Sunday, December 15, 2013


Ok, I don't write a fashion blog.  I don't even follow fashion blogs.  I probably should begin following some since every time I buy a new item of clothing I text my friends in a frenzy asking them how to "accessorize" and what color shoes I should wear.  That and my most recent purchases were a Snoop Dogg sweatshirt and a polka dot headband.  So how am I, the girl who wears teal moccasins daily and owns over 100 non-fitted t-shirts, qualified to give fashion advice?  Just trust me on this one.

Let's have a chat about crop tops.  Those were a thing in the 80s, when people wore high-waisted jeans and high-top Reeboks.  They were even a thing in kids' clothes in the 80s, but I wasn't about to be putting any of that shit on my body.  Luckily it died out quickly and I didn't have to deal with them again until the late 90s for entirely different reasons.

I'm just going to put it out there - even if you have the most amazing abs on the planet and aren't showing more than a few inches of skin, crop tops make you look like a whore.  Yes, I said it.  This is not a "skinny vs. fat" trend - I have not yet seen a fat chick in a crop top, most likely because they are not that fucking stupid.  Now I will freely admit that I wear low cut tops, tight clothing, short dresses, bikinis and anything that gives my cleavage the showtime it deserves.  However, certain things are only appropriate for certain occasions - most things I have worn/would wear in Las Vegas are pretty much inappropriate anywhere else.  Swimsuits are only acceptable at a beach or pool, with a slim exception for other outdoor places where one might lay out to tan.

Here are the places where crop tops are appropriate:

1.  Any outdoor party where it's warm and there is likely a pool or beach in the vicinity, thus negating the need to be fully clothed (see swimsuits, above).

2.  During vigorous exercise if and only if you are wicked ripped.

3.  Halloween

4.  If you are a dancer or cheerleader, and then only when in practice and while performing.

5.  Rap videos

6.  If you are famous for being an entertainer, more specifically Beyoncé, Rihanna or Britney.

7.  In a trailer park because, well you can wear anything in a trailer park.  Literally anything.

Take note of what is not on the list.  I did not include places like "school" or "the mall".  No grocery store, restaurants (seriously, why would you want to wear something that shows your stomach while you're EATING?), bars, salons, libraries, government buildings or just walking down the street* (*unless you qualify for the prostitute exception).  Do not let the amount of crop tops at places like Forever21 and H&M confuse you - this is NOT everyday wear.  Would you wear your slutty schoolgirl costume to the mall?  No?  THIS IS THE SAME THING, even if you're pairing it with something that doesn't show your ass.

Have I worn crop tops?  Yes, yes I have.  When, you ask?  When they were a REQUIRED COSTUME in high school for my dance team.  I wore many, and even when I did, the director would usually pick ones that showed only 2-3 inches of stomach and never a bellybutton.  I've also worn them on Halloween.  There's a reason your costume is called "slutty Rainbow Brite" or "sexy police officer": it's because non-slutty people don't go around in public wearing crop tops!!  And what did I do if on either of these occasions I had to go into public before heading to my performance or party?  I'd toss a tshirt over that shit.  I'm not walking into Subway looking like a 2-bit whore, even though it would be very obvious to nearly every human that my outfit was dance-related.

So for the love of god, stop buying crop tops.  Stop wearing them in public.  I guarantee you I'm not the only one looking at you and thinking you're trashy.  If you REALLY must own one, save it for summer.  Wear it to a pool party.  Wear it to the beach.  Wear it around your house if you have to, but don't throw your image into accidental slutdom because you thought something was fashionable.

**This public service announcement was partially funded by the makers of full-length shirts.

Thursday, December 5, 2013


We've got a double entendre here - not only am I writing about something that "pushes my buttons," but in fact I'm writing about ACTUAL buttons.

I'm not entirely sure how to get this message out into the world in a manner effective enough to reach all the idiots roaming the streets, but it needs to be said.  We need to have a talk about buttons.  Two types, specifically - elevator buttons and street crossing buttons.

 I know everyone has been in the situation where they've either seen or (god forbid) partaken in the excessive pushing of buttons.  I walk into an elevator lobby alone.  I push the UP button.  It glows green, or red, or whatever particular color you feel like imagining - the point is that it's fucking LIT UP like a Christmas light.  And there are only two options (unless you live in some magical world of crazy multi-way elevators, and if so please take me there promptly) - the top button or the bottom button.  When deciding which way to travel in the giant metal box that somewhat terrifyingly lifts you to great heights, there's no way you DON'T notice if one (or both) of the buttons is lit up.  This is never a confusing situation.

When I'm standing there, alone, with my UP button glowing, waiting for my elevator, in walks another person.  That person sees me standing and waiting as well as the brightly lit UP button.  He promptly walks over to it and PRESSES THE GLOWING BUTTON AGAIN.  WHOA WHOA WHOA.  I'm sorry, did you have a problem with the way the button was glowing?  Did you look at me and think "That little bitch can't press buttons worth shit, I'm gonna give this a little extra elbow grease"?  ARE MY BUTTON-PRESSING SKILLS INADEQUATE?  WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT??

The reason this pisses me off so much is because there are not multiple settings for elevator buttons.  It's not "press once, it might show up; press twice, it'll speed up; press three times and HOLY SHIT INSTANT ELEVATOR ARRIVAL!"  No.  It's press ONCE, elevator notified.  Once the elevator is notified, that's all the power we have.  Pushing it multiple times DOES NOT MAKE IT COME FASTER.

Withholding my rage, once the elevator arrives we get on and push our respective floors.  Let's say I push 8 and he pushes 10.  Suddenly the elevator stops on the 4th floor - someone else wants to ride!  This person walks in, stares at the button panel, sees two brightly lit buttons and decides she wants to go to 8.  Here's where a normal person would say "Oh, look, how convenient, my floor has already been selected.  I shall now lean back and enjoy this glorious elevator ride."  But NOOOO.  YOU JUST HAVE TO PUSH IT AGAIN.  In a debate on this issue a while back, I was offered the explanation that pushing buttons likely makes the door close faster.  Perhaps, but you know what does that FOR SURE and not just by your educated guess?  THE CLOSE DOOR BUTTON.  If you want the doors to close, PRESS THAT BUTTON.  It seems VERY SIMPLE but apparently this is difficult.

The other time I nearly pistol whip people is at crosswalks.  I hate this so badly that I get angry if I'm driving and I see it happen.  There are two people in this particular category.  Since most crosswalk buttons don't light up to notify you they've already been pressed, I do understand the need to sometimes re-push it.  However, when I'm standing within 1 foot of said button and you go squeeze by me to push it, you're just being a dick.  Am I really stupid enough to not press the fucking walk button??  You really think I'm that person?  And even if I was, do you not see the 12 people on the other side waiting to cross this direction, any number of whom could have (and likely did) already press the button?  GodDAMN it.

Then there is the impatient pusher.  They could be a combo of this and the above, which is the ultimate in pissing me off.  Let me explain something to you.  If you stand next to the light pole and continuously press the button OVER AND OVER AND OVER 50 times, THIS WILL NOT MAKE IT GO FASTER.  People need a basic knowledge of circuitry.  Once you have pressed the button and completed the circuit, YOU CAN'T COMPLETE IT BETTER OR FASTER.  IT IS ALREADY COMPLETE.  NOW YOU MUST WAIT. 

They treat it like there's a fucking stoplight elf that lives in the pole and every time you push the button he gets poked, assuming that if you keep poking him he's going to get pissed off and be like "OK GO ALREADY STOP BOTHERING ME."  NO.  THIS IS NOT HOW IT WORKS.  Circuits do not understand annoyance.  You could press that shit all day and it wouldn't know the difference.  You know who does notice annoyance?  ME.  And guess what?  I HAVE NO POWER TO MAKE THE LIGHT CHANGE. 

The worst is when I get there first, press the button, and have been waiting for a few minutes when Mr. Pokey comes up and starts his incessant pressing, only to have the light change nearly immediately and have him think it's because he kept pressing the button.  YOU DIDN'T DO THAT.  YOU ARE LIKE A CHILD.  The one that keeps poking his mom repeating "Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy..." until the mom can't take it anymore and is like "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

You are an adult.  Stop believing in the stoplight elf.  He does not exist.  He will not grant your wish the more times you push the button.  The only thing that will come from you doing this is someone like me smacking you in the head with a blunt object because you're so fucking stupid.  And if there was a stoplight elf and he did get irritated with your incessant poking, he'd probably turn the walk sign on while oncoming traffic still had a green, because that's what you deserve.

Saturday, November 30, 2013


The poverty that comes with being in graduate school, living on loans and whatever random income I can find sporadically, has turned me into probably the biggest cheapskate on earth.  Seriously, your grandpa reuses paper towels because he doesn't want to buy more?  I'm almost there. 

Remember when Victoria's Secret would send you a card in the mail that said "free panty!" every two weeks?  Well, I'm pretty much the reason that was stopped.  Every other week I'd walk in, pick out whatever style was free and walk up to the counter with my magical card and new underwear.  I'll be honest, I have a fuckton of free underwear.  At any given time, 60% of my underwear drawer was likely free.  To be fair, you can never have enough underwear, in case of some sort of emergency - those free panties will get me way further than most people when the zombie apocalypse hits.  When I'd hand the cashier the card and the undies, she'd always ask "Would you like to get the matching bra with that?  You'll save $10."  The first few times I politely said "No thanks."  One day, when I literally had about 73 cents in my pocket and a free panty card to my name, I got the same question.  "No thanks, I'm only in the market for free stuff today."  That was that.

Back in the day, before I paid for my own shit, I wore $150 designer jeans.  Now I walk into Forever 21 and balk at anything that's over $15.  It takes me a good 20 minutes and some deep introspection to decide whether or not I want that $12 shirt.  I mean, $12!  That's TWO BURRITOS.  I see a sale sign in the H&M next door.  My idea of a sale is all things are $5.  ALL THINGS.  I walk up to a cute sweater on the sale rack and see that it's been marked down to $25.  $25?!?  ON SALE?  Come ON people, I'm not fucking Bill Gates here.  I can't be spending $25 all willy nilly, that's big money!

Hong Kong further ruined my range of acceptable pricing.  As I walked around the stores in the little cheapie malls (the ones with the good Engrish shirts), I'd use my magical conversion app on my phone to convert HK$ to US$.  The most expensive thing was like $11.  That was WAAAY too much.  I stayed in a store for 15 minutes holding three $4 tank tops (an item of clothing that I would get a ton of use out of) trying to figure out if it was worth it.  I ended up buying only two and left feeling like I'd just blown my life savings.

So you'd think that someone as cheap as I am would LOVE a good Black Friday deal, right?  NOPE.  If there is an afterlife, and I'm judged to be a terrible human being (likely), I will be sent to a crowded mall where I can't find a place to sit or hide or ever leave the crushing weight of the mass of people sent to destroy me.  I mean, there are other reasons I don't do Black Friday...

I don't have any money.  Sure a $60 5-foot-wide flat screen tv is a great deal, but I neither have $60 nor do I need a TV the size of a refrigerator on my wall to watch from the couch no one has moved (or cleaned) since 1980.  I have a lovely, appropriately-sized flat screen TV, and I will have it until (its) death do us part.

No, really, I don't have any money.  $10 on everything at H&M?  Still can't afford that.  I mean, good on H&M for understanding that "sale" should never mean anything over $15 exists in the store, but with age has come the wisdom that I can't eat a sweater, even if I'm really fucking hungry.

I don't need to be arrested.  Seriously, the likelihood of this happening were I to enter a large store on Black Friday where there are limited numbers of items is quite high.  I'm not a thief, but if you try to grab something out of my hands I'LL CUT YOU, BITCH.  The amount of anger that lives within this small body is astonishing, really.  Just ask the guy that stole my phone.

I live in a world of student discounts, walking 10 blocks instead of paying for parking, and smuggling bottles of mini liquor into a bar, mixing it into my plain (free) Coke in the bathroom while hiding in the stall like Rob Ford and his grocery bag of crack cocaine.  Survival instincts at their finest.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013


Sometimes you just need to rant about shit that's pissing you off.  Well, today is one of those days.  I hope you're not one of these people because I want to throw large non-lethal objects at their heads right now.
1)  I have a 7ish minute drive to school from my house.  Everything's fucking peachy until I try to merge onto the 110 from the 101S.  I'm honestly not sure how this literally happens EVERY SINGLE DAY and NO ONE has figured this out yet, but all these goddamned morons think "OH SHIT if I don't get all the way over into the left 3 lanes in the next 100 feet I'll be stuck downtown forever!"  NOPE.  There's a little secret.  It's adequately signed and pretty fucking obvious but apparently, based on driver behavior, it's still a fucking little known porthole that goes EXACTLY WHERE THEY WANT TO GO.  Here's the secret - IF YOU DON'T MAKE IT TO THE LEFT 3 LANES YOU WILL STILL GET ON THE 110S.  The magical lane RIGHT NEXT TO IT, the one you're slowing to a COMPLETE STOP in to get over ONE MORE LANE and wasting my precious time because you don't care to read signs, GOES TO THE EXACT SAME PLACE.  We go up a magical little hill, then come down and get RIGHT BACK ON THE 110!  I know, it's CRAZY.

First of all, I can assume that the vast majority of the people at any given time are residents of Los Angeles, and also that they have in fact driven on this particular stretch of road before.  Second, I'd say a good HALF of them probably do this drive EVERY GODDAMNED DAY to get to work.  How stupid are you to drive the same route for days, months, or even YEARS and not figure out that there's a nifty little way to get around all the backup in merging traffic?  THERE'S A SIGN.  IT HAS AN ARROW.  IT POINTS TO THAT LANE AND SAYS 110S.  Do you not trust the sign?  You trust the sign next to it, why not THIS SIGN?  This sign has no reason to lie to you.  I'm going to make a new sign.  It's going to be bright fucking orange and I'll put it at the start of the shoulder that half of you idiots drive across at the last minute because the other lane will take you STRAIGHT TO HELL apparently.  My sign will say "HEY ASSHOLES, THIS LANE ---> WILL ALSO TAKE YOU TO THE 110S.  I PROMISE."  The arrow is necessary because they are literally that stupid.  Actually I should just draw a picture of the whole thing because I'm assuming someone this dumb can read.

2) Undergrads.  I can't handle you.  Seriously.  SHUT UP.  Everything you say is of no importance whatsoever.  Stop talking like Kim Kardashian.  I want to punch you in the neck.  I hate being on campus in the middle of the day.  I've nearly been killed by a bike at least 7 times because these idiots are actually texting while biking.  And you're so LOUD.  STOP.  There is no possible way I could've been that annoying as an undergrad.  Having a boyfriend the whole time helped because I wasn't gossiping about frat guys or randomly yelling for no reason.  I'm not saying that the majority of stuff I talk about is important/relevant/or even worth listening to, but I do it at a reasonable volume and without the stupid bitch voice or a "NO WAAAAAAY" thrown in every 3 seconds.

There was a dumb fake blonde hair-extension little bitch in the computer lab today when I was trying to print my paper for class and run halfway across campus because nowhere else has any goddamn printing.  There are rows of computers, as you may have guessed seeing that is the typical setup for a computer lab.  I was assigned to a computer at the very end of a row.  There was one girl sitting at a computer doing what looked like legit work, and then her dumb fake friend was sitting IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AISLE.  There was NO ONE ELSE AROUND.  All you have to do is MOVE YOUR CHAIR NEXT TO HER.  NOPE.  She was going to sit in that aisle and take it for all it was worth.  I begin walking down the aisle to my computer and, after standing next to her for a second, assuming she'd get out of my way, had to say EXCUSE ME in order for her to acknowledge my existence and moved VERY SLIGHTLY out of the way for me to pass while rolling her eyes.  Then she went right back to her spot blocking any and all traffic.  I had to go back and forth to the computer twice to get my paper from the printer and sign off, and BOTH TIMES she still had yet to figure out that OH HEY PEOPLE WALK HERE and that maybe because I left my stuff by the computer when I got up that I was likely to walk back.  EACH TIME required me to stand there and say excuse me when she CLEARLY saw me coming.  HEY.  YOU ARE NOT IMPORTANT, COOL, OR EVEN SOMEONE THAT ANY NORMAL PERSON WOULD WANT TO TALK TO.  STOP.  JUST STOP EXISTING.  I CAN'T FUCKING TAKE IT ANYMORE.

I've been doing important shit since before you even existed.  What was I doing in 1994?  Lots of awesome important 12-year-old things, like listening to Janet Jackson on a cassette tape or making friendship bracelets.  What were you doing?  OH RIGHT, BEING BORN.  Sorry, that doesn't hold a candle to my middle school theater skills that have obviously served me well in this world.  And I was KILLING IT on Super Nintendo.  I can still kill it on Super Nintendo.

3) In my MBA class, which has people I generally don't hate in it since they at least know what a VHS tape is, I generally sit in the middle of a row with a couple of empty seats on each side of me between whoever's on the ends.  It works out great.  I like this setup.  Don't fuck with this setup.  Especially don't fuck with this setup if you're the two guys in class that have RAGING B.O.  "Oh hey, we're late to class!  Why don't we squeeze in and sit on either side of this girl instead of taking one of the 20 other available seats in the room?"  DEAR GOD STOP.  I have my nice buffer zone where I can spread out my shit, have my breakfast bar and water and generally be comfortable.  GET OUT OF THE BUFFER ZONE.  I DO NOT HAVE FORCES TO COMBAT YOUR STENCH, pleeeeeeeeeeease spare me from an hour and a half of the equivalent of sticking my face in a dumpster.  I was not spared.  I left with very little oxygen because I had been taking shallow breaths to avoid the smell, I COULD HAVE DIED PEOPLE.

I may or may not have some anger issues.  Just be glad I take it out via blog and not through violent means.  I mostly don't care to go to prison, since if my friends won't even visit me in Silverlake there's NO WAY they'd drive all the way to prison.

Monday, November 18, 2013


Some people might call me weird.  I like to say "well-rounded" or "eclectic", but we all have our idiosyncrasies.  While I don't technically have multiple personality disorder, I do feel like I have multiple people that come out on specific occasions.  After a little introspection, I've come to the conclusion that my personality is made up of the following:

1) The 65-year-old black man - He loves his Motown.  This guy is likely seen driving around town grooving to the oldies in his car.  He probably wears a hat most of the time, an old guy hat - like a plaid newsboy cap or whatever the fuck old dudes wear.  He may very well embarrass his children with his wardrobe and attempts to get them to dance to the Temptations with him when they visit home.  He doesn't give a fuck, he's just having a good time.  He enjoys a good, long sit on the porch on a sunny day and probably whistles his groovin' tunes while he does it.  And he never takes off the goddamn hat.

2) The crotchety old woman - This old bitch lives alone and hates everyone.  She's probably yelled at you to get off her lawn more than once and is frequently cursing under her breath about the "damn kids" in the neighborhood.  She doesn't want to talk to you and gets pissed off when strangers try to start a conversation.  She gets immense pleasure calling the police on the "damn kids" when they barely screw up because she hates them so goddamned much.  When there aren't any kids to curse at, she can often be found on her couch with her cats, watching Law and Order marathons and actually calling the number on the ad for the Rascal scooter but decides every time that it's too expensive.  The only thing she eats is grilled cheese.

3) The flamboyant interior designer/antiquer - This guy gets WAY too impressed when you have a piece of designer furniture or something rare and vintage.  If you invite him over to your home for dinner and you happen to share his design style, he'll be so overwhelmed by your décor that he likely can't hold a conversation without telling you the history of the architect or furniture designer.  You can really impress him by having original mid-century pieces, like an Eames chair or case study bed.  He watches Mad Men especially for the furniture and fashion.  If you don't know or care about architecture and design, you want to fucking kill this guy every minute of your life.

4) The frat boy - This guy does things specifically because they're stupid.  If he can make someone laugh with his dumb antics, he has succeeded in life.  He knows all the lines to Family Guy and hates it when people talk about actual important topics like politics or current events.  No time for that!  Time to party!  Time to have fun!  Why so serious?  He wants to be the fun guy, the one everyone wants to hang out with, the one people say "Wicked awesome party, bra" to.  When he enters the real world and gets a job, he feels completely out of place in a professional environment and has to put on a fake persona to get by.  The second he's out of work, the tie comes off and the Tupac comes on, rapping his way back to his tiny studio in a really awesome part of town that keeps him close to the "action".  He has an irrepressible urge to say "your mom does x" after someone makes almost any statement.

5) The Mean Girl - Yes, as in "the Plastics".  This girl is attractive and knows it.  She is also a walking pile of judgments - every person she sees gets sized up, whether it be a 3-year-old or someone her own age.  Common thoughts that pass through her mind are "Eww, buy some jeans that fit, muffin top", "You REALLY need some makeup, like NOW", and "Your face makes me want to gouge out my own eyeballs."  Her favorite pastime is group judging with her friends when they go to public places or watch TV together.  She has no qualms about the fact that her looks get her things, and secretly enjoys the attention she gets when she wears "going out" clothes.  She also only has attractive friends - hot chicks in a group can get ANYTHING.

6) The guy who lives with his mom - He's in his 30s, and he lives in his parents' basement.  He doesn't leave the house often and finds "eating lunch" or "going to the mailbox" as things that likely warrant a nap.  People freak him out.  Every time he goes somewhere he has to interact with someone, so it's just easier to stay in bed watching Netflix in his comfy PJs than try to function around other people.  His laundry piles up until he has to do three loads at once.  He's so lazy that instead of going out and getting food he'll make a meal out of random things like a sweet potato, half a quesadilla and some unidentified leftovers in the back of the fridge.  He is likely over 300lbs and a virgin.

So there's the breakdown.  I'm sure there's more in there, but they don't show themselves that often.  What 31-year-old white chick sings Marvin Gaye in her car while wearing a dinosaur tshirt and cursing everyone in her path?  Probably the same one that, after being robbed and bleeding out of multiple wounds, stops crying for a good ten seconds upon entering the home of the good Samaritan helping out and gasps "You have an EAMES CHAIR?" only to resume crying momentarily.  Yep.  That sounds about right.

Monday, November 11, 2013


When you're a little kid, everyone always asks you what you want to be when you grow up.  Super young kids say things like princesses or Batman, but getting into elementary school they begin to get semi-realistic.  Semi.

When I was asked what I wanted to be, my first response was "Robin Williams."  I think that took some people off guard, since apparently it isn't normal for a blonde 8-year-old girl to aspire to be a small, hairy funny guy with a coke habit.  I eventually changed my tune, and decided on archaeology.  When I learned that all the mummies had already been found and were in museums waiting to be seen, I changed again.  Perhaps the one I kept for the longest was architect - and that still remains one of my passions that I sadly don't have the math skills or requisite degrees to pursue.

It's normal to change your mind a lot as a kid.  I think at one time I wanted to be an airline pilot.  That would scare the living fuck out of me now.  But there comes a time in your "adult" life (adult as referring to the age limits set by the government, which obviously do not coincide with maturity levels) when you don't get to change your mind anymore.  Some people find a job right out of college and stay in that industry, others go to grad school with a clear path in mind that generally they stick to.  And then there's me.

At that same point when people start getting jobs and sticking to them, it really sort of becomes unacceptable to change your mind.  Once you pass grad school age, you're kinda SOL if you haven't found your niche.  You're no longer "aspiring" or "experimenting", you're lazy and a fuck up.

 Law school, ironically enough, is called a "terminal degree" - one where you can't get any higher in the field than that.  I was hoping it would be my terminal degree, but things don't always turn out the way you want them to.  If you asked me the day I graduated law school what I'd be doing at age 31, it sure as hell wouldn't be "single, unemployed graduate student living with my brother and two cats."  I'd have said I'd be married, hopefully living in California (ONE goal achieved, check) and likely be prosecuting big time criminals as a US Attorney.  Let's all get a good laugh out of that one for a second.

If you'd asked me last year what I'd be doing when I graduated USC in May, I'd likely have said something very specific about doing PR for this or that agency or company.  You ask me now?  I don't have a fucking clue.  Every minute of the past semester I've been terrified of graduating, not because I'm not ready to enter the workforce, but because I'm afraid the workforce won't want me.

I was at an interview last week for a job that meshed both my law degree and PR degree into an internship.  I was really interested because it involved interesting law and a lot of writing.  Obviously, as I sit here at 1am on a Sunday night (Monday morning?) blogging, it's pretty clear that I enjoy writing to some degree.  The interviewer asked me standard questions, why I wanted the job etc., which I think I answered with enough vigor to show I'd be a good employee.  Then she asked me what I see myself doing in five years.

With the way my life has gone, and not all of it bad in any way, I could be living on a houseboat in Hawaii making odd crafts I sell on Etsy in 5 years.  I could be a lawyer again.  I could be a professor.  Where do I think I'll be in five years?  The only honest answer is "alive" and very likely still on the west coast.  Where do I WANT to be in five years?  Happy.  Doing what, I don't care.  I don't know where my money will come from or what I'll be doing, but I hope to god I'm happy.

While the interview went well I think, I left feeling depressed.  Angry, depressed and irritated.  I'm tired of people asking me what I want to be when I grow up.  I know I'm fucking 31 and should have some idea of what I want to do with my life, but I don't.  Honestly, if I could choose ANYTHING, I'd be a writer.  I'd write for Chelsea Lately or Saturday Night Live, or some other comedy.  I'd write books, snarky memoirs and tales of my dating woes. 

I'm not lazy, irresponsible or a fuck up.  I have an honest confusion as to where I want my career to take me, or where to even start.  I'm past the point of what I "want" to do, now it's "that wouldn't be so bad."  Now I just need to find a job so I can support myself and so people won't look at me like I'm some sort of child who needs tending because I can't make up my mind.  I hate having to explain myself to people I meet when they ask me "what do you do?"  I'm tired of talking about it.  It happens every day.  Every damn day someone reminds me that I'm very much an adult and very much not at the right point in my life. 

Stop making me explain myself.  If I could do that, I'd likely have the answer to my own questions.  I don't.  I'll find something I don't mind doing that will support me and pay my bills, but I don't know what that is right now.  Stop making me explain why I left law.  Stop making me feel like I made a mistake because of a horrific experience and that I'd likely still be employed if not for what that did to me.  Maybe I did make a mistake, but I would have never found that out without going through school last year and having stress lead to my PTSD diagnosis.

All I want is some stability.  I want to know I have a job when I graduate.  I want to know that soon people will look at me as a real adult and not some wandering hippie child out to find meaning in life.  I'm still looking.  Who knows when I'll find that meaning, but at least I can have people see me as a normal person while doing it once I graduate.

The only people in my life that I know understand me are my parents.  Both changed careers in their mid-forties.  I'm lucky to have supportive parents because this is a tricky situation, especially financially.  I'm glad they're not the prodding annoying parents who are angry that I haven't (and don't plan on) given them grandchildren.  I'm harder on myself than they are on me.  I always have been.  I just want everyone else to see that I'm trying.  Eventually I can be included in dinners to nice restaurants or other things I currently can't afford.  Eventually I won't be "the poor friend."  I guess I'm just a late bloomer.

Sunday, October 27, 2013


Someday my posts about bad dates will end, and I'll have a good date that lasts forever, but until then I suppose I can at least keep you entertained.

I met a nice young man at a friend's wedding recently.  I wasn't necessarily looking to meet someone since the wedding was out-of-town, but it turned out that this guy lived in south LA.  He seemed fun and social at the wedding, and was very polite - he'd go and get me drinks when I was about to go so I could continue to dance, etc (no, he did not roofie me, sorry).  At the post-wedding brunch the next morning he even offered to get me some advil for my hangover, which he did promptly.  Very thoughtful. 

We didn't exchange numbers because there was always some awkward group dynamic, but he asked the bride for my number and we started chatting.  I invited him to Oktoberfest since it was near his place, and he not only came, he stood in line with me for a whole hour to get tickets since I didn't get them online (whoopsie).  Bought all my beers that night, etc.

So we hang out for a couple of weeks, and I'm still not entirely sure if I'm interested or not, because I feel like he hasn't opened up much.  A few things did sort of slip out, though, that I was slightly disturbed by.  In passing, driving to lunch or somewhere, he was talking about the new things they were building in his neighborhood, and then mentioned that it had gotten a lot more "ethnic" than when he first moved there.  Um, son, you live in LOS ANGELES.  In any given day, I am likely to hear at LEAST 3 languages, possibly more (English, Spanish, Armenian, Chinese, Farsi...) and he seems "surprised" that ANYWHERE in the city is "ethnic?"  I began to be on my guard, because I didn't like that statement.

Last week I invited him to a friend's Halloween party, because I was sort of hoping that was an isolated incident and perhaps he'd start opening up in a party atmosphere, like when I first met him.  A couple of days later, he texted me a picture of Milli Vanilli.  After a complete WTF moment, he said that was what he was being for Halloween.  Funny, yet not so funny if you only have Milli and not Vanilli...but whatever he wanted to do.

A couple of days later he texts me with a picture of him in costume, a hat, wig, and sunglasses.  He looked like Ozzy Osbourne, and I told him that jokingly.  And then here it came:

"I won't when I'm wearing my makeup!"
Hoping to all that was holy he was talking about some sort of Michael Jackson eyeliner or the like and not what I assumed, I asked
"Yeah, my face paint."
"You mean blackface?"
"NO."  followed by "You're joking right?"
"No, why?"
"Dude it's fucking 2013, you can't fucking wear blackface!!!"
"Why not?"

The conversation continued with him seemingly COMPLETELY IGNORANT of the fact that blackface hasn't been socially acceptable since like 1930, not to mention that it's ALWAYS been racist... So I told him that under no circumstances would he be wearing blackface to my friend's party, and I would not attend ANY party with him if he wore that.  He agreed not to, but still didn't really seem to understand.

I called him the next day.  "Dude.  Do you REALLY not understand why it's not ok to wear blackface?"
"Well, no..."
I told him the story of fraternities and sororities that got in major trouble for having only a FEW of their many members wear blackface at parties, and that these people were suspended or put on probation from their house.  And this was in TEXAS.  We're in LA.  I'm surprised I don't slip in a puddle of rainbows and liberalism on a daily basis, and this guy had literally no concept of how offensive this was.

He didn't say much in response.  No "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was that out of line" or "I had no idea, I will definitely not do it now."  Just sort of quiet on the other line occasionally mumbling "ok" every now and then, and not like he'd had some revelation of his idiocy.  I don't know why I didn't take this occasion to get rid of him quickly and easily, but I think I was still in a state of shock that a human being in one of the most diverse and liberal cities in the country didn't know blackface was racist.

I took the opportunity to ask another question:  "How do you feel about gay people?"
"Well, I don't know any really, but I don't have a problem with them."

You don't know any gay people?  Once again.  Los Angeles.  I'm practically TRIPPING OVER GAY PEOPLE and you don't know ANY?  Who are you?  I'd say nearly a quarter of my friends are gay.  I pictured a few years down the line with this guy and attending a gay friend's wedding, and it wasn't looking pretty. 

I did end up taking him to the Halloween party since he promised not to wear his "makeup" and because I didn't want the drama of disinviting him when I can just slowly phase out seeing him and answering texts.  The whole day before the party, I was so excited about my costume, but so dreading the party.  I didn't want to have to babysit him, or really hang out with him at all.  Luckily he didn't follow me around like a puppy so I was able to get away and have conversations with other people (ironically most of the party was either non-white or gay, with me and only a couple of others as the white folk).

I could also go into how he couldn't really have a real conversation, his jokes weren't funny, and he couldn't handle 5 seconds of silence and therefore would insert said unfunny jokes into any time I wasn't speaking, but I'm so horrified by the above incident that I can barely focus on that.  I'm so horrified I couldn't even make this post funny.  Also he's not on Facebook.  Like has NEVER had an account.  Obviously some people (me...) like it more than others, but someone my own age who has never ever had an account?  I find that a little odd.  At least that means I can post this without any repercussions though :)

Monday, October 14, 2013


I saw an article the other day with the same title, and it got me thinking.  While that author was more concerned with the "I need money, I don't care what job I get right now" thing, here's what I'd like to write:

To whom it may concern:

I'm interested in *Position X* that you posted on your website.  Let me start by saying I'm qualified - your position does not require years of experience, math skills, a degree in science or technology, nor does it require me to make cold calls or sell things to people who might not want them.  I'm not overqualified or underqualified.  You're probably a little put off by my law degree, confused as to what I'm looking to do or how much I want you to shell out for a salary.  Don't worry, I made less as an attorney than I likely will in your industry, and I would hope that the fact that I'm getting an ENTIRELY NEW DEGREE would show you that I'm not going to just up and leave you when a law firm hires me.

Here's the problem - I can't write you the fanciest, fakest, bullshitty cover letter about how this is my dream job and I will cover your office in stars and happiness and change the path of the company as a whole.  The truth is, I don't know what my dream job is.  I know what interests me from my classes, but that hardly translates to whether or not I will like a particular job or not (as evidenced by my awful internship in Hong Kong, despite my interest and enjoyment of my corporate PR class). 

Here's the real story - if I'm applying to this job, I'm interested in it.  The job description seems like something I would enjoy and excel at, yet I can't provide you with an emotional story depicting why this job and I are a perfect match.  Internships, as I have found, are trial and error.  I won't know if I like your internship or this particular part of PR unless you give me a chance and let me try it out.  I'm not supposed to admit this, but I'm experimenting.  I'm trying things out that might be a match so that I can find what IS a match for me.  I'm not being flaky or just applying so I can have something on my resume - if that was the case I'd also be applying to those jobs that are titled "Social Media Intern" or "Event Planning."  I'm not - I'm applying to jobs similar to this one.

Here's what you will get out of me:  I have an undergraduate degree in advertising, the aforementioned law degree, and 3/4ths of a masters in public relations.  I have five years of experience in one of the MOST professional of all professions - law - so you're not getting a giggly 23-year-old who hasn't been in the real world.  I get shit done, I do it well, and I do it efficiently.  I have the logical thinking required to offer suggestions if I think something might be improved.  I'm able to convince pretty much anyone of anything, which should be of interest to you since your clients might need a little persuasive push on occasion.  I have public speaking down to a science, and a room full of CEOs is actually less terrifying than a judge, jury and an undetermined number of felons.

No, I haven't had particular experience with certain things, but I'm a student.  I'm seeking an internship.  Internships are where you get that experience, and I can't get experience without someone taking a chance on me and hiring me as an intern. 

So what is my passion, you ask?  Sadly my passions aren't in areas where I'm able to get jobs.  Remember the aforementioned lack of math skills and engineering degree?  Yeah.  My passion is architecture and design.  My passion is in learning for the sake of learning.  I love science, psychology, and creating things, whether it be art, IKEA furniture, or a new idea for a product.  I'm stuck in a world where interests and abilities don't collide, so I have to find a place where I can at least become close to a compromise between them.

If you hire me, you'll get someone who does the work, has good ideas, interacts professionally with her coworkers, and maybe, just maybe, someone who realizes this job actually IS her passion.  But you won't know if you don't give ME a chance, just like I won't find my passion if I don't give your company a chance.

So please, for the love of god, hire me. 



Wednesday, October 2, 2013


Dear iPhone Thief -

First off, I'd like to congratulate you on getting away with my 2 year old iPhone 4s.  That phone will sell for big bucks on the black market, I assure you.  Sorry you didn't get the earbuds too, but hey, I had to keep a souvenir.  However, I'm a tad bit pissed off that you got my brand new phone cover.  I'd had it for two days.  TWO DAYS DUDE.  I special ordered it because it was SO AWESOME you couldn't get it at any old store.  I mean, have you ever seen a phone cover with a space cat shooting laser beams out its eyes?  Me neither, until I bought the one you stole.  I mean, it had a CAT WITH MOTHERFUCKING LASER BEAMS SHOOTING OUT ITS EYES.  IN SPACE.  GodDAMN you.

But I digress.  What was your plan exactly anyway?  Did you assume I'd just be so shocked I would stand there like a statue while you ran into the nice neighborhood to hide?  I mean, there was one of you, and you're not very big.  Did you have a getaway car up that hill?  I'm going to assume you did, because stealing something on foot with no way out is really fucking stupid.  Yet I saw no car waiting for you anywhere NEAR where you were going - did you just freak out and get lost?  If you're going to rob somebody, you'd probably better not be of the freaking out sort.

I know why you picked me - I'm blonde, I was walking (not running), and in real life I don't look like the crazy bitch that lurks inside of me.  I look younger than I am and am not very big.  I was wearing my glasses.  That automatically put me in the wuss category working out with glasses on.  Easy peasy right?  Just run up behind this chick, grab the phone out of her hand, and run to some apparently undetermined location (I stress again, bad plan) with the awesomely obsolete phone you stole.

Thank you for picking me.  No, really.  I mean, this was a new experience for me.  I've never been a crime victim before, I'm just used to putting little punk-ass shits like you in prison, hiding behind the power of a badge I no longer carry.  No one can really say how they'd react if something like this happened to them, and, despite my background, I honestly didn't know either.  Thank you for picking me because I learned that my instinct is to be a GIANT BADASS and come at you like a fucking monster truck.  COME AT ME BRO.

In my intense state of rage as I ran after you as fast as I physically could, the most satisfying thing I saw was the fear in your eyes.  The complete and utter lack of preparation for the fact that someone like me would fight back and your panic as you tried to figure out the next phase of your plan.  I can still see it, the "HOLY SHIT, BITCH BE CRAZY" look in your eyes.  If my eyes could adequately convey my feelings (which I'm not sure they can, so this is conjecture), you could've seen that if I caught up to you, you would be in a WORLD OF PAIN.  People can pick up cars with adrenaline - I could beat your skinny teen ass like a goddamned yeti with the adrenaline I had that day.

Consider yourself lucky.  You're lucky because I'm in pretty pathetic shape right now, strength- and endurance-wise.  You're lucky that I have asthma because the only reason I stopped running was because I physically could not put air in my lungs.  And you're lucky because I'm a clumsy fuck who, when faced with a 3-block sprint in my condition, pretty much tripped over my own feet as my body gave out.

So while you sit at home enjoying my old phone, I get to sit here enjoying my brand new iPhone 5, which literally became $99 TODAY because you robbed me 2 days before my contract gave me the maximum discount.  You won't get $99 out of my phone.  Maybe that fucking awesome case, but not the phone.

And while you plot your next poorly-planned robbery attempt, I'll be running.  I'll be running in my new running shoes that I will have fitted especially for me.  Not running to get fit, like every time I've tried before.  Running for a purpose.  Running to know that I can catch your punk ass if this were to ever happen again.  Running to match the body to the badass living in my brain.

Maybe my actions shocked you enough that you'll think twice about who you try to victimize.  Now every woman you see could potentially be as crazy as I am and chase your ass down.  Second thoughts now?  I hope that when you think of me, you remember fear.  I hope you're embarrassed by how close you came to getting caught and beaten on by a girl.

And most of all, I hope you REALLY FUCKING ENJOY MY LASER CAT COVER and appreciate that that is a PRICELESS GEM you happened upon when stealing a phone you hoped would be an iPhone 5.  Dick.

Go fuck yourself,

Your Eternal Nemisis

Sunday, August 25, 2013


I have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with Chelsea Lately and all the folks who are on the show, likely because that's my dream job and I want to take over their lives and act like a moron while being paid for it.  And like the good fan that I am, I've read the vast majority of Chelsea's books and those by her writers/cohosts.

About a week ago I went to Barnes and Noble, my happy place, and after the requisite hour and a half of browsing, I left with Jen Kirkman's book "I Can Barely Take Care of Myself."  Most of the books by the CL staff are just funny memoirs, but Jen's book had a little more substance to it - it addressed the highly controversial (WHY??) topic of voluntarily not having children when you are physically and financially able to care for them.  I felt like I was reading something I wrote, because every situation she talks about has happened to me.

Here's the gist of it - if someone (normal) asks a man if he has a girlfriend and he replies "I'm gay," generally the response is "Oh, ok."  The conversation stops - or at least the asker doesn't feel the need to ask why said person is gay, or tell them they'll "change their mind" about it in a few years.  (I'm basing this on normal, open-minded, gay-friendly people in LA, I'm obviously aware this is not how it goes for many places).  Same thing with a couple who doesn't want to get married - it may confuse the asker as to why someone would want to spend their life with someone and not marry them, but that also generally ends with the same "Oh, ok."

I could go on with examples but you get the idea.  Now think about when a female (or a couple) is asked when she plans to have kids.  The answer "I don't want kids" should garner the exact same "Oh, ok" response as above, but IT NEVER DOES.  There's always a confused look and a litany of questions, generally ended with "you'll change your mind."  So here, in easy-to-read numbered format, is exactly why I do not wish to have a child or a litter of them.

1) I don't like them.  Really, none of them.  Not infants, toddlers, whatever's next, preteens, teens, or "young adults."  I don't actively wish them ill will, but I just sort of wish they'd go away - their presence irritates me.  While I always make a mental note of a child that is very mature or polite and think "they have very good parents," I still don't care to be around them.  There are kids that I tolerate or appreciate, such as friends' kids and relatives, but simply because they're smart and well-mannered doesn't mean I have any interest in interacting with them.

2) I don't enjoy kid things.  Some people are very in tune with their inner child and having kids is their way to re-enjoy the things they did as a kid with their own children.  I'm perhaps more in tune with my inner 13-year-old boy - I'm a smart ass and appreciate inappropriate humor.  I don't want to play with your dolls or GI Joe or have a tea party with your imaginary friend.  I think back on the things I enjoyed as a kid (minus sports, which I still enjoy) and they were all rather inane.  I would actually make up storylines for my My Little Ponies and Barbies, pretend I was a Ninja Turtle while playing outside with friends and randomly make up songs about what I was doing.  My dad is very in touch with his inner child - he loved to play with our Hot Wheels with us and put vinyl floor instead of carpet in our new house specifically for that reason.  I get the same feeling thinking about participating in those activities now with a child as I do when you tell me I'm going to go be a cashier for 8 hours at a retail store.

3) Disposable income.  Now, I've never actually SEEN this, but I hear it really exists later in life.  Something about "extra money" that I can used to do whatever I want.  It sounds grand, and I'm quite looking forward to it.  I have a fuckton* of student loans (*actual unit of measurement).  In the two and a half years I was actually employed full time, I paid on those student loans.  Unpleasant, but not debilitating.  Yes, I'm getting more right now, but the thought of the extra money I'll have to pay doesn't frighten me as it does others - since I have no intention of having any children, I'm pretty okay living on a budget for a while to pay those suckers off - which I will be able to do significantly faster than folks who have kids, or are planning a "good time" financially to have them.

4) Freedom.  Basically, with the only burdens being my career and my husband's, I'm free to move about the country.  I'm free to take jobs in other places (not that I really want to leave here, oh, ever) or follow my husband if he gets a new job with basically not a second thought.  I'm free to live wherever the hell I want - I'm not cloistered by school districts or the necessity of having  a yard.  We can buy a home in an awesome location that's smaller than the others because we don't need extra room.  I can have NICE FURNITURE, like the glorious Eames lounger I dream of daily, without worrying that it'll be destroyed.  I can sleep in on weekends, take spur-of-the-moment trips, spend time simply relaxing with a book on the porch or taking a walk through the neighborhood.  I can't even have a dog, and I LIKE dogs.  The schedule that revolves around a dog is like that of a kid - take it out however many times a day, make sure you don't get there late or he'll shit on the floor and you'll have to clean it up (EWWWWWW), frequent vet appointments and generally being bothered to play all the rest of the time.  Seriously, sometimes my CAT is too needy.

5) Pregnancy and childbirth.  Don't even get me started.  This one doesn't need a paragraph, it needs a LIST:

- Morning sickness - before I was on birth control, I would literally have morning sickness EVERY MONTH.  If it happened for that much of a non-event as my monthly girly time, there's no way I'm going to be one of the lucky ones that doesn't vomit every twelve minutes.

- Medication - I'm on 4 different medications and have been for 13 years  (two are newer).  You're not supposed to be on any medication when you're pregnant, because any number of them will cause your fetus to grow 3 legs and a second head, so it's a non-question that I would have to get completely off my meds.  About a year ago, I had the hilarious idea of seeing what my body would do if I got off birth control and I only lasted one week before I went completely batshit hormonal crazy.  And that's the LEAST disruptive of my medications - getting off the others for 9 months (or longer) would produce withdrawal symptoms so bad I'd likely have to be hospitalized for a short time, and then the thought of me without them?  Pregnancy hormones minus meds that keep me from being batshit crazy equals DISASTER, and likely a divorce but hopefully not a criminal record.  You never know though.

- Weight gain - I've never gained a significant amount of weight.  I've fluctuated at most 15lbs since I was in college at any given time.  It's hard enough for me to lose ten pounds - losing 20 or 40?  Nope.  Especially with joys like stretch marks and saggy skin - and saggy BOOBS.  That's all a disaster I cannot handle.

- Actual childbirth - When someone tells me they're going to do "natural" childbirth without pain meds, I feel like they just told me they were going to go throw themself in front of a moving car.  First of all, nothing the size of a basketball is coming out of my vagina.  Sorry, it's just not happening.  And even the pain meds are terrifying - have you SEEN an epidural needle?  I nearly vomit every time I see one on TV.  I'd 100% schedule an elective c-section, because having them rip the kid out of my stomach after throwing my organs out of place is still more desirable than the alternative.

6) Seriously, nothing about having children is appealing.  Nothing.  I'm obviously in the minority on that fact, and I realize this, but those things that you think are fantastic and make all the late nights and early mornings and other irritating child disruptions worth it?  I don't think they're fantastic.  I've thought about this at length.  All of the things people love about having children are really not things I either want or care about.  When I picture my future, thinking about what I'll be doing at 45 or 50, I never picture kids.  I'm generally not even actively thinking about kids and not having them when I daydream - they just organically do not show up in my future life.

In the book, people would tell Jen Kirman that she's "selfish" for not bringing a child into the world.  I ask you this - is it more selfish to not do something you're not 100% committed to or to do what's "expected" and have a child whose mommy resents them, even just a little, for taking over their life?  No one wants to have, or be, a guilt baby.  Babies should be wanted and have warm, loving parents that want to put the kid first in their life over vacations, careers, money, etc.  Would you want someone like me, who admitted to not liking children, to have one?  I'm not like my friends who have kids who strongly wanted a family that included children.  My friends with kids are fantastic parents - because they wanted to be PARENTS.  Their families make me slightly less worried about humanity in 50 years, unlike what I see on reality TV.

So in conclusion, now you don't have to ask me why.  It's all laid out up there.  You secretly believe I'll change my mind.  I not-so-secretly know you're wrong.

In the wise words of my all-knowing 93-year-old grandma, "If you don't want kids, don't have them!  Not everyone needs to have kids, you know."  Preach it, Grandma.

However, for those of you that do have kids - PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAKE THEM BE PRESIDENT SOMEDAY or I fear we might end up with President Honey Boo Boo.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013


In the past couple of days I've read articles relating to the recent upswing in crazy helicopter parents and how to not raise whiny kids.  While I am not a parent, I speak from experience as a former child who grew up in the no-Pinterest no-organic no-hippie dippy crazy shit era.

I of all people can speak from experience about caring what others think.  I was the most shy, insecure adolescent, preteen and teen you can imagine.  I wore certain things to not get made fun of, not necessarily because I thought they were awesome.  In 6th grade I couldn't have cared less about Girbaud jeans (you know you remember them), but my classmates did, so I begged my mom to get me some in an effort to simply not be the butt of jokes in class.

Then there was this magical time, I'll call it "college," when suddenly it all made sense.  I was successfully living a life giving very few fucks and not getting called out for things I had once thought would make or break my existence.  I'd go to a party thrown by people I barely knew and wasn't afraid to turn down the Natty Light offered to me and ask where the Smirnoff Ice was.  Shut up, it was 2001.  You really can't get on my case for preferring raspberry fizzy booze over beer that tastes like watered down cat piss, and if someone did, I'd tell them to enjoy their cat piss.

Now I'm 31 and can be seen at any random time wearing things that range from a panda hat to blue moccasins to heart sunglasses and a unicorn bag.  Oh you think it's stupid?  Who cares?  My life was affected 0% by your dislike of my outfit.  I love cats.  I have two.  They are my furry babies.  I'm a cat lady?  Cool, I probably am.  I don't give a fuck.  My friends haven't yet found my pets to be a source of contention in our relationship, and it's not the cats keeping eligible bachelors away (it's probably the panda hat).

I'm on Pinterest.  I find Pinterest to be an awesomely fun time-waster.  I personally use it for what I like to call "design porn," which is pictures of various houses and interiors of modern design - that board has about 600 pins on it.  Am I really going to go back to my Pinterest board and take in all of the design elements I posted years ago when I'm 50 and am actually able to afford to remodel or build my own house?  Fuck no.  It's for fun.

Maybe I'm doing it wrong, but I pin pictures of food I'd like to eat.  Not ones I'd like to cook, but ones I'd like to have cooked FOR me.  I never read the recipes.  "That looks fucking delicious." *click* On to the next.  And yes, like most females, I have a wedding board.  I want a small wedding.  I want to spend money on booze and a decent location, and then have a big dance party to 90s rap music with my friends.  I would also like to marry an orphan so I don't have to worry about his side of the family.  That's just more money I don't want to spend.

I'm not looking at all the DIY stuff thinking about how I can save money by making my own this or that.  I don't want to make a freakin chandelier.  I also don't want to make paper flowers, or whimsical wedding favors that people will likely toss out as they leave.  People aren't going to leave my wedding saying "Wow, that was so beautiful."  They're going to leave saying "That was a fucking awesome good time.  I want to go back."  I've never left a wedding commenting on how tasteful the place cards were, or what the flowers were like (or even noticed if there WERE flowers).  "Oh, well this is just how it's done."  Nope, not how I roll.  My wedding, my rules, get your bullshit traditions and details out of my way so I can legally be married and go party.

And the children part is ridiculous.  I don't have children, nor do I plan to, but like I mentioned before, as a former child, I feel I have a decent amount of insight into the mind of one.  Guess what?  I don't remember my first birthday.  Or my second.  I don't remember tiny little Christmas decorations, but I remember the Strawberry Shortcake dream house I got.  I fucking loved my Rainbow Brite valentines and so did everyone else, dammit.  They came in a red box, just like all the other ones, and I had to tear apart each one from its perfectly perforated collection, write on it, and put it in a tiny envelope.  I'm pretty sure my mom had 0 regrets or shame about this.  I too have 0 regrets.

The first birthday I actually remember I had an ice cream cake from Baskin Robbins.  It was god damn delicious.  Was I angry that my mom didn't go all out and create cupcakes that looked like individual Mickey and Minnies?  Nope.  When I went to birthday parties, I cared about 2 things: whether they had a pool and what kind of cake they were having.  The pool was slightly more important.

What I'm saying is, YOUR KIDS DON'T CARE.  THEY WON'T REMEMBER.  And deep down inside you know this, so that means you're doing it to impress other moms.  It's like a competition of who can out-Pinterest the others.  Remember me, that person who wears blue shoes and a mammal on her head and may or may not have gone to Home Depot at 9pm wearing Ugg boots, mesh shorts and a ratty tank top to buy a saw while sweating profusely?  Yeah, you used to be like me.  Or did you?  Perhaps at one time, before getting married and having kids, you didn't give a fuck.  And your life was not so bad.  Probably less stressful too.

So remember this.  I had ice cream cakes, store-bought Valentines, a tree full of awesome old Christmas lights my dad brought from his childhood, homemade Halloween costumes, and non-designer baby and child wear and guess what?  My childhood was awesome. 

And you know what?  No one's going to remember that intricate $3000 first birthday party you threw for your kid when my (imaginary) kid gets his acceptance letter from Harvard, now will they?

Monday, July 8, 2013


Starring: the citizens of Hong Kong!  Each one of these things I have actually seen IN REAL LIFE.

1) Stare at your phone without looking up even for a second, either to read or WATCH MOVIES, despite the fact that the one I saw was, in fact, the Hangover.

2) Actively play a GAME on your phone, once again, without so much as glancing forwards every now and then.

3) READ A BOOK.  This one seems obvious, but apparently I have to tell you.  READING + WALKING = NO. 

4) STOP.  Do not EVER stop spontaneously while walking.  Do you not see that you're in a sea of people?  Do you not realize that the person behind you has about 4 inches before they run smack into you with the force of 30 more people behind them?  You wouldn't stop your car abruptly in the middle of the highway, so DON'T STOP WALKING ABRUPTLY WITHOUT GETTING OUT OF THE WAY.

5) Go at any speed slower than those around you.  Once again, with the highway analogy - everyone wants to kill that guy on the 10 that's going 45, and they angrily speed by you and cut you off.  SPEED THE FUCK UP OR GET OUT THE WAY

6) Be a child.

7) Have a child.

8) Insist on walking side by side with five of your friends, giggling stupidly and walking slower than everyone, creating an angry flow that will burst through your little friendship chain at any moment.

9) Wavering slowly from side to side on the sidewalk while I try to pass you, each time getting stopped by the tiny 3-inch margin you leave between you and the wall/street/other human.

10) Eat anything with chopsticks.  I'm sorry, no matter how good you are with chopsticks, you have to actually look at your food to pick it up, slowing down traffic.  Some things are edible on the run - anything that doesn't require utensils.  And I'll give you the occasional frozen yogurt because you can pretty much wing that and come up with something on your spoon.

And sort of falling under #6, if you are a child, do not do stupid shit while walking.  Don't poke your mom, don't kick your brother, and for god's sake, don't run at full speed towards a blind corner where I happen to  be coming from another direction and run SMACK INTO ME.  And I don't know what your mom screamed at you since I don't speak Cantonese, but suffice it to say she was about as angry as I was and unlike me, you have to go home with her.  Get your shit together, son.

Monday, July 1, 2013


This is, by far, the most annoying, unpleasant and generally ridiculous part of Hong Kong, and China in general. 


Hong Kong is hot.  Painfully, humidly, stickily hot.  It's absolutely unlivable.  I can't walk more than two blocks before I start sweating, and if I walk more than five, I look like I've just worked out.  It's abhorrent.  90 degrees and 90% humidity.  It actually makes you feel heavier and harder to breathe.  You find yourself taking elevators in places you'd normally take the stairs because most elevators have AC. 

I've lived in places with weather like this before - possibly slightly less humid since it wasn't subtropical, but in 17 years in Texas I saw my fair share of heat.  But you know what we did when it was hot as balls?  STAYED INSIDE.  You went from your air conditioned house to your air conditioned car (that hopefully had stayed all night in a garage or covered place) and drove to your air conditioned work, and were outside in the horrible death heat for approximately 5 total minutes if you really tried.

Here I don't have a car.  I have a subway.  What's the problem with the subway?  It's not 10 feet from my house, that's what.  By the time I make it to the subway, I look like I've run a marathon and my nice work clothes are sticky and smelly.  I feel dirty within 2 minutes of exiting my building.  I want to take 7 showers a day.  It's fucking ridiculous.  So you'd think, having this climate of excruciatingly balls-hot days and a lot of unnecessary outdoor time, that Hong Kongers would appreciate a large, cold bottle of water.

NOPE.  One of the first places I went to eat, I asked for water.  I drink tea, water, and whatever's in the alcoholic beverage I'm given.  I try to stay hydrated, seeing as I've fainted twice in the past 9 months and had to get an IV.  Anyway, I ask for water.  The woman looked at me oddly.  Perhaps she didn't understand - there's sometimes a language barrier with the older generations.  "Ice water?" I ask, trying to clarify.

Still confusion.  "Bottle water?"  Finally one of my Chinese classmates was able to tell her I just wanted a glass of water, to which she STILL looked like I'd asked for a pig's blood frappucino, but walked away seeming to understand.  About three minutes later, I see her returning with a glass of water, sadly ice-free.  She sets it in front of me and I'm about to pick it up when I notice it's HOT water.  Not room temperature.  HOT ASS WATER.  She had to put EFFORT into making it hot, because things are not naturally steaming.  Why the fuck would I want a GLASS of HOT WATER?  I already have HOT TEA that's for the table, I obviously need something to, I don't know, STOP ME FROM SWEATING?  Do you not see that I'm soaking through my shirt here, lady?

It was at this time I was informed by our chaperones and my Chinese friends that cold things (drinks, food, whatever) are considered "bad" for your health.  I mean Chinese medicine is wacky enough, but to completely restrict the drinking of cold beverages in a climate that melts my makeup off in record time?  That's fucking ridiculous. 

I began to take note of things as time progressed - most people in restaurants do not order a drink.  Yeah you heard me.  No drink.  If it's a Chinese restaurant it often comes with hot tea, which is good, but I have to let it cool down to "room temperature" tea before I can even consider drinking it.  Then you stuff yourself with HOT FOOD.  If you order noodles or soup, it's inedibly hot for ten minutes, unless your mouth is a steel machine like the natives.  After the first bite I'm dying for a cold glass of SOMETHING, but instead I just have to keep eating my hot food and sweating as though I was walking around outside. 

At the places that DO have iced drinks, they COST MORE.  The food court has a combo option of a meal plus a drink - but if you want a cold drink, that's $3 more.  WHAT??  I honestly can't believe these people aren't passing out left and right, since I never see them drink water.  EVER.  They might get a small hot tea, or a small coffee, but all damn day I haven't seen a single Asian drinking water.  HOW DO THEY HYDRATE??  Even McDonald's, which has bottled water on the menu, does not understand how to substitute a BOTTLE OF WATER for the requisite soft drink in a combo order.  I asked for one once, pointed to it on the menu, and it required a conference of three employees to figure out how to charge me.

Sadly I've realized that in any vaguely non-Western restaurant the only way I'll get a cold drink is to order a soda.  I don't drink soda.  I don't even particularly enjoy it anymore, despite drinking about 10 Dr. Peppers a day when I was in high school.  But I will set aside pretty much all drink restrictions just to have something that I know came out of the refrigerator.  So here I am, living in a climate that makes me sweat out all liquid in a ten-minute period and not being able to find something to replenish said liquid at any normal place where you EAT AND DRINK. 

Since the first week, I have begun hoarding large bottles of water I buy at 7/11 downstairs in my tiny mini-fridge.  I'm pretty sure I'm the only one buying the water.  I just can't wrap my head around walking around all day, sweating my ass off and NOT finding great pleasure in the consuming coldest water (or other drink of choice) humanly possible.  Now I understand my dad's crazed ice-Nazi behavior when we went to Europe - room temperature is not ok.  And 3 ice cubes is not enough.  But that's damn well better than a glass of hot water after you've just walked 10 blocks in 90 degree heat and humidity.

I follow up with three questions:

1) How the hell am I the only person with glistening, sweaty skin at any point in the day when I'm generally wearing less clothing than say, oh, ANYONE?

2) Why the hell are you wearing JEANS and LONG SLEEVES?

3) In a place that used to be owned by Britain, how on earth have you not figured out that Westerners like a cold drink every now and then?  SERIOUSLY WTF.

Sunday, June 23, 2013


I've been in Hong Kong almost a whole month now, and I've posted about as many pictures as there are hours in a day, so it's obvious that I'm enjoying myself.  But I also know that I'm funnier and tell better stories when I'm bitching about something than when I'm describing how awesome it is.  It's the hard truth.  So putting the label on this that I'm thoroughly enjoying my time here, the bitching (while true) is simply for entertainment, so calm the fuck down.

1)  The toilets.  Let's have a little chat about bathrooms, shall we?  Hong Kong is a very clean city.  VERY clean.  There are no pieces of gun stuck to the streets, and not a single mark of graffiti anywhere in the city.  That being said, while the restrooms are also very clean, there are some issues for someone like myself - especially if said person has not been forewarned.

Many of the restrooms in HK and China are BYOTP. Yes, that means BRING YOUR OWN TOILET PAPER.  Ok, so you want me to buy a roll to keep in my purse IN CASE I leave the house??  Are you really serious with this?  What if you happen to be unaware of such practices and therefore are stuck mid-pee looking around for where the TP might be hidden?  That happened to me ONCE, and I was so horrified that I felt dirty all day.  I still feel dirty thinking about it.  Ugghh.  And then there's this:
OH HELLLLLLLLL NO.  Yes.  That is a toilet you squat over.  Ironically they provided you toilet paper for this one, probably since it's impossible not to piss all over yourself.  I first saw this at the public restroom at the beach we went to.  While surprised, I wasn't COMPLETELY shocked since if you're going to see a squat toilet it's going to be at some public recreational facility that's dirty and rarely kept up.  Up until now I had been in toilets in civilized places, such as my apartment, nice restaurants, my office, etc.  Then we went to mainland China.  Guess what's the norm?  YEP, THAT.  In rest stops, in the hotel lobby (thank god our room was safe from this travesty of hygiene), in NICE RESTAURANTS.  I managed to get through 90% of the weekend finding the handicapped single restroom and using that, since you can't expect a paraplegic or an 80-year-old to squat over a hole. 

Then it happened.  I had to pee and there were no civilized places within walking distance.  The ONE restroom had 4 stalls of this bullshit, and of course, no TP.  The worst possible scenario.  I had no choice.  I went balls to the wall, literally removing the bottom half of my clothing and hanging it up to prevent me pissing all over my shorts, which if I wanted that to happen I could've just pissed my pants and avoided this squatting nonsense altogether.  Then I started getting all confused.  Do I face the wall or the door?  Does it matter?  How far away do I need to be?  Will I lose my balance and fall into this porcelain urine-soaked abyss, forever scarred from using public toilets?

Yes, it was very uncomfortable.  Yes, it was exactly as horrifying as I imagined.  Yes, I used an entire travel bottle of hand sanitizer for the next hour and a half.  No, I will not be doing this again.  Ever.  And I sincerely apologize to the person who used the stall after me, since let's just say I haven't had as much practice as they have.  My bladder will physically burst before I put myself through the squat toilet ever again.  And for those of you wondering, no, I don't go camping, and yes, this is primarily why.


Part 2 upcoming...

Saturday, June 15, 2013


With work taking up my weekdays and rain taking up my weekends, I have turned to excessive shopping to get through the weather setbacks in Hong Kong.  It's not hard.  Every 10 feet there's a mall, shop, market or something that you can indulge in, especially since my office is IN A MALL.  These people don't joke around.

I've noticed a problem, however.  Sure, you expect the hard sell at the trinket markets where they try to bargain you down so you leave with SOMETHING, but I wasn't expecting it in normal malls. 

A week or so ago I went to a street market, basically like the fashion district with some Chinese tchotchkes thrown in, and all I had to do was TOUCH something and I had a saleslady breathing down my neck.  "Only $200, look so pretty on you."  I'd try to explain I was just looking, and keep walking through the stall.  She followed me within 2 inches.  "Ok, ok, $150, I go 150 for you."  No, I'm not interested in the panda keychain I merely touched for 2 seconds upon entering your place of business.  I politely say "no thank you" and walk out of her stall. 

Here's where it gets weird.  She GRABS MY ARM.  "OK OK $100!  I give you for 100, special price just for you!"  Dude.  No.  I don't want it for any price.  I smile and shake my head no and get the hell out of there.  This happened at least 5 times, every time I forgot that touching something meant I obviously want to purchase it.  I had at least two women grab my arm to keep me in the store as they constantly lowered the price of something I didn't want.

In the cheap "malls" which are basically indoor stalls to sell uber cheap clothing (see my engrish tshirt posts), I walk in a store and once again, touch something.  "That's only $79."  Touch another item.  "That's $79 too."  YES I SEE THE GIANT PRICE TAGS THANK YOU.  "Just browsing" is a term they've never heard. 

The absolute CREEPIEST part is the silent stalker.  Today I went to a nicer mall with mid-range foreign stores (plus a Haagen Daas, since they love their ice cream), and EVERY SINGLE TIME I walked into one, a salesperson would immediately start following me around.  The store would be about the size of a small shoe store in the US, where you can easily see everything and offer sizes standing next to the counter.  I started testing this girl out, because I thought being followed was freaky.  She said nothing, but literally followed me in 3 complete circles of the store, stopping whenever I'd stop.

I know this is the customer service culture of Asia, which I was told by my Chinese friends, but sweet lord, it makes me feel like a criminal.  If someone were to follow you around a store silently about 2 feet behind you every step of the way in the US, you'd be convinced they thought you were about to shoplift.  And having been a prosecutor, this is EXACTLY what they ARE doing.

It got to be a game, where I'd try to move quickly in odd directions to see if they could keep up, like I was being tailed in a car trying to lose them.  The ways they compensated made me giggle, as I quickly dodged in and out of racks thwarting their creepy sales stalking.  They were so persistent!  They never gave up their chase, but they also didn't do the things the salespeople in the cheap places did - they just remained silent.

My last stop was a cheap Chinese trinket shop that sold everything from jade to dresses to Chinese print glasses cases.  I was just taking it all in, enjoying the masses of random things, when I noticed someone close behind me.  The passages were really small, so I stepped aside to let the person pass me while I looked at something so I wouldn't be in their way.  She stood there.  Ok...I did it a few more times to let others actually pass, but she never did.  I didn't catch on that she was an employee until I'd done this at least 3 times, then I started to get pissed off.  I wanted to browse, look at all the random things, pick up bracelets, touch fans, shuffle through dresses on the rack.  It's like some people with peeing in public.  I'm sorry, I don't shop with an audience.  It's fucking weird.  I did finally manage to get her stuck behind a dad and his son looking at some toys, where I bolted out of sight to continue shopping in peace.

In a place where everyone pretty much ignores each other (on the subway, on the street, in restaurants, in any other public space), this kind of attention bothered the shit out of me.  And it wasn't because I was a westerner - I saw it happen to Chinese shoppers too.  I couldn't wait to get back on the glorious anonymity that was the MTR and get the hell back to my tiny prison-cell-sized apartment to hide from people.  I'm taking a break from shopping for a bit.

Monday, June 3, 2013


Last week I traveled into the future on an airplane.  It was kind of awesome because I got to skip Monday entirely.  No one likes Mondays.

I obviously haven't flown anything but Southwest in many a year, so I found my economy class seat on the giant Asiana airlines jet to be magical and full of glory.  Aisle seat, yay!  More legroom, yay!  Personal tv, yay!  Then they come by with the meals.  It's a Korean airline, so they offered two - bibimbap (Korean deliciousness) or the "western" meal of beef stew and mashed potatoes.  Being very obviously one of the only westerners on the flight, and definitely the only blonde, the stewardess switched the order in which she offered the meals:

"Would you like BEEF STEW...?" followed by a look that said "of course you do, I don't need to ask, silly American."  When I paused, she proceeded to tell me about the Korean meal in great detail as if I had never heard of it before (to be fair, I'm sure some people who don't have a Koreatown near them probably haven't) to which I replied "I'll have the bibimbap."  She handed me my meal with a combination of confusion and worry that I would be calling her back later to request the stew instead.  I cleaned my plate.

After sitting for 15 hours, we finally reached Hong Kong, and there were a few things I immediately noticed:  1) It is absolutely beautiful, with lush green mountains and blue water and surprisingly Hawaii-esque, 2) driving (or being driven) on the wrong side of the road makes me believe I'm going to die at any moment, and 3) it is the equivalent of combining the heat and humidity of Houston, New Orleans, and Florida all into one. 

Within hours I realized I hadn't packed NEARLY enough, since in my silliness I thought I could get through a whole day in a single outfit, as I do at home.  No no, I sweat through the first one and have to change before dinner.  To be fair, I sweat like an old man.  I have walked around the city for hours a day for a week and have NEVER seen someone as sweaty as I was.  I don't know if my body just isn't used to this weather and will adjust sooner or later, or if I legitimately make more sweat than 90% of the world's population, but either way I'm a disgusting, stinky mess within 30 minutes.  I don't mind being shoved into the subway, but I feel terrible for the people stuck to my stinky body for the whole ride, and I sure as hell won't raise my arms to hold the handles from the ceiling, someone might die.

The money situation is also very weird.  $100 US is approximately $800 HK.  So I see a tshirt that's $115 and nearly shit my pants before realizing it's really about $14.  Bargaining at the street market for a long jade bead necklace, the lady started out at $350, and even when I walked out with it at $100 I felt ripped off and like I just spent my life savings.  I have a currency calculator app on my iphone so that in these moments I can look up the real price and relax knowing I got a pretty nice necklace for $11.  And some fake Toms, same price.

It feels weird getting someone to make change for a $500 bill at a restaurant.  I hand it over with this guilty look on my face like I just overburdened them for making change when in reality that's perfectly normal.  It also kind of makes me feel like a high roller, which I'm obviously not, but I've never touched a $500 bill in US money.  Let me dream.

My current obsession is finding the cheap CHEAP clothing stores that sell the tshirts (like the zebra one I posted) that say things like "finding light under starry love happy world."  They're all about $5-6 and I'm coming home with so many of them it'll be all I wear.  Or something weird like a cat wearing a crown that says "dance princess."  You will all be jealous of my hilarious wardrobe upon my return.

A woman also approached me to sell me a "whitening" face mask at a cosmetics store, to which I stared at her in disbelief and wondered if she could actually see the color of my skin.  True, Asians want whiter skin (why, I don't know), but the pale ass blonde chick?  I'm good, thanks.  Any paler and we'd be working on translucent.

I have still not found the elusive fake Louis.  The ones at the markets were obvious fakes, with the slight changes to the logo that make them a little less illegal.  I've been in crappy shop after crappy shop looking desperately for the really really good fakes that I know exist, and have not succeeded.  This frustrates me but my determination will not waver.  I will return home with the damndest most authentic-looking Louis Vuitton you've ever seen, mark my words.

For now, I must move the one foot over to my bed to watch an undisclosed number of episodes of the Killing before passing out and hauling it back off to work tomorrow, after taking a shower over the sink and toilet in my multi-purpose one-room bathroom.  More photos coming soon.

Thursday, May 16, 2013


Everyone has certain ways of describing other people, and everyone has a personality trait that dominates to be the most likely candidate for description.  I have friends that I would describe a number of different ways, but overall they have similar personalities because that's obviously why we're all friends.

I've heard many descriptions of myself, from sarcastic to smart, funny to lazy.  I'd say all of those hit the mark to some degree, even the negative ones.  However, there's always one word that freaks me the hell out when someone uses it to describe me, because I honestly cannot see where it comes from: sweet.  I've had a very small number of people in the past few years, generally people I don't know very well, tell me that I'm sweet.  This isn't your grandmother telling me I'm sweet, this is a fellow student or coworker close to my own age.  I'm baffled.

The few times someone has called me sweet I've actually looked at them like they had just grown a sparkly unicorn horn right in front of my eyes.  I search my brain for anything that could possibly have led to this conclusion by this person.  I'm confident that all these people had a strong grip on the English language and were very aware of the connotation of the word sweet, versus nice or friendly.  "Sweet?" I usually repeat, in a way that's asking if they're sure that's the word they meant to use. 

"Yep, you're really sweet," they usually reply.  I likely haven't erased the look off my face when I honestly tell them "I don't really get that a lot..." to which they think I'm just being modest.  No.  I'm not.  I'm not a sweet person.  I may do sweet things, as may many other people whom you wouldn't describe as sweet.  Just because someone does a sweet thing for her grandma one day out of three years doesn't change her general personality description.

I'm a nice person.  I'll take nice.  I'm polite.  I'm a good friend.  Yes, even though I find your dog highly irritating I would run into traffic to save it because I care about YOU and want to keep you from suffering.  I could also take "friendly," but not in the way of being a social butterfly with strangers, just able to engage others in pleasant conversation.  I'm thoughtful, I will say that.  I frequently think of friends and family when I see something in a store, or I might send a funny card when someone isn't having a great month.  I'm the kind of girlfriend that, if I was somewhere and saw a tshirt my boyfriend would find hilarious, I'd just buy it for him for no occasion.

But sweet really conjures up an unpleasant image of pink sparkly ruffles and hugs and bubbles, things that are whimsical (another word I strongly dislike).  Sweet to me is a cupcake with pink icing and sprinkles that makes your stomach hurt.  Sweet is someone who tries too hard and waits on you hand and foot - and literally would tie your shoes if you asked.  Sweet is, honestly, likely someone I find highly annoying while still understanding that they're coming from a good place.  I don't want to hang out with sweet.  Sweet is boring.

I actually consider myself somewhat of a dick.  Why "dick" and not "bitch," you ask?  "Bitch," while being the general go-to word for a mean female, infers cattiness.  A bitch is a person who would start something, or cause a scene to get what they want.  Bitches are the girls in high school who think it's fun to make other people feel bad about themselves.  I've worked with bitches.  Even into their 30s, they still want to make people feel bad about themselves. 

I, however, simply have a very low tolerance for stupidity and annoyances, and frequently respond to such situations with a smartass retort or, my personal favorite, an eloquent but condescending comment.  I'm a dick because I find offensive things funny.  I enjoy 13-year-old boy toilet humor. 

Every time someone says a comment such as "I ate crab legs last night," no matter how innocuous, my brain desperately wants to respond "Your mom ate crab legs last night."  Every.  Single.  Time.  Yes, this happened in court, if you were wondering.  I never said it, obviously, but I had to hold back many "Your mom only had two beers" and "Your mom didn't know that weed was in your pocket" statements.  It was torturous sometimes.

If I think something's stupid, you'll know.  If I think you're stupid, you'll know - that is unless you really are stupid, in which case you probably won't know and it makes my douchebaggery even more relevant.  See, a bitch confronts a situation head-on - if she doesn't like someone, she'll go right up and tell them.  A dick will generally avoid being around you, and when they can't avoid it, any conversation they have with that person will be a veritable cornucopia of sarcasm and patronizing remarks.  And then when they're done, they'll be highly amused with themselves, telling their other dick friends about it and having a good laugh.  Often times the stupid person won't even be aware that anything humorous took place at all.  A bitch would make you very aware you were being mocked; a dick, however, enjoys covertly taking advantage of people.  To them, it's just as funny if the person doesn't notice and you keep a straight face until you walk out the door.  A bitch wants a reaction.

So for reference, someone who is a dick cannot also be sweet.  The two are incompatible.  I'm a dick.  I'm sometimes a nice dick, a funny dick, a smart dick, or a lazy dick.  I'm not a sweet dick.  Say the words "sweet dick."  Right now I'm laughing because I'm picturing you actually saying those words and realizing what you're saying.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what makes me a dick.

Friday, May 10, 2013


First of all, this post is highly ironic seeing as I'm a licensed attorney working for $10/hr in the USC law library, and I get this.  I am in no position to judge (nor am I usually), but alas, we all do it.  And sometimes it's just too easy.

Having gone to law school I recognize the "types."  There are the people who are pretty reasonable human beings and come to the library frequently during finals (now).  There are the people who have a specific study group and always show up with the same people, and sometimes they ask for the same room, responding with an overzealous sigh when I tell them it's taken.  There are the people who come in alone, sit  alone, and stay until the library closes - every single time I'm there.  I assume these people have no friends, since they're in the library at 11pm on a Friday night EVERY Friday night.

I have a couple of favorites though.  Sitting in my ivory tower at the front desk, it's reasonably easy to tell someone's personality, especially if they're there every single time I work (note: I only work closing shifts).  The "I think I'm better than you because I'm on law review" students are highly amusing.  They always have a smug look on their face, and check out about 15 giant law books at a time, making sure they throw out that they're on law review at least once during the check-out process. 

You know what?  It's a good thing you impressed ME, the student worker at the law library, by telling me how smart you are that you're on law review.  I'm a very important person.  And congratulations on doing something you probably actively hate but feel you need to get a decent job.  Congratulations for being in the library at 10pm on a weekend!  This is obviously fantastic for you and I can see the joy in your eyes. 

The very very best was one night, about 20 minutes before closing, a law review girl came into the library wanting a certain book.  Well, guess what?  Some of our books are for library use only - so no, you can't take it home with you.  Apparently this didn't sit well with her, because she instantly put on her pompous "I'm a law student and I feel this gives me power over you" voice to explain that she was on law review and her article was due on Monday and she was going out of town.

Looks like someone didn't learn any time-management skills from being such a Smarty McGee on law review.  Waiting until right before closing the Friday before you go out of town to try and get a book?  Excellent idea.  I'm sure your future employer will love you for this work ethic.  But of course, she tries, rudely, to get us to make an exception.  For ten minutes.  Finally (and arguably rightfully so, the way we were being spoken to) my coworker, a smartass undergrad boy, told her "Well maybe you should have thought of this before the last minute."  I wanted to high five him, but she had to yell at us more first.

"I'm going to report you to your supervisor!"

Calmly (and ever so slightly condescendingly) I said, "You're going to report us to our supervisor for not letting you take a book out of the library that is not ALLOWED out of the library and then not making an exception for you because you're on law review or because you won't be able to come use it in the library this weekend due to circumstances that have nothing to do with us?  I'm sure she'll be very upset with us."

At this point, she'd been TOLD by an undergrad and her "authority" had been undermined by someone using logical reasoning, so she huffed out of the library and back to the miserable life that she leads.  She glares at me every time she comes in.  I just smile and think "She's miserable AND homely, what a terrible combination."

And finally there's the study couple.  They are here literally every day, and I see them either enter or exit during every shift I work, even when I sub at a random time.  The guy seems down-to-earth, but in a defeated way, because it's very obvious that his girlfriend wears the pants in their relationship.  That and their loving togetherness time is spent studying and outlining and based on the girl's face, freaking out unnecessarily.  I wonder if they've ever been on a date outside the library.  Likely they would talk about the same things they talk about IN the library, so why change the setting?

The girl has the look.  A combination of "I'm a ginormous bitch" and "I really hate my life."  She's never said more than two words to me so I cannot actually confirm either of these things, but suffice it to say that her body language, facial expression, and tone of voice when talking make me pretty damn certain I'm right.  I can tell they're the couple that the rest of the law students hate.  I mean, I hate them and I've only seen them in 30 second increments.  Every day.  Same couple.  Same study room.  Hours and hours and hours.  I wonder what the guy would be doing if he wasn't dating this overly serious emo bitch?  Probably making friends, going out with people from class, perhaps having FUN?  Clearly these are things he's not allowed to do.

I find these people all so amusing because I never saw them when I was in law school.  I didn't go to the library except to kill time between classes playing on the internet.  I sure as hell wasn't friends with these people, seeing as my friends would smile on occasion and leave their homes for "fun."  I just love it when someone lives out the stereotype of 24/7 studying no life stress freak this-was-the-worst-decision-ever law student.  And the self-importance is hilarious to me, since they have no authority to do anything and because their first job will slap them back into the reality that they're the newbies and do what everyone else tells them to do.  Enjoy that, jerks.