Hey peeps! I know I’m grossly late on the posting, and it’s been a busy 4 weeks so I won’t try to sum it all up. But here are some random musings over the last weeks:
1) Lauren and I are in locked in a death match to see who can gain more weight for her wedding. Counterintuitive for most brides and bridesmaids, I know, but we never claimed to be a normal family. She wants to be fit and toned for her wedding, which has spiraled into an obsession with weight-lifting and protein supplements. (Money quote: “I eat as much protein as a mid-size Texas ranch. If you slaughtered every animal on that ranch and ate it, that’s how much protein I take each week.”) Never one to be outdone, I am also lifting weights and eating at McDonalds nearly every day in an effort to pack on the weight and not look skeletal in the strapless bridesmaid’s dress she has chosen for me. Clavicles can be sexy but not if they’re jutting out three inches from the skin. So far she’s winning, but I have hit 111 pounds!—which puts me over the 110-pound mark I have not been able to break in well over a year, and within reach of the 115-120 pounds that is my normal weight. We’re both drinking the protein shakes but I haven’t ventured into the territory of the pill supplements because they all seem to have a lot of testosterone, and I’m afraid I’ll grow a mustache. And maybe a penis.
2) I have located a store—possibly the only one in Cape Town, lo, in South Africa—that sells Dr. Pepper. Behold, the beauty of my dietary staples:
Yes, that is a can of Dr. Pepper—doesn’t it just gleam with the promise of goodness?—and Nutella. I eat them both, frequently together.
3) It has been pointed out to me that every time I leave the country, significant Americans die. Last trip, it was Tim Russert (oh Tim, I missed you all through the elections). This time, it’s Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and the guy who sells OxyClean.
And Michael Jackson.
Y’ALL. MICHAEL JACKSON. I can’t even tell you how done in I was. “Thriller” was the first real album I owned, along with the soundtrack to “Annie” (the Smurf and Strawberry Shortcake singalong albums I had earlier in my childhood do not count as real albums). I was 5, maybe 6 years old. I wanted the floor to light up when I stepped on it like the street did in the “Billie Jean” video which technically I wasn’t supposed to watch since I wasn’t allowed to watch MTV but which I watched in total awe at friends’ houses and at my grandparents’ in the summer because they didn’t know the rules. (This, children, was back when Music Television actually played music videos. I know it’s hard to conceive. Also, gas used to be less than a dollar and there were only like 30 cable stations. And we walked to school uphill in the snow and we liked it.) And even as he brought the crazy as the years wore on, that early luster couldn’t be tarnished.
Frankly I felt like Cape Town wasn’t sufficiently mournful. I mean, my friends back home were all talking about commiserating with people on street corners and parking lots, and here? Nothing. I had a brief moment of connection with a car park attendant who sang “Beat It” with me in the middle of the sidewalk, but otherwise nothing. Possibly, though, it’s because Capetonians are simply holding to the same belief as the guy who sold me new earphones for my iPod the day after Michael died. I mentioned the sadness and he informed me MJ was not really dead. He just needed a rest, so he faked his death and has gone to Cuba with Tupac.
Clearly, this man is my new boyfriend.
Can I briefly mention how excited I am for the funeral? Elizabeth Taylor, Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli—it’s going to be like every VH1 diva concert rolled into one.
I will finish by noting that I attended a meeting recently in which people were asked to fingerpaint their emotions regarding apartheid and the struggle. Maybe for my next act, I’ll knit my reaction to the Holocaust. Or perform an interpretive dance about Tianenmen Square. I’m a lot more cautious about the meetings I attend now.
1) Lauren and I are in locked in a death match to see who can gain more weight for her wedding. Counterintuitive for most brides and bridesmaids, I know, but we never claimed to be a normal family. She wants to be fit and toned for her wedding, which has spiraled into an obsession with weight-lifting and protein supplements. (Money quote: “I eat as much protein as a mid-size Texas ranch. If you slaughtered every animal on that ranch and ate it, that’s how much protein I take each week.”) Never one to be outdone, I am also lifting weights and eating at McDonalds nearly every day in an effort to pack on the weight and not look skeletal in the strapless bridesmaid’s dress she has chosen for me. Clavicles can be sexy but not if they’re jutting out three inches from the skin. So far she’s winning, but I have hit 111 pounds!—which puts me over the 110-pound mark I have not been able to break in well over a year, and within reach of the 115-120 pounds that is my normal weight. We’re both drinking the protein shakes but I haven’t ventured into the territory of the pill supplements because they all seem to have a lot of testosterone, and I’m afraid I’ll grow a mustache. And maybe a penis.
2) I have located a store—possibly the only one in Cape Town, lo, in South Africa—that sells Dr. Pepper. Behold, the beauty of my dietary staples:
Yes, that is a can of Dr. Pepper—doesn’t it just gleam with the promise of goodness?—and Nutella. I eat them both, frequently together.
3) It has been pointed out to me that every time I leave the country, significant Americans die. Last trip, it was Tim Russert (oh Tim, I missed you all through the elections). This time, it’s Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and the guy who sells OxyClean.
And Michael Jackson.
Y’ALL. MICHAEL JACKSON. I can’t even tell you how done in I was. “Thriller” was the first real album I owned, along with the soundtrack to “Annie” (the Smurf and Strawberry Shortcake singalong albums I had earlier in my childhood do not count as real albums). I was 5, maybe 6 years old. I wanted the floor to light up when I stepped on it like the street did in the “Billie Jean” video which technically I wasn’t supposed to watch since I wasn’t allowed to watch MTV but which I watched in total awe at friends’ houses and at my grandparents’ in the summer because they didn’t know the rules. (This, children, was back when Music Television actually played music videos. I know it’s hard to conceive. Also, gas used to be less than a dollar and there were only like 30 cable stations. And we walked to school uphill in the snow and we liked it.) And even as he brought the crazy as the years wore on, that early luster couldn’t be tarnished.
Frankly I felt like Cape Town wasn’t sufficiently mournful. I mean, my friends back home were all talking about commiserating with people on street corners and parking lots, and here? Nothing. I had a brief moment of connection with a car park attendant who sang “Beat It” with me in the middle of the sidewalk, but otherwise nothing. Possibly, though, it’s because Capetonians are simply holding to the same belief as the guy who sold me new earphones for my iPod the day after Michael died. I mentioned the sadness and he informed me MJ was not really dead. He just needed a rest, so he faked his death and has gone to Cuba with Tupac.
Clearly, this man is my new boyfriend.
Can I briefly mention how excited I am for the funeral? Elizabeth Taylor, Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli—it’s going to be like every VH1 diva concert rolled into one.
I will finish by noting that I attended a meeting recently in which people were asked to fingerpaint their emotions regarding apartheid and the struggle. Maybe for my next act, I’ll knit my reaction to the Holocaust. Or perform an interpretive dance about Tianenmen Square. I’m a lot more cautious about the meetings I attend now.
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