Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Wine For Dinner: A Completely Rational Behavior

Tonight is special. I will endure my 9 hours on the job, with an hour break at Caribou to spend money I shouldn’t on something I can make at home, all for the end reward of my most prized delicious trifecta: ambience, drinks, friend (order subject to change).

Happy Hour. A moment of silence please.

Mentioned friend has a business meeting at one of my preferred establishments, so I shall join her afterwards for some economically priced adult beverages. I could care less about food. You see, alcohol has calories too, and in the complicated science of a twentysomething year-old body, alcohol trumps eats in both purpose & pleasure. Food shmood, nothing will give me the ahhhh feeling like a warm Pinot Noir slipping through my veins. My boss telling me I'm vindictive & spiteful because I didn't want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings for lunch will be nothing but a distant memory. I don’t need flatbread pizza blocking the transport straight to my blood stream.

Is that bad?

Now before you put me under citizens arrest, I’m not saying I’ll get wino’d out and behave/act recklessly. I’ll have one, maybe two. I’m no danger to society. Yet so many out there view this behavior as crazy. You know what I think is crazy? Having a cocktail and a huge plate of buffalo tenders. You took an enjoyable guiltless pleasure (glass of red wine daily is recommended and high in antioxidants), added some hydrogenated oils and .5 lbs of body fat, and probably spent an extra $10 to feel bloated and lethargic. Not to mention we're going to have messy napkins crowding our fine leather purses on the bar.

So no, I don’t think my behavior is so bad. I’ll be the perfectly content gal smiling contentedly at the bar.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Get with the Times Oscar!

Come on people; let’s kick it up a notch. As previously posted, I contain a large amount of superficial excitement for red carpet arrivals and awards shows. Amid news of every company ever created cutting 35,000 jobs, give me some good ‘ol escapism through gaudy jewels and exquisite fabrics. Throw in Brangelina and it’s an all out dream.

Talk about a major let down.

Perhaps it’s being victim to the social media plague and the corresponding attention deficit disorder, but the pace of the Oscar Awards presentation was SUFFOCATING. I could barely multi-task enough to get through an hour of the arrivals and an equally brain dulling hour of the awards. I laughed like a hyena at the Tina Fey and Steve Martin presentation, not because it was particularly ingenious, but because I had lapsed into the same hysteria induced boredom I used to suffer in Microeconomics 101.

For the past few years’ award shows have suffered exponential losses in ratings and received less advertising dollars. Um, maybe it’s time to get with the times and change the show structure so an audience that isn’t in solitary confinement with their TV would actually enjoy watching it? How about taping the show in the morning, editing it down to an hour of the funniest, most interesting parts, and then broadcasting it?

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

It's The Little Things

I’ve begun to notice I become excited by ridiculously meaningless things the older I get. It’s as if I’m Benjamin Buttoning back into time to a five year old’s mentality who becomes excited by a yellow piece of fuzz.

When young(er), I would reserve my excitedness for big things such as somebody’s birthday, an upcoming spring break, a weekend bash, a surprise date by my boyfriend. Today, while those events are still quite exciting, I find myself more keyed up by things such as the great breakthrough in the gum industry of our time- Sweet Mint Orbit gum. Have you ever popped some of that deliciousness? Or, realizing today the Oscars are on this Sunday. I can hardly wait to watch the red carpet arrivals! I think I’ll spin and watch the arrivals…then settle in at home for the show….Seriously, I’m actually anxiously anticipating if Penelope Cruz goes with Oscar or Valentino. I am so super excited. Then I realize how kind of pathetic this is. I’ve barely read over Obama’s stimulus plan and I’m spending real time contemplating the statistics of fashion.

Is it because day-to-day life is so boring? Sitting slaved to my desk all day I escape to these fantasies of what tomorrow could bring? Each happy hour (hundreds a year) holds the importance of a Quinceanera, each new lip gloss like a mound of gold, a latte brings the joy of a 4-course dinner at The Ritz. Perhaps I’ve discovered a magical coping mechanism for the workday doldrums. Just imagine something better (which is basically anything) and everything will be fine.

Whatever the case, I think I’ll release my guilt. Bring on the little things. Preferably in the form of Swedish Fish.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Why am I Not Salma Hayek?

Idolization is healthy. Without striving be something you simply can't be, we’d all be stunted into living exactly what nature intended for the human race, basically as Neanderthals. Cole Haan certainly wouldn't exist.

I don’t really understand, however, why I wasn’t born Salma Hayek? Talk about a woman who has got it all going on. We also share a birthday, so I feel that somehow cosmically I could have actually been her. Unfortunately whoever makes those assignments decided to have me born accidentally in a tiny midwestern town in which the only doctor had to be paged from his fishing boat, while Salma was born to a well-to-do Lebanese-Mexican businessman father and opera-singing mother. Then of course to point out the obvious, she’s ridiculously beautiful. Anyone who doesn’t see this is clearly asexual. I look relatively good maybe 3 out of 7 days.

Beyond her beauty Salma possesses great smarts. She produced and starred in “Frida”, a huge hit and nominated for multiple Oscars. She’s rumored to be dyslexic, which would make line memorizing pretty difficult. I produced a documentary, yet I was so nervous at the screening I had to leave the room. Afterwards I was so sick of the dang thing rather than shopping it out, I hid it in a closet for a year. Funny, they don’t give out Oscars to films never seen. Then I had a mirror shatter on my head and cause nerve damage in my left hand (which I use to write), thus I had to complete finals with my right hand. That’s kind of like being dyslexic, but way more embarrassing.

Everyone says Salma has sass and passion. She stands up for what she believes and acts the way she wants to act. I am also told I’m sassy, but the appointment is usually followed with a less flattering description of bossy and difficult. Apparently you need a cute accent and size 36C to be considered good sassy.

Fast-forward to what’s going on with Salma today, well, things are looking better and better for the Mexican goddess. She has the most adorable little girl and just married the father, a French billionaire. Yes, BILLIONAIRE. I can’t even fathom what that means. I don’t even understand how people afford cable and Internet. And last, but certainly not least, she has a recurring guest role on “30 Rock”. That means she gets to be with Tina Fey, and Tiny Fey is the other woman I want to be. And I felt this way years before everybody jumped on the Tina bandwagon for her Palin schtick.

In summary, Salma Hayek clearly has the perfect life. I will continue to admire her via People.com and E News, and hopefully be inspired to become all that I can be. I’m going to guess marrying the owner of Gucci is out, since she already did so...

Friday, February 13, 2009

Oh, Valentines Day

Really? Again? I have to go through yet another Valentine’s Day? It’s the second corniest thing next to any episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Not to mention it causes people to behave recklessly with proposals and unwanted baby making. While the last couple years I’ve been in semi-attached states during the pink fuzzy with chocolate covered strawberry on top holiday, this year I must suffer along with my SO (significant other). This means I’m actually expected, to like, do something.

But you know what? I’m seeing the light at the end of the conversation heart tunnel. I’m actually thinking that V-day might be a good thing in 2009. Here is my list of why:

1) All that money spent on useless crap might give a much needed boost to the economy. We don’t need a bunch of Hallmark employees roaming the streets jobless. Can you imagine? I shudder at the thought.

2) It’s been a really really miserable winter, so any reason to feel better is a good reason.

3) Excuse for excessive champagne consumption. As if I need an excuse.

4) With Jen Aniston and John Mayer in coupledom, I can hardly wait to find out what they did to celebrate! His & her lipo? Her 100th trip to Cabo for the year? The anticipation is killing me.

5) Valentine colored candy corn. Anytime you can bring the candy corn out it’s a reason to celebrate.

6) Everyone fits in. Either you're part of a dynamic duo and you get to do something fun like eat fondue (which I think is actually quite gross) or you're a part of the "I'm single and love it" crowd and will dance to Beyonce all night with the LGBT's. Either way, you belong. Koom-by-ya.

7) Yet another reason to hate Speidi. Surely they'll do something entirely lame.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

The Great Baby Attack

I’d like to call a press conference please. Something has gone awry. A massive assault has moved into my life, and possibly yours, and I believe it to be poisoning the minds of young women everywhere. Something needs to be said before it’s too late: There has been a baby attack.

Everyone in my frickin’ world is pregnant. With child. Preggers.

I understand this to be the age of child bearing. I experienced a baby boom in my early twenties with those friends & colleagues who married young. While happy for their impending joy, the whole ordeal felt more like watching a movie. I mean, seriously, I was nowhere near ready to have a child then. Thus, the irrelevancy of the boom left me largely unaffected. Protected.

But now, well, I guess biologically this is something I should be thinking about. My sister, my cousin, my other cousin, my friends’ sisters, my co-workers sister-in-law, the 4 friends who got married last summer, the server at the bar- literally, it’s an epidemic. I’m starting to get convinced that I’ll be pregnant too, like I’m catching it like the flu, but it’s quite impossible. Non-applicable. Yet here I am, standing in the middle of the ultrasound-baby names-are you finding out the sex-such & such weeks along-midwife-organic whatever-Jessica Alba girdle- whirlwind with nothing at all to dip my toes into inclusion. Apparently I have the vaccine, because this target isn’t going to be pregnant anytime soon. I’m like more steps away from pregnancy than an alcoholic’s steps to recovery.

So, what do I do to survive?

I don’t think the government is going to take action to be quite frank. In fact, they may have released the baby making hypnotic gasses into the air to insert optimism and cheer via cooing into our 2nd Great Depression (hmm, I may have a conspiracy theory in the works). Hence, I’ll put my gas mask on and walk within the crowd. I’ll just keep that thing secured tight.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Equal Opportunity Insults

I am a small girl. Always have been, always will be. I would fit particularly well into Asian countries, and my father once mistook me for a 14 year old girl running through the neighborhood when I was 25. At a cousin’s wedding, a waiter mistakenly set the child’s meal down in front of me until he saw my face and the two fisted champagne glasses. Point is…I get it. You actually don’t need to explain to me that I am smaller than you, because miraculously the 25 plus years of my life have proven enough time for me to draw such genius conclusions.

Nevertheless, people love to point out I’m small. The issue complicates as I tend to have some sort of optical illusion where observers don’t always notice at first. I’m quite proportionate, just on a smaller scale. Recently at a party a girl, who had met me several times, squealed out like she was discovering America, “Oh my Gawd! You are so small! Look at how small you are!” And then she went on and on and on. She wasn’t particularly insulting, but I’m never going to be the person who wants a room full of people sizing me up like I’m about to enter a dog show. I'm not in a beauty pageant asking for rating, I'm at a party trying to have some drinks and drown you out. You know what I didn’t squeal? “Oh my Gawd! Look at your gigantic thighs! You’re thighs are so big! You’re a freaking giant!” Because really, it’s the same thing. I’m declaring our differences. I’m calling it out for all to hear. But would this be socially acceptable? I’m going to gather not.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

The Disillusion of It All

(as I've been on a really non-intentional hiatus, I thought best to repost the original topic for motivation purposes).

I really thought, well, that things would be different.

My whole life I couldn’t wait to be in my mid-twenties. Even through what many reminisce as the glory days of high school I knew that something brilliant awaited me. I was ready and willing to endure teen angst for that shining beacon of my twenties. Oh, how grand my twenties would be. Finally I’d effortlessly inhibit The Perfect Body (because by then hormones and all that stuff would have itself figured out), my hair would be the sophisticated and glamorous cut I’d be mature enough to upkeep, and I’d be a hard working and successful professional with a smart & equally perfect male mate of his early thirties (or late thirties, but with men you always have to subtract five years in order to get real life age). It’d be like the Cover Girl commercials say- easy and breezy and beautiful!

Let me tell you something: Here I am, smack dab in my twenties, and my life does not feel like a Cover Girl commercial. Not. At. All. I am in constant battle with my hair, I’ve been working hard long hours (really, usually 45-60 a week) at the same company for four years and I still make less than the average stripper. And for some reason people keep calling me Victoria, which is not my name. I’ve had a string of boyfriends, man interests and mini encounters that tell a story better than most soap operas. Usually not the scenes with satin sheets and rose petals. The tragedies I’ve incurred in the past few years would make you weep while you hurl sage at me in hopes my bad aura doesn’t seep into your pores. My apartment rarely heats above 50 degrees, my eye has been twitching for 3 months now, and I once woke up in a closet because I accidentally overdosed on the Ambien I have to take every night to deal with my horrible rotten no good very bad terrible twenties.

Whew. I feel a little better now. Focus. There is a purpose to all of this self-indulgent despair. I am not a complete narcissist, and have come to believe that I am probably not the only one suffering aimlessly through her twenties. That girl over there with the perfectly puffed ponytail and Seven jeans? She’s in her twenties too! And she probably has something bad going on. And she just might get a kick or a snicker out of reading about my issues and opinions. Or she might conclude I’m insane, but that would be entertaining, therefore still beneficial to all.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

The Curious World of Time Traveling

Occupations I’ve held would suggest I am a young(ish) woman of great productivity and efficiency. The ability to actually put a show on television in the insane & ridiculous “world” of live 24-hour home shopping TV proved an amazing feat. And believe me, the conditions made me question whether sobriety on the job was wise or not. I’d be scheduled in 4 meetings at one time while directors grabbed me in the halls, lawyers called my phone (both desk & cell), hosts in hair rollers demanded I transcribe hours of notes on their voicemail all the while trying to get everything ready for 20 or so hours of television that week. Somehow, I always got it done. Sometimes I even went to Target for an hour or so during the day. I’m pretty sure I ate lunch a couple times. And in the end of my days, I always took a minute to look at Perez. A girl needed some laughs.

Yet in my personal life, I’m like a statue in a sculpture garden moving only with the earth’s plates or wind nudges. Or a woman moving through a world of quicksand. I own no pets, no plants, and no children. But I can barely find time to get anything done. Laundry? That’s like quarterly thing for me. And it is- I swear to you- not out of laziness. I seem to have a very productive and well managed time scenerio: I wake up at 5:30, am at work by 7:00, work the job from 7am to 4pm, workout from 4:30-6:30pm (this is required or Dr. Oz says I’ll die), have my time from 6:30-10:00pm. Of course, part of which is swallowed by commute. So in reality, I have a whopping 3 hours per day to get all the things I want to accomplish in my life done. Finish my book. Volunteer. Be a wonderful aunt. Dote on my boyfriend. Hang out with my friends. Watch Top Chef. Write a blog. Paint my nails (thats a serious joke if you've ever laid eyes on these ghastly things). Do laundry. Figure out the meaning of life. Do my taxes. Make paella. Wonder where in the world I’ve been time traveling to the last 6 years since I graduated college.