welcome to munchkinland

i've already told several friends this one and, in the process, taken enough verbal abuse to stiffen the tin man for a year with all his tears. so i might as well stand up tall and come out, come out with it.

you see, a few months back i had a disturbing dream. only i didn't think it was disturbing until i woke up. all during my slumber i was quite surprised to learn just how much fun having sex with a midget could be. i mean, the way they're built, they're just so...accommodating. i could toss him, turn him and spin him any which way that took my fancy. and now my boyfriend (who used to think it was so cute that we are the exact same height) has developed an anti-napoleon complex. sometimes i catch him going barefoot while i'm still wearing shoes just so he can capitalize on the one to two inches he loses.

since then, i have had no less than FOUR midget sightings in the past few weeks. now i don't know about you, but before then i'd probably only seen one or two real-life little people in my nearly 29 years. am i now pyscho-kinetically connected to them? i'm not sure if it's all the beach sand in my brain or if it's god playing a little carnie prank on me.

to the best of my knowledge i don't think i have a midget fetish. but if i do, it's probably best left dealt with by my unconscious self. after all, this ain't no lollipop guild. but flying monkeys, now there's something interesting...

5 to 9

Tick-work, tick-work, tick-work. The time can seem to go by in billable minutes when you're not looking. We spend 60-70% of our lives working and it's always amazed me to realize how many people I know are unhappy in their jobs. I mean, it's your LIFE. In my opinion, it's absolutely critical to love what you do.

The past couple of weeks have been incredibly hectic for me. Late night business pitches, red-eye flights, between-meeting costume changes, brilliance on command....at times I feel like nothing more than a dancing monkey. But then, I'm a fantastic dancer and I've always loved monkeys.

I despise karaoke, but the one time a friend did manage to trick me onstage, I paid homage (not that I have the voice to back up that word choice) to Dolly Parton's "9 to 5". At the time I was busy working with a team of young advertising rockstars on an outside project competition. Needless to say, we won the competition and my celebratory spirit misguided me into thinking I could sing in front of an audience just as well as I could present a communications plan. Sure, I had the dancing and stage presence down, but I was horrified at the warbling voice that reverberated back at me through the speakers. Certainly it was a joke? My echoed bathroom and roaring road trip voices are much more representative of my singing ability.

But I was singing for the freedom of it. Because I had put in more work than necessary in order to win. My ambition, though flighty, has always surprised me.

I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit I recently read the guilty pleasure, The Devil Wears Prada. It's the story of a bright, but achingly dedicated girl completely and utterly dominated by a tyrannical bitch. The whole time I read it, I counted each blessed angel in my career. I've heard gruesome stories from friends, but I've always managed to have the most inspirational mentors. They taught me the worth and fun of a career. And I've realized how much this has affected me and what my future will be. No matter what happens, what path my career takes, I will never, ever settle for anything less than what makes me happy.

In the words of the indomitably inhuman Miranda Priestly: "That's all."

Smoke & Mirrors

I'm not sure when I officially became a smoker...when the addiction really took hold. I can recall a strong feeling of knowing that I could still quit - but I lost it somewhere along the way between being the person asking "hey, can I bum a smoke?" and the one irritably relenting, "sure, have one of mine." I made it to the point of lamenting an emptied box after an all-night outing, but not to the point of actually buying cartons (thank God).

I remember watching those first few episodes of "Sex and the City." Carrie made smoking look so fabulous. A long, lighted cigarette was the perfect accessory to any outfit, the final touch to each devastatingly poignant scene. I worshiped the ending to each show with her at her laptop, cigarette hanging out of the corner of her lips, concluding some wonderfully profound thought.

But it wasn't just the look of it. It's what it represented: smoking makes you cooler. You look like you've got something significant to do, completely indifferent to those around you because you're just too cool. But for me, it began to run deeper than that. Because I started to smoke in my Jeep when no one was around to even appreciate how damn cool I looked. "Sweet Home Alabama" or Lenny Kravitz's "Lady" would come on the radio and I would feel I had no choice but to immediately grab for the pack and struggle with the lighter in the wind for a few minutes before deeply inhaling and then shouting out the lyrics on the exhale. It was exhilarating. It was breaking the rules. It was James Dean and Colin Farrell and Thelma & Louise.

My grandmama smoked for years until an emphysema threat finally scared her off. My mom drew deeply on her Virginia Super Slims underneath a sun hat by the pool until her high blood pressure and incessant coughing stole the fun from it.


It's been almost three weeks since I've had a cigarette now. I took five minutes off my jogging time. I look in the mirror and see whiter teeth, healthier skin. I don't see Carrie the fabulous smoker anymore, but I do see Carrie the writer I so wanted to be. Because in the end I realized something: you can take the cigarette out of your hand and the smug look off your face...and the person looking back at you in the mirror will be cooler than ever.

Cowering Out Distastefully

I can't begin to express my disappointment in the finale of Willl & Grace. Here you have a show completely dedicated to the strength, beauty and irrepressible devotion between the kind of friendship that can only come from a gay man and a straight woman. And yet with one, swift sweep the last episode managed to dispel all of the hard work of the past eight years.

There is perhaps nothing more sacred, more innocently complex, than the relationship between a gay man and what would have been his wife. I didn't follow Will & Grace religiously. But I did manage to catch most of the episodes in reruns over the years. And the thought that crossed my mind more often than not was, "Wow. They nailed it." I'm a firm believer that what makes true comedy good is that it taps into a universal truth. Something that speaks to some part of us. Something that makes us go, "Oh my God, that's happened to me too!" There is nothing more fascinating than the sharing of human behaviors...especially when we are cowardly or clumsy. Which is what made "Will" & "Grace" work so well.

If you haven't already seen it, the final episode has Will and Grace in an unforgivable argument that results in the separation that was never supposed to happen. It's sacrilegious, really. A petty attempt is made to "hook up" their children in a flash-forward scene. At first, the effect is somewhat sweet. You're led to believe that their children are the perhaps more perfect versions of their selves - the more classic manifestation of true love. But in the end, you are cheated. Because you realize that the real couple, the Will that is so endearingly unsure of himself and the Grace that is so charmingly tactless, have failed you. They didn't make it. They spend the next 20 years apart from each other caught up in insignificant argument. Something that would never happen in real life.

So while I hold my champagne glass up high for an unforgettable series, I refuse to clink my glass in final salute. Instead, I flick my wrist and drink deeply to all the real Will & Grace couples out there who, day-by-day, prove their undying loyalty, and love, to each other. "Queers" to all you pickle biters!

Confessions of a Madonna Fan

My first album ever (on cassette, of course) was Madonna's Like a Prayer. I got that album and the Vanilla Ice one in my stocking for Christmas in 1989. I remember watching her videos on Mtv and being so dumbfounded after learning that the same woman who sang Express Yourself also sang Like a Prayer. Why, they didn't even look or sound like the same woman. It amazed me. To be that chameleonic. I've always loved the idea of switching into various roles depending on the mood and settting. I have specific outfits and personas for a salsa club vs. a country bar vs. a circuit party. In another life, I would have been a performer myself.

But my confession comes here and now: I was so fascinated with Madonna's Blond Ambition Tour that year (1990, I was 13) that I taped the live concert off of HBO, rewatched it religiously and ultimately knew the entire set, including the detailed choreography by heart. Since those days, I have let go of the stalker-style obsession...but I dance at the concerts with just as much fervor.

Last Wednesday, I went to her Confessions Tour. What shocked me most was how much "new" music she's made over the past ten years. It occured to me that, if you are a true Madonna fan, you don't really need to hear Like A Virgin yet again. Because when she sings Ray of Light or Music you realize that these songs are simply associated with newer times in your life and with newer memories made.

But one thing bugged me. In every concert she has ever played, she has always performed Holiday in the last set. I took it for granted as a given. But this time, to my horror, NO Holiday. I stood fuming in my seat, on the verge of utter disappointment, before finally letting my friend lead me out of the oblivion.

This woman has been such a staple in such a huge chunk of my life that nearly everything she has said or created or done has influenced my own life. So I suppose that while Holiday will always hold a special place in my heart, I'll let go and embrace what will likely be her new anthem, Music. After all, the message behind the music has remained the same: "...we've got to get together, take some time to celebrate...music makes the people come together..."

Mariachi Music to My Ears

I recently wrote this article for our company newsletter:

I’m already late on the way to my first Luis Miguel concert. In the Latino world, he’s bigger and more classic than Ricky Martin, believe it or not. As a non-Latino unfamiliar with his music, I’m not quite sure how I’ll react. Will I appreciate it at all?

I finally arrive and stop off at concessions to grab a beer, thinking I might need a slight buzz for this one. By the time I find my group, I see that I’ll have to sit at the end of the row…with the rest of the white people. I expect an ambush of cheesy Mariachi music or roses tossed in great red clouds. But instead, my ears are gently greeted with the sounds of jazzy, romantic strings and horns. I’m immediately enchanted and intrigued.

As I settle back into the seat, I check out the people around me. Here is a couple cuddling close as if they were in front of an evening fire. And over there is a raving group of Latinas, their hands grasping the air in total infatuation. Suddenly, Luis comes out from a costume change. Why this was no mere Mariachi singer. This was Frank Sinatra! He is an imposing figure for such a vast stage, at once raw and sophisticated. He stalks about like a lion, with such power and command. And with his arresting eyes and decisive movements he seems to be conducting the very crowd!

And then come the Mariachis. Only by this time I am overcome with emotion. I am lost to the music. I have surrendered. The rhythm no longer sounds cheesy to my ears. It is festive and infectious. But the lyrics are the real treasure: “Mexico!” resounding in every chorus. I try to recall any songs in modern music that give America such praise, and I come up empty-eared.

As the concert is nearing its end, the crowd cries out desperately, “Otra! Otra!” And all this white boy can think is, “Si! Más, más!”

Willius

I was in relationships for six years and single for three. I'm done. I'm ready. Where's my ring?

This is something my boyfriend and I joke about all the time. I'm always trying to sneak in comments about our future: when will I meet his parents, who's coming to the wedding, what should we name our third child...

On the way home from an art show last week, we passed by a bridal shop. He had the nerve to point out which dress he thought I'd like. You see, he thinks that if I ever do get proposed to and accept, I'll become an unbridled Bridezilla (sorry, couldn't resist that one), fussing over the smallest details and imperfections. I have no idea what he's talking about.

Bennifer. Brangelina. Tom-kat. Do I really want to become one of THOSE couples? You know, the ones who give up their own identity in favor of a blended, new & improved mutation. Darius and I would become morphed into "Willius" in all the tabloids and upper echelon circles in Los Angeles.

This weekend we're headed off to Sacramento for his friend's wedding. There's a bar-b-cue happening the previous night and guess whose name got added to the invite? *big, mischievous grin* He freaked out a bit when he first saw it, but I'll tell you a secret: I'm gonna catch that bouquet come hell or high water.