The last time I saw my dad was September 28th, 2011. No, he’s not dead. He lives in California; I live in DC. And during my last visit home, I was briefly convinced that I killed him.

With this photo and a tweet.

I’m not exactly sure WHAT I wrote. The tweet has since been deleted at the request of my poor mother. It was probably something snarky about this room, supposedly for guests, now filled with junk and more junk.

At this point, the specifics don’t really matter. What does, at least to me, is that when my dad saw this photo on the internet, he stormed downstairs as I sat on the couch watching TV. He proceeded to scream at me in a way that was frightening yet not unexpected. We circled the couch, him yelling, me yelling back. Holding back tears and failing.

He demanded I delete the tweet. I refused citing principle (yes, it’s true), while my mom pleaded with us both to calm down. Could I just delete the damn picture? Could I just make it go away? She was mad at me for causing this, too. As I write this now, the stupidity of this incident does not escape me. Yelling and screaming. OVER A TWEET.

Still, when I posted it in the first place, I had hoped it would have some effect — if not this exact one. I knew that this photo, as small as it was, would get to him because I would expose his room full of crap to the world at large, or at least my modest number of Twitter followers. It was a very ugly truth, I thought, and I knew he’d be embarrassed. Perhaps embarrassed enough to get a jump start on minimizing the junk, making a life a life change even? I know now that this was an ill-conceived strategy.

I’ve written before about my parents’ hulking California home. How it’s too big for them. How it’s a matter of years before it becomes some kind of version of Grey Gardens. My siblings and I have tried most everything besides buckets of cash to get them to leave. But the force of inertia is too great. 100 percent of their families live on the East coast. I live the “closest” at just under 3000 miles away. Yet, no movement whatsoever to downsize, to move toward the family who can take care of them as they age.

Now, back to how I almost killed my dad.

Following our argument (this is a more civil term for it than it deserves), I declared I’d never visit home again (I haven’t). I contemplated catching an earlier  flight back to DC, but decided it wasn’t worth a couple hundred dollars. I also thought about calling a high school friend and seeing if I could stay with her parents. That option, while attractive for its resolve, was too cruel to my mom, I thought. So, I stayed at home.

The next morning, my mom knocked on my bedroom door. “Jess, I need you to wake up.”

I get up.

“If EMTs come to the door, I need you to let them in.”

Umm. Ok. Adrenaline starts to kick in. I ask my mom what the fuck she’s talking about.

“Your father is having chest pains and can’t get up.”

It probably took seconds for the conclusions to start forming in my head. I made my dad angry. He is having a heart attack. He is having a heart attack because I made him angry.

As I wait for the ambulance to come, I peek into my parents room. I hear my dad groaning. I see his feet, but I don’t want to see more. I start trying to come to terms with the fact that, if he dies, I am the one who killed him.

The EMTs come. They put him in this tarp-like thing to carry him down the stairs. As they walk him down, I tell him I love him. He says nothing.

My mom rides to the hospital behind the ambulance. I am left alone at home to contemplate my thoughts as a now-murderer.

And several hours later, my mom and dad come home. No heart attack, she says. Maybe vertigo?

Jesus Christ.

Now that it’s 2 weeks old and its relevance all but gone, I thought I’d get into my much overdue thoughts on Jodie Foster’s speech at the Golden Globes. (Really, every time I tried to finish this post after work, drowsiness took over and I chose sleep over all else.) In case you missed it:

The reactions I heard to the speech were generally positive, but some found it “bizarre” and “confusing.” I get that. It sort of was. But my own reaction was decidedly: “AWESOME!”

No, I’m not a celebrity and my privacy isn’t something I have to guard, but I identify with Foster’s slow, selective approach to coming out. This particular quote rang especially true:

I already did my coming out about a thousand years ago, back in the Stone Age, in those very quaint days when a fragile young girl would open up to trusted friends and family, co-workers, and then gradually, proudly, to everyone who knew her, to everyone she actually met. But now, apparently, I’m told that every celebrity is expected to honor the details of their private life with a press conference, a fragrance, and a prime-time reality show.

Jodie Foster, you’re in my head.

By “coming out” publicly, she joins numerous a handful of famous high-profile lesbians. Ellen DeGeneres, Portia de Rossi, Jane Lynch, Rachel Maddow and… and… no. There are so few publicly visible lesbians compared to the number of publicly visible gay men. I thank her for officially joining that small but growing roster. But mostly, I thank her for coming out on her own terms.

My own coming out process over the years has been very Jodie Foster-esque. I’m not “loud and proud” in life, and I’m not “loud and proud” in coming out. Some friends and coworkers can attest to the fact that I waited MONTHS to mention I even had a girlfriend. They’d talk about what they did that weekend with their significant other – their husband, fiancé, boyfriend. I’d tell them about my weekend, excluding details of who I was spending it with. I probably waited over a year to tell the guy who cuts my hair, despite the fact that he works in a gay industry. I hate mentioning it to employers. And I don’t feel any obligation to tell the majority of my family members (I realize this may unique to the workings of my own family). Perhaps they’ll find out via wedding invitation or Christmas family photo.

It’s not that I’m scared of what people are going to say. It’s not that I assume they can’t already tell from the way I talk, act or dress (I have an affinity for pants and an aversion to skirts and dresses). It’s just not who I am. I’m not in the business of letting everyone know me intimately, and that’s what coming out is for me. I’m letting you in on my life, and you have to earn that.

That’s how I interpreted what Jodie Foster was saying. Yes, she had a partner of many years. She started a family with her, and she thanked her publicly in a speech years ago. But she was just living her life, and that is distinct and separate from coming out.

For years, Jodie Foster was criticized by the gay media for not coming out  – for living in a “glass closet.” (Let’s ignore the fact that she starred in and directed a movie called The Beaver.) On a much smaller scale, my experience has been similar. I’ve been called out by a gay acquaintance or two for not embracing “my community.”

Let’s put some facts on the table: I will never like rainbow flags and stickers. If you know me, this is the least surprising thing I’ve ever revealed. While studying abroad in London, I tried going to a lesbian strip club. I lasted one drink before asking my friends if we could please leave. I’ve gone to lesbian bars where I had an ok but not great time. I’m not a fan of marches or rallies, even if I believe in the cause. I cannot stand Ani DiFranco or slam poetry — a fact I once thought meant I was decidedly straight. And finally, I have very few gay friends. In college, this bothered me immensely and I tried to seek out more. But a few years later, I stopped seeking them actively. Gay friends are not a commodity to be sought, and being gay — by itself — is a weak foundation for friendship. I also realized I already had incredibly rewarding friendships with a number people who happened to be straight. Who could ask for more?

Perhaps this post has been as rambling as Jodie Foster’s Golden Globe speech, but my point is, “You do you” (also the slogan of Autostraddle.com). In a world where it has become expectation for LGBT people to be “loud and proud,” defy expectation. Just be yourself.

1. Your Sister’s Sister

Iris and Hannah are sisters. Iris, played by Emily Blunt, inexplicably has a British accent while her sister Hannah, played by Rosemarie DeWitt, does not. The filmmakers don’t bother to explain it away until well into the movie, and that’s part of why I loved Your Sister’s Sister. You believe these people are sisters by the way they’re talking to each other: in bed, at the breakfast table, in their pajamas. You believe Jack, played by Mark Duplass — who’s had an incredible year, by the way — is Iris’ best friend. This movie was a warm blanket. I loved the woodsy cabin setting, and the dialogue was perfection.

2. Friends With Kids

As a huge fan of Kissing Jessica Stein (also written, acted, and directed by Jennifer Westfeldt), I couldn’t wait for this movie. I loved it so much that I bought it for my sister, who has three kids. Laugh-out-loud dialogue, a all-star cast, and a killer last line.

3. The Sessions

Even the tiniest of moments shared between these two main characters brought me to tears. Helen Hunt is fabulous as Cheryl, the sex surrogate, though prepare yourself to forgive a botched Boston accent. John Hawkes gives a mightily physical performance, twisting his body and voice into that of Mark O’Brien, the love-seeking man paralyzed by polio. This movie wins my “Most Tears of 2012″ award.

4. Argo

How these events happened in real life, I still don’t know. But I was gnawing my hand off the whole time even though history told me how it ended.

5. Moonrise Kingdom

I tend to watch Wes Anderson films whether they’re good or bad, because at the end of the day — plot or no plot — they’re beautiful to watch. Moonrise Kingdom has the strongest plot I’ve seen in a Wes Anderson movie since The Royal Tenenbaums. I rooted for these two quirky children in love, and as always, I loved Anderson’s music choices.

EDIT (1/9/2012): I’ve seen Life of Pi and Rust and Bone since making this list. Life of Pi doesn’t make my favorite list, but Rust and Bone is a movie that still has me thinking about its characters. Loved it.

*Notable 2012 movies I saw but excluded: Lincoln, Batman: The Dark Knight Rises, Take This Waltz, The Master, Silver Linings Playbook, Bernie

*Notable 2012 movies I haven’t seen (and therefore weren’t considered): Life of Pi, Les Miserables, Zero Dark Thirty, Rust and Bone

I started making a list of favorite albums AND favorite songs of the year but, because there was so much overlap, I just decided to go with favorite songs. Some fun stats: I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing OR producing interviews with 6 of these 20 artists, and I’ve seen 10 of them perform live at one point or another — including Pink, who I saw play all the way back in 2000 during her R&B phase.

My honorary album of the year is Garbage’s self-titled debut, which I listened to for the first time this year and played on repeat for many months. Should I have been a teenager in 1995, Garbage would’ve been my favorite band. (Instead, it was Blink 182, for better or for worse.)

Now, on to my favorite songs in 2012, in no particular order…

1. Aimee Mann

“Labrador” from Charmer

2. Islands

“This Is Not A Song” from A Sleep and A Forgetting

3. Tanlines

“Brothers” from Mixed Emotions

4. Sharon Van Etten

“Serpents” from Tramp

5. Frank Ocean

“Pyramids” from Channel Orange

6. First Aid Kit

“Emmylou” from The Lion’s Roar

7. Perfume Genius

“Take Me Home” from Put Your Back N 2 It

8. Killer Mike

Untitled from R.A.P. Music

9. Exitmusic

“The Modern Age” from Exitmusic

10. Amanda Palmer

“The Killing Type” from Theatre is Evil

11. Benjamin Gibbbard

“Bigger Than Love” (ft. Aimee Mann) from Former Lives

12. Burial & Four Tet

“Nova”

13. Rihanna

“Diamonds” from Unapologetic

14. Pink

“Try” from Thanks For Sharing

15. Le1f

“Wut” from Dark York

16. Azealia Banks

“1991” from 1991

18. Jens Lekman

“An Argument with Myself” from An Argument with Myself EP

19. Fiona Apple

“Hot Knife” from The Idler Wheel…

20. Kendrick Lamar

“Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe” ft. Lady Gaga

On the night shift in particular, I’m prone to obsessing over songs and playing them over and over between listening to pieces for the show. Here are the earworms from this month, most of them old, but perhaps there’s a discovery for someone out there.

Lighting Dust – “Antonia Jane” (2009)

Jose Gonzalez – “Lovestains” (2003)

Kendrick Lamar ft. Lady Gaga – “Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe” (2012)

The National – “Mr. November” (2005)

Over the past 2 days, I’ve watched the Swedish film Kyss mig THREE TIMES. I’m on my fourth as I type this.  It came out last year, but I was a little slow to seek it out due to its very “meh” trailer. Well, the trailer lied, and I think it’s a fantastic and unprecedented film. So much so that Kyss mig is knocking Kissing Jessica Stein — yes, a movie barely considered gay for its ending — off its long-time perch as my favorite lesbian movie.

I can do no better than Wikipedia in writing a concise plot set-up, so here it is: “[Kyss mig] tells the story of Mia (left), an up-and-coming architect about to marry Tim, her business partner. At the engagement party for her also newly-engaged Father, Lasse, she meets Frida (right), daughter of Lasse’s fiancee. Mia and Frida exchange many glances, portending mutual attraction.” (emphasis added)

Oh, the exchange of glances! I swooned for every minute of this film. The subtle gestures exchanged between these two characters were incredibly acted. My stomach did flips when, while lighting Frida’s cigarette, Mia tucked a loose strand of  hair behind Frida’s ear. I thought I might die when Mia rested her head on Frida’s back while riding on the back of her bicycle. And I did a happy dance when Frida grabbed at the baggy sleeves of Mia’s adorable Scandinavian sweater. I could go on.

Then they kissed and my head exploded a little bit.

It’s hard to explain how it feels to see a same-sex kiss on-screen to straight people. Ugh, and when it’s done well! Men and women have been kissing on television and movie screens for a century, practically, whereas every same-sex kiss feels like a landmark — a bit heart-stopping. And these scenes were truly heart-stopping. The action doesn’t even stop there — These characters actually have sex! Not the fade to black kind. Sex that is rendered tastefully, dramatically, and romantically. It was apparently HIGHLY choreographed by the producers, but it’s not evident on the screen — another testament to the fantastic performances by these Swedish actresses (Ruth Vera Fernandez and Liv Mjones).

Beyond the kissing and sex, Kyss mig is foremost a love story. There are some elements of coming out, too. And I absolutely loved it, if you couldn’t tell already. In addition to painstakingly matching up subtitles to the video I downloaded, I ordered Kyss mig from Amazon immediately after watching it the first time, right before watching it a second time.

Some Perspective

By now, I’ve raved about this movie to several friends. But, I did so with some trepidation, as I don’t know the answer to this question: Can straight people see a gay film and react to it in the same way as a gay person? Certainly, I’ve been moved by many movie romances involving straight love (99.9% of all movies I’ve seen). But this shook my world, and I’m not totally confident it will do the same — at least with equal magnitude — for someone who’s not, in some way, seeing bits of their own experiences on the screen.

It wasn’t hard for me to empathize with either character, first as Mia, entertaining curiosity, then denying, anticipating and succumbing to her feelings. It’s a sequence of events that made me remember my first kiss with a girl during my freshman year of college. We were lying on my dorm room bed. I remember covering my face with my hands. Who knew you could want something so badly… to both happen and NOT happen all at once? I could also relate to Frida, exercising the patience to let Mia figure herself out. Being someone else’s first kiss.

The characters themselves were appealing, too. Adult women in their early 30s, who don’t necessarily “look” gay. Pretty middle of the road styling for both Mia and Frida —  think  J. Crew meets Eddie Bauer. Both incredibly beautiful actresses. And oh my god, the Coach Taylor-esque bags under Ruth Vera Fernandez’s eyes. (She plays Mia).

Thank you, Sweden, and thank you to the writers and producers for making this film. I truly loved it, enough so to break blog silence and my self-imposed gag order on gay. Go see Kyss mig (also titled Kiss Me and With Every Heartbeat in the U.S.).

 

Last weekend, I visited my grandparents and uncle in Yonkers, N.Y., and I brought some recording equipment with me. It’s a little morbid to interview the older family members in our lives, but I did and it was worth it.

This is just a taste of  how cute my Gong Gong is. He told a lot of great stories, including how he had a pet monkey for 6 months while serving in the 41st infantry in the Philippines. And, he detailed his unusual journey from China to the U.S. — through Canada to Ellis Island. (Most Chinese came through Angel Island.) The whole thing sent me down a rabbit hole. I’ve emailed historians and spent time looking for his records online. Here’s his enlistment record, which I found at the National Archives website.

The nativity field is a mystery. Why Arizona? Also, why the last name “Lee”? (That’s not my grandfather’s last name.)  My mom clarified the latter. Turns out, his last name — and my mom’s until she was a teenager — was Lee until they legally changed it. Perhaps an error on Ellis Island?

I’m not quite sure what I’ll do with the rest of the audio, but I may be due back to NYC for another interview soon. I’m fired up to find out more.

Aging takes many forms. In the past year, I’ve sprouted two gray hairs and felt dizzy on a swingset. I max out on two to three drinks. But my most dramatic symptom is my newfound addiction to HGTV. House Hunters, Property Virgins, Love It or List It, Property Brothers — just a few of my favorites. I’ve developed strong feelings surrounding “open concept layouts” and “updated kitchens,” and I routinely peek at real estate listings. I’ve become one of those annoying adults I’d roll my eyes at when I was a teenager. There are no granite countertops or hardwood floors in my near future. But, there’s always the dream.

Homeownership. It’s a precarious vessel for dreams. If you rent, there’s this sense that you haven’t quite made it. And if you own, congrats! You’re a financially stable adult. I’m not against these sentiments. But, what if you have to go “backwards,” from owning to renting? Or from owning a large home to a small one?

I have a distinct memory from childhood — maybe I was 12 or 13? Suze Orman was on TV in my parents’ bedroom. She said something like, “Don’t think of your home as your biggest investment. Your home is not an investment.” I knew that my parents — whom I applaud for their transparency with me in terms of their finances — disagreed with Suze’s statement. I’m sure my dad told me she was wrong. That for us modest people,  our home was in fact an investment.

More than a decade later, this conversation seems more relevant than ever. My parents live in that same house where I grew up. It’s now too big for them. It’s too expensive. The yard has become too much to handle. Yet, they won’t leave. How could they go from owning to renting? How could they downsize?  How could they sell a nest egg? How could they continue living 3000 miles away from the nearest family member who gives a shit?

I’ve tried reasoning. I’ve tried compassion. I’ve tried anger. None have worked.

Aging is realizing you can’t change the minds of other people.

Almost a year ago, I splurged on an entry-level Nikon DSLR. But I never learned how to use it — until this weekend.

Here’s my favorite picture from my 4-hour PhotoTourDC class on the National Mall: two kids taking pictures at the Lincoln Memorial.

Thanks to Lyn at PhotoTourDC — highly recommended.

When I’m sad, the feeling burrows deep into my body and wriggles around so it can’t be ignored. In the past week, I cried on a 3-mile bike ride (all uphill, I might add). I cried on the Metro. I cried while washing dishes. I cried while brushing my teeth. The list goes on.

But, life must go on, and I must purge myself of the sadness and the tears. Easier said than done, I know, but I can at least try. My personal strategy is to fight fire with fire. I reach for the saddest songs in my iTunes library — the ones chock full of regret, heartbreak, disappointment. Bring it on. They’re the only things that can quiet the fluttering anxiety and dislodge that lump of unrest that resides in my body, if only for their brief duration. Here they are, in no particular order, to share with you. Enjoy, or don’t enjoy — as the case may be.

1. Nico – These Days

These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten.
Please don’t confront me with my failures,
I had not forgotten them

2. The Magnetic Fields – All The Umbrellas In London

I drive around
I walk around in circles
‘Cause I’ve got no sense of direction
I guess I’ve got no sense at all

3. The Decemberists – The Engine Driver

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones

4. Neil Young – One of These Days

One of these days,
I’m gonna sit down
and write a long letter
To all the good friends I’ve known
And I’m gonna try
And thank them all
for the good times together.
Though so apart we’ve grown.

5. Lykke Li – Sadness is a Blessing (Gold Panda remix)

These scars of mine make wounded rhymes tonight
I dream of times when you were mine so I
Can keep it like a haunting
Heart beating close to mine