Let’s talk about Katy Perry’s song “I Kissed a Girl”*

Here’s the video. If your tummy starts to hurt, don’t feel like you have to watch the whole thing. It’s pretty much all variations on a theme: pin-up women in fishnets and f*ck-me pumps.

On one of my favorite internet spots last week, Sergio Cilli asked if Katy was really a lesbian or if she was just making this song for attention/sales boost. The answer is obviously the latter, but what is a more interesting question is: Is this song really even about lesbians?

My short answer is no.

The long answer follows.

Perry’s already taken quite a bit of heat for this song, as well as her other f’d up mess “ur so gay,” so part of me doesn’t even want to write on this and give her more attention. Yet, I’m compelled nonetheless, and I was a Media Studies major…so hopefully the scathing critical commentary will make up for my conflicted opinions on posting.

When asked about this song, she had this to say in an interview:

“TNG: I saw. Are you a lesbian now?
KP: I love my men. I’m not a lesbian, but I can appreciate the beauty of women. That’s what the song is about: me opening up a magazine and seeing Scarlet Johansen and saying “if she wanted to to kiss me I wouldn’t say no.”
…
TNG: So you haven’t actually kissed a girl. Then the whole song is a fantasy?
KP: Yeah, it’s fantasy, it’s a song about curiosity.
TNG: Isn’t that kind of like those straight girls who make out at frat parties to get guys’ attention?
KP: It’s not about that. Everyone takes the song and relates it to their situation, they can see it however they want to see it. Love it, hate it, for me it was about us girls. When we’re young we’re very touchy-feely. We have slumber party sing-alongs, we make up dance routines in our pajamas. We’re a lot more intimate in a friendship than guys can be. It’s not perverse but just sweet, thats what the song is about.”

~~

Lies. All lies. The song is not sweet at all.

Rather, (here comes the thesis) Perry’s song/video fetishizes and undermines the validity of queer relationships, casting woman-on-woman sexuality as:

1. A sin.

“It’s not what good girls do.” “It felt so wrong. It felt so right.”

This is pretty much the oldest trick in the book. The “I have homosexual encounters-to-rebel” syndrome. Good girls go on dates with men, don’t sleep around, and get married…finishing off with the production of 2.5 kids and a happy home. Any deviation from this path constitutes a sin, a subversive act. This song was not about sweet, innocent curiosity, it was about faux-subversiveness and queer encounters from a hetero-normative paradigm. Surely Katy didn’t consider that for some women, kissing girls just feels right. Period. No addendum.

2. An enforcement of hetero-normative femininity

“us girls we are so magical. Soft skin, red lips, so kissable…so touchable”

All the women in this music video are the most femme-y women imaginable. Of course, all lesbians are. Right? Right. Perry has a delightful way of erasing the majority of the spectrum of gender expression with her vision of girl-on-girl encounters. The girl she purportedly kissed has on “cherry chapstick” and, from the women in the video, we can reasonable assume that all lesbians are these hyper-sexualized, hyper-feminine harlets. This is not about attraction from a lesbian perspective, it is about parading scantily-clad women around for the enjoyment of straight men. Because hot women kissing each other is hot. A surefire way to guarantee a hetero-hook up later in the evening. As I watch the portrayal of more or less interchangeable women squirm across the screen, I resent the fact that Perry manages to box all womenkind into being soft, magical, and touchable—basically, a straight man’s ideal fantasy of the white woman he’d like to screw. Fuck that.

I’m sitting here wondering: where are the studs? where are the masculine women? where are the genderqueer women? where are the transwomen? Where are all the people that have to take the public ridicule and shouted slurs for being butch/gender ambiguous? Where are those people Katy? I suggest you go find them and give them a kiss, because they take all the homophobic public bullshit everyday so that you can have your fun for the night.

3. A minor slip up in a otherwise good heterosexual relationship

“hope my boyfriend don’t mind it”

Heavens knows that if Katy had been screwing another guy, she wouldn’t be half as flippant about her boyfriend’s response to the interlude. So why the “oopsie” *shrug* response? Because Katy doesn’t take woman-on-woman relationships seriously. The entire song revolves around the fact of her having a queer encounter, but not being in anyway committed to continuing said relationship. This is exactly the kind of attitude that makes bi-sexuality something that people don’t take seriously–because at the end of the day, kissing a girl was about: “just wanna try you on” “your my experimental game” “i don’t even know your name. it doesn’t matter” and “don’t mean i’m in love tonight”.  Random hook-ups with other women is for kicks, for revenge, for a rush, for attracting straight men’s attention/arousal but not for love. Not for serious. Not for permanent.

The end of the music video sums this point up quite nicely. Katy wakes up from her “lesbian fantasy,” only to find that it was all a dream, and that she is safe and sound in bed with her boyfriend. She looks dis-oriented, and then–realizing where she is–relieved. Cut to black. Don’t worry Katy! Your heterosexuality is still intact and you are as straight and safe as ever!

~~~

*Apologies ahead of time…this is a pretty ranty post, but I will try my best to be critically sound.

I was sitting and eating dinner this evening, wondering why my version of  Potato Medley Burrito is never as good as it was when he used to make it for me. My mind wandered as I took a sip of my fancy “sparkling orange beverage”.* I stopped and studied the can, only to realize that they have changed the design. I know this because I have kept two cans of Aranciata prominently displayed in my room. And they are distinctly dark blue.

The first can is from my brother.

The second can is from someone who had a crush on me in high school.

Who? you ask.

To this very day, I have no idea.

I received the can of soda during a Valentine’s day fundraiser my junior year in high school. I remember the situation very distinctly: I was sitting in Spanish class, when the delivery came. I fully expected nothing, and it seemed only apropos that the an entire 6-pack of Orange Crush was announced as a gift for a sophomore named Kirsten. She was a petite white woman with a Tiffany  bracelet on all the time–the kind of girl who corrected you on the pronunciation of her name before you even messed it up. “It’s KIR-sten.” Yeah…so 6-pack to Kirsten, and then much to my surprise, “One for you.” What?!

The student handed me a can of Aranciata, as the official Orange Crushes had been exhausted by Kirsten’s gift. I was fine with the substitution–Orange Crush is disgusting.** But at the time I was just baffled by the fact that someone wanted to give me an Orange Crush. I looked at the tag attached. “To: R. From: ________”

Yep. Completely anonymous. And completely unhelpful.

I was completely baffled. In retrospect, this moment fell in a formative point of my understanding of dating:

1. I had never been on a date with a guy, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to. At the time, it didn’t even cross my mind that I could also date women. Sadly, I missed out on that key concept until later…

2.I didn’t think about dating very much, because it seemed like something everyone else did, but not me. When my mom worked up the courage every once in a while to ask me why I wasn’t dating, I always responded in something along the lines of “I’m too busy with school.” I’m still not entirely sure of how much of that answer was/is true.

3. I honest to god thought that I would never date because I didn’t stand a chance up against the rich, blond-hair, blue eyed, short skirted, bubbly girls that surrounded me in my very rich, very preppy high school. I remember watching as a guy that I secretly hoped to go to prom with asked one of the popular, skinny, twins to the dance. “Oh…yeah, sure!” She giggled when he popped the question. I stood by the lockers and watched this interlude unfold, burning slightly with foolishness for ever thinking he would want to ask me to prom.***

4.I was the girl who spent the entirety of her junior year by herself working alone on a drawing for 8 months, who was never very popular, never got asked to parties, and though I was a pretty damn good dancer, I never once got asked to/for a dance.

5.I only had one person I ever had a for-real crush on. He was in a play with me, and I pined after him everyday for the entire rehearsal period of the play. He was quirky, smart, and had a remarkable way of making you feel like everything you said was the most interesting topic in the universe. We also played opposites in the production, so I had a built in opportunity for frequent interaction and sassy flirting. Not that I took advantage of it….Everyday, I practiced, and I pined. God bless me, I pined. It think it’s still something I do–because I was never quite confident enough to make my attractions known or public. I always sort of felt like I shouldn’t be attracted to people. Anyhow…I pined after this boy, only to find out that he had started dating another girl in the cast—who was stupid! She was thin, white and rich and giggled a lot, and I was devastated. Why oh why did she deserve him? Why did he want her? I thought smart, quirky, awesome people didn’t date stupid people! (Stupid people, of course, being my value judgment. I’m sure she had many lovely qualities.)

Sitting with these memories today, I realize that there’s a lot that came from these early experiences with the awkwardness of crushes and attraction. I’m a little more sure of myself now…and realize someone more interested in aforementioned bubbly girls than me is not worth my time. Thank god I’ve realized that. I still have a tendency to pine, but I think it’s as much because I have had such painful experiences with unwanted advances as it is my bashfulness. Sky hit this type of feeling right on the head in his post.

One of the amazing things that came from this dynamic, however, was the amazing friendships I made with women in high school. Without boys and relationship drama to deal with, I had the most satisfying and amazingly wonderful friendships with a group of like-minded women. I don’t think I would have these friends today if I had been dating. And I don’t think I would be capable of loving–in all capacities–as strongly without those friendships. Love never became something I associated with exclusively with dating. I am grateful for these friendships, and for the experiences of deep, beautiful love I have shared with my friends.

Yet, at times like these, I really wish the person who gave me that Orange Crush would’ve let me know who they were.

As I was combing through my possessions a while ago, I came to the box with the two soda cans in them. To keep or not to keep? I looked at the expiration dates:  3/05 and 6/07.

Certainly not drinkable. But had their sentimental value also expired?

I tenderly placed the cans in the trash bin, wishing I could throw away the complicated emotions with the soda.

~~~

*This product has the coolest packaging ever. The foil seal at the top makes you feel like this soda was preserved specially for you. So that when you finally get this expensive looking beverage in your hands, it appears clean and refined for your enjoyment. I recommend both the orange and the lemon varieties. Very classy. Very tasty.

**To CJL: Hey, remember Fanta Limon? We just can’t do soda right in this country…I understand why you leave all the time.

***For the record, I skipped out on Jr. prom and only went to Sr. prom. I went by myself, sans-date.  I felt fat and ugly, and very out of place amongst all the giggly white couples surrounding me at the get-ready pre-party. My most distinct memory however, was feeling really dumpy and wondering how my booty could be so substantially larger than everyone else’s. Weird, I know.

My biggest motivation for attendance was that I’d managed to teach myself the choreography for Thriller, taught a bunch of my friends, and wanted to bust out in the middle of prom with this killer routine. It wasn’t that glamorus, sadly. They call them fantasies for a reason…

I’m running late from an event at the art museum, so I set a determined pace towards my car, wearing my dressy casual jeans, a cute top, rather modest heels, and a don’t-talk-to-me face:

Me: *Waiting for the cross walk signal to turn green*

Man: Excuse me…but with that walk, girl, you’re like Bourbon—knocking guys down left and right.

Me: Ummm…..

Not my usual kind of post, but I’m obsessed with this thing.

Read about it here.

The work’s title pretty much sums it up.

Space Traveler’s questions:

1) What did the company invest in to get that kind of money?

2) Is there even that much cash in print? I know the Pound is way stronger than the Dollar, but still…

3) How many briefcases/armored cars does it take to transport/store that much cash?

I am constantly amazed at the art world. …She says as she runs full-tilt towards a career in contemporary art.

My head is a mess right now. A selected tour:

1) How am I supposed to find a job? I’m smart dammit. I know I am. But I can’t make jobs appear out of nowhere. Especially when they say “no phone calls, please.” I’m trying to be flexible, creative, open-minded. But it feels more like I’m the creep sitting outside with my ear pressed to the door, trying to hear what’s going on inside.

2)I miss/lost one of my best friends. A profound sadness clouds my mind.

3)I have been waking up with chronic headaches that persist all day. They laugh at my pathetic attempts of Advil and Aleeve. They bang at my temples and my bones. I need more sleep. Maybe I also shouldn’t cry myself to sleep. That might help.

4) The other interns continue to bring a torrential downpour of hetero-sexism. I’m blindsided my the avalanche of ignorance: “I’d rather be a lesbian than a-sexual. At least then I’d be getting some action.” “Yeah, but what can you even do? I mean, I guess you have to use a strap-on…” “Gross”.

Very, very loud screaming ensues in my head. I can’t even start to say anything.  I a) Can’t talk about sex in the middle of a shared public workspace, even if they are, and b) any words out of my mouth were going to be cussing them out for being so ignorant and stupid and c)Inform them that queer sex does not NOT require a strap-on/need to mimic hetero-sex  and d) if pleasure and orgasms were alcohol, I would have drank all of them under the table. By a long shot. So they really needed to shut-the-f*ck-up about things they know nothing about.

But this is all too much information for me to say in a very public place/I’m bashful about sex/sexuality.

5)Grad school? Commercial gallery? Live at home? Go crazy? Live in LA? Deal with traffic? Move to Texas? Live with friends? Why can’t you let go of the familiar? Why can’t you go with the flow? Move to New York? Prestigious museum? Screw aspirations and go to law school? How do I not be poor? How do I not hate myself? How do I make these pants fit? Why do I have thunder thighs? Can I lose this weight? How do I make money off of being kind and pretty? Which dance classes do I go to? Courtuald? Does anyone on the bleeding planet specialize in contemporary African art? How long does it take to mail a letter to London? Big name professors? How do you tell a good artist from a bad one? Where is my place as a dancer? When can I learn another language? Can I learn another language? What am I going to eat for dinner? Why am I so anti-ballet? How can I get through today? Why do dancers insist on a ballet background? How do I take care of the people I love? How do I get my mind to shut-up?

6) What was the point of my life right now?

I need to weather the storms, and find my way to calm clarity.

I warmly welcome commentary from all forecasters, weather-influencing goddesses and gods, and umbrella suppliers.*

~~~

*”You can stand under my um-ber-ella-ella-ella-a-a-a”-Rihanna

Sacramento:

1.The wasteland capital of the Golden State

2. Home of Wild Rain Ocicats

3. Location of the brand new, state-of-the-art headquarters of a window covering fabricator

And for the latter two reasons, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of my mother’s Honda Odyssey. Space traveler indeed.

My mother asked me if I wanted to  come see the new facilities and eat a nice dinner. I said yes, as long as we could also visit the Ocicat breeders in the area. We gave them a call, and sure enough, we set up an appointment. I stared out the window as we passed through “Downtown” Sacramento into further oblivion of dust and crops. In typically mom fashion, we are running on Empty. I sigh, and she keeps driving.

When we arrive to the breeder’s house the first thing I notice is the quiet. No cars. No planes. No industry. Just a few sporadic sounds from the birds and the gentle rustle of the wind in the grass.

Poetic, I know.

We walked up to the front door and knocked. Waited. Nothing. Then knocked again. It was quiet. Too quiet. It this the part where I get murdered? But then I saw them…..

a pair of piercing green eyes stared at me. Then another pair. Ocicats! “We’re in the right place,” I noted as I gestured in the cats’ direction.  What amazing animals they are.

Here’s the deal–My littlest brother was promised a puppy when he turned 10. That was when he was 7. It sounded like a great idea at the time, but the idea has morphed several times over the past 3 years: a dog, to a hamster, to a turtle, back to a dog. He’s now about 7 days away from his tenth birthday, and will not be getting a dog. He will be getting a pair of Ocicats, when they are old enough to come home with us in the fall. The reason we are getting Ocicats, is because I’ve had the pleasure of cat-sitting a pair, and they are by far the most intellegent and loving pets anyone could have. Except maybe a dolphin–but I’m not convinced it’s legal to keep a pet dolphin. I managed to convince my family/brother that Ocicats are the clear choice for a pet: they don’t need to be walked, they don’t bark, they can be trained to fetch and do tricks, and they are super friendly and personable. Essentially, they are cats that act like dogs.

Back to the story…

We walked around the house and were greeted by the owners, who were working in the yard. David showed us in, and provided a much needed glass of water. We noted the peaceful quiet in the area, to which he replied, “We have to have at least 10 acres each, because there’s no central plumbing–each house has to have a well and a tank, so that limits how close we can be.” I was intrigued by this idea. Imagine if everyone had to own 10 acres of land! If everyone could own 10 acres of land. How different our lives would be.

David lead us to the part of the house with the Ocicats. There were about 8 of them running around the room. Super cute. I’m instantly in love. We spent about an hour there, asking questions and getting to know the cats and David. Both were wonderful.

Then we drove off, and headed to the new window covering headquarters. Mom managed to get us 20 minutes back down the road without running out of gas. She’s had considerable practice with this–but always cuts it so close that I wonder if we will make it.

As we pull into the parking lot, I see a giant balloon rainbow and lots of gold and green sparkles. I secretly hope that we’ve come to the wrong place and it’s a giant Pride party. It’s not, of course… but a kid can wish.* The theme for the grand-opening is Wizard of Oz, with the plant being the Emerald City, and the Yellow Brick road being…um…the I-10 freeway? Not sure. But the company is very proud of its “green” building with waterless urinals and energy efficient lighting/air-conditioning and lovely skylights.

Mom introduces me to a billion people who I’ve a) met when I was 5 b)hear about every time mom talks about work, or c) need to remember the name of because they are big and important.

I meet my mom’s former sales rep, who is one of the people from category “a.” She’s thrilled to see me so big and grown up. “And THESE!,” she indicates to my breasts, “Where did these come from?”

I’m not sure how to answer that question.

Soon after, we get the facilities tour. It’s pretty run of the mill (no pun intended) until we get into the factory itself. Holy cow! I’ve never seen such a giant space with so much machinery. It would take 10 minutes to walk from one end to the other. Plus, I’ve always been intrigued by industry. I love watching assembly lines and machines screw on lids and drill holes. That PBS special on how they make crayons= coolest thing ever.

But something seemed a little off. As they walked through each section they described what this machine did and how that tool worked, and the newest technology on this or that. But only once did they mention the people who ran all of these machines. Granted, state of the art factories are a big deal, but I wanted them to at least acknowledge the amount of human effort that has to go into a factory this size.

The tour is followed by the promised fancy dinner (yum) and several keynote speakers. If this is the Emerald City, and we are Dorothy/posse, does that make the keynotes the Wizard of Oz? It certainly seemed like a bit of smoke and mirrors as they gave motivational speeches about product quality and expanding the company through an economic regression. But I think the highlight for me was when they described the business practices they wanted the dealers to strive for.

Speaker says: “Proactivity”

I think: “My mom”

Speaker says: “Dedication to personalized customer relationships”

I think: “My mom”

Speaker says: “Courtesy and Quality Service”

I think: “My mom”

Speaker says: “Constant Striving for Improvement”

I think: “My mom”

Yeah. She really is phenomenal. And she really was just here to see the factory, because there certainly wasn’t much new information in those talks.

Dinner, speakers finish and mom and I say goodbye to the appropriate people, with a few last minute introductions. The last introduction is to a man who is pleased to finally get to meet me and remarks to my mother, “She’s so tall and beautiful!”

I don’t know how to respond to this, but the third person address does not require my input. Loves the third person.

We exchange a brief conversation, before he is called away to another guest. As we part ways, he says to me, “See you in the industry!”

I don’t know how to respond to this.

“I hope not.” I think to myself in a mix of guilt and anxiousness.

Mom and I get back into the Odyssey and begin the drive down the yellow brick road, back home.

I sit and stare out the window thinking about my future and wishing I had red ruby slippers to magically give me the answers.

~~~

*”Wishing is the first step. The rest is up to you.”-Care Bears

Sadly, this post will not be about the horrible SJP/Matthew McConaughey movie of the same title.

No, my friends, this post is about my failings as a human being.

They begin like this:

I’m in a strange, new world. Gone are the familiar faces, the well-tread paths, the cherished routines. In their place, I have a museum full of interns, an apartment with an white male engineer roommate, and a lot of new freeways to get used to.

Yes, it’s a big adjustment, but I’m doing pretty well for myself.

But then I blew it. Several times in fact. And I’m not really sure what to do with myself, I’m so irritated.

So a bit of perspective: In college, we are all about challenging hegemony, pushing each other to think critically, to work through our own biases and internalized -isms. So even though I’d go home and be exasperated with mom for her white-supremacist comments, or snipe at my friends for careless language, I was always and continuously surrounded with people who were supportive of working to end domination in all its forms–be it in language or institution. Hell–sometimes it was almost as if we were duke-ing it out to see who could be the most “down,” the most critically conscious.

One can understand, then, the shock of all of a sudden living and working around people who don’t particularly care about any of this. One of the first lunch time discussion with my fellow interns was on the issue of marriage. They are all straight women, and so their concept of love and marriage fell predictably into a very narrow, hetero-normative view. “When I get married, I want my husband…” “My kids are never going to…” “Guys are so…” “I want all my bridesmaids to wear…” and so on. And as they went on and on about dating, relationships and the weddings of their dreams, I sat silently. Where could I insert my voice? To tell another narrative of queer love, of ceremonies that aren’t white weddings, of dreaming of more than being somebody’s happy wife with 2.5 kids? I don’t know where the hell my usually outspoken voice went, but it wasn’t around. I left lunch disappointed with myself, but trying to be patient as I establish myself in a new group of people.

Fine then, strike one. But then, a few days ago I was playing Super Mario with my roommate. I admit, I feel a bit awkward around him. I haven’t had to deal with this much straight-white-male-I drive a BMW-and climb mountains-ness in…well, ever. So I’m trying to be all chummy–as a protection( I think?)–bringing out the cuss words and playing like one of the guys. In the back of my mind, I’m like, “Rochelle! WTF! You can’t be all stupid in front of this stranger! Sure, you can call your best friends recalcitrant whores, but they know that it’s in jest and that you have feminist values at heart. He doesn’t. Stop! Now!” But the act continued. I seemed to have lost control of myself, despite my efforts to stay in control.

We were on the cusp of winning, when the cheap computer pulled from behind for the victory. Bummer, but of course, it’s a video game, so who cares. Then it came: He says, “WHAT?! We lost?! That’s so GAY!” My heart stopped.

REALLY?! Did he just fucking say that? Are you 10?! I thought NOBODY is ignorant enough to say that kind of shit anymore. And do you know what I did? I looked him dead in the eye, opened my mouth and said…

nothing.

I said nothing.

I didn’t tell him off. I didn’t lecture him on why he shouldn’t say that. I didn’t have a witty retort for his homophobia.

I said nothing.

And I’ve regretted it ever since. I’ve been chastising myself over and over in my head: “This isn’t what I stand for. This isn’t what I have worked so hard for. This isn’t why I have been struggling to educate myself, and challenge myself. I can do so much better.”

So why didn’t I say anything? What stopped me? Why aren’t my values transferring into my actions at the first test of courage?

To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what happened.

But I’ve got to figure it out–and quick, before I get stuck on this planet of uncritical normativity and profound disappointment.

I walked into a coffee shop in La Jolla this morning. It was a recommendation from my supervisor, and she said there were scones–two things that compelled me to enjoy breakfast there this fine morning. Tucked in between two larger business buildings, this was the kind of quaint, local coffee shop where everybody knows everybody and the barista starts your order as you walk in the door. In the less than 5 minutes I was there, a small flurry of things happened:

1. The barista asked me how my week was going so far. Considering that it’s only Tuesday (and how much damage could be done in 1 day?) I responded “Fine, thank you. and yours?”

2. An old man turns to me, as if greeting and old friend, and says, “Well how are you doing?!” I reply in standard, if slightly surprised, courtesy, “I’m well, thank you.” He extends his hand and introduces himself. I return the hand shake and introduce myself.

…

He won’t let go of my hand.

What do I do? This is soooo uncomfortable. I’m standing here with a complete stranger who won’t let go of me. It goes from impromptu introduction to unexpected panic in less than 20 seconds. He says he’s a regular and has never seen me before. He tells me that I’m very pretty. He says he’s 79 and going strong. He tells me I look like a teenager. He tells me that I’m raising his good cholesterol. He tells be that he hopes to see me again.

I feel suddenly sick to my stomach as a rush of memories washes over me: of old men hitting on me, as a guy five times my age stands behind me in aerobics class to watch me and then asks me out to dinner, of men in cars who honk at me as I walk home from high school, of the seething shame and embarrassment I have felt under the gaze of men. I HATE straight men. I always assume their best intentions, so why do they always ruin it for me?

I politely explain that I need to get in line and order so I’m not late to work.

3. I turn around to get in line and there is David Beckham. Actually, it’s not David Beckham. It’s an Italian- looking guy who is, despite his not-Beckham-ness, quite appealing. Heellllo I purr under my breath …wait, what am I thinking? I just established that I hate men….

4. I order a big scone and a latte.

5. As I wait, a mother walks into the shop and stands in line. She holds an baby girl in her arms and a little boy hovers at her feet. The baby smiles and gestures towards me. This means a baby likes me. Children never like me. I coo at the baby in mutual happiness with our exchange.

The mom doesn’t notice me much, but the little boy does. He emerges from behind his mother’s legs. He stares right up at me and declares, “I’m 5!” I wanted to say “I’m 21!” I didn’t. Instead, I say, “that’s great!”

6. I grab my latte, douse it with sugar, and walk out of the coffee shop.

This all happened in less than 5 minutes. I went from happiness, to openness, to politeness, to anger, to intrigue, to quasi-maternal instincts, to cool camp counselor, to disinterested yuppy–all in 5 minutes.

I am reminded of what a strange and beautiful place the world is.

I’ve arrived in San Diego, where I’ll be working for the next 10 weeks. I think I may been in slightly over my head…

guy#1:”that chick had a lot of junk in her trunk.”

guy#2:”Yeah man. That was a ba-donk-a-damn!”

I got my Wii.

What now haters?

That Wii Alerts bell rang, and I dropped everything. No, really. Everything. I’m proud to tell you that i purchased my Wii in under one minute.

I win.

I got my Wii from amazon.com, which means that I paid no tax and no shipping. I pride myself in my fine liberal arts education, from which I learned the tactics of resourcefulness, problem solving skills, and how to ask mom to pay for it. So much for making good money.

After running around for five minutes squealing “Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” to all zero other people in the house, I sat down to sit with–if you will– the day’s accomplishments. Also, I wanted to read the Chronicle. It took about three more minutes for me to realize that once my Wii arrived in the mail to my house in NorCal, I didn’t have an address to send it to in San Diego (summer sublet), nor a tv to hook it up to.* Well shit. Nice move, hot shot. As I pondered ways to get my shiny new toy to myself in San Diego, I looked over towards the kitchen landing…

On top of the piles of mail, my little brother’s lost homework, and a used cup is a fake Coach handbag. It’s mine, but I don’t touch it, or move it, or even want it.

My biological dad gave it to me as a gift. Well, technically, he gave it to my mom and asked her to give it to me. No occasion, no accompanying sentiments. That bag came with accessories of jack sh*t, but chock full of broken promises and confusion.

I don’t talk about my biological dad a lot. Mostly because there’s nothing to say. I don’t know anything about him, I don’t know what he looks like, I don’t know where he is or what he does everyday. At this point, I don’t care. It took me a really long time to be happy with my family sitaution, my parents–but I finally got there.  And in my carefully construed family schema, I don’t need him.  He doesn’t get involved in my brother’s and my life, and we make no effort to be part of his.

My mom actually got the bag from him a few months ago, but didn’t have the heart to give it to me. Divorce is never a cute affair, and while she is the model of “how to turn divorce into a 1.5 million dollar business” (true fact), she still has some random fits of not knowing exactly how to mitigate the relationship between us and him. So she gave it to me a couple of days ago when I asked, “whose bag is that?”. Don’t shoot the messenger, I guess…

The obvious problems with the gift don’t bother me. It’s not that I’ve never gotten a single birthday card or christmas present from him. (true) Nor is it the fact that he owes my mother thousands of dollars in child support (also true). It’s not even that he has missed every meaningful event in my life (true, with the exception of my birth**). It’s that this stupid, fake bag was given with no clear intent, for no specific reason, with no evidence of any care specific to me. So as far as I’m concerned, this bag is from a complete stranger who was feeling generous towards a passer-by. My mom asked me what I thought about the bag. I said “It was a nice gesture. A bit, um, wierd.”  What I think I meant was “F*ck you, you stupid asshole! You can’t just give someone a fake purse and expect them to feel all bloody warm and fuzzy inside. You don’t even know that I graduated from college! Or that I’m hella frickin smart! Or that I’m doing great things with my life and you are not helping at all! ? Way to suck at life, dad.” I’m paraphrasing, but i think that was about the sentiment.

Funny thing is, I’m not really that mad. I’m sitting here typing away, no tears in my eyes or pain in my heart. Just thoughts, and a small teeny tiny wish that he would make a slightly better effort if he was going to make one at all.

So I got up from the kitchen table, picked up the Coach bag, walked upstairs and dropped the purse in the box marked Goodwill/garage sale. At this moment, “Goodwill” suddenly takes on a delightfully ironic meaning for me. And I’m done with the Coach handbag.

I look around the living room now, every degree of my vision filled with my possessions. Very cluttered, and on the verge of overwhelming. And somehow, in the next week, I have to sort through all of my bags and boxes to figure out what I’m gonna keep with me, what I’m gonna leave at home, and stuff that…

it’s time to give away.

~~~~

*to ekh: up what did you hook it?

**And strangely enough, the doctor came out and told my god father (an awesome white man who was there for my birth) that he had a new beautiful new daughter. “Congrats!” I guess doc missed that the brown baby couldn’t have possibly belonged to two white parents. Maybe the doctor was “colorblind.”

More about my birth in a future post.