Juliette Miranda

I talk a good game. Whether it’s because I’m delusional or just overconfident to a fault, I’m not entirely sure. But I rock. Just ask me.

The problem is that my awesomeness apparently has a few limits, and when challenged often makes me look more like a carnival prize than the jewel in a window at Tiffany’s I fancy myself to be.

My guy is beginning to discover this, and it has me worried. It’s not that I don’t want him to see me as I really am; I’d just rather my quirks weren’t quite so vivid in contrast to my bravado. Because although I’ve never lied about myself, I may have oversold certain “good” traits to compensate for the more freakish of my lot.

My love of horror movies, for example, is legendary. I’ll spend hours describing the intricate beauty of torture or re-enacting scenes from 70s exploitation movies and have consequently erected the façade that nothing scares me.

And it’s true – to a degree. Blood, screams, chainsaw wielding maniacs… none of it has an effect. But should a June bug start hurtling itself at the light fixture on my guy’s patio, I will, without hesitation, dart under the nearest chair and whimper uncontrollably.

“It’s just a June bug/cicada/grasshopper/20-pound thunder moth,” my guy will say whenever I have a shrieking fit over whatever creature lunges for me. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Really, I appreciate the sentiment when it comes to keeping me safe from predators in parking garages, purse snatchers and scary mechanics at the vehicle emissions facility. But until he can control the flight path of a locust or the proximity of all the centipedes in a 20-mile radius, my guy is going to have to accept kissing me through the mesh of a bee keeper suit if he wants my company on his porch.

Still, for as terrified as I am of the back porch, my guy is likely just as terrified to enter a bathroom after I’ve been in there styling my hair. I make no secret about how important my hair is to me, and how much effort I put into making it look spectacular. So my guy wasn’t surprised when he first realized it takes me two hours to wash, blow dry and style my hair for the day.

But there’s no way of bracing someone for the ruins I leave in my hair styling wake, and I can only hope my guy possesses a shop vac and industrial cleanser.

“What were you doing in here, trimming a yeti?”

I can’t say that I blame my guy for his astounded look as he surveyed his bathroom one morning. The writhing mass of broken red hair strands tangled around his drain, bath mat and cabinet counter looked more like tentacles than something from my head.

I could only shrug. There is a price to pay for repeated heat styling; I’m guessing my guy just didn’t expect to have to pay it in jugs of Drain-O or Swiffer refills.

(I’d rather not discuss the side effects of my color-depositing conditioner. I’m sure they’ll come up soon enough.)

The closer my guy and I get, the more my illusion of cool confidence cracks: He’s seen the backseat of my car, experienced the stench of two-day old unwashed dishes in my sink, and likely pulled errant strands of my hair out of canned vegetables.

Rather than let him bag me up and ship me to Ripley’s Odditorium, I figured I’d put my confirmed talents to use and try to find a way to one-up my guy. The answer: challenging him to a high stakes game of Scrabble. Enter over-inflated self confidence:

“It really is going to be sad to kick your ass,” I told my guy one night. “I’d hate to see you cry. You do know that words like “doggie” and “kitty” aren’t legal Scrabble words, right?”

He bantered back accordingly, but there was no stopping me. I may have even pat my guy on the head and done a preliminary winner’s dance around him. Which would have been fine if I had actually won the damn game.

Instead, after more than an hour of heated play (and, I admit, a few dirty tricks to distract him) I was forced to concede defeat to my guy, who played a far better game that I did. He was gracious enough to not gloat too much about the double digit point spread between us; I was composed enough to not flip the board onto the floor and stomp off to pout.

It was a stinging loss for a girl who makes her living off words, especially when all her words of late seem to be unfounded. Fortunately, my guy doesn’t see me as the bug-cowering, shedding Yeti loser that I do at times. To him, I’m still the smart woman who lets him show off his bug catching prowess and can keep him on his toes at all times, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

That hasn’t stopped him from insisting I call him Scrabble Master, of course, but I’m okay with that. He’s earned the title…. Until the rematch, that is.

Four decadent meals, two smuggled Mojitos in Central Park, one anti-kissing curmudgeon at the Plaza, and countless other amazing New York moments later, and I find myself walking around with a brilliant smile that seems to be nauseating everyone but me.  And I couldn’t be happier about it.

Actual blog to come by the end of the month. Until then, enjoy some pics of my recent tour of New York with my guy. (Click the thumbnails for bigger images.)

I’m curious: what exactly defines the line between affectionate sibling rivalry and mental terrorism?  Does once convincing your younger sister that she was the exact image of Carolanne from Poltergeist and suggesting that the ghosts may seek her out at night cross it?

I am beginning to think that a gift certificate for extended therapy may be the most appropriate Christmas present I can offer my sister this year. While I would never go so far as to consider myself a mean person, I may have inadvertently waged some attacks on my sister over the years that, under the guise of maturity, seem now to be unnecessarily harsh. (Damn this whole “growing up” thing: first it stuck me with responsibility, now: a conscience. What’s next? Humility? Shudder.)

It would be preferable if I could write everything off as childish pranks, and to be sure, at my current age, I do know better than to sit a 7 year-old down and force her to watch movies like The Exorcist. But the mental digs continue in our adulthood, and I’m guessing there’s no way to write off never calling my sister by her actual name, but instead one of the myriad pet names I’ve concocted, as being playful or cute.

Still, she’s not exactly playing the role of simmering victim: just ask her about the “I thought you were going to detach your jaw and swallow me whole,” comment she made at my expense once. I’m sure she’d be happy to recount the tale.

Our current relationship might be different if our upbringing didn’t focus so heavily on mental one-upmanship: psychological games have always been considered good form in our family. My guy is currently investigating the statute of limitations at DCFS because he insists the stuffed vulture I received from my mother when I was 9 and in quarantine with scarlet fever was not the thoughtful gift I consider it to be.  Sarcasm and irony do make for interesting – albeit hard to explain – terms of endearment.

My concern now, however, is that as my sister and I move into new phases of our lives, it may be time for our relationship to shift.

The distinction between being a kick in the mouth or a love tap grows vague as we get older, and I’d hate for my ribbing to be misinterpreted as anything other than good natured. Plus, calling a married woman and college instructor (and yes, that would be my sister) “Rodan” isn’t as satisfying as it once was, particularly when she’s bright enough to point out that knowing what Rodan is shows my age and geek quotient.

I suppose I need to start giving her more credit for being on equal ground with me. She is, after all, an adult now, too. But more important, she is an adult with 26+ years of a grudge built up and a hereditary penchant for mind game warfare. And, if I’m honest with myself, she’s got enough dirt to bury me.

She also has an advantage: her being married in contrast to my being in the early stages of a relationship and still wanting desperately to look less like a deranged Bridget Jones and more like Angelina Jolie in her prime means she’s got the perfect setup for retaliation.

It would be just like her to rise up like a creature in a Japanese science fiction movie in the midst of an otherwise lovely event to unleash a torrent of flaming revenge:

“You think it’s funny to point and laugh while I’m being attacked by ducks? Take THIS!”

“You think setting my cast on fire is a fun game for the holidays? Take THIS!”

By the time she’d burned off the lifetime of abuse I’ve inflicted on her, my already shaky cool factor and ill-constructed front would be reduced to nothingness, leaving only my unfortunate quirks and general idiocy on display for all to bask in.

My guy meanwhile, if he hadn’t fled the room for safer territory, would likely be fetal, either from laughter, or terror as he discovers the truth: that despite all appearances, I’m really just a girl who once drown in her high school swimming pool, failed driver’s ed twice, and can’t seem to reconcile that her little sister has grown up.

Payback is a bitch, and I’m guessing it may be in my best interest to either lay the groundwork for a dark web of lies about being an only child, or to start back pedaling. I can’t take back the night terrors, neuroses, and deliberate blackouts I’ve likely caused my sister, but I can start making an effort to bring us close enough for a handshake.

It may be my only hope.

    I have a secret. More people than I’d care to admit are probably in on it already, which is unfortunate, seeing as how I generally prefer to not come off as an idiot. But the truth is, I wear my stupidity proudly. On my ankle.

Phrases like, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” dance through my skull from time to time, but all the rationalization in the world won’t soothe the fact that a combination of alcohol and ignorance have lead to a constant source of ridicule. It’s especially bruising for me, the chick who claims to inherently know all things music. Sadly, my inherent knowledge has a few gaps.

All I wanted was a simple tattoo. My life in Los Angeles at the time was hovering somewhere just short of destitute. I had gone to LA looking for music and for life, and all I had to show for it after five years was my cat and the pity dollar a beggar onVentura Boulevard gave me. My return to Chicago was imminent, and I was crushed.But despite all the grief and turmoil I’d experienced in that town, I still wanted to take a part of it back with me. I needed something distinctly my own to carry, something to show for the time I’d spent in tireless pursuit of a dream. I needed a tattoo.

But LA has a funny way of taking even the most pure and heartfelt aspirations and twisting them into something else entirely, and in hindsight, considering just how bad my luck ran in that town, I really should have seen this coming. Because only in LA would I happen to down enough vodka to float a whale. And only in LA would I grab a completely non-musically inclined girlfriend to accompany me to the only tattoo parlor in the city where a non-musician would be available to tattoo a music note onto my ankle.

To his credit, he was a sweet guy and a talented tattoo artist. He was extremely reassuring to a tattoo virgin and showed a great deal of concern about placing the tattoo I’d selected in the most artistically appropriate place. “I think you’ll be most happy with it if we place it like this,” he said, transferring the note outline to a new place on my ankle. He was right: the note seemed to curve around my ankle and flowed better with my skin.

My no-music-knowledge friend clapped her hands and agreed. I smiled, gave him the go-ahead, and let him drive a permanent memento of Los Angeles into my skin. Too bad the music note was backwards.

It wasn’t long before this charming, for-the-rest-of-my-life error was pointed out to me by a helpful musician who had to choke himself to reign in his laughter. I did the only thing I could: I laughed, too.

To this day, some six-plus years later, I frequently lie and tell people that the tattoo is of a 16th note. It’s a load of crap of course, no music note in the history of music looks anything like what I’ve got on my ankle, but most people don’t know that. And those who do just point and laugh. I’m used to it by now.

That silly backwards music note serves as a constant reminder of the silly, backwards life I lived in LA. Neither is perfect, but I’m starting to accept that both are a part of me.

Post script: I’ve since successfully gotten two more tattoos. A treble clef, and, as of last night, a bass clef. My thanks go to Dil, for his hand: to hold, and in ensuring that the bass clef without a doubt faces in the right direction.

“Come on, it’s just two notes. Sing them!”

Had I not an audience of one staring at me intently, I might have been more inclined to belt out the requested notes. I’ve certainly sung the backing “whoa oahs” to Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer” so many times that the notes are burned into my ear drums.

Of course, the majority of my singing is done in the shower, where my optimistically off-pitch renditions offend only my own better senses. If I was going to summon the courage to sing solo for a friend, and a musician no less, it was going to take a whole lot more encouragement. And whiskey.

Fortunately, I’ve had plenty of both recently.

Having just come home from my own personal Almost Famous tour of sorts, I’m finding that my long-overdue return to the music scene has more benefits that I would have thought. It’s a surprising revelation for a girl who, nine months ago, essentially swore off people in general and refused to leave her living room.

But recovery comes in unusual places. My own just happened to be the result of a thoughtful suggestion from a girlfriend who is likely wishing she’d never opened her mouth in the first place. Part of me can’t blame her: rock and roll is not for everyone.

However, had she not encouraged me to venture outside the odd little world I’d built for myself, you’d likely be seeing my picture on police station bulletin boards right now. Much as I love my seclusion, I know it’s getting to be too much when I’ve alphabetized my CDs by producer and can have a conversation with my cat and think I understand what she squawks out in reply.

It is a relief to see the similarities between myself and David Berkowitz dissipating. A few may argue that my subsequent renewed passion for the music scene is potentially as dangerous, but the truth is, few things mean more to me or feel more like home than music.

I admit that despite my best efforts I tend to take my interest to Yoko-like levels. It’s an impulse I just can’t control: if I can’t actually be in the band, I want to be as with it as possible. Maybe it’s the geek in me, or maybe I really am a groupie who tries way too hard to mask her musical adoration with technical know-how, but I find I am happiest when I am allowed access to music beyond just listening.

This does make me the ultimate nuisance to bands, seeing as how they practically have to rip their gear from my helpful little fingers. The day is not far off I’m sure when I will be sent way out into left field during sound check with the stated purpose of “checking the low end by the beer tent” when what I’m really being sent on is a pointless errand to get me as far from the stage as possible.

My own ridiculousness is not lost on me. Still, my biggest thrill this past weekend came from being entrusted to string a bass guitar before a show. Pulling those strings into place gave me more satisfaction that that band will ever know, not just for the small part it gave me in their music, but for the way it brought me back to myself.

I was reminded of this as I sat with my friend Dil recently. His request for an impromptu vocal demonstration had thrown me off balance because it came with a genuine suggestion that I join the band on stage to do backing vocals for a song one night.

The blood rushed to my face as he sat waiting for me to produce two stupid notes. You’d think a chick who knows more about music than many of the bands she runs with would have no hesitation in demonstrating her skills.

Dil smiled warmly. He’s been more supportive of my talents and interests than I could ever have asked; that he would give me the ultimate opportunity to step into a new role for a few minutes had my head reeling.

I saw the stage I could stand on, the lights that might happen to fall close enough to me that I wouldn’t be completely in the dark, and realized that I was finally moving out of my living room and into a place where I feel like the person I know I am.

And so I sang.

It may take a bit of warming up, but I will always hit my notes.

Last night I typed the two greatest words ever to wrap up 50 chapters of my life. “The end” has never been so satisfying.

They certainly didn’t come without price: the past six days have been spent in near seclusion. My meals have consisted of swigs of Jack, handfuls of tortilla chips, and Orbit spearmint gum. (I switched to Orbit when I ran out of pen caps to mangle. Damn oral fixation. I would have made one hell of a smoker.) Aside from a Thursday night outing at my local rock club that I’m unofficially dubbing the, “Four chapters left, several shots to go” celebration, I’ve barely left my writing perch.

The result is a book that has been five years in the making: “Morning Neurosis is the true story of a girl trying to reconcile her rock n’ roll roots with reality.” Or at least, that’s what I’ll tell the publishers I plan to shop the book to.

My apologies to those whom the words ring too true. But this is my story, and, as I’ve said many times: be careful around writers, nothing is ever entirely off the record.

Enjoy, and look for the sequel, Afternoon Psychosis, coming soon!

J

PS – new blog coming soon, I promise! Until then, enjoy the picture. And yes, those are my boobs.

“You need a regular hangout.”

It’s probably the most sensible advice I’ve gotten on how to meet a guy, which is actually unfortunate, as it leaves me without excuse now. I took great pleasure in shooting down the myriad of idiotic suggestions I received from people whose main knowledge about dating was garnered from Meg Ryan and Jennifer Aniston movies. You want me to place a personal ad? Fuck you, Match.com’s archive of devoid losers hasn’t changed in five years. You want me to take salsa lessons? Fuck you, have you seen the havoc ten years of ballet reaped on my feet?

What insults me most about suggestions like these isn’t so much their lack of real world foundation (because really, the only people taking salsa lessons are women with their gay male friends), but the fact that they were offered with so little regard for who I am. Even when you get past my snark-soaked, I’m-smarter-than-you-are exterior, you are not going to find a deliberate “joiner.” Nor will you find a person who relishes meeting people, or even dating at all.

If I could skip the whole dating process, I would. But for as much as I hate dating, I absolutely love being in a relationship. The satisfaction I get from connecting with a person is profound, and, sadly, rare.

This is why getting over my last relationship is an ongoing struggle: it didn’t end because of “us” or our connection with each other. Of course, I can’t really say my commitment to getting over the relationship is all that strong, seeing as how I spent several hours the other night reading every single email he’s sent me in the past three years. Damn Yahoo and their unlimited data storage.

Along with making my drinking problem all the more vivid, reading those emails confirmed just how much being in that relationship meant to me. Short of egging his house or gouging out my eyes, I’m still searching for the best way to accept that I need to start over.

I’m doing better than I thought I would, at least in that when I play the “Last time I …” game, I don’t have to insert my ex’s name as often. Which means the last time I went out to dinner, and the last time I went to a concert, and the last time I had sex was not with my ex, and I’m told that’s a start.

The hardest part is to alter the game so that I can look ahead and say, “The next time I …” and not have it include phrases like, “…finish off a bottle of whiskey” or “…spend another night reading about serial killers.” These have been easy things to do, just as it has been extremely easy to settle for solitude.

But when my friend B casually suggested I find a place to hang out that wasn’t on my couch, I had to admit it wasn’t a horrible idea. She wasn’t telling me to take a pottery class (which ranks up there as the single worst unsolicited idea I’ve ever been given), and she wasn’t even really telling me to date someone. She just planted the idea that getting out there and finding a place to do what I like might be a decent way to ease myself back into the world outside myself.

Of course, I’m not entirely sure she meant for me to make a habit of heading to my local rock club every weekend, but a girl, especially a girl like me, has gotta start somewhere, right?

(I almost feel that this would make a better poem than narrative. Must be the Bukowski in me.)

There was no hello.

There was only the anticipation, the look, and the understanding that I would be relieved of myself.

And then my head slammed into the wall.

If I had wanted it, there would have been evil in the intent. Darkness often usurps my consideration when I wonder what it would be like to be own victim. To feel myself from the inside, to taste what it is that simmers in the basement of my mind would make my understanding all the more actual.

His hands know better than I do, and elicit satisfaction without the brutality. Where I would tear, they scratch. Where I would batter, they beat. It’s better this way. He gives me what I need when what I want would destroy me.

The blows are sharp. I lean into the pain and love it for its complexity. I shouldn’t internalize it as much as I do, but I think I would like it less if it came without explanation. I do not deserve this; it is not something I have earned. It is something I have asked for.

My body breathes in the violence. My sweat signals I need more. When all I have is my control, he forces me to release it. There is only more: more breathing… more screaming… more succumbing to strength that is comparable to my own.

There is pleasure, too: fierce jolts of it that free me of my reserve. My spasms do not stop him. From caress to squeeze to whip, it all equals the same reaction. And though I offer a piece to him, I keep most of it for myself. Intricate greed makes me the best and worst of submissives.

Perhaps one day I will offer my surrender to him – or another – entirely. Until then, if I cannot have what I want, he will give me what I need. And for this, I thank him.

It seems to me that baseball is something of a missed-opportunity sport. Really, any game that involves a heavy bat should include hitting more than just a ball. I get the whole “national pastime” aspect of baseball, but as I sat, shivering and trying desperately to flag down the beer guy at last night’s Cubs game, I couldn’t help but think what a difference some bloodshed would make to liven up the game. Barring that, a few scantily-clad women sashaying across the field wouldn’t hurt. Baseball must be the least rock n roll sport on the planet.

Not that I actually understand the logistics of it, of course. I’m sure baseball would be far more fascinating if I knew why it wasn’t appropriate for me to yell “DEFENSE!” in the middle of an inning. Still, there is an amusing cultural aspect to attending a game, which more than makes up for the lack of chair-gripping excitement.

Chicago itself has a lot to do with it. The crumbling “confines” of Wrigley Field are steeped in as much heritage as they are peanut shells, spilled beer, and pee. But even a heartless neophyte like myself can’t help but feel a small thrill walking in the gates: Wrigley Field is just such an iconic Chicago site, going there is one of the few things that makes me happy I live here.

Although I suppose that point is debatable depending on whom you ask. This town is spitefully divided between “North” and “South”-siders who will defend their turf and accompanying team more fiercely than street thugs and hookers. With parents from the south side, friends on the north side, and my personal home in the suburbs, my loyalty is typically to wherever I happen to be standing.

But of the group of friends I was with last night, one happened to be a die-hard White Sox fan. Had our tickets not been of the “VIP” variety and comped through a work connection, I’m certain he would have been less inclined to deign to walk through Wrigley’s hallowed gates.

His derision did make for some confusing moments for me, however. As I struggled to understand complex phrases like “bases loaded” and cheer at appropriate times, he took to applauding the opposing team. Not helpful for the chick who had to be told that hitting the guy at bat with the ball is actually a bad thing. (I think.)

In the end I wound up cheering for everything, which, with good company and a few beers, is an easy thing to do. What I lack in knowledge I do make up for in enthusiasm, even if my friends wouldn’t let me flash the players.

Maybe when the weather gets warmer.

A problem that wasn’t on my SATs: Consider all the men in the world. Now, narrow that population down to only include eminently datable men: the ones who are available; not on parole; intelligent; creative; reasonably attractive; and not prone to violent outbursts, obsessive jealousy, or fanatical fascination with sports teams or supermodels/porn stars/underage pop tarts. From that group, narrow it down to only include men who would be both interested in and capable of dating me (the key word being “capable”). Finally, from that remaining group, narrow it down to only include men I would be interested in being with. How many men are left standing?

I got -472 the last time I attempted to solve the equation, but my math has always been a bit sketchy. Still, I’ve posed this problem to several friends and received similar answers. Hope is certainly the last thing that comes to my mind at this point.

It’s not that I’m so furiously interested in dating, but I admit I am somewhat dreading my future. As a (married) friend pointed out recently, despite all comfort in being independent and alone, it is still exhausting to be single.

The worst part is all the discussion and explanation. My arithmetic problem has become my standard answer to the dreaded, “So, why aren’t you seeing anyone? You’re a smart, attractive woman.” It’s a better answer than what I’d like to say: “Funny, I was just wondering how on earth you’re NOT single, but had the grace to keep it to myself.”

Frankly, the fact that I am smart and attractive essentially kills my odds anyway. If I’m not fending off jerks who consider catcalls and expletive-laced e-mails an appropriate form of courtship, then I’m wasting my breath trying to convince “geeks” that they aren’t as out of my league as they think.

Then, when I actually do plan an outing with a man who doesn’t offend my lofty sensibilities and who has a moderate grasp of Emily Post’s common courtesies, something invariably trips me up. Like the fact that his ambition (which initially seemed so attractive) rules his life and requires six-month advance planning for future outings. Or that he’s so wracked with issues from his divorce that he winds up fetal before the night is over.

It’s bad enough having to contend with these issues while on the date; having to relate them to well-intentioned questioning friends and family after the fact is even more painful. More often than not I tend to just not tell people when I go out anymore. Still, even I succumb to stupidity from time to time and recently let slip to my father that I had made plans with a guy one weekend.

“Well, that’s great news!” he said. “Let me get your mother on the phone.”

Since he ignored my shrill screams of, “Please god, nooooooo,” I was forced to hang up the phone before she could pick up and e-mail him later to say my phone had been disconnected, indefinitely. The last thing I needed was to spend five hours answering questions like, “What does he do?” and “Another musician? Why can’t you find a nice guy?”

It didn’t matter. I had said too much already, and my father spent the next week excitedly spreading the word to my entire family that I had “found a new man.” Predictably, the date was a bust and I then had to divert the swell of “whys” to my blog.

If this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life, there is a good chance I may fall victim to the crazy cat lady syndrome. When the only thing that seems to add up in my personal life is my misanthropy, is there really any other option?