Crazy Virgo

I'm in Love

Who is this woman, and where has she been all my life. Thanks for Little Pink D for posting her lastest blog.

behold, 

Dear Coke Talk.

You know the best part of this? Not the snarky answers. The impeccable wit. The right-on-the-money responses. It's that I totally imagine a drunk Dolly Parton really answering these questions. As you know, this blog is not an aggregator of other cool stuff, but I'm making an exception this time to pimp Coke Talk. I love her.

Bruised Knees. Big Ego.

In case you wondered if I was always crazy, I think this will prove it.

There was a time when I, CrazyVirgo, wanted to join a group where I had to audition to be a member. I know. I know. That sounds NOTHING like me. Normally, I'd scoff at the exclusivity of it all. Who was it that famously said, "I'd never be a member of a club that would have me."? But, this was the pom-pom squad. And, this was 1994. And, this was the ultimate attempt to create the greatest Senior Year of all time. So, I did it.

 In my high school, the cheerleaders were the academic do-gooders, and the pom-pom squad were the hot party girls. Of course I wanted to be on the party girl squad. These girls got to sit together at lunch. Wear their uniforms to school. Speak in a secret language about their uniforms. "Do we wear Big Blue or Inverted Bird tomorrow?" Get immediate friendship from upperclassmen. Get a locker in a popular hallway just for Pom & Cheer girls. Were initiated into the pom-pom sisterhood through a series of events that included a surprise 5 a.m. wake-up call by retiring pom-pom members that would dress you in hideous outfits, pour booze down your throat and force you to humiliate yourself for an entire day at school. That sounded awesome. I longed for that kind of acceptance and popularity. The first three years of high school I relied on my sense of humor to win me friends. Any that kind of got me somewhere in the "everybody's pal" category. So, in the middle of my Junior year, I was in the school musical where I was forced to do a strip-tease number in "Guys & Dolls." A little more into the "ya, I might let her sit at our table." Yet still, I wasn't quite at the level where my name would be remembered and revered in the halls of Central High School.

At the end of my Junior Year, me and several dear friends - including one defecting from the Cheer Squad - signed up for try-outs. For the next week, we were subjected to intense training.  Rivaled only by Navy SEAL training, we were beaten into submission with pom poms. In sports bras and itty bitty nylon shorts, 17 year-old girls did push-ups, ran sprints, and spent more time dropping to their knees than any one should. Our audition routine had four moves where we dropped from standing position to kneeling position. One could only assume that the Senior pom-pom girls who created this routine did this to ascertain whether or not our knees could withstand the pressure of being a Central High School Pom-Pom Girl. Day after day, we did it. Withstood the agony and pain of the knee drop, to prove that we were the worthy, the brave, the chosen. For hours after school and on the weekends we subjected our poor knees to torture now only performed in Guantanamo detainment camps. 

Arms out in a V formation. 1 -2 Drop to your knees. 3-4 Walk to the side on your knees. 5-6. Jump up. 7-8. Now drop to the knees again. 9-10.

On try-out day, each of us grimaced as we performed the routine that we could have done in our sleep, while dropping onto blue, bruised knees that matched the blue of our school colors. (We hoped we got extra points for that.) Biting our cheeks to keep from screaming in pain and crying out in agony, we put on our best school pride faces and hit every knee drop with military precision. Afterward, we looked like this:

But, we were one step closer to popularity and eternal fame at Central High School.

You'll be happy to know I made it. My young knees didn't suffer in vain. I was initiated by the Senior members of the squad, which I'm sworn to secrecy and can never divulge the intimate details that may or may not have included a banana, a fishing net, a Raggedy Ann costume, and chocolate sauce. I got to wear that coveted uniform and discuss things in a secret code. "Bubbles today? Or Old School?" My ego inflated so large it could barely be fit within the confines of Central High School. My destiny was complete.

My knees have never recovered. And, every time I hear, "Drop to your knees, 2-3-4," I go robotic and start performing my high school pom-pom routine. You'd be surprised how many times I hear that phrase. I wish I could tell you I went on to be wildly popular and unbelievably successful thanks to the pom-pom squad, but that would be completely false. Kicking ones legs into the air, rolling around on the gymnasium floor with your crotch exposed to the entire student body, and wearing short skirts doesn't really prepare one for the real world. Unless of course your goal is to be on MTV's "Real World." I just got a rather inflated ego for one year, and was then promptly knocked back into my place in college where being on the pom-pom squad in your high school got you nowhere. Well, nowhere a lady should be anyway.

Where was my sense of pride, self-worth and feminism? Nicely folded and tucked into a drawer underneath the ugly clothes and homely personality I would never wear again thanks to my new-found identity as a pom-pom girl.

 Don't worry. I found it again around sophomore year of college when I found the Women's Studies Department. And only now re-enact my pom-pom girl days on request.

Maturing.

I've had it with twenty-somethings freaking out about their birthday. 

"Oh my god. I'm going to be 24! What has happened to my 20s?" 

My co-worker turned 26 today, and you would have thought she was turning 40, the desperation and sorrow she was showcasing. There is not a wrinkle on her face, a gray hair on her head, or a layer of fat on her pubescent body. Yet, every time someone wished her a happy birthday, she heaved a great sigh, and complained about being "soooo old." Instead of gifting her cupcakes and tulips, I should have given her Preparation H and some Depends.

What the hell is so great about being in your twenties, anyway? Sure, you don't gain an ounce eating pizza, burgers, onion rings and washing it all down with many beers. You can still stay out four nights a week, drink a glass of champagne, 3 V&Ts, a bottle of wine and not get hangovers. You can plead youth and ignorance when your car gets towed for too many unpaid parking tickets or you fall asleep in the back of a cab. You can shirk responsibility and say things like, "I had no idea that cute guy was an ex-con. He was so charming, and he was wearing Armani." But, in your twenties you're also incredibly naive, insecure, uncomfortable, and not really all that funny. Twenty-somethings are good to laugh at, not with. They may look perfect in a bikini, but they consider E! a news channel and they'll drink anything served in a plastic cup and puke it up. On your feet. A thirthysomething will at least discreetly locate a trash can in a corner. Twentysomethings are full of drama, venom and Bud Light. Every other day my 26 year-old co-worker has some sort of existensial crisis, is freaked out by everything from plastic to peanut butter, and is positive that Firefighters and EMT's having the authority change traffic lights in an emergency is a conspiracy and just not fair. Being twenty ish is exhausting.I had a lovely time in my twenties, but I was more than happy to kick it to the curb and welcome thirty (see: my 29th Birthday, my 30th birthday).

I was not attractive in my twenties. I was sorting out my personality. My look. My identity. I appeared to have self-confidence, but really I had very little. Possibly because my hair was short, reddish, my nose and my face were having a disagreement on who should be bigger, my chest was non-existent, and I was relying on a sense of humor and sharp wit meant to distract you from the uncomfortableness that was me circa 21-28. Like a fine Bordeaux, I aged rather well. My nose and face caught up with each other. Sort of. I made friends with my hair and better yet, figured out that a $100 haircut looks a whole lot better than a $40 haircut. I'm not bragging here. Far from it. But, if you saw me at 25 versus now, I think you'd agree, you'd rather be friends with the 31 year-old version. 

Why is maturing a bad thing? Arrested Development is only funny as a televisions show, not a lifestyle. Having birthday is not scary. Twenty-six is NOT old. Thirty is NOT old. If you drink wine when it hasn't matured properly, you send it back. If you drink a young scotch, you puke it back up. Youth is not a positive thing. But, check back with me when I'm 65. I might have a different opinion.

Bad Celebrity!

It is a well-known fact that I love some Gwyneth Paltrow. Usually, I keep quiet about it. I don't deny it, but I also don't throw a parade and have a fan club dedicated to her. I love her style, her acting, her hot husband, her classic beauty. Really, what's not to love about my G if you set aside her righteous celebrityism? 

I've been getting her e-newsletter, GOOP, for a few months now. At first, I poured over every word, taking notes and trying to understand the complicated world of Gwyneth and how to navigate life with better style according to the Gospel of G. I secretly anticipated every Thursday morning when GOOP would show up in my mailbox. So far, Gwyneth has told me how to work out, how to eat, what clothes to expunge from my wardrobe, how to keep my kids away from toxins, and how extremely lucky she is to have a friend like Mario Batali to cook her dinner. At first, I thought it was cool, interesting, fun. Then, the fun turned to multiple eye rolls. Please, Gwynnie, you're not lucky to have a friend like Mario. You've just spent two months with him in Spain taping a food show for public television, and you're a gorgeous celebrity. Then, to laughter and weekly "Oh my god, can you believe what she wrote" discussions with other subscribing friends. Then, to humorously deconstructing the Gwyneth - "How life without [personal trainer to Madonna and Gwyneth] Tracy Anderson is possible, I don't know..."Then came this week's email. 

Gwyneth talks about her "frenemy". 

Who this person is remains a mystery. Good girl Gwyneth would never divuldge a name. However, it appears that Gwyneth, on her constant life path to transendence, was mean once. Her "frenemy" was hell bent on taking her down and Gwyneth didn't like that. From this week's newsletter:

"This person really did what they could to hurt me. I was deeply upset, I was angry, I was all of those 

things you feel when you find out that someone you thought you liked was venomous and dangerous. 

I restrained myself from fighting back. I tried to take the high road. But one day I heard that something 

unfortunate and humiliating had happened to this person. And my reaction was deep relief and…happiness. There went the high road."

Oooooh Gwyneth, you meanie. You horrid person. You secretly, not publicly, took joy in someone else's pain. You weren't nice. You were human! Oh, the horror! I love and hate this all at the same time. Bad celebrity! Bad!

Love that Gwyneth experienced real human emotion.

Hate that Gwyneth felt compelled to tell everyone about it, and continued to discuss how she overcame this icky feeling, thanks to Kabbalah, and how we can do the same thing. Because no one wants to  go through life being mean to other people. She actually had people weigh in on the topic and give advice on how to avoid this situation. 

The Director of the Kabbalah Center said:

"...when we wake up in a bad mood for no apparent reason, Kabbalists explain there is a reason. 

The energy we created by maligning someone’s character yesterday adversely affects us today. 

And if we don’t go through a process of cleansing that energy by apologizing or committing to never 

do it again, it continues to stay with and influence us in negative ways."

A Zen Master said:

"In Zen Buddhism we have the Ten Grave Precepts. These Ten Precepts fall into three categories: 

body, speech and thought. Of these ten, four are concerned with Right Speech, because negative 

speech seems to be one of the major traps that we as human beings fall into, and it is so detrimental 

and affects karma."

I would have loved to have heard that phone conversation:

"Zen Master? Hi. It's Gwyneth. I'm writing my weekly newsletter on being mean. Can you send me some enlightening wisdom on how not to be mean so I can show the general public that I'm actually a really spiritual person that functions on a higher level, and they should keep worshiping, er, I mean, reading my newsletter?"

You know what, I get it and I agree. I totally believe in karma. I try to work toward perpetuating good karma in my life. In a perfect world, no one would talk about each other or harbor negative feelings about each other, or spread false rumors or gossip, or write negatively, etc. But, guess what, IT ISN'T A PERFECT WORLD. 

Dear Gwyneth, want to know why we do all of this "mean" stuff? Here's the scoop, and you don't even have to put me on your staff and pay me for this answer. It's basic freaking human nature. I realize basic human nature is something you're unfamiliar with, but get used to it. The less movies you are making, and the more time you're spending mingling with reality, you might experience a twinge of anger when another mom cuts you off in like at the vegan bakery. It's perfectly normal. 

Phew. Don't I feel better? Unfortunately, I think this blog probably puts me on the short list of Gwyneth's frenemies. Oh, poo.

The Peter Pan syndrome

Recently, my friend informed me that his name had ceased to be "Danny" and was now just "Dan." He claimed it just happened. People started calling him that and he didn't object. Initially I thought this was silly. He's always been Danny. Who was he trying to fool, changing his name. Was he business time, now? All of a sudden wearing flat front khakis necessitated a name change? Too big for his friends that know him as Danny? Geesh...thanks for putting me in my place, (insert air quotes here) Dan. 

To me, Danny has always been Danny. Never Dan. But by being "Danny" he has always been that kid I've known since 4th grade, who shared adolescence with me, then college, and all the growing up that goes with that. 

Danny was in summer theater and did a rap about junk food. Danny vomited in parking lots. Danny had his nose scuffed up and bloodied by his roommate's socked foot in a dare to see how close his roommate could swing his foot without kicking his nose. Danny drove a Dodge Neon. Danny made me drive him home while he road in the trunk of his Dodge Neon. 

Dan is married. Dan owns a house in Chicago. Dan has a career. Dan drives a Honda. Dan doesn't ride in the trunk of his Honda. Dan goes to bed at a reasonable hour. Dan will probably be a dad.

So, I get it. It was time for Peter Pan to grow up. Time to put Danny in a museum, where he will be celebrated, and time to get real with Dan.

Then, I started thinking. There are a lot of grown-ass men that still have boys names. WTF? Now that I'm on board with shedding the kid name for the grown-up version, I'm curious why there are so many well-known men who insist on keeping their childhood names. 

Billy Donovan, Florida basketball coach. Obviously can't quite shake the college persona. Good 'ol boy, who is clearly a Momma's boy.

Billy Packer, CBS sportscaster. Probably in his late 60s. This is embarrassing. Come on. Just be Bill Packer.

Bobby Jindal, Governor of Louisiana. First of all, he's Indian. So, where the name came from, I'm not sure. But, as the governor he's the highest position of his state. Have some pride, man. Grow it up. I understand in the South men like to hold on to their youth and their Mommas, but .... Well, no buts. It's Robert Jindal. And maybe if it is, he'll stop talking to America like we are children.

Danny Glover. Stage name? It does roll off the tongue. Dan Glover doesn't.

Jimmy Smitz. Latino heritage? 

Apparently, the Peter Pan syndrome has struck many adult males. And here's my advice for them:

Men, act like men. Drop the 'y' or 'ie'. Act like you're potty trained and pimple-free. Act like you have a 401k, a career and a comfortable sedan. Stop hanging on to your glory days. Because all the people that people that worshipped you with your cool name, that thought you were the shit, are probably still hanging out at the bar at the neighborhood Applebees.

Couples Crush

Gentleman Lover and I have been together many years. We've lived in many places. So, we have a nice collection of "couples friends." Recently, I've realized that we sort of develop crushes on some of these friends. Is that weird? Are we to old for this? When I say "crush" I mean, giggling, blushing, heart-pattering, crushes. These are crushes in the fullest extent of the word. Like, we can't talk about them enough. Much to the dismay of whomever we're with.

CV: "Remember what (insert couples friend name here) said that one time? Wasn't that the funniest thing?" 

GL: "Ya, that was awesome. And then, when we all (insert fun thing we did here that was probably embarrassing and/or illegal)? Man, I love those guys."

Eye roll of people we're with who are not involved in the conversation.

And, we look for every reason to hang out with them. Fabricating reasons like a traveling hundreds of miles for a football game, or we need to get warm in San Diego, or we owe them a bottle of wine for drinking all theirs. We spend evenings taking obscene amounts of pictures of these couples. Making elaborate plans to travel to Germany, or somewhere ridiculous together. Scheming ways to live in the same city or same neighborhood. Getting so drunk we can't get out of bed the next day because we want to be sure we have the greatest time possible with said couples friend. We make them CD mixes.

I mean, it's cute. Sort of. But it's also heartbreaking. Some of our crushes don't even live in the same city as we do. So, we get doses of affection, and then it's over. And, we're left pining away for them for months, doodling "Gentleman Lover & CrazyVirgo + (Couples Names) = Awesome couples friends forever."

Pathetic.