Fug

No, the title of this post should not be interpreted via the urban dictionary. I'm talking about fug as a noun, and one that I've noticed my favorite British authors using quite a bit. Why have I never seen this word in American literature? Am I blind, or is it just not a word we use here?

According to Merriam Webster, fug is the stuffy atmosphere of a poorly ventilated space; also : a stuffy or malodorous emanation. I've been thinking about this a lot lately because it's the only way to describe the state of my apartment.

It's been unusually hot and humid in the city the past few days, and it's caused me to actually have to turn on my A/C units before June. I got a cat in November, and she was rather scared when I fired them up. For energy saving reasons, I only either run the one in the kitchen or the one in the bedroom, depending on what area I am occupying at the time. So when I come out of my bedroom in the morning, I am greeting by a sticky, clingy rush of humid air that makes moving around fully clothed particularly tortuous. And things are starting to get malodorous.

I've also noticed that the fug is spreading to my brain. I can't seem to focus on anything, including writing a blog post. To combat this, I purchased something called Uncle Lee's Energy Booster Tea, which promises that its blend of tea and herbs "provides short term increase in alertness and stamina." For a few hours after imbibing, I felt rather perky. So the stamina part was true, but though I felt alert, the fug was still covering my brain. I was jumping from one task to another and forgetting what it was that I just did, all the while being distracted by horrible songs hijacking my brain, like Countess LuAnn de Lesseps' "Money Can't Buy You Class." Shudder.

I don't know if this is good for me. I thought I could trust a product from someone name Uncle Lee. He would be a kindly older gentleman who wore bow ties and wingtips and packaged my tea with a smile, blending herbs inside a piece of cheesecloth. He would make the tea especially to address the fug, and the fug would be frightened away by Traditional Chinese Medicine. But again, my imagination and reality are at odds. Uncle Lee is probably about as real as the Natty Boh man, and his tea company is probably owned by Coca-Cola. But still, I wanted to believe that there was somebody out there to dispel this. Maybe I should ask some British authors. JK Rowling or Zadie Smith would surely know all about clearing mental fug. Maybe a cup of plain old PG Tips would do the trick.

On Being Female

I've been thinking about my body a lot lately. It's not that I want to, it's that my body keeps reminding me of itself. When I was twelve, my cousin, who is a pediatrician, gave me a book entitled What's Happening to My Body. It told me everything I needed to know about puberty, except for the fact that teenage boys are also insecure about their bodies, though they are a lot better at covering it up. That guy with the big ego I was ready to die for? Totally compensating. Anyway, I wish that the authors of this book would have written a book for women in their twenties, because the slowing down of one's metabolism definitely alters the shape of one's... shape. Only I had no clue that all of one's fat could be stored in one's rear. I still look like an adolescent boy, but one with twin watermelons affixed to his hind end.

You know how when a skinny woman is pregnant, they say that she looks like a toothpick with an olive on it? Well, that's kind of how I look now. Except that the olive is reversed and a little lower, and I've got two of them.

I don't mind it especially, but it came up recently because I am practicing a lot with an all-female group of dancers for a performance next Sunday. Now let me explain about my being a dancer: I am not in any way a trained dancer. I took obligatory dance classes as a child, but in my teenage years, the only art of dance I perfected was in the mosh pit. (I found release for my pent-up hormonal rage there, until one day the sword medallion hanging from my dog collar hit me in the trachea and it dawned on me that while smashing into other people, I might actually get hurt.) My general idea of dancing is waggling my hips around and maybe adding some arm action if I'm feeling lively. I enjoy it, but mostly because I am so bad at it. So this past fall, I joined the dance ministry at my church. Maybe I thought I deserved the humiliation. As I have blogged before, I am a glutton for punishment.

This is how it came to pass that I was sitting around with a group of all-female dancers yesterday. For some reason, our rehearsals often end in a rap session about the fight against body hair and cellulite. One of my dancer friends, who is very beautiful and intelligent, revealed her deep longing for skinnier ankles, pressing on either side of her calves to indicate the look she wished to achieve. I love to complain about my body parts, too, mostly because of my love for the plaintive voice. So we had a good time talking about feet and eyebrows and double-jointed elbows, and of course my infamous "bubble butt," as my friend so delicately put it (but she swears it looks good on me). Then I wondered why we were wasting our valuable rehearsal time on such nonsense.

What conclusions did I draw from the experience? Women don't just complain about their bodies because of their low self-esteem. Many of us enjoy maligning the body parts we love best, or ones we simply love to hate. I think the fairer sex is definitely endowed with more of a critical eye, and when we're bored, we turn it on ourselves. Identify ten things that are wrong with this picture. Aha! I found thirty-two! It's a point of pride that we can recognize our slight flaws, such as one ear that is three millimeters lower than the other. And we can then tell all our friends, who will be annoyed with us because they can find even more things wrong with themselves. Unlike men, we compare our flaws to prove how perceptive we are. It's a much more intellectual breed of vanity than most people would assume. Some women don't enjoy turning the critical eye on themselves as much as others, while some are just too busy using it on their significant others, but we all have a natural aptitude for it. That is the real reason why women buy Cosmo. Personally I don't need any help sharpening my critical eye. It's like a laser-guided missile, or perhaps a boomerang.

I apologize for discussing my rear end so much in this post. It's simply for the purpose of illustration. Also, it's just that big.

B.S.

In which I shop at Urban Outfitters, drown in layers of irony, and hate myself.

What is it about shopping at Urban Outfitters that annoys me so much? I walk in, and am quickly drawn in by all the clothes and accessories that seem perfectly suited to my tastes. But then I look at other people around me to whom the clothing is also perfectly suited and I realize what a ridiculous hipster I am.
I have generally come to accept that I have morphed into a hipster since my move across the river. Somehow, despite my former disdain for leggings and the unflattering things they do for women with big butts, I now own 15 pairs of them. I go to Williamsburg to get my hair cut. When I go to said hipster salon, I show the stylist a picture of Zooey Deschanel. It's pretty much a done deal.

Yet when I enter an Urban Outfitters store, I see my sensibilities mirrored in ludicrous-looking people, and I am annoyed with myself. Why do I follow these ridiculous trends? Why am I seriously considering purchasing a straw top hat that in only a few months I will be filing under the "what was I thinking?" section of my wardrobe? Am I an individual who sets her own style, or just a poseur?

I take off the stupid straw hat and my eye is drawn to some beige canvas oxford-style shoes. A lanky young man in a purple cardigan is checking out the same shoes. I wonder if I am the bigger hipster for going for menswear-inspired shoes, despite the fact that he is the one contemplating ladies footwear.

Upstairs, I check out the assorted ironic knick-knacks. There is a miniature "deconstructed cuckoo clock" for sale, which is all white and has no cuckoo bird and does not in fact cuckoo.

My grandparents used to have a cuckoo clock in the upstairs hallway of their house. It was fun to play with but also right by a door that led to the attic, and I was terrified of what I imagined might be up there. So I associate cuckoo clocks with a creepy feeling. But now I feel that there is too much irony in a non-cuckoo cuckoo clock for my own good, so I move on.

Past the turntables, I catch a glimpse of a few boxes shoved into the sale section that promise to contain small black and white TVs. I honestly haven't seen one since my parents finally chucked theirs in 1992. The irony of selling one of these for $49.99 when eighteen years ago, you couldn't even give one away, is too much, even for me. I see why they are languishing in the sale section.

A vintage-looking bicycle catches my eye. It has a small basket attached to the front, and is painted green. It has a Parisian beauty to it, and I get closer to check it out, imagining my scarf blowing in the wind as I ride to the greenmarket. When I approach it, I see that a girl in a nautical striped dress and a blue straw boater hat is seriously pondering the bicycle, and I am instantly disgusted with myself for having fantasized about it. Girls who wear straw boaters pay $300 for a vintage-looking non-vintage bike. I am an artist, therefore I am above such impulses.

Except that I still think I would look really cool on that bike. Wearing that intensely stupid straw hat with a new pair of oxfords and a forties-inspired dress. I am attracted to clothing that will take me to other times and places, transforming me into something that I'm not, but at the same time I loathe my own predilection for weeds that will be languishing in Goodwill in a couple of years, until a few seasons later, when someone decides they are in style again. I wonder at my own unconscious willingness to conform. I have become what I am through osmosis. Am I really devoid of individuality?

As I stand at the cash register, I notice that they are selling Polaroid film, because of course it would be ironic to sell Polaroid cameras. The Polaroid film reassures me. It is something I would never buy, which I take as proof that at least I am not that much of a ridiculous hipster.

Why I Should't Write A Blog

I know what you're thinking. That I am another unpublished writer looking for an audience and self-affirmation. Well, it's not like that. For one, I am a (self) published (co-) author. http://www.wingsofglorybook.com/ A children's book is a small achievement, but nonetheless, some people have actually purchased a book containing something I wrote. The point is, I don't need an audience. I already have a captive audience- of children. Wait, that makes me sound like a kidnapper.

Okay, maybe this isn't going so well. I sound rather cocksure, don't I? I do need your attention, and I probably will use this as a test field for the novels I am writing. I just wanted to explain that my motives are somewhat different for blogging. Most people blog for enjoyment, but this is going to be punishing for me. A punishment I will enjoy complaining about.

That's the kind of person I am. I don't know how I would ever survive if I were wealthy and had nothing to complain about. I would probably still take the subway just to give myself a reason to live.
I have tried to keep blogs before, but I couldn't follow through with it. The confessional aspect of a blog just isn't my cup of tea. I don't like to reveal much about myself, or indeed acknowledge the existence of my blog. My last blog was mainly dedicated to reviewing Broadway shows while in previews, but I didn't have the connections or the money to continue it. So I tried harping on pop culture, but there are already too many people that do it far better than I do. What do I really have to offer as a blogger? I don't even like the word "blog." I find it annoying and unimaginative. There are so many options for expressing oneself. You can tweet, yelp, or buzz about something, but to blog sounds awfully dreary, as if you are going to drag your words across three thousand miles of frozen internet tundra.

But everyone has a blog. It's the cornerstone of one's personal brand. Ironically, where once a blog was considered the domain of lazy writers with no audience and not enough real work to occupy themselves, today, a writer must have a blog to be taken seriously. So I'm making an attempt to be serious. It's not going to be easy or fun, but I'm going to write these things and you're going to read them, and we'll both complain about it.

Here's to our budding relationship.

Signing off,

Brooklyn Sourpuss