'Ello Faithful Readers!
Some of you already know that each year, I "attend" the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival where I (faux)liveblog. This year, I decided to ACTUALLY go. I leave tomorrow, and from Fri-Sun will be gallivanting with probably ~100k white kids who have viking-raided Forever 21 in order to look like a mix of Sacajawea x Jack Sparrow. I am le super excited.
So I most likely won't be posting until next week, BUT I can promise photo-heavy posts and... I will gift you one post per day I'm there (3 posts).
Until then, Mes Hippopotames, watch this masterpiece:
Peace, Love, and People Watching/Judgement!
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Friday, April 5, 2013
Adult-lescence
As I was laying in bed with my mother, watching "Chopped," she made an offhand remark that caught me way off guard:
"My therapist asked me when you were moving out."
Excuse me.
"She said, you know, that you're 27, you're an adult and you need your own life."
(By the way, my mom always happens to remember her birthday, and not mine. Both happen to be on the same day.)
(By the way, my mom always happens to remember her birthday, and not mine. Both happen to be on the same day.)
First of all, I'm 26. And I won't be 27 for another 40-something days, got it? Actually, you should know that. Happy early birthday, my mom will probably get you a monogrammed leather luggage tag, you're welcome. So on my weekly Saturday phone call with MY therapist, Gil, I recounted the blasphemous remark my mother's therapist uttered. "Whoa, whoa. That's YOUR choice, isn't it?" "YES, EXACTLY, IT'S MY CHOICE." "MY QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS, MY CHOICE!" is my new war cry.
Other than potentially starting an East Coast/West Coast therapist battle, I did something equally as dangerous -- I started to reflect upon my life. "You're an adult..." Marion's words echoed through my mind, as I laid on the bed in an apartment for which I was not paying rent. But am I, though? I have a feeling that I am not the only 20-nothing who feels trapped in a purgatory between being a child, and bearing one. Biologically, yes, I am an adult. I can vote, I can fight in a war, and I can get a degree in Dental Hygiene and audition for "The Bachelor." According to my religion, I actually became an adult at 13. Because I guess that's the age where you finally receive the right amount of Tiffany's jewelry (Note: The amount is "Too much.").
But, it turns out -- and I'm not sure all of you were aware, there is actually a lot more to being an adult that the things I listed above. I know, just as shocked as you are. For example, there are these things called "Bills" and apparently you can't leave them on your kitchen island for an actual responsible adult/parent to pick up and pay. YOU must pay them. They're now addressed to YOU. Remember how much fun it was getting mail up until about age of 22? Now I see and envelope and just pretend it's not there. If you don't see them, they don't exist. This is the only takeaway I got from eighth grade Physical Science. Or was it middle school theater? Once you do pay it, you feel so mighty and in control that you grab that sword in the stone, unsheathe it, and lift the blade to the sun screaming, "I DID IT. I AM A RESPONSIBLE ADULT HUMAN BEING!" But. It's a fleeting joy. Because much like the Hydra, another bill comes in its place the next month, and the next month, AND THE NEXT MONTH. And you soon drop the kingly "No, that's for adults, sweetie" sword, and return to your peasant labor so you can shove a few shillings in an envelope to Blue Cross.
Also, there are those moments where I just feel like a dumb kid. One night, a few years ago in L.A., my car got towed. To those outside of L.A., this really isn't a big deal. It almost got to the point where it was the same hassle as picking up a friend from the airport. Except you can't hold a favor over L.A. County's head. So my car gets towed in West Hollywood. I was out with my friend Alli (no, not Allie or Ali), and we both went over to the impound which wasn't too far away. Inside the waiting area was a belligerently drunk gay couple retrieving their vehicle (that I hope they didn't drive home... actually no, I kind of do...). I approached the window, and this is what followed:
Me: I'm here to pick up a white Prius that was towed from Santa Monica Blvd.
(Guy shuffles paperwork.)
Tow Man: Yeah, I can't give it back to you.
Me: But it's right there, in the lot. I can see it.
TM: I can't give it back to you. See, you have five outstanding parking tickets and are overdue on registration.
Me: But I did my registration.
TM: When?
Me: Last year.
TM: You have to do it every year.
(Pause as I take this in.)
Me: What? Really? Oh.
(The guys waiting start laughing uncontrollably. Alli shoots them an icy glare. Go Alli.)
Me: Well, can I pay off the tickets and then go to the DMV to re-do my registration?
TM: Renew?
Me: Yes, renew, I will renew my registration. Can I pay for the tickets now?
Drunk Guy: You mean, your daddy. Your daddy's going to pay for the tickets.
(Alli was not having this.)
Alli: Excuse me, we're trying to settle this, and you're not helping. Thanks.
TM: You have to pay for the tickets at the West Hollywood Parking Office.
Me: OK, so then I bring proof of payment back here--
TM: Yup, pay the amount--
DG: That you're just going to get from your daddy. You're going to call your daddy and be like 'Daddy, I need money for my car.."
Alli: Hey. Hey. You don't know her life, OK?
I start shushing Alli, not because I was embarrassed by this becoming a scene (we were so far past that, at this point it was like a Tony Kushner week-long festival), but because the drunk gays DID know my life. They did intuit, in their inebriated state, that the first person I was going to call was my dad, and the first words out of my mouth were "I don't know what to do..." Oddly at this point I DID have enough money in my checking account. I was so used to seeing a "-" before my balance that whenever I received an overdraft notice, I just shrugged. "Come on Bank of America, tell me something I DON'T know, like is there a distant relative who died and left me enough money to cover 5 parking tickets and a Prius re-registration?"
Of course I knew what to do next. It had just been explained to me. Did I WANT to do it? Absolutely not. Would I accept help from my parents to get me out of the situation? ABSOLUTELY. I am "Life Lazy." I prefer to stay in a state where I can get assistance. Do you think a baby really WANTS to leave the womb? No. That's why I'm in my baby burrito of adulthood.
Also, there are those moments where I just feel like a dumb kid. One night, a few years ago in L.A., my car got towed. To those outside of L.A., this really isn't a big deal. It almost got to the point where it was the same hassle as picking up a friend from the airport. Except you can't hold a favor over L.A. County's head. So my car gets towed in West Hollywood. I was out with my friend Alli (no, not Allie or Ali), and we both went over to the impound which wasn't too far away. Inside the waiting area was a belligerently drunk gay couple retrieving their vehicle (that I hope they didn't drive home... actually no, I kind of do...). I approached the window, and this is what followed:
Me: I'm here to pick up a white Prius that was towed from Santa Monica Blvd.
(Guy shuffles paperwork.)
Tow Man: Yeah, I can't give it back to you.
Me: But it's right there, in the lot. I can see it.
TM: I can't give it back to you. See, you have five outstanding parking tickets and are overdue on registration.
Me: But I did my registration.
TM: When?
Me: Last year.
TM: You have to do it every year.
(Pause as I take this in.)
Me: What? Really? Oh.
(The guys waiting start laughing uncontrollably. Alli shoots them an icy glare. Go Alli.)
Me: Well, can I pay off the tickets and then go to the DMV to re-do my registration?
TM: Renew?
Me: Yes, renew, I will renew my registration. Can I pay for the tickets now?
Drunk Guy: You mean, your daddy. Your daddy's going to pay for the tickets.
(Alli was not having this.)
Alli: Excuse me, we're trying to settle this, and you're not helping. Thanks.
TM: You have to pay for the tickets at the West Hollywood Parking Office.
Me: OK, so then I bring proof of payment back here--
TM: Yup, pay the amount--
DG: That you're just going to get from your daddy. You're going to call your daddy and be like 'Daddy, I need money for my car.."
Alli: Hey. Hey. You don't know her life, OK?
I start shushing Alli, not because I was embarrassed by this becoming a scene (we were so far past that, at this point it was like a Tony Kushner week-long festival), but because the drunk gays DID know my life. They did intuit, in their inebriated state, that the first person I was going to call was my dad, and the first words out of my mouth were "I don't know what to do..." Oddly at this point I DID have enough money in my checking account. I was so used to seeing a "-" before my balance that whenever I received an overdraft notice, I just shrugged. "Come on Bank of America, tell me something I DON'T know, like is there a distant relative who died and left me enough money to cover 5 parking tickets and a Prius re-registration?"
Of course I knew what to do next. It had just been explained to me. Did I WANT to do it? Absolutely not. Would I accept help from my parents to get me out of the situation? ABSOLUTELY. I am "Life Lazy." I prefer to stay in a state where I can get assistance. Do you think a baby really WANTS to leave the womb? No. That's why I'm in my baby burrito of adulthood.
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| After you've tucked me in, can you figure out my life's direction? Great, thanks. |
Alas, there are no forces keeping me in this fetal state. It's by my own volition. Every time I go out and my mom offers me cab money, I decide to take it. Or when I'm sick, I refuse to get treatment unless everything is mapped out for me -- see below:
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| Currently he's in his "office" (storage closet) filing my taxes. |
There's something so comforting, after living 4 years where no one else was looking out for me, about the idea of getting some good, old-fashioned coddling. I hypothesize that I choose to stay in this state because I'm in denial that at some point (NOW) I have to do adult things. And have adult responsibilities. And suffer adult consequences. My self-punishment was hard enough when I murdered my Tamogatchi, due to blatant "neglect." I mean, I just learned to write a check a few years ago. "Forty" is tough because your initial thought is ALWAYS, "there's a 'U,' right?" Bottom line -- if I DO adult things, then I AM an adult, and there's no going back from that point.
But here's the Benjamin Button of it all -- sometimes I realize, I do act like an adult. At my Seder last week, there were a few teens at the end of the table hitting the wine, hard. They wouldn't be quiet during the retelling of the Passover story, and I had the urge to "shush" them. It took every immature ounce still left in me to not do it. I was about to be the Shusher. I was NEVER the Shusher. I was always the Shushee! At one summer internship, our coordinator gave us evaluations and said I earned high marks on everything, BUT he needed to note that people complained I was too talkative. By the way, this consisted of me asking how their weekends were and striking up general conversations... Not like I'm still bitter from that 3 month experience... I am.
I'm also tired. About, let's say... all the time. When I was a kid I used to get so angry when my mom fell asleep in the movies. I would elbow her, thinking "HOW CAN YOU BE BORED BY THIS TALKING BAT IN 'ANASTASIA?' THIS IS LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN UP UNTIL THIS POINT OF MY LIFE." I recently went to the movies and debated whether or not I should sleep during the previews. Sorry mom, now I get it. You, too, must have been really hungover. Also new to me-- the fact that "Irish Exits" were a thing, and that thing had a name. I always thought they were my signature move and were called "Just tell people you're going to the bathroom and never come back." I find myself doing these more and more to ensure my 8-10 hrs. I'm having a lot of fun going out in D.C., but it's like Cinderella at Midnight, except in my case, The Plucky Sidekick at about 12:45/1am.
Another odd adult thing that occurred -- I exhibited self-control. I was at a friend's goodbye party for his apartment, celebrating all the great memories made there, and the small fact he recently bought a condo. When he told me about the purchase, the first thing I said was "Whoa, you're like an adult. That's like... real life." Yes, you, it's REAL LIFE, which you are a part of, but somehow trying to desperately avoid. I went for drinks before the party, and was pretty liquored up since my adult tolerance has kicked in and after two drinks I'm like Amanda Bynes on twitter. At the party I poured myself another drink and struck up a convo with some guy. I realized, after I had "Groundhog Day"-d him by asking where he was from, twice, I put down the booze and switched to water. The non-adult me would've thought "That was a blip. But in no way will ingesting more alcohol make you sound even more out of it..." Speaking of drinking -- here what happened on St. Patrick's Day:
Here I am, like the gang in "Toy Story 3" on the conveyor belt to the furnace (by the way, that film was NOT a comedy), struggling to get life to just hang on a sec and let me catch up so I'm ready to handle the looming "adultness" in the future. But, it doesn't work like that. Instead, we beat on, boats against the current, constantly applying SPF hand and neck cream because all ladies know those are the FIRST things to go.
I'm also tired. About, let's say... all the time. When I was a kid I used to get so angry when my mom fell asleep in the movies. I would elbow her, thinking "HOW CAN YOU BE BORED BY THIS TALKING BAT IN 'ANASTASIA?' THIS IS LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN UP UNTIL THIS POINT OF MY LIFE." I recently went to the movies and debated whether or not I should sleep during the previews. Sorry mom, now I get it. You, too, must have been really hungover. Also new to me-- the fact that "Irish Exits" were a thing, and that thing had a name. I always thought they were my signature move and were called "Just tell people you're going to the bathroom and never come back." I find myself doing these more and more to ensure my 8-10 hrs. I'm having a lot of fun going out in D.C., but it's like Cinderella at Midnight, except in my case, The Plucky Sidekick at about 12:45/1am.
Another odd adult thing that occurred -- I exhibited self-control. I was at a friend's goodbye party for his apartment, celebrating all the great memories made there, and the small fact he recently bought a condo. When he told me about the purchase, the first thing I said was "Whoa, you're like an adult. That's like... real life." Yes, you, it's REAL LIFE, which you are a part of, but somehow trying to desperately avoid. I went for drinks before the party, and was pretty liquored up since my adult tolerance has kicked in and after two drinks I'm like Amanda Bynes on twitter. At the party I poured myself another drink and struck up a convo with some guy. I realized, after I had "Groundhog Day"-d him by asking where he was from, twice, I put down the booze and switched to water. The non-adult me would've thought "That was a blip. But in no way will ingesting more alcohol make you sound even more out of it..." Speaking of drinking -- here what happened on St. Patrick's Day:
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| After dinner, we called it a night around 11:30pm. |
Here I am, like the gang in "Toy Story 3" on the conveyor belt to the furnace (by the way, that film was NOT a comedy), struggling to get life to just hang on a sec and let me catch up so I'm ready to handle the looming "adultness" in the future. But, it doesn't work like that. Instead, we beat on, boats against the current, constantly applying SPF hand and neck cream because all ladies know those are the FIRST things to go.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Best in Show
I love dogs. I love this video. I love my friend Hillary.
Alternative Westminster from Hillary Lauren Levine on Vimeo.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Ahhhhhrtty Pahhhhtyy
Since coming back to D.C., I have made a pledge to be more social. "Social" aka "Not staying in bed all day binge watching Netflix." At least not doing that EVERY day. Sunday, a holy day. I've decided to explore the city, in which I was apparently raised. I say "apparently" because I sadly know nothing about it. Sure, I'm familiar with some things -- there are monuments, M street was the coolest thing to me between the ages of 16-18, and I live in a neighborhood filled with people wearing North Face fleeces swinging around their Coach wristlets. But words like "U Street," "Nationals Park," and "North East" -- it's like a foreign language.
I bought two tickets to a photography exhibit at a totally trendy* (*to people in D.C.) gallery hosted by a local news blog. Here's what I can conclude with 100% confidence from my time back in the district: You cannot differentiate the social scenes. Segregated social spheres are no more! Now, Barbour jacket-wearing kids whose full names sound like law firms are hanging out in the same venues as "creative types" with full-sleeve tats.
I have found a living, breathing identity crisis and his/her/hermaphie's name is WASHINGTON D.C. This goes waaaaaay beyond any upper-middle class white kid's quarter-life questioning. No one in D.C. knows who they are, or can identify themselves as a "type." Usually at an event like this you would see one social group of "art" people. But these attendees had no clue where they fell in a social spectrum. You're at an alt-cultural event but you're a wonk who dresses like a vice-principal at a state-wide budget conference. Or you're a tech start-up graphic designer, wearing creepers, and are actually socializing, nay, SMILING. Everyone's confused yet everyone's trying to fit in to some scene that doesn't even exist. Think outside the social box? THERE IS NO BOX. I have to stop typing about this or my mind will collapse upon itself like a full-blown prep-cum-jap-cum-not really hipster, star. (If anyone googled "cum" and ended up here then WELCOME! And, I'm sorry?)
At the beginning of the day, I chose to dress like someone who I thought would attend a gallery function:
- Big, messy bun? Check.
- Thick cat-eye eyeliner? Feeling Friskies!
- Vintage-y looking sweater? Yeah, whatever.
- Oxblood lipstick? Mmhmmm.
- Knee-high leather boots? Oh, you mean the ones I got that were marked down from $250 to $50? Then yes.
Here's a photo:
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| Not pictured: My pinky toes, begging for mercy. |
Breaking in new boots is one of those things where you know you HAVE TO do something, but just don't want to because it'll bring about much pain. Like the term paper you decided to write the night before it was due. What? Why would I have any clue what that feels like? I've just heard it's really bad, and that at around 4AM you start hallucinating and see all the ghosts of Christmas, because they're pretty bored during the rest of the year.
So I left work, striding as confidently as I could without any feeling in my pinky toes. Sorry, that's a lie, the feeling was "OOOOOOOHHHHHGODDDDDDHELPMEEEEEPLEASSSSEEEE!" I got to the Bethesda Metro and stepped onto the down escalator. I tried to limit my motion due to the immense foot pain and the fact that I just did my awesome art gallery chick makeup, and didn't want to sweat it off. We all know I suffer from self-diagnosed Hyperhydrosis. (Please donate to my checking account so I can finally afford a cure.) I noticed that EVERYONE was walking down the metro escalator. So I ended up looking extremely lazy because I couldn't even walk DOWN a MOVING set of stairs. It was almost to the point where if someone passed by my left I would say, "New boots, can't move, you know."
Even with the lack of escalator motion, it happened. Once I situated myself on the red line seat -- LE DELUGE! I looked around nervously to see if anyone else was noticing my excessive face sweat. I didn't know what to do! I mean, sure, I could've taken off my wool coat, then sweater, leaving me in my long-sleeved dress and tights... but why? I thought to myself, "SWEATING IS MENTAL! YOU CAN STOP THIS!" Apparently my mind-body connection is like a verizon signal underground (or an AT&T signal ANYWHERE!! BOOM. Awwww snap, carrier battle!) because there was no stopping the sweat. I couldn't fully wipe my face with the back of my hand because the makeup smearing would turn my face Picasso-y, so I had to dab (like a fucking lady) at my upper lip and hairline. Why was no one else sweating?? At this point it looked like I was actually exerting myself by sitting down.
FINALLY, I got my body temperature to a somewhat normal range. I "walked" to the escalator (where I STOOD, haters) and was finally above ground in the refreshing 40 degree weather. I walked the two blocks to the gallery and entered. Immediately, I was greeted by a bouncer who most likely got lost trying to find his meatpacking district gig with apple maps. He was dressed entirely in black, was about 6'6", and wanted to see my I.D. I pulled out my California mugshot:
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| To be fair, this would be my expression if pulled over. Or just uncontrolled crying. |
He handed me back my mugshot, looked me in my sweat-streamed, mascara'd eyes, and said: "You look very beautiful tonight." My only reaction was to make a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and water going down the wrong pipe. I then realized he was being serious, and as a courtesy said "Thank you" in my most, "No, I'm actually trying to be earnest" voice.
I moved on to the ticket table, where I presented my printed tickets -- one for me, and one for my best friend Laura. Here's a bit of background on Laura: She's Asian. She's awesome. Shall we continue? I explained to the girl at the table (the one with a major case of Bitch Face, much like everyone else at this party) that I was arriving before Laura, so I'd like to leave her ticket here. The girl responded "Yeah, whatever, she'll just give her name," then yanks the paper tickets from my hand and throws them away. I don't even think she RECYCLED. At that moment I knew 2 things: I needed to get drunk, and I was starting to sweat again.
Here's the problem with sweating in an art gallery -- the lighting. The florescent lights were on FULL BLAST to ensure clarity of the photo exhibit. It also ensured clarity of the water/mineral salts combo seeping from my face. I immediately took off the coat, slung it over my arm, adjusted my work tote, and lasered-in on the bar. Attempting to navigate this crowd was tough. Not only was everyone carrying a bag that fit their "homework," (probably the entire U.S. Budget), but they were also dishing out side-eye like SNL Sloppy Joe's. Here's something Washingtonians need to hear -- you are not hot enough to be this mean! That is an exclusive right for the genetically endowed! You probably work for an endowment. NOT THE SAME THING. At least the people in L.A. were nice to your face before they proceeded with soul-shattering insults once you left the room. Laura attempted to call me while I was in line--
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| So young, so naive. |
As I was waiting in the endless booze line, something happened. A single droplet of sweat traveled from between my shoulder blades and landed somewhere near the top of my tights. It was one of those moments where I shut my eyes, inhaled, and exhaled while murmuring "Oh God." My only hope was to get drunk enough that my body would somehow forget to sweat because all hands were on liver deck. FINALLY I got to the front of the line, but only saw beer taps. "Do yo have any wine?", I asked the hipster-attempt behind the makeshift bar. "No, that's the other line." I then proceeded to do what only close friends and family have witnessed -- I put a hand on my hip, tilted my head down, and raised my eyebrows in a gesture of "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME/COME ON." My forehead crease must've been deep because it actually elicited a "Sorry." The best scam of the night (other than this being an art show -- the photos were all instagrams uploaded to flickr) was the sign I saw at the "bar." "Small pours due to high alcohol content!!" Please. That's like someone saying they need an "Emotional Day" off of work. I don't buy it. I HAVE EMOTIONS EVERY DAY. You're currently experiencing some of them by reading this blog.
I navigated to the wine portion of the bar where I was greeted with a few choices: Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in a box, or the same Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in another box. I chose the first. After I took a few large sips, I decided it was time to "socialize." By that I mean look like I somewhat belong at this event. This was a slightly difficult since I was the only one there without a friend, group of friends, or significant other. I would look at a picture, and when someone approached, I'd start to say something to get a conversation going, but the next thing I'd know they turned away to their group and I was left talking to myself. I actually talk to myself often, but it's to test out dialogue, and practice quippy one-liners for real life. My self-dialogue was interrupted by a text from Laura -- DID SHE ARRIVE? No.
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| Nothing like wine in a cup! Except for wine in a glass. |
I navigated to the wine portion of the bar where I was greeted with a few choices: Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in a box, or the same Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in another box. I chose the first. After I took a few large sips, I decided it was time to "socialize." By that I mean look like I somewhat belong at this event. This was a slightly difficult since I was the only one there without a friend, group of friends, or significant other. I would look at a picture, and when someone approached, I'd start to say something to get a conversation going, but the next thing I'd know they turned away to their group and I was left talking to myself. I actually talk to myself often, but it's to test out dialogue, and practice quippy one-liners for real life. My self-dialogue was interrupted by a text from Laura -- DID SHE ARRIVE? No.
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| Sadly, not one of my lowest points. |
I decided to give up on socializing and moved to one of the least populated spots in the gallery. This happened to be next to two couples, one with a NEWBORN CHILD. At a noisy gallery party with a DJ. A few years ago, I started a tumblr called "Why Are Your Kids Here?" The idea came after we witnessed too many strollers at Coachella. I really should've made this the inaugural photo. I attempted to process the first-time mother like the teacher from Charlie Brown once she started talking about breastfeeding. It's still burned into my memory. Apologies for transferring the image to you. It's like the VHS from "The Ring" -- I have to pass on the horror to someone else. I couldn't move from the spot, since I deemed it the coolest (temperature-wise), so I distracted myself with more texting. Because we all know that looking at a phone and texting means you have a lot of friends and are a very cool person. Text to my friend Erin--
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| I'm trying to make "Valhalla" happen. |
I explained to her that I pretty much tried to hide in every brightly lit corner, and then paraded her around saying "Everyone, I'd like your attention! Attention please! I do, in fact, have a friend!" We naturally started what we do best -- talking about other people. I would've continued, but it was just too damn hot, and we ended up talking about that. We spotted the temperature controls and went over to investigate. IT WAS ON HEAT. Heat. "Laura, can I turn it off?" "No! You can't touch it." "But what if I'm like... totally cool about it and maybe accidentally hit it or something?" I then leaned on the wall, draping my arm over the control panel, boxing Laura in like the she was prey at a Jersey Shore club. I then "accidentally" turned it off. To anyone who's reading this who was at the event last night, 1: That would be quite the coincidence, and 2: You're welcome.
Once we settled the overheating, we started talking about everyone around us. Wait, do you actually think two "adults" at a function who look like they're enjoying themselves are discussing current events or developments at work? No, most likely they're talking about your cropped jean jacket. I'm sorry. We went to get another drink -- beer for Laura, box for me. At this point I'm pretty tipsy. After four years of being too scared to get a D.U.I., my tolerance is at a negative level. By the by, the D.U.I. fear wasn't really one of bodily harm, but instead that it's like a $10k fine and aint nobody got time (or financial resources) for that! We noticed something out of the corner of our eyes. It was a man, about 5'5" dancing. By himself. Just doing a bob-shuffle combo. I started to use my dance inertia to head his way. Unfortunately we never made a dance floor connection, but we both felt the power in that music.
Ah, the D.J. Well, he basically looked like Rif Raff from "Rocky Horror."
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| The Time Warp has really messed with my skin. |
Except there was more of a "stick your tongue into an electrical socket" bounce to his hair. He was just playing that weird non-lyrical, non-danceable music(?). I needed to take a break from the dance floor and dragged Laura to a small ramp walkway. I tilted back on my heels and rested on the waist-heigh wall. AHHHH THE SMALL JOYS IN LIFE. Momentary relief from the pain. I looked across at the other side of the ramp to see a girl taking off her pumps. I felt such a connection. Enough to make eye contact, point to me, point to my feet, point to her, nod, and say "I get it." I told Laura I wanted to wobble over there and make a new friend. "No, I won't let you." "Why?" "Because I don't want to meet anyone new. I'd rather die." Well, I wanted to keep Laura around, so I stayed balanced on my heels.
We decided enough was enough, and called it a night. On our way out the bouncer stopped me and asked "May I?" May he, what? Give me a piece of sage advice? Wipe the dark heroin addict-esque makeup from under my eyes? No. He gestured to my coat. He wanted to PUT MY COAT ON ME. I think the last time a man has done that was on a ski trip in the early 90's, and it was most likely my dad. I handed the bouncer my coat, and he did his gentlemanly thing. We then took a cab home, and I was in bed around 9PM. LIVIN THE LIFE!
The next morning, from bed, I texted Laura--
And I'll leave you with this final thought--
Friday, March 22, 2013
Fistful of Dollar Menus
Now that I'm working normal human being hours (9-6pm... no, I KNOW), I've committed to enhancing other areas of life. My mind was starting to atrophy, so I enrolled in an online class -- "History of the World: 1760-Present," and am currently 6 weeks behind. I also got very competitive with the quizzes. You can take the girl (WOMAN) out of H-A, but you can't take the H-A out of the gal (WOMAN, please). Well, you could take the tuition out of your parents' account. Also, class message boards are a really scary place. Only second to the Equinox/Soul Cycle/EarthBar Juice Bar complex in West Hollywood.
Speaking of gorgeous models in spandex, I've committed to getting into shape. Baby just wants to be called "Gamine" or "Lithe" or "Waif," or "Girl with the body of a Victorian child" for once in her life, you know? So I signed up for a gym membership at Fitness First. Personally, it's food first, then naps, THEN fitness. I'm a big fan of this gym because it's perfect for young professionals (read: people with no money). If you're in the DC area, I highly recommend joining. (AND IF SOMEONE FROM FITNESS FIRST HAPPENS TO READ THIS AND DECIDE TO GIVE ME A FEW MONTHS FREE, I WOULD THINK ABOUT ACCEPTING THAT KIND GIFT.)
I've recently started a regiiiiiiime. (I hope you read that like someone who un-ironically says tar-jaaaay. Or vahhhjaaaaayjaaaaaay. Gross.) I have a trainer named Brennan. Brennan is beautiful, coordinates his sneakers to his non-uniformed apparel, and his teeth looked like they were touched by an angel, who carries Crest Whitestrips in her harp purse.
Before I start my workout, Brennan asks/suggests/tells me to get my ass upstairs and warm-up for 10-15 minutes on the treadmill or elliptical, where I would be ellipting... elliptical-ing... ellipticling? Moving on. The other day I walked in and headed over to my usual treadmill. I looked into the mirror in front of me, (because what's better the analyzing every area on your body that gelatinously pulsates upon each tread, on the mill), and made eye contact with a boy. Nay, a man. A man who used to be a boy, who I was pretty into in high school. I couldn't look at him. I reverted to the all-girls school (with uniform) me, where I couldn't physically make eye contact with a boy until about age 18. I looked everywhere BUT the mirror. "Oh, that's an interesting crack in the Styrofoam ceiling tile...I'll just observe it for another 7 minutes."
I started fear sweating. On top of the physical exertion sweat. Then I sweat on top of the striated sweat because I was nervous my butt wasn't cute enough. That was the view he had, so it better be good. Since I was so focused on my bootaaaaaaaaay (see above for pronunciation), I noticed something. My underwear was starting to slide down INSIDE my "yoga" pants (Old Navy says they're yoga pants...). Just so you get the image -- pants UP, underwear DOWN. This created a noticeable band at the top of my thighs. We all know what happened with Lululemon, so imagine the quality of OLD NAVY pants.
I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop, hop, and pop those suckers back up because that would require me reaching in my pants like so...
So I continue to yog, and just start maniacally laughing. Of all the times my underwear decides to fall down and bunch in my un-flaw flattering pants, it had to be now. With Blank Blankity (not real name, so don't waste your time facebooking) right behind me. Why couldn't it be with Laura whilst watching Bravo? Or in front of my apartment elevator where I would shamelessly fix the sitch.
I'm going tangential, people. So, I like to think I have "interesting" logic. Most people go from A to B, whereas I go from A to Cyrillic. One time, when waiting for the elevator back in my LA apt building, the same thing happened to me but it was underwear under tights (under a dress). Maybe I have an underwear-repellent ass. (Note to self: Check WebMD to see if real disorder.) With no one in sight, I just flipped up the back of the dress and did what had to be done. Once everything was back in its proper place, I looked around for any witnesses and then noticed the T.J. Eckleburg of "Hollywood Regis Condos." There it was. Some jerk camera, staring straight back at me. And my FIRST THOUGHT, my FIRST thought. Was.
"Oh my God. I really hope no one gets murdered in my building."
Here's my logic -- if someone gets murdered, one of the first things police do is review the footage. And then they'll see me (and most likely my Coppertone tush) setting things straight. Then thought train just kept on a-rollin' -- if I prevent the cops from looking at it by stealing footage, or they catch me deleting the tapes, they'll think I'M the murderer and then I go to jail, and then the truth will come in the end anyways. About the rogue underwear. Not the murderer. The murder's probably long gone by now because I've been interfering with the investigation. But if I had to bet, my roommate at the time was probably the murderer, because she was too silent to be emotionally stable. But she WAS lenient on late rent, so you gotta give her that.
OK where were we? The gym. So after I finished on the tread, I attempted to run to the women's locker room. This was a little difficult with my underwear down my pants -- sorry, I'm not sure if you've really gotten it, so here's a picture:
Alright, underwear back up, let's get this show on the road. I have my training session. 30 minutes, 15 side-eyes, and about 5 exasperated "Ughhhhhscomeonnnnnnwhyyyyyyyyyyblehhh's" later we finished. He told me that he was really going to focus on my core because (in his words) "I wanna get rid of allllll this." He then grabbed my stomach. The man was handling my stomach. If Shylock were around, we'd have an adequate pound of flesh, easy. My response? I stared at him, sympathetic to his cause. Earnestly I replied, "I know Brennan... I know."
It's 2 hours out from today's session, and I am currently taping the band of my underwear to my core. Que sera Saran wrap...
Speaking of gorgeous models in spandex, I've committed to getting into shape. Baby just wants to be called "Gamine" or "Lithe" or "Waif," or "Girl with the body of a Victorian child" for once in her life, you know? So I signed up for a gym membership at Fitness First. Personally, it's food first, then naps, THEN fitness. I'm a big fan of this gym because it's perfect for young professionals (read: people with no money). If you're in the DC area, I highly recommend joining. (AND IF SOMEONE FROM FITNESS FIRST HAPPENS TO READ THIS AND DECIDE TO GIVE ME A FEW MONTHS FREE, I WOULD THINK ABOUT ACCEPTING THAT KIND GIFT.)
I've recently started a regiiiiiiime. (I hope you read that like someone who un-ironically says tar-jaaaay. Or vahhhjaaaaayjaaaaaay. Gross.) I have a trainer named Brennan. Brennan is beautiful, coordinates his sneakers to his non-uniformed apparel, and his teeth looked like they were touched by an angel, who carries Crest Whitestrips in her harp purse.
Before I start my workout, Brennan asks/suggests/tells me to get my ass upstairs and warm-up for 10-15 minutes on the treadmill or elliptical, where I would be ellipting... elliptical-ing... ellipticling? Moving on. The other day I walked in and headed over to my usual treadmill. I looked into the mirror in front of me, (because what's better the analyzing every area on your body that gelatinously pulsates upon each tread, on the mill), and made eye contact with a boy. Nay, a man. A man who used to be a boy, who I was pretty into in high school. I couldn't look at him. I reverted to the all-girls school (with uniform) me, where I couldn't physically make eye contact with a boy until about age 18. I looked everywhere BUT the mirror. "Oh, that's an interesting crack in the Styrofoam ceiling tile...I'll just observe it for another 7 minutes."
I started fear sweating. On top of the physical exertion sweat. Then I sweat on top of the striated sweat because I was nervous my butt wasn't cute enough. That was the view he had, so it better be good. Since I was so focused on my bootaaaaaaaaay (see above for pronunciation), I noticed something. My underwear was starting to slide down INSIDE my "yoga" pants (Old Navy says they're yoga pants...). Just so you get the image -- pants UP, underwear DOWN. This created a noticeable band at the top of my thighs. We all know what happened with Lululemon, so imagine the quality of OLD NAVY pants.
I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop, hop, and pop those suckers back up because that would require me reaching in my pants like so...
So I continue to yog, and just start maniacally laughing. Of all the times my underwear decides to fall down and bunch in my un-flaw flattering pants, it had to be now. With Blank Blankity (not real name, so don't waste your time facebooking) right behind me. Why couldn't it be with Laura whilst watching Bravo? Or in front of my apartment elevator where I would shamelessly fix the sitch.
I'm going tangential, people. So, I like to think I have "interesting" logic. Most people go from A to B, whereas I go from A to Cyrillic. One time, when waiting for the elevator back in my LA apt building, the same thing happened to me but it was underwear under tights (under a dress). Maybe I have an underwear-repellent ass. (Note to self: Check WebMD to see if real disorder.) With no one in sight, I just flipped up the back of the dress and did what had to be done. Once everything was back in its proper place, I looked around for any witnesses and then noticed the T.J. Eckleburg of "Hollywood Regis Condos." There it was. Some jerk camera, staring straight back at me. And my FIRST THOUGHT, my FIRST thought. Was.
"Oh my God. I really hope no one gets murdered in my building."
Here's my logic -- if someone gets murdered, one of the first things police do is review the footage. And then they'll see me (and most likely my Coppertone tush) setting things straight. Then thought train just kept on a-rollin' -- if I prevent the cops from looking at it by stealing footage, or they catch me deleting the tapes, they'll think I'M the murderer and then I go to jail, and then the truth will come in the end anyways. About the rogue underwear. Not the murderer. The murder's probably long gone by now because I've been interfering with the investigation. But if I had to bet, my roommate at the time was probably the murderer, because she was too silent to be emotionally stable. But she WAS lenient on late rent, so you gotta give her that.
OK where were we? The gym. So after I finished on the tread, I attempted to run to the women's locker room. This was a little difficult with my underwear down my pants -- sorry, I'm not sure if you've really gotten it, so here's a picture:
.JPG) |
| My underwear set up shop at that middle ridge. |
Alright, underwear back up, let's get this show on the road. I have my training session. 30 minutes, 15 side-eyes, and about 5 exasperated "Ughhhhhscomeonnnnnnwhyyyyyyyyyyblehhh's" later we finished. He told me that he was really going to focus on my core because (in his words) "I wanna get rid of allllll this." He then grabbed my stomach. The man was handling my stomach. If Shylock were around, we'd have an adequate pound of flesh, easy. My response? I stared at him, sympathetic to his cause. Earnestly I replied, "I know Brennan... I know."
It's 2 hours out from today's session, and I am currently taping the band of my underwear to my core. Que sera Saran wrap...
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
No Change
I've just learned that Entertainment isn't the only industry where bosses make you fetch their coffee. My bossmother asked me to grab her a large decaf cappuccino with lots of sugar. "Like Grandma Rose, Manischewitz sweet." She then handed me a $20 and a motion of dismissal.
At the neighborhood coffee shoppe (Caribou Coffee), I picked up her capp and a small fruit cup for myself. I slightly regret the decision because it was like 80% melon, and as everyone knows melons are the worst part of fruit salads. Why are they there? Who said we HAVE TO HAVE melons in fruit salads. Is there an anti-melon movement? Do they have twitter? I am on board and you have my full backing. Not financial, just emotional.
I came back into the office, handed her the cup, and strolled out pulling the patented timeless teenage move.
Mom: Jen.
I stopped right outside her office, not turning around.
Me: Yes.
Mom: Jen.
Me: Uh-huh.
Mom: Jen?
Me: Yup?
I slowly turned around and faced her.
Mom: Are you forgetting something?
Me: Nope, I got my fruit cup.
Mom: You sure?
Me: Yeah...
Mom: Change?
She put her palm out in front of her.
Me: Oh yeah. Right. Your change. You know what, coffee prices have spiked.
Mom: In the last 24 hours?
Me: Yes.
Mom: Is this some sort of special coffee?
Me: Yes, it's the one where the beans are pooped out of an animal.
Mom: Ah, I see. Did Chavez have anything to do with the market change.
Me: No, but his parrot did.
Mom: Got it.
I handed her back the $10.
Mom: Nah, you keep it.
16 year old me would've chalked this up as a victory! 26 year old me somehow sees it as panhandling with dignity.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Conversations with Mother Darling
Because they're too just... all too real.
I'm sitting at my desk. Phone rings.
Me: Yes?
Mom: Jens. I need you to come in here.
I hang up and walk from my cubical to her office. Her door is closed which usually signifies that some serious work is being done. I open the door.
Me: Yeah?
Mom: Close the door.
I close the door and walk over to her desk.
Me: What's going on, what's wrong?
Mom: Nothing.
She hands me her iPhone.
Mom: Can you take a picture of my nails?
Me: You need me to take a picture of your nails.
Mom: Yeah, I need to send them to client who likes nail polish, so she can see what I had done. You know, see how cool my color is.
Me: Alright.
She fans out her fingers, of both hands, on her desk. I hold the phone up--
Mom: No, closer.
I go closer.
Mom: Closer
I go even closer.
Mom: Closer, like just the nail.
Me: You know I have *work I need to do (*this blog).
Mom: OK well you can go when you've gotten a good picture.
I take the picture. I hand her back the phone, turn to head out and--
Mom: Wait, where'd the photo go? Where did it zip too?
I turn back around and retrieve the photo for her.
Mom: OK, but where are my pictures?
Me: In your camera roll.
Mom: Where's my camera roll?
Me: I can't right now.
Mom: Can't you just--
Me: Mom. I'm actually working. (Which I actually was doing.)
Mom: OK, FINE.
Conversations like this usually happen at least 3x a day and range from online dating response crafting to basic copy/paste formatting issues. Or we just shut the door and talk about everyone else in the office cause we're two girls and we love to gab!
I'm sitting at my desk. Phone rings.
Me: Yes?
Mom: Jens. I need you to come in here.
I hang up and walk from my cubical to her office. Her door is closed which usually signifies that some serious work is being done. I open the door.
Me: Yeah?
Mom: Close the door.
I close the door and walk over to her desk.
Me: What's going on, what's wrong?
Mom: Nothing.
She hands me her iPhone.
Mom: Can you take a picture of my nails?
Me: You need me to take a picture of your nails.
Mom: Yeah, I need to send them to client who likes nail polish, so she can see what I had done. You know, see how cool my color is.
Me: Alright.
She fans out her fingers, of both hands, on her desk. I hold the phone up--
Mom: No, closer.
I go closer.
Mom: Closer
I go even closer.
Mom: Closer, like just the nail.
Me: You know I have *work I need to do (*this blog).
Mom: OK well you can go when you've gotten a good picture.
I take the picture. I hand her back the phone, turn to head out and--
Mom: Wait, where'd the photo go? Where did it zip too?
I turn back around and retrieve the photo for her.
Mom: OK, but where are my pictures?
Me: In your camera roll.
Mom: Where's my camera roll?
Me: I can't right now.
Mom: Can't you just--
Me: Mom. I'm actually working. (Which I actually was doing.)
Mom: OK, FINE.
Conversations like this usually happen at least 3x a day and range from online dating response crafting to basic copy/paste formatting issues. Or we just shut the door and talk about everyone else in the office cause we're two girls and we love to gab!
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