Life Outside of the Barn

"You look like John McEnroe’s fat cousin, John Mac and cheese."

Mon, 06 May 2013 08:14:44 -0700

““You look like John McEnroe’s fat cousin, John Mac and cheese.””

Where to Find Me

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 18:50:11 -0700

In case you missed it…I moved platforms (like 8 months ago…whoops)! All of my essays and other general nonsense can be found on my new site-so stop by, say hi and leave me nice comments. I like those.

Visit me over at my new space.

Going Public

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 16:11:19 -0700

I’ve decided to make the leap into domain-ing myself. Which kind of means I’ll be making my blog public and available to the world which I really haven’t been doing. I saw one of those corny stylized quotes recently that people make into wall “art” that said: “If you always do what you did, you will always get what you got.”

Corny as shit but came at the right time for me. What am I doing with this blog if I’m only sharing it with a select number of people on my Facebook page? It’s not going to take me anywhere if I just let it sit here, stagnant. Not to say that Tumblr isn’t a great platform. It does all the work for me and was a great introductory tool. Having my own site, that I have to pay for will incentivize me to do the one thing I’ve never really done with this blog: share.

If you’re a regular reader (hi you two! or three!), you know that I talk a lot of shit on here-mostly calling it as I see it type stuff-so you can understand why I’d have some reservations about publicizing my pseudo rants, particularly the ones about work. You know, things that could get me fired. It’s not like I’m calling anyone out by name, listing where I work or even my full name (or part of my name), but in a digital age where everything can be tied back to you, it’s kind of worrisome. I don’t write these things as a disrespect to anyone and I really don’t think I should have to defend myself against things that I say that are true.

Good thing I have no reservations about getting fired I guess.

Also there still really isn’t too much focus on what I write about-every blog has a niche and doesn’t just read like someone’s personal journal. I’m going to try and stick to what I know. Crazy people. Unprofessional people. Tacky people. Things that annoy me (hint: EVERYTHING). And write about them. I was a sociology major in college so I guess in some way, my blog is a reflection of my rich educational history.

Anyway, thanks to everyone (you two or three) who has been reading, enthusiastically or out of pity. I hope I can continue to make you laugh (or cry, from laughing I hope), help you relate and let myself be a reminder to you that it could always be worse.

Postcard Poster: A Traveling Housewarming Present

Fri, 14 Sep 2012 11:55:00 -0700

Warning: this post is STUPID with memes from The Hills. Because it is dedicated to my best friend. And we still continue to be friends even though The Hills is her favorite show.

So remember that supersecret Pinterest project I set up with this post a couple months ago? No? Where have YOU been?

Kidding. But really, I mentioned a project I was working on but had to wait to share because there were a lot of moving parts and I didn’t want any spoiler alerts on the receiving end of the project.

In July my best friend who I’ve known since I was 6 years old moved to Houston to start a graduate program. There’s something to be said for someone who’s been able to not only stand me for 21 (and counting!) years, but consider me a near and dear friend. I’m not the easiest person to be friends with; Ashley knows this. Yet, here we are, making it work! *snap snap*

We met in the first grade. I don’t remember how. I am positive that Ashley approached me first because she’ll talk to anyone and can carry a conversation about anything and pretend to be really interested in it. Even if she wants to tell you what a giant waste of life you are.

She has always run interference for me, never seeing my awkwardness or shyness as a weakness.

It’s corny to call her my sister-friend, but she is. More sister than friend. As an only child, that is so valuable and as a human to have a connection like that with someone, related or not, isn’t ordinary. I am so lucky.

It was scary for me to find out that she was moving because it meant change, and I don’t do change. Even change that I intellectually know is for the better, I still fight it. Her decision speaks a lot to what a majority of my circle of friends are doing: They’re growing up. Or at least trying to. Buying Homes. Building careers. Going back to school. I knew Ashley and I would grow up some day, but it never occurred to me until then that there might come a time when we wouldn’t be growing up together.

When she decided she was moving, I started to think about what I’d get her as a going away gift. I have a bad track record when it comes to gifts and she’s been on the receiving end of a lot of them. I think she just likes to think of those gifts as “quirky.”

I knew she wouldn’t want a going away gift, and it’s kind of pointless to give someone who is moving across the country a photo album, coffee mug or Yankee candle they now have to haul with them. I mean who’s to say she wasn’t going to toss it out of the window somewhere in between the Grand Canyon and Austin? It would’ve been one more thing for her to worry about as she packed up her entire life so instead I thought a housewarming gift that could be delivered to her new place would be more appropriate.

I stumbled across a birthday postcard poster project and the idea stuck with me. It could really be used for any special occasion and I couldn’t think of any more special of a way to settle into a new life in a new city than having your first mail pieces be postcards from your far away friends.

The basic premise of the project is that a print is broken out into post card sized prints to form a sort of puzzle. Family members and friends each get a card to send to the recipient and as the recipient gets them in the mail one by one she not only gets a nice note but a piece of the puzzle.

I commissioned this great graphic designer, Lindsay, whose print I’d bought for my friend Jackie. I shared the postcard poster idea with her and she was so jazzed to do it! She now sells that print in her shop, Unraveled Design, on Etsy. She also does photography and branding and should I really get serious about building a personal brand (aka making this blog real), I’ll likely be working with her. I asked everyone to take a photo with their post card and send them to me so I could document the project.

For Ashley’s print, I used an A.A. Milne quote that I’ve always liked. Lindsay created a design around it and broke it out into postcards.

Below are some of the photos.

~~It was really awesome to see the print go from an idea that I e-mailed Lindsay with to this finished product.~~

**Right here was supposed to a nice Instagram photo of Ashley standing next to her poster, giving a thumbs up or something. I didn’t account for human error when I started writing this piece two months ago…And by human error I mean, she didn’t get all of the cards!**

Yeeeeah. She got five, maybe six of the post cards. Thanks you losers who didn’t send yours. Kidding! Sort of.

Anyway, thanks to these ladies, the project wasn’t a complete failure-I mean, it’s still nice to get mail….right?

In theory, it was a cool project. A lot of moving pieces, but fun to put together.

Since Lindsay sells the print in her shop, I’m just going to buy her the print. User error: neutralized!

I didn’t send her off completely empty handed though. I made her a mix CD of top 100 hits (according to Billboard) from every year that we’ve known each other. I had been thinking of making her a mix already, but one day on my way to work the idea of a “trip through the hits” type mix just came to me. I’ve known Ashley since 1991, so you could maybe imagine there’s some Ace of Base, Mariah, Bone Thugs, TLC and Montell Jordan, who I until recently did not know was a different person than the talk show host.

Shut up.

Anyway, this type of mix CD could work for any kind of milestone or celebration and researching the Billboard hits of the past is almost more fun than shopping a discount wine sale.

While I’m so sad that we’re not within happy hour distance, I am so proud of her for taking such a big step in a positive direction. What’s that lame thing they say about parting ways not being goodbye?

So.

Until next time.

The Zesty Pickle

Wed, 12 Sep 2012 11:57:00 -0700

Do people ever approach you at the market and alert you of current deals? And by people I mean strangers who are not store employees? No? Well this is why I write this blog and you don’t. I get approached pretty frequently by complete strangers who want to share their coupon findings, intimate details of their life, ask me deeply personal questions, talk to me about extraterrestrials or try and guess my ethnicity. I usually just let them stick their foot in their mouth with that last one and walk away casually.

I used to make the joke that I was a freak magnet. Anyone and everyone feels comfortable talking to me for unknown reasons. I’m not what I’d consider friendly. I’m not what I’d consider personable. I’m not what I’d consider a person who smiles unprovoked. That look on my face, it’s kind of permanent.

Yet, here are complete strangers still attempting to make social contact with me on a more-than-I’m-comfortable-with regular basis, so the freak magnet joke ceases to be a joke. It’s just a way of life.

What does this have to do with grocery shopping? I’m getting there.

When I’m at the market, I don’t like to be bothered. For some people grocery shopping is stressful and done out of necessity. If I could afford it-monetary and time- I’d go every day. I love lists. So there’s nothing more enjoyable to me than taking a list to the market, wandering the aisles at an accepatable pace and checking off things one by one, picking up non-necessities like cookie butter and frozen burritos along the way (those things are never on the list and always somehow end up in my basket). I never go to the market with anyone and taking calls or texts is not an option because it’s a distraction. Everyone has their quirks. Mine is being undisturbed in a sea of people at the grocery store.

So you can imagine my alarm (not surprise, however) when I was approached at my most recent visit to the market by a 50ish year old man with a very Haight/Ashbury-looking ponytail wearing a dirty colorblocked shirt, cargo shorts and possibly TEVAs (I was too scared to look). I was exiting the store when he made his approach.

“Zesty pickles!……::indistiguishable mumbling::”

Red alert. Nothing good comes from a conversation with a complete stranger that starts with pickles.

“Excuse me?” I was walking at a pace that would’ve been too obviously noticed had I took off running, so I tried not to slow down as he made an effort to match my stride and repeat himself.

”::incoherent mumbling…. 46 cents!” He was trying to say something, but he was talking so fast and I was walking so fast that it was difficult to decipher. I had to slow down. I didn’t have to. I just really wanted to know what the fuck zesty pickles had to do with 46 cents in change.

“Um. *Excuse* me?”

“Zesty pickles are 46 cents a jar! Can you believe it?!” He was so excited he could hardly get the words out. Genuinely excited about some fucking pickles. Zesty pickles no less.

Now I love a good pickle just as much as the next person, but I don’t stop to talk to strangers about pickle deals as they’re exiting the market.

I slowed my pace to a complete stop to ask him if it was a good deal. He had my full attention. If you’re going to get this excited about pickles, I want to know why.

“HELL YEAH! Hell yeah it’s a good deal!” I’m guessing the rest of what he said was an explanation of why this was such a deal, but he was talking so fast that his sentences were again, indecipherable. It was a little after 9 o’clock in the PM-there are very few reasons to make pickle runs that late in the evening. One of them is pregnancy. The other is drugs. The story I settled on was that this man had seen an ad in his paper for these 46 cent jars of zesty pickles, cooked some meth, broke the first rule of drug dealing (don’t get high on your own supply) and came to the market to make his zestiest pickle dreams come true.

As I tried to nonchalantly part ways with him, I noticed he was heading towards the shopping carts. That’s when I realized that he had no groceries, no baskets, nothing on him but the afterglow of meth use. So one of two things had happened:

A. He had come into the store to case the pickle selection to make sure that he wasn’t hallucinating the ad he saw.

B. He had completely forgotten what he’d come into the store for until he stumbled across the non-perishable vegetables aisle.

Either way he was about to get a cart to exit that store with 50+ jars of discounted pickles.

This was my out.

“Well, you better get your basket before someone cleans this place out and leaves no zesty pickles for anyone!”

“RIGHT!”

Before he could say basket, I had taken 4 Olympic long jump-sized steps out of the store and was running towards my car.

You’re probably wondering why I even bothered to stop and talk to this pickle fiend. I’ve already been through the five stages of grief version of realizing I attract weirdos. I’ve reached acceptance and that’s why I have this blog.

How to be Friends with Another Woman (Link)

Tue, 11 Sep 2012 11:58:00 -0700

How to be Friends with Another Woman (Link):

I came across this article via Lauren Leto, co-cretor of Texts from Last Night, who didn’t write this, but was timely in the posting of the article. Her tweet linking to the article read “Sometimes, your friends will date people you cannot stand….”

Attention: grabbed. I was just having this very conversation. Many times. With many people. In the past week. So I popped open the article and it’s like someone had lifted my journal and decided to pen me a personal letter-a letter that affirms, advises and scolds (just a little, in a non-judgy way). A letter a friend would write.

The article lists pointers on how to be a good girl friend. Not in the “you go girl!” sense, but in the “we are 20+ years old, time to stop bullshitting” sense. Lists are my favorite way to digest information, so this wasn’t just a great read because of the content-it was listed out for my short-attention span reading pleasure.

I wouldn’t say that I agree 100% with all of these, but for the most part this list is spot on and will go against pretty much every impulse, instinct and “rule” that you’ve ever learned about being a good lady friend. Namely #7.

“Tell your friends the hard truths they need to hear.” If you don’t tell them, no one’s going to tell them.

We’re kind of conditioned not to be honest with our friends-being honest is complicated and ….honest. The truth is not pretty sometimes and while your intentions when being truthful with a friend aren’t to be hurtful, sometimes it hurts and then someone gets pissy and upset (not you) and the conversation ends with:

I love that author follows up with another piece of important advice (7A): don’t be fucking rude about truth-telling. Use your common sense and most of all use some grace when bringing down the truth hammer. If you don’t know how to finesse a delicate subject then read a few chapters from Emily Post before attempting or SHUT UP and let someone else do it. The author doesn’t advise this last part, but I do. There’s a difference between being honest with your friends and attempting to have an “I told you so moment.”

For those of you with kids. I’m working on 6E. I’m really trying.

And for those of you into the large, all-encompassing group dinner to celebrate the day you punched your way head first through your mom’s uterus, amongst other celebrations, listen up:

“I think the more egregious friendship dinner faux paus is the big birthday dinner. Wherein you basically invite your 20 closest friends to go to a restaurant you like, and pay for your dinner, and spend an hour and a half figuring out the check. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, PLEASE STOP DOING THIS…..this isn’t the Last Supper….”

This was just from the comments section, but makes a valid point.

In case this isn’t clear, I’ll say what everyone else won’t say: Mass group dinners are NOT ok.

Twenty people are not your closest friends (really, be serious and get over yourself). Invite those 20 people to a lounge for drinks and invite three of those people to a dinner at which they will split the bill three ways in your honor. You get two parties! YOU’RE WELCOME.

Really, take a few minutes to read through this list, then tell me what you think. Is there anything you would add or take out? Or do you think it’s total bullshit?

This past week the retail world kicked off one of its two...

Mon, 10 Sep 2012 09:10:00 -0700

This past week the retail world kicked off one of its two seasonal birthdays with New York Fashion Week, a week full of high fashion, letting us know what’s going to be ok to wear in 6 months.

I ran into this woman over the weekend, and her ensemble was obviously a protest on NYFW. OBVIOUSLY.

After I was able to blink and prevent myself from throwing up my pesto chicken flatbread, I was able to fathom what was happening in front of me.

This woman was wearing the bermuda triangle of mistakes-fashion, social and life in general-but it wasn’t a mistake. This was purposeful. It wanted to be looked at and noticed. It was making a statement.

Jean. Shorts. Overalls. Otherwise known as Jorteralls. I remember wearing something similar in elementary school. Those motherfuckers were really inconvenient when your 8 year old bladder suddenly remembered it was too full.

Upon closer inspection these appeared to be homemade. This woman was basically giving the proverbial middle finger to NYFW.

Global warming, catastrophic earthquakes, civil unrest, random and despicable murders all point to the apocalypse.

But. This, THIS is how I know that the apocalypse is near.

Redemption: Identity Theft (Link)

Sun, 09 Sep 2012 11:13:28 -0700

Redemption: Identity Theft (Link):

“I was thinking about how unfair identity theft is…..When someone steals your identity, they only take the good parts. They don’t take the rat trap apartment, the depression and the shitty job.”

If you’ve ever had your identity stolen, you will totally appreciate this true story of redemption by Tristan Jimerson. It’s about 20 minutes long (including an intro and wrap up), but worth every minute.

I came across this by way of a program on my local NPR station (KNPR) and it just solidifies my love of public radio. I don’t watch the news nearly as much as I should and catching news on my way to work every morning on NPR prevents me from being completely ignorant of the world around me (as much as I’d like to be).

I think there’s still this misconception out there that public radio is stuffy and unrelatable, but I’ve found in the past couple of years that it’s anything but. The programming has a really special quality because well, it IS quality. The content is fresh and original and besides news there are lots of other shows that put a funny spin on current events, patch together seemingly common stories and make them into the most intriguing human interest stories, and even a “show for people who love to eat.”

Public radio is important to me not just because it prevents the memorization of any more Bieber songs by giving me an alternative when I need to change the channel, but because it keeps me informed and gives me a legitimate reason to turn my radio on.

Interlude with a Callbacker

Wed, 05 Sep 2012 18:27:00 -0700

While I was rushing around this evening, trying to get dinner ready (namely, roasting a chicken and trying to hide the evidence aka pretending the oven was never on) we got yet another call from an 800 number which I would have assumed was Sallie Mae had I not paid my bill on time this month. But. I paid my bill on time, early in fact. Maybe they were calling because they thought there was a mistake. Or maybe they thought I was dead and someone was making the payments on my behalf.

On the other end was a man who was not Sallie Mae, but a man I imagined to be mid-40s and wearing an unfortunate polo shirt and because he worked from a phone bank, sweatpants. He did not identify himself by name, but peppered me with questions about the whereabouts of my mother like I was being investigated for homicide.

He was from Sears.

And he has one of the worst jobs in the world. Answering the calls of an automated callback system. Basically his job is russian roulette, but instead of getting shot in the face with a Glock, he gets to have verbal tussles with people like me.

This is how our conversation went.

“May I speak to Ms. Smith?”

“Who is this?”

“Sears.”

“And….”

“Well is she home?”

“What can I help you with?”

“Is Ms. Smith home?”

“Nope.”

“So when should I call back?”

“Never.”

“Well this is an automated call back, so the system is going to keep dialing you until I can speak to Ms. Smith.”

“WHo is this again?”

“SEARS.”

“What are you calling for?”

“Is Ms. Smith home?”

“You already asked me that.”

“When should I call back?”

“You already asked me that.”

“Look the system is going to keep making automated callbacks until someone picks up!”

“Whoa whoa, no need to get testy. Who called?”

“Huh?”

“Who called? You said this was an automated callback.”

“Well the system makes callbacks.”

“Callbacks to return calls.”

“It um…the system makes callbacks.”

“Did you hear what you just said? That makes no sense. In order for this to be a callback, someone had to have called first. So you’re telling me your system just automates calls for no reason and then you get the unfortunate displeasure of talking to me….Who called?”

“Ms. Smith?”

“No she didn’t. She only calls when she’s mad at you guys, and we haven’t had a run in with you in about a month. What’s this about?”

“It’s about your warranty.”

“Oh, well I made the warranty arrangements.”

“Are you Ms. Smith?”

“Nope, but I’m her muscle, and I make the mean calls and get us warranties.”

“Ok, well the system is going to-“

“OK I GOT IT.”

“What time should I call back?”

“How about you give me your phone number so I can call you back.”

“Well that isn’t how this works.”

“That’s how I work.”

::FLABBERGASTED SIGH::

“Ok guy, call back in an hour and half.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So that puts us about 7:30.”

“Yes. Jesus no wonder you’re a telemarketer..”

“Excuse me.”

“Call back at 7:30. I’ll probably be answering the phone.”

“But I need to talk to-“

I’m sure he’s familiar with the sound of the dialtone. It is the soundtrack of his life.

What I’m Spinning: Drifting In and Out ~ Porcelain Raft (bonus, it’s a FREE download on Amazon!)

Mr. Little Jeans - “Rescue Song (RAC Remix)” From the Celeste...

Wed, 05 Sep 2012 15:03:00 -0700

Mr. Little Jeans - “Rescue Song (RAC Remix)”

From the Celeste and Jesse Forever soundtrack

I need this soundtrack to be out YESTERDAY.

How Celeste and Jesse Saved Labor Day

Mon, 03 Sep 2012 22:03:00 -0700

The pizzazz of Labor Day is generally lost on me for many reasons, but here are a few.

1. I am afraid of my grill. Labor Day is all about the two B’s of summer: barbecuing and boozing. I usually only get to do the latter, if I can afford it. I invested in the old school, never-fail Weber about 3 years ago and have almost got my money’s worth out of it. I stress the word, almost. It never lights. I’ve sprayed myself with lighter fluid more times than I’d like to admit. And I’ve wasted enough matches to get me red flagged by the EPA. The last time I tried to use it, I believe pizza dough was involved and it ended with me calling the Thai place around the corner for takeout. It’s better for my sanity and for the neighborhood in general because if I keep trying, things are going to end like this:

2. I’m almost always broke on LDW (that’s how the kids are acronym-ing it). Somehow, some way, I’m always out of money by that weekend and end up waking up that Monday praying that there’s an SVU marathon on to simultaneously allow me to forget that I’m not doing anything fun that day AND have to go back to work the next day.

3. Shorts and two piece trendy swimwear are the official LDW uniform. If you lived on a steady diet of wine and cheese quesadillas, you’d be boycotting the uniform too.

This Labor Day was no different. I had a busy weekend and should’ve been able to sleep in, blissfully and purposefully ignorant of the fact that my bank account was just about cleaned out. However after waking up to one of the dogs making an inadvertent three feet drop from my bed, I rolled myself out of bed, made plans to not read a book I have a 14 day loan on from the library and cursed the fact that I had to be back at work in less than 24 hours. Then I cursed myself for even cursing myself about that since there are people who’d like to trade places with me and have steady employment.

Ah, Labor Day.

Instead of following my usual “my life is a toilet” script, I forced myself out to go pick up some essentials and then forced myself into a movie theater to see Celeste and Jesse Forever.

BEST LABOR DAY EVER.

I’m no movie critic, so without giving away the plot, this movie was awesome. And not just because it was set in LA.

But seriously, it gave me hope about the sad state of decline of the romantic comedy genre. The potential for good rom coms is still out there, it just takes a fresh eye, a great perspective and a script that doesn’t gloss over the details of relationships and make them unrealistic, unbelievable. Not saying that we should do away with all traditional (see: bad) romantic comedies because we need those around to appreciate the good ones.

Written by Rashida Jones (Celeste) and Will McCormack (Skillz, C and J’s friend who steals every scene he is in), the movie examines the relationship of a divorcing couple who remain friends, live on the same property and continue to hang out in their circle of friends as a non-couple, couple. While the couple tries to maintain their BFF status, it’s weirding out their friends and the lack of boundaries eventually presents itself as a problem.

What I liked so much about this movie is that it didn’t villainize anyone, didn’t make anyone the victim or the bad guy as hard as the characters tried to do that themselves. It wasn’t a situation that called for that and the writing never went there. In the disintegration of a relationship, there isn’t always a bad guy or a victim-sometimes relationships fall apart with both parties to blame, no one person more or less. Celeste and Jesse tackles the old and overdone question “can we still be friends?” in a fresh and honest way by not really answering that question. Instead it looks at how one grows up when “can we still be friends?” may no longer be a realistic question. While we see Celeste and Jesse go from best friends to best…nothing, they’re forced to confront their feelings, particularly when they are not being honest about them. Those feelings are messy and ugly but as we come to see, trying to play them down doesn’t help anyone.

While this sounds like a swallow a bottle of Ambien type of plot, it was anything but and offered up some great comedic moments in all the right places. And by right places, I mean every time I thought I was going to drown in my own tears, I was saved with a laugh. Whether it was Celeste falling asleep drunk on a floatie in the pool during her best friend’s wedding shower, Jesse crashing and burning the construction of an Ikea dresser or their friend Skillz herbally sedating the both of them with his supply every chance he gets (call me after you see the movie so we can talk about Celeste hitting herself in the face with a bong), those moments were as funny as each humbling slap of reality was painful.

I honestly didn’t think Andy Samberg could live down “Dick in a Box”…I mean how are we supposed to take this guy seriously? I’m glad someone took a chance on him and gave him the opportunity to show some depth because he wasn’t just convincing as Jesse, he was convincing enough to make you believe no one else could’ve played that part except for him.

To tie it all together was one of the best soundtracks I’ve heard in a long, long time. Kind of really pissed it’s not on Amazon and/or iTunes yet. Really, where do I get it? Someone keep me updated.

Before I went into the theater, I skimmed a few reviews and came across this from Roger Ebert:

“I’m not surprised that Rashida Jones took the lead in writing this screenplay; the way things are going now, if an actress doesn’t write a good role for herself, no one else is going to write one.”

I hope that she continues to write and create roles for herself or other women that wouldn’t be written otherwise. Celeste and Jesse was was funny, smart and even charming in its own way, and the type of romantic comedy that doesn’t try to answer every question in 90 minutes. It takes its time to examine and shows that unanswered questions do not mean that there’s an absence of clarity.

The Bridges That Burn Us (And Why It's OK to Burn Them Yourself)

Wed, 22 Aug 2012 22:46:00 -0700

It has been a trying few months.

I have been that friend. You know, THAT friend. The one who’s like Rachel Dratch’s SNL character “Debbie Downer,” who never has anything nice to say and really knows how to shit all over a party.

I don’t like being that person who no one wants to invite to happy hour anymore. I love happy hour too much.

The main source of my Debbie Downer anguish has been career-related. Or lack-of-career related.

I think everyone has been at a crossroads in their career where they were unsure of what the next steps were. Like a holding room. Except I think I’ve overstayed my welcome here.

As much as I’d like to believe I can have a happy and productive life when I have a shitty career situation, that kind of idealism is just that: idealistic. In the US, your job *is* tied to your life. You want to believe it isn’t, but at the most basic level it’s a cultural standard to want to be happy with what you do. So referencing the happiness of people of other countries is irrelevant because job satisfaction isn’t valued more anywhere than it is in the US. I’m sure that’s a statistic. Somewhere. I’m not here to school you though.

As much as I’d love to fill you in on what I do, the details aren’t important. I should err on the side of caution anyway since my behavior at work lately has been equal parts apathy and insubordination. While the mental trauma (for lack of a better word) of work is racking me up some frequent flyer miles at Total Wine, I still need a paycheck. Some of you reading this can attest to the bullshit I’ve endured that would legitimize my “drinking problem.”

Recently, several of my professional relationships were compromised, burned and essentially ruined, not by my hand, which created an entirely different set of disturbing problems. It really makes for an uncomfortable and awkward situation in which I have to continue playing nice when it’s not in my nature to do so. It’s something I still need to learn how to do: not take it personally. If you don’t take it personally, you can continue to play nice right? More importantly, I need to learn how to either not react inappropriately or be smart about striking back, however in this situation striking of any sort is not an option.

It’s hard not to take things at work personally when you take your work to heart, particularly when you are busting your ass. I guess if I didn’t care about what I did, I wouldn’t be so offended. No one else seems to care, moreover, no one seems to notice when I dial myself back. So is the solution to just stop caring?

It doesn’t seem like the most prudent choice or like a solution at all, but I’m at a place where giving less of a shit is the option that’s going to get me in the least amount of trouble. Relatively, that’s still a lot of trouble. Relatively, on the integrity scale, I’m still scoring pretty high if that tells you anything about my surroundings.

Professionally, this is a death sentence. Personally, it is exhausting.

Instead of accepting that something like this is….acceptable, I’ve made some decisions that could be categorized as bridge burning. There’s this negative connotation that comes with that phrase, but in the right conditions, bridge burning is necessary. Who’s to say that there’s not a river I can jump into that will take me elsewhere? Why is it always a bad choice to deliberately burn a bridge?

That was really corny, and I kind of stole it from somewhere, but it’s true. I hate it when someone says not to burn bridges because that person is assuming that the action is strictly retaliatory and not productive. People who say that assume that only bad things can come from making a disconnect-that one day, you’re going to need that entity or person on the other side. Sometimes, that divide has to be made. It’s not the best choice all of the time-use your best judgment and common sense to make the determination that the action is appropriate for the given situation. In other words, be an adult about it.

This recent experience really forced me to evaluate my priorities and I discovered that what I value is more important than the perceived consequence of detaching myself and “burning a bridge.” I’ve had to really figure out what’s important to me so I can start to dig myself out of an incredibly deep post-grad career and life hole.

It’s the same kind of evaluation I’d usually do around New Year’s: what are my next steps, what changes am I going to make, how do I get there. Questions I avoided this past New Year’s to curb the usual holiday season meltdown that is usually experienced at 11:59:50 on December 31st. I hate that. I hate sitting in front of the TV and yelling at my local newscasters to stop the clock because I’m not where I’m supposed to be yet. I hate feeling unaccomplished at that very moment where I’m supposed to be embracing the New Year with hope and excitement.

Resolutions usually fail for me because they’re built on panic, and usually made in those final seconds when filled nostalgia and drunk on my own naivete (amongst other things), am thinking “I’m going to make this year count!” While everyone else is toasting champagne and counting backwards from 10 in unison, I’m drinking straight from a bottle of Martini Rossi Asti and making pacts with myself to stop eating cheese quesadillas until I lose 30 pounds.

While I wouldn’t refer to my plans as resolutions, I’ve pared it down to acknowledging a few things:

1. I want to work for myself. While I haven’t ever worked in the public sector, I’ve had my fill of answering to entities whose professional integrity would disturb the likes of Bernie Madoff. I may not be the most seasoned professional, however I am professional which is more than I can say for about 80% of my colleagues, and I use that word generously. I’d like to set and keep those standards and maintain some sense of integrity, something I’ve had very few good examples to learn from. I don’t know what the challenges are of being self-employed but I’m not dense enough to think that anything about it will be simple or easy. I’m not even sure if it will be fulfilling. I do know that what I’ve been working with has not worked for me yet. I haven’t completely ruled out working for someone else in the public sector. I imagine the public sector is a little more up front about being dishonest which I can respect more than veiled “good intentions” that are nothing of the sort.

2. In order to work for myself, I need to go back to school. Sure there are people out there who don’t need a business background to leverage a career boost or start their own business, they’re entrepreneurs goddamit! But. I want credibility. More than that, I’m finally in a place where I want to go back to school because I want to go back and not because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I’ve been operating most of my life choices on “Logically, I’m supposed to do this. It’s what everyone expects me to do.” Well everyone else doesn’t have to live with my choices-I do. So I’ll go back to school and at the very least get some really decent networking out of it. After 5 years of dicking around and waiting for things to happen, I need to make it happen for myself not because I think it’s what everyone expects of me. I should have expected better of myself.

3. I need to move out. While living at home is convenient and void of any responsibility, I need my own space. While my mom has been gracious to let me come home, we aren’t eye level about most things which has made living at home stressful. I like to entertain and have people over. I like a neat and organized kitchen. I like to listen to NPR on the weekends and not have the TV on for 10 hours at a time. I like to follow a schedule when it comes to keeping the house clean and orderly. My mom does not like any of those things and because she’s at an age where being set in your ways is a rite of passage into senior citizenship, there’s no changing that. I can’t guarantee that my mom and I will get along better after I move out, but she will finally have a chance to transition into the friend role something that I don’t think she feels like she can do as long as I’m living under her roof. One day, we’ll be able to get to a point where she can stop dispensing advice as a mom and start listening as a friend, knowing that sometimes not saying anything at all is what I need.

I imagine we’ll never be these Gilmores:

But at some point, we’ll likely get to be these Gilmores:

No more settling. No more complacency. No more playing it nice or safe. Nice and safe isn’t going to make me happy or get me anywhere.

Committing metaphorical arson will.

What I’m spinning: Making Plans for Nigel~Nouvelle Vague.

The Simplicity of Mail (Or Lack Thereof)

Sat, 28 Jul 2012 15:45:00 -0700

I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with the post office in the past year. The concept of the post office is so simple: buy shipping, ship items. Yet, as a government agency, the USPS is anything but simple. Like any other government entity they are fueled off of two things: inefficiency and poor customer service. Not to say the all government agencies are run this way, but you’re prone to start thinking this way after having waited in line at the DMV for 17 hours only to discover you were in the wrong line.

A simple trip for stamps or the mailing of a flat rate box can turn into an all day affair that may or may not end in a screaming match between the post office employee and several customers. Yes, employee, not employees, because it never fails that whichever post office I go to, there is only one employee behind the counter, doing his or her best to stretch out each transaction as if he is getting paid extra to make you wait. They are never nice. They are never friendly. They always eye your Christmas card or precisely taped box suspiciously like you’re running drugs, as if I’d run drugs through the post office. My package wouldn’t get to the buyer on time and I’d be murdered Pablo Escobar-style and memorialized in a future Aaron Sorkin film.

I hardly ever need stamps, but today I needed to get some stamps for the remaining invites for my friend’s wedding shower. I was lucky to arrive at the post office and not have to wait in the usual line of 20+ disgruntled people. Instead, there were two people in front of me, and three being assisted by a record number of postal employees who were showing those customers varying degrees of apathy. One woman tried to ask a question of the curmudgeonly man who in the loosest sense of the term was “assisting” her, and he barked an answer at her before she could even finish asking. The woman seemed unfazed by the more than harsh response and continued to ask more questions, breaking one of the cardinal rules of post office etiquette: never ask the employees anything ever. They are not there to answer questions. They’re not even there to make sure your package gets anywhere in a timely manner or in one piece. They are there because like any other government job, it would almost literally take a sweeping government sanction to get them fired. His local congressman would likely have to come and fire him in person and even then he’d still walk away with a more than generous severance package and get to keep their pension plan.

I was hoping that my place in line didn’t unintentionally delegate me to the 75-year old man with an anger issue, but I would never be so lucky. I casually walked up to the counter, and gently placed the envelopes in between us, like a peace offering. He looked at me over the rim of his glasses and then down at the envelopes like I had just spit on them. He gingerly picked one up, made a face and then asked me what I wanted to do with these. The envelopes were clearly unstamped. I thought it was obvious. I broke the second cardinal rule of post office etiquette: never assume the employee has or will ever use his or her God-given common sense.

“I need stamps,” I said flatly. I’m not one of those people who tries to turn a situation around with a funny quip or by turning on the charm. No, if you’re going to give me snark I’m going to give it right back.

He made another face at the envelopes and turned the one in his hand over to discover the return label. Sometimes I put the return label on the back for aesthetic purposes and this was one of those times.

“You know,” he grumbled. “You shouldn’t put the return label on the back. This might get mailed back to you.”

Incredulous, I asked him what he meant.

“You should always put the label on the front.”

“I’m sorry, what’s confusing about this? The ‘to’ address and stamp will be on the front. Like they should be.”

He practically bared his teeth at me like a rabid dog in response.

“I’M JUST SAYING, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS SOMETIMES.”

Stunned, I just stood there without words while he painstakingly doled out seven stamps and rang me up.

I paid my due and turned away, saying thank you as an afterthought (for what, I don’t know) and stamped my envelopes at the counter. Upon first glance, they looked like the kind that have to be moistened and I went from 0-60 in a matter of seconds, thinking he’d given me those on purpose. Upon further inspection I saw that they were the self-adhesive kind and was glad I stopped myself from throwing a temper tantrum that would’ve prompted them to call the police (which I’m sure wouldn’t be the first time they would’ve had to do it).

As I drove away, the stupidity of what he said struck me. I wish it had struck me while I was at the counter so I didn’t have to shout it at myself as I headed towards Target.

If I’m to understand correctly, what he said to me was that a trained postal employee cannot tell the difference between a “to” and “from” label. He’s telling me that people who are paid by the US government to know not only what a piece of mail looks like but are also responsible for mail pieces that contain checks, breakables, and J.Crew rewards cards, people who operate mail trucks and large pieces of machinery, these people may not be able to tell the difference between a “to” and “from” address. It’s not even a matter of thinking outside of the box. The post office has been in business for 200+ years and you mean to tell me that in that time the training provided still hasn’t been able to help your employees clearly identify where a piece of mail is coming from and going to?

At the most basic level, what he told me was that the post office has not conquered it’s most very elementary operation: IDENTIFYING MAIL.

As I pulled into the Target parking lot to start the rest of my day, I regretted leaving my envelopes to be mailed at that post office. I have not once ever had a mail piece with the return address on the back of the envelope returned to me. But I can bet that four of the seven I left at that post office will mysteriously make their way back to my mailbox.

Matildastep

Sun, 15 Jul 2012 19:27:00 -0700

Matildastep:

Matilda is uncontestedly one of my favorite movies and it’s not because I totally relate to a nerdy little girl who enjoys reading way too much. No. I’m more like the little fat ass who ate the headmasters cake in secrecy, was caught and publicly humiliated in front of the entire school by being forced to eat what appeared to be 20 pounds worth of chocolate cake. He won. And was subsequently further humiliated when the empty plate on which he took his victory lick was smashed over his head.

This video takes one of my top 10 favorite movie scenes and remixes it with the musical diarrhea that is dubstep. The result is 48 seconds of remixing that will not seal your appreciation for dubstep, but will confirm that dubstep can make something funnier without even trying.

Here’s to Bruce Bogtrotter and to everyone else who eats like they mean it.

Cold Brew: An Experiment Born of Laziness

Fri, 13 Jul 2012 10:53:00 -0700

One of the food bloggers I follow had posted a photo on Instagram of a jug that looked like beer, that she referred to as cold brew. One of the commenters referred to the beverage as “crack liquid” and naturally my interest was piqued. I haven’t had a good cup of coffee in a long time and am starting to worry that I’ve reached a tolerance level that can only be met with high grade designer narcotics.

Coffee and I have come to a boring impasse in which it has agreed to stop meeting my caffeine needs in the morning and I have agreed to continue to drink it out of habit and not make any complaints about it unnecessarily staining my chompers. I am 90% sure that the acidity has directly contributed to the extended disintegration of the chip on my front tooth which qualifies me as a hillbilly in some states. Or maybe it’s the quart of wine I drink every week.

I can’t remember the last time I had a cup of coffee that I could feel pulsing through my veins moments after downing it. I miss that feeling. I derive a lot of untapped power with a good cup of coffee.

So I’m branching out and trying new coffees and methods of brewing that will let caffeine shine the way it should in my circulatory system. Which brings me to the cold brew method.

I followed these instructions and I use the term follow somewhat loosely…

I didn’t grind my own beans because my friend Lindsay gave me a bag of coffee someone had brought her from Ecuador.

She said she was too lazy to put it in her Keurig.

This is why we are friends.

Her laziness became my laziness because although all of the techniques I read recommended “freshly ground” coffee, as far as I was concerned that unopened bag was as fresh as it was going to get. I had a perfectly good excuse not to grind my own beans because someone had generously provided me a FREE bag of already ground beans.

Also this was good coffee because it’s shade grown and organic. I didn’t know what the significance of shade grown meant until Lindsay Googled it while we were at lunch. Basically, it’s coffee that’s grown naturally- no trees were plowed down in the process and no creature habitats destroyed. So you can drink your coffee guilt and pesticide free. How it’s organic, I don’t know, Lindsay ended the Q&A session abruptly before I could continue mocking her about her knowledge of shade grown coffee.

I measured out the coffee per the specifications, but instead of 4 cups of water, I only added 3 because I didn’t want my French press to overflow. Stir. Cover. Sit. Another article I read recommended stirring it again 10 minutes after soaking the grounds “to maximize contact with the ground coffee.” I have a short attention span, so two episodes of Seinfeld later, I stirred the grounds some more (a significant portion had floated to the top) and then let it sit for 24 hours.

When I removed the lid the next day, the coffee had a really pleasant smell-like chocolate-and no strong or bitter tones to it. I filtered with a sieve and coffee filter which I found unnecessary because it drained like honey. Next time I’d probably nix the filter because the grounds were coarse grind and didn’t pass through the sieve.

If you come across a technique for cold brew that recommends using fine grounds and then pressing the coffee with a French press before filtering-DON’T. You will damage your press and possibly injure yourself with exploding glass because presses are designed to filter coarse grounds. The fine grounds get stuck in the filter and all of that pressure can be dangerous. Although this scenario is more likely with hot water, better not to risk the chance of explaining to the ER why you’re covered in coffee grounds and glass.

After straining, I let the coffee sit in the fridge overnight and made iced coffee the next morning using a 1:2 ratio of coffee to water and then sprinkling some sea salt in it per the recommendation of the second article. The thing with the sea salt is you need to stir it a lot to dissolve it and I got a nasty gulp of salty coffee halfway through my morning routine. I don’t really know what the difference is without the salt, but I guess I’ll find out another time.

As I got to the bottom of my cup, I added some more coffee concentrate as my earlier concoction had been watered down by ice and added a splash of creamer. I always add creamer to my coffee to cut through any bitterness, but this version didn’t need any.

Overall the coffee was nicely fragrant, smooth and best of all was lacking the horrible aftertaste I’ve been experiencing with coffee lately. I read that bitterness can be affected by the water temperature at which coffee is brewed which would explain the shitty cups at Starbucks but not the cups I make at home in a Keurig, so I guess there’s more experimenting in my future, likely starting with a deep clean of the Keurig.

This is a great way to make iced coffee-it is simple and low maintenance and as far as I can tell is caffeinated enough to prevent me from exercising verbal abuse on anyone. It keeps in the fridge for about a week and is ready when you are to drink it. Best of all it’s cheap, but it doesn’t taste like it.

Want cold brew? Make your own!

1 1/3 coarse coffee grounds- ground fresh or from an unopened bag that was gifted to you

4 cups of room temperature, filtered water

Put grounds in a french press or a large measuring glass with a spout.

Pour water over grounds and stir.

Wait 10 minutes and stir again. Or stir again when you’ve remembered what you were doing.

Cover and let sit at room temperature for 24 hours.

Filter coffee through a fine sieve with a filter if you’d like, but not necessary. If you used fine grounds for whatever reason, definitely use a filter.

To drink, mix one part coffee to as many parts water as you’d want, but I wouldn’t recommend more than 3 unless you are a weenie.

You can add a pinch of salt as suggested, just make sure you dissolve it really well. I’d recommend using liquid sugar or agave if you plan to sweeten.

Use immediately or store in the fridge, covered, for up to a week.

Almost every day, I have to remind myself: it could be...

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 07:59:00 -0700

Almost every day, I have to remind myself: it could be worse.

By the time I’m done convincing myself that I could have it worse, it’s time to go home.

"Maybe young women don’t wonder whether they can have it all any longer, but in case any of you..."

Sat, 07 Jul 2012 12:12:00 -0700

““Maybe young women don’t wonder whether they can have it all any longer, but in case any of you are wondering, of course you can have it all. … It will be a little messy, but embrace the mess. It will be complicated, but rejoice in the complications. It will not be anything like what you think it will be like, but surprises are good for you. And don’t be frightened: you can always change your mind. I know: I’ve had four careers and three husbands.””

- Nora Ephron

Such a great piece of advice. Healthy perspective is important. Be realistic with your expectations and everything will fall into place. It may not be the way you imagined it, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t supposed to be that way.

The Y2K of Underpants

Tue, 03 Jul 2012 09:32:00 -0700

Since the modernization of retail by way of online shopping, I’ve found little joy or purpose in visiting a mall unless there is the occasional grand opening of a store which involves fried finger foods and a champagne fountain. In fact, I hate shopping. I’ve abandoned many a friend at the mall because I hate shopping so much. I like clothes. I like fashion. I don’t like applying the latter to my every day life because I’m lazy. But I do like to look.

I like what I like and I buy very boring clothes from pretty standard places because I don’t have to think too much about it. J.Crew rewards me for using their credit card so I keep on buying black pants and ballet flats from them on a regular basis. H&M makes me feel like I can still shop in the juniors section. Nordstrom makes me feel like I’m shopping like the Olsen twins if they were slumming it. I wouldn’t say I’m simple when it comes to clothes, but I have a tolerance threshold of about 8 minutes when it comes being in a dressing room. Again, I like what I like and if I don’t have to physically go into a store to get it, I won’t. With the exception of H&M, these stores have online shops that allow me to detour the shopping mall and have everything shipped to my house. I love that. No. I LOVE that.

A few weeks ago I made the first of three visits to Victoria’s Secret because they’re having their semi-annual sale which is a multi-day savings fest on your garden variety of underpants, bras and other under….things of which I find no practical use for.

I know that VS is not the best when it comes to bras or returned items. There are better (albeit more expensive) brands that I can use to wrangle my lady bits in comfortably and fashionably if needed. However that takes research. Going to the store. Having a stranger measure your chest and “appropriately” fondle you. Going into a dressing room with a handful of items. And spending an exhaustive and frustrating amount of time trying on items I may or may not like. I hate it. I just want it to fit the first time, throw my credit card at the cashier and be done with it. I almost exclusively shop at VS online because it’s click, click, click and package on my doorstep 7-10 business days later. No salesperson. No driving. I don’t even have to get out of bed.

I reiterate the depths of my laziness.

At VS I know what fits me best which allows me to order their items online. Because if I ever make the mistake again of stepping into a VS, semi-annual sale or not, I will remind myself of the obscene encounters with shoppers I had recently and have every time I step into a VS.

Is it just me or is every VS overwhelmingly pink? I get your marketing strategy: you’re hocking your goods to girls as young as 12 (maybe younger for girls who were raised on non-organic, hormone-happy dairy products) and you want them to get in touch with their inner “you go girl.” You want them to feel the power of the pink and spend an inappropriate amount of money on underpants. VS has even turned the color pink into a collection of more underwear, fragrances and casual wear. And by casual wear I mean gym pants with the words “Love Pink” tagged on the ass. What does that even mean?

What VS wants me to feel like when I’m shopping:

What I really feel like when I’m shopping:

The place is jammed wall to wall with bras and panties most of which have no practical functionality and for me practicality is a big thing. That’s the difference between underwear and fashion: fashion doesn’t need to be practical, underwear does.

Where do I buy this? Wait first things first, tummy tuck, magic cellulite eraser. Then. Where do I buy this?

I love a fancy, lace-trim, leopard print bra just as much as the next girl, but if that thing is drawing attention in a v-neck in the wrong way then I want nothing to do with it. Nature was generous with me. I need support. And my boobs need to look good at all times because I’m single and single girls can’t afford to have wonky looking boobs. It’s in one of the single girl hand books. Somewhere.

Did I mention the place is crammed? I have never been in a VS and not experienced the seizing panic that I imagine a claustrophobic feels when he stands in the threshold of an elevator. The walls are closing in and all I can see is everything I’m not looking for. There is just shit everywhere and none of it seems to be organized in a manner that leads you to believe logic was a part of the design scheme. There are shelves of bras along the walls. Racks of teddies every couple of steps. Discounted panties in bins that look like lazy susans but when you go to spin them, they don’t spin. Um what, why? There are hangers and hangers of robes, stacks of pajama pants, and more lace camisoles than you know what to do with. I’m not knocking the variety or the abundance of the items, I’m knocking the disorganization. Or maybe it’s just me because I don’t frequent the store enough to have a mental map.

Also, why are the stores so large, full of stuff and only have four cash registers? I have a vague understanding of store sales in terms of utilizing as much space as possible for maximum sales but FUCK. Do the math VS. Four cash registers does not facilitate a positive customer service experience when you have a store packed full of women who are elbowing each other for the best deal, which brings me to my main point.

All of these things could be dealt with if the patrons weren’t always in varying states of underwear hysteria.

Remember hearing all of those news reports right before we rolled into a new millennium of people caught up in the fantasy threat that was Y2K? People were hoarding gallons and gallons of bottled water. They were depleting store supplies of batteries and flashlights. They were dusting off their family bomb shelters. They were buying canned food they would never have considered eating but were now cleaning stores out of because the millennium was going to wipe out mankind and dammit they were going to need some frank n’ beans! This is the same kind of hysteria that I witness at VS. Every time.

VS is the only place where panty snatching is legitimate and their patrons take it to heart. Tearing through bins of g-strings. Body checking to get to a drawer of bras and rifling through it like a raccoon in the Applebees dumpster. Spraying several fragrances at once, sometimes on you, sometimes leaving a thin film of cheap fragrance on your cornea (I’m starting to think it’s a tactic). I’ve seen girls get into fights over “who grabbed it first.” I’ve seen bras fly through the air from one friend to another in a team effort. These women are running amok through the store as if VS is going to run out of product. The horror…the horror! Where will I get my $5/26 cotton underwear deals at now?! (Actually I’d be pretty upset about that.)

Watching a VS patron is like watching someone in one of those money wind machines that you see at car dealerships and other corny places. Someone gets inside and has 30 seconds to grab as much money as possible and they practically spin until they puke for 30 seconds and essentially still come up empty handed. They have something, but it’s not enough. They’ll be back. And next time they’ll have strategy. That’s the look I see in the eyes of every woman running through a VS like a set extra in Braveheart.

To those of you who find yourself caught up in VS panty snatching hysteria, I’m begging you to dial it back. Because there are people like me, watching you spin around with your hands full of g-strings and Biofit bras, wondering which rack of satin nightgowns you are going to crash into. We are scared, entertained and disgusted all at once and we really, really want to see you take down an entire shelf of bras.

What I’m Spinning: Call Me Maybe- Carly Rae Jepsen. Sometimes you just have to get a summer anthem out of your system.

This day.

Mon, 02 Jul 2012 10:42:00 -0700

This day.

"I don’t think any day is worth living without thinking about what you’re going to eat next at all..."

Sat, 30 Jun 2012 16:23:23 -0700

“I don’t think any day is worth living without thinking about what you’re going to eat next at all times.”

- Nora Ephron