Pardon My French

Big news, all: I found my wedding dress!

My mom came into town for a week, we made a bunch of appointments, tried on a lot of duds and we eventually FOUND it. Bonus: we put a deposit down so it’s partially paid for. Now that that’s done, I get to try and get a little more trim before I’m scheduled for a fitting in June.

If there’s one thing I’ve never felt in my life, it’s fat. But, whoo-ee, shopping for my wedding dress made me feel like a big ol’ whale. Anyone else find that to be a bit ironic?

Over the course of two days, mom, a few friends and I went to five different bridal salons where I tried on somewhere between 30 and 40 dresses. I was surprised, though, that some of these salons didn’t have sizes that fit me, a size 8, or a size 10 in wedding dresses. There were lots of shops where I couldn’t find dresses larger than a size 4.

I had thought that the dresses these salons kept on hand were supposed to run larger and then I would be “clipped” into the dress (have excess material pulled back) so that I could see how it actually looked fitted to my body. At least, this is how it works in movies and in the one episode I’ve seen of “Say Yes To The Dress.” (It must be true then, right?)

At one salon, a vain effort to yank the thing over my head was followed up with the instruction to “hold the dress up to my body to get the idea.” It was clear that these people expected me to make a decision using my best judgement and high hopes and then arrange for the salon to custom make me a gown from scratch. This would obviously cost me and make the salon a lot of cash so as a result I couldn’t help but feel that I was the target of a big scam. Sadly, this sales pitch was delivered to me at multiple bridal salons.

Side NOTE: My self-esteem was really put to the test when my mother said I looked “awful” and called the dress I was wearing “horrible” when I expressed some emotion towards it. Mumma Sue obviously didn’t care for that one…. You can file this incident under “one of the most traumatic moments of my life.”

I kept running into another issue: These same two dress shops seemed to ignore my notes on what I considered to be my ideal dress. I wanted a vintage-inspired dress, lace, A-line fitted, with small cap sleeves. Of course, I didn’t at first know these magic words, but I felt I did a decent job articulating what I was looking for.

For some mysterious reason, sales associates kept pulling these strapless, poofy ball gowns off of nearby racks. Initially I felt that I should be polite and respect the expertise of the stylist–But it became clear that my interests weren’t being put to heart. That quickly got old. I didn’t want to look like a Disney princess. I wanted to look like ME.

At one shop I politely expressed that these kinds of dresses weren’t QUITE what I was asking for. Her reply? “Honey, you don’t know what you want.” OH REALLY!? I almost wish I would have been a bit meaner after that. Instead I was sweet, thanked them for their time and left.

I’m happy that I didn’t lose myself to frustration or burst into tears. I kept my chin up and later that same day, I fell in love with the dress that I will be wearing on my wedding day. I can’t really reveal any details about it– you’ll all just have to wait until September to see it.

I’m overjoyed that I found the perfect dress, that makes me feel like a goddess, but I’m also VERY happy the search over. I never would have gotten through this without the support of my friends.

I’ve always loved to write—there’s a box filled with notebooks somewhere in my parents house. Each contains the near illegible scribbling’s of one sheltered 8-12 year old girl. I called them notebooks, journals, diaries and a violet colored one in particular, “kitty.”

In the following 10 years, the time after I felt physical paper and pen went obsolete (?); I maintained various personal blogs on various blogging networks (Deadjournal/Livejournal/Blogger/WordPress) and updated them on a near daily basis. Because these posts mostly detailed the itinerary of my day and my feelings on the people and happenings within my immediate environment, they were essentially valuable to me and only me.

I know now that these blogs were actually kind of important. These are documents that few people in this world have: a detailed, albeit unfocused (and kind of angsty) story of what it means to grow up.

More relevant, I think, these narratives helped me to find and define my own voice and become more skilled at articulating myself.

Flash forward a few years to my 20s, the time of a forthright public domain matching my birth certificate, though, and you’ll notice that there’s a few years in there that the once regular blog posts slowed to a near standstill. Some have wondered aloud what the deal was with that. “Why’d you stop writing?” “When are you going to update your blog again?”

Concerned more with the way others perceived what I was writing about, I became much more focused on creating content that typical, everyday people might value. I told myself that I needed to be colorful and worldly, well-read and knowledgeable (like some of the most well-read bloggers—I would need to be an “expert” on a specific topic.) I would need to produce material that was at least 10 times better than what I was already working on.

Not so shocking, I lost my way and psyched myself out. With so many talented and well-respected journalists, authors, novelists, researchers, bloggers, or what have you, already out there, how was there even any place for me?: Why is my perspective unique, anyway? And what can I possibly say that hasn’t already been said before?

All writing outside of my work came to a complete standstill—creative writing, blogging, my own personal journalistic projects, everything. And you know what? I was pretty miserable without it all.

It’s taken a long while to get myself together and rediscover the uniqueness that is who I am. Due to a recent epiphany (an important moment for me that essentially boils down to being a big, boring cliché) I’ve decided that I don’t need to write for others. I just need to write for me.

I’ve got too many crazy thoughts and ideas to be concerned about whether or not I’m “good enough” or interesting enough to create something from them. At the end of the day, whether or not people read my stuff is their call and what they think of me isn’t really any of my business.

In conclusion, I need to be focused on staying true to my unique self, I need to stay confident and I need to just have fun—That’s when all the good stuff (what I’m most proud of) comes out, anyway.

I saw them as ordinary words. The kind that didn’t belong to anyone in particular, used by everyone, every single day in all languages across the globe.

The words “Beautiful Stranger” were unwanted stand-bys, too cliche’ and tired to hold any kind of deep meaning. And yet, somehow, when paired with my work they took on an entirely different meaning, perfectly conveying the tone of what my journalism project is all about–a passionate person’s inside look at the real people wandering the streets of Los Angeles. That’s why I decided to adopt them as my own.

My sources expressed a fondness for the title and I grew even more attached.

That’s why I was so frustrated and disappointed when I recently had to change it.

I received an email earlier this week from a woman named Abby Wallach, the owner and founder of a website called BeautifulStranger.TV, in which she respectfully requested that I change the name of my blog and URL address.

Apparently, she owns the legal right and trademark to the full name and all variations of “Beautiful Stranger” worldwide.

I consulted with Media Law Professor in the Journalism Department at CMU, Timothy Boudreau, who told me that Wallach does have me–on a technicality. The terms of the trademark revolve around commerce–and while I am not selling anything–my website ends in dotcom. These days, anyone can have a dotcom site, whether they are a business or not, but the written rules aren’t quite caught up, yet.

I did some research and learned that the grounds for a trademark lawsuit are based on the fear of an ordinary person confusing the two websites or thinking that one is associated with the other.

Because our websites are so different (hers is a video fashion site that pushes the sales of the clothing, accessories and beauty products) and because an ordinary person would never just stumble upon my website if they didn’t already know where to look, I know there’s no way anyone could ever confuse the two.

My project is based on my passion for journalism writing and story telling. I don’t get paid in any way and I’m not attempting to sell anything.

I couldn’t help but feel that her ordering a name change was unjust and it was a bit cruel of her to single out the little guy who clearly is not in direct competition with her in any way.

I have a Google alert on the words “Beautiful Stranger”, which means that every time someone out in the blogosphere used those words, I received an email notification of the occurrence. This means tons of links were brought to my attention every single day.

This trademark happens to be the name of a popular pop song (by Madonna), is used every other day in the headlines of web news articles and is in the URL of probably 15 percent of the iGeneration’s old Myspace accounts.

The example I used with friends and family to express my frustration and confusion was that I felt that this incident is like someone naming their newborn baby daughter Tiffany and then stating that no one else on Earth can call their child by the same name.

It’s been a very challenging week for my nerves.

I’ve had to change my domain and remodify my page, changes that took weeks to get exactly how I wanted them. I again had to call on my friend, web designer Erol Ahmed to help me get everything straightened out.

Phil installed a redirect on my site so that anyone who tries to visit BeautifulStrangerLA.com will be rerouted to http://PerfectStrangerLA.com. I’ve ordered new business cards and changed my Twitter account–neither of which was a challenge. But my Facebook Fan Page was definitely a test from God.

It turns out that the Facebook Page technology isn’t advanced enough to make simple edits to the name of the page or to change the category that it falls into.

I had to remake the entire page and start my fan following over from scratch just because I needed to rename it.

After I remade it the first time, including all of the data about my project, I realized that the category the page was filed under was not correct and I had to scrap it and begin again.

When I wanted to message all friends of the “Beautiful Stranger” page, I couldn’t find the option to message all followers and so I contacted all 133 people individually. Later, when I discovered that there was such an option, my head nearly exploded.

The more I think about it, the more I feel that the name change to “Perfect Stranger L.A.” is more fitting for the project. I’ve checked online registries for Trademarks online and haven’t come upon anything with the name. I’m looking at it as though this is a fresh start with a new name and I’m excited by all of the possibilities.

I’ve vented out all of my frustration, I’ve picked up the pieces and I’m moving on. I just hope that I never have to go through anything like this ever again, as this was not only a huge inconvenience, but it also meant I lost something that I consider to be part of my identity.

Go ahead and call me a music elitist.
Because honestly, that’s probably what I’m going to sound like to everyone as I attempt to explain why I feel that this new biopic about The Runaways isn’t a great idea.

The Runaways, a “queens of noise” 1970’s glam rock band that began Joan Jett’s rise to fame is one of those bands whose vinyl is lost in the generation gap that divides us from our parents–Vinyl that most of us (young 20-somethings) never heard, never knew anything about and realistically never were expected to discover (Because they were buried in some stack behind the sticker covered door of a downtown record store or perhaps somewhere inside of a cob web covered box in the attic.)

But, some of us did discover it. Some of us were even lucky enough to be raised on the stuff. It’s a feeling and a movement that all can relate to: the homemade fashion, vamp make-up, smoking, swearing, spitting, guitar thrashing angry rebellion–raw Rock ‘N Roll speaks to every angsty teenager, no matter the decade.

That’s why you must understand that Rock for all mankind is not the movement that I have the issue with. It’s the exploitation of it all that bothers me.

The film “The Runaways” based on the autobiography of singer Cherie Currie, received Joan Jett’s stamp of approval, who even went on to produce it. But, don’t let that fool you. This film isn’t some kind of recommendation for a full band revival.

It’s just one big commercial.

The billboards and posters seemed to pop up overnight in Los Angeles, and the more I found myself staring at them, the more clear it became.

For starters, the film has cast tween idols Dakota Fanning as Cherie Currie and Kristen Stewart as Joan Jett–Clearly, the movie isn’t made for the real fans of the music. It’s only about selling tickets.

The emphasis is on their clothing, rather than on the story of the musical experience or a chronicling of what these woman accomplished. It’s the thrift store treasures, homemade 70s Glam Rock fashion– leather leggings, ripped tees, combat boots, light denim, big aviator sunglasses—stuff that’s now being sold for top dollar in hipster chic clothing stores like American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. Stuff that people may magically be inspired to go buy after watching the movie.

(Mark my words: every 13-year-old girl in America will have a shag hair cut by summer time.)

It’s not just this movie that I have an issue with. It’s the million variations of the Rock Band and Guitar Hero video games and the store Hot Topic.

In the last few years, there boomed this movement to sort of “educate” the younger generations about Rock ‘n Roll for the small fee of $140 for the rock band set (drums, microphone, guitar, etc), $1.99 per iTunes download or $25 for every Ramones/Rolling Stones/Led Zeppelin/Etc. T-shirt.

My theory? In the time of internet radio and MP3’s, there’s so many different genres and artists, so much information on the web that it’s pretty much guaranteed that we’re all listening to different things. We’re not united by sharing these bits of culture, by “owning them.” Generation Y is a nostalgic group, buying our “My Little Pony” and Back to “The Future T-shirts”, Nintendo controller belt buckles and “Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles” on DVD– I can see how it would be possible to look to another time to find some overall identity.

I get that making money is at the core of everything. Even the music itself is about making money, selling albums, booking tours–for the record companies, anyway. But, what about that experience of the music–How it makes you feel? What it inspires? And what of the songs that never die? The vinyl you spin even years after everyone and their grandma owns an iPod? You can’t put a price tag on that.

These movies and video games make the whole rock experience feel programmed and plastic, a means for the big guy to make a buck–and that’s kind of ruining it for me.

I’ll want kids when I’m older.
They always insist it, each time I make it clear that it’s something that I never see myself doing.
“I never wanted any,” my Aunt Jenny admitted to me during one family Christmas party a few years ago. “But, someday, you most certainly will.”
Then she rested her hand on my shoulder, smiled strangely at me, as though I was a child myself, and then seem pleased with herself for blessing me with her infinite wisdom.

Looking at me like I’m a crazy person and then patronizing me is the common reaction to my telling people I am not interested in children. (Believe me, I have this conversation more often than I would like.) I’m “not mature enough” or “smart enough” to know what I want and as a result, I’m patted gently on the head and told I’m wrong. That’s the same kind of reaction I received at work yesterday when I said I felt encouraging kids to believe in Santa Claus doesn’t exactly seem like a humane thing to do. But, I have my reasons. I don’t buy that kids should be encouraged to believe just because it’s a tradition.

For starters, parents are lying to their kids. From this, the myth messes with children’s perceptions of reality and discourages healthy skepticism. Kids recognize when Mom and Santa have the same wrapping paper, but because it was insisted that there is a Santa Claus, kids ignore tend to initially ignore this fact. Feelings of betrayal and distrust shouldn’t be unexpected upon their learning the harsh reality.

Then, to back up their claim, adults often stage elaborate deceptions. Someone at work mentioned that recently on 95.5 FM during the morning show, people were calling in to talk about the Santa Claus stunts they pulled to get their children to behave. One father said he put his home phone number into his cell phone as “SANTA” so he could fake a call when his child misbehaved. “Look! Santa is calling! You’d better be good!”

I see it everyday at my grocery store retail job. The whole Santa Claus myth encourages lazy parenting by promoting an unhealthy fear. Instead of using real world tactics to snap their kids in gear, I hear misbehaving children hushed with threats about Santa Claus watching them.

Teaching kids to “just believe”, instead of encouraging kids to think critically and look for evidence isn’t smart. TV is covered with crap products and quick-fix alternative medicine and someone is always trying to make a buck off of you. Making children vulnerable to this kind of thing is exactly what parents are doing.

Christmas is supposed to be about the spirit of generosity, but the Santa Claus myth encourages materialism and greed. The emphasis is on asking and receiving and not on the child being the giver. The motive for being a good person changes, too. They’re in it for lots of presents on Christmas morning.

Because being a good kid is how you get those gifts, it becomes problematic when money enters the equation. The economy’s rough, people all over the country are being laid off everyday. Obviously, Christmas isn’t the same huge, glamorous happening that it used to be and there are fewer gifts under the tree.
Kids no doubt talk about what they got for Christmas with their friends at school–we always did when I was younger–So what is Johnny to make of it when he or she realizes that Timmy, the rich kid in school, got three times as many gifts as he did?
It’s a message that rich kids are better kids by this concept of Santa and his naughty or nice list. It can and does encourage animosity for the rich by the poor and encourages children of more affluent families to look down on the poor kids.

I always felt that Christmas was magical when I was little and the joyful spirit of the time of year was enough. Yes, I enjoyed the myths surrounding Christmas, but I wish they hadn’t been promoted as a reality.

On a side note, I am glad that my culture doesn’t encourage the belief in Krampus, a demon-like creature who throws bad children into the flames of hell, like they do in Austria. As a kid, I would have been RELIEVED to learn that that thing wasn’t real.