Archive for February, 2008
i don’t know (unbridled non-answers)
“Don’t respond to the stupidity of a fool;
you’ll only look foolish yourself.” ~ Proverbs
“I’m voting for Hillary,” the 21-year-old sitting next to me blurted.
Shit, I mumbled under my breath. I was not in the mood for politics.
“You would not be welcome in my house,” the 21-year-old sitting across from me blurted back. “I’m for Barack.”
Maybe if I don’t look at them, they won’t see me, I thought, hiding my eyes behind my computer.
“What about you, Krista?”
My sweat glands immediately surged and gushed. My heart rate increased. My right butt-cheek twitched. I desperately wanted to give a good answer, an intelligent answer, the right answer. I wanted everyone in the room to believe that, because I definitively knew who I was voting for on November 4, I also knew where every piece of the puzzle of my life fit. Shooting off a quick & certain answer would give me the appearance of having it together – my identity and reputation, solidified in one answer.
But, honestly, I couldn’t care less about the election right now. When Election Day looms a bit closer, I’ll research the candidates at non-partisan sites like VoteSmart.org. But on this February day, I hadn’t staked my claim with any of the freaks vying to be the next leader of the free world.
Still, I would not be undone by a couple twerps nearly a decade younger than me.
So, it was, with eyes still glued to my computer and a quiet smirk on my lips, I spoke: “Ron Paul.”
Everyone laughed. Except it wasn’t that “You’re-really-clever-Krista” kind of chuckle. It was that “You’re-an-idiot” round of laughter.
“OMG, he’s not even running anymore!” (That’s right, she said OMG.)
“I know,” I said, my attempt at wit and satire wasted.
As I tuned out the two college co-eds, my anxiety about answers, reputation and political leaders dissipated; and I felt free.
In so many words, I had just responded to a pointed question with the answer everyone is afraid of giving (and hearing): I don’t know.
Maybe it’s our pride. We must, at all times, know the answer to every question about our candidates, our careers, our twenty-year plans. There’s so much pressure to know, to always know. Pressure from without and within. We’re uncomfortable in the face of non-answers, in the wake of questions that whip around unbridled in the air of uncertainty. But wasn’t it that whole knowledge thing that got us in trouble in a garden way back when?
There are so few questions with sure answers. I am certain of that. I’m also certain that I am more the fool when I grasp and strive to put answers to every question posed. I suppose that’s why I’m daring to say, “I don’t know.” And to say it bold. Because it’s just the truth. I really don’t know.
(However, I do know that Ron Paul is still in it to win it. Revolution, baby…)
1 Commentstill hold hands
I watched an old couple hobble slowly through the café where I worked today. There wasn’t anything particularly notable about them. They were just an old couple, like so many old couples I see when I’m out and about.
But then he gave her his hand. Neither of them needed it. They hobbled. They were slow. But they were balanced. Her hand in his was not a substitute for a cane, a crutch or a walker.
He gave her his hand in love. They must have been in their very late seventies.
Jason and I still hold hands. Though it feels like we’ve known each other forever, like there never was a life before our life together, the fact is we have only been married one year and eleven months, give or take a few days. It’s normal that we would still hold hands on our way into the auto shop to get tires rotated. It’s natural that we would make out in the salsa-and-marinara aisle at the grocery store. It’s expected that we stop what we’re doing to dance in the kitchen. We’re newlyweds.
But in all this newly wedded bliss, I have often wondered, with some fear and sadness, what might happen when years and kids, sickness and circumstances take their toll on our bodies, our minds, our souls. Will we still hold hands, I have asked.
And this precious, wrinkled pair gave me the answer I think I have always known. An answer that spoke far louder than doubts and naysayers.
And he will still get the door for me, too, I thought, smiling as the old man opened the passenger door for his white-haired bride.
3 Commentsa guy who loves his mom
People are people, you know. That’s what I decided after Javier Bardem won his Best Supporting Actor award for No Country For Old Men.
I had already been adequately entertained by my annual date with the Academy and its golden boy. The antics, the hilarity, the movies I’ve never heard of. But then Javier took the stage to accept his award. He thanked the Academy, his co-stars, and the arguably insane director duo quickly.
Then, with a deep breath, he apologized to the audience and proceeded to spend more than half of his “thanks time” expressing excited gratitude to his mom en Espanol.
But it wasn’t just Bardem who endeared me. I again found myself welling up when Marion Cotillard accepted her Best Actress award for La Vie en Rose. And not just because I’ve seen her flawless performance in the complex and devastating bio-pic of Edith Piaf. It was her tears, her hugs, her humility, her great gratitude – a heart that reminded me of my own dearest friends.
But it wasn’t just Cotillard either. For the third time, I was moved toward tears by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova‘s acceptance of their Best Song Award for “Falling Slowly” from the movie Once. Particularly memorable was Jon Stewart bringing Irglova back out on stage after the commercial break because she had been cut off from giving her thanks.
It’s so easy to make assumptions about people, especially celebrities. To believe they’re untouchable, elite, even a bit freakish with their sometimes outspoken and extreme opinions. But people are people when everything is stripped away.
I don’t know much about Glen and Marketa, but their speech filled with words like “hope” and “dream” sounded like the buzzwords Jason and I use in so many of our conversations. And I don’t know much about Marion, but she reminds me of so many of my passionate and sweet girlfriends. I don’t know much about Javier either. But I do know that the heart with which he thanked his mom was good and kind. And you gotta love a guy who loves his mom.
1 Commentstronger than ever
“No-no-what?” I asked Jason in a groggy scratch-throat whisper.
“The Norovirus. That’s what you had. It’s a type of stomach flu, worse than the plain ole flu, babe. You’re a trooper.”
I tried to crack a smile, but it made me nauseas, so I sighed bravely instead.
Even today, 72 solid hours removed from my 24-hour episode prostrate before the porcelain throne, I’m still a tad queasy, still too weak to stand completely straight.
Thankfully, I only get this sick about once every 29 years, so my recent battle against aforementioned Norovirus has given me something to think about. Namely immunity.
“You feel like you’re never gonna get sick again, don’t you?” my dad asked as we laughed about our common and recent viruses.
“I do. I feel stronger than ever,” I replied.
After I hung up, I got to thinking and I decided it’s good to get the Norovirus every once in a while. Because without Norovirus, that wicked bastard child of the stomach flu, we walk around with weak, untested, pansy-ass immune systems that can’t stand up to the sniffles or a little cough. It’s good to have a daunting fight, a demanding challenge, a doubtful battle.
Because it’s the virus that makes us strong.
1 Commentnaked with carson
“Zero isn’t a size…it’s a warning sign.” ~ C. Kressley
Carson Kressley is my hero. I know what you’re thinking…just go with me on this.
First off, if you don’t know, Carson is the blond-headed, fast-talking, and all-around hilarious guy synonymous with Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. With Queer Eye behind him, he’s moved on to host a new show, potentially one of the most important shows to grace cable TV.
I found How To Look Good Naked on iTunes a few days ago and was amazed at what I saw. Where shows like The Swan and Extreme Makeover, with their self-important team of plastic surgeons and Nazi-esque fitness trainers, tell us that we can’t be beautiful unless we torture our bodies and undergo extensive plastic surgery, Carson inspires women to love what they got – and love it naked.
Dig the show’s intro, spoken by Carson as a gaggle of women – real women – follow him down the street:
“I’m here to begin a perception revolution. Join me if you think that beauty extends beyond a size zero. Come along with me if you don’t want to be like 4 out of 5 women who hate their bodies. Unite if you’re ready to turn body-loathing into body-loving. It’s time to start shedding those layers because I don’t just want you to accept what you see in the mirror. And I don’t just want you to like what you see in the mirror. I want you to flaunt it…naked!”
In a short burst of theme music, a woman sings, “Your body is beautiful.”
In the first episode, Carson takes Layla, a woman who has hated her body for more than 20 years (and she’s only 32), in front of a three-way mirror, has her strip to bra and panties, and points out the beauty of her body – as is.
“Is your body perfect? No. Is it beautiful? Yes,” he tells Layla as she cries about her reflection, desperately wanting to believe him.
He continues shattering the lies Layla has bought into for two decades and, by the end of the show, she is genuinely changed: confident, coming out of her frump-girl shell, and posing for a photo shoot…nudey-booty!
Now, before you think I’m condoning something I’m not, these “nude” pics are not explicit or gratuitous. In fact, they are the opposite. Rather than objectifying a woman, on Naked a woman’s entire unique story shines, beautifully and gracefully accentuated. Carson and the Naked team begin a transformation process in these women that has everything to do with the heart and mind…and nothing to do with facelifts, tummy tucks or breast implants. They are helping women believe the truth that they are exquisite creations, fearfully and wonderfully made – no nips, tucks, ifs, ands or big butts about it.
As the first episode of Naked wrapped, I found myself smiling, laughing, breathing deep cleansing breaths, and celebrating with a woman who had previously refused to put full-length mirrors in her home because she hated what she saw. With nothing but a flimsy piece of black silk covering her derrière, the camera flashed and she smiled. Carson smiled. I smiled.
And long after the show was over, I still smiled. Smiled because someone in our culture is finally telling us the truth about our beautiful bodies. Because Naked is putting the reality in reality TV. Because a gay guy with a story of his own is reminding a sometimes-insecure girl that what she sees in the mirror is beautiful. As is.
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