primal

I've been thinking lately about primal experiences; those moments when you don't think, you just act.

Yesterday morning, my mother and I were returning to my parents' house after a walk around a nearby creek when a huge brown dog came charging at us, barking and snarling. Without a sound, she gripped my right arm, flung me to her other side and dragged me across the street, covering me with her arms. Me, her nearly-twenty-eight-year-old adult daughter. With a look of fearless mama bear rage on her face, she instructed the dog to "GO!" It stared her down for a moment and then trotted away, but there was no doubt in my mind that, had the dog come any closer, my mother, usually an animal lover, would have beaten the crap out of it.

When I attempted to make light of our "near-attack" a few moments later, she simply looked at me, shook her head and said, "Just wait until you have children."

I think that times like this give us a glimpse of what we're made of--our essence. My mom, for example, is warm, kind, empathetic and loving. She is a brilliant psychologist who makes her living helping people.

And she will tear you apart if you try to hurt her baby.

hey baby

Since the beginning of my illustrious dating career, I've had an inexplicable aversion to being called "baby." I'm not sure exactly why, but it has always sounded contrived and cheap to me. Like, every man since the dawn of time has affectionately called his girlfriend "baby." Can't you be more original? I find the nickname so repugnant that I can literally feel my stomach turn when it's directed at me.

I have also, I must admit, harbored a secret belief that someday I will meet a man with whom the synchronicity will be so precise, and with whom I will fall so deeply in love, and with such immediacy, that if and when he calls me "baby," not only will I not mind, I'll like it. Other things, I've imagined, will align in this hypothetical perfect union. We'll love all the same music and books and have frequent, perfect sex. He'll alternately praise my cooking and volunteer to cook for me. We'll enter the Land of We and never look back.

Recently, I've let go of this fantasy, not because I've stopped believing in love (I don't think that could happen) and not because I no longer want a partner (I still do). I think that what I've realized is that I've spent nearly twenty-eight years becoming who I am now, and, while I'll continue to develop as a human being for the rest of my life, it seems likely that at least most of my traits will be maintained over time, as will the respective traits of my future partner. We'll be distinct individuals with both differing and similar interests and habits. We'll be individuals who love each other deeply but will, most likely, occasionally drive each other crazy. Moreover, we'll be individuals who get along really well, treat one another with respect, and never, ever call each other "baby."

the hand fruit

On Monday night I lay in bed, catching up with one of my best friends, Ryan, on the phone. He works in a very fancy restaurant in Boston and was sitting at the bar of the restaurant, after it had closed, sipping a vodka-soda, telling me about the enormous, several-thousand-dollar truffle in the restaurant's kitchen.

"You should totally eat it," I teased.

(Laughter) "Oh my God. Could you imagine if I just took a bite out of it like it was a fucking hand fruit?"

"What is a hand fruit?"

"You know, like a plum or an apple. Fruit you eat with your hands."

"I think you just made that up."

"No way. People have been saying that for years."

(I paused to do a quick Google-search)

"No, Ryan, according to Google, they have not."

(This, by the way, is all I could find on "hand fruit.")

"Dude, Gab, I totally just made up hand fruit."

(Pause.)

(Peals of hysterical laughter from both coasts.)

We laughed for at least five minutes straight. Tears streamed down my face and I clutched my stomach in the fullest whole-body laugh I've had in as long as I can remember. Eventually we had to hang up, but I fell asleep giggling.

The best thing about something so utterly hilarious that it inspires such an intense physical reaction is that it doesn't fade quickly. Since Monday night, as I've gone about my daily tasks--driving to work, paying my bills, cooking dinner, etc.--I've periodically remembered Ryan and the hand fruit, and laughed out loud. (Note: the man behind me at the bank today did NOT think it was cute.) It's made the past week great, if for no reason other than the stream of endorphins that are likely circulating my brain, due to the multiple belly laughs I'm having throughout the day.

Now, you may not think that the story of the hand fruit is all that funny, mostly because you are probably not best friends with both Ryan and me, (unless of course you are Emily Barratt, in which case you probably still don't think it's very funny). Having tried to retell the story of the hand fruit several times since its birth, I've learned that Ryan and I are probably the only ones who are amused by it. That said, I hope you have something in your life that makes you laugh out loud on a regular basis. It's truly a superior way to live.

(In the absence of your equivalent of a hand fruit, go here.)

video store

I had the best experience at Blockbuster last night.

I've had myself on a pretty regular schedule of watching movies and going to bed at 9 since I came down with a particularly obnoxious cold and, having run out of Netflix to watch I stopped by my neighborhood Blockbuster on the way home from work last night. I selected disc one of season two of The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, a sexy, hilarious Showtime show, and brought it up to the register, where I was greeted by a very tall, lanky boy, no older than seventeen, with a huge smile on his face.

"Hey, I'm Justin! Did you find everything OK?"

"I sure did--hack, hack--just this, thanks."

"Sure, do you have your Blockbuster card or your ID?"

"Here's my driver's license."

"OK, great!" (takes license and rings up video) "Oh my gosh, Gabrielle, this is SO exciting! Because of the Blockbuster Rewards program, you actually get a second disk for free! Want to go pick one out?

"Oh cool! Sure--hack--I'll be right back." (I grabbed the second disk of the same season).

"OK, great! Let me ring that up for you." (scans video, takes my cash, receipts start printing, including a few coupons) "Whoa! You get two coupons! One for a free rental this month and one for a free rental next month! This is so great! You are going to have so much fun watching free movies!"

"Oh great, thanks!" I could actually feel myself getting excited if, for no other reason than the fact that he seemed to be so excited about all my free movies.

"Here you go. These are due back by next Monday. Oh, and Gabrielle? You sound sick. I really hope you feel better. Eat some soup or something, OK?"

"Will do, Justin. Thanks again."

As I walked out to the parking lot and climbed into my car, I thought about what an uplifting experience being rung up by teenage Justin of the Church and Market Blockbuster was. His genuine glee about the transaction struck me as something we could all use a little bit more of. If he can conjure up such unbridled merriment about something as mundane as a video store transaction, the rest of us can surely bring a little more exuberance to our daily interactions. I'm a big believer that happiness is catching, and we could all use a little extra happiness these days.

motorboat

I feel like every time I write about my body the theme is acceptance of imperfection, or an apologetic declaration of fondness . But this particular post is different. This post is unapologetic...because the honest-to-God truth is that I have fantastic breasts.

(Dad, I am sorry if today is the day you decided to catch up on Out of the Pantry.)

But yeah, they're pretty amazing--and have been since I was about thirteen. And I'm not particularly shy about them. I never went through a phase of embarrassment, never tried to distract from them with baggy clothing or hunched shoulders. I don't put my cleavage on display 24-7, but when I do, I do it with pride.

The thing about having a prominent, noticeable feature is that strangers often have no problem verbalizing their appreciation. In truth, this doesn't really bother me. The sweet girl in the ladies room who tells me, "Wow, you have awesome cleavage!" or the guy at the bar who, after continuously glancing downward while talking to me flusters, "I'm sorry, I'm just really distracted by your, um, chest." I find it complementary and usually just smile and say "thanks!"

But every now and then, something happens that I'm just not quite sure how to handle. One such instance happened a few nights ago, on New Years Eve.

The plan was dinner at James and Michelle's apartment and then a party, the theme of which was Mad Men. I was definitely channeling Joan Holloway in a belted red dress with a predictably deeply-plunging neckline. When I arrived for dinner, James hugged me, looked down, and said, "Well well. It appears the twins are out to play tonight." I smiled and smacked him on the arm.

After cocktails, freshly-cracked crab, black-eyed peas, spring rolls and a truffle oil-balsamic-dressed salad, our group of 8 piled into taxis and headed to our friend Aaron's North Beach apartment for a roof-deck party, complete with a gorgeous view of the midnight fireworks display over the bay. Drinks were flowing, people were laughing, midnight came and went with the usual toasts, hugs and kisses. Then, around 1 AM, a friend whispered in my ear that a beautiful blond woman sitting on a chaise lounge was eyeing me. I glanced in her direction and saw that, not only was she looking right at me, she was grinning. Not knowing what else to do, I smiled back and waved. She beckoned me over with a curling finger and said, "You have amazing breasts."

"Thanks," I replied.

"Do you think there's any way I could motorboat them?"

(If you don't know what motorboating is, go here. Again, Dad, I'm sorry.)

I looked at her in disbelief. I looked back at my friends, all of whom were suddenly paying attention. My friend Steve said, incredulously, "Oh, my God, Gabi, why are you hesitating? Say yes! Come on!" I saw people reach for their cameras. I just stood there silently as my inner horrified feminist debated my inner thrilled exhibitionist.

"Well?" my blond admirer besought. "Can I do it?"

Honestly, my ultimate course of action is obsolete. Feel free to pretend that I did whatever it is you would hope for me (Dad and Steve probably have differing wishes here).

I'm still not quite sure what to make of the experience, other than that it made for a pretty grand entrance into the second decade of this century.

blemish

Two mornings ago, I woke up with a sharp pain on my right cheek. I put my hand to my face and felt the culprit: a huge zit forming about two inches below my eye. Before I even looked in the mirror I knew it was a doozy--deep, cystic and red. My first instinct was to pop it.

But then something stopped me.

I remembered that every time I pop a pimple it scabs over and takes twice as long to heal, and when it finally does, it sometimes leaves a little scar. Plus, it's painful and looks terrible, even under makeup. So I decided to try something else: leaving it alone. I washed my face, dotted it with acne medication and went on with my day. Now, two days later, my zit isn't gone but it is much smaller and less painful. I thought it was going to be hard to leave it alone but it really wasn't. And it got me thinking...maybe this is an applicable principle.

Because it isn't just my skin that I have a tendency to over-pick. I over-think interpersonal dilemmas. I over-process external conflicts. I over-garnish entrées. I over-accessorize outfits. If I really think about it, these are all just different manifestations of picking at my skin--doing too much when I should just leave things alone.

The tendency stems, I think, from an inherent belief that not only are things not good enough, but that they won't be OK if they are not fixed right now. That I need to pick, process, decorate, garnish--take more action to keep the paltry mess lurking just beneath the surface from being exposed.

But what I need to remember is that my skin is just fine. Zits are not a big deal--everyone gets them sometimes. You wash it, maybe you put on a little cover-up, and then you move on with your life. Not only does picking not help, but it makes it worse. Suddenly you have a problem where before you had only minor irritation.

So that's my New Years resolution this year: to sit on my hands, bite my tongue--do whatever it takes--to stop picking at the proverbial zit.

three

I found an old Polaroid that was taken at a baby shower given for my mother, just before she had my brother. She is sitting on a sofa, surrounded by smiling friends, opening a present. There is a half-eaten cake on the table, along with blue baby boy gifts and wrapping paper on the floor. And in the far right corner, 3-year-old Gabi in a little blue jumper hides behind a plant. And from the look on her face, she is pissed. Apparently, she knew what was coming.

Seriously. Three glorious years of being the adorable only child and then this little brat comes along, practically out of nowhere, and suddenly she is expected to share the spotlight, her toys and, most upsetting of all, her parents. Not to mention the fact that she was never consulted. I mean, nobody asked if she even wanted a little brother. A puppy would have been fine.

She felt replaced. Everyone wanted to hold the new baby, but Gabi was still little and still liked to be held. And the baby was noisy and annoying. And he made stupid gurgles or burped and everyone thought it was soooo wonderful. Gabi could do cartwheels! How come nobody cared about her cartwheels?

Of course, if you know me or at least follow my writing, you know that I eventually got over it. You know that I love my brother and would do anything for him. You know that my parents weren't actually trying to replace me and that they did, in fact, care very much about my cartwheels.

Something I'm learning right now is that to be truly happy, it's necessary to accept and love all your selves; your mostly well-adusted adult self, your angsty college self, your petulant adolescent self and, yes, your irrational three-year-old self. Because they're always there, always present. Things may be mostly governed by grown-up you, but every now and then, your younger selves show up and they want some answers.

You don't have answers. All you have is love, which is, as it turns out, what they really need anyway.