How I Got To Be So Weird. At Least, Partially.

Do you ever have those moments where you realize just how fucked up your childhood was? I'm experiencing one currently. Ashera posted on Facebook that there's a Pulp Fiction Soundtrack Pandora station and I freeeeaked outtttttt. I am not a Tarantino nerd; hardly. I think a lot of his movies are overwrought and, especially lately, totally over-the-top and they leave me unsatisfied and just pissed off. But. BUT. Pulp Fiction. Oh my god.

My sisters are both considerably older than me: one is eight years older; the other, five. As such, my oldest sister and I didn't know each other much growing up. But, my other sister, she and I were close. We did nearly everything together, especially in those early years. My father was a completely irresponsible parental figure for most of my childhood (my parents separated when I was 6), and later on, attempted to be a strict Catholic hardass, which failed spectacularly. You can't let your kids do whatever they want for their whole lives then decide when they are, say, 12 and 17, to become a judgmental dickbag. You can't let your youngest daughter watch South Park from the age of 7 onward (the unedited seasons you rented at Blockbuster as a family on VHS), and then turn off Pleasantville because it's "too graphic" about sex. Bitch, please.

Anyway, my dad took my sister to see Pulp Fiction when it came out in theaters. She was 12, so I was 7ish. My sister loved the movie. She immediately told me so much about it. We had the soundtrack and listened to it constantly. When it came out on video, I was allowed to watch one scene: the Jack Rabbit Slims Twist Contest. She and I acted it out CONSTANTLY. We already lived a life of constant dance parties. I came home to my mom vacuuming and blaring Talking Heads on vinyl an incalculable amount of times. But, post-Pulp Fiction, we danced with that scene on in the background, memorizing every little move they made. My sister was always Vincent Vega; I was always Mia Wallace.

I memorized all the lines on that soundtrack. ("Pigs are filthy animals. I don't eat filthy animals." "Yeah but bacon tastes good, pork chops taste good." "Well, sewer rat might taste like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know, 'cause I'll never eat the filthy motherfucker.") My mom is a huge surf guitar nut, so I already knew and appreciated The Ventures and that ilk. My sister and I made up our own line dance of sorts to "Jungle Boogie." Yes, I still know how to do it to this day, 20 years later. When Batman and Robin came out a few years later, I was already obsessed with the movie because, well, I already had a Batman obsession; BUT. UMA. She was Poison Ivy. My little life was made. She was one of my earliest lady crushes. Uma Thurman and Kate Winslet. I have pretty good taste in women.

(I mean. I MEAN. SHE IS PERFECTION. FOREVER.)

I don't remember the first time I saw the movie in its entirety, but it wasn't many years later. I FREAKED. OUT. when I saw the whole Vincent-Mia scene, that much I do remember. That needle, man. And I was so upset about what happens to Vincent.

I used to take the soundtrack up to my room and play it on my little boombox and dance around the room by myself, when my sister was in her later teens and we didn't hang out as much. I sang "Son of a Preacher Man" at the top of my lungs, somehow convinced that song would come true for my life. Maybe that's why I had a brief affair with organized religion in my teens?

My uncle moved to Santa Cruz around the same time (where I now live). If you remember, when Vincent and Jules need new clothing, Vincent winds up in a UC Santa Cruz banana slugs shirt. My uncle sent us those exact shirts, and we were SO EXCITED to wear them. In my teens, it was my shirt for gym class. My sister got a hoodie version that I accidentally lost at church. She was so pissed. After I moved out here, I sent a care package of that exact hoodie, plus shirts for her husband and kids, to make up for that loss. I still haven't replaced my own shirt. One of these days I'll get my own UCSC shirt/sweatshirt again.

When my sister and I went to Disney World together, just us, when I was 16, we ate at a restaurant where we got to sit in a classic car, "just like John and Uma!" We had expensive milkshakes and burgers, obviously. I remember going to Hawaii with my mom and stepdad a few years ago, and reading a Vanity Fair that had an oral history of Pulp Fiction while on the cliffs/beach overlooking the ocean. My ex and I watched it one Christmas at his parents house with his siblings. Best Christmas movie. When my sister got married, she and my dad did the Jack Rabbit Slims dance as their father-daughter dance. Seriously.

But I mean....this isn't normal. It's not normal for a seven year old girl to be obsessed with Pulp Fiction. I was also obsessed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which I saw around the same time. I'm still obsessed. I wrote my English Master's Thesis on the goddamn movie. And it's when I stop to think about this kind of thing that I think, "holy shit. I am really, incredibly weird."

I haven't seen a lot of Disney movies. I've never seen Mulan. Or The Emperor's New Groove. Or Atlantis. Or a lot of others. You know what I was watching? Pulp Fiction. Rocky Horror. Hairspray. Cry-Baby. Empire Records. Labyrinth. The Breakfast Club. Pretty in Pink. Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. Death Becomes Her. Clue. Clueless. Welcome to the Dollhouse.

Also, in full disclosure, my sister and I used to also act out the following scenes:

"King Cry-Baby," from Cry-Baby. She was Cry-Baby, I was Allison. (We were both Hatchet Face.) I still cannot watch this movie without acting it out, and former roommates and boyfriends alike can confirm this. (I also had this soundtrack and listened to it constantly.)

"Madison Time," from Hairspray. Along with most of the rest of the movie. I have always wanted to be Tracy Turnblad. In fact, when I met John Waters last year, my sister texted me, "Good luck, Tracy!" YES I MET JOHN WATERS. WE HAVE A PICTURE TOGETHER. HE SIGNED TWO BOOKS FOR ME. BOW DOWN, BITCHES.

"If You Want Blood," in Empire Records. She was Lucas, I was AJ, and my childhood best friend was usually Warren. (Stop calling me Warren!) Also, of course, everything to do with Rex Manning.

And, of course, best friend and I did this together for a talent show at our summer daycamp when we were 8 years old. She was Riff-Raff, I was Magenta. I will always be Magenta.

I told my editor at Dirge recently that, I look all sweet and innocent, but in reality I am a disgusting monster. I am a weird, dark, awkward child at heart. I can be very sweet and fluffy and a pretty rainbow unicorn. I can also be black lipstick and a sneer, fishnets and leather. And it's hard, because everyone expects you to always be one certain way all the time. Well, if you're a dark person, you should always be in dark lipstick and never smile. But, if you're a happy person, you should always be smiling and wearing pastels. (No not true fuck pastels.)

(Morticia FOREVER.)

It's rough to feel so dichotomous, but I understand that that's inherently who I am. I am a solid foundation of Nicole, with tenuous little arms that flail in all sorts of directions, trying to understand what is going on in the world and how to relate to everyone and everything else. Some days that means I look sweet and innocent; some days I look like a sex machine; some days I look like I will murder you with my eyes, and I am probably trying to do so. And that's alright. The freedom to express all these sides of my personality are all that I'm trying to do with myself and my life at this point in time. That's not so much to ask, right?

In which I am shallow: part two.

(For background information, please read In which I am shallow: part one.)


It's a Friday in October in Northern California. So, naturally, it's one of the hottest days of the year. In Silicon Valley, it's nearly 100 degrees; in San Francisco, it's in the 90s. San Francisco is not a warm city, so when the heat is on, it's stifling. This is, of course, the day in which I meet Brad for a second date. I leave work and drive in hellacious Friday traffic up into San Francisco to meet him at his apartment. As it is with San Francisco (henceforth just known as the city), everything is uphill and winding, including the road to his place. I park; he comes out and greets me. We immediately get into his car and try to decide where to go. As it is unseasonably warm outside, and a Friday night to boot, we are expecting it to be nearly impossible to get a table at most places.

He is driving and trying to decide where we should go. He keeps putting his hand on my thigh, and I keep brushing him off. At a red light, he looks over at me, grabs my face, and starts to devour me. Again, I push him away. "Ooooh, are you one of those people that gets nervous in a car?" he asks. "Yes, absolutely," I respond. And it is true; I am very anxious in cars unless I am driving or I trust the driver completely. Otherwise, I will be panicking for most of the trip. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21 because I was so afraid of cars and driving. Funny that five years after that I drove myself across the country and now make a major daily commute. Anyway.

Brad takes me to the Haight, a neighborhood I had ventured around with my family at the age of 12, but which I now fully appreciate and love. I wanted to go into every thrift store, talk to every person, just take the whole experience in. Brad, however, was totally unimpressed and couldn't have cared less; but whatever, he lives in the city, why should he care?

We end up in a tiny Asian restaurant that is, yes, packed, and stifling. So much sweat started pouring out of me as we waited in the narrow entry to write down our names for a table. At this place, you have to write your name down on a chalkboard, and they will erase you when your table is available. I don't remember specifics, but I know someone came in and Brad was a dick about them writing their name down for some reason.

We start chitchatting. We order. Again, he is unnecessarily rude to the waitress. I'm getting pissed, and my gut is telling me to abort the situation. But I am now literally stuck in San Francisco, on a date with a man I'm starting to realize is a gigantic bag of dicks. And not in a fun way. Being that I am an English nerd, I try to bring up books as a topic of conversation. "Oh, I don't read that much," he said. I said something along the lines of, "Yeah, I get it, it's hard to find the time; you told me that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is your favorite book though, right?" And I swear, he said, "Yeah. Well, actually, I've only read parts of it. But I liked the parts I read." YOUR FAVORITE BOOK IS A BOOK YOU HAVEN'T EVEN READ?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?! A lot. A lot was wrong with him.

(This is something I need to remind myself of, as it has been proven to me since Brad that you do not. date. people. who. don't. read. At least, I CANNOT date people who don't read. Also I met John Waters and he was amazing and I love him forever.)

Our food arrives. Brad is snarky to the waitress about something; I shoot her an apologetic smile. It's tasty, but it's spicy, and I am so sweaty I swear I'm sliding off the chair. I put my hair up in a ponytail; Brad asks how I manage to make that look adorable. Oh, a compliment! I'll take it. But I am so worked up and pissed that I immediately respond with something rude. So he takes the opportunity to say, "How does someone with your personality work in a wine tasting room?" Me, genuinely confused: "What?" And his response was one of the following; I can't remember clearly because I went into a rage blackout in my mind: "Well, you're just so sarcastic and bitchy," or, "Well, you're just such a sarcastic bitch."

Listen. I know I can be a sarcastic bitch; I'm well aware. But that part of my personality is brought forth when I am uncomfortable and/or angry and/or hangry. In the rage blackout of my mind, I realized that I am acting this way because I am uncomfortable around him. I am not having a good time, regardless of how pretty he is, because he's fucking creepy and I need him to get away from me right meow. RIGHT MEOW.

He quickly followed up that comment with, "But I like that about you. I like that you're a bitch; it's hot." Okay, no, no, no, we are not doing this, no. Thankfully, dinner is almost over. Unfortunately, my bladder is full and I need to pee something fierce. The restaurant is packed, and there's one bathroom, and there's a giant line, and I have no opportunity to use it while Brad walks out of the restaurant. I'm screwed. I just need to pee! And to get the fuck away from this guy.

Walking out, I'm about two steps off from running smack into a naked man walking down the street. Seriously. Naked dude. Just wandering around. I'm flabbergasted, and ask Brad if he saw him. "Oh, that? Yeah that's normal. You're in San Francisco." Definitely not in Kansas anymore. As we are walking to the car I hear a noise: the click-clacking of heels on the sidewalk. I look around, and it takes me a second to realize that, in fact, Brad is wearing men's dress shoes that have heels. Stacked heels. Stacked heels that fucking CLACK ON THE SIDEWALK. I nearly peed right there. I mean, this is San Francisco; nobody would mind, right?

It's happening....It happened. It happened.

We get in his car to drive back to his place. At this point, I'm concentrating on not peeing and not having a total freakout on this creep. I don't know if you're aware, but San Francisco is a very hilly city. Getting anywhere requires you to go up and down a lot of hills. There's also a lot of stoplights. At nearly every stoplight, Brad tries, again, to put his hand on my thigh and/or make out with me. I again remind him that I am nervous in cars, and to please don't fucking touch me. He acquiesces, somehow. The road up to his apartment is a super steep, winding hill, because of fucking course it is. There's a minivan in front of us going under the speed limit, which pisses Brad off. "What the hell are they doing? This isn't okay." So he decides to pass them, which would be fine if we were on, you know, a highway, instead of a two lane residential street with a double fucking yellow line going upward towards a blind curve in the street YES THIS IS A GREAT IDEA BRAD YOU ARE SO SMART YOU MUST READ A LOT!

Of course, there's another car coming down the road, directly towards us, and Brad veers us back to safety just in time. I seriously was about .004 seconds from peeing everywhere, but he probably would've liked that. I must have screamed or made some kind of noise, because Brad looked at me, incredulous, and said, "What? We had plenty of time. We were fine!" BITCH I ALMOST DIED WITH YOUR STUPID HIGH-HEELED WEARING ASS ON A RANDOM STREET IN SAN FRANCISCO. NO. Thankfully, his house was less than a block away. Unfortunately, I still need to pee, and I have no idea where I can do that except in Brad's house. So I got out of the car, and I followed him inside.