Reality Bites

"Back to life, back to reality....back to the here and now." 

Recognize the lyrics to this popular Soul II Soul tune? This song provided great creative inspiration for the music videos I produced/directed/starred in around the age of seven. Did I say that out loud? I woke up this morning with the lyrics buzzing through my brain, but this time ominously reminding me I had a real life to return to after my week of concert going in the great south. 

This sabbatical I've manufactured to try and figure my life's next great direction has so far proved, well, fruitless. I still have no clue. I did discover that there are people out there who really genuinely want to help, and that BF's worst side is while driving and best side is when fully satiated, that salsa is much better in Texas, that I still really love to workout-write-cook-and take pictures. Personal discoveries they are, answers to life they are not.

Thinking I better get moving on that sandwich girl cart idea....

Things That Now Apply: Metabolism

I've always been an avid magazine reader. Around pre-teen years I'd read my sister's Seventeen and YM and pick out the girls I wanted to look like and guys I thought were cute. In adulthood I've become addicted to all things glossy. I'll read a golf mag if it's in front of me.

Popular in women's magazines are the "Age & Metabolism Decline" articles. I've been skimming these for years. I'd be willing to bet at any time you can find half a dozen publications featuring advice on how to combat aging and the evil outcomes, particularly more fat on the thighs.  They'll give you miracle secrets on how to boost the metabolism with various tricks, like drinking ice cold water or eating spicy foods. Do I really think I'm going to lose a pound by eating habeneros? No. And I've scoffed at these articles for years. Exercise and you won't be fat has been my motto.

But as I view the pics BF took of me while on hiatus, I'm not happy. I've always worked out- since fifteen- and I do so religiously. Diet is pretty closely monitored. Alcohol tends to be a vice. Up until now this has worked for me. It's looking like this program is no longer effective, unless a puffy face is now en vogue. Frick. Not only do I have to get older, but now I can't eat chips & salsa once and awhile? Or have three vodka martinis? What to I have to do? Workout twice a day? Granted I am sporadic. I suppose if there is a science to this whole metabolism system I have been cheating it. Yuck though.

When did articles on aging start applying to me?

Deep Thoughts Across The Wastelands

Today as I spent twelve hours driving through many many miles of corn/wheat/something fields and past numerous Waffle Houses and museums honoring cowboys, simple thoughts floated around my head. Reasons to be happy and appreciative amidst life chaos. I came to the following conclusions:

1. My car gets really good gas mileage, looks pretty, and is comfortable. For this I am grateful.

2. My BF thinks I'm a pet. Meaning, he pats me on the head, plays little tricks on me, and tells me I'm cute.

3. I'm glad I don't live in Iowa

4. Vacations are much more carefree when you aren't worried about work or getting to work. However, knowing you have no paycheck makes spending money slightly painful. I'll worry later.

5. I'm an excellent snack packer. Healthy organic turkey sandwiches, fruit, cheese & crackers, rice krispy bars, expensive vitamin waters...I had an answer for all of BF's hankerings. I am the Queen of the Car Snacks World.

6. Days Inn are not that bad. Just don't turn the lights up and drink a beer before you get into bed.

This 1/3rd Life Crisis Deserves a Roadtrip. Bad Idea?

Early this morning I embark on the impromptu decision to drive across the wastelands we call Iowa, Kansas, Oklahoma, did I mention Kansas, and Texas (might have forgotten a state) in search of respite from my most recent confusions and the search of meaning and existence in the world. It just so happens all this soul searching occurs at the South by Southwest Music Festival in Austin, TX. Authentic Tex-Mex, Bob Schneider tunes, friendly "hi ya'lls" and a stroll across the greens of my alma mater are sure to feed the soul. A couple Shiner Bocks will help. 

I've taken companion on this adventure, in the form of BF. 

18 hours in a car with BF.

Is this a good idea? After all, he just threw a tennis ball at my butt. 

Stay tuned...

When a Woman Pushes You Out of Her Way to Hit on Your Boyfriend

This past weekend I got to be a roadie. 

My BF manages a musical comedic variety act, so sometimes I am scheduled in to accompanying him to the performance. This weekend we were going to a small little town I had never heard of in which I was also going to meet his grandmother. A double header.

I was pretty excited for the show. The combined elements of a Ballroom Dance Hall (pole barn), bring your own bottle, fire fighter fundraiser, guaranteed attendance by at least three 87 year olds, a meat platter, and the premise of the show being audience participation- you can't get a better people watching environment. When BF's grandma brought a bottle of Crown Royal and the rent-a-cop looked straight out of Dukes of Hazard, I knew things were about to get good. Little did I know that the real show would happen right in front of me.

Midway through the performance I found a very intoxicated woman whispering in my ear, "I love your grandma."And when I say she was a woman, I mean she was not shy of taking full advantage of the tools of self-enhancement a woman can use. Hair. Make-up. Jewelry. Perfume. Cleavage. As I informed her it was in fact BF's grandma, she barely let me finish before zeroing in on BF. I drowned her out as I studied her face. How did she get so much eye shadow on? And is it possible to wear a double layer of fake eyelashes? I don't think that's healthy...

Suddenly I woke out of my perfume drunk trance to realize The Woman has basically shoved me out of the way. My BF used to be standing to my right, The Woman to my left, but now I was standing in back of them both with a side shot of her bosom blocking my view of anything. She was crouching in prime prowling position: rounded butt in the air with an arched back and eye on the prize. My BF. I couldn't even figure out how she managed to get in that position. I turned to look at him, and he just sat there nodding nicely to her, listening to her drunkenly in her most seductive drunk storytelling manner relay the same story incoherently twice. At some point someone will acknowledge me. Nope. Instead I turned into a voyeur. Cougar and BF were in a show of their own, and I was courtside seats. 

I wondered to myself, "Should I be really bothered by this?" 

Here a woman is practically devouring my BF right in front, practically on top, of me. Isn't that at the least a bit disrespectful? I could climb up her hips and scratch her face makeup off, but she might kill be with her jewelry. There was enough metal there to make weapons for an army. However all thoughts of violence went to the wayside when I saw good old Carol. 87 year old Carol with bejeweled hands and a fur lined sweater stared at The Woman in a judgement look that can only be effective by a petite little elderly woman. Carol looked The Woman up and down in disdain, then whispered to her pal Germaine. Grandma got in on the whispering action, and then they all looked to me in camaraderie. These ladies knew what was up. They knew this cougar was trying to snatch my BF right in front of me. Suddenly I didn't need to start a Ballroom Pole Barn fight to stake claim- I had a posse with the combined age of 290. Should things get ugly, I now had canes in my arsenal.

Eventually The Woman moved away after a friend of hers realized me and my posse were staring her down. BF looked at me sheepishly and pulled me in for a hug, unaware of what actually had transpired.  And later, The Woman was crying in a huddle with her friends. Karma.

Blue Plate Special

Last night I got to have dinner with two of my oldest friends. I say "got to" because we get together roughly every full moon, despite all living within an hour of each other.

Getting together with the girls takes a complex system of emails deciding dates, times, and possible locations. You'd think we were secretaries of the state, but no, just a realtor-nurse-freelancer. Once we had finally whittled down a convenient location and date, the dinner time was emailed to me. She said:

"We decided to meet at 5pm. I'm sorry, I hope that isn't too early for you."

Okay, 5pm is a little early for dinner. 5pm is happy hour, casual meet-up of friends, not really dinner. Nevertheless I didn't really care. I'll get together at 3pm and we can call it supper. Yet again, once comfortably seated in the empty 5pm restaurant, my friend apologized to me (on behalf of both of them) about how early it was. She really hoped it was okay with me.

This confuses me. Why is 5pm early for me, and not for them? 

The only difference as far as I can tell between the three of us is that I am not married and they are. Do they think I'm out partying on weeknights until 4am and I'm just waking up at 5pm? Do they think I need to "see and be seen" and can only venture out at 9pm? Do single people eat really late lunches and therefore can't eat dinner until late?

I ask questions because this one really has me stumped. I don't get it.

Talent Should Be Given Out Equally

Talent: 

- (noun) A special natural ability or aptitude

Why does it seem like some folks hog all the talent and the rest of us get stuck with crappy abilities like spelling or cracking eggs well? When I think of the ideal occupation, I think of doing something that I'm naturally talently inclined towards and capitalizing on it for pay. Theoretically it would no longer feel like work work and more like kinda fun work. Yet to reach this occupational state of self-realization, I need to determine an actual talent. This is where I get stuck.

I think I'm marginally good at a few things. Like I dip my toes and skim the pool of talent, but I'm not swimming any Olympic trials. Then I worry perhaps there is something I'm quite talented at, but never tried therefore I'm missing out on this great opportunity to be on Dancing With The Stars (not true, as I know I'm not a naturally inclined dancer- it takes me forever to memorize two moves in a row). But you see what I'm saying. I could blame my parents, but in order to allow five children to try every sport/activity/art they would have had to hire escorts and take loans out from the government. 

What is the solution? I'm not sure. I'd like a genie to swoop down and grant me three talents. Or a psychic to reveal my innermost strengths and tell me how to use them for maximum dollar. Or maybe I should make an annoying facebook test quizzing my 278 closest friends on what they believe my talents are. Then I'll end up being employed as a professional stubborn arguer. 

               

I Need an MBA for an Internship, But Lauren Conrad Can Write a Book

While searching for steady employment options, I looked to some of the "best" companies the city has to offer. You know the companies- the ones where there are gyms on site and you don't have to steal some one's stapler because everyone has their own. They may even have free coffee. And water. I bet they have big jugs of water with both hot and cold options.

As I scrolled down to the open positions, mostly IT (because the super genius freaks from MIT I'm sure are looking for employment right now) I found something in my field. Although it was an internship, at least it could get me in the door. Visions of free Vanilla Hazelnut creamer danced in my head. Clicking on it, I became more and more excited. What a fabulous opportunity, and really, I think I'm qualified! Until I read three very confusing capital letters:

"Candidate should have their MBA."

I instructed myself calmly to not freak out. Let me get this straight. I have to have an advanced degree for an internship? You're telling me that a good 4.5 years at two top universities and $100,000 tuition is not enough? I have to spend an extra $100,000 to get a NON-PAYING job?

And that stupid girl from The Hills who constantly rolls her eyes and plays with her hair and has her own fashion line just signed deals to write books? Put Obama on the line! This is an extra new case of discrimination and a violation of equal rights! Those who are rich and privileged (MBA students with $250,000 student loans are not taking internships) get their first jump at opportunity, while the 9% of us (eerily close to 10%) have to do everything we can to get an employer to notice us.

What's a girl to do? 

A) Pretend I'm super rich

B) Try to be a reality star. Apparently that's the new college.

Age Should Be Earned

Yesterday I informed my boyfriend that I do not deserve to be a year older at my next birthday. In fact, I should be stripped of last year's honor as well. I have done nothing in the last 730 or so days to be granted the gift of age progression.

Shouldn't age be established by achievement and developmental milestones? Rather than biological life stages? Just because days pass on by does not prove we've really become older, because being older suggests being more developed and mature than the previous stage.

Personally I think time is finally catching up with me. Always pegged an old soul and mature for my age, things are slowing down and mellowing out. Maturation halted. After moving through life experience at warp speed time ticks sluggishly in the clock of personal progress and I stay the same. Well, may hair doesn't. I tend to change a hair a lot. But I hardly think that should grant me a new numerical value.

I've still got a good 6 months to go, so you know, a lot can happen. Maybe I will move an inch or so. Otherwise my twin brother is going to turn a year older than I.

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.