Lessons Learned from Britney Spears

Yesterday I found myself transfixed on some Britney Spears documentary on MTV.com. While there is a likely possibility that I was just searching for something, anything, to make me feel better, I do sympathize with the pop princess. She's got some issues, real issues. And she's lonely. I'll be your true friend Britney. And no true friend would let you out of the house looking like that. So I'll be your true friend and trusted stylist. 

But as I escaped into the pathetic world of another to escape my own issues, instead of feeling better, I kinda felt worse. You know how some reality shows, like anything on VH1, make you thank the moon and the stars you didn't turn out to be such a freak? How suddenly growing up in a Minnesota suburb where Taco Bell was the cool hangout feels like the protecting factor from making you dumber than dumb and trying to date Snoop Dogg? As Britney dissected ever-so-thoughtfully to her mystery British interviewer the trials and tribulations of stardom, I started to feel not only sorry for her, but for myself. The defining moment of self-pity came when she proclaimed, "At least I have my job and my children. My job and my children are my life- I would die without them."

Ok, let's see here. We all have had people take advantage of us like Britney. We've all had terrible break-ups like Britney & Justin. We've all made a bad hair decision like Britney. But I don't have millions of dollars to medicate my sorrows. I don't have someone blow drying my hair everyday. And I don't have a job or children.

The important lesson to be learned here from Little Miss Spears is that anytime you start to feel sorry for someone, you might as well feel sorry for everyone- because we've all got the same misfortunes. I'm lucky to have friends I trust and love and not a manager slipping me drugs, but she's lucky that at least she has the opportunity to be well dressed and in Paris while she suffers.

It's The Little Things, Part II

Recently due to my slightly unfortunate turn of events, several little things have brought me great amounts of happiness. The following event occurred in the last few days that made me feel really really good. I am concerned about my mental state:

I thought before my health insurance ran out I'd get my eyes checked. I wear glasses when I drive, but I also can't really seem to see most things very clearly. I expected the worst. I expected the doctor to look at me, shake his head, and tell me I'm a pathetic carrier of eyeballs. To stare at me in amazement- how could a twentysomething have such terrible eyesight? She's a disgrace! Instead, much to my surprise, the following happened:

After the eye screening I sheepishly looked up to him (with mascara running down my face from my eyes being smashed up against those binocular things), "So doc, how bad is it?"

Shrugging his shoulders, "Your eyes aren't bad at all actually. They're pretty good."

I'm going to live! It felt like he was telling me I looked like Heidi Klum's twin. I was literally beaming. It was the most wonderful thing I'd heard in days. I strutted confidently out of Vision World. Yup people, you're looking at a girl whose eyes "aren't that bad."

Then I realized that good eyesight doesn't explain very clearly why I can't see anything. Why the Starbucks board is a Monet, why I use an inner power of direction to steer me at night. 

Apparently it's just my brain that isn't functioning well.

The Cost of Unemployment

Cost of $4.19 dollars per hour of job searching

Listening to three "intellectuals" talk about the real societal role of a waitress

Watching a woman knit. Or wait, is that crocheting?

Lovely burning fireplace

Being in the company of other laid offs, socialites, stay-at-homes, escapees

Why are people still riding bikes in the middle of the winter?

And why does the woman from the bike have a Barbie Doll in her leg pocket, and one in the back of her pants?

Why can't this just be my job?

Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid. Really.

The great part about losing your job is the free advice you get from everyone. While not being employed for the first time since age sixteen has given me a slight tick and a nervous laugh, I am largely optimistic. I am a capable, well educated and resourceful human being...I can weather this storm. I may be weathering it without any extras, such as vodka and a spring wardrobe, but nonetheless I should hopefully (cross your fingers) be okay. 

Speaking of weather, maybe you could stop raining on my optimistic parade? Yesterday I had not one, but at least two people say the following to me:

"Oh, wow, you're laid off? Are you really scared?"

Uh, no...I really wasn't...but now I sure am. When you look at me with those furrowed brows and pity glaze I can see your brain ticking and your  "I am so glad I am not her" prayers to the employment Gods. Now your negative brain waves are crashing into my false hope and crushing them with evil oppressive force. Your negative realism cuts the strings in the ballad of my I Will Survive theme song I hum while sending countless resumes.

Therefore, I appreciate the time you take to ponder my situation and offer thoughts. Really, I do. But just like a child who wants to believe there are giant bunnies who bring candy filled eggs to their homes at night, I want to believe things aren't going to be so bad for me. There, I said it, I'm following The Secret with this one. If I BELIEVE I will get a job soon, then I WILL.

Oh geez, I've referenced Oprah twice in two days. Somebody get this girl a job.

Deep Thoughts by the Unemployed

As soon as allotted the freedom to choose how to spend the extra 2,400 minutes you've been granted a week, you're inevitably (if type AA as myself) trying to figure out how to fill those minutes ASAP. Hopefully not by the marionette of a Mr. Crazy Boss and preferably with a rate of at least thirty-seven cents a minute. Hurrah though for me, as surely with Obama & Oprah leading the country I can truly be anything I want to be and succeed!

Thus, the past few days of nothing to do but contemplate my employment fate have brought about thoughts of the following career paths:

#1 Sandwich Cart Girl

Buy a concession cart, slap on a cute self-branded t-shirt, and sell sandwiches from a cart all spring/summer. You probably don't know this, but I can make some pretty mean sandwiches. They'd be healthy & recession friendly. I call it a networking opportunity. People would be like, "Hey, did you see recession sandwich girl today? She's got a Tex-Mex tuna panini melt that's mad tasty! Maybe we should give her a real job?"

#2 Vending Machine Business

An entrepreneurial friend fearing his own layoff gave this idea to me. Potential. Problem is that I'd have a moral compass prohibiting me from stocking the machines with the unhealthily evil candy/chip combo and rather would stock with organic snacks. Then when I go to refill the machines, angry worker bees would throw shoes at my head screaming, "Bring the frickin' Snickers back vending machine girl!" 

#3 Pillsbury Bake-Off Winner 

$1,000,000 to the Midwestern housewife creating a genius family friendly meal out of specifically chosen products. Well, move over ladies because I'm swooping in. Growing up in a family of seven has me well equipped for this competition. In conjunction with my months of recipe brainstorming (how fun it'll be to pop open that many Pillsbury dough tubes!) I'll produce a documentary on the crazy twenty-something who went off the edge after losing her job and believes her ticket to financial freedom lies in clinching the title of Pillsbury Bake-Off Winner 2009.

Wait…Are You Saying I Don’t Have A Job?

Late last week I received an email from my boss reading the following:

                  Please find time to meet with me sometime today.

Ok. Another impromptu meeting with my boss. Nothing out of the ordinary at this particular establishment. Perhaps he wanted to rehash the results of the multiple personality tests he administered, psychoanalyzed by his very non-psychologically certified self, to the company in the last month. He held a particular glee in reading aloud to me that my graph insisted I was “cool and aloof”. Or, maybe he wanted me to rewrite the org chart again. I most definitely lost count after the fifth revision within two months of my employment. With only fifteen employees there weren’t many options left. Most likely he just wanted to give me a special very important project that must be completed by the end of the day of which I would never see a completed purpose for after I had turned in. I had started to suspect my special projects were being somehow reformulated into a way to solve world hunger.

Instead, I was met with a meandering speech with an inconclusive path. Something along the lines of:

Boss: I’ve maxed out the company’s line of credit…I can’t put any more of my own money into the company…it’s funny, but your personality test shows that our personalities conflict…we can’t pay our bills…

Me: So wait, are you telling me I don’t have a job?

Boss: What I’m saying is essentially I can’t pay you.

Me: So, you’re basically telling me I don’t have a job.

Boss: Well, as of Friday (two days from now) I can no longer pay you.

Hmm. Geez, thanks for the two day lead! I’m positive I’ll land a job in the next week amid the greatest unemployment crisis since The Great Depression. Oh, and did you say no severance? Awesome. I mean, come on- who really wants a couple weeks pay? I call it a crutch for the weak. And since I’m not married, that means I can go this alone! Totally stoked, it’s going to be a great personal challenge. I hope the reward is something better than waiting tables at Perkins. The overnight shift since I’m new. I’ll turn my company cell in to you on Monday, just after I figure out I’ll be paying a car payment’s worth for health insurance. You won’t be in on Monday? Because you and the other company owners are going to be in Vegas partying at The Ghost Bar? Surely you’re drinking to your sorrows of not being able to pay me, to wash away the heavy guilt of thrusting me into a zero cash back world…

Important Message About The Circumstances Surrounding This Post: it’s 2:30am on a Sunday and I’m eating organic wheat thins and drinking a Michelob Golden Light because all I can imagine is the man standing in front of me today in Rainbow Foods who used food stamps to purchase a single Cadbury Egg. He ate the entire mystery filling confection before his transaction was even completed.  If this isn’t my horrible rotten no good very bad terrible twenties, I don’t know what is.

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.

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?

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Want Some Pheromones?

The scene: Sitting in a girlfriend’s apartment Saturday evening, sipping on some wine, listening to some tunes and getting ready for a house party (I know, people still have house parties at this age?)

As she doubled up on her mascara coat and I explained the misfortune of a powdered drink packet exploding in my Cole Haan purse, she casually strolls over and asks, “Want some pheromones?” I immediately broke into laughter. Not want a shot, want a hit, want some high gloss nail finish…but want some chemical stimulus to secretly secrete scents to lure men in? All bottled up in a little scientific vile with dropper?

Not one to turn down a new experience, she handed the bottle over. With a careful sniff, it appeared to merely smell like coconut. But surely hidden beneath this pleasantly tropical topical was a powerful attraction agent.

You can’t even imagine what my evening was like. As I entered the hazy smoke of the bonfire, clearly there was something going on. Men stopped in their tracks, mid-sentence to the perky blondes with blue eyeliner, unable to turn their gazes off of us. Drinks were abandoned. Like the zombies in “Thriller”, males felt the irresistible and unexplainable urge to hone in on us. It was a miracle! I was swatting them off left and right, waiting for the perfect specimen to catch my eye. Finally, after six men in polos and two financial advisors, I found him. Six feet tall, sparkling green eyes, an unassuming smile. He was on to the pheromones- too smart to let it outwit him. We locked eyes and instinctively both knew.

Of course that isn’t what happened.

I talked to three guys with girlfriends (because naturally the men not trying to schmooze women are the most interesting to converse with), had one guy tell me Virgos are bitches (I’m a Virgo), and realized I was perhaps too old for a house party.

Think I’ll stick to my natural pheromones.

Did You Know? I Can Have Anything I Want!

A couple weekends ago I had the honor of wing-womaning to my little brother and his friends. If you aren’t familiar with this practice, it’s when one woman joins a crew of men and assists them in their chick picking. I happen to be particularly skilled in this area, sometimes so good that the target hits on me. Off point completely. Regardless, as we sat in an apartment living room and strategized over Michelob Golden Lights and a carefully deejayed iTunes playlist, my brother’s best bud actually said the following to me:

“You’re so lucky, girls like you can have anything they want. You live a dream world.”

Wow. Newsflash in the most gargantuan proportion to me.

If this is a dream world, pray tell, what the hell does hell look like? Because the previous night I completely blacked out and lost three hours of my life and got my $350 camera stolen. My old landlord is MIA and owes me $850. The most genuine interest I’ve had from a man recently was a 50 year old wearing a chicken hat telling me I need to embrace life. I want to go on a vacation but “singles supplements” make it largely unaffordable. I really question if I can afford to have a $4.56 latte anymore. I managed to lose money co-hosting a garage sale. Out of the four cards I received on my birthday, one was from my bank. People run into me with their shopping carts at Target like I’m invisible. Panera was out of French Onion soup yesterday.

This is my dream world. Tickets on sale for entry, all it’ll cost you is a smile and maybe a “I like your shirt.”

The Unreality of Reality

Yesterday my mind felt clouded with distractions. It was like I had so many things on my mind that I couldn’t actually focus on anything. People were texting and facebooking me all day. I was confused by a myriad of male relationships I’m involved in which none seem to make any sense of have any ends to the means. It was then it hit me…none of this is real!

Think about how much of your day is spent dealing with fiction or halfway communications. Social networking is this distant, black hole of a realm where information is exchanged across cables and databases and airwaves. Relationship troubles mostly stem from that blank space where words get lost and mixed around between your mouth and the air between the receiver. Or in my case, all these boys in my life texting and calling and meeting me for drinks…but none of them really viable for a real relationship (in my mind anyway). Worry about money? Guess what, that’s not real either! Some water, papyrus and green dye created by man to trade goods rules most of our distress when we could easily do away with money and I’m sure people, animals, shelter and water would still exist.

Then, you get home at night and are forced to watch reality shows. I’m confused as to how it is “reality”? I don’t know anyone who organically leads a life where they stand on a stage everyday and sing or dance in competition with a host and cameras and get voted off. I mean, did I miss something? Is this what they do in Montana?

What is my point exactly? I’m not sure. But I think at any age,our twenties especially, we become fixated on making sense of this life swirling around us when by close examination most of it is made up crap. What's real is the fingernail polish so severely chipped on my nails that I look like I've been through Nam.

My apologies. I promise to bring the humor back on Monday.

Beware! Stalkers Ahead

Once every couple of weeks I call a friend of mine and leave a message on the phone saying something along these lines:

“Mr. XXX called me and left a crazy message about putting a spell on me, so if I turn up murdered in the next week or so, it was probably him.”

I never really mark anyone off this list, as who knows what can happen. I want every suspect named. I would say the list is probably at least ten strong.

I’ve come to the point where I must ask myself, “Why do I end up with so many crazy stalkers? Is it me?”
An old college roommate used to joke that I had some sort of invisible sign that beaconed all crazies. I certainly don’t seek them out. I’m not hanging around mental wards waiting for discharges. But if there is a crazy man singing obscenities on the street corner, he is bound to stop and have a conversation with me. He may even propose to me. If there is a crazy, single, somewhat attractive man- he is bound to ask me out.

So I must wonder what it is I’m doing, and if there is a way I can emit this powerful non-verbal signal to David Duchovney? I am not one of those girls who endures the craziness thinking they’ll turn normal. No sir. As soon as the signs signal, I’m out. Well, except for the foreign professor, but he was one hot rubix cube of craziness.

Because of my vast experience in this realm, let me give you a few dead giveaways:
1. You allow him to speak to you at a bar for a few minutes, then turns angry when you won’t let him escort you home
2. He texts you after just meeting you. Three, four, five times without you answering. Then claims you’re ignoring him.
3. He calls you his girlfriend after 3.2 seconds on a first date
4. He claims you are a witch who has cast a spell over him
5. He tells you that “he’s doubled his medication, so he’s doing really well”

Good luck. That is, good luck having better luck than I do.

Couples Showers- Minus Half

One might say I have a very active wedding season. It’s kind of like a really fun, happy part-time job that I actually lose income on. Or, you could say one really long extended event with several wardrobe changes. Really, I am blessed to be a part of all this wedded bliss, so do not take anything I say on the offense. This is purely relaying facts for clarification purposes.

As we all know, most weddings include a basic lineup of events that neatly line up on the very important Wedding Timeline. One of these is the shower (or showers if you are a bridesmaid). Here the gaggle of girls snack on food, hopefully drink wine if the organizer has any sense at all, talk about babies and color schemes and Crate & Barrel, and watch the bride open loads of presents she pretends to be excited about but already knows you bought because she checks her registry status online all day (some of us load up on wine during this part). But usually these things are just fun excuses for girls to get together and gossip. So I thought.

Recently, I was thrown off guard. I was invited to a Couples Shower.
I, am not a part of a “couple”. So….what does this mean exactly? Now not only must I be enveloped by soon to be married or already married people for the entire summer and fall, but I am also not demographically acceptable for a shower? Should I pack my bags and move to a monastery where I belong?

I must give the organizer a little credit though- he did put on the invitation the following:
“If you can’t round up a date, that’s fine, still come!”

I wonder if there is a special goody bag for us poor souls who can’t round up a random date. Perhaps the mismatched plates the bride will replace from her registry? In that case, I’m all on board. Don’t worry, I’ll sit out during couple’s charades.

Detours

It’s kind of typical isn’t it? Twentysomething girl starts a project, something she’s really passionate about, then gets majorly detoured and that passion project is a mere memory. Soon she wakes up and she’s 35 with two children, a job, and lots of instant frozen dinners and she glazes over while watching Desperate Housewives reruns and thinks to herself, “What might have been had I kept up with that damn blog?”

Well, thankfully that’s not me, because that sounds terrible. But I did watch 3 episodes in a row of The Next Food Network Challenge while drinking my chocolate avocado hemp shake and decided that I must start up my blog again!

I really do have a valid excuse for my detour. No, I didn’t get married. No, I didn’t have children. I am still fundamentedly stuck in my horrible rotten no good very bad terrible twenties. I did, however, finally end my abusive relationship. I had been beaten up daily for the past four years, and finally I severed ties. With my job.

I know being a television producer for a home shopping network sounds like all glitz and glamour and Susan Lucci, but believe me…it’s not all that. When it came to the point that I was staring at my phone and screaming obscenities while seriously contemplating voodoo and hiding behind doors and ignoring voicemails for days on end and dreaming of vodka all day long, I realized I had hit rock bottom.

So now I have a new job with it’s own “special” qualities. For instance, one fellow employee, appropriately nicknamed The Creeper, sits in a dark office all day while randomly shouting thoughts out for all to hear. But after some inner healing and respite, I am back to my in depth analysis of why life seems to not make sense EVER and why I am not living a life like Nicole Richie. And I will not be detoured again. I will not be outblogged by Jessica Biel.


Coming soon: An update on stalkers and why it’s very probable I will be kidnapped and locked in a dungeon in Transalvania and 10 Reasons I’m a Horrible Bridesmaid/Wedding Guest.

One Man’s Advice on Dating

I was reading a male blog today who was offering up advice on being “a successful dating machine”. It’s always humorous to listen to men talk about dating, as you generally forget that men might have thoughtful discussions on courting women. Normally I would envision a discussion on how to get a girl to be something along the lines of, “Dude, did you hook up?”
“No. She told me she wanted to take it slow.”
“Too bad, she was hot. Maybe her blonde friend would go out with you.”
“Yeah, maybe. Should we play Wii?”
I know this is a blatant and lame stereotype, but I place full blame on the media for brainwashing me into such harsh judgment.

His advice was that a successful male dating machine must possess the following:
Confidence- having confidence can make you appear attractive, even if you have a face that causes seizures
Attractiveness- actually being attractive can do wonders for your confidence

He then goes on to explain that women have tests of spotting fake confidence. Her test is that she will ignore you for the entire time she knows you. He goes on to assert that this is a classic confidence test, easily overcome by constant attention and talking to them, even if they appear disinterested or annoyed.

Interesting theory my friend.

I will admit, again a typical stereotype, but women will play hard to get here and there, but I would suggest that if at the beginning junctures of dating your woman of interest ignores and appears annoyed, that she doesn’t actually like you. I mean, don’t they have the male version of “She’s Just Not That Into You?”. If I don’t want to talk to you, and am annoyed when you try and talk to me, roll my eyes, or hide behind a plant when you come around…I don’t think I like you. I know as a woman I am a conniving game player, but that’s a lot of energy to test a man’s confidence.

Perhaps he should change his advice? Perhaps it should be that a dating machine must possess Confidence with a Permit To Carry. Confidence and ignorance are a dangerous combination.

I won’t attack his advice on being attractive. He’s got that part right.

19 Things Men Should Never Do Around Women/On Dates

MSN had a post today on 19 Things Men Should Never Do Around Women. I wonder where they came up with 19? Like 10 wasn’t enough, and they just couldn’t come up with the 20th?
Regardless, I found them a little uninspired, generic, and non-applicable. This list included things like "say your mom is your best friend" and "do celebrity impressions". I don't know what men these writers have been hanging around (the writers were probably men), but there are many many worse things men do around women then mimic Steve Carell. Therefore, I’ve compiled a list of 19 true offenses,have happened or arguably could, and most definitely never should:

1. Check your Match.Com emails on your Apple iphone
2. When faced with the question of what to do next after a generic dinner at a chain restaurant, say, “Heavy petting.” (actual real man story)
3. Talk about anything having to do with bathroom activities
4. Rate me on a scale of 1-10, then rate my friends
5. Ask me my bra size/clothing size before we’re in a committed relationship
6. Wear jean shorts
7. Text continually while I’m talking to you
8. Say your last girlfriend was a lingerie model
9. Comment on my weight
10. Talk about how hot 15 year old girls are unless you are under the age of 18
11. Talk about sex in a previous relationship
12. Reveal that you believe women are the lower species
13. Say “moist”
14. Ask us if we’re crabby because it’s “that time of month”
15. Wear jean shorts (this has to be continually re-enforced)
16. Tell me you think I’m hot, even though other people don’t
17. Notice my dramatic haircut a month later while we’re having sex
18. Tell me you used to be homosexual or a woman (I can’t imagine)
19. Hook up with me to have me wake up in the morning to you pleasuring yourself to porn.

I Just Don't Understand These Pick-Up Lines!

I admit that I would be a sad dateless chap if I were a man. Coming up with approaches, pick-up lines and the such that aren't cheesy, annoying or overused would be a horribly difficult thing. Now, I realize that women pick up men as well and we aren't in the 1920's...but I just don't do that. No good at it, never will be, happy most men do the work.

That being said, I still have a very difficult time understanding some of the strategies guys come up with. For instance, once in college I was walking through my favorite bar to check things out, and a man jumped out of nowhere, fondled me, and then told me I had the perfect chest. And he looked at me seriously while doing so! Normally I am quite quick on my feet with comebacks, but this just left me speechless. He then proceeded to the whole pick-up dance, asking my name and stats. Of course I jumped on him and demanded he take me home or lose me forever. Obviously that isn't true, but if that was his true intention-which I believe it was-how in his mind did he think this was the sure way to go about it? Stunning.

Last night I had a happy hour with a few friends (happy Hour in my world lasts until at least 10pm). As the night neared an end, my friend and I did the walk of judgement out of the bar. You know the walk- it's when you leave a single scene bar and everybody checks you out and sizes you up as you leave. Anyway, a guy was sitting at the bar and talking with some girls and guys and reached out and grabbed my arm as I walked by.
"Hi. My name is John." Holding on to my hand, he just smiled at me. His teeth glowed because he was so tan.
"Hi John."
"You're really cute." Staring continues. Huge grin continues.
"Thanks. Bye." And I continued on my way.

Now, part of me thinks this was a good tactic. I mean, the guy saw an opportunity and took it. No bullshit, just straight up telling a girl what he thinks. And he looked really proud of himself. But really, what did he think I was going to do? Sit on his lap and tell him I've been waiting all night for a guy to tell me I'm cute? If I were good at picking people up-which I'm not-I would have stopped the person of interest and said something along the lines of, "I see you're leaving, but I have to admit I find you really cute. Here's my card, maybe we could meet here sometime when you're not leaving?" That might be a successful pick-up.

I'd be interested to hear some other stories...the ugly and the successful. What works? What has been the most ridiculous pick-up experience you've been witness/subject to? And, how do women pick up guys?

The First Date

The first date: conjures up feelings of both dread and anticipation and easily a host of other mixed emotions. Will he be as good-looking as I remember (since I met him after four martinis, details are fuzzy)? Will he be funny? Will we have stuff to talk about? Uh.

Usually I have a pretty good outlook on these things. The way I see it, there are generally two possible outcomes. The date can go swimmingly well, obviously a favorable result. Or, it can go really bad, which I find very humorous. Like the time a guy took me to a cheesy Caribbean restaurant and told me it was time for us to start a serious relationship. In the most polite way I could, I explained I wasn’t really looking for a serious relationship. He freaked and starting telling me he used to date Victoria Secret models. Then when driving me home, he almost ran over an old lady and got pulled over by the cops. Of course he got in a fight with the cops, got arrested, and the cops had to drive me home. Some would maybe be afraid to ever go on a date again, but I find it hilariously funny.

Last evening I had the pleasure of facing another first date. And it was a real date, not the meet for drinks type of thing. He actually picked me up in a car, made reservations at a restaurant and planned after-dinner activities! I was impressed. Things were looking good. Dinner was nice, conversation flowed easily and nobody said anything weird. Stage two of the date brought us to a jazz club, stage three to a bar. I should state at this point in the story that a little bit of alcohol was consumed. I’m sure most Dating Guidelines would say the lady shouldn’t drink more than a couple drinks, just to keep from embarrassment, roofies and bringing up not-first-date-appropriate conversation. I had probably 4-5 drinks. Over 6 hours though! Don’t judge. I’m a seasoned professional.

Anyway, as my date slipped out of our booth to use the restroom (and I noticed his really nice shoes), I reveled in my accomplishment of a good first date. What a triumph! But how odd for me, as nothing normal ever seems to happen to me…

And then suddenly, my ex-boyfriend appeared next to me in the booth. It was like a horrible magic trick, I don’t even know how he got there. Suddenly he was just sitting there, right next to me. Smiling. We chatted about current life, he couldn’t believe I didn’t know it was his birthday, etc. I was still in shock that people could now magically appear in some time travel miracle, so I can’t remember too much. Then of course my date returned from the bathroom. And the ex-boyfriend kept on sitting there. Still smiling. I had to introduce them. Then the ex relented in his cocky way saying “he better let me get back to my date”. I then had to explain to the date who the ex was.

Thus, a new type of date emerged for me last evening. Now dates can be categorized as follows:
1. Really good
2. Really bad, thus really funny
3. Nicole Style (Good with expectedly bizarre occurrences, as nothing normal ever happens to me)

Valentine's Day is a Big Deal

I never knew Valentine’s Day was such a big deal. It was in 4th grade when I got to decorate a pretty box and go to school and collect cards and candy and hopefully a “you’re cute” from a boy. But if you have 4 days straight to be stuck at home with nothing but network television, you’ll be convinced that Valentine’s Day ranks right up there with Christmas. In fact, I’m astonished we don’t have the day off with all its importance. Martha, Rachel Ray, even Matt Lauer have convinced me that I must be preparing and analyzing Valentine’s Day for weeks!

What’s funny is that Valentine’s Day is like Kwanzaa to me…it just doesn’t apply. I watch the countless commercials for chocolates, body lotion, perfume, pasta, digestive products (to help with over indulgence)- all insisting that the big V-Day will be better with their products, and glaze over with irrelevant disinterest. Every daytime show for the entire week (maybe longer) has been instructing me on the rules to a sucessful holiday. The hosts have been proclaiming Happy Valentines day to their guests since Monday! What does that mean exactly? Like, “Happy I hope someone loves you and gives you chocolate and stuffed animals later this week”?

After doing some research on what Valentine’s Day actually is, the results are a little inconclusive. It seems to stem from a poem Chaucer wrote to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. He was 13 and she 14, so I kinda wonder if their brains were even developed enough to understand love. Another search says that using the language of the law courts for the rituals of courtly love, a "High Court of Love" was established in Paris on Valentine's Day in 1400. The court dealt with love contracts, betrayals, and violence against women. Judges were selected by women on the basis of a poetry reading. How romantic, violence against women.

But at the “heart” of the matter, the U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately 1 billion valentines are sent out worldwide each year. That’s a lot of card buying, a lot of postage buying. So perhaps, when feeling this holiday excludes my participation, I can look at it as Help the Recession Day. I can help America by spending my dwindling dollar on pretty paper products and contribute to a more vibrant economy.

Big Girls Don’t Cry…Until We're Sick

Have you ever seen the Sex in the City where Samantha gets really sick and is in her apartment alone and finally defeats to an all out cry fest? That was me Saturday.

Suspicious symptoms had been creeping in for a couple weeks, and I could feel the hard work of my body fighting the mystery off. I really hadn’t suffered from anything (viral or bacterially anyway) all winter- and well, I was feeling pretty cocky. I was sure it had been my clove of roasted garlic & dried fig a day.

Then it hit me. It started with painful breathing during an early AM workout. How annoying- so I cut the cardio to 45 minutes. By 12pm I was in the center of my bed unable to move. My skin hurt, breathing hurt, my eyes hurt, my BONES hurt, my muscles felt like I’d just done the Ironman, and I had a fever so high I was sweating and chilled and drifting into weird consciousness states. It was then that I started to cry. And wow did I cry. I cried harder than I’ve cried in a very long time. Why was I crying exactly? I guess partly because I felt sorry for myself, and partly because I realized how utterly hopeless we can be when our body decides to play mean tricks on us. I suppose another reason was the sheer loneliness of being sick. Once you’re of a certain age, you can’t really complain or get sympathy for being ill…as we’ve all been there/done that. Really the only people you can be a baby with are your significant other (non-existent) or your mom (unfortunately passed away). The absence of cable or movies or magazines or books that aren't deep, heavy novels may have also contributed to the crying. In fact, I'm sure it played a big part.

Yet, just when I thought I was going to die alone in my apartment from dehydration and a fever (how embarrassing), my Grandmother called. Immediately she sensed how ill I was and sympathized and worried about me. Do you have soup? Don’t go work out! Do you even have juice? Then she sent my Dad, who brought with him a stock of drugs so large he looked like he was starting a meth lab, and more food than I've ever had in my posession. And the juice was even low-sugar!

It was the most wonderful thing in the world. It made me realize that those instincts to be nurtured, babied, sympathized with- you never ever grow old of.

Then I started crying when Kanye sang at the Grammy’s. I may be going a little overboard with this crying thing…

Really...I Just Want to Grocery Shop

I love pretty grocery stores.

The beautiful rainbow of dew spritzed fruits and vegetables, well groomed aisles sporting carpet rather than linoleum, an impressive absence of fluorescent lights, the word “organic” scattered throughout. I literally can spend hours in the Monet of markets, thoughtfully contemplating what culinary masterpiece I can create from the plethera of goods. When there I am, deep in critical decision making on whether to go with an Asian Pear or Bosc, and I accidently make the crucial mistake of eye contact with the gentlemen next to me. NEVER make eye contact.
He sees the opportunity, quickly asking, “Do you like cats?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” I offer a small smile, but divert my attention back to pear pondering. I am really intent on these pears. He does not give up that easily. Closer in he moves.
“Well, I need to find a home for my cat. You look familiar, have I seen you before? You may have seen me, I was on the news last week. I’m also a professional juggler.”

I’ll spare you gory details of most of the story, but the ending was not pretty. As I continually dodged his questions and made small gestures to suggest I was in a hurry, didn’t want to talk, and was downright not interested, he refused to surrender. I would escape to a new aisle only to find him wandering towards me. How did he find me so quickly? Was he multiplying by the minute? I was being stalked. In a grocery store. I ultimately fled to the top floor and hid for 15 minutes by the vitamins. True story.

And this is just one incident. In the past 3 months I’ve also been offered business cards, given a strawberry Jolly Rancher, and followed in two circles around the imported cheese section in grocery stores. I don’t know what these guys are reading in Maxim, but some people really just want to grocery shop! I am not there to pick up men. If I was wearing a Juicy Couture tracksuit, had on Jessica Simpson hair extensions and asking you to help me carry my basket of chocolate covered strawberries & condoms- I could understand. But the worst part is the insistent denial of the situation. Do you really think I’m playing hard to get while picking out yeast-free bread? Is that sexy?

I really don’t want to have to start renting kids, wearing sweats, or pretending to be schizophrenic at a grocery store to enjoy my time. Please don’t make me. Now, if you’re hopelessly handsome, look like George Clooney and are interested in gourmet cooking- you may casually ask me about exotic mushroom varieties. I may just be interested in that…

Who Was That Girl?

As I’ve mentioned, most people I know are married or engaged (another one just today- congrats!). I am also not a particularly outgoing individual when it comes to the dating scene. You would NEVER see me approaching a man and making a move. I’m seriously like a 6th grader. If I see a guy who I find attractive, I can barely even look at him. It’s not that I’m scared to look at him, because I am not shy, but for some reason I am embarrassed to admit that I feel fondness/attraction/likeness to someone. I know. This makes things difficult. It’s hard being me. Sigh.

Last Friday night I had the rare opportunity to go out with a group of single girls. This was a big treat, a new and unexplored civilization normally only to be seen on television shows. Immediately in their presence, I felt different. Somehow being around these fun, outgoing, gorgeous women made me feel fun, outgoing and gorgeous. Their energy became my energy, and soon I was openly looking at guys and oh-my-god, actually smiling. And I wasn’t embarrassed, afraid, or ashamed. The night was fabulous. By the end of the night I wondered to myself, “Who was that girl?”

How amazing to realize the awakening of a hidden identity. Sometimes we forget in our day-to-day roles the suppressed egos we possess. Daily, weekly and monthly I must be a co-worker, a sister, a daughter, and a friend to people with lives that are much unlike mine. I play up those qualities that are recognized by my social circle (for me quirky & sarcastic girl) and hide others. Thus in this routine, I lose parts of me. I adapt, as humans do, for survival, all the while shedding those qualities that don’t seem to be of use in this life I’ve fallen into.

Funny thing is- I do remember who that girl was. She existed ongoing my freshman and sophomore years of college. I used to think maybe I remembered those as the best years of my life because I was in college, partying all the time and free from the confines I felt growing up. But maybe there was more to that. Maybe it was the best years of my life because I was at my best.

I really liked that girl. I think I’ll let her out a little more…

This is Not An Episode of The Bachelor

I admit enjoying a good episode of The Bachelor once and awhile. Generally it has to be mid-season, as I can’t take the discomfort of watching women who “fall in love” after talking to a man with veneers in .5 seconds. I really can’t take the end episodes where chicks are ready to donate kidneys for a chance at a proposal for a guy they’ve been in a polygamous relationship with for a month. But the episodes where they play dress up and go on dates to Paris and get diamond necklaces- that’s just good fun fantasy. I try and avoid listening to the conversations and just look at the pretty pictures.

Unfortunately, I think this show has had an influence on men. I’m here to tell you: You are NOT on an episode of The Bachelor.

Just today, a friend of mine had an old flame show up at work un-announced. She very skeptically went down to talk to him (in the ultra romantic setting of the lobby), where he threw compliments at her and spoke of missing her and how he needs a great date for the evening and he’ll have his limo come pick her up. Tonight.

I’m sure in his little pinhole of a brain he thought he was being super romantic. Just showing up, offering a grand date to a woman that is supposed to swoon in adoration at the mere chance to escort him for the evening. The fact that she hasn’t talked to him in a year didn’t seem to cross his mind. Or the fact that he’s married. Or his three children waiting at home. Apparently, in this chap’s world, just being Him, in what he imagines is an ultra exceptional existence, is enough.

Um, it’s not. At least not for quality women.

You have loads of money? Good for you! I hope you worked hard for it. You’re chiseled and charming and look like you grew up in a Ralph Lauren add? Congrats, I’m sure it’s easy to get dates. But really dude, stop thinking you’re all that. We are smart enough to know that your embellishments (money, looks, good shoes) are only shiny distracting objects covering up the truth of the matter. We are not all Bachelorettes waiting for the red rose.

So sure, have the limo come pick me up. Then I’ll go and pick up my friends, some champagne, and have a great night. Thanks for the free ride!