My favorite quote of the day:
“I’m really just a Beverly Hills soccer mom who wants to be a real estate mogul and design clothes.”
– Courtney Love*
Ah, Courtney. I have seen the Beverly Hills soccer moms and you, sir, are no Beverly Hills soccer mom…
*How much did I love the album Live Through This, back in the day when I was stalking the snowbound streets of my college town, fighting off another panic attack about losing my scholarship? Somehow only Hole and Nine Inch Nails could give proper voice to the darkest depths of my undergraduate angst. Those were the days when losing that scholarship seemed like one of the worst things that could happen to me, which goes to show you just how stable and sheltered — if also lowkey and modest — my upbringing was. Because I needed a straight A average to maintain that goddamn thing over four years. I loved being at that university and I loved being an English major and although I wasn’t as English-majorly-brilliant as several of my friends — the same friends who scared me off grad school so I wouldn’t end up competing with such English-y brilliance — one such friend, whom I greatly enjoyed crushing on for many a month, now has tenure at my hometown university — I was a capable enough student and showed sparks of insight now and then.
But I also needed to go to movies obsessively and get my black belt in taekwondo and write fiction in cafes and drink vast amounts of coffee and inexpensive red wine — bless those tasty Australian shirazes, stay away from the cheap French stuff — and get deeply entangled in ill-advised romantic situations that would hopefully get melodramatic enough to entail the passionate writing of the kinds of letters that of course mortify me now, but I was young and working through this stage of wanting to be a character in Dangerous Liasons or something. (Note to self: watch that movie again. It’s been years.) I also had this chronic inability to get to certain classes on time. Or at all. Which meant that when exam time rolled round, I was, through complete fault of my own, a freaked-out mess annoying my housemates while hovering on the borderline of what honestly seemed to me a vast cold wasteland of humiliation and failure, wondering how I could possibly pull that A average out of my — out of one of the parts of my anatomy that often incited me to go to the gym. (When I should have been studying.) And so to deal, I played Hole’s album to death. And beyond. And I still love every doll part of those songs, even though that album dredges up such intense, rather embarrassing (if fondly so)associations that for some reason I’m blogging about here.
Enough. Off to get some more novel done before crashing.
(I suspect there are two kinds of soccer moms. The kind of mom who embraces it, the shiny SUV and the haircut and everything, and the kind of soccer mom who gets a tattoo to prove to herself that she’s still a bad-ass and not really a soccer mom. I suspect there is a tattoo in my future. I still have a few years to figure out the design and where to put it.)