undateable daphne

Linus Gives Me A Guilt Trip

September 3rd, 2010 . No Comments »

Not the greatest of quality (and I apologize in advance for such a messy bathroom), but my little iPhone movie illustrates the latest reason why I hate leaving for work in the morning. Linus has recently taken to giving me this verbal guilt trip every single day. Get a load of that look he gives me at the end.

At least I have the next 72 hours to curl up with him and watch cheesy movies and NOT GO TO WORK!

I hope all of you have something equally relaxing and/or wildly adrenaline-inducing and reckless (if that’s your thing) to look forward to over the Labor Day weekend.

The Quicktime file was too big to attach via Wordpress, hence, new YouTube account and link. I really hope it doesn’t show porn in my sidebar. “Porn In My Sidebar?” I smell an album title!

Posted in single life, the animals I sleep with

Hell Bent For Leather

August 28th, 2010 . 6 Comments »

I can’t take this anymore. Well, two things, actually.

One: I can’t take this shitty IKEA writing desk anymore. It’s shaped like a giant red kidney (it seemed cool in a Barbarella way at the time) but because it’s IKEA, the “wood” is bowed and so my keyboard bangs up and down whenever and wherever I type.

Two: I cannot take this total and complete lack of a social life anymore. I mean, I’m a very solitary person and I often need entire weekends to just read and relax in a peaceful harmonious solitude…but this is ridiculous. How can I work for a company that employs upwards of 25,000 people and never have anyone to go out with? I’ll tell you why. It’s because everyone there falls into one of five categories:

(a) Women under 30 who have no interest in any of the music, movies or sports I want to see and refuse to “try” them

(b) Women my age who are married with kids and never leave the house on weekends unless it’s for a craft show or a farmer’s market*

(c) Men under 30 who DO like the music, movies and sports I like—but they have girlfriends so they’re not allowed to talk to other girls, even old ones

(d) Gay men, any age, who REALLY don’t want to see Anthrax or an NBA game**

(e) Men my age or older who are married and in positions of power so they treat me like a cleaning lady (and I wouldn’t want to spend 10 minutes with them anyway)

I am not making this up. I have not met ANYONE other than those categories of people in two years. Granted, I’m going to see Roger Waters in November with one of my work friends, but that’s Roger Waters—even the 20somethings have to give it up for The Wall. When I asked if anyone would go with me to see Anthrax, Judas Priest, Stevie Nicks, Denis Leary, Bruce Springsteen, Flight of the Conchords, RATT, Faster Pussycat and most recently—Skid Row I just got looks of fart smellage. As if I’d said “Hey! Anybody wanna drive with me through a rancid garbage dump and eat the first hot dogs we find?”

When I was 20something I worked with people in their ’30s and ’40s and guess what? We all hung out at concerts! We ALL went to see Peter Murphy and Iggy Pop and Jane’s Addiction. We ALL went to see Cry Baby and River’s Edge and Gas, Food, Lodging and My Own Private Idaho. We exchanged ideas. Across decades.

I was in a big work meeting Friday and at the end, the HR dingbat announced a big “raffle contest” involving a music trivia quiz. She said “So, start thinking about your favorite songs from the ’70s!” Some chick next to me who looked about twelve and had absolutely no tits or hips made the fart/dump face and said “Hello! I wasn’t even BORN in the ’70s!”

As if, ergo, she couldn’t POSSIBLY have any favorite songs from that decade. Why would she have any interest in music that occurred BEFORE SHE WAS BORN?

This is what I’m living with, folks. And I tried Meetup.com to meet people my age with similar interests. Yeah. You know who’s out there in Meetup.com groups for “Singles Over Thirty?” Women who knit caftans for their cats.

True, I could have gone to see Skid Row and F3K by myself tonight. But it’s in Asbury Park. The way I drive, that’s like 2 hours away. And I don’t really know the way. And I would only know one person there and he’d be ON STAGE. I’ve gone to shows by myself. It’s awful. You spend so much time wondering if anyone is making fun of you, feeling sorry for you, laughing at you or about to mug you on your way to your car that you don’t even pay attention to the band. Cell phones help. You can pretend to be texting. Or, I suppose I really could text someone all night. Like my mom. But really—when you drive 2 hours by yourself in an economy hatchback to a show where you only know one person who’s professionally occupied and you spend the entire night texting your mom about True Blood while pretending to be texting someone who might be showing up any minute to keep you from looking like the world’s most pathetic loser on the entire planet—cat caftans suddenly seem practical and loving.

I tried going to a local bar. You know who hangs out at the local bars in my area? Old, grizzled alcoholics with white hair and leathery skin and women who look just like them only without the belt buckles.

Maybe this is what happens when you move to a new town too late in life?

Maybe you can only blend in and find a clique if you make the jump before 30?

Whatever the case, I am not looking up at Rachel Bolan right now, remembering the first time I saw him in the “Youth Gone Wild” video and being enchanted by his nose ring.

No. I’m sitting at home, debating whether or not to watch Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief. And come to think of it, Malcolm and Linus look a little chilly.

*I’m not making a generalization about all married women. Just the ones I personally work with right now.

**I’m also not making a sweeping statement about gay men. But I have yet to meet any who like ’80s hard rock or basketball. Again, just my own little lucky circle of hell.

Posted in hopes & dreams, music that saves me, single life, the great makeover

Eight Bucks & Valerie Bertinelli

August 22nd, 2010 . 3 Comments »

Being responsible is a bitch.

But that’s what I was this week, reorganizing my routine around exercise, cooking healthy meals and going to bed earlier. I’ve got a very important date coming up this fall involving my first face-to-face with an online/telephone friend who I can’t wait to meet. And, let’s face it, feeling foxy wouldn’t hurt my self confidence.

It’s a girl thing. There are categories of men we will transform ourselves for in order to make a lasting impression. Besides those first in-person moments these categories include boyfriends; ex-boyfriends; never-were boyfriends but look at me NOW, sucker; and in my case, Joe Elliott who I’m convinced I will run into at an airport someday (you should’ve seen me at Gatwick in ‘99).

That said, I kicked butt this week and while it’s gonna be a long haul to Hotsville, I made a dent. I’d like to thank my muse, Ms. Valerie Bertinelli. If I ever meet Val I’ll probably give her a creepy spontaneous hug because she’s the first role model I could actually emulate. She’s my age (a little older, actually). She’s roughly my size (NOT 6 feet tall and built like a pipe cleaner). And she has a sense of humor about herself.

I’d also like to thank Clairol, because after 30 minutes with my old standby $8 Nice ‘N Easy, my hair is now back to a much prettier shade.

To celebrate a week of good hair and sore glutes I treated myself to this wildly impractical lip color. It shall be saved for special occasions (and men) and only worn in tandem with thinner girl, small-sized pants.

I’m on a roll. My hair is no longer cheap-whore hideous. I’m unplugging the Internet and plugging in the elliptical. And I’ve got exciting writing ideas coming out of my ears (I woke up at 6 a.m. today to jot some down).

Now if only I could get my disastrous money affairs in order so I might someday relax in this beautiful room. I can’t look at an IKEA catalog without thinking of the Edward Norton scene from Fight Club. But screw it—I freakin’ heart that shit.

Posted in hopes & dreams, single life, the great makeover

I Like You, I Like You Not

August 19th, 2010 . 4 Comments »

Why do I still think about Facebook when we broke up over a month ago?

Yesterday evening I not only created a new FB profile (it’s completely empty), but created a completely new email address so my (new, made-up) name won’t pop up under “People You May Know. ” This precaution was brought to my attention a few weeks ago during a half-assed previous attempt to slink back in under a pseudonym when a friend warned me that, since I’d used my regular email address, she was getting a “recommendation” from Facebook to add me.

Five minutes after I created my new profile last night, I went to the pages of a few people who(m) I do NOT want to get back in touch with. Just looking at their annoying smug faces which I’d seriously like to put my fist through turned my lukewarm enthusiasm for the endeavor into creepy shame. If I do go through with this exercise in hypocrisy and spend part of my weekend uploading and captioning photos, filling out my favorite books and movies and blocking the long list of people I want to conceal my presence from, will I just feel pathetic? And arrogant?

I haven’t decided yet.

Since we’re living in the age of voyeurism, I want to see the captioned photos and favorite books and movies of people I like. And I want them to want to see mine. I think that’s the crux of it all; perhaps the crux of this entire decade: I want people I like to tell me they like me. Whether that be in the girl-on-girl way of simply saying it in person with a hug (or, after a few drinks, saying it out loud repeatedly over margaritas at Chili’s)—or the guy way, which more often involves noogies and armpit farts.

And I’ll be honest, sometimes it’s nice to hear it on Facebook via funny comments and compliments now and then. What I don’t want on Facebook is the fake, never-ending, bullshit pretend-liking between people who were never friends or who have ceased to enjoy one another’s personalities as they’ve evolved over time.

That shit is exhausting. And it leaves me feeling drained, nauseated and sad.

I just haven’t decided what to do.

Then again there’s always Twitter, which is socially sanctioned Tourette’s. Maybe I don’t need to labor over a carefully constructed life fortress when I can simply tell the world “I’m eating a lot of nuts!”

Posted in hopes & dreams, single life, the great makeover

I’ll Show You Social Networking, Mister!

August 17th, 2010 . 6 Comments »

I stole this Facebook-style meme/survey from the blog of someone I used to know in Seattle.

How’s THAT For social networking?

Okay, so it’s kind of sad. But I wanted to post something today before work and am (a) in too much of a hurry to write something original after farting around online, looking at this and wondering if anyone might want to go with me (hmm? Bueller?) and (b) still exhausted after going to bed at 9:00 last night but still waking up every damn hour and then having to wait 15 minutes to fall asleep again.

So here goes. Play along if you like. Feel free to copy and paste it into a comment and share all the delicious lip-smacking flavors of your personality!

If I were a season, I’d be ~ Fall
If I were a month, I’d be ~ October
If I were a day of the week, I’d be ~ Saturday
If I were a time of day, I’d be ~ 10 p.m.
If I were a planet, I’d be ~ Saturn (no gas jokes, please)
If I were a direction, I’d be ~ North
If I were a tree, I’d be ~ Pine tree
If I were a flower, I’d be ~ Tulip
If I were a fruit, I’d be ~ Strawberry
If I were a land animal, I’d be ~ Wolf
If I were a sea animal, I’d be ~ Otter
If I were a bird, I’d be ~ Hummingbird
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be ~ A chintzy chaise lounge
If I were a liquid, I’d be ~ Champagne
If I were a stone, I’d be ~ Emerald
If I were a tool, I’d be ~ Glue gun
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be ~ Snow
If I were a musical instrument, I’d be ~ Cello
If I were a colour, I’d be ~ Deep crimson red
If I were a facial expression, I’d be ~ A spontaneous laugh often producing spittle
If I were an emotion, I’d be ~ Hope
If I were a sound, I’d be ~ Wind in the trees
If I were an element, I’d be ~ Helium
If I were a car, I’d be ~ A ’60s Jaguar E type (cream)
If I were a food, I’d be ~ Cheesecake
If I were a place, I’d be ~ Yorkshire, England
If I were a flavour, I’d be ~ Nutmeg
If I were a scent, I’d be ~ Christmas tree
If I were an object, I’d be ~ warm fuzzy socks
If I were a song, I’d be ~ Bron-Yr-Aur by Led Zeppelin
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be ~ I’d be these!
If I were transportation, I’d be ~ Luxury train
If I were a fairy tale, I’d be ~ Alice In Wonderland
If I were a holiday, I’d be ~ Christmas

Posted in single life

Great Dane! (One For The Ladies)

August 15th, 2010 . No Comments »

In a completely unrelated note to my previous post…

Dear Mads Mikkelsen,

Please make another movie involving a wig. Perhaps a wig like this one, which you wore as Tristan in King Arthur (on cable right now). I’ll spring for the wig. Bird optional.

Love, Daphne

(My love of this character may be partially due to the fact that I love the name Tristan. If I ever get married and have/adopt kids, I’m having a a Tristan. And NO!!!! It is NOT because of “Legends Of The Fall!!!” Okay. A little.)

Then again, now that I browse ole Mads’ website, maybe the wig isn’t necessary? What do we think, ladies? A slightly more dangerous and crazy version of Viggo Mortensen, also of Danish heritage? Why am I always attracted to Scandinavian men when I come from those people and KNOW how fucked up and twisted they are? Yes, I’m talking to you, Alexander Skarsgård. Okay, that is all. Nighty night.

Whoopsie doodle! Maybe it’s not nighty night yet because now on Syfy the unfathomably awful Eragon is starting!!! Which means yet another Scandinavian—Garrett Hedlund! Yeah, he’s too young and I don’t usually go for under-35 under-30 under-27, but sweet mother of IKEA! He’s actually blonde, but I kinda like the dragon movie hair. I believe Garrett stars in Tron Legacy. I haven’t heard anything about that yet. Is that role sad for him or the career move of the decade? How do I know that if I get any comments on this post, they’re all going to be about Tron? Okay, now I’m really going.

Posted in hopes & dreams, single life

Dreams I’d Like To Sell

August 15th, 2010 . 2 Comments »

One night last week a recurring dream I’ve had over and over for twenty-odd years came to me again. Only this time…it changed. What the change means to me is something so pricelessl, I’ve struggled for days to write this blog post. But I’m gonna give it a try.

Somewhere around nineteen I realized something that affected the rest of my life: I was not a good guitar player.

I could strum power chords, but not quickly. I could fake a few leads, but they were always sloppy. I have very small hands and fingers, so stretching across the neck to play intricate riffs was impossible. I tried compensating for a lack of reach with speed, but my speed was unfocused and undisciplined. And then there was the greatest failure of all: I couldn’t write music. I don’t mean “in musical notation,” I mean I couldn’t create my own music. I wrote lyrics, but when I sat down and tried to dream up chords and leads to go with them, they were trite and boring.

By this time, there were musician friends who wanted to “jam” with me. A logical request, seeing as I was then known as “the girl who played guitar.” But I felt like a fraud. I didn’t really play guitar. I simply played the same fifteen chords I could manage, in predictable variations.

Despite a brilliant cache of excuses, there were a few times I couldn’t get out of “jam sessions.” Terrified, I’d drive over, nearly throwing up along the way. Hands shaking, heart racing, knowing in seconds, I’d be exposed as the fake, talentless poser I really was. And each time it ended with me freezing in a crippling state of panic. Unable to string more than two chords together before collapsing in tears and apologies, tearing out of the rehearsal space as fast as I could leaving behind a group of sweet, patient guys with their mouths hanging open.

The last time that happened was in 1991. That was the day I locked my guitar in its case forever.

That was also when the dream started.

Always the same: I was backstage, with five minutes to showtime. Sometimes I was just auditioning, sometimes performing for a crowd. I’d hear the clock ticking down and as musicians and roadies raced around me, my arms started to go numb. My guitar was strapped around me, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to play. My hands were clenched into fists and my mind was utterly blank. People I admired were counting on me to walk out there and perform. Once, I was playing with KISS (Ace included). Once, with Aerosmith. Often, with local bands I hung out with but secretly envied.

But it always ended the same way. When I stepped onto the floorboards, cold as ice and fighting not to keel over, I lifted my pick to my strings—everything froze—and my fingers buckled into an arthritic knot as I watched all the faces disintegrate into looks of sad disappointment. I’d wake up, out of breath, safe in my bedroom. But I wasn’t really safe. For twenty years this dream haunted me.

Last week was unbelievably ordinary on the surface. Busy at work. Needed to vacuum at home. Running out of brown rice and paper towels. Yet, if you looked at it within the timeline of my life—a hell of a lot had happened. In two years I’d left behind a life that was drowning me surrounded by people who didn’t get me. I’d left all of that behind and was living in a new place where I’d met some of the kindest people I had ever known. Smart, funny, generous souls who barely knew me—yet who I trusted more than people I’d lived my entire life with.

At the same time, I’d made some new friends afar who felt like family, healed some deep wounds and found a cozy niche where I could curl up every night, bookended by two cats and a life that felt simple and good.

Thursday night, I had the dream again. Next to me onstage this time was an old musician friend from my past who had once intimidated me. In front of me, judging my performance, was a new friend, also a musician I admired, but someone who had never really judged me at all.

When it was time to play, I knew the song in my head wasn’t great but I knew it didn’t matter. I slammed into a few simple power chords and held a decent rhythm together for a few minutes until my new friend, the judge, smiled and said “That’s enough. You can go through.”

And I think I just might.

Posted in hopes & dreams, music that saves me, the great makeover

Dear Peeps…

August 9th, 2010 . 7 Comments »

I need your noodles.

I’m in the process of buffing up my LinkedIn profile and I need more writing samples.

Obviously I can’t post a link to this filthy palace of sin—so I was thinking maybe I’d start up a second blog. You know, something that won’t frighten the children or alienate high powered editors with profanity issues. Or who feel a distaste for goat roasting with Slayer. Missed that post, didn’t ya?

So if you guys have any suggestions for topics or themes, I need ‘em.

I’d do “music” but I don’t really want to write about new stuff coming out. And who needs another NWOBHM blog? Well, I do, but I may be the only one.

I’m feeling a “theme” might increase readability. “What will (Crazy Made Up Blogger Chick Name) write about (insanely fascinating topic) today???!!!”

You get the picture.

So please…my luscious little peepolas…help me. My destiny lies in your hands.

Posted in hopes & dreams, single life, the great makeover

Hey, Lucy!!!

August 7th, 2010 . 11 Comments »

Holy cherries jubilee!

My hair is really red. REALLY REALLY red. Julianne Moore at her most-ever-reddest red:

I can’t decide if I like it or if I look ridiculous. Due to this indecision, I may not be able to leave the house for a month or so. I know you’ll all understand.

Posted in Uncategorized

Art Me Up!

August 6th, 2010 . No Comments »

One of the things I most wish I had money for is art.

Not actual fine art, like, from a gallery-like. That kind of obscene money blows my mind. I’m talking framed prints under Plexiglas. Since I was a teenager, I’ve had a deep need to surround myself with images that calm me, inspire me and make me happy. The only thing that’s changed with age is that I no longer want to wallpaper my bathroom with the members of Def Leppard (although, I hear in some Soho circles it’s the latest rage). No, these days I like to browse for hours through art.com and add anything that moves me to my wish list.

I’m no scholar, although I always loved art classes (along with music, English, film, writing, and anything not involving numbers excluding photography because it was too mechanical and scientific). But if you stuck me in The Louvre or MoMA I’d sound like a bumpkin.

This is precisely why I never want to live in New York: I don’t care.

I don’t have a need to tell the world how much I know about art. I simply like what I like, whether it’s the Vivienne Westwood wedding dress that Carrie wore in the SATC movie (I actually cried when I saw it onscreen because it was so exquisitely beautiful)…

…or “A Lady In A Fur Wrap” by El Greco. Who was she and what was she thinking?

Sometimes I Google what moves me and sometimes I don’t. For instance, my art.com wish list contains three paintings by an artist named Henri Le Sidaner. I know absolutely nothing about him. But when I saw his stuff, my heart jumped the same way it did the first time I saw the Suntan Tuesday Taylor Summer/Winter Vacation House (pictured below). It flipped up into a ski chalet and embodied all of my love for the ’70s. Even toys can be art.

So, as an ode to Loving Art You Just Love ‘Cause You Love It, here are some of the prints I hope to someday hang in my home. I’m sure each and every one of them says something about me. If you figure that out, please let me know.