You remember those, right?
You take the good, you take the bad,
you take them both and there you have
The Facts of Life, the Facts of Life.
There's a time you got to go and show
You're growin' now you know about
The Facts of Life, the Facts of Life.
When the world never seems
to be livin up to your dreams
And suddenly you're finding out
the Facts of Life are all about you, you.
It takes a lot to get 'em right
When you're learning the Facts of Life. (learning the Facts of Life)
Learning the Facts of Life (learning the Facts of Life)
Learning the Facts of Life.
Well, it seems I am, indeed, learning the facts of life, gang.
Let’s start by taking the good, shall we? Well, on Saturday, June 19th, at 2:19pm, I decided that Jewboo is going to be my LIFE boo. I won’t use the phrase “the one,” cause that kind of makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little. Let’s just say, I want to hang out with him forever and ever and have his baby Baracks.
“How can you know this after three months, Sojourner?” you may be asking. Let me break it down.......
So, this past Saturday, we had plans to spend the day together, finally have some relaxing hang-out time when neither of us had a class, rehearsal, or show. I was pretty amped (as evidenced by the fact that my Google calendar reminder email read “reminder: 1-10pm. Magical Day With Jewboo—yay!!”).
Things started off a bit later than planned, as I had to wait for the exterminator to come spray the house (just, you know, for the fun of it). I had trouble sleeping the night before, so I started off the day pretty groggy and pissy. Luckily, at 11am, one of my favorite films—TEEN WITCH—was on ABC Family, and I was able to mellow out a bit. As I listened to “Top That” for the 187th time, I knew it’d be a good day.
I didn’t end up getting to Brooklyn until 2pm, and I'm ravenous and sleepy and overheated from my walk from the subway. Jewboo tells me the restaurant he planned was closed, so we decide to meet at another place “in 10 minutes.” He’s not there when I arrive, but I put our names down for a table.
Now, I don’t know about you guys, but when I’m hungry, I do NOT do well. Hungry AND tired, and I’m basically a high-functioning toddler. I start blowing up his phone like a crazy biotch, wondering where the flip he is, and get pissy that I’m waiting on the streets on Brooklyn like a common woman. I mostly want him to hurry up and get here to hold our spot so I can run to a bodega and grab a quick granola bar or something to take the edge off.
When he shows up about 10 minutes later, I’m totally pissy—but it’s not even his fault. I know it’s cause I’m hungry and sleepy and hot as balls, but I cannot seem to muster up a smile and all….that is, until Jewboo reaches into his bag and pulls out something wrapped in plastic.
He hands it to me.
I open it. Is he about to put a ring on it, I wonder?
No--it's something even better—it’s a pastry from a Polish bakery!!!
“You sounded like you were in food distress,” he said.
SWOON CITY, POPULATION: ME!!!
I pretty much propose on the spot, eat the pastry like I’ve been held in Guantanamo Bay, and our magical day begins.
Guys, do you see how huge this is?! Jewboo can not only tolerate me being a psycho bitch when he’s made an effort to plan a nice day for us, but he can hear through the bitchiness to the hungry toddler underneath and provide the blacktress with what she really needs—FOOD!!!
I wonder if he’ll convert to Hinduism so that I can have the Indian wedding I’ve always dreamed of (for the last month).
Okay, so that’s the good. Now, how’s about we take the bad?
Well, how about the fact that I can’t get a damn moment’s peace on this plantation, and I had to come into work 40 minutes early just to find some quiet time to get things done? The boss has me meeting with an elite Belgian gay visionary this afternoon, hitting up an artist’s workshop tomorrow, and then spending all of Friday on-site at a workshop in Long Island. While it may seem fun and exciting to get out of the office, I have actually articles to write, and they can’t get done if I’m never at my desk, or, if when I’m at my desk, he’s constantly emailing and calling me away to help bring to fruition every cockamamie scheme that pops into his head. Add to this the fact that the artists are boring (to me), pompous, and I could just as easily get the information I need in a series of emails or telephone calls, and I’m just simply at wit’s end.
It also seems like I’m the only person on staff who has a life outside of this office. There are other coworkers who are married with children, but that's an acceptable reason to have to leave. The fact that I'm a single lady who can't seem to devote all my time to work when the three other editors who are also in my age range jump up with reckless abandon to go to every opening and dinner, just makes me look like a hot mess. So the fact that I’ll have to cut this afternoon’s interview short so I can go to my improv class at 6:15, and the fact that I can’t hang out in LI with artists after the workshop because I have two stand up shows to get to makes me some sort of renegade who lacks professionalism. I spent much of Monday spewing work-related venom, and figured the only way to stop is to get on bored this train, suck it up, come in early, give him my free time, and make it work.
Okay, second bad:
Did you know Indian youth are really into Hitler? This comes to me straight from the BBC News via a friend’s g-chat status update (which is how I get all my information, really).
Apparently, the land that brought us Bollywood and Naan is really down with Mein Kampf.
It's hard to narrow down what makes the dictator popular in India, but some young people say they are attracted by his "discipline and patriotism".
Most of them are, however, quick to add that they do not approve of his racial prejudices and the Holocaust in which millions of Jews were killed.
But the truth is that books, T-shirts, bags and key-rings with his photo or name on do sell in India. And his autobiography, Mein Kampf, sells the most.
W
T
F
?
!
Choice quote: Dimple Kumari, a research associate in Pune, has not read Mein Kampf but she would wear the Hitler T-shirt out of admiration for him. She calls him "a legend" and tries to put her admiration for him in perspective: "The killing of Jews was not good, but everybody has a positive and negative side."
For the full article, go here
Um, I don’t know how to cope with this. It’s exactly what Alan Thicke wrote about in the “Facts of Life” theme song—“when the world never seems / to be living up to your dreams….” This is a NIGHTMARE, people! I only discovered I was meant to be an Indian woman last month, after the greatest wedding ever, but this now scares and confuses me. Can you imagine walking down the streets of Mumbai, with Hitler paraphernalia all around like he was Justin Beiber? What’s all this talk of “discipline”? It’s amazing how forgiving they are of his mass-killing tendencies.
Maybe what India’s trying to tell us is that it’s really a haven for all.
No, no, I can’t find a silver lining to this crazy-cloud.
So, um, folks, there you have it—the good, the bad, the facts of life. Go forth into the world with this knowledge—of potential love for a blacktress, of workplace oppression, and Mein (UN)Kampf(ortable) trends in India. As they sang: There's a time you got to go and show/ You're growin' now you know about/ The facts of life….
Showing posts with label true love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label true love. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Longest Post Ever.....Indian Weddings Inspire Me!
Whew, guys, what a whirlwind! How was your weekend?! Did you hit up any German-Indian weddings, by any chance? If so, then you’re allowed to say your weekend was amazing in every way. If not, then I’m sure you had some sort of fun, but nothing can really compare.
Seriously, after this past weekend, the newest item on my life to-do list is:
- Find Indian husband.
- Earn future-husband's parents’ approval.
- Have monsoon wedding in the Northeast countryside.
(I mean, I’d have it in India, but you know I can’t handle too much heat—I’d sweat my hair out, y’all!)
This weekend’s wedding was gorgeous and amazing, and the road was paved with danger every step of the way. I rode up Thursday night after work with the Maid of Honor and another bridesmaid, making our way through an NYC thunderstorm. This voyage was gonna take us at least 6 hours, and we didn’t set out until 8pm—-no sleep til VT, baby!!
I played navigator, and it seems I may be a dash dyslexic, as left and right baffled me at various points throughout the journey. Add that to my general distrust of New Jersey, and I think our early confusion was brought about by my lack of faith in Google Maps (“are we sure we’re supposed to be in a place called 'Ho Ho Kus'??? This can’t even be a real name. What the hell is 'Mahwah?' Something’s awry.) as the MOH drove with focus and determination (as only a woman studying to become a midwife could), the sky grew darker and darker. I suddenly realized we were three attractive women—one white, one asian, and one blacktress—in a car on a backroad in an unknown town. We were clearly in the opening scene on a horror movie.
We had to get to our destination, stat.
I managed to maintain my calm as flashes of the trailer for “The Human Centipede” popped into my head, and the MOH read the map like the true Vermont native she is. As she guided us on the right path, I decided that if I ever accidentally get pregnant and carry my kids to term, I’m gonna have them spend their summers in Vermont, so they can learn to be scrappy and take care of themselves. On the 1st of July I’m going to drop them in the middle of the woods with a compass and some rations and tell them that if they want to see the fireworks on the 4th they better figure out how to make it back to the cabin using their wits—that’ll give them the skills they need to navigate the harsh roads of life—and I-87 north.
Once in the VT, there was little rest for the weary—and I wasn’t even in the wedding party. I got to spend much of Friday with the MOH’s fiancée, who was the coolest guy ever. For some reason, he knew that there had to be a “bridal kit” consisting of necessary items for the wedding day—hair pins, nail polish, double-sided tape, hair gel, band-aids, and other miscellaneous emergency odds and ends that one could need just in case. We got to race around to various VT stores, taking in the countryside on the sunny day while I asked him all about what love is. Even though he’s only, like, 2 years older than me, the fact that he’s been in a 5-year relationship and is about to marry one of my favorite humans makes him a love guru in my mind, and I have to know how it all happens.
Besides, any man who not only knows about a bridal kit, but has no qualms about rounding up extra tampons for said kit has got to be the male equivalent of a unicorn. His mind must be dissected and studied for science, and for the edification of women everywhere.
Friday night was a magical pre-wedding party, where the Indian and German families came together. As the bride-to-be got dressed in her gorgeous green-and-gold sari, fussed over by several women, as they applied imported matching jewels I realized that I was clearly meant to be an Indian woman. These women are all diva, and understand the importance of a photo op. Everyone’s hair was DONE, and even though the party started at 6:30, the bride-to-be didn’t come down until 7:30. HELLO, DIVA!!! I hear that, make it work! RuPaul would have been proud!!
Once she came down, the party began, and it got crunked! The DJ played the Bangra jams, and the German groom’s family was all about the Indian garb. While the liberal-arts-college-grad in me initially worried about the appropriation of culture, there’s nothing cuter than a 4-year-old German girl wearing a sari, and my heart melted at the sight. It was also cool to see how into it they were, as if the two families really were bonding, you know? Talk about a merging of two totally different cultures—you’ve got Hamburg on one end and India-via-Vermont on the other, and it’s all love. I think this is what they mean by “post-racial.”
The highlight of the evening had to be when young girls in the family performed dances for the couple. Prior to this, various couples, ranging from aunts and uncles to bfs and gfs had done choreographed bits to various songs, and the joy of Bollywood was felt by all.
And by “all,” I mean, “me”. It was amazing.
Just when I thought it could get no more wonderful, the bride’s young cousin did a dance to a mashup that included Beyonce’s “Halo,” “Fireflies” by some pop group or another, and two Indian jams. As she kicked and twirled in the air, and used a decorative cloth as a prop, I stood in awe. She was no more than 14 years old, and, in, a word, FIERCE.
I want to be her when I grow up.
“Kiloni, I want to be you!” I gushed later in the night, when we were dancing to “Telephone” (my request to the DJ). “Thank you” she muttered without a smile, like a true diva.
She is a Lady Gaga in the making.
Riding high on her awesomeness, I didn’t know what the actual wedding day would have in store. Saturday morning was drizzly, which did not bode well for the outdoor Indian ceremony. Just 15 minutes before it began, however, the clouds parted, and the sun shone through, shedding light on the mandap (the tent where the ceremony would take place—you didn’t know the blacktress was down with the Hindi like that, did you?).
It was as if nature knew their love was meant to be!
I don’t know if any of you have been to a Hindu wedding ceremony, but that jam has 11 steps—11, y’all!! It takes over an hour! But it was totally worth every second, and the officiant kept it funny and engaging the whole time. He explained each portion, went back and forth between English and Hindi, and even learned German, y’all!! Holla at some multi-culti bridging of the gaps!
What I loved so much about the ceremony was its specificity—When you get married Hindu style, you know what you’re getting into. You communicate your expectations for married life and shower rice on each other, you walk around in circles, you worship sacred fire, you break that shit down, y’all!! When the German groom said his vows, the officiant made him repeat it 3 times, and the third time said, “I want you to repeat after me in German, so you really know what you’re agreeing to.” I hear that—You better make sure you know what you’re about, cause this shizz is for real!!
My favorite part is when the couple took 7 steps together, and they physically walked across the mandap, saying each promise aloud with each step: to provide for and support each other; to develop mental, sprititual, and physical strength together; to share their worldly possession; to acquire knowledge, happiness, and peace; to raise strong virtuous children; to enjoy fruits of all seasons; and to always remain friends and cherish each other.
Know, that’s the kind of binding agreement I can get behind. You’d hear me, at 50, sitting on the couch, about to get into a fight and go, “boy, don’t play me, we took step 3—give me a bite of that cake. Share that worldly possession!” I’d have the proof at all times!!
Okay, this post is long and out of control. I won’t even get into the Christian ceremony (and yes, the bride looked just as gorgeous in a white dress as she did in a Sari), cause Christianity was put to shame after the Hindu jam. I will also refrain from going on a tangent about how awesome cousin Natasha was—-at only 16 years old, she wore 4 different saris on the day of the wedding. A blacktress can get down with a culture that understands the importance of a quick-change. Always keep it looking fresh, Indian divas!!!
Needless to say, I had a great time. I tried not to cry during the ceremonies, but whenever I saw the bride cry, I got misty—-even though she told me later that she was looking to me to stop herself from tearing up. I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m such a gargoyle; we all know I’m tender and delicate!
Okay, we’ve officially taken up an hour of the day with this massive post. What can I say? The henna tattoo on my palm may have faded, but the memories will last forever.....
Seriously, after this past weekend, the newest item on my life to-do list is:
- Find Indian husband.
- Earn future-husband's parents’ approval.
- Have monsoon wedding in the Northeast countryside.
(I mean, I’d have it in India, but you know I can’t handle too much heat—I’d sweat my hair out, y’all!)
This weekend’s wedding was gorgeous and amazing, and the road was paved with danger every step of the way. I rode up Thursday night after work with the Maid of Honor and another bridesmaid, making our way through an NYC thunderstorm. This voyage was gonna take us at least 6 hours, and we didn’t set out until 8pm—-no sleep til VT, baby!!
I played navigator, and it seems I may be a dash dyslexic, as left and right baffled me at various points throughout the journey. Add that to my general distrust of New Jersey, and I think our early confusion was brought about by my lack of faith in Google Maps (“are we sure we’re supposed to be in a place called 'Ho Ho Kus'??? This can’t even be a real name. What the hell is 'Mahwah?' Something’s awry.) as the MOH drove with focus and determination (as only a woman studying to become a midwife could), the sky grew darker and darker. I suddenly realized we were three attractive women—one white, one asian, and one blacktress—in a car on a backroad in an unknown town. We were clearly in the opening scene on a horror movie.
We had to get to our destination, stat.
I managed to maintain my calm as flashes of the trailer for “The Human Centipede” popped into my head, and the MOH read the map like the true Vermont native she is. As she guided us on the right path, I decided that if I ever accidentally get pregnant and carry my kids to term, I’m gonna have them spend their summers in Vermont, so they can learn to be scrappy and take care of themselves. On the 1st of July I’m going to drop them in the middle of the woods with a compass and some rations and tell them that if they want to see the fireworks on the 4th they better figure out how to make it back to the cabin using their wits—that’ll give them the skills they need to navigate the harsh roads of life—and I-87 north.
Once in the VT, there was little rest for the weary—and I wasn’t even in the wedding party. I got to spend much of Friday with the MOH’s fiancée, who was the coolest guy ever. For some reason, he knew that there had to be a “bridal kit” consisting of necessary items for the wedding day—hair pins, nail polish, double-sided tape, hair gel, band-aids, and other miscellaneous emergency odds and ends that one could need just in case. We got to race around to various VT stores, taking in the countryside on the sunny day while I asked him all about what love is. Even though he’s only, like, 2 years older than me, the fact that he’s been in a 5-year relationship and is about to marry one of my favorite humans makes him a love guru in my mind, and I have to know how it all happens.
Besides, any man who not only knows about a bridal kit, but has no qualms about rounding up extra tampons for said kit has got to be the male equivalent of a unicorn. His mind must be dissected and studied for science, and for the edification of women everywhere.
Friday night was a magical pre-wedding party, where the Indian and German families came together. As the bride-to-be got dressed in her gorgeous green-and-gold sari, fussed over by several women, as they applied imported matching jewels I realized that I was clearly meant to be an Indian woman. These women are all diva, and understand the importance of a photo op. Everyone’s hair was DONE, and even though the party started at 6:30, the bride-to-be didn’t come down until 7:30. HELLO, DIVA!!! I hear that, make it work! RuPaul would have been proud!!
Once she came down, the party began, and it got crunked! The DJ played the Bangra jams, and the German groom’s family was all about the Indian garb. While the liberal-arts-college-grad in me initially worried about the appropriation of culture, there’s nothing cuter than a 4-year-old German girl wearing a sari, and my heart melted at the sight. It was also cool to see how into it they were, as if the two families really were bonding, you know? Talk about a merging of two totally different cultures—you’ve got Hamburg on one end and India-via-Vermont on the other, and it’s all love. I think this is what they mean by “post-racial.”
The highlight of the evening had to be when young girls in the family performed dances for the couple. Prior to this, various couples, ranging from aunts and uncles to bfs and gfs had done choreographed bits to various songs, and the joy of Bollywood was felt by all.
And by “all,” I mean, “me”. It was amazing.
Just when I thought it could get no more wonderful, the bride’s young cousin did a dance to a mashup that included Beyonce’s “Halo,” “Fireflies” by some pop group or another, and two Indian jams. As she kicked and twirled in the air, and used a decorative cloth as a prop, I stood in awe. She was no more than 14 years old, and, in, a word, FIERCE.
I want to be her when I grow up.
“Kiloni, I want to be you!” I gushed later in the night, when we were dancing to “Telephone” (my request to the DJ). “Thank you” she muttered without a smile, like a true diva.
She is a Lady Gaga in the making.
Riding high on her awesomeness, I didn’t know what the actual wedding day would have in store. Saturday morning was drizzly, which did not bode well for the outdoor Indian ceremony. Just 15 minutes before it began, however, the clouds parted, and the sun shone through, shedding light on the mandap (the tent where the ceremony would take place—you didn’t know the blacktress was down with the Hindi like that, did you?).
It was as if nature knew their love was meant to be!
I don’t know if any of you have been to a Hindu wedding ceremony, but that jam has 11 steps—11, y’all!! It takes over an hour! But it was totally worth every second, and the officiant kept it funny and engaging the whole time. He explained each portion, went back and forth between English and Hindi, and even learned German, y’all!! Holla at some multi-culti bridging of the gaps!
What I loved so much about the ceremony was its specificity—When you get married Hindu style, you know what you’re getting into. You communicate your expectations for married life and shower rice on each other, you walk around in circles, you worship sacred fire, you break that shit down, y’all!! When the German groom said his vows, the officiant made him repeat it 3 times, and the third time said, “I want you to repeat after me in German, so you really know what you’re agreeing to.” I hear that—You better make sure you know what you’re about, cause this shizz is for real!!
My favorite part is when the couple took 7 steps together, and they physically walked across the mandap, saying each promise aloud with each step: to provide for and support each other; to develop mental, sprititual, and physical strength together; to share their worldly possession; to acquire knowledge, happiness, and peace; to raise strong virtuous children; to enjoy fruits of all seasons; and to always remain friends and cherish each other.
Know, that’s the kind of binding agreement I can get behind. You’d hear me, at 50, sitting on the couch, about to get into a fight and go, “boy, don’t play me, we took step 3—give me a bite of that cake. Share that worldly possession!” I’d have the proof at all times!!
Okay, this post is long and out of control. I won’t even get into the Christian ceremony (and yes, the bride looked just as gorgeous in a white dress as she did in a Sari), cause Christianity was put to shame after the Hindu jam. I will also refrain from going on a tangent about how awesome cousin Natasha was—-at only 16 years old, she wore 4 different saris on the day of the wedding. A blacktress can get down with a culture that understands the importance of a quick-change. Always keep it looking fresh, Indian divas!!!
Needless to say, I had a great time. I tried not to cry during the ceremonies, but whenever I saw the bride cry, I got misty—-even though she told me later that she was looking to me to stop herself from tearing up. I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m such a gargoyle; we all know I’m tender and delicate!
Okay, we’ve officially taken up an hour of the day with this massive post. What can I say? The henna tattoo on my palm may have faded, but the memories will last forever.....
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Teen Mom Getting Married! SWOON CITY
The above title is the same as a text message I received upon waking this morning (I'm sure it was sent last night, though. Who texts at 7am?).
Even though I was still groggy and confused, I instantly knew what it meant. Even though I missed it, the "Teen Mom" season finale was last night. And, based on the previous week's episode, I knew Tyler had been thinking of buying Catelynn a ring.
And apparently, he popped the question!!!
I am so ridiculously excited, even though the idea of 17-year-olds getting married kinda makes me scared (for them) and sad (for me- am I behind schedule?). But, quite frankly, when you've been through everything these two tykes have, it makes sense to feel like you want to be in it for life.
(For those of you out of the loop, I basically am obsessed with Tyler)
While, of course, I think most people shouldn't get married until they've earned a degree, seen the world, and learned about themselves solo, I also think that it's important to LOCK IT DOWN when it's working. As far as I'm concerned, Catelynn isn't missing anything by not going to college, getting drunk, and hooking up with randoms who say they'll text her and don't. And she sure as shit isn't missing out on post-college "real world" dating, in which you don't know if a man is for real or wanted in 5 states until the cops come knockin'.
What? I'm not bitter.
Guys, Tyler and Catelynn show the world what love is! Tyler is 17, but he's a man who's unafraid to cry, stand by his woman's side, and give up his baby so that it has everything he didn't.
And, most importantly, Tyler knows that if you like it, then you should put a ring on it!!!
For those of you who haven't seen, here it is:
Oh my god, I love Catelynn's acrylic nails and orthodontia - girls with rubberbands need love, too!! Tyler's totally got product in his hair, and there are those waterworks!! I love him. His suit is way too big. MTV totally rented this spot so they could have a romantic moment, and I love them for it.
So, guys, today is a day to believe in love. And to believe in Tyler. I have embedded the following music video in his honor:
They didn't have "Whatta 17-year-old Boy"...but perhaps that's my next hit single.
Even though I was still groggy and confused, I instantly knew what it meant. Even though I missed it, the "Teen Mom" season finale was last night. And, based on the previous week's episode, I knew Tyler had been thinking of buying Catelynn a ring.
And apparently, he popped the question!!!
I am so ridiculously excited, even though the idea of 17-year-olds getting married kinda makes me scared (for them) and sad (for me- am I behind schedule?). But, quite frankly, when you've been through everything these two tykes have, it makes sense to feel like you want to be in it for life.
(For those of you out of the loop, I basically am obsessed with Tyler)
While, of course, I think most people shouldn't get married until they've earned a degree, seen the world, and learned about themselves solo, I also think that it's important to LOCK IT DOWN when it's working. As far as I'm concerned, Catelynn isn't missing anything by not going to college, getting drunk, and hooking up with randoms who say they'll text her and don't. And she sure as shit isn't missing out on post-college "real world" dating, in which you don't know if a man is for real or wanted in 5 states until the cops come knockin'.
What? I'm not bitter.
Guys, Tyler and Catelynn show the world what love is! Tyler is 17, but he's a man who's unafraid to cry, stand by his woman's side, and give up his baby so that it has everything he didn't.
And, most importantly, Tyler knows that if you like it, then you should put a ring on it!!!
For those of you who haven't seen, here it is:
Oh my god, I love Catelynn's acrylic nails and orthodontia - girls with rubberbands need love, too!! Tyler's totally got product in his hair, and there are those waterworks!! I love him. His suit is way too big. MTV totally rented this spot so they could have a romantic moment, and I love them for it.
So, guys, today is a day to believe in love. And to believe in Tyler. I have embedded the following music video in his honor:
They didn't have "Whatta 17-year-old Boy"...but perhaps that's my next hit single.
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