before I hit <a href="http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/hr/content_display/news/e3i2b399e0dbd654f9f9b1a962bb3cc875f">the big proscenium in the sky</a>:<br /><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cEqNpO_FuJI"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cEqNpO_FuJI" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object>EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-87096759601545519272007-10-29T14:02:00.000+00:002007-10-29T14:07:00.986+00:00checking inThere are some women who, upon realizing that the cute new minidress they tried on with leggings and flat knee-high boots in the store is borderline obscene when paired with black tights and heels, will change into something more appropriate for work.<br /><br />I am not one of those women.<br /><br />Oh, and hi. Didn't mean to be so long there. Diplomatic and imperial history have been so fascinating I simply cannot tear myself away. <br /><br />Okay, fine, I've been watching <em>Gossip Girl</em> and drinking too much Barolo in New York and spending money I don't have on things I don't need. Are you happy now?EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-5518156637281336012007-10-19T14:22:00.001+00:002007-10-19T18:07:39.659+00:00what's my motivation here?I auditioned for a play last weekend. Because I have all this spare time and everything, like school and work and attempts to have somewhat of a life simply aren't fulfilling enough.<br /><br />In all seriousness, I auditioned because I love, love, love the playwright's work and because the structure of the play would actually work fine with my insane schedule. And even though I'm ridiculously busy these days, it's within very structured contexts. The things I'm filling the days with don't leave a lot of room for freedom of conversation. It's either diplomatic history or advising students or practicing basic, flubbing, present-tense German. There are only so many times one can ask Gerhardt for a <em>stadtplan</em> before one craves verbal sparring, the freedom to move unrestricted to new ideas and topics. Ironically enough, the context of a play allows actors to do just that. Even though lines are written and mush be read, there's a tremendous freedom in trying on someone else's identity, however fleeting the moment is. It involves give and take with another person, a discussion of motivation, of quickly asking the kinds of questions people typically take lifetimes to address: why do I do the things I do? Why do I say the things I say? What do I want here? Why can't I see the obvious?<br /><br />So I auditioned, and the director liked me, and said she had me in mind for one part. It wasn't at all the part I'd seen myself playing, but I was flattered by her attention and appreciated the challenge to try something new. Here's where it gets weird.<br /><br />Because I'd only attended the callback and not the initial audition, the director wanted to see me read again. She said she like what she saw and that I had good chemistry with the lead actor, but she wanted to see how I responded to direction. Could I read for her again? And could I scrounge up a guy friend to read opposite?<br /><br />This was strange. A good actor should be able to read lines opposite a monotone casting director and still make their character work. Recruiting a random guy, a non-actor, to read opposite struck me as really weird. Yes, it's a play about relationships, but if all she was testing was how well I responded to direction, why the need to read opposite a non-actor guy, especially since she already had the actor cast?<br /><br />But I was flattered to be asked to read again and loved the material, so I told her I'd do it. My wonderful friend G agreed to be "the guy" after I bribed him with the offer of beer afterwards, and we met the director on Wednesday night to read some lines. Here's where it gets very weird.<br /><br />The director had a very specific vision in mind for the character. So specific, in fact, that after G and I had read maybe ten lines, she stopped us and <em>acted out the scene the way she wanted to see it done</em>. Poor G, he had no idea that when I asked him to do me this favor he'd end up in a tiny basement piano room with a strange 40-year-old woman screaming "why didn't you love me enough?!" in his face.<br /><br />You actors out there will support me when I say that this is strange. Acting isn't like dancing, where the choreographer will show a dancer exactly how a particular move should be executed and then the dancer imitates it. If actors are imitating the way a line is read or a gesture is made, it's just caricature. For a character to be believable to an audience, the actor has to organically make it her own. A director tells an actor where to take their interpretation, to make it more intense or quick or vulnerable, but acting is not supposed to be flat imitation. Of course I am going to have a different spin on this character than this director who is much older and blonder and shorter than me. Either of our interpretations could be valid, but she's the director and so hers is the one she's going with. Just don't try to shoehorn an actor into something that is not a good fit. Yes, it's the actor's job to fulfill the director's vision. But if the actor isn't going to fill that vision, flat imitation is not the way to go.<br /><br />Maybe she liked me and didn't want to hurt my feelings, but shit, actors have to have thick skins. Back when I still thought I might someday do this for real (a looooong time ago) I had directors tell me I was too tall, too fat, too aggressive, not aggressive enough, that I should consider a nose job if I was serious about ever acting professionally, that I blinked too much, that I was never going to be an ingenue but wasn't "unique" enough to be a character actor. And those are just the ones I remember.<br /><br />It sounds brutal, but was actually terrific. It taught me an incredibly valuable lesson: that rejection will happen, and it will usually happen for reasons beyond your immediate control. Because it's a rejection not of you, but of you for a specific part, you can't take it personally when someone says "you're not right for this." There are always other opportunities out there, especially when you just act as a hobby and happily pay the bills with something else.<br /><br />After I'd caved and imitated her line-reading, she thanked me profusely while hedging her bets. She said she loved me, just loved what I did, that I was lovely on stage and had a lovely way about me, but she still wasn't sure and wanted another day to think about it. I knew right then that I wasn't going to get this part, and, more importantly, that I didn't want it anymore.<br /><br />So when she called this morning, I wasn't at all surprised when she said she wasn't going to offer it to me. I was surprised, however, when she outlined her plan. "I'm going to audition a few more people," she said, "and then if none of them work out, go back to my list of a few favorites, of which you're at the top. So could you maybe hold your schedule for the next few weeks?" It was basically the theater equivalent of telling someone after a few dates that you're not really into them, but could you put them on the back burner while you see if you can get anyone hotter?<br /><br />I told her thanks, but no thanks, that I had holiday travel and a spring semester to plan and couldn't wait for her decision. I'm pretty glad it worked out this way, because I'm clearly not what she's looking for. This would have been an amazing part to play, and I loved all the ideas I had bouncing around my head for it. The dialogue is so meaty that the actors can practically chew on it, and I really did have great chemistry with the lead actor and am bummed that now I won't get to work with him. But it would have killed me to not be able to use my ideas for the character and instead try to imitate the director's vision, which was clearly such a bad fit for me.<br /><br />And honestly, I'm a little ticked that she got my hopes up when all along she was completely unwilling to be open to something new. If she'd just told me I was too fat, I'd probably have warmer feelings towards her now.<br /><br />And people wonder why actors are insane.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-76756196378938977542007-10-14T22:02:00.000+00:002007-10-15T01:08:53.798+00:00the most emotionally bleak series of events possible, not involving mass genocide or barneyHOLY GOD.<br /><br />People, if you learn anything at all from me, learn this: never, ever, ever, watch the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Candy</span> and less than a day later spend three hours at an audition reading Neil LaBute dialogue with a progression of strange men.<br /><br />Now if you'll excuse me, I have some curling up in a ball and whimpering to attend to.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-23490444568930676672007-10-10T15:36:00.000+00:002008-12-09T07:33:36.823+00:00white liberal guiltSitting at the bar at Matchbox waiting for K to arrive, I idly flipped the pages of my latest foreign policy tome, half-reading and half-listening to the guy sitting next to me drone on to his bored date about the challenges of owning <em><strong>two</strong></em> vacations homes. I'd gotten to the point in reading where I was only semi-processing the words as I read them, the structure of the narrative voice drifting in one ear and out the other as occasional nuggets like "Jeffersonian liberty" or "Open Door Policy" latched on the walls of my brain.<br /><br />As I sipped my water the bartender appeared to take my drink order. I asked for a Stella and looked back down at my book, but realized a moment later that she was still standing there, also looking down at it. I lifted my eyes to see her half-craning her head, as if to catch something written in it. This was the moment when I realized in horror that the chapter heading, splashed in big bold letters at the top of the page, was "The Hierarchy of Race."<br /><br />Now would be a good moment to clarify that she was black and I'm white.<br /><br />We looked up from the chapter heading at the same time and briefly met one anothers' eyes. In that brief moment of eye contact I tried to say "I am a student of history, not a pseudo-scientific Victorian eugenicist! Horrible misunderstanding! This stuff here? This is but the small-minded long-dead influence of a universally discredited theory of racial determinism and its effects on nineteenth-century policymaking! Me, I'm up with people! I led trust falls and small-group dynamic exercises as part of Students Educating Each Other About Discriminiation in high school! Down with whitey!"<br /><br />Her eyes, on the other hand, seemed to convey a rather simple message of "I hate you."<br /><br />Glowering, she turned away to get my beer and I bent back over my book, trying to shield the chapter heading with my cupped hand like it was an illict note passed during study hall. I flipped over to the next page just as she returned, sloshing the Stella over the side of the pint glass as she slammed it on the bar with more force than was entirely necessary. And of course, because God was watching and saw an opportunity, here's what was on the next page:<br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2enEGUVB-VUa5RGCW1jIJUVdWzzdboK5_ptbj3aB2V1LHygkk8aWROl0P7J0iz2XVFPwiZbPTY9a3Exmx67yoP7Y3OEClFcV3JcD27gVIUezuOiwbB5F9DknEKS1vw4AuDtB8rg/s1600-h/racist+book.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119737650125973122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2enEGUVB-VUa5RGCW1jIJUVdWzzdboK5_ptbj3aB2V1LHygkk8aWROl0P7J0iz2XVFPwiZbPTY9a3Exmx67yoP7Y3OEClFcV3JcD27gVIUezuOiwbB5F9DknEKS1vw4AuDtB8rg/s400/racist+book.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And of course, I couldn't say anything. Much like telling people you're funny or telling people you're powerful, the phrase "I'm not a racist" loses all meaning if you actually have to say it out loud to try to convince someone. <br /><br />So I just hunkered down and continued reading, sipping my one Stella as slowly as possible so she wouldn't have to come over again and ask if I wanted another. <br /><br />And then tipped her five bucks on a four dollar bill.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-9028781234548637322007-10-08T01:43:00.000+00:002008-12-09T07:33:37.362+00:00liminal space and turf restorationI had my first encounter with my ex-friend on Friday. She was at the Hirshorn with several people who I was once very close with. I don't think I have to tell you that it was pretty awful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLT6RC-HPPVtmXocnGtMG1pUhA2krX20NVZT2p3vRKfsb5-F6lyTHZkQbcWJ-zfLu2ZvhIXUU4zxh-a8N95AKNrigqoKxACuOm89pHXLOfWhYsI4KJRV95fXTGyFzdDoRL6aGsSA/s1600-h/IMG_0109.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLT6RC-HPPVtmXocnGtMG1pUhA2krX20NVZT2p3vRKfsb5-F6lyTHZkQbcWJ-zfLu2ZvhIXUU4zxh-a8N95AKNrigqoKxACuOm89pHXLOfWhYsI4KJRV95fXTGyFzdDoRL6aGsSA/s400/IMG_0109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118776329070945890" border="0" /></a><br />Shortly after the encounter, I left the friends I came with and went upstairs to explore the Morris Louis exhibit. This particular painting caught my eye as I wandered through the gallery, blurry-eyed and trying to hold back drunk tears. I plopped on the bench facing it, staring at the negative space in the center.<br /><br />My chief complaint with modern abstract art is that it often distances itself from the viewer, letting form take precedence over content. But this painting spoke to me on Friday. It reminded me of something that I rationally know, but have a hard time believing: that being in a liminal stage can mean you're on the rise to something greater. I felt myself in the empty air, felt the effort it takes to leap to a platform I didn't plan for, at least not yet.<br /><br />I know that I'll get through this stage just fine. I've gotten through it before. More importantly, I'll get through it with dignity, which is not something I've always been able to manage. Traditionally, when life hands me lemons I make lemon drop shots, heavy on the vodka, which I then throw back in life's face while telling life to fuck off. It occurs to me now that this is not the most mature way to handle rejection and disappointment.<br /><br />So I won't say the unforgivable but true things I could say, I won't defend my actions or try to show why I'm right and other people are wrong. I won't make the accusations that a big part of me wants to scream out loud. Because none of it would change anything, and in the end, it's not like I'd feel better about any of it. I'm still trying to not be angry about all the wasted time and that one will take me longer. When I think of all those years, I feel raw and exposed.<br /><br />But it's already better than it was. And the simple passage of time has a way of healing even the most brutal ravages.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hY5NQl3EAcMO9w7I4c7TkjqoEsbSFlF2VOIXT16goPb2Qmr6sCtz6-75FMA53G3SuzHxN4xINiMjyzRv3ue4ZRaY64h0af0SXSgJMo6jCszpicwMIXNysvPSZIznRkr1Sx1zkw/s1600-h/IMG_0122.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hY5NQl3EAcMO9w7I4c7TkjqoEsbSFlF2VOIXT16goPb2Qmr6sCtz6-75FMA53G3SuzHxN4xINiMjyzRv3ue4ZRaY64h0af0SXSgJMo6jCszpicwMIXNysvPSZIznRkr1Sx1zkw/s400/IMG_0122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118776445035062898" border="0" /></a>EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-79342785336930597112007-10-04T02:30:00.000+00:002007-10-04T04:13:23.273+00:00multiple choicePeter Bjorn and John are the Hipster 2007 Version of...<br />a) the Spin Doctors<br />b) Deep Blue Something<br />c) Semisonic<br />d) all of the above<br /><br />Michigan's mediocre playing this is season is because...<br />a) Chad Henne is a thoroughly mediocre QB<br />b) Lloyd Carr is... done <br />c) <a =href "http://blog.mlive.com/annarbornews/2007/09/shaky_jake.html">Shakey Jake died</a> and sucked all the goodness out of Ann Arbor<br /><br />Me going as Justin Bobby for Halloween would be...<br />a) utterly stupid<br />b) fabulous,but no one will get it<br />c) fabulous, and a very good barometer for who I should be friends with because people who think they are too good for <i>The Hills</i> are no fun at all.<br />d) fabulous, because all i need is a hoodie flannel with the sleeves cut off and an oversize beret. plus i'll actually be comfortable while every other girl is DC is squeezed into a too-small corset going as a slutty devil or slutty pirate or slutty WASA meter reader.<br /><br />Colors of booties I should buy include...<br />a) black leather spats<br />b) gray slouchy suede<br />c) booties? are you kidding me? when did you become such a trend whore? stop being such a poser.<br />d) bright blue Victorian with jeweled buttons. hell, you're doing something that will be out in three months. do it up right.<br /><br />The role of the Amateur Athletic Union in 1930s isolationist foreign policy was...<br />a) surprisingly large, particularly given the retrospective significance of Jesse Owens' role in the historical narrative of American triumphalism and disproving Nazi eugenics in the 1936 Olympics.<br />b) overstated, as minor official personnel strove to override top-down projections of isolationist policy and use the body as an entree for formal policy-related interactions.<br />c) brain is full. cannot do any more history. am going to watch <i>Gossip Girls</i>.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-65635243890090852672007-10-02T01:57:00.000+00:002008-12-09T07:33:37.862+00:00the anti-breakup hairWhen I broke up with my high school boyfriend (the first of three breakups with him, that is), I sliced my hair into a chin-length bob just in time for yearbook photos. I had some notion of looking like <a href="http://www.nndb.com/people/749/000025674/neve3-red.jpg"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Neve</span> Campbell circa <i>Scream 2</i></a>. Unfortunately, as my features are somewhat less delicate than hers, I more closely resembled a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">pre</span>-nose job Long Island local news anchor.<br /><br />After the first breakup with the college boyfriend, I went crawling back to my hometown stylist over spring break. "I'm so glad you're letting me do your college breakup hair!" he exclaimed. "It's so cyclical!" The resulting strawberry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">blonde</span> highlights were an undeniable mistake on both of our parts, but the styling was all my fault. In my defense, a lot of girls bought three-pronged barrel curling irons in 2002.<br /><br />I hadn't planned on doing breakup hair after losing my friend recently. Mostly this is because of the experiences described above, but mostly, any changes I've felt like making feel more like they're being brought on by other events. I've been spend more time attending events and going places where I can actually have fun with fashion, and after losing a little bit of weight from just flat not having time to eat any more, I want to mix it up a little bit. After all, this fall I finally bought (and wore!) skinny jeans. This is an achievement of fashion-- nay, <i>history</i>-- on par with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Roo</span> Moo-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">hyun</span> crossing the DMZ line. Yes, they're technically out right now, but I already have some excellent high-waisted Navy vintage wide-legged jeans and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">damnit</span>, skinny jeans were my fashion Everest.<br /><br />Also, never underestimate the change in seasons to inspire change in our daily lives. No matter what weather.com says, it's autumn out there and and I simply cannot wear floaty linen circle skirts any longer. I'm ready for black tights and boots and my new sweater <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">minidress</span> and smudgy dark eyeliner. Usually when fall arrives I get all preppy and collegiate with baseball tees and football and little corduroy blazers and stripe-y scarves, but this year I've been taking my coffee black and listening to a lot of Charlotte <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Gainsbourg</span> while walking around in my trench coat, even though it's really still too damn warm for trench coats. Basically, I want to be spending this autumn strolling down the Boulevard Saint-Michel in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Narciso</span> Rodriguez and Nanette <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Lepore</span>, preferably carrying a tote with a baguette and some calla <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">lilies</span> engagingly peeking out the top. Hardly original, but there's a reason every girl has had this fantasy at one point or another.<br /><br />I can't escape to Paris, even for a weekend, because I'm spending all my time and energy working and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">studying</span>, and sadly my budget is keeping me more on the Zara end of the fashion spectrum. But tonight, unable to read another word of post-colonial <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">deconstructionalism</span> theory, I decided to put aside Jacques Derrida for a while in favor of Sophie Marceau:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwY7kx0fu29VdqaWwiZOJsUoytwG75EzU9XpNlbtey11ZPBPPd0CZDg7Gt2oq1auX1jF6P0_ZKuZp1wiDSd-KwekjuxnZOl5lg5e31_aSsxMsRw2Vp27TH_ZxTb8Vt9rBW3sFfg/s1600-h/IMG_0092.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116556230410872386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwY7kx0fu29VdqaWwiZOJsUoytwG75EzU9XpNlbtey11ZPBPPd0CZDg7Gt2oq1auX1jF6P0_ZKuZp1wiDSd-KwekjuxnZOl5lg5e31_aSsxMsRw2Vp27TH_ZxTb8Vt9rBW3sFfg/s200/IMG_0092.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Amazing what boredom, a change of seasons and a little pair of nail scissors can do. And for the record, it's not breakup hair. It's growing up bangs.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-83376844682557970322007-09-23T04:54:00.000+00:002008-02-09T04:54:11.339+00:00the difference between ten and twenty-five"I hate you. I want to breakup."<br /><br />This was a what was scribbled on a note that Becky U. slid across my desk when we were in the fourth grade. I think I still have that note somewhere, buried in a box of childhood memorabilia. I still know the text by heart because I documented it in my youthful chickenscratch in one of the stack of journals now resting on my bottom bookshelf.<br /><br />I remember how confused and angry I was when I read those words. Confused because I didn't know what I did to make her suddenly hate me. Angry because she was more popular than me, and because a rejection by her meant that none of the other girls in the class would talk to me for the rest of the week, if not longer. And of course, I was deeply hurt that my friend had suddenly decided that she hated me and didn't want to be friends with me any longer.<br /><br />Yes, some things never change. But I never, ever thought that fifteen years later I would be on the receiving end of virtually the exact same written message. I never imagined that after seven years, one of my closest friends would end our friendship with a four-line email.<br /><br />When you're ten and your friend tells you she doesn't want to be your friend any more, you cry. You cry, and you let it distract you from school and you go home and tell your mommy and try to listen when she says that sometimes friends say things they don't mean.<br /><br />When you're twenty-five and your friend tells you she doesn't want to be your friend any more, you cry. You cry, and you let it distract you from school, and you call your mom from your car sitting outside your now-ex friend's house, trying to get it together enough to drive home without falling apart. And you try to listen when your mother says what you rationally know, that this was a long time coming. That, for all intents and purposes, you moved on from this situation a long time ago. <br /><br />Still, you get angry. You get so very angry that you've spent years apologizing for growing up and moving on and getting a life. For the wasted years you've spent feeling you had to justify and defend who you are. So deeply crushed that despite your best intentions, there are things beyond your control and that even though you never wanted it to be like this, it is irrevocably like this. You yell things, things that you would never say to anyone but your mom, and only from inside the protection of a locked car. <br /><br />And you know that even though this is a conflict between the two of you, other people will choose her side and you will lose them. That even if you don't lose them-lose them, her response to the situation has ruined your other friendships. This is bitter pill to swallow. It is brutally unfair. And yet, if there is anything you know by now it is that life and love rarely have anything to do with fairness. <br /><br />Oh Lordy, you will be tired. You'll be utterly spent from the denouement of finally accepting what is instead of what should be or could be. You'll be angry and relieved and devastated and liberated, and lo, it will be a mess. With hard edges. <br /><br />So when the nastiness has been purged, you drive to the liquor store, buy a fifty dollar bottle of champagne and go out with friends. Real friends. People who are forgiving and funny, people who you never feel guilty around, people who encourage and listen and confide and bitch and banter and smile. <br /><br />You quietly drink a toast to the end of an era you're not sorry to see gone by. And when you drive home with the windows rolled down, Springsteen blaring and midnight breeze blowing your hair back, you sing along with gusto that it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-15481907117098587712007-09-21T20:20:00.000+00:002007-09-22T00:40:21.132+00:00terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekIt's now 4:24. I am going to spend the next thirty-six minutes writing a post on how, without any exaggeration or overstatement, this week has sucked hairy donkey nuts.<br /><br />The friend to whom I semi-apologized yet called on her own behavior on Monday? Never wrote back.<br /><br />Work, where I am doing great things and getting great results and everyone except one fairly important person loves everything I do? It's getting more and more like <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0075296/">Sybil</a></em> every day. Tune in Monday to find out what personality we encounter today! I should start placing bets. 2-1 odds on Doting Mentor over Faye Dunaway channeling Joan Crawford!<br /><br />School? Have read over 400 pages in the last four days and am nowhere near close to done. All I want to do is spend the weekend drinking enough vodka so that I never feel feelings again. Instead, I will put in a token appearance at tonight's happy hour to drink a Diet Coke and will spend the rest of the weekend reading about the British rape of sub-Saharan Africa and American imperialism masquerading as development aid in the Middle East. It would have been so nice to have been a grad student before revisionist history came into vogue. For a White Liberal Guilter like me, studying has become an exercise in self-flagellation, a constant reminder of the myriad ways in which my country has consciously and systematically fucked the rest of the world for the ill-defined goal of "bettering American lives." <br /><br />My holiday in Turkey? Cancelled. The friend I was going to go with bailed on me. I will now spend Thanksgiving in the small Midwestern town where my parents live, playing host to a family reunion. Because after four family weddings this year, I'm just dying for more quality time with people who think I'm a spoiled, alcoholic, snobby, bitchy slut. <br /><br />Plus, the Wolverines still aren't that great and I'm very scared for the Penn State game tomorrow, I'm fighting a cold and tomorrow I have to go buy skinny jeans, an activity sure to plunge even Kate Moss into a turgid, foamy sea of self-loathing. <br /><br />But on the plus side, now it's 5:00. And I think I will have at least one little gimlet at happy hour, after all.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-31191511376507695712007-09-19T02:40:00.000+00:002007-09-19T03:49:53.195+00:00not sorryHeyyy... so... it's Wednesday. Must be time to blog!<br /><br />The snarky bitch in me (who takes up between 71 and 86 percent of my personality, dependent on what time of the month it happens to be) finds it really amusing when bloggers apologize for not blogging so long. For one thing, guy bloggers never do it. It's always the ladies. Maybe because women just naturally apologize for everything, using "I'm sorry" to preface everything from "would you repeat that?" to "I don't love you anymore," overuse to the point where the phrase really loses any meaning.<br /><br />And it always tends to be the ladies who write about their lives on the Internet and then apologize when they infrequently and irregularly post. We say "I'm sorry" but there's not exactly regret involved. It's just a way to start when we can't think of anything else to say and diving in without an acknowledgement that we were gone for a while feels awkward and blunt. <br /><br />So I'm going to buck the trend and not apologize for having three posts in three weeks. Primarily because, well, duh. Your life has somehow managed to go on. But also because I recently didn't apologize for something. Or rather I did apologize for something, but then qualified the hell out of it, placing it in context and standing up for my behavior and response. And it felt effing awesome.<br /><br />I usually detest qualified apologies, and there's no phrase more likely to get my blood boiling than "I'm sorry you feel that way." It's dismissive and hostile and has nothing to do with trying to fix the circumstances that led to hurt feelings. Saying "I'm sorry," and following it with "but..." rarely leads to anything good, and I dislike that combination so much that I'll go out of the way to avoid it. I've apologized for things I wasn't really sorry for because it was easier than trying to explain why I felt the way I did, or groveled when a simple "you're right, I won't do that next time" would have sufficed. <br /><br />I was also, shall we say, a rather dramatic person in my younger days. My wonder years saw unending Brenda Walsh-style fits of righteous indignation that no one would EVER understand me and the whole world and everyone in it just SUCKED, LIKE, GOD. Naturally I've come to realize how incredibly off-putting it was and am proud to say that I'm no longer <i>such</i> a raging bitch to be around. However, my retrospective embarassment at being so high-maintenance and defensive when I had something to apologize for has left me overanalytical. Even though there are very few people in my current life who knew me at 16, thank sweet baby Jesus, I carry the memory of how difficult it was to be around me back then. Where I once made blanket statements, I now scrutinize and second-guess to death. I doubt myself, and don't stand up for myself as much as I should. To pummel an innocent metaphor, I fear drawing a line in the sand too soon, and so I frequently leave the beach altogether.<br /><br />This is especially the case when the question of my being a good friend is involved. I haven't always been. I can be selfish and thoughtless and narcissistic, I'm terrible at remembering names and faces and birthdays and I suck at making personalized crafts and presents, which for midwestern-bred gals is actually a not-insignificant thing. I'm perpetually ten minutes late to everything and I tend to take out my bad moods on the people who love me the most. <br /><br />But despite these bad traits, I have some things going for me. I assume everyone I meet is a potential friend and am always, always open to getting to know new people. I will go on wacky adventures and I will do the mundane, tedious stuff like helping you move. I will never ever tell you that you need to stop talking about a certain subject, person or thought because I know what it's like to endlessly dwell on things that you rationally know are bad for you and sometimes talking it out, even over several years, is the only way to purge the bad stuff in life. I will understand when we can't get together for months on end because life keeps getting in the way. I will buy your mom shots and I will go to the hospital with you and I will cancel whatever I had going on to pour tequila down your gullet when a boyfriend breaks up with you. I will proofread your resume and your online dating profile, I will link to your blog and I will never, ever be mean to you and then try to couch it in a cowardly phrase like "I'm just being honest."<br /><br />So, when I recently apologized for offending a good friend two months ago, I apologized for the hurt feelings and then basically told her to get over it. There was a miscommunication involved, it turns out-- an email she sent that I never got led to further hurt feelings on her part, quite understandably-- but in my opinion, the punishment did not fit the crime. And I called her on it. For the first time in a really long time, I qualified an apology. I told her that I never meant to hurt her feelings and was sorry that I had, and that while I was glad she had come to me about it, that the incident in question was so small and such a long time ago that I felt she really should not still be holding a grudge. Honestly? I'm still a little shaky from writing this to her. I keep checking my inbox to see if she's written me back. So far she hasn't. But twenty-four hours later and I don't regret a word of what I said. <br /><br />I may be sorry for things that I've done, but I am done apologizing for being who I am. Not just because I'm better than I used to be, but because like most other folks stumbling around this rock, I'm a good person who occasionally does stupid things.<br /><br />And here and now I promise you will never again see the phrase "I'm sorry for not blogging" anywhere on EJ Takes Life.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-22052130453040384452007-09-12T02:09:00.001+00:002007-09-12T03:14:26.903+00:00first impressionsOn my first night of class, I announced to the class that I thought the notion of informal empire was like porn.<br /><br />I elucidated reasons. Everyone has a different definition for what constitutes one but they know it when they see it, the mere notion of them elicits strong emotions in audiences, and they will exist as long as there is free market capitalism.<br /><br />But still. For the rest of the semester I will be The Girl Who Compared an Economic Dimension of Foreign Relations to Porn.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229838.post-9525174098717086432007-09-05T02:44:00.000+00:002007-09-05T03:15:25.842+00:00more people you meet in grad school<stong><u>The Professor Who Thinks He's Still Teaching Undergrads</stong></u><br /><br />This professor will have watched many, many episodes of <i>Saved By The Bell</i> and yet does not grasp that Mr. Belding is more a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jester#Shakespearian_jesters">Touchstone</a> than a Confucius. He wants to be your pal. He wants to put the "FUN, YEA!" in "iF yoU waNt to put a name on it, this course is prettY much just mEntal mAsturbation." He will accomplish such a goal of FUN, YEA! through the extensive use of Xeroxed Far Side and Hagar the Horrible comic strips that tangentially reference the subject matter. And slides. Lots of slides.<br /><br />He will repeat the most basic and obvious points ad nauseum, so that by the end of his forty-minute long "brief illustration" of the difference between A and B, even the most hungover new freshman would be able to articulate the distinction. While underwater. In Korean. While simultaneously finding a cure for Alzheimer's and developing a strategy for making Democrats likable.<br /><br />It's not that this professor is a bad person, or even a bad teacher. He's so into what he's saying that it's hard not to respect his enthusiasm. You probably would have loved having him AS a hungover freshman. But now you're a cranky twenty-five-year-old who is paying her own tuition and has to go to class after a long day of work. If something is going to take you away from kickball and <i>The Hills</i> and half-priced happy hour gimlets, it had better be mentally stimulating, dagnabbit. You've been doing this grad school thing for a while, and in a department where you're snidely viewed if you can't toss off bon mots in Farsi with your peers before class begins. Your standards have been raised, your innate snobbery has been validated by the badassery of your program, and despite this professor's obvious command of the material it's impossible for you to get behind a guy who passes out handouts that quote <i>Star Trek</i>.<br /><br />You will think this blogger is exaggerating for dramatic effect. You will be wrong.EJ Takes Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12795583603193023782noreply@blogger.com3