Pros & Cons

Warning: This is a self serving blog entry.  Read at your own risk of boredom.

It dawned on me of late that I wasn't sure whether or not I actually liked myself.  Maybe it's a quarter life crisis (I could live until 120 right? Who am I kidding, it would have to be a 'one-third' life crisis)... or could be it has to do with my recent breakup... or maybe it's some larger existential dilemma.  Well, whatever it is, I decided to make a list of all the things that irritated me about myself and then sift through the muck and try to find some redeeming qualities underneath it all.  Let's begins with some of the cons (note: this list has been edited to protect the ego.)

1. My fingernail polish always chips a day later.
2. I watch too much TV.
3. I can't cook to save my life.
4. My bangs always curve in one direction as if by some magnetic pull.  And I could use more hair.
5. I'm terrible at keeping in touch.
6. My boobs are too big (and, yes, this is a con)
7. I have never been good with authority.
8. I prefer to read Stephen King over Yeats.
9. My one freelance TV script was never produced.
10. Babies frighten me.  As does marriage.  And spiders.  And failure.  And technology.  And any sport that requires balance.  
11. I get stressed out very easily.
12. I cannot focus enough to do yoga or Tai Chi or meditation.
13. I don't have a literary agent, and I've been at this game for 5 years.
14. I get my feelings hurt easily but am an expert at hiding it... which I hear is a bad thing. 
15. I never know the appropriate amount to tip.
16. I am quick to anger.
17. I should have put money in an IRA about 10 years ago.
18. I don't volunteer nearly enough.
19. I am a horrific gardener.  Plants die at my feet.
20. When I'm hungry I get very whiny.  And that's putting it nicely.
21. I can't tell one bottle of wine from the next.  It's red or it's white.  Done.
22. My feet are getting bigger from training.  WTF!!!!!
23. I am never up enough on politics and world events.  Don't read the paper.  Avoid the nightly news.  Shameful.
24. I find pleasure in cracking jokes about strangers.
25. I'm afraid of heights.
26. I am awful at romantic relationships.
27. I have neglected my banjo.  And my Italian.  And my piles of books waiting to be read.  And this blog.  And my current screenplay.  And, often, my cat.
28. I am extremely cynical.
29. My teeth need whitening.
30. Worst of all, I'm 30 and have no more answers about who I am and what I want than I did 10 years ago.

So considering this lofty list - a list that only scratches the surface - can there be anything in this Blackheart capsule I call a body/soul/personality worth celebrating?  Yes.  Two things.  There are two, count them two qualities about myself which have been there since the beginning and have only gotten better with time.   1.)  I am a strong person.  And 2.) I am an adventurer.  Both traits are very chicken-or-the-egg.  A symbiotic relationship.  To be strong in life you have to have a spirit of adventure, knowing that no matter what comes your way, there's still more to discover.  To be adventurous, you have to be strong, because you have to have the guts and courage to go beyond what's safe and secure and seek out the unknown.  Trite as this may all sound, it gives me hope to know that in the lengthy con list of life, I've got two things going for me.  And I guess, for now, that will have to do.

Ode To An Art House Theater

Oh Nashville, Oh Belcourt Theatre, how this heart misses you. Long gone are your discounted membership tickets, blown from my hand like Autumn leaves from the trees. No more are your Whole Foods/Wino screenings with delicate crumbs of phyllo dough gathering in my lap in place of stale popcorn. Hence forth I'll never stare bright eyed at your full bar... yes, a full bar at a movie theater. Could life be sweeter? No longer will you offer me vintage cult faves and midnight horror or free screenings because I lied and said I was a Vandy student. Sorry about that, actually. How I would rejoice just to hold your vegan cookies in my hand and smell that blissful aroma of upholstery glue, urine and real butter. I miss the occassional broken spring reaching out and gently touching my back like a dear old companion. I weep for your noir festivals and your foreign surprises. Your fundraisers, indies and your weekend classic. Your non-profit status. The people with cool hair, skinny jeans and cowboy boots who filled your lovely red aisles. Who else in the world would have the gall to play "Big Trouble in Little China?" No one else. Just you, friend. Just you. Perhaps one day I'll return. Cuddle up in your spanking new - and well deserved - theater seating. Nibble a pumpkin cookie. Sip an icy cold beer (on tap!). And let your glowing, flickering daydreams wash over me. Until then I wander the street of new towns and new cities searching with hopeful eyes. Begging the universe, which I'm sure is run by movie execs, that I'll find a theater I can call home. Hoping for a cinema as beautiful and sublime. Hoping for my Belcourt reborn. Hoping for another you.

A Book By Its Cover

I have a very hard time not immediately judging people. It can be the way they're dressed. Who their friends are. The way they talk or hold themselves. Their job. Their taste in music. Etc... There's no situation where I'm more inclined to be judgmental than at the airport. That girl over there in the army jacket and Panama hat - a photo journalist who's never been able to keep a relationship. That man eating Burger King - a diabetic ignoring the advice of his doctor. That woman with the skinny jeans and baby bassinet - trophy wife who's been contending with a mistress ever since Jr. was born. The woman with frizzy hair rolling her eyes - a power player with little patience and a lot of ulcers.

I know it isn't right to judge a book by its cover. God knows what people must think of me. My old landlord thought I was a lesbian because I was always in workout clothes. I'm a hiker, okay? Not to mention my boob size throws people off, as in big boobs = lower IQ. I've been asked if I'm Jewish as people stare at my robust nose. I'm Italian, actually, thank you. Of course, having someone think you're one thing is a rather fun invite to prove them wrong. I don't mind it so much, so I continue to do it to others. Perhaps it's the writer in me. I like to make a story. Write a person's book before they can steer me otherwise.

However, just this last week, as I was flying home from visiting my dad in Santa Fe, I had the pleasure to sit by a rather giggly old woman. She was white, skinny, grey-haired and very jolly. I don't know why, but my first instinct was, 'she loves Glenn Beck, is old fashioned and probably spends her days petting her ten cats and crocheting Kleenex box covers.' (As I cat lover, myself, I can usually pick the type out.) Above all else, I was certain she was a conservative, Fox News type who I would have nothing in common with. I chose to keep quiet, digging into my book so I wouldn't have to make conversation, even though she kept looking at me when the Southwest stewardess/stand up comedian kept making jokes. I tried to laugh with her. I didn't want to be rude and the stewardess was actually rather funny - she kept asking us if we had any small jewelry items we wanted to donate to her. I mean, who does that? Genius.

But then, a miracle happened. As the plane took off, and the old woman settled in, she took out her book. And there it was. Was it Sarah Palin's biography? The latest Grisham novel? Hell no. It was a non-fiction account of the history of the Black Power Movement. I had to literally re-read the cover twice to believe my eyes. And man was she enthralled. She had proven to me with that hardbound piece of history, that you really can't judge a book by its cover. It may be fun... sure... but it's rarely accurate. Will I quit judging then, you ask? No. Of course not. I'm Blackheart. It's what I do. But I may start judging people by the books they read rather than their appearance.

Rule of Threes... Geez

While the Rule of Threes may seem like superstitious dribble, I can assure you from my experiences today that it holds true. My particular trinity evolves a series of embarrassing moments - nothing worth changing my name over and going into witness protection, but cringe worthy just the same.

First off, in Spin Class this morning, the teacher couldn't think of the 70s TV show that included the songs "Electricity" and "3 Is a Magic Number" (there's irony in that last one, no?). No one in the class could say, but then suddenly I remembered... 'Jailhouse Rock!' I cried out. The teacher agreed. Yes, yes that was it. It was only when I was walking to my car thinking to myself 'why in the world would a children's educational cartoon have the word 'Jail' in it?', that I realized it's actually Schoolhouse Rock. Okay, so no one was around for my embarrassing realization, but I could just picture the teacher googling the songs once she got home and shaking her head at me as her and her equally fit husband giggled.

Later in the day, as I shopped for a dress for the Capitalist Ball, I realized walking to my car that I had put my shirt back on inside out. Now it made sense why the ladies behind the counter were looking at me weird. I thought it was my sweatstache from the 80 degree weather we're having. Maybe it was both.

For my third embarrassment, at the next store I went to, this time at a different mall so as to start afresh, shirt on properly, I was standing in line, arms full, when I decided it would be a good idea to try a ring on that was near the counter. One by one things began to fall from my arms. As soon as I'd pick up one, another would fall. And on and on and on. You couldn't write slapstick like this - my comic timing was genius. Finally, for the coup de gras, my sunglasses fell off my head and broke into pieces. At least I provided entertainment for the skinny preteens in line (I'm I now too old for Forever 21?!) who snickered every time my well-endowed ass bent over.

So that's it... proof that the Rule of Threes is alive and wreaking havoc on the world. And we thought it was only reserved for dead celebrities...

Domino's Tosses Cardboard out the Window

I have to tell you about my new gastronomical obsession. As you've all seen on TV, Domino's has a new ad campaign aimed at airing out their dirty laundry. In the commercials they admit to cardboard crust and ketch-up like sauce, then discuss how they've bettered their recipes. I say bravo to anyone who actively seeks out constructive criticism, admits to their faults and then bravely works at improving them. And what a great theme for the New Year.

But what I love most of all is their new website where you can place your order then follow your pizzas in real time as they make their way from oven to quality check to the delivery boy's '89 Corolla. This "Tracker" device is inspired. My boyfriend treated us to two pies (only $5.99 a piece for 2 toppings) the other night in celebration of the NFL Playoffs. We oogled the screen in delight and surprise as our tasty slabs went from Prep to Bake. He was even able to contact the delivery boy directly to ask for Ranch dressing on the side. Isn't technology great!

You may think I'm making too big a deal out of this. But trust me, the end result was tasty and nothing like their old product. Now it's time to find a new pizza company to make fun of. Those awful Papa John's commercials are a good place to start...

"Deadwood" Showdown

While I wait for "True Blood" to return I've gotten caught up in the HBO Old West showdown known as "Deadwood." Loaded with raunchy language, brothels, muddy boots, handlebar mustaches, whiskey shots and all sorts of murderous mayhem, it's definitely my kind of show. My roommate got my boyfriend and I season one for Christmukkah, swearing that it's the best written show in television history, and while the dialogue is entertaining and historically accurate (f***ing profanity and all) I'm not quite sure it takes the prize.

Now some may laugh at my suggestion that "Gilmore Girls" is one of the most expertly written shows ever to have aired, but never before has there been such a unique voice as writer Amy Sherman. Each line spoken has so many levels of meaning, intent and reference that you have to watch an episode three or four times (dictionary in hand and google at your fingertips) to get all of the humor. Crafted - that's the word I'd used to describe both her characters and her dialogue. (As a side note, "Six Feet Under" and "The Golden Girls" are runner's up in this catego

No, I love "Deadwood" not for dialogue but for the ambiance - that mixture of fear and excitement and adventure and freedom that the Old West conjures inside of me, as it did for pioneers, cowboys and scoundrels of ole. Now that the world has been mapped down to the square foot and we can google spy on every street in America, there's no more frontiers to explore. The unknown doesn't exist any longer. And maybe it's better that way, since as a race, we human's explorations tend to lead to bloody battles. But still, I can't help but sigh for a part of our history when life had possibilities out West and that by just stepping out of your wagon or saloon or homestead every morning, you were bound to have yourself an adventure.

Scrabble - More Than Just a Game

If there's a rep from Hasbro reading this blog right now, I have a suggestion. Why just market Scrabble to hipster couples and empty nesters when you can market it to counselors and psychologists everywhere? Having played the game with family, friends and boyfriends, I can tell you that nothing in this world brings out the heart of a relationship (whether it's red or black as coal) faster or more effectively than a friendly game of "I-know-more-words-than-you", otherwise known as Scrabble.

You're not following? Okay, here's some examples:

1.) When I used to play with my mom as a kid, most games ended up with me feeling bitter and defeated. The woman is a wordsmith. At the time, I thought she was being mean. 'Wipe that smug smile off your face!' I wanted to say. But now I see she was just putting me in my place. What better way to show your child who the authority of the house is than to kick their butt at Scrabble? Really, it's a phenomenal parenting tool. You get to teach your child spelling while also showing them who's boss. Pure genius.

2.) My best friend and I used to play Scrabble after she got off work as a bartender. We'd play right there at the bar and, because I was always ahead in points, guys would stand over her shoulder trying to give her advice. This was the point in the game where we'd draw up our feminist sleeves and give them the what for, ultimately bringing us closer as friends and making us stronger women to boot. It also revealed to me her good character. As a tutor to her in Spelling in Elementary school, there really was never a chance she'd beat me at Scrabble, but she always tried and always gave it her all. Now that's what I call heart.

3.) Perhaps the best way for Scrabble to be used in the mental health community is in relationship and marriage counseling. Just put two people in front of that Scrabble board with its pink double word scores and blue triple letter scores and watch the gloves come off. If you're going to last, you can play without demeaning each other or crying. Or, if you two are passive aggressive, the game will help to bring your issues to light so you can work on them with your psychiatrist. Heck, I even think priests and rabbis should get in the mix, using Scrabble during their pre-marriage counseling sessions. I mean, why pussy-foot around when you can rip open wounds within fifteen minutes? Nothing like a handful of vowels or a word challenge to bring out the best and worst of humanity.

My boyfriend and I play all the time, and although he won the last game I don't hold any resentment. Honest I don't. Okay, well maybe a little... But that's the beauty of Scrabble. Just like any relationship has its ups and downs (romantic or otherwise), so does the game. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes you win. But if it's a strong bond, you keep playing the game and hope that in the end, it will all just even out.