I'm Pretty Boring, Actually.

I have this weird theory about well-known indie/alt bands. If you’re at all into the alternative music scene, I think you have one hardcore, dominant band that you love out of the following list: The Decemberists, Radiohead, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie. You may like a few songs from the other bands, yes, but you have one favorite and they are THE BEST and you don’t understand why everyone else doesn’t agree. I know lots of people who are hardcore Radiohead fans, or Death Cab fans, and they never intersect with being a hardcore Decemberists or Modest Mouse fan. This is all, of course, probably bullshit, but it’s based on my experience as a hardcore Decemberists fan who dated a hardcore Radiohead fan. He thought Thom Yorke was the greatest musical genius; I worship at the altar of Colin Meloy. I worship that man. He and RuPaul are the closest thing I have to religious idols. And David Foster Wallace, and Kathleen Hanna. And, of course, Amanda Palmer is quickly reaching sainthood. And Sylvia Plath. And David Bowie. And Flight of the Conchords. 

Okay I have a lot of favorites. I get really, insanely passionate about things I love. If you are important to me, you bet your sweet ass I will fight to the death for you. I will spread the gospel of how great you are to everyone and everything in my life. I am not a shy person.

Other things I love: cult TV shows (Freaks and Geeks, Six Feet Under, Party Down, The OC, It’s Always Sunny, Arrested Development, The Golden Girls); cult movies (John Waters movies, Empire Records, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Benny & Joon, Scott Pilgrim, Rocky Horror, Steel Magnolias, Labyrinth, Clue, every Wes Anderson movie but especially Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums); food (I will go on streaks where I will crave the same food, constantly, and then I’ll never want to eat it again after a few days/weeks/months); coffee; wine (alcohol of any sort, really); books (all the books. Give me your books); flowers; colors; GLITTER (there will never not be glitter on my person); sex; chocolate; Halloween; cats; shopping; dancing; singing; lists of random things.

Not that I don’t like Modest Mouse or Death Cab or Radiohead. There’s a good six Radiohead songs I enjoy and know some of the lyrics to. Oh well. We all have our things.

You know when you’re younger and you hate things so vehemently and you think to yourself, “I will never like/eat/do/think that” and then you grow up and like/eat/do/think those things? Isn’t that hilarious? Things I use to hate that I now love: driving (I didn’t get my license until I was 21. Seriously.); onions; broccoli; leggings; Nicki Minaj; dating more than one person at once/polyamory or whatever the fuck you wanna call what I’m doing with my love life now; runny egg yolk (or really eggs in any form as I used to only eat them whence scrambled); red wine; rare beef; salads; spinach. Yes my life mostly revolves around food.

I wrote all of the preceding during some downtime at work today. Now, I'm not quite sure where to go with all of this nonsense, these lists of random information. I think I'm just going to keep listing random shit; keep it light and breezy for today's post.

Books I'm currently reading (I have always read more than one book at a time; I keep them on rotation): 1Q84; The Art of Asking; Consider the Lobster and Other Essays; An Untamed State; Wildwood; No one belongs here more than you; and about a chapter left of Heroines.

Books to be read: far too many to list. I'm dozens of books behind. I will try to keep better track of what I'm reading, though. I've also found that reading before bed makes me happier and I sleep much better than if I don't read. I used to always read before bed. Then again, I used to always just be reading. I didn't have to think about it; it wasn't, "Oh! I should read something before I sleep!" I was just reading all the time. Now it takes a little reminder, sometimes, to get off the internet or off of Netflix, to take that 15 minutes and read a chapter or a short story. The past few nights, I've read before bed, and I've slept more soundly than I have in weeks. But, I've also been writing every night. Which one is more beneficial? Or do they work in tandem? I couldn't say, at this point. No matter what, though, I'm sleeping better, and I've been feeling less stressed during the day. I'm also so looking forward to this weekend. One of my men-agerie is coming down to see me, for once, and I have so much planned. The winery I work at is having a blending party on Saturday, and he's coming to participate and hang out and explore my little city with me on Sunday. We've had it planned for about a month now; I hope it lives up to the hype I've built up in my mind. I just want to have fun. I think it will be amazing.

I guess not every post this month will be dramatic and secret-revealing. Such is the pity of general, day-to-day real-life blogging. I promise we can get back to dramatic, telenovela-style life secrets and dating misadventures shortly. It's just getting late here in the ol' PST, and I am losing steam and have to be to work early tomorrow for what will surely be a long and exhausting day at the office. Such excite. Much adult. Aren't you glad you read all this? You're very welcome. I love you, too.

Express Yourself

Books have been an escape mechanism for me my entire life. I started reading sometime around 3 or 4 years old, and I've inhaled literature since those tender years. The first book I ever read was called Elmo Gets Homesick, wherein Elmo goes to visit his grandparents and misses his family, but ends up having a fantastic time doing things like baking cookies and picking apples with his grandparents. I had my mom read it to me every night for weeks; then, one night, I told her I could read it myself. I proceeded to read the book to her in its entirety; but as she quickly found out, I couldn't actually read. Rather, I had just memorized the entire little story and recited it to her. Silly tiny tot Nicole, flipping the pages at the wrong times! I got my first library card at the age of 5 (I think, sometime around then), when I could barely write (but I still signed my own name, dammit; I remember my father insisting, one of a handful of awesome things he's done for me in my life). At that point it was mostly books on tape with accompanying paper books, but I quickly progressed to actual short story books and then young adult novels, and thenceforth.

I was reading far beyond my years from a young age. I was about 9 when I first read Shakespeare. Yes, 9ish. My godmother was over visiting with my mom (they've been friends forever), and she mentioned something about Macbeth. My godmother is a huge literary nerd; she's the head reference librarian at a community college now. I don't remember why they were talking Shakespeare; all I know is that I proudly announced to them, "I could read that." I'm fairly certain they laughed in my face, and understandably so. I went to the bookshelf and found a copy of Macbeth. In the following few days, I read the play. When she was visiting next, I proudly announced that I had, indeed, read Macbeth. She said, "Well, maybe you read it, but you didn't understand it." I had her quiz me. I had, indeed, read and understood Macbeth. She was aghast, and told me a lot of people find Shakespeare challenging. My smug little 9 year-old self just ate that shit up. 

My parents separated when I was young; I think I had just turned 6. My first ever memory is of them having a terrible fight. Actually, that's bullshit; my first ever memory is my mother sitting at our kitchen table, sobbing, while my father screamed at her. At the time, I remember feeling bad for my father, because obviously my mom must have really deserved to be punished! Clearly she fucked up badly. I still feel guilt over that; but children don't have the capacity to process that scene beyond what they've been taught: if you're bad, you get yelled at. My mom was getting her ass handed to her; clearly she deserved it. I'm so sorry, mom. It took me a long time to admit that was my first memory, even to myself. I had to be about 3 years old. That's probably not a coincidence with when I decided to myself, fuck this shit, escape into another world. Look at the shelves full of worlds around you! My mother had already been reading to me regularly at that point (I'm sure my dad read to me then, too, but I have no memories of that). I remember her reading The Hobbit to my sisters and me on car rides. I remember Elmo. I remember my dad taking us to the library a lot, particularly after they separated, back when he was cool dad. I will say this for him: he encouraged my reading. He had a rule that he would always buy us books, no matter what. And he did. There was many a night spent with my dad and sister(s) at those big chain bookstores, where I ran around like a glutton, reading short books in the store and making my dad buy me at least five books at a time. And I would read them all, usually alone in my room at my dad's place, or in the room I shared with my sister at my mom's place. Until my other older sister had to go to the home for troubled teens about an hour away; then I had the room to myself.

I remember going to visit her and bringing her books, because I thought, if they comforted me, they must comfort her, right? Even though she was 15 or 16 and I was 7 or 8; Little House on the Prairie is for everyone, yes? It's okay that she had left me alone that day when she was supposed to babysit me; I had had books to read until my frantic mother showed up from work to call the police and find my runaway sister. I distinctly remember that day. When I realized I was home alone, I ate a bunch of Oreos before I called my mom to say she wasn't there. I felt so free! Look at me, eating cookies at 10AM! Who cares if I'm alone; COOKIES!! And then I read until my other sister and my mom came home, and then the police, and my eldest sister.

My mother is an amazing poet. She's also dyslexic, and not much of a reader. But somehow she is a gigantic Tolkien nerd. I love that about her; I think that's where my innate love of Harry Potter came from. My father is a big reader. Neither of my sisters were big into reading or writing. I'm just a natural-born nerd. I was always envious of my mother's poetry. My mother went back to get her Associate's Degree when I was still quite young; I used to go to daycare at the community college. I had my first boyfriend there, Phillip. We would lie on cots next to each other and hold hands. We would whisper through naptime. On more than one occasion, two bratty girls tattled on us and we had to end naptime early, because we were talking. I wonder if he remembers me. My mother had her poetry published in the school's newspaper and literary journals on multiple occasions. I'm still envious of that. I thought she was famous.

What I'm trying to say is that I've never thought of myself as a writer. I've always been a reader; a devourer; someone soaking up the information around them and using it to try to organize the ridiculous day-to-day situations they were living. I've never had a story or novel idea kicking in the back of my brain. My ex was a writer. He wrote poetry, short stories, had ideas for novels, etc. He tried to write every day. I just consumed as many books and magazines as I could get my hands on. When I was in high school wondering what to do with my life, what to study in college, my sister told me that I could study books. What?! Please! When I was about 8, I was in a talent show as part of my summer recreation program. We just called it Rec. What was my talent? Reading. I read a story to everyone, like Mother Fucking Goose. I'm a reader, a consumptive. 

So why am I now feeling this burning, intense desire to write? The first poetry I ever wrote was during high school. Fueled by the first guy to ever break my heart, I wrote feverish, angry poetry that I published on Myspace. I took a school day to write one long poem that I cleverly titled, "One School Day." I entered some poetry into competitions; I think one got published on some random poetry site. But I'm not a writer. I don't view myself as an artist or writer or particularly fantastically talented person. Or, rather, I'm a writer when that passion flares in my chest; when the heat takes over me and if I don't put words down and out into the universe I feel as if my heart will actually stop beating, or my limbs will fall off, or my head will explode like I shoved it in the microwave. (Yes I said microwave; read Infinite Jest, please.)

So, I'm writing. November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month); but, as mentioned, I do not have a novel. What I do have are thoughts, feelings, and a lot of crazy shit to work out from my life. I also have a blog. Yes, I know, originally this started as a "whoa listen to my crazy dating stories" feelgood funtime happypants blog. It will still contain those stories. As you may have noticed, though, the title of my blog has now changed. It's now Nicole In Tinderland (And Other Adventures Of A Modern Mermaid). Thank you, Ashera, for that perfect new title. In lieu of a novel, I will be writing on here. Every day. About whatever the fuck I feel like. There will be more dating posts; there will be posts about books; there will be angry feminist rants; there will be posts about nothing; there will be posts about family, friends, lovers. Whatever the fuck I feel like saying, I will be saying. I still don't feel like I'm a writer; but I'm writing anyway.

Reading has always been my escape. It will always be my go-to. I still think books are better than people; because, in my experience, books have always been there for me when people mostly have not. I do take some blame for that, as I would rather shut down and enter a different world than deal with the one in front of me. Whenever we were being yelled at, usually by our stepdad, my sisters would yell and fight and scream and curse. I would completely shutdown. I just sat, eyes unfocused, trying to imagine I was anywhere else in the world. When I heard fighting but wasn't directly involved, I just stayed in my bed and read until my eyes couldn't focus and I had to sleep. When I didn't have many friends because I didn't know how to express myself, I read. When I didn't have many friends because I didn't want them to come to my house and see/hear what I lived with, I read. Alternate realities are so much easier to deal with than actual reality. Maybe now is the time I face the facts and deal with my actual realities, instead of escaping. Maybe now, although I will still consume voraciously, maybe now I'll actually let some things out. Maybe I finally have enough confidence in myself and in my voice that I won't be afraid to speak. I won't just withdraw into myself, fall into that emotional vomit pit. No more bottling up. I'm writing.

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.