(Yes, I put a 'u' in the above. I think I get a few months' grace period where I'm allowed to use Anglicisms and British spellings as I see fit. I'd be chuffed if you'd humour me.)
On Friday, Dan Savage did a great on-line Q&A via The Stranger's blog, The Slog*. He responds to a question from a lesbian who wants to do something cheap but special on Valentine's Day with her girlfriend--not just staying in and having sex, which they do plenty of. Part of Dan's response:
"$20 will get you a nice bottle of wine -- get a prosecco, sparkling Italian wine that is 1. cheap and 2. suddenly everywhere. And then go someplace homantic and sit together and drink the booze."
My emphasis.
Okay, it's obviously a typo, but "homantic" is my new favourite** word. I think it's perfect for people who'd like to mix in some scratch marks and lube with their hearts and flowers. You could apply it to serious couples who met at, say, a sex club, and are returning there for their 25th anniversary. So homantic! Or should you ever get down on one knee and propose marriage, ring in hand, to someone still chained to the wall from their flogging--that'd be totally homantic! Especially if you both agree to put the video on YouTube.
Any suggestions for a good homantic Valentine's Day? Leave them in the comments.
*Does one italicize blog titles?
**Okay, last time.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
My New Favourite Word
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Birthday Reflection Series Part 2: Location
(...Location Location, I know.)
This installment is so delayed because it's the one on which I have the fewest interesting thoughts. Mostly it's personal stuff, without much room for philosophical explication. But I'll try.
I thought I was eligible for a visa in London, but the laws changed and I'm very much not. The day I got this news (not quite 2 months ago), I was devastated. The day after I got this news, I was over it. I hadn't been happy there. No career momentum, very few real friendships, and a general feeling that the Brits were not my people--most of my thoughts on representations of race, gender, and sexuality were dismissed as "precious," a word I have come to absolutely LOATHE.* While I rarely felt that I was being discriminated against because of my gender (which sped my blogging decline), I felt that my gender was discriminated against by the culture at large, and that this was going completely ignored by a complacent population--even by the cool, educated, artsy, liberal people with whom I was surrounded. I was planning on mining this for blog posts, but the ideological and social isolation was too great, and the idea was depressing. I didn't have a lot of friends in London, and there weren't even a lot of people I WANTED to be friends with.**
Moving to London the first time, eight years ago, was the scariest thing I've ever done. When I said good-bye to my family and got through security, as I was putting my belt back on, suddenly I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how I would physically get myself to the departure gate. It was a strange sensation. I finally decided that I would move my left foot, and after that I would move my right foot, and then I would move my left foot again, and that if I kept doing that, eventually I would find myself on the plane. It worked. Moving one foot after the other, no matter what your brain is telling you, is now what I think of as adventure.
Moving to London this time didn't feel like adventure. To be totally honest, it felt like cowardice. Part of me knew I was stalling, that I didn't know how to start my career here in New York, that I had no forward momentum, and sticking myself in a grad program felt safe. I wouldn't have to worry about it for a year--and LAMDA's admissions process didn't require me to direct in front of a panel, which to me was a terrifying prospect. And London! I loved London! Theatre was more relevant there, and more accessible, and being a New Yorker would make me different and new! But it didn't work out that way. I got a pretty good (not great) education while I was there, and it was worth it in so many ways, but I wasn't building as much career momentum as I'd thought.
And to be totally honest, the guy situation was disappointing. The first time I lived in London, it seemed that I'd suddenly found the city where guys found me attractive. Looking back, it probably helped that I was a spirited 20-year-old girl, with the caché of being American. Or maybe acting students are less exciting. Or maybe it's that, the first time around, I mostly knew American expats, who inherently have a thirst for adventure--my amazing flatmate Lacey had a knack for making friends wherever she went, including the blues bar we frequented (we would occasionally throw barbeques, which would involve lots of old blues musicians bringing their instruments over and jamming on our roof); I randomly ran into a college friend, in a club, and fell in with his squatter friends that HE'D met at a club; I briefly dated an actual Brit (a DJ and musician I met at a club, when my friend Michelle came to visit), and he and I are still friends. But for whatever reason, the seven months I lived there were really hard and really fun and really special, and it was, in many ways, when I became an adult. The year-and-change I spent there just now was productive, and has set up good things for the future, but was probably the least fun year-and-change I've ever had. Seriously. Even years that have had more misery at least had fun parts as well. Fun is important to me--I need it in order to work as hard as I want to work, and to function creatively. Things weren't working out.
And then I found out I had to leave, and suddenly things were working out. I met a young American producer/director/actor with whom, as she puts it, I "share a brain." We've agreed to work together this summer--and then she's probably moving back to New York. Perfect. Also, I'd been having some great talks with an up-and-coming director friend who was her own company, and she made clear that if I came back to New York she'd help me get something started. And as for the guy thing...it's funny, because it's what you always hear: as soon as you stop looking, something turns up. And I was specifically not looking for anyone in New York this whole past year. I wasn't looking for casual hook-ups, so they found me***. And I certainly wasn't looking for a relationship, in this town where I no longer lived...and slowly started to realize there'd been someone wonderful right under my nose. So when I got the bad news about my visa, it quickly started to look like good news. And I stopped wasting time.
So, in the end, this was an important year. It made me realize what I want, in a lot of different ways. Perhaps I needed to view my life from a distant shore. I suppose I even recommend it.
*Also, there is no iced coffee and the city itself is hard to get around.
**Then there were the people I liked who seemed really into me, but could not be corralled into getting together ever. It occurred to me only recently that most of the people I knew thought of me as a Director...and thus not entirely as a Person. The vice-principal of the school once told me that Directing students were sort of halfway between student and staff, and that might have effected people's ability to see me as Potential Friend. This didn't hurt my flatmate, of course, but she's a fit blonde Nordic lesbian who sometimes fucks guys. Hard to compete.
***More on this soon.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Since We Probably Ain't Getting Reform Anytime Soon...
...I have a thought on health care.
If I had a boyfriend who had health insurance*, and I didn't have health insurance myself**, my boyfriend should be able to buy my birth control on his insurance. This is in the insurance companies' interest too, as knocking a girl up can lead to plenty of expensive trouble.
That would never happen in this country, of course. But it's worth mentioning.
Which could lead us into a discussion of why there aren't more birth control options for men, but others have already done that better. I will say that my favorite book on feminism, Manifesta, seems to believe that vasectomies are easily reversible, and that sexually active men should all just get that done until they're reading for kids. My casual research***, however, indicates that this is a dubious claim--it often has a permanent effect on reproductive ability, and while a lot of the stats are positive, doctors encourage men getting vasectomies not to think of them as reversible. It's also quite expensive, though paying for birth control pills/rings/etc over decades can start to add up. Also, surgery's not to be undertaken lightly.
Also, doesn't "-ectomy" imply that the vas deferens are removed, rather than just severed? Linguistics matter, people.
*I do not, but bear with me.
**Which I don't right now, ack.
***Two things I discovered: 1) There is a site called vasectomyreversalusa.com, and 2) You should not google "vasectomy reversal" unless you're prepared to see some strong imagery.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Birthday Reflection Series: Age
[This started as one post, but it felt overly long and I found myself persistently not posting it, so I decided to break it into three easily digestible chunks. Enjoy!]
Two weeks ago, I turned 28. (Or, if you're in the theatre industry, 27 again.) That makes this a good time for looking back/taking stock for three reasons: age, location, and blogging. I'm in London currently, but in 4 days I'll be back in New York, permanent-style, and drastic moves (or even less-drastic moves) tend to inspire reflection. Also, my (slowish) return to blogging has had me combing through my own archives, rereading old posts and thinking about how I've changed since I wrote them. So, in case you're interested:
Age
Twenty-seven was my scary age. For whatever reason, it was the first time in my life I was unhappy about getting older. It wasn't entirely the age itself, but also the fear that I wouldn't be where I was supposed to be at that age. I set goals: by my 27th birthday, I had to have STARTED something--the options being grad school, a career, or a serious relationship. Those things, to me, indicated progress, growth. As the big day reared, things were looking good: I was in grad school, in my chosen career field, and I had just started dating someone whom I (erroneously) believed had LTR potential. When I woke up on my birthday I was a little depressed for a few hours, but then it passed and I had a lovely week of festivities*.
Twenty-eight brought no such fears, either in theory or as it approached. There are various possibilities as to why: my 27th year was a lot better and more engaging than the last few months of my 26th, one or two people in the theatre industry had told me that I was at a good place in my career trajectory, when people tried to guess my age they guessed 25 anyway, and when the day came around there'd been some lovely recent developments in my personal life. But most likely, the Fear of 27 was the aberration, brought on by life uncertainty that I then got over a bit. And I have progressed, or potentially progressed, in a few important ways, so that's always nice.
My psychopharmacologist once told me that she wished she could put everyone to sleep at age 18 and wake them up again when they turned 30--because the 20s suck. Someone else once said that your 20s are about figuring out what you want, and your 30s are about figuring out how to get it. Which makes one's 30s sound a little less like a cake walk, but still--I have figured out a lot of what I want, and, as a result, good things are starting to happen in both my personal and professional lives. It's shaping up to be a very interesting year.
*My birthday celebrations typically involve at least 3 events. My 27th included: cake with extended family in Virginia, dinner at a nice restaurant with my dad and sister (my mom had something important), cake with them plus mom, Official Fun Bar Party with all my friends, and a small dinner party with my oldest friends and the out-of-towners who couldn't make the bar party. This year involved bar party, fancy family dinner outing, drunken Mexican food hijinks with my housemates from Junior year (aka the awesomest year), and being taken to my first British panto by my flatmate over here.
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