But after the death of the rabbits, my maternal aspirations went out the door as well. Because reality set in. One of my friends found out she's pregnant. She hasn't even told her boyfriend yet. On the surface, this isn't really that big a deal for me. I have two close friends who are pregnant. But they are 25 and married. They are excited. They are ready. My poor little friend isn't.
And it made me realize that if I were in the same position. I wouldn't be ready either.
Bringing somebody new into this world is a life-changing experience. From the day the child is born, you have to put your own identity on hold for a while and be a mom. You have to take care of the baby. Nurture it. Put it first. Until it's ready to take care of itself and god knows when that's going to be.
Once you're a mom, finding time for yourself is going to be tough. Want to hang out with friends? Better find a babysitter. Want to peacefully read a book? Hopefully the kid will let you. Want to be romantic with your husband/boyfriend? Good luck.
And I personally know that having a child would make me a round-the-clock nervous wreck. I'm already a worry-wart when it comes to my parents. (If they're late, I assume the worst. If they don't return my calls right away, I freak out). So if I had kids, I would never get any sleep. Random stuff happens to children all the time. Just recently, my cousin's three-year-old daughter accidentally severed part of her finger in a door. I almost fainted when I heard the news. Imagine if that happened to my kid...I'd have to be hospitalized too!
And right now, I want to enjoy being selfish while I can. I want to go out with friends any time I please. I want to spend a quiet evening reading a book and drinking hot cocoa, without being disturbed. I want to go for a walk and not have to worry about anything.
Someday I will have kids. But I'm definitely not ready right now.
I'm young and I want to feel it.
And all I can do for my friend is just be supportive...and thankful it isn't me.
The weak one died around noon, the strong one at 5:30 p.m.
They were simply too young. I tried everything I could. I fed them on the hour. I made sure they were warm.
The strong one fought it to the very end. He was squirming in agony and I held him in my hand until his very last breath. He wanted so badly to live and there was nothing I could do to save him. It was very hard to accept.
And I feel so tired today. I wasn't expecting to grieve so deeply. I just sat in the apartment alone this afternoon, crying because life isn't fair. I thought those two babies would have a second chance.
But I have to accept what everyone is telling me: that's nature.
Last night, when I was eating dinner at my parents’ house, I received a phone call from a man named Jason.
“You have to help me,” he said, breathlessly. “I have a rabbit emergency.”
I stared into space for a few seconds with a strained expression. What did he say? And why the hell is he calling me?
“I remembered you mentioned in class once that you are a rabbit expert,” he continued. “You’re the only one who can save these rabbits!”
And then a dawning of understanding arose in me and I froze.
You see, five years ago when I was a young, wide-eyed college sophomore, I kind of fibbed. We were in Media Writing Class and for some reason, the professor made us go around the room and state something incredibly interesting about ourselves. I didn’t have the Jimmy Choo sandals yet, so I didn’t have anything fab to say. So for some reason, I blurted out that I was a rabbit expert. I might have also mentioned that the federal wildlife foundation had contacted me on emergency cases in the past. Everyone was so impressed, I just kept going on.
I didn’t expect them to remember my tale FIVE YEARS LATER.
So I feebly told Jason I would be at his house right away. My dad (who thought the story was HILARIOUS and who thankfully swore not to say anything to contradict my supposed expertise) drove me there. We arrived at Jason’s house and he explained the situation. Apparently there are two baby rabbits. They were born yesterday. A cat ate their brothers and sisters and their mom. He showed me the box. When I looked inside, a wave of relief swept over me.
“These aren’t rabbits, these are baby mice,” I told him, looking at the small black balls nestling in the box.
He looked at his wife and they both looked at me. No, they said, these are baby rabbits.
I laughed and said “of course, I was just testing you.”
And then their four-year-old son came in the room and looked at me, wide-eyed. “Are you going to save the bunnies?” he asked me.
My heart melted. “Yes, I’m going to save them,” I said, confidently. He cheered. Emotions ran through me. I felt like I was in a Jimmy Stewart movie.
So on the way back to my parents’ house, rabbits in tow, I frantically called PetSmart. “What the fuck do I do?” I kept asking the salesman. He calmed me down and explained all I could do was feed the babies goat milk twice a day and keep them warm. “They may live, or they might not,” he warned me. “So don’t get too attached right now.”
So I didn’t name them.
But it’s too late. I’m already attached. And while Rian and I were feeding them at home this morning, a strange sensation took over me. And then I realized it was a maternal feeling.
We started out with lunch at Bluebird Bistro, a quaint little vegetarian cafe located in the historical part of town.
While we waited for our meals, we nibbled grilled polenta served with local chevre, pesto, roasted organic tomato puree and olive tapenade. It was delicious. Kerrie eventually had the Quinoa Stuffed Chard and I had the Black Bean Burger. It was so incredible we thought we were going to melt out of our seats.
And then we grabbed a slice of Vegan Orange Cake (with chocolate frosting) to go and decided to have another hobo chic adventure.
We started these hobo chic adventures a year ago on Kerrie's birthday. It's basically when we travel to the industrial part of town and drink champagne, while walking on the railroad tracks. This is both fun and dangerous, because trains speed by every ten minutes.
I think sometimes we get tired of our suburban lives and we just want to escape. Kerrie and I both grew up in upper middle class neighborhoods. Giant cookie-cutter houses. Manicured lawns. Mercedes and Volvos in every driveway. Sometimes it's fun to get away from what you know. And maybe one of these days we'll get crazy enough to jump one of the freights screaming past us on a dreary afternoon.
But today we just drank Martini & Rossi champagne out of styrofoam cups and half the cake slice. We didn't jump the fence this time. We were too lazy.
Afterward, we went to Halls and admired Prada purses, Monolo Blahnik heels, and shimmering gold necklaces. We even hit up the juice bar (Kelly Caleche, anyone?).
And after going into a few stores, we ended up going to Express where we ran into my ex-boyfriend. Awkwardness. And then we went into the Gap where we ran into our friend Jonny's ex-boyfriend. Even more awkwardness.
So we decided to call it a day.
Well, after we had another bottle of champagne. ;)
Okay, so I joined the YMCA today. Well, I signed up for their two-week trial just to test myself. If I go everyday, I'll get the membership.
Unfortunately (or purposely) I arrived too late to get any working out done, so Rian and I decided to go back tomorrow afternoon.
And also unfortunately as soon as I signed up for my trial, one of the most annoying people in my life walked through the doors, leaving the gym. Her name is Missy and she is the trophy wife of a millionaire CEO. She has giant teased bottle-blonde hair and an obsession with gaudy Coach bags with all the giant C's plastered on them.
For those who don't know, I am a newspaper reporter. And I have interviewed this woman for several stories. She's kind of a "public figure."
And it has been burdensome.
Story 1: The first time I ever met Missy was in December '06 when she stormed through the doors of our newsroom, demanding to see me. "I was dropping my daughter off at school and I was given a ticket for parking my car in front of the school! I demand you to write a story!" she screeched. The other reporters looked at me and snickered, while I tried to calm the woman down. "My daughter is a CHEERLEADER and all her friends saw me get a ticket and she is so HUMILIATED!" Missy continued. "My daughter's social life is at stake here! You need to write a story about how evil the police department is to humiliate my popular daughter. She's a CHEERLEADER!" I shooshed her out of the newsroom and out of boredom (and curiousity) looked up her complaint. And to my amazement, I found out that there was no law or sign condemning parking in front of the high school. So I ended up doing the story and getting the police department in hot water. They publicly apologized and took away her ticket and eventually put up a sign in front of the school saying "No Parking."
Story 2: So pleased with me, Missy decides to become my New Best Friend. In October '07, she invited me to cover a fundraising ball she was hosting for a friend's charity. She stood firmly by my side the entire night, introducing me to people as "my reporter." And then I realized after a couple hours that she was only introducing me to men. "I'm going to find you a husband," she drunkenly confided later that night. "A young girl like you needs someone to take care of her. You remind me so much of myself as a young single gal." Unfortunately all the eligible men she introduced me to were old enough to be my dad (or grandpa). I was also still in love with Rian at the time (we'd broken up for a brief period).
Story 3: In August '08 Missy called my cell, begging me to meet her at an undisclosed location because she has a Hot Story. I approached the address she gave me and it turned out to be a Wendy's. Missy's head was wrapped in a black scarf and she was wearing large sunglasses. "I can't let anyone see me here," she whispered. I was intrigued. "Because your information is that confidential?" I asked, in awe. She rolled her eyes. "God no. I just can't let anyone see me in a Wendy's. I'm addicted to their fries!" she replied. Her hot story idea turned out to be about her silly daughter going to Cancun for spring break. I never wrote that story.
Ugh but to see her walk through those doors this evening was horrid. She looked up and squealed loudly, causing every single person to stare at us with interest.
"Oh Jennifer! Oh Jennifer!" she shrieked. "Do you go here? I had no idea!"
I feebly told her I just joined.
She went on to declare that we were going to be "work out buddies" and she was going to make me "love pilates until your butt falls off."
Oh, and she has more hot story ideas for me.
I mean, I want to lose weight and everything. But is this worth it? Two weeks spent dodging this woman. Great.
It’s quite sad, actually. In the past year I have gone up two sizes—from a 0 to a 4. I am five feet tall, so this is a major jump.
I think it’s a mixture of all the stress from work, lack of shopping funds, my dad being an asshole, and my boyfriend’s never-ending depression. The only happiness I get in life these days is biting into a slice of pizza.
It was a beautiful day today, so I decided to wear my light blue shirt dress (Gap). To my dismay, the dress wouldn’t button up. It was too tight. So I decided to try my light gray Calvin Klein sleeveless dress but it wouldn’t zip up. Same goes for my dark beige CK dress, little black Audrey-inspired dress (Ann Taylor), and my Ralph Lauren denim skirt.
I was horrified. My only pair of jeans which still fits me (Delia's) was covered in mud and in the laundry basket. My skirts and suits were at the dry cleaners. I was screwed. I ended up wearing my hot pink-and-gold striped tight-fitted party dress from Express. I looked like I was going clubbing, instead of going to work. So I draped myself in a black trench coat, which I vowed to keep on all day.
When I got to Chipotle to meet my dad for lunch, I took the coat off. My dad gaped at me in horror. “My god,” he said. “You look like a Polish sausage wrapped in a candy wrapper.”
I wanted to cry.
He went on to say my trench coat was too tight as well. And that I didn’t care about my body and was turning into an obese person and I would be lucky to make it as a plus size model on America’s Next Top Model. He was so disgusted and it made me so sad.
So I called Rian to cry but he didn’t feel sorry for me. “I eat to live but you and your dad live to eat. You spend every lunch deciding what you’re going to have for dinner.” And I couldn’t even pretend to argue, because it’s true. In fact, at lunch today not only did Dad and I exchange what we were having for dinner tonight (he’s having spaghetti with mom and I’m going to Cupini’s with Nadine), but we also planned out where we were going for lunch tomorrow and deciding what to have for dinner the next day.
So really, this is all my dad’s fault. How dare he.
But he’s in shape and I’m not. So I have to figure out what to do about ME. Should I start smoking (Kerrie did and she looks fab) or stop eating (my mom did and at 50, she’s three times skinner than me) or should I start exercising (even though I can’t afford to join a gym)?
Is it wrong that I want to go to church again just because the pastor is so freaking hot?
He looks like Patrick Dempsey. I'm not joking. I wish I could have grabbed a picture of him on my cell phone and done some sort of photo comparison here for you guys. The similarity is uncanny.
His name is Pastor Mike. He's in his mid-thirties. He's hilarious.
My family is Lutheran. We only attend church on holidays. This wasn't always the case. We used to be church mice up until seven years ago (but then dad lost his job, mom became depressed, I got a life, etc.). But I digress...
Most Lutheran churches we attend are boring as hell. But the church we attend now is a lot more fun, all due to Pastor Mike. His sermons are youthful and hilarious and heartwarming.
Christmas '05 he told a story about his mentally unstable neighbor who tried to murder her two children because she was depressed. It had me (and every other women in the audience) in tears.
Easter '06 he compared the resurrection of Christ to the renovation of a new shopping mall nearby. It made such perfect sense.
Easter '07 his cell phone accidentally went off during sermon. Instead of being embarrassed, he pretended the person on the phone was God. He told us God called him to let us know he loves us. (That was so sweet).
Christmas '08 he held my hand for 30 seconds longer than necessary during the meet and greet. He looked deep into my eyes and said "Merry Christmas." An intimate notion of understanding passed between us.
And this year, he probably-on-purpose greeted me TWICE and after saying "Happy Easter" asked how I was doing. So now our conversations are getting longer!
He's so handsome and so sweet and so caring. And I could totally be a pastor's wife. The church is huge and prosperous so he probably lives in a nice house. And just think of all the fab suits and dresses I could wear every Sunday morning when I greet people from the front pew. I'd be like the First Lady of Holy Cross Lutheran Church.
But it's not meant to be. I have a hot boyfriend who I adore. And I think Pastor Mike already has a wife, which could also pose a problem.
Oh well. But he certainly makes church more interesting.
Kerrie and I went to the Morrissey concert last night.
But just to say that is an understatment.
We basically spent all day stalking our idol, even getting a private tour from a concierge of the fab hotel he stayed at and going to the stores he was rumored to be shopping at that afternoon. We even had dinner in the famous Drum Room that night, just in case we could catch a glimpse of the sex god.
While the opening act was playing, we hung out in front of the Morrissey tour buses and caught the eye of his drum tech, Mira. The handsome older man supplied us with Coronas and flirted with us a bit. We ended up skipping to the concert, hand in hand, singing "We're so fabbing fuckulous! And we drank Morrissey's beer!"
But the concert didn't go the way we planned. Two petite and extremely thin young women are not the safest in a mob. We could barely see and we were punched and kicked while trying to make our way to the front (we were planning to jump stage). When Moz threw his shirt in the audience, all hell broke loose. Kerrie was pushed to the ground and stampeded on, while people rushed to grab the sweaty article of clothing. A couple guys helped me pick Kerrie up. "I'm fine," she said. And then she fainted. The same guys helped me carry her to the back of the auditorium and an ambulance quickly arrived. The EMT stayed with her for about 20 minutes and eventually confirmed she was okay. I spent the rest of the concert comforting Kerrie and trying to calm my own nerves. (When I saw her lying on the ground, it seemed the world was ending. I was worried as hell.)
After the concert, we headed back to Morrissey's hotel. A few cute members of the Courteeners followed us and kept tipping their hats at us, but we ignored them. They eventually asked us to accompany them for drinks, but we politely declined. Moz was more important.
But much to our dismay, we saw Moz leave into a black car from a distance and take off. Devestated, we decided to head out. But then Mira burst out of the one of the tour buses and chased us down. He'd seen the mob scene incident from backstage and wanted to talk to us about it. He handed us a few beers. Thirty minutes later, we were surrounded by eight members of Morrissey's backstage crew who had just finished packing up the trucks. There were a few dashing 20-something year old boys from England and a couple of older Irish men. There were a couple cute American boys as well. We sat there on the sidewalk eating pizza and candy and drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Kerrie was charming and demure. I made them laugh with random stories. An hour later, they invited us to join them on their pimped-out tour bus. It was fucking insane. A comfy sofa and giant plasma tv awaited us. They even had luxurious bunk beds--things I didn't even know existed! We spent two more hours in there with them, dancing and flirting. We sweetly rejected their pot, much to their intrigue. They kept trying to kiss us and told us we were too pretty to let go. They told us stories about Morrissey, what it was like to work with him, and what he was "really" like (not much different than what you would expect). The whole night with them was pretty fab.
Then things took a strange turn. We drank so much beer that for some reason we cheerfully accepted their offer to ride with them to St. Louis that night for the next show. But after a few minutes of driving and peering into their leering eyes, I realized what that actually meant. And I decided that if Kerrie and I did anything rated R with any member of that tour, it was going to be Morrissey and Morrissey alone. Not a bunch of roadies. I made them stop the bus. They were upset and spent a while trying to get me to change my mind (Kerrie was too out of it to say anything). But I wasn't swayed. A few kissed us on the cheek, but Mira took it a bit too far and surprised a drunk Kerrie with a wet kiss on the mouth. He then promised if we saw him again at a future concert, he would introduce us to Morrissey. And we're so taking him up on that.
We waved goodbye to the tour bus and walked around, trying to sober up before heading home.
I eventually crashed into my apartment around 3 a.m. and went to bed in my concert clothes, drenched in stale cigarette smoke, pot aroma, and beer.
And then Rian yelled at me this morning when he got up. He said Kerrie and I are "party girls" and we need to learn to "control ourselves."
Um, okay, dad.
But despite his lecture and despite my hang over, I'm still feeling pretty fabbing fuckulous! ;)
If you've never seen a Bollywood film, rent one right now.
Irresistible pop beats and cheerful dancing appear out of nowhere. The main character will passionately burst into a mournful song on a crowded train and nobody around him or her will bat an eye. Oh, and the sarees bursting with tropical colors and romantic pinks will take your breath away.
I have to admit though, I have a personal interest in promoting the Indian cinema. My grandfather was a film producer and screenwriter in Bombay for 40 years. He produced films starring Nutan Behl and Amitabh Bachchan. My dad and his siblings grew up on films sets and attended elaborate weddings of Indian movie stars. It sounds like the perfect life to me, but my dad grew up pretty unhappy. His father was never around. His siblings grew up spoiled and arrogant. As soon as he finished college, my dad took off to the U.S. for graduate school and became a physicist.
And he hates Bollywood films. He thinks they're silly and unrealistic.
That's why I love Bollywood films so much. They remind me of old Hollywood musicals--the kind people watched to get away from life. My life sucks and if I wanted to watch dismal reality, I would just turn off the television and live it. But I want to lose myself in a magical world where it's okay to break out in song and dance when you're happy. Where everyone is beautiful and rich. Where hilarious things happen all the time.
It was freaking insane. More than 20,000 people showed up (the show was sold out). All the nearby restaurants and bars downtown were packed. The main street was also flooded with anti-gay protesters (thanks, Fred Phelps!) who held vicious signs and chanted prejudice remarks. For the most part, there were only two kinds of people there: girls like me (20-something and hot) or gay guys draped in hot pink boas.
Fortunately, my party arrived late enough to miss most of the Pussycat Dolls' performance.
The concert itself was like a box of Sour Punch straws. It was delicious, a little cringe-worthy at times, but overall a nice deviation from the normalcy of life.
There was one moment, when Britney was actually fully clothed (dressed in a light blue, silky belly-dancing costume) and for a tiny second, I felt 14 again. I saw Britney eleven years ago, when she had just come out with "...Baby One More Time." Dressed in a modest school girl uniform, she performed a few songs from her new album at our mall and signed autographs. I became her hugest fan. I even allowed myself to dress like her. But as soon as I got to college, she had become someone unrecognizable to me, and I let go. But when she performed "Baby" again tonight, lordy it took me back.
But the rest of the concert was stuff from her last three CDs, which I'm not too familiar with. But it was fun. And even though a few of her costumes were just downright hideous, it was pretty fab.
Now I want to go listen to "Oops!...I did it Again" and drink a Pepsi.
Bubbly, happy notes bounce in the background while her sweetly serene British voice purrs about materialism, sexual inadequacy, excessive drug use, and haters. And what's funny is that I don't normally listen to music which has those kind of themes. But her cheerful melodies and glossy story-telling seduced me the very first time I heard "The Fear."
And then my friend Zac introduced me to "You."
I had to have more.
Anyone who can sing "fuck you" over and over again and make it sound like a Care Bear song is brilliant, in my book.