30 Under 30

There was no way to avoid Forbes' "30 under 30" list.  It was plastered ALL OVER my Facebook feed.

But let me make it perfectly clear, I'm over it.  I'm over the "Under."

It is pretty neat that I'm friends with pretty cool people who are friends with pretty cool people who Forbes also agreed are pretty cool.

Shout out to my RILL GURL Shauna, and fellow Holton-Arms School for Girls alumna, Clara.

I would also like to give a huge shout out to Forbes for making me feel totally inadequate.  Like I have somehow wasted 27 years of my life.  After reading each bio, I mentally followed it up with my imagined concluding sentence of "And what have YOU done with your life?"

Apparently nothing Forbes-worthy.  I'm not exceptional.  Unique.  Innovative.  Groundbreaking.  Enlightening.  Nor am I important enough to occupy 3 inches of website.  I wake up, I go to work, maybe go to the gym, grab some drinks with friends, or go to a show, then head home, check my personal email, check my work email, check my Facebook, check my Instagram, check my Snapchat, watch some British detective series on Netflix while I fold my laundry I FINALLY REMOVED from the dryer after about 3 days, put on my phone alarm, complete my daily ablutions, check my personal email again, check my work email again, and go to bed.  I'm average.  And if I didn't already realize this, I have Forbes to thank for reminding me that I have done nothing deserving of a paragraph.

Am I jealous?  Absolutely.  But not because I don't have a headshot and blurb.  Please, I can do that all on my own:

JENI SUE BIRNBAUM, 27
Self-Imposed Corporate Slave & Sometimes Freelance Writer (Again, for self)

In 2013, Jeni realized she hated L.A. and moved back home to live with her mother.  Her roommate also happened to be her boss, so her workday ended... never.  At her job, she attempts to provide the best customer service, and by that we mean she's the staff member most willing to bend over her desk and take it without saying "I'D RATHER YOU STOP."  Day after day her company gets paid for her to be cyberbullied.  She credits her success to "Client-induced fear."

I'm jealous because these people listed seem truly happy.  Their success seems to stem from the fact that they love what they're doing and are passionate about it -- which seems to give them energy to do more!  If I'm careful with my energy reserves then I might just swiffer my bedroom!  Might just!  Might.  Just.

I'm not really angry at Forbes.  Forbes is just an innocent bystander in my mental, penetrating hate glare.  The public loves a good list.  I get that.  I'm angry that they just remind me what has really been making me upset -- the fact that I don't feel I've lived up to my potential thus far -- that I'm not doing what I can, and what I WANT to be doing.

Any time a new work email pops up, my mental reaction is: "WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS????" (~Dorothy Parker), but physically, my fingers and the keyboard translate that rage into this: !!!!!! : ) !!!!!!! OF COURSE !!!!!! THANKS !!!!!!

I will show up, I will work my ass off, and I will go home after with enough energy to consume 2 episodes of a "Kardashians" marathon.  But I don't want to have to do that.  I want to wake up and instead of flopping out of bed pulled by some imaginary "Fantasia"-esque broom magnetism, and somehow propelling myself towards an office with a cubicle next to a sad tree that I have been tasked to water after I ACCIDENTALLY uprooted the lil guy whilst transporting him (her?) from box to pot.

I want to wake up every day and go somewhere actually WANT to go.  I want to finally be excited to get up and work on something that is constructive to pursuing my goals, my dreams.  I want more.  I wanna be where the people are.  I wanna see, wanna see 'em dancin'.  Walkin' around on those... whaddya call 'em  Oh, feet.  (I know at least 2 of you joined in with me there.)

The other day, I was on the phone with my friend who started reading off the blurbs of some "Under 30-ees," and I had a rare reaction.  "STOP.  YOU NEED TO STOP.  BECAUSE THIS IS MAKING ME FEEL BADLY, AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS ANYMORE."  I snapped.  I became unhinged.  All because a magazine was saying "These 20-somethings are better than you."  They're more talented.  They're more efficient.  They're more creative.  They're more EVERYTHING YOU'RE NOT.  At least that's what I was hearing.

I've basically just complained for a few/a lot of paragraphs.  Well done, you.  You somehow made it through without rolling your eyes or saying "DO SOMETHING, THEN!"  How "Girls" is this post?  "Blah blah blah upper middle class white girl upset about life status blah blah complaints complaints whining, why isn't life fair."  COME ON WHITE GIRL, QUIT YOUR YAMMERING.  STOP HAVING PANIC ATTACKS ABOUT HOW YOU'RE NOT OK THAT YOU'RE NOT OK AND FORCING ME TO DO MENTAL OLYMPICS TO GET BACK TO YOUR MAIN POINT IN YOUR COMPLAINGUMENT IN THE FIRST PLACE WHEN THERE PROBABLY WASN'T EVEN ONE.  You didn't say that, right?  It's OK if you did, just don't tell me.  But I get that!  I need to DO SOMETHING.

And that's where this changes.

I took a break for a year.  No, I didn't technically take a break, but I did decompress from my 4.5 years in L.A.  D.C. was my L.A. rehab.  And now that I've finished recovery, I've woken up from a daze.  I need to move towards what I want to be doing.  Because doing nothing but wishing and hoping gets me nowhere.  Doing SOMETHING is my next step.  Doing something means I'm in motion towards someplace I'd rather be.

(/rant)

So for now, that means writing more, and committing myself to my faithful readers.  You are out there, yes?  Hello!  Hello?  Hello.  I'm just going to trust that you're there.

And I guess if this blogging thing doesn't pan out, I can always pick up a nom de plume and write a trashy romance e-novel.  I welcome all tittle (typo, and it stays) ideas in the comments.

kisses!
jsb

Because It's January

And we're only 15 days out from 2013, click here to listen to me drunkenly ramble about the best and worst of the internets from last year.  You should be on top of your meme history.  Dear God, will they teach memes in future history classes?  I WEEP FOR THE YOUTH!  OK, now go listen to me being a sterling role model for them cool kids.

(By the by, if you're not watching "Adventure Time" then you're probably doing something more productive with your time.  It's great nonetheless.)

Adios '13

2013 was a huge year for me.  Years, technically, are pretty huge -- being that they're 365 days, ~12 lunar cycles, 4 seasons, and on average 2-3 "WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?  Why have I not moved to Wyoming to become a ski lift operator and have all the tourists be jealous since I 'Really just went for it.'" Breakdowns.

Here are some of the highlights:

I moved back home.

I became more social.

I got (read: am getting) into shape!

I went to my last trendy music festival.

I figured out I wasn't quite an adult.

In an attempt to be more of an adult, I moved out of my mom's place.

So, some stuff happened.  Actually, a lot of things happened; I've just been delinquent with blog posts.  In this add/drop period of New Year's Resolutions (the entire month of January) I resolve to post more.  This will most likely be my resolution in 2015, but perchance by that point in time people will be trading me money for words and I'll be able to devote my entire existence to your entertainment.

No?  Alright, then we're done here.

Sleep on It

A few weekends ago I faced a very white, suburban dilemma.  Do I go on a hike with friends in Virginia?  Or do I go test mattresses and play tennis with my dad?  It ended up being mattresses + tennis, since I usually finagle a free lunch (There IS such thing!).

Before I left, my mom asked me what kind of mattress I wanted.

Me: “You know, one where if someone else moves, you can’t feel it.”

Mom: “Who else would move?”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “Who were you talking about when you said ‘Someone else moves?’”

Me: “No one.  Nothing.  What?”

Mom: “You were talking about someone else in your bed.”

Me: “Someone else?  What?  No. No I wasn’t.  I was just talking about some… thing.  Like maybe I just want to bring a glass of wine into bed and jump on the bed.  And I just don’t want that wine to spill.  Are those your keys?  GreatthanksI’m gonna go, remember to buy some more Ezekiel bread, byeeeee!”

I cruised out to Bethesda in mother’s whip, and since selling the Prius, had forgotten what it’s like to listen to the radio.  I got in the car and on came a loud voice.  God?  Carl Kasell.  It then took a good 5-7 minutes to figure out which knob turned the dial, which for the volume, what to press for a lil tush heat, where the lever is that turns on the thing you use when you need to turn.  You know, the think that blinks.  The blinky thing.  This is a pre-emptive apology to my mom if she receives any speed camera photos where I am full out belting to One Direction while potentially going 5… 10… maybe 25 miles sliiightly over Maryland’s suggested speed.

 

The whip in question.  Yeah... really.  I know.  No, I know.

 

I pulled in to the Sleepy’s parking lot at 10:55am.  For some reason, this micro strip on Wisconsin Ave. is home to 2 mattress stores.  Right next door to each other.  Despite there being someone in the back of the store, the Sleepy’s doors were still locked.  Well, you just lost a customer (for about 20 minutes until I was done peeping in Mattress Discounters).

I entered Mattress Discounters.  Now, the only things I know about mattresses is that they should be comfortable, and in my humble opinion, under $1,000.  I also now know “Sticker Shock” is a very real thing.  I had about 35 seconds before being honed in and attacked by the retail drone.  In those seconds, I lifted up the covers that hid the prices on a few mattresses.  There’s a reason they keep those prices under fabric flaps.  They are absurd.  Me exclaiming out loud, “I’m sorry, WHAT?” absurd.  Faint-worthy prices.  Good thing there are beds, literally, all around you.  And falling post-faint, on to memory foam IS pretty nice.

Darren, the suit-clad used car/new mattress salesman must have heard my excitement and quickly approached me.  “Hi, how can I help you today?”  Well, Darren, have you heard of Overstock.com because THIS IS RIDICULOUS.  THIS IS ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS.  WHY WOULD ANYONE PAY THIS MUCH FOR A BOX OF SPRINGS COVERED IN FABRIC?  WHY?  OH, IT’S BECAUSE IT’S “MEMORY FOAM?”  I’M NOT RISKING 2 WEEKS’ PAY ON A SLAB OF FOAM THAT MAY END UP WITH ALZEIMERS IN 4 MONTHS.

None of that came out of my mouth.  Instead, I answered, “Hi, um, I’m looking for a mattress.”  That would be weird if I wasn’t.  “I’m looking for a mattress that does not cost this much,” motioning with disgust at the square bearing the sad market value truth.  Darren looked optimistic.  “We can definitely make that happen for you today.”  Can you, Darren?  Can you make that promise?  Because I’ve been let down many times in my 27 years, and damn it if I’m going to be disappointed by a stranger in a mattress store.

I should’ve known that wasn’t really going to happen when he lead me to the back of the store.  I’m talking back.  As we walked further in, climates changed.  Buzzards sat upon boulders that suddenly materialized, waiting for me to finally keel over after my futile price battle.

“This one here is a comfortable mattress, pretty firm, and in your price range.”  He was right -- it was pretty firm AND under $1,000.  By 5 dollars.  I hopped on, taking my cue from the couple in matching fleece vests and ponytails, lying side by side.  The only thing distracting me from my full lumbar-attentive review was the pillow.  I craned my neck, and saw their ponytails draped over the back of the mattress.  I started to wonder… “How many people have been on this bed?”  I saw their kid jumping on another mattress towards the front.  “How many kids have been on this bed?”  “HOW MANY LICE ARE CURRENTLY ON THIS BED RIGHT NOW?”  Before I could actually compute a realistic number of about a bajillion, I created a scientific law that lice don’t attach to the hair of those over 12.  And for those of you thinking “BUT WHAT ABOUT CRABS??”  You’re gross.

MUST BE THE MATTRESSSSSSS -- Nelly Remix Feat. DJJSB

After testing the cheaper mattress, and then the even cheaper mattress, I was not satisfied.  Frustrated, I sat down.  And sank into gel and foam heaven.  The KoolGel held my heart and gently cradled my ass.  I flipped over, took out my phone and snapped a picture of the mattress name and price.  “Oh.  I see.”  Darrell approached me.  “Taking pictures, huh?  I knew it.  I knew you were working for the enemy.”  I guess the enemy was a comparison shopper?

I waited until Darrell turned his attention to the married twins, and scooted out of there.  I then walked nextdoor to Sleepy’s.  Apparently the mattress market is not booming like I had anticipated, and I was alone in the store.  Just me and a woman sitting at a desk at the opposite end of the wide expanse of mattresses.

Employee: Hi there!

Me: Hello.

(She continued to sit at her desk.)

Employee: How are you.

Me: Fine.

(Still at the desk.)

Employee: How can I help you?

Me: I’m looking for a mattress.

Apparently we were going to complete this transaction at a casual distance of 60-70 feet.

The woman lifted herself out of her chair, yanked up her pajama jeans and waddled my way.  I could tell by her Kate Gosselin-inspired haircut with subtle, white highlights, and bejeweled flip flops housing once manicured feet – this woman knew a lot about mattress technology.  I repeated my needs – a mattress, and a positive checking account balance.



When I see this, I just think -- "Aficionada."

She beckoned me to her desk, and fished out a stack of small papers.

“These are the new special prices – and I mean NEW.  I haven’t even had time to put them out.”  She licked her thumb and started fingering through.  “Oh, look at this one – Sealy pillow top, normally $1,795 and I can give it to you for $1,400.  I mean that’s a steal.”  Yes it is.  She is stealing $1,400 of my money, and replacing it with a sleep square.

Again, I plopped down on a few mattresses.  Bounced, turned, laid.  Stood up, sat down, repeated.  Nothing.  She asked what I was looking for feel-wise.  I told her that I enjoyed the idea of memory foam, but wasn’t really into the sinking-in feeling, which was the entire characterization of a memory foam mattress.  After we had exhausted almost every option, I finally came upon the Serta Perfect Sleeper Luminous Euro Top Mattress and Foundation Set.  It had everything I never knew I wanted in a mattress.  Luminous.  Euro.  IT HAD ‘PERFECT’ IN THE NAME.  There it was – the memory foam top layer, supported by 520 coiled springs.  It was a hybrid dream.  This is what I wanted to be on.  I flipped and I flopped.  The wine definitely wouldn’t spill.  Oh, good, it was only $1,250.  A family came in right after I snapped a picture of the mattress tag.  She could sense blood in the water.  The blood obviously a result of the cerebral hemorrhage caused by calculating expenditures.  I narrowly escaped her Bugles-coated grasp and made it to the whip.

I then went home, and Overstock/com’d the S out of a new mattress.  It was delivered to my new place yesterday.  My retiree landlord apparently let the movers in so… I think it’s there?

Next up is either a post about how impossibly smooth the new move went/my mother’s emotional state after round 2 of emptying the nest.  OR, a multi-paragraph rant WITH thesis statement, on the evils of Overstock.com.

Stay tuned.

 

Flu Shot

SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS,SHOTS!  ERRRRRRRYBOOOODDDDYYYYYYGetYourFluShotBecauseI'mScaredOfAContagion-likePandemic.  Alright, thank you, goodbye.

For the second year in a row, I went to get my Flu shot.  Alli, one of my best friends from college-cum-Unknowing Primary Care Physician, OK'd me getting the shot.  And like Dr. Oz, I’ll believe anything medical-sounding that comes out of her mouth.

I was simply curious.

For those of you who don’t know me (For real?  Are there people I don’t know reading this?  Wild.), I’m a huge hypochondriac.  Cough?  Lung cancer.  Headache?  Brain Hemorrhage.  Pain in my right ring finger?  Glomus tumor.  Well, that one actually happened.  I would like to say that after an extensive google search, I self-diagnosed a Glomus tumor under my nail.  Then after my full body MRI(For real.  I asked the technician if he could just check out anything else that may look “iffy”) the doctor pulled up the SAME google image search I previously found, declaring it was a Glomus!  HA, WHO GETS THE LAST LAUGH NOW, PEOPLE WHO THINK I’M A CRAZY HYPOCHONDRIAC?  I ACTUALLY HAVE A TUMOR!  It was a teeny, tiny, tumor in my fingertip.  Benign.  And for some reason I had to be put fully under for the surgery… That was actually decided during my first appointment—

Me: So you’ll just do local anesthesia on the hand, and take it out?

(Beat)

Doc: Well, after meeting you… I think it would be best if we just put you all the way out.

See?

When I woke up after the surgery the first thing I asked was why my throat was in pain.  “Oh, that’s because you were intubated.”  Again.  A teeny, tiny, tumor surgery.

My teeny, tiny, fingertip cast.  Real thing.  Real life.

So last week after work, I strolled over to the neighborhood CVS and went to the pharmacy.

Me: Hello, I’d like to get a flu shot.

Pharmacist: OK, just fill out these forms.  Can I see an ID and Insurance Card?

I handed him both.

Pharmacist (after unnecessary amounts of typing): So the vaccine isn’t covered by your current plan.  It’s going to be $31.50.

Me: OK (Reaching for my wallet).

Pharmacist: You know, you can probably go to your Primary Care Physician and get it for free.

(Beat as I thought about it.)

Me: Yeah, but I’d first have to FIND a Primary Care Physician (Does my pediatrician count?  I wonder if she’s still alive…), and then take time off work, which includes the travel cost to and from the office and the staff already resents me because I took a week vacation back in April when I had TOLD my boss(mother) that I already had this vacation before starting my job.  All of that plus the actual time off work not completing my tasks will end up costing the company... priced out it would definitely be more than $31.50.

I guess I took something away from AP Econ.  Probably an incorrect usage of cost/benefit analysis, but something.  Senior year of high school, I would use cost/benefit hypotheticals to get out of chores.  One parent would yell: “JENI?  You need to take Moose out!”  I’d be in my room, ACT book open, as well as ~10 AIM windows.  “OK, but I’m studying.  And I’m getting to the essay questions, and if I leave now, I may not come back to these questions because it’s a timed practice test, and if I don’t practice these questions and one of them is on the exam, then I may miss that point, and if I miss that point—“ “FINE.  I’LL TAKE HIM OUT.”  What a lil brat I wasssssiiissssss...?  Moose was a 5 pound Maltese, and “taking him out” meant going to the basement, opening the sliding glass door, having him pop out onto the fenced 3x3 ft Astroturf square, wait for him to “do his stuff” as we called it, and then letting him back in.

The Pharmacist looked at me, most likely thinking “Why didn’t she keep that in her mind?”  He rang me up, and I was then told to wait for a few minutes while everything was set up.  A few minutes passed.

“Miss Binbom?  She’ll help you now.”  You wouldn't believe how often the “R” becomes silent in my last name.  I looked around, confused.  Who?  Where was the onsite doctor?  Should I be heading towards the medical suite?  Am I looking for someone holding a bucket of Betadyne?  No.  The Pharmacist pointed to a co-worker who was standing next to a chair.  A chair that was sitting in the middle of the pharmacy area.  I mean, people coughing in my face while looking for NyQuil, middle.  People waiting in line to pick up prescriptions using it as a place to rest their bags, middle.  Holding someone’s spot at the register, middle.

Well, this seemed not at all sanitary.  I hesitantly put down my bag and took a seat on the ominously stained cushion.  The woman administering the shot lay her instruments down on the chair next to me.  Her carrier looked more like a tray used in a back alley nail salon than medical grade equipment   As I took off my sweater, I noticed that she doused her hands in hand sanitizer before putting on the gloves from a box that looked like it was wedged between the Kleenexes and sweaty shinguard in the back of a mom’s minivan.  Good.  Glad to see that she's taking precautionary measures when it comes to needles and blood.  She sloppily swabbed the spot as someone’s gym bag knocked into my head.

Pharmacist 2: “OK, One… Two…”

Me: “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Pharmacist 2: “Three.”

And the shot was done -- NO WAIT, NO, NO, THAT BURNING SENSATION SPREADING IN YOUR ARM IS THE ACTUAL VACCINE BEING INJECTED INTO THE MUSCLE.  OK, now it’s done.

She looked through her caboodle to try and locate some sort of covering for the micro-wound.  “Can I get some cotton balls?”  She attempted to take the back off the Band-Aid with her gloved fingers, touching every part of it in the process.  “Cotton balls?!”  An employee walked over with a bag of already opened cotton balls, presumably from aisle 3.  She reached in and grabbed one with her gloved hand.  Just because YOU are gloved, doesn’t mean the 2 year old cotton balls that were somehow taken from under my bathroom sink are clean.  She wiped the trickle of blood from my arm, and plopped on the Band-Aid.  “All done.”  Yes.  And at this point I can only assume my general health is, as well.

UPDATE: I’m alive.  The day after the shot I had very mild flu symptoms, which I obviously treated like the full-blown flu -- bombing my bod with every type of fever-reducer and Vitamin-C product.

What should you take away from this cautionary tale?  BYOBalls, I guess.

Bands A Make Her Dance

NIGHT 1: Portugal. The Man w/ Crystal Fighters

Since moving back to D.C., I've been going to a fair amount of concerts.  I would've loved to go to more shows in L.A., but there were a few factors preventing me -- 1) Money, 2) Driving (and then inevitably going into a parking lot or to a valet in which case you can refer back to #1).  Now that I get off work while it's still daylight and am feet away from a metro stop, it makes things a lot easier.  This past Tuesday I attended the Portugal. The Man show in Silver Spring, MD.  I would've gone with my concert/life buddy, Laura, but she had already seen them at Coachella.  Oh, want to know more about my experience at Coachella?  Well just click here, here AND/OR here.

I may or may not have already mentioned at some point during my textual ramblings that I'm big on doing things alone.  I'm going to link it to the fact that I'm an only child, and NOT because I've recently picked up a hobby of being misanthropic.  In L.A. going to the movies alone was just about as normal as driving one block to get groceries, or excusing yourself at work to go have your phone therapy session.  I get the sense that in D.C., attending things alone somehow gives people the idea that you are (not by choice) very, very, painfully, unfortunately alone.  I have TONS of friends.  I have like, SO many friends.  That's why the majority of the night I was on my phone.  Hangin' with my biffs on Instagram.

Back to the concert.  I arrived at the Fillmore and unfortunately didn't have a chance to charge my phone before I left for the show.  So I BYO'd my charger and had the bartender plug it in.  Well, now I was REALLY alone.  I walked in and saw there was a 2nd floor balcony area with seating.  No way was I going to potentially have the spectators overhead judge me for being alone.  But how would they kn-- OH THEY'D KNOW.  I hopped upstairs and grabbed a piece of railing right as Crystal Fighters took the stage.  Listen, if anyone was going to be judging anyone else, IT WAS GOING TO BE ME.  And judge I did.

Crystal Fighters.  Let's see.  They are basically a paella of band stereotypes and it really, really works for them.  If you have a chance to see them live GO.

By the way, that video is exactly what their show felt like.

I knew a few of their songs, but the majority of the people had no clue who they were -- as evidenced by the women in front of me wikipedia-ing the band.  I bet if they accidentally clicked the link for "The Dark Crystal" they probably would have thought it was the correct summary.  And then there were the DIE HARDS.  This was a group of about 5 people in the middle of the crowd downstairs who were LOSING THEIR MOTHER FUCKING SHIT (yes the profanity is necessary to demonstrate the intensity of their exuberance).  Remember that scene in "Independence Day" when the cultish group at the top of the Empire State Building gets ready for the aliens to benignly abduct them?  That.  That plus plaid.  Arms everywhere, heads tilted back, bodies swaying in a motion that looked like they had suddenly become invertebrates/inflatable car sale outdoor figures.  I start laughing to myself, and didn't really stop until the end of their set.

The percussionist comes out.  I'm going to use that title loosely, since he was the percussionist and so much more.  First -- his look.  He had long hair, strong brows, and an open eastern-inspired tunic exposing his bare chest.  So basically an energy healer from any soon-to-be released Adam Sandler movie.  His set up included bongos, tambourines, reclaimed driftwood fashioned into a massive xylophone of sorts, pan flutes, rain sticks, Bobby McFerrin & Michael Winslow from "Police Academy 1, 2, 3, 4" and "Police Academy: Mission to Moscow" (as well as the short lived "Police Academy" TV series), live turtles with painted shells, assorted skulls, a yeti, non GMO kale, and like 15 MacBooks -- all atop a Persian carpet.  Can I ask you something?  Sure I can, this is my blog.  I'm wondering, does every band now have the guy who mans what looks like the DEFCON 3 of musical dashboards?  Laptops, synths, beat machines, "The Jetsons'" Rosie?  I feel like that, in and of itself, is a band, and now things like playing the guitar and singing live are about to become vestigial facets of a dead art.  I think it's the neo-Luddite in me, but it freaks me out.  We can't put all our dependance on machinery, because one day they WILL turn on us.  That's why I've always been really nice to my Roomba.  Who knows when the revolution will happen.  But when it does, it's sure to be televised and synthesized.

So the dude starts playing his beachwood, and out comes the bassist.  I now have proof that time travel is real.  He emerged from the portal originating in his mom's 1992 Seattle garage.  He has his bass slung sub-crotch level low, tight low/NO rise pants, vans, and no shirt cause... why would anyone wear a shirt?  It seems like a hassle.  UGHGHGHHHHHH ANOTHER BUTTON?  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS SLEEVE?  CUFF IT?  WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE MY NECK IS TRAPPED?  I GIVE UP.  He starts bass-ing as his other bandmate is tapping his own cheeks, and then out come the two backup singers.  One looked like she got kicked out of Haim, pre-fame:

Photo credit.  I'm really scared of the internet police.

The other appeared to be a more sexual Anne/Egg from "Arrested Development."  Then.  The lead singer emerged.  He looked about 6 feet tall, wearing black on black "for comfort" Asics, a skirt over jeans, and all of Blanche Devereaux's black tie optional options.  I couldn't see his face because he had a sparkly gold sheet over his head, like a fAbuLouS KKK member.  He starts singing with the fabric still on his head, and I am still laughing, still trying to figure out what the fuck is occurring in front of my eyes.  During the second song he whips off the shroud, revealing 90's Versace-esque sunglasses and an adorable man bun (which was what I'm assuming propped up the cloth).

I can only describe their music as "infectious."  I was compelled to keep the beat, and would hit the railing, shake my purse, drum on my neighbor's back, and just pat anything in the near vicinity.  It was awesome, and you should see them and support the freedom to make weird art, as well as their drug habit.

Then, between songs, the bassist goes up to the mic and imparts his wisdom upon the Silver Spring, MD crowd.  "Hey.  I just want to thank you for coming tonight.  Because you chose to be in the present with us, tonight.  The future is a dream, and the past.  The past... is also a dream.  But the present is real.  THIS is reality.  And we thank you for being real with us."  If someone could throw that into google translate for me, that would be great.  The lead singer then leans into his mic, "That was deep brother."  Apparently the 4th Dimension exists, and the musicians in Crystal Fighters occupy that space.

They also revealed something I have never before seen -- the ELECTRIC UKELELE.  I'm going to let that sink in.  A ukelele.  Connected to an amp.  So all you clowns out there who just bought one off Amazon Prime, super psyched for your free shipping and alt culture back alley cred, ya done.  Oh, your ukelele is acoustic?  That's... nice.  STEP UP YO TEENY STRINGED INSTRUMENT GAME, SON.

I'm somewhere between a loss for, and too many words for this picture.

Up next, Portugal. The Man, also with a NASA control center of electronics.  Their setup was awesome -- they had these white pyramids onto which drawings and super colorful images were projected.  Think "The Phantom Tollbooth" x Lisa Frank.

RIGHT?

As we know (and celebrate), the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is dead.  But she has left a void, only to be filled by "Girl with Bangs who Plays the Tambourine."  I'm sorry "And Sometimes Sings 'Ooooh Aaaaah' While Maybe Tapping a Casio with Her Pointer Fingers."  No, she's as integral a member of the band as are those 903485903479438978943785934 pedals.  She was beautiful and talented, but to me these girls are becoming an indie rock trope -- much like the wardrobe consisting of faded Hawaiian shirts with "Children of the Corn"-esque to-the-neck button styling.  Friends, I'm just bitter because I'm super jealous.  I'd love to be in a band where you get to travel the world while looking like Françoise Hardy.  Maybe I can sell myself as being the first chick who plays the game "Simon" like it's a legitimate instrument.  It's just too damn bad I look horrible with bangs.  Never meant to be.  Le sigh, I guess it's just you and me, Excel spreadsheets.  You SUM:(m+e).

Their show was fantastique (which is French for fantastic), and it seemed like they played one song right into the next, into the next, taking maybe like 2-3 breaks the entire show.  Or I was high on Crystal Fighters.  (I don't think "Breaking Bad" is really over, because that group was Heisenberg-ed out of their gourds.)

Here's my favorite song off PTM's (referring to them as such due to sheer laziness) latest album, "Evil Friends."  I've had this on repeat since their show; wouldn't Simon be the PERFECT ADDITION??.

NIGHT 2: Two Door Cinema Club w/ St. Lucia and Smallpools

This past Friday, I get a message from my gchat soulmate Laura: "Want to go to the Two Door Cinema Club concert tonight?  We can get free tickets."  My response:  "YES.  DEFINITELY YES.  FUCK YES.  Sure."  To be honest, I was probably more excited about the fact the tickets were free.  Free stuff is always better.  Costco aisle samplers, the current room and board rate at my Bossmother's apartment, or an entire swag ensemble I now own featuring apparel from the TLC/"Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" collection (thanks goes again to my HBB, Laura).

I had just finished work, and decided to take a leisurely stroll down to DAR Constitution Hall carrying a 10 pound gym bag, and my unnecessarily large work tote.  At about step 4, I was sweating from any, and all sweat-producing areas.  Leave it to D.C. to have an 85 degree October night.  Well done, D.C.  Apparently you didn't think you were dysfunctional enough at the moment.  As I walk up the steps to the entrance, I notice something.  In flats, I'm about a foot taller than most of the people coming to see this show.  I see clues all around me: Impenetrable groups off girls somehow still managing to walk in a full circle formation, selfies everywhere, what looked like attempts at YouTube makeup tutorials, and braces.  I was at a show, surrounded by 14 year old girls, and I just knew it was a matter of time until someone pegged me as a teen mom accompanying my soon-to-make-equally-as-bad-decisions daughter.

Laura showed up, and our first interaction was obviously comparing our sweating.

"Knee pit?"

"Yup.  Eyebrows/lip/hairline?"

"Obviously.  Elbow crook?"

"The worst."

We then grabbed our tickets from will call.  By the way -- a big thank you to McKee F. for the tickets!  Orchestra!  Again, free things!  I went to the bathroom, and was assaulted by pitches and octaves coming from teenage girls that seem to only exist in Morgan Freeman-narrated nature documentaries.  I sidled to an empty mirror and proceeded to rearrange my post-work Picasso face into something that was a semblance of a moderately rested human being.  As I'm tracing my marionette lines with my finger, I notice a girl adjusting her bralet that she was attempting to pull off as a shirt, and just thought "This.  Right now.  Is probably the hardest part of her day."  The underwire wasn't really cooperating, and to be fair, that can suck.  But it doesn't suck as much as working a 9-10 hr day with a desk lunch of Skinny Cow chocolate caramels.  So... I win...?  By the way, this is why the internet is the worst, and the equation of what we know as the "World Wide Web" + puberty is fatal.  "For guys, jeans or denim shorts are good."  Are they?  Also, please note the ads for "Disney Channel Auditions."

HELP ME, YEEZUS.

Laura and I then head to our seats.  The Daughters of the America Revolution (despite being a fundamentally racist and backwards institution) really knows the way to my heart: A concert with assigned seating.  Once I sat down I slowly turned my head towards Laura, and she just knew, and shook her head.  There was no way we were standing up for this opening, opening act.

The first act, Smallpools, came onstage.  The SECOND these girls had the SLIGHTEST HINT of testosterone/pheromones/Zac Efrons they just freaked the fuck out.  No other way to explain it.  Jumping, hitting, grasping, gasping, SCREAMING.  Screaming.  Like vocal Guantanamo.  I looked around and made eye contact with a dad.  A poor father, undeserving of this abuse.  I stepped into another phase of adulthood when I sympathized with this parent.  He's working hard all week, and then gets dragged by his daughter, let's call her Amanda, Amanda, who obviously has to bring her friends Sarah, Lauren, Katie, and Amanda P., because duh they do everything everywhere together.  (DO KIDS STILL SAY 'DUH?'  HELP ME.)  And his Friday night is now spent shuttling these girls whose energy and enthusiasm, if harnessed, could power a small Midwestern town, to a concert he will probably not enjoy, and then hear a play-by-play of the entire night, the he too has already experienced and most likely wanted to leave in the past.  We were all the anonymous father that night.  And by "all," I mean me.  I was.  I mentally transformed into a 45 year old working father of a teenage daughter.

Back to the music, cause that's why we're all here, right?  Smallpools.  Um, they looked and played like an indie band formed by Lou Pearlman.  That's basically it.  Super unmemorable.  I also resented them because they were really rilin' up the crowd.  "HOW WE DOING D.C.?  EVERYONE GET UP!"  No.  "LET'S GO D.C."  Go where?  Do we have to?  "COME ON, WE WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDS UP, GET THOSE HANDS UP!"  OK, this has gone too far.  Hands are staying down.  I will not be your crowd hype hostage.  "GET 'EM UP!"  No, Smallpools.  I refuse to put my hands up in the air, and I will NOT wave them around like someone who does not have a care.

We're all wearing chucks, so we're a band.

After their set, there was finally the semblance of a lull.  Laura and I started to get excited because the next act was St. Lucia (who in my opinion should be headlining their own tour but who's going to listen to me, I'm just a gal who writes her thoughts in a blog so I don't end up saying them out loud to myself).

The band takes the stage and they were glorious, despite the fact that there was a guy standing behind what looked like ENIAC and (again) another girl tapping at the synthesizer.  She also looked super out of place.  Like an adult ex-gymnast who was going to a high school "Flashback" dance as someone from Palm Beach in the 60's.  At one point I just turned to Laura and said "She must be a cousin or family friend..."  Later, I noticed she was playing the exact same chords at the exact same time as Dexter's Laboratory over on the left side of the stage.  I asked Laura what that was about, and she said "Well, his is probably a keyboard and hers is a synthesizer."  To which I responded "Or hers is unplugged and they never told her..."

Can you share a Grammy with Siri?

Let me reiterate how good St. Lucia is -- they are very good.  The other amazing thing about the band is that everyone just looked super psyched to be alive!  It was like "HEY!  I'M PLAYING A GUITAR!  THIS IS FUN!  YOU'RE SMILING!  I'M SMILING!"  Like more socially-adept Flanders children.  Laura and I were bopping away, enjoying their tunes, when I was so rudely taken out of my zone by the row of girls in front of me.  I noticed one girl pulling up a picture of the Smallpools frontman on her iPhone.  Because I'm a super nosy observer (you're welcome) I witnessed something I wish I could un-see.  I'm now forcing you, my reader, to share in this pain.  The girl who pulled up the super posed, super emo picture of the lead singer turned the phone to her friend, who BTW TOTALLY approved of her taste in men, and then turned the phone back to face her.  She then put the phone close to her mouth and mimed licking his face, millimeters from the screen.  One -- that iPhone was probably dirtier than a Coney Island Boardwalk toilet, and two -- YOUNG LADY, THAT TONGUE BELONGS IN YOUR MOUTH AND THE ONLY PURPOSE IT YIELDS IS FOR SPEECH AND DIGESTION.  St. Lucia's aural Wellbutrin faded to the back, and all I could hear was this (start at 1:17, unless you're into smart dialogue and Dick Van Dyke):

I apologize.  If you're still affected by the the iPhone image, here's a mental palate cleanser:

Finally, Two Door Cinema Club (or TDCC, again, lazy) took the stage.  Well, if I didn't have epilepsy before, I sure do now.  Their stage show consisted of every entrance light from Spencer's Gifts.  Despite retinal burning, the show was excellent.  They're so good live, and had insane energy the entire show.  Also the lead singer is a ginger.  But like, REALLY ginger.  He's also 23.  You know what I was doing at 23?  A lot.  Of nothing.

When I wasn't being Manchurian Candidate'd by their lights, I would stare at this 20-something blonde who was in the 2nd or 3rd row just dancing like no one was watching.  Except there were a potential 1,000 people watching.  Definitely 2: Me, and her boyfriend...?  Male companion...?  Guy who was sleeping with her after the show.  Now when I say she was drunk, I'm talking shoes off, twirling in the aisle, thinking she was at a DMB show in 2002, drunk.  While she was shaking it to a beat that was definitely in her head, I realized my legs started to hurt.  I'd been standing up for about an hour, hour and 1/2, and flashed back to 7th grade science where I learned that doormen usually faint because of poor circulation due to constantly being on their feet.  If I was going to faint, it would be on MY terms.  No way was I going to faint in front of these kids, only to elicit a response of--

"OMG what happened?!"

"I think she fainted... cause she's old..."

"Yeah, totally.  OMG my grandma once fainted."

"Really?"

BECAUSE SHE SAW YOUR TUMBLR.

I attempted a smooth dance transition into foot rub and aisle quad stretch.  Luckily with the constant assault of light, I think I got away with it.

After the concert we went outside and chatted with our friends, commiserating on how old we felt, but that it's cool these kids have decent taste in music.  HAHAHAHA what am I saying, they probably saw them on the "Featured On Tonight's Show" card after "The Vampire Diaries."  While the teens went to their carpool lines frenetically talking about wanting to lick all the lead singers' faces, we were talking about how Vitamin B is good for that 4pm workday energy boost.

YOLO!!!!!  As in, we should take care of our bods.  Because, WOHO (We Only Have One).

COACHELLA: DAY 3

Preface: I'm so sorry this took so long.  It was a combo of my real life job + laziness with laziness winning.  I also have odd writing OCD, and I actually can't write any new posts until the previous chronological post is finished.  I also can't watch TV shows out of order or start in the middle of a season.  I also hate cilantro.  And people who get mad at me for using 2 spaces after a period.

Let us begin.

----

Day 3.  I carved the final tally into the stucco tile next to my aero bed.  The insanity was almost over.

(Want to catch up?  Read about Day 1 and Day 2.)

Since I could no longer tolerate my stench of sweat, dust, weed, smoke, and rapid decline into old age, I took a shower.  When I got out, one of my cabana-mates had turned on HGTV.  Has anyone ever watched HGTV?  IT. IS. FASCINATING.  I couldn't look away.  First up -- "Kitchin' Cousins."  Two cousins remake your kitchen.  That's it.  But also so much more.  Next, we watched "Property Brothers," where two very well groomed brothers help families to sell their home and fix up their new purchase.  Equally hypnotizing.  An hour later, and I was still in my towel, laying in bed next to my friend.  I attempted to move, but then we discovered "Married to Medicine" on Bravo.  (Has anyone does an in-depth report on Andy Cohen being a cult leader?)  So, there went another hour of my morning.  Was I really that upset?  No.  I secretly started planning to hide under the covers, and after my housemates gave up their search (which would probably be two minutes and a few yells of "Jeni?"), the group would proceed to the polo fields without me.

My reverie was interrupted by a friend who stormed into our guest bedroom declaring that we should "STOP BEING WASTES AND GET OUTSIDE."  I respond out of fear when it comes to loud voices, and immediately threw on my uno-piece and hopped in the pool.  It only took us 3 days to realize that the water we've been splashing around in, wasn't chlorinated.  Compared to drugs, rickshaws, and dust inhalation -- that was probably the most dangerous part of the trip.

I could sense the magnetic pull of the festival, and my friends started making their way to gather venue necessities.  I lingered around the pool saying, "You know -- they live stream the entire festival.  You guys?  I said they live stream everything.  So we can just lay on a pool float and watch it on someone's laptop.  You know... not leave?  Just.  Stay here?"  No one really responded, and later a friend aggressively asked "WHY DID YOU NOT SPEAK UP?  I REALLY WOULD HAVE PREFERRED THAT."

Well at this point, you know the drill: walk, bus, judge people, hydrate, off bus, walk, keep hydrating, judge more people, security.

My friend's boyfriend hit the first checkpoint and was interrogated by one of our yellow-shirted friends.

"Any weed?"
"No."
"Coke?"
"No."
"Pills?"
"No."
"Poki Balls?"
"What?"
"Go through."

Poki balls.  I'm too scared to google it, but it's probably t-1 day until all local news stations have the "BREAKING" story that all the kids in the US are on "THE POKI."  I mean, I kid about being old and out of touch, but once you stop recognizing illicit substances, then you are pretty much of out of the loop.

We then proceeded to play the game "Band or Drug?"

Booka Shade?  Band.
Murder 8?  Drug.
Tanlines?  Band.
New Yorkers?  Drug.
Sandwich Bag?  Just a ziplock.

Speaking of drugs, KIDS DON'T DO THEM.  Or just smoke pot, I don't know.  I don't really fancy myself a roll model.  Maybe a hand model, but that's it.  I made an executive decision to leave a bunch of rolled items back at the house, seeing as I pretty much poisoned everyone I love.  My friend's boyfriend who desperately wanted to take the lollipop challenge on Day 2 recounted his experience: "Oh, yeah... I thought my nose ran off my face."  And there you have it.

My friends literally hazed me after they found out I only had about 1.5 items.  "BUT YOU HAD LIKE 5 MORE BACK AT THE HOUSE!!!!"  Well, I got the last laugh.  Actually we all got the last laugh, because we physically couldn't stop laughing after finishing only half of one while waiting in line for mango sorbet.  The teenaged boy in front of us turned and asked, "Are you guys sick or something?"  This probably had to do with the fact we couldn't stop coughing.  Coughing, laughing, laughing, coughing, probably crying.  If I could sum up Coachella in one experience it would probably be 17 year olds are looking at us, shaking their heads, thinking "Those 27 year olds really can't handle their shit."

The mango sorbet was probably my favorite part of the trip.  I couldn't stop talking about it.  "It's mango sorbet IN A MANGO.  You guys.  IN the mango!"  Apparently not that big a deal, because I was informed you can get something like it at Trader Joe's.  What a wonderful place.  You can also get full benefits as an employee!  Which is great, because I'm convinced everyone who works there is on hallucinogens and dust-off.  We were getting close to the register, so it was time to focus and figure out what we were having.  Trying to get anyone in my group to make a decision at this point in time was like herding feral cats.  I SOMEHOW became the group representative at the register, which is never going to be the best idea.  One friend whispered in my ear that he wanted the "Clown on a stick" (real item) and physically couldn't handle that combination of words.  When I turned around to check if that was for real, he was gone -- walking quickly away to the tent.  I was up.

"Hello."
"Hey, what can I get you?"
'First, I would just like to say that your stand is by far the best at this venue."
"Thanks."
"Have you thought about having a separate line for the mango sorbet?"
"I don't think there's enough demand..."
"Oh let me tell you, there is def--"
"JENI JUST ORDER."
"OK, so we are going to have one.  Um two.  Actually, three.  Wait... that's five... six mango-- is it six?  Seven?  (Beat.)  No, six.  Six sorbets that are inside a mango, and one Clown on a Stick."

I somehow managed to count out correct tender and went over to meet our friend.  We had a group text going with our other friends.  Here was the entire convo:

Table.  Food.  Come.

That communication somehow worked, and a few friends met up with us.  We sat in silence, eating our respective mangoes and Clown when suddenly, and I don't know why, I felt compelled to exclaim "I AM SO GLAD I'M WEARING A DISTRESSED JEAN JACKET."  I then ignored my friends' confused looks and continued talon-typing on my phone on the table.  Let me explain.  There was probably something in my mind right then or something from an earlier conversation that then triggered me to quickly chain-ponder to the point where I was really fucking excited about my apparel.  A lot of people's minds go A to B or A to C.  I'm kind of an A to Q.275 type of person...  I don't even really know what goes on up there.  I originally thought the band "The XX" was "The Women."  I'm basically the emoji of the girl shrugging, right now.

We then discussed how excited we were to see Wu Tang.  One friend interrupted -- "What are some of their songs?"  To which my friend and I responded by looking at each other, heads cocked, squinting... "Ummmm, you know... no, you'll know it when you hear it.  Yeah."  Or "Gravel Pit."  But I physically could not recall any of their music.  By the way, they were horrible.  We can just write it off due to the fact there was a SANDSTORM.  Sand was in the air, whipping around.  It was pretty horrible.  So intense, I went to the merch stand to buy a bandana.

"Hi, I'd like a bandana."
"Which one?"
(There were numerous bandanas to choose from.  Maybe robbery is really in right now.  That, or maybe huffing Vicks when you're rolling is, but not like I would know what that effect does or what?  What?)
"Ummm the one with the peach?"
"We're out of that one."
"OK, the purple one."
"You want the Bassnectar bandana?"
"Sure."
I then whispered to my friend "Who's Bassnectar?"

Whoever they are, they saved my respiratory system, and I thank them (him, her?) for that.

We somehow managed to stay awake for Red Hot Chili Peppers.  Barely.  During their set, my friend and I fell asleep with our heads on each other's shoulders, standing up.  That's when we knew it was probably time to go.

The next morning we said our goodbyes, and went back to our real world lives where we handle finances, and accounts, and public perception of companies.  Well, that's pretty scary.

I think I can sum up the weekend with this event I witnessed.  That slow moving object from day 2?  The snail?  Some kid was peeing off it.

'CHELLA 2014!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!neveragain.