Making Contact

Voting results from last post: Talk to Brian (14) Don't Do It! (1)

Well, first of all, thanks for nothing to all of you who voted that I should talk to Brian. And for that one sane soul who instinctively knew what a horrible idea it was and voted no—I salute you.

You know, in theory, it’s a brilliant idea to let others make your decisions for you. It takes away the 24-hours-a-day obsessing over pros and cons. Rather, once a decision has been made for you, you find yourself filled with a very straight-forward dread that defies proper explanation: something beyond seasick, but not quite labor pains is my rough estimation. So, once I was committed to talk to Brian, every second that passed thereafter was consumed with nothing else but—oh my God, how am I going to do this?

I called Chlo after the last vote came in to give her the God-awful news to which she unsympathetically responded, “Well, obviously. What did you think they would vote for?” We agreed to head to the diner the next day for our usual Saturday brunch, to let my mortal embarrassment thrive.

We got there at 10, two hours after the place had opened, and two hours before the place would become crowded. Brian usually worked the back room, so we headed back there to a wooden window seat covered in vintage pillows where Chlo and I could sit side-by-side, able to survey the room without looking suspicious. I had not yet figured out what I was going to say to Brian when I saw him. I imagined him coming over to take our order, doing his signature move of sitting down at the table, like a friend, while writing down our orders, and me spastically yelling, “Parklife!” out of erratic terror. This was playing through my head when someone walked around the corner, and I literally jumped in my seat. “Cece, you’ve got to relax. You’re acting like a complete psycho,” Chlo said. “I mean, what’s the big deal? So he was friends with your goofy brother…who cares. He’s just a guy.” And she was right, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about Brian that made me turn into such a completely panicked fool. Let’s just say it was obsession at first sight. I decided when he finally came over I would simply say, “Brian? Is that you? It’s Cece…Mark’s sister?” I was hoping it would sound completely innocent, harmless, and unrehearsed, as I rehearsed it over and over while griping the menu. But I didn’t get that chance. Strangely, unlike every other Saturday for the past few weeks, Brian never came to our table. Some willowy creature too sweet to hate took our order, and refilled our coffees before I couldn’t even wish for a refill. I was full, jittery, and totally relieved by the end of it. We paid our bill and headed outside to the car, the sun just barely breaking through and starting to thaw the morning. I was fumbling in my purse for my keys when I saw Brian walking straight toward us. I couldn’t think what to say, how to act, what to… “Brian!” I shouted, not understanding why that had come out at such an uncontrolled volume. He stopped, his face unreadable, unemotional, not even inquisitive. “I mean, Brian?” I said, trying to recover. “Brian from Mark? I mean, friends with Mark?” God, I was dying here. Where was Chlo? I couldn’t see. The fear had pushed too much blood to my brain and I was blacking out. “Um, I mean, Mark is my brother…did we go to high school together?” I hated myself.

“Cece?” he asked, “Mark’s little sister?”

I laughed by way of saying—Yes, I am Cece. I’m a little odd sometimes. Do you find it quirky and attractive? Then, Chlo was miraculously back at my side.

“Oh my God, it’s Chlo,” Brian gushed. “Look at you; you’re gorgeous.”

Chlo giggled and playfully pushed Brian on the chest, causing him to teasingly grasp her wrists and pull her in for a hug. This was a skill I decidedly lacked. Of course, guys did not go around calling me gorgeous on your average Saturday morning. But Chlo managed to be locked in an embrace with a guy she hadn’t seen in nine years, and possibly had never talked to even back then. Chlo caught my glare and pushed Brian away.

“So, Cece, what’s Mark up to these days?” Brian asked.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “He’s doing that one-man show, A Marked Man, at the Trapdoor Theater.” My brother had become something of a “thing” around town, for his comedy show about growing up a theater geek. Again, somehow he had turned the dorkiest thing possible into pure popularity. He had just received a call last week from NBC wanting to talk to him about a pilot. A pilot! My brother who hadn’t made it past his freshman year of college was in talks to star in a TV show while I was rotting away editing text books after having studied comparative literature for four years. Comparative literature—what was I thinking?

“Oh my God, we should go see him,” Brian said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “I would love to catch up with him.”

“You and every other wannabe actor in this town,” I said without thinking (obviously). “Hey Brian, great to see you, but we’ve got to get going,” I said, grabbing Chlo by the hand and loudly slapping our flip-flopped feet toward the car.

“Ass,” I said, pulling the car door shut, “him, not you. Well, you a little bit.”

What had gotten into me? I’m still not sure, but it was some combination of my lifelong crush adoringly hugging my best friend, coupled with only the slightest acknowledgement of my existence thanks to my superstar brother. I spent the rest of the afternoon alone trying to figure this out. Was I really this big of a loser? No wait, don’t vote on that. In fact, I’d like to put this first failed attempt behind me. Maybe this was the wrong thing to focus on, and I unwittingly enlisted the help of strangers to conquer the wrong dilemma.

How about let’s try something potentially equally humiliating, but not quite as damaging to the ego. So, I mentioned Mark had received this call from NBC last week, encouraging him to put together a pilot, based on his one-man show. Of course, they have their own team of people they want to use to craft the story, create the story “arch”, meaning they wanted to insert characters like the hot next-door neighbor, the goofy friend, etc. But Mark told them he wants to take a shot at writing his own script first, and the studio has given him a month to try. I’m not sure why Mark felt so strongly about this because it’s not really his forte, but he wants to go for it, and he wants me to help. This is not my expertise either. Can I write a 50,000 word essay comparing Virginia Woolf’s water symbolism to Jane Austen’s mentions of dessert? Yes! Can I be clever, funny, and captivating—almost never on purpose.

Okay, even I see this as a promising—however terrifying—opportunity that has more upside than down. However, Mark has made a mortifying contingency to this offer—I would be required to appear on stage with him in his next performance because he has altered his show to include this new adventure in theater geekdom. I would play “the studious sister,” part-time writer, full-time fall guy.

Please help me out; vote on the upper right of the blog.

A New Way of Doing Things

Do you ever think about how every decision you make impacts your life and where you are now? It's like that movie Sliding Doors with Gwyneth Paltrow, back when she was the long-haired temptress on Brad Pitt's arm, where she played two versions of herself--two versions who made a different set of choices.

What if my life adds up to a series of the wrong choices, and there was a better path that would have filled me with a sense of purpose and clarity. What if I hadn't become a Vegetarian. What if I'd stuck with playing the piano. What if I talked to Brian, the guy at the coffee shop who I can't stop thinking about, but who I swear to God would make me choke on tongue if I ever tried.

Okay, but those aren't even really choices; they are things I never really thought about. These things weren't so much conscious optionalities as much as following what felt right in the moment. But what about the choices I could have made differently? What if those are the choices that have been my undoing.

So, okay, take for example my best friend, Chlo. That's not a spelling error on my part, nor is Chlo short for Chloe. Chlo and her parents moved here from Taiwan when she was three. As soon as Chlo's Mom got pregnant, her parents decided it was time to follow Chlo's uncle to the US so Chlo could "have it easy in the 'Spoiled Land'." Chlo's mom worked in a factory that made knockoffs: purses, T-shirts, key chains, tracksuits, any old crap with names like Guci, Fende, D+G, and, yeah, Chlo. Her parents thought it was a beautiful American name that would allow her to fit in with all the rich, spoiled kids here. Well, of course, it didn't allow her to blend in at all; she stuck out from the minute she started school, with me, in first grade. All the girls had bowl cuts and bobs, straight bangs and braids--anything that made it easy to get them up, out of the house, and out of their parents' way for a few hours a day. But Chlo always had an elaborate "'do." Her mom would spend an hour doing twists, inserting ribbons, curling, and turning Chlo's waist-length hair into a sculptural masterpiece. And that was just first grade... Chlo was the most beautiful, most popular, most academic girl in school, and she was my best friend. What if I hadn't picked her to be my best friend? Maybe I wouldn't have felt like second best my entire life if I'd picked someone just a tad more average?

If you're thinking, "you can't choose who is or isn't your best friend," you're wrong. I picked her as if pointing to a model in a magazine. "I want to be like her," I remember thinking, "Being friends with her is as close as I can get." Speaking of models, did I mention Chlo is one? Let's just say, she's no Irina or Kate, but she's certainly no CW11 reality victim.

But anyway, let's say I'd made the best friend decision differently; that would have changed a lot. It's too late for a re-do, but not too late going forward. And this is where you come in. I'm not sure I trust my gut when it comes to these things, so I've decided to leave these everyday life decisions up to someone else: you.

Here's how it works. I tell you what's going on in my life, and when something needs to be decided, I'll explain two options. The option with the most support is the direction I will go--no do-overs, no take-backs. Then, I'll fill you in on how it works out. Pretty soon, my sliding door will transform me into Gwyneth Paltrow (this time the new, hotter, hanging out in Spain with Mario Battali, married to Chris Martin one), right? Hey, it couldn't get any worse.

Okay, so, here goes. I actually do have a decision I could use some help making. So, remember I told you about that guy at the coffee shop, Brian? The one who turns my world upside down every time I look at him--the one I could never dream of talking to? Well, it turns out I have talked to him, he just doesn't remember it.

Brian went to high school with my older brother, Mark. In high school Mark was a serious Drama Geek. He only hung out with other kids from the drama department, who would all sit on the steps outside the annex building in their black drapey clothing with their dyed and/or shaved hair. Mark was one of the Drama Geek Kings--how and why, I have no idea. Nobody in my family, including Mark, could sing or dance. But somehow, with his lack of pitch and strange post-puberty gangliness, Mark would secure every lead in every show. It was my brother proudly carrying around his prop sword to each class or wearing full theatrical makeup to math class to "get into character." And if you're starting to think Mark was pulling a lot of male attention; you've got it backwards. My brother was, and is, a total girl magnet. Now enter Brian. Brian, a Varsity football player of all things, had a serious thing for one of Mark's best Drama Geek friends, Meg. Long story short, they doubled to prom, after-partied at my parent's house, and never had much occasion to talk again.

It was at this post-Prom gathering that I met and talked to Brian for the one and only time. I was 14 and hopelessly devoted to the band Blur, which I played non-stop for at least two years. I was listening to the song, "Parklife," miming every word of Damon Albarn's cuttie-pie Essex accent when out of nowhere Brian poked his head into my bedroom and shouted "Parklife!" along with Phil Daniles interlude. I screamed. He laughed. And that was it. Pathetic, I know.

Brian just started working as a waiter at my local coffee shop. I've seen him probably five times now. Of course, he's not a Varsity jock now; he's in a band, and he's beautiful. Each time I see him, I think, "You should just say something...anything!" But I feel like, I can't, so I haven't. But now, maybe this is my chance to go against my instinct. So if you tell me to talk to him, I will. (God, I think I'm going to throw up just thinking that I might have to go through with this!)