1. The Collector

It might be books, records, geodes, baseball cards, mid-century sunglasses, or something else entirely, but people who’ve had to spend a lot of time alone because they find it difficult to interact (or difficult to find anyone to interact with) will likely construct walls to justify their lack of contact. Sure, lots of those walls are going to be emotional, but some will be artfully constructed out of action figures or model trains. They create a perimeter and then have to themselves a world where they know how to deal with things. Generally as people grow up, they find that other people collect similar things and then can use that to branch out and make friends, but it’s hard.

If you have a pal who is really knowledgable about the different kinds of glass bottles that can be found in riverbeds, but has no clue what a Kardashian is, take your time with bringing them out of their conversational comfort zone.

2. The Forgiver

Making friends is hard. Keeping them is even harder. A person who’s not used to having friends stick around will forgive almost any wrong done to them by somebody who declares themself a kindred spirit if it means they won’t have to be alone.

Try not to take advantage of this.

3. The Code

Having a code to live by is honorable, tidy, and can be a delightful plot point when the time is right. It can also be a coping mechanism. Noticed that your new buddy has a particularly polar moral compass? It’s likely come from years of trying to make sense of the world and their place in it. My knee-jerk response to anytime somebody asks, “Why?” is, “Because we’re alone in an unkind universe,” but that’s hardly any comfort to a sensitive soul. People give themselves rules to live by so that they can at least see clearly their own path.

Sometimes you friend’s rule against fruit on pizza might seem a bit intense and unnecessary (especially when pineapple’s in season), but that just means it’s time to go halfsies.

-

It could be that you’ve read through this little guide and thought of scores of people to whom it might apply. Maybe it even hit a little too close to home. Well, duh. Childhood is lonely for everyone, and nobody really outgrows it despite all the bildungsromans on the standard reading list. Just treat everyone a little kinder and with a little more compassion on the daily and see where it takes you.

EOTwrites.com

Sure, it’s only just getting its sea legs, but it’ll get there. Even if you don’t visit–or do and hate everything, then decide to terminate all contact with me–it does mean that I can finally hand out these business cards without ending a sentence with the phrase, “down for maintenance.”

]]> http://mslizot.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/sparking-up-again/feed/ 0 mslizot photo http://mslizot.wordpress.com/2012/12/24/447/ http://mslizot.wordpress.com/2012/12/24/447/#comments Tue, 25 Dec 2012 01:04:58 +0000 Liz http://mslizot.wordpress.com/?p=447 ]]> Whether or not you celebrate Christmas, you’re reading this, so you’re stuck with a holiday music post. I’m only now finishing up on churning out the mix CDs my friends will be saddled with this year for Baby Jesus’s Very Merry Unbirthday, and I don’t want you feeling left out or anything. We’ll get this first one out of the way to prep you for spending tomorrow with your loved ones.

And, of course:

Nothing against the book or its reviews–just don’t think I’d be contributing much of anything. It wasn’t like Bea Arthur and Lucille Ball descended from Comedy Heaven to wipe away my tears of laughter, but there were a few choice nuggets.

When choosing sexual partners, remember: Talent is not sexually transmittable.

-

People are going to try to trick you. To make you feel that you are in competition with one another. “You’re up for a promotion. If they go with a woman, it’ll be between you and Barbara.” Don’t be fooled. You’re not in competition with other women. You’re in competition with everyone.

As helpful as those nuggets might be in this life, I doubt anyone has ever found Tina Fey’s book more useful that the person who previously owned my copy of it. I have my suspicions that this person was a high school student who was preparing for the SATs because 1) they had enough pocket money to buy a hardcover copy of a new book and 2) this started happening by the second page:

Actually, “torpor” is underlined multiple times.

For the benefit of SAT preppers everywhere, I present to you the list of words underlined in my copy of Bossypants, complete with links to their definitions.

Torpor, lurid, feigned, speculum, corneal, incredulous, teetotaler, playacted, equity, relegated, viscerally, inadvertently, repose, Beirut, interstitial, Hellenic, Zelig, stipulated, chiseling, disenfranchised, aperitif, foisted, prescient, vacillate, erudite, blithe, jocularity, abhorrent, hyperbole, hominem, invective, stymied, caulk.

Good night and good luck.

1. Music.
In fairness, this is my Step One for everything. Find a sexy song to pump yourself up. The journey ahead will be long, thankless, and very likely fruitless.

2. Know what you need.

Black, white, or some combination of those options. Really look for something in ivory because you broke your loving mother’s heart by putting blue bits in your hair that won’t be gone in time for the ceremony, and she thinks you would look just beautiful with something cream or ivory by your face.
Do not even think about saying you’ll wear something from work just because the color requirements are the same.
Shame on you.

3. Research.

Everybody loves an informed consumer. Taking a little time to window shop in your jimjams will give you plenty of time to fall in love with a dress that is so far out of your price range that the Curiosity rover wears it while taking soil samples.

There it is.

4. Know your limits.

Three hours is more than enough time to compose a new rant on the plague of consumerism.
You got paid yesterday, but remember that you’d like to move out in the nearish future. Put your check in the bank and root around for those birthday giftcards for a set of companies whose ethics you don’t love–bonus points if you had a conversation with a friend about them not twenty-four hours earlier.

5. Get in The Zone.

Don’t clothes made for manic pixie dream girls who frequent the stores you’re in usually fail to take mammary glands into account?
WHATEVER.

Won’t the quarterback shoulders you were born with attempt to ruin chiffon and femininity for everyone?
NOT YOUR PROBLEM.

Grab what fits your criteria, and put on blinders to the draw of maroon longline bras and the withering glances of the other customers. You are unstoppable on your way to the fitting room, so long as there’s not an item limit.

6. Second. Opinion.

Hate it or love it, try to get another perspective, even if you’re shopping alone. In this case, you probably don’t care about anything either way, but there’s a sale going on, so that acts in the favor of whatever you’re wearing. Text stiff, uncomfortable images to your previously mentioned loving mother.
She won’t like anything either.

“Cats?”

“Your bra shows.”

“Victorian Power Girl.” (Okay. I said that.)

“Eh.”

This one’s just here because that sweet Beetlejuice action matches my phone and my abiding desire to become the skeazy ghost I was always meant to be.

7. Look at your life, look at your choices.

You’ve been in a lot of stores and touched a lot of things. So many things. You’re going to return that dress you bought because it doesn’t make sense. The bottom half is pink; what were you thinking? Just go into one more store, get some fish tacos, Skype your friend, and call it a day.

8. Find a dress!

Congratulations! All the touching and texting has paid off. Make sure you didn’t lose your receipts.

To get from Finland to Sweden, I thought I’d take one of those party cruises from Helsinki to Stockholm.
I mean, why not? It’d take care of my transportation and accommodation pretty affordably between two expensive countries. Plus, it’d be a new experience. I’ve roadtripped, bussed, trained, ferried, flown, and puddle-jumped, but never been on a cruise. Cruise is always italicized in my mind because it’s on the list of things that my brain classifies as fancy, regardless of whether or not they are actually fancy. See also: liquid hand soap, loofah, underwear sets, jacuzzi, stockings, bucket seats, limited edition, suite, chrysanthemums (instead of just “mums”), braised anything, and filigree.

The line I picked was more popular with pensioners and families than excitable young people like myself, which suited me fine because it was cheaper and I had no intentions of doing X on a floating rave like it was the Nineties or something. I am still confident in my choice because it wound up being the Moomins’ cruise line of choice.

I arrived an hour early for boarding, which was spent refusing to make eye contact with any passengers in case they wound up being my bunkmate later on.

Once it was time for boarding and I muscled my way on, I was a little blown away.

It was a floating hotel. I was on a floating hotel. Floating. Hotel.
I went in search of my room, where I would most certainly perish due to my own fabulousness. They would find my body gently rocking to the rhythm of the waves and make out the faintest trace of a smile on my face, which would be lit only by the starlight filtering through my round window.

Then again, perhaps not.

My room (not pictured because the only light source was the bathroom) was cool. It had the bed I claimed for myself and a kind of Murphy bed bunk for my roommate who never showed up. They were presumably eaten by the schoolgirl-demon who followed me through the labyrinthine sub-sub-deck until I lost her behind an arguing family. From there, I headed back up to do some exploring. I don’t know how everyone on the ship managed to get drunk and aggressive in the hour between my boarding and exploration, but don’t talk to me about fear until you’ve been lunged at by a grandmother in a feather boa who doesn’t like the looks of you.

Photos!

Where they train the children to be self-sufficient mariners in the event of their parents jumping ship in Tallinn.

How everyone but me would be identified when the toddlers declared mutiny.

Last bit of land/chance to swim for it.

Guide to being a sassy shipwreck victim.

Always know where the nearest lifeboats are, especially if you don’t trust the flamenco dancers performing outside the duty-free to help you when disaster strikes.

Thus concludes our tour. There was also a pool area in what looked like a converted greenhouse, a club with no apparent entrance, a game room, and a few restaurants and shops. I also took a lot of pictures of the water and asked myself, “How cold is that really? Not really all that cold, right?”

Now, it does seem like I’m really preoccupied with a tragedy occurring, but hear me out. The Costa Concordia disaster was just months before, and I was damn sure that this water was way less friendly. And then there’s the matter of that sub-sub-deck I mentioned, so named because my sleeping quarters were two levels below where the cars were stowed. I’ve seen Titanic. I know what happens to the poor people of Irish descent when the water comes in.

Still, having gotten to know the ship, I felt comfortable going back down to my room to relax a bit. Bad idea. Living the sub-sub-deck life means that you can hear all of the mechanical groans and bangs of the ship. This is okay if you’re not reading a book about demonic possession and mental health alone in a room with no light. An overactive imagination is pretty key to this scenario as well. After about a half hour, I grabbed my wallet and some letter-writing materials to look less weird, and headed back up.

Topside, I rustled up a plate of IKEA-grade meatballs and availed myself of the bottomless and totally unsupervised citrus-malt-drink dispenser. I also pretended to be interested in tax-free goodies on my way to figuring out how to sneak down and swipe breakfast foods in the morning. Because marine law and weak piracy are the same in my mind. After my successful recon, I thought I’d reward myself with a drink and the live music promised at the pub. Terrible idea. The pub was populated entirely with suspected serial killers, aggressive grandmothers, and out-of-place metalheads. The live music was a young man doing super genuine and soulful covers of pop songs. Future generations will look to the letter I composed to Éadaoín during this experience and wonder if I was socialized at all as a child.

In the end, the ship stayed afloat, I wasn’t knifed or eaten, my ill-gotten food lasted me a few meals, and I made to Sweden. But cruises are way off my potential honeymoon options.

LookitdatSweden!

Well, unless you asked my Tumblr.

This will be rectified. Expect the usual combination of travel photos, poems, follower appreciation, themed playlists, and terrible advice.

For now, enjoy the forty-eighth runner-up in the Songs to Be Played at Liz’s Ninetieth Birthday.

By now it is very likely that you’ve seen The Dark Knight Rises and have heard scores of arguments about any given facet of the film. Don’t worry: this will not be another one. Most people who know me well have already been subjected to my alternating rants and gushings on all things related to the Caped Crusader. If you have missed out on such an honor, feel free to call me at two in the morning.

Instead, I thought I’d welcome you to a strange point where two of my favorite things meet.

Gotham Wanes

The mask? Because we were never ugly
enough. Because our ugliness was epic.
Because we were given to it, because
we were so misgiven. You wear one. I
wear one. Yes. Kings, Pharaohs had them
fabricated, poured out in gold and beaten.
Most wore them to the grave. In Mexico
the living wear them, not to scare the dead
away, but as invitation. They leave candy
on the mounds of those they mourn. New
Orleans? Women wear them in order
to bare everything else. Men wear them
in order to watch. I can remember, back
before it all grows grim, making one
out of the news, trying to paste it together.
I remember my mother helping me. I don’t
really remember my father. Something
like a face, like the man in the moon.
I understand we’re hardwired this way,
to make faces before anything else.
It’s why we see the Madonna in mold,
alien architecture in Martian crater creep.
We keep looking for those first faces, first
familia. Every culture, every eon. Witness
the oldest we know, his cave, his wall, one
hundred seventy centuries gone. They call
him Sorcerer. They call me Knight.
We have always lived in the dark.

-Bryan D. Dietrich

Featured the October 2011 issue of Poetry.

Kid

Batman, big shot, when you gave the order
to grow up, then let me loose to wander
leeward, freely through the wild blue yonder
as you like to say, or ditched me, rather,
in the gutter...well, I turned the corner.
Now I've scotched that 'he was like a father
to me' rumour, sacked it, blown the cover
on that 'he was like an elder brother'
story, let the cat out on that caper
with the married woman, how you took her
downtown on expenses in the motor.
Holy robin-redbreast-nest-egg-shocker!
Holy roll-me-over-in-the-clover,
I'm not playing ball boy any longer
Batman, now I've doffed that off-the-shoulder
Sherwood-Forest-green and scarlet number
for a pair of jeans and crew-neck jumper;
now I'm taller, harder, stronger, older.
Batman, it makes a marvellous picture:
you without a shadow, stewing over
chicken giblets in the pressure cooker,
next to nothing in the walk-in larder,
punching the palm of your hand all winter,
you baby, now I'm the real boy wonder.

-Simon Armitage

From his poetry collection of the same name, which I’m rereading right now.

I’ll leave the close reading to you, but here’s a video of Armitage reading it if you’re into that sort of thing:

Fresh off the train and still riding my blue-sky-high, I dropped my bag at the hostel and took to the streets. It was a straight shot down the city’s main drag to Hämeenpuisto, a long, narrow park where there was an open air market going on.

Might have gone a bit overboard on the banana chips and dried papaya, but that’s the point of being young, hungry, and sunburnt. Besides, they came in handy during a particularly tense game of UNO later on. I was glad, though, to have avoided the French bakery stall, as one of the (really cheerful and generally awesome) staff members at the hostel told me a fist-fight had broken out over a baguette the year before. No bread is so fresh or crusty that I’m willing to risk my face for it.

And that was pretty much my first day. I went back to the hostel, ate my sad assortment of banged-up veggies, and went to bed well before the rockabilly concert a more energetic version of myself had been really psyched to attend. On top of its many other charms, the Tampere Dream Hostel has some really comfy beds.

Day Two I got up early and ran off with a pear meant for a guest who bought the breakfast package. I wouldn’t say I regret it because I love pears, but growing up Catholic means I still have to smack myself in the boob whenever I remember doing it. The day was grey, so I did what I do best, and wandered in and out of cafes and shops. Breakfast was a waffle with more than my fair share of strawberry jam at a cozy place called Vohvelikahvila. I didn’t have far to go–just down the street, actually–to find my favorite joint in town. Kahvila Runo is an obvious choice to be a favorite among blogger-types and I just don’t care. The place has books in several languages for customers to nose through, a massive tea selection, and a dark upper level for those of us who just want to be left alone on a rainy day.

I will say, though, that the bathroom is more than a little frightening.

I meant to explore a bit more and go to the Lenin Museum, but I didn’t. Next time.

My third and final full day is when I really got my money’s worth out of that second reheeling of my boots. After a brief trip to the post office, I made my way back down to Hämeenpuisto to hit up the Moominvalley museum.

Right before my arrival in Tampere, I’d been introduced to and gone a bit wild for Moomins. No photos are allowed inside the, but believe me when I say that it’s worth seeing for yourself. The exhibition occupies the basement of a library in the shape of a bird, and takes visitors through every stage of Tove Jansson’s creations. There are prints of the early Moomins from Jansson’s editorial comics, model scenes from each of the books, a dress-up area, a recreation of Moomintroll’s floating stage, and the truly gorgeous scale model of the Moominhouse, handmade by Jansson and her friends. When I realized that none of the tutus or riding jackets in the play area would fit me, I spent what, judging from the glares of my fellow patrons, might have been an inappropriate amount of time reading Jansson’s biography in an easy chair. Fun fact: she was fascinating.

Nearly three hours of darkness seemed like enough, so I headed up to the Pyynikki observation tower. One of the girls from a group of visiting university students from California told me that I had to go there for the best doughnut in town. Being short, I am drawn to climbing to the top of high things and feeling mighty, so I was planning to go up there anyway.

It was a good doughnut.

The way up to the tower is a green and mercifully shady hill off a residential area. Put mildly, it was beautiful.

Even more so than the stairs to the top, the view took the wind right out of me.

You win again, Finland.