Yeah, you read that right. I know you've probably never heard anyone say that before, especially if you live in certain places, but it's true. I'm sure there are a few people out there that also don't like it but if they're smart, they'll never admit it. I, as you well know, am honest about everything, so I'm hiding no longer. I'm coming out of the closet. I really just can't stand live music.
I wasn't really aware that this was such a big deal until I left Austin, where I spent my adolescence and college, and told others where I had come from. "OH, I hear Austin's GREAT! Why did you leave there?"
To which I would often reply, "It's okay, the food is good but the weather is awful."
This would always spark the "But I hear there's so much good live music! I'd love to go there, it sounds like so much fun! Did you go see bands all the time??"
No. No I didn't. As a matter of fact, when my friends and I would go out to bars, we'd get pissed off if some band was playing at one of our spots instead of the normal Saturday night DJ that played stuff we could dance to. When it was SXSW, we actually took the entire week off of going out because suddenly our fun, cheap dance bars had been commandeered by unknown bands and were charging cover. We hid inside until the tourists and the bands rode away into the sunset and gave us back our social life.
Upon hearing that I not only didn't take advantage of the live music scene I was so "blessed" to have at my disposal for years but I actively didn't like such activities, the person I'm talking to looks at me as though I've just said I set puppies on fire for fun. How can you not like LIVE MUSIC? Do you not have a SOUL? There are children in Africa with AIDS and no food who would DIE to see live music and you're throwing away this gift of American culture? YES, YES I AM, SO LEAVE ME AND MY QUIET PLACES ALONE.
Why do I hate live music? Oh, such a list. First, I'm a grandma. I don't like loud noises. I don't care what that noise is - if it's loud, it's irritating. I also don't like people. Especially crowds of people. Now put those two things together and you have live music. The only way to make it worse would be if you handed me an infant as I walked through the door and forced me to drink IPAs all night.
Now don't get me wrong, I like MUSIC. I'm not some weirdo who doesn't appreciate musical sounds. Yes, I have an "eclectic" taste in music, and yes, this music doesn't generally include music that's played live (unless it's at a giant arena concert). Granted I have a strong affinity for hip hop and rap, but I'm not completely one-sided - my likes include talented artists such as Adele, Marvin Gaye, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Sarah Bareilles. I enjoy a good symphony, which is technically live music but I'm sure you see the enormous difference between a night at the symphony and a night in a dingy club listening to a no-name band with their guitar amps on too loud and sharing the space with a bunch of drunk, sweaty hipsters.
But you're right, I DON'T want to "discover new music" or whatever the hell people do when they just go see random local bands play around town. I can discover new music just fine - there are apps for that. And don't get all up in my shit about "too much technology" - I wouldn't have discovered new music by going to live shows BEFORE I got my smartphone, it just allows me to listen to things I would never have heard by choosing new music that is similar to things I'm playing on my Pandora or whatever. The best part? I can discover it in the quiet comfort of my own home or car. No sticky floors and temporary deafness of a seedy club.
Wait, so you haven't ever been to a concert? No, that's also not true. I don't particularly like concerts except ones in large venues with amenities like "seats" and "personal space." I've seen Weezer, the Rolling Stones, RHCP, Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera (NOT SORRY), Sarah Bareilles, Snoop and I'm sure some others that I've forgotten. The commonality? These are people that I REALLY LIKE and their concerts were held in places where I could sit down and enjoy the music. I'm lazy. I hate standing in one place. If I'm walking, fine, but standing on one place touching people on all sides of me who are moving in all different directions makes me feel like I'm on some sort of weird grope-y rollercoaster and that's just not my idea of a good time.
I also just generally don't care for the type of music that's played live - alternative, whatever hipster shit like Mumford and Sons is happening right now, folk music, country... All of those genres I wouldn't listen to anyway, let alone at hyper-volume. Sometimes jazz is ok, if it's not super loud, but honestly I wish they'd just play the same stuff on a cd at a lower volume so I could talk to the people I'm hanging out with.
Then there's the whole issue of live music in random places... a singer-songwriter playing on the patio of a food court or in a coffee shop. Those are places that most people didn't go to hear the music, it just happens to be there. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? Is it rude to not pay attention to someone I didn't come to see? I just wanted to get some goddamned dinner and I didn't know you were going to be here with your guitar and emotions. Should I clap? I feel obligated to clap when you're through even though you've suckered us into it, but I really don't want to encourage you to continue. You're interrupting my meal and my conversation. But then if I don't clap, as one of the ten people around, I look like a giant dickhead. So thanks, not only for making me feel uncomfortable but forcing me to pretend like I want you there so as not to appear like the giant asshole I am. I JUST WANTED A SCONE AND THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS.
So no, I don't want to go check out that band with you. No, I don't want to go to that particular bar because they always have some loud live band. And I sure as hell don't want to go to the 3-day music festival and spend it listening to bands I don't know while I sweat profusely, get dirty and have to hang out in a giant crowd of other dirty sweaty people. Concerts are just a combination of everything I hate with the exception of children.
Sorry. My complete and utter lack of a soul and I will just be hanging out over here, in the air conditioned place with places to sit and some goddamned peace and quiet.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR HERO
I've been lucky in my life to have very few people close to me die. But when you lose a family member or close friend, you understand your feelings and that your grief is a normal reaction to such an event. People know, at least to some degree, how to treat you and what your loss feels like.
Today I lost my childhood hero. Robin Williams was and is the inspiration for me to want to make people laugh, to appreciate comedy, and honestly, to do things like write this blog. I don't remember when or in what I first saw him, I just remember seeing a hilarious man who could do the voice of any human on the planet, as well as some aliens. At the time I could do a decent Donald Duck impression, and a spot-on Marvin the Martian, so Robin Williams gave me hundreds of more voices to aspire to.
I don't remember how old I was when I decided I wanted to be like him. The shy little kid had a side that desperately wanted to make people laugh, to be liked and to be recognized as funny. I was the smart and quiet one. I wanted to be the funny one, but I didn't have the confidence outside of my family and close friends.
When Aladdin came out, I instantly became obsessed with the Genie and learned all of his songs - complete with all of the voices. When the fifth grade talent show rolled around, I desperately wanted to get up there and sing "Friend Like Me" with a perfect impression of his voices, but I knew I could never put myself on the spot like that. Kids are cruel, and somehow I knew that even if I got up there and did it perfectly, it wouldn't have the effect I desired - not the way it would if I did the same thing right now. So I just sang along with my tapes alone at home, thinking someday I could show everyone how good I was.
People were always asking us little kids what we wanted to do when we grew up. Granted, I went through periods where I wanted to go dig up mummies or design houses, but for most of my life (and secretly to this day) I wanted to be in comedy. I didn't ever just reply with "actress," or even "comedian" when asked - I specifically said "I want to be Robin Williams." I didn't want to just do normal movies, or do stand up, I wanted to play crazy characters with accents and voices and hilarious backstories. I wanted everything I said to be hilarious. Even once I moved on to slightly more obtainable goals, I still followed Robin Williams in whatever he did.
To grieve for a person you never met is an odd feeling. You feel like you don't have the right to really be that upset, that just because I didn't have a personal relationship with this person that my grief is somehow silly or unfounded. But to someone who has been your hero - your FIRST hero - and shaped your life as much as Robin Williams has shaped mine, you feel like you know them. I feel like he was a funny uncle, as though if we met he'd give me a big hug and smile with his smiley eyes that made him so likeable.
The circumstances of his death are what makes it so much worse. Knowing how he felt in his final hours, and in the months and weeks leading up to them, is heartbreaking. I have suffered with depression for more than 14 years. While I was only diagnosed when I went away to college, I recognize I had it in high school when I look back. It is painful, debilitating and so misunderstood. Waking up in the morning only to remember where you are and how you feel, reminding you that life just doesn't seem worth living - it's dreadful. And what's worse is that no one understands that you physically cannot get out of your bed, eat, shower or walk down the street to the grocery store.
Remembering those times, which have happened sporadically in the past few years, it fills me with pain to know other people are experiencing the same thing. People who, unlike me, had millions of people who loved them, enough money to live comfortably and a career that they loved and cherished. To "know" you have these things but be completely incapable of appreciating them because of depression is devastating. And to be so convinced you'll never get better that you end it is even worse. While I have never seriously contemplated suicide, there were days when I really just didn't want to be alive anymore.
I hope there were times when he was able to understand that there were people like me out there whose lives he touched and who loved him so much without ever meeting him. I hope he knew how happy he made people.
In college, I got the amazing chance to see him do stand up live at Bass Concert Hall in Austin. I went with my parents and my college boyfriend. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, like when parents talk about going to see the Beatles. He was my Beatles.
He was my inspiration in my hardest years as a kid, and I credit him for helping me come out of my shell a bit and be a little funny. He's why I go to stand up shows instead of concerts. He's why, when asked what my actual dream job would be, I still say a cast member on SNL. He is honestly part of why I'm me, why I have the sense of humor I do and have embraced ridiculousness. He's why I use humor to diffuse uncomfortable situations, and he's why I try not to take life too seriously.
Rest in peace, old friend. I hope that I turned out to be a person you would've liked, someone who maybe could have made you laugh. Part of me will always be you.
Today I lost my childhood hero. Robin Williams was and is the inspiration for me to want to make people laugh, to appreciate comedy, and honestly, to do things like write this blog. I don't remember when or in what I first saw him, I just remember seeing a hilarious man who could do the voice of any human on the planet, as well as some aliens. At the time I could do a decent Donald Duck impression, and a spot-on Marvin the Martian, so Robin Williams gave me hundreds of more voices to aspire to.
I don't remember how old I was when I decided I wanted to be like him. The shy little kid had a side that desperately wanted to make people laugh, to be liked and to be recognized as funny. I was the smart and quiet one. I wanted to be the funny one, but I didn't have the confidence outside of my family and close friends.
When Aladdin came out, I instantly became obsessed with the Genie and learned all of his songs - complete with all of the voices. When the fifth grade talent show rolled around, I desperately wanted to get up there and sing "Friend Like Me" with a perfect impression of his voices, but I knew I could never put myself on the spot like that. Kids are cruel, and somehow I knew that even if I got up there and did it perfectly, it wouldn't have the effect I desired - not the way it would if I did the same thing right now. So I just sang along with my tapes alone at home, thinking someday I could show everyone how good I was.
People were always asking us little kids what we wanted to do when we grew up. Granted, I went through periods where I wanted to go dig up mummies or design houses, but for most of my life (and secretly to this day) I wanted to be in comedy. I didn't ever just reply with "actress," or even "comedian" when asked - I specifically said "I want to be Robin Williams." I didn't want to just do normal movies, or do stand up, I wanted to play crazy characters with accents and voices and hilarious backstories. I wanted everything I said to be hilarious. Even once I moved on to slightly more obtainable goals, I still followed Robin Williams in whatever he did.
To grieve for a person you never met is an odd feeling. You feel like you don't have the right to really be that upset, that just because I didn't have a personal relationship with this person that my grief is somehow silly or unfounded. But to someone who has been your hero - your FIRST hero - and shaped your life as much as Robin Williams has shaped mine, you feel like you know them. I feel like he was a funny uncle, as though if we met he'd give me a big hug and smile with his smiley eyes that made him so likeable.
The circumstances of his death are what makes it so much worse. Knowing how he felt in his final hours, and in the months and weeks leading up to them, is heartbreaking. I have suffered with depression for more than 14 years. While I was only diagnosed when I went away to college, I recognize I had it in high school when I look back. It is painful, debilitating and so misunderstood. Waking up in the morning only to remember where you are and how you feel, reminding you that life just doesn't seem worth living - it's dreadful. And what's worse is that no one understands that you physically cannot get out of your bed, eat, shower or walk down the street to the grocery store.
Remembering those times, which have happened sporadically in the past few years, it fills me with pain to know other people are experiencing the same thing. People who, unlike me, had millions of people who loved them, enough money to live comfortably and a career that they loved and cherished. To "know" you have these things but be completely incapable of appreciating them because of depression is devastating. And to be so convinced you'll never get better that you end it is even worse. While I have never seriously contemplated suicide, there were days when I really just didn't want to be alive anymore.
I hope there were times when he was able to understand that there were people like me out there whose lives he touched and who loved him so much without ever meeting him. I hope he knew how happy he made people.
In college, I got the amazing chance to see him do stand up live at Bass Concert Hall in Austin. I went with my parents and my college boyfriend. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, like when parents talk about going to see the Beatles. He was my Beatles.
He was my inspiration in my hardest years as a kid, and I credit him for helping me come out of my shell a bit and be a little funny. He's why I go to stand up shows instead of concerts. He's why, when asked what my actual dream job would be, I still say a cast member on SNL. He is honestly part of why I'm me, why I have the sense of humor I do and have embraced ridiculousness. He's why I use humor to diffuse uncomfortable situations, and he's why I try not to take life too seriously.
Rest in peace, old friend. I hope that I turned out to be a person you would've liked, someone who maybe could have made you laugh. Part of me will always be you.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
THE COUCH MURDER
I have a very strong aversion to ugly things. Ugly clothing, ugly people, ugly furniture - I cannot tolerate it. I generally keep my opinions to myself, but when it comes to things in my own home, I absolutely will not stand for ugly. Sometimes it drives me to limits I might not otherwise reach.
Back in 2010 I moved into a really awesome giant two-bedroom apartment in Silverlake with a view of the Hollywood sign, Griffith Observatory and all of downtown Glendale. The apartment itself was glorious in all ways - except for the fact that the parade of tenants that had lived there through the years and switched roommates in a way to make the place continuously occupied for over seven years not only owned but also LEFT some of the ugliest furniture known to mankind.
Consequently, when my roommate moved to Hawaii, she wasn't interested in packing an oversized couch in her carryon, so I was left with a smorgasbord of offensive furniture and a brother who is ugly-blind.
Specifically, we had three couches. THREE. One ugly pink 80s couch had been relegated to a corner and used as a place to pile our excess of blankets and a throne/fort for my cats; one was a gigantic brown sectional in a horrific brown corduroy that could never have been attractive that had the added bonus feature of being able to sleep two NBA players comfortably, and the final couch, the object of the majority of my rage, was an off-white brocade 70s/80s sofa with flattened cushions and unsettling stains.
As soon as my roommate moved out and the place became "mine," I took it upon myself to throw out the small pink couch and all of its mismatched pillows within mere hours of her departure. Next on the list was the white couch. It was about 8 feet long and nearly 4 feet wide, and to this day my brother and I have absolutely NO IDEA how this couch was put in the apartment unless it was built completely in the living room or simply existed and the contracting company built an apartment around said sofa.
When my brother wasn't home to help me move it out of the apartment for over a week, one 90-degree evening I decided to take matters into my own hands. "I can just push it down the stairs. No lifting, just pushing." HAHAHA NOPE.
Within the first hour I determined that regardless of the positioning of other furniture, the couch could not be pushed out either of the possible exits and make it through the front door. I tried turning it on its side, flipping it upside-down, backwards, forwards, upright, laying down, and in every position there was about a 3 inch margin of error that kept the couch from exiting my building.
Ok, I thought, I'll just take it apart. Once I get an arm off, that'll get those 3 inches taken care of and I can get it out. So I go get my screwdriver and start ripping off the upholstery only to find that the entire couch has been STAPLED AND GLUED. By this time I'm sweating profusely, wearing mismatched workout shorts and a holey tshirt, swearing at an inanimate object that has been half ripped apart laying upside-down on my living room floor, surrounded by pieces of foam and floral fabric. I began to consider other options, such as a controlled fire, but I was relatively sure that wasn't within the terms of my lease.
I WOULD NOT let the couch win. It would never go back to its original position. It was going to stay right there until it was outside my house on the sidewalk like the trash that it was. No ugly thing like that was going to ruin my apartment. My rage was building. FUCK YOU COUCH, YOU ARE NOT BETTER THAN ME.
It was about this point that rage caught up to logic and they formed a dangerous (but successful) idea: I needed to saw the couch in half. I couldn't unscrew it, so I was just going to have to saw it. After a few concerning posts on Facebook asking friends if they were in possession of a chainsaw or knew of a place I could rent one at 9:30pm on a Tuesday, I took my sweaty, disgruntled self to the Home Depot a few miles north.
In my infinite wisdom, I felt that if I were going to be doing a major construction project, I would need to be wearing safe, closed-toed shoes. So I walked into a nearly empty Home Depot in Glendale at about 10pm wearing the aforementioned shorts and tshirt that I had sweated through, Ugg boots, soaking wet hair falling out of a ponytail and an expression that would scare a biker gang and went straight for the power tools.
If there is something you're not expecting to see on a weeknight, it's a small, angry blonde girl dressed like a homeless person pacing back and forth between the saws and axes with a frighteningly intense look on her face. This was, in fact, the first time I had been to a Home Depot where at least three employees passed me and did not offer to help. One went so far as to decide he didn't need to go down my aisle after he'd already begun his turn.
After about 20 minutes of weighing the pros and cons of an axe versus a saw, I picked out a nice double-toothed saw, paid cash and left. I'm sure the police arrived minutes later. But it was too late for the couch. This is how I left it:
Not for long. I arrived home with my newest friend, Mr. Saw:
It said a lot of fancy things on the package that I took to mean "WILL SUCCESSFULLY MURDER YOUR COUCH." And murder it did. In a matter of ten or so minutes, my couch looked like this:
Look how easily that will fit through doors! SO EASILY. I was so excited I posted this photo to Facebook with the caption "HALFWAY DONE!" Take that, you ugly piece of shit. Think you can go around being all ugly and sitting in my house? THINK AGAIN.
In the end, the couch was cut into six pieces that were piled up downstairs by the trash bins. My brother came home right at the moment I was carrying one of the arms of the sofa down the stairs. He knew that this was a situation where he should likely stay in his room for the duration of the evening, which he did. In the end, the scene of the crime wasn't as grizzly as it could've been...
I can still feel the joy and relief I felt looking at that last photo. I had removed the cancer and the operation had been a success. Unfortunately, the giant brown couch was there to stay until we moved out a month ago - and my brother took it to his new place, VOLUNTARILY. I had absolutely no problem with the fact that I was left for two weeks with only an IKEA Poang chair and the amazing mid-century coffee table someone had gloriously left for me, sitting alone in the middle of a gigantic 600sq foot living area - because they MATCHED.
I'm sure someone is wondering if I have ever used that saw again. In fact, it has come in handy multiple times in cutting open spaghetti squash. Trust me, once you've sawed open a squash you'll never use a regular kitchen knife again.
Back in 2010 I moved into a really awesome giant two-bedroom apartment in Silverlake with a view of the Hollywood sign, Griffith Observatory and all of downtown Glendale. The apartment itself was glorious in all ways - except for the fact that the parade of tenants that had lived there through the years and switched roommates in a way to make the place continuously occupied for over seven years not only owned but also LEFT some of the ugliest furniture known to mankind.
Consequently, when my roommate moved to Hawaii, she wasn't interested in packing an oversized couch in her carryon, so I was left with a smorgasbord of offensive furniture and a brother who is ugly-blind.
Specifically, we had three couches. THREE. One ugly pink 80s couch had been relegated to a corner and used as a place to pile our excess of blankets and a throne/fort for my cats; one was a gigantic brown sectional in a horrific brown corduroy that could never have been attractive that had the added bonus feature of being able to sleep two NBA players comfortably, and the final couch, the object of the majority of my rage, was an off-white brocade 70s/80s sofa with flattened cushions and unsettling stains.
As soon as my roommate moved out and the place became "mine," I took it upon myself to throw out the small pink couch and all of its mismatched pillows within mere hours of her departure. Next on the list was the white couch. It was about 8 feet long and nearly 4 feet wide, and to this day my brother and I have absolutely NO IDEA how this couch was put in the apartment unless it was built completely in the living room or simply existed and the contracting company built an apartment around said sofa.
When my brother wasn't home to help me move it out of the apartment for over a week, one 90-degree evening I decided to take matters into my own hands. "I can just push it down the stairs. No lifting, just pushing." HAHAHA NOPE.
Within the first hour I determined that regardless of the positioning of other furniture, the couch could not be pushed out either of the possible exits and make it through the front door. I tried turning it on its side, flipping it upside-down, backwards, forwards, upright, laying down, and in every position there was about a 3 inch margin of error that kept the couch from exiting my building.
Ok, I thought, I'll just take it apart. Once I get an arm off, that'll get those 3 inches taken care of and I can get it out. So I go get my screwdriver and start ripping off the upholstery only to find that the entire couch has been STAPLED AND GLUED. By this time I'm sweating profusely, wearing mismatched workout shorts and a holey tshirt, swearing at an inanimate object that has been half ripped apart laying upside-down on my living room floor, surrounded by pieces of foam and floral fabric. I began to consider other options, such as a controlled fire, but I was relatively sure that wasn't within the terms of my lease.
I WOULD NOT let the couch win. It would never go back to its original position. It was going to stay right there until it was outside my house on the sidewalk like the trash that it was. No ugly thing like that was going to ruin my apartment. My rage was building. FUCK YOU COUCH, YOU ARE NOT BETTER THAN ME.
It was about this point that rage caught up to logic and they formed a dangerous (but successful) idea: I needed to saw the couch in half. I couldn't unscrew it, so I was just going to have to saw it. After a few concerning posts on Facebook asking friends if they were in possession of a chainsaw or knew of a place I could rent one at 9:30pm on a Tuesday, I took my sweaty, disgruntled self to the Home Depot a few miles north.
In my infinite wisdom, I felt that if I were going to be doing a major construction project, I would need to be wearing safe, closed-toed shoes. So I walked into a nearly empty Home Depot in Glendale at about 10pm wearing the aforementioned shorts and tshirt that I had sweated through, Ugg boots, soaking wet hair falling out of a ponytail and an expression that would scare a biker gang and went straight for the power tools.
If there is something you're not expecting to see on a weeknight, it's a small, angry blonde girl dressed like a homeless person pacing back and forth between the saws and axes with a frighteningly intense look on her face. This was, in fact, the first time I had been to a Home Depot where at least three employees passed me and did not offer to help. One went so far as to decide he didn't need to go down my aisle after he'd already begun his turn.
After about 20 minutes of weighing the pros and cons of an axe versus a saw, I picked out a nice double-toothed saw, paid cash and left. I'm sure the police arrived minutes later. But it was too late for the couch. This is how I left it:
Not for long. I arrived home with my newest friend, Mr. Saw:
In the end, the couch was cut into six pieces that were piled up downstairs by the trash bins. My brother came home right at the moment I was carrying one of the arms of the sofa down the stairs. He knew that this was a situation where he should likely stay in his room for the duration of the evening, which he did. In the end, the scene of the crime wasn't as grizzly as it could've been...
I can still feel the joy and relief I felt looking at that last photo. I had removed the cancer and the operation had been a success. Unfortunately, the giant brown couch was there to stay until we moved out a month ago - and my brother took it to his new place, VOLUNTARILY. I had absolutely no problem with the fact that I was left for two weeks with only an IKEA Poang chair and the amazing mid-century coffee table someone had gloriously left for me, sitting alone in the middle of a gigantic 600sq foot living area - because they MATCHED.
I'm sure someone is wondering if I have ever used that saw again. In fact, it has come in handy multiple times in cutting open spaghetti squash. Trust me, once you've sawed open a squash you'll never use a regular kitchen knife again.
Friday, July 18, 2014
MOVING SUCKS SWEATY MONSTER BALLS
Yeah, that's right, moving is awful. Even when I'm moving into a nicer place, I'd still rather stick pennies up my nose until I have to go to the ER.
I had the pleasure of being the last tenant in a dynasty of continuous renters that lasted approximately 10 years. When I moved in, 3.5 years ago, there was already so much crap that wasn't my roommate's it was unbelievable. When my brother took her spot, we removed a TON of crap. Two couches (one of which I had to saw into six pieces because it wouldn't fit out the door), a bunch of kitchen shit, other random things like books/DVDs etc. Now imagine cleaning EVERY LAST THING out of that place that has been gathering dust somewhere in the depths of a cabinet FOR TEN YEARS.
That being said, my new place is glorious - completely brand new everything in my unit, including the ever-elusive dishwasher and a working AC. I have a pool, a workout room with reasonably new equipment and I live ALONE. GOD LIVING ALONE IS SO MAGICAL. I haven't unpacked some things because I don't know where to put them, so they're in the middle of the floor. AND THAT'S OK.
I did, however, sense some problems when I found out that I was balcony-less and therefore was going to have to part with DirecTV, which I love like my firstborn son, but figured I'd get used to the new cable company. I found out that not only am I only allowed to have Time Warner Cable, but it's 9 billion percent more expensive for subpar TV and internet than my beautiful DirecTV even after the discounts expired. I call our complex's "representative" and he nicely speeds up my installation to the day before I move so I don't have to go one moment sans internet and TV. Thoughtful.
Once it's installed, I go to work trying to find my shows to record on the DVR. I NEED DVR. I have no idea when my shows are on, and usually I don't even know what day of the week it is anyway. DVR is my lifeline. I set it to record Suits and Chelsea Lately and went off to do some other shit. Fast forward to two days later, and there's nothing on my DVR. NOTHING. Chelsea is on every night, so there should have been at least two of those, but it was empty. I decided to go through the guide and manually choose to record something. The little red dot appeared next to the title so I thought in the not-too-distant future I'd have something to watch that was recorded. I was so wrong.
After a long call with everybody's favorite customer service, it was determined that my DVR was broken and they were going to send me a new box. Basically they screwed up on DAY 1. The new box arrives 36 hours later, which would have been unbearable if I didn't have Hulu and my obsessive binge-watching of Korean dramas, and I hook it up. I call to activate it and leave it for a while so it can download all the guides and whatnot.
Come to find out the second box they sent me was COMPLETELY worthless and wouldn't even show the correct time zone, so now I have two broken cable boxes in my home and a really shitty internet service that can barely handle streaming an hour-long show without stopping to load 3-4 times.
Since I finished my Korean series last night, I thought I'd take my TV-less day to do some laundry. I've been hoarding quarters for the past 6 years because I've needed them for laundry, but apparently my new place has a card service. Great! No more quarters! I push the button on the machine that says "buy new card" and it asks me to insert a $5 bill. I do so, and voila, my laundry card pops out. Unfortunately, I find out after filling the washer with my dirty clothes that $5 is the price OF THE CARD and it has absolutely no value. When I go back to the machine, it only has a cash slot, so I put in the $1 bills I had in my wallet. NOPE. DON'T WANT YOUR $1 BILLS, GO HOME ASSHOLE. WTF? Then a lady in the room said that it only takes bills IN INCREMENTS OF 5! There's no coin slot, there's no credit card slot, there's just a cash slot that discriminates against poor people.
So I have approximately $10 in quarters, $5 in ones, money in my bank account and a bag full of still-dirty clothes. WORTH. LESS. Once I stop being so angry I'll walk down to the gas station and get me some 5s, but GOD THAT IS SO STUPID. I HAVE LIKE 12 WAYS OF PAYING BUT YOU WANT THE ONE WAY I CANNOT PAY.
Someone punch me in the fucking face.
I had the pleasure of being the last tenant in a dynasty of continuous renters that lasted approximately 10 years. When I moved in, 3.5 years ago, there was already so much crap that wasn't my roommate's it was unbelievable. When my brother took her spot, we removed a TON of crap. Two couches (one of which I had to saw into six pieces because it wouldn't fit out the door), a bunch of kitchen shit, other random things like books/DVDs etc. Now imagine cleaning EVERY LAST THING out of that place that has been gathering dust somewhere in the depths of a cabinet FOR TEN YEARS.
That being said, my new place is glorious - completely brand new everything in my unit, including the ever-elusive dishwasher and a working AC. I have a pool, a workout room with reasonably new equipment and I live ALONE. GOD LIVING ALONE IS SO MAGICAL. I haven't unpacked some things because I don't know where to put them, so they're in the middle of the floor. AND THAT'S OK.
I did, however, sense some problems when I found out that I was balcony-less and therefore was going to have to part with DirecTV, which I love like my firstborn son, but figured I'd get used to the new cable company. I found out that not only am I only allowed to have Time Warner Cable, but it's 9 billion percent more expensive for subpar TV and internet than my beautiful DirecTV even after the discounts expired. I call our complex's "representative" and he nicely speeds up my installation to the day before I move so I don't have to go one moment sans internet and TV. Thoughtful.
Once it's installed, I go to work trying to find my shows to record on the DVR. I NEED DVR. I have no idea when my shows are on, and usually I don't even know what day of the week it is anyway. DVR is my lifeline. I set it to record Suits and Chelsea Lately and went off to do some other shit. Fast forward to two days later, and there's nothing on my DVR. NOTHING. Chelsea is on every night, so there should have been at least two of those, but it was empty. I decided to go through the guide and manually choose to record something. The little red dot appeared next to the title so I thought in the not-too-distant future I'd have something to watch that was recorded. I was so wrong.
After a long call with everybody's favorite customer service, it was determined that my DVR was broken and they were going to send me a new box. Basically they screwed up on DAY 1. The new box arrives 36 hours later, which would have been unbearable if I didn't have Hulu and my obsessive binge-watching of Korean dramas, and I hook it up. I call to activate it and leave it for a while so it can download all the guides and whatnot.
Come to find out the second box they sent me was COMPLETELY worthless and wouldn't even show the correct time zone, so now I have two broken cable boxes in my home and a really shitty internet service that can barely handle streaming an hour-long show without stopping to load 3-4 times.
Since I finished my Korean series last night, I thought I'd take my TV-less day to do some laundry. I've been hoarding quarters for the past 6 years because I've needed them for laundry, but apparently my new place has a card service. Great! No more quarters! I push the button on the machine that says "buy new card" and it asks me to insert a $5 bill. I do so, and voila, my laundry card pops out. Unfortunately, I find out after filling the washer with my dirty clothes that $5 is the price OF THE CARD and it has absolutely no value. When I go back to the machine, it only has a cash slot, so I put in the $1 bills I had in my wallet. NOPE. DON'T WANT YOUR $1 BILLS, GO HOME ASSHOLE. WTF? Then a lady in the room said that it only takes bills IN INCREMENTS OF 5! There's no coin slot, there's no credit card slot, there's just a cash slot that discriminates against poor people.
So I have approximately $10 in quarters, $5 in ones, money in my bank account and a bag full of still-dirty clothes. WORTH. LESS. Once I stop being so angry I'll walk down to the gas station and get me some 5s, but GOD THAT IS SO STUPID. I HAVE LIKE 12 WAYS OF PAYING BUT YOU WANT THE ONE WAY I CANNOT PAY.
Someone punch me in the fucking face.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
RUNNING BACKWARDS
This sounds oh-so-metaphorical, like I'm going to inspire you with a tale of how I've found the right path in life, but it's not. It's actually literally about running backwards. Not a superfluous use of the word "literally" right there, by the way.
With all of the running talk of recent weeks, I had forgotten one of my most memorable 5ks. It was, in fact, the only 5k that I ran an entire 3.1 miles. The ironic part was I just didn't run the particular 3.1 miles that the race dictated.
Back in the spring of 2007, I was living in Dallas, dating a boy, and about to graduate law school. I was also in what was close to the best shape of my life and physically able to run almost 3.1 miles. I don't know what kept me going, but every couple of days I would go run on the Katy Trail, a paved trail through urban Dallas that followed the old rail line. At the time, there were only 3.5ish miles of the trail that had been completed, so generally I'd run 1.5, turn around and run the same distance home. If you see where I'm going with this, the Katy Trail is not a loop, it is a straight ass line that has a beginning and an end.
When I saw that there was going to be a Katy Trail 5k, I was excited because I knew I could do that mileage and that specific track, so I signed up. I was by no means a race expert, having run probably one 5k before this one, and I didn't pay as close attention as I should have to the instructions. I just looked up where the start was and got ready.
Since my boyfriend was going to be at work during the race and couldn't pick me up, I asked him to do me a favor. I would go park my car at the end of the Katy Trail, he'd follow me, then drop me off at the starting line. I'd have my key in my hand so I could get into my car where all my stuff was and be able to drive myself home. It was a grand plan.
On race day, we did just as planned. I left my phone (since this was pre-music phones, I probably had a Moto Razr or something) and my house keys in my glove box, taking only my car key. My boyfriend dropped me off at the start, I put on my race number and timing chip, and we took off.
The first thing that sparked some alarm was that while the race was next to the Katy Trail, it was not actually ON it. I guessed this was because of the number of runners, and they needed a street-width path to contain everyone. So I start running through the streets of Uptown with my fellow runners, and everything seemed A-ok. Then, about a mile in, we turned right. Um...we're going to turn back north, right? I mean the trail is north/south, so this east/west thing we've got going on is temporary, right?
I was semi right. As we ran east, we went under a bridge that was the actual Katy trail, and just as I noticed that up ahead we did in fact turn back north, I saw some people running on the bridge above me, going the opposite way. Wearing numbers. I was still a few bricks short of actually understanding my situation, but I'd run right into that wall in about a half mile.
It was as we ran north on a parallel street that I became completely aware of what was going on - at some point in the near future, the race path turned around and we ran back to the START on the actual Katy Trail. I tried to deny it until I saw way too many people running the opposite way on the trail a few hundred yards away. When I reached this point in the story, a friend of mine stopped me - "Don't you know that races ALWAYS go in a circle? I mean there'd be huge logistical problems otherwise." No, no I was not aware that races always went in circles. The first race I ran started and ended in different places, although we did make a near circle and finish close to the start. This NEVER OCCURRED TO ME.
I realized I had about two minutes before I had to make a huge decision - do I run the race on the prescribed track, ending up 3.1 miles away from my car with nothing but a car key, or do I just keep running straight until I get to my car? I had no way of getting ahold of anyone, no money for a cab, no house keys to walk home - I decided that in this state of emergency, I would just run to my car. It was a 6pm race, and I didn't need to be walking 3 miles in the dark alone, especially after running an entire 5k. I wasn't up for running a 10k.
So as I saw the turnaround approaching, I made the executive decision - nonchalantly take off my race number, continue going straight through the barricade, and pretend I was just "out running" and in no way a part of a race as I continued to run to my car. A Dallas police officer was standing at the barricade making sure no cars came through, and with my number now folded in my hand, I ignored all the other runners and ran straight past the cop onto the sidewalk of a busy street.
"Ma'am! You're going the wrong way! Ma'am!!" the cop screamed after me. I pretended like I didn't hear him and continued through the neighborhood as though I were just out for a leisurely evening run and not involved in whatever running activity may have been going on south of me. Of course I was completely alone this time, because all the people who DO take leisurely runs were running the race. So I stuck out a little bit. At least I'd had the sense to take off my race number.
When I finally reached my car, having run the whole way with only short stops for stoplights, I felt semi-accomplished. I did, in fact, run a 5k that evening, it just wasn't the 5k that the planners of the race specifically outlined. I got in the car and drove home, glad I decided to take this choice versus walking for probably another 45 minutes to get back to my car.
I timed myself at a rough 33 minutes, but I'll never know my actual time. I bet the race organizers are somewhat confused as to why it's taking someone over 7 years to complete a 5k. According to official records, I will be forever running the Katy Trail 5k.
With all of the running talk of recent weeks, I had forgotten one of my most memorable 5ks. It was, in fact, the only 5k that I ran an entire 3.1 miles. The ironic part was I just didn't run the particular 3.1 miles that the race dictated.
Back in the spring of 2007, I was living in Dallas, dating a boy, and about to graduate law school. I was also in what was close to the best shape of my life and physically able to run almost 3.1 miles. I don't know what kept me going, but every couple of days I would go run on the Katy Trail, a paved trail through urban Dallas that followed the old rail line. At the time, there were only 3.5ish miles of the trail that had been completed, so generally I'd run 1.5, turn around and run the same distance home. If you see where I'm going with this, the Katy Trail is not a loop, it is a straight ass line that has a beginning and an end.
When I saw that there was going to be a Katy Trail 5k, I was excited because I knew I could do that mileage and that specific track, so I signed up. I was by no means a race expert, having run probably one 5k before this one, and I didn't pay as close attention as I should have to the instructions. I just looked up where the start was and got ready.
Since my boyfriend was going to be at work during the race and couldn't pick me up, I asked him to do me a favor. I would go park my car at the end of the Katy Trail, he'd follow me, then drop me off at the starting line. I'd have my key in my hand so I could get into my car where all my stuff was and be able to drive myself home. It was a grand plan.
On race day, we did just as planned. I left my phone (since this was pre-music phones, I probably had a Moto Razr or something) and my house keys in my glove box, taking only my car key. My boyfriend dropped me off at the start, I put on my race number and timing chip, and we took off.
The first thing that sparked some alarm was that while the race was next to the Katy Trail, it was not actually ON it. I guessed this was because of the number of runners, and they needed a street-width path to contain everyone. So I start running through the streets of Uptown with my fellow runners, and everything seemed A-ok. Then, about a mile in, we turned right. Um...we're going to turn back north, right? I mean the trail is north/south, so this east/west thing we've got going on is temporary, right?
I was semi right. As we ran east, we went under a bridge that was the actual Katy trail, and just as I noticed that up ahead we did in fact turn back north, I saw some people running on the bridge above me, going the opposite way. Wearing numbers. I was still a few bricks short of actually understanding my situation, but I'd run right into that wall in about a half mile.
It was as we ran north on a parallel street that I became completely aware of what was going on - at some point in the near future, the race path turned around and we ran back to the START on the actual Katy Trail. I tried to deny it until I saw way too many people running the opposite way on the trail a few hundred yards away. When I reached this point in the story, a friend of mine stopped me - "Don't you know that races ALWAYS go in a circle? I mean there'd be huge logistical problems otherwise." No, no I was not aware that races always went in circles. The first race I ran started and ended in different places, although we did make a near circle and finish close to the start. This NEVER OCCURRED TO ME.
I realized I had about two minutes before I had to make a huge decision - do I run the race on the prescribed track, ending up 3.1 miles away from my car with nothing but a car key, or do I just keep running straight until I get to my car? I had no way of getting ahold of anyone, no money for a cab, no house keys to walk home - I decided that in this state of emergency, I would just run to my car. It was a 6pm race, and I didn't need to be walking 3 miles in the dark alone, especially after running an entire 5k. I wasn't up for running a 10k.
So as I saw the turnaround approaching, I made the executive decision - nonchalantly take off my race number, continue going straight through the barricade, and pretend I was just "out running" and in no way a part of a race as I continued to run to my car. A Dallas police officer was standing at the barricade making sure no cars came through, and with my number now folded in my hand, I ignored all the other runners and ran straight past the cop onto the sidewalk of a busy street.
"Ma'am! You're going the wrong way! Ma'am!!" the cop screamed after me. I pretended like I didn't hear him and continued through the neighborhood as though I were just out for a leisurely evening run and not involved in whatever running activity may have been going on south of me. Of course I was completely alone this time, because all the people who DO take leisurely runs were running the race. So I stuck out a little bit. At least I'd had the sense to take off my race number.
When I finally reached my car, having run the whole way with only short stops for stoplights, I felt semi-accomplished. I did, in fact, run a 5k that evening, it just wasn't the 5k that the planners of the race specifically outlined. I got in the car and drove home, glad I decided to take this choice versus walking for probably another 45 minutes to get back to my car.
I timed myself at a rough 33 minutes, but I'll never know my actual time. I bet the race organizers are somewhat confused as to why it's taking someone over 7 years to complete a 5k. According to official records, I will be forever running the Katy Trail 5k.
Monday, June 30, 2014
10 THINGS NOT TO SAY TO YOUR UNEMPLOYED FRIEND
There are two things worse than being unemployed: being diagnosed with a terminal disease and losing a close friend or family member. I'm lucky to say that myself and those around me are healthy, at least physically. Mentally I could use a little help...
I'm somewhat of an expert in being unemployed. There was that whole time when I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life so I was more looking for temporary jobs than real ones (mostly because no one would offer me a real one with an out-of-date advertising degree and a law license in another state), then there's now - the "post-graduate-school-job-search" unemployment. My daily life is spent on the computer, filling out form after form of shit that is on the resume I uploaded but the company wants me to take the time to fill it out AGAIN. It is not a good life. It is a shitty, shitty life where you have to ask other people for money (my parents) and generally feel terrible about how much of a complete failure you have become.
So to make my life a tiny bit less shitty, let's agree that we should not ask the following questions:
"So, how's the job search going?" - Um, fucking terrible, thank you for asking. I literally have nothing in my life but searching for jobs, asking for jobs, or talking about jobs I'm applying for, so if I don't bring it up, it's probably NOT GOING TOO WELL. People like to share good news. I am one of those people. When I get an interview, since it's such a rare occasion, I blast that news all over social media and hire a plane to fly a banner. So if I don't bring up some lovely tidbit about how I got a lead on a job or had an interview or someone called me, ASSUME IT'S NOT GOING WELL.
"Have you heard from Company X?" Once again, do you think I'd keep it from you if I'd just been hired? NO. I would probably incite a riot with glitter and unicorns and trombones so that the entire city of LA would know I was newly employed with Company X. OH, I FORGOT TO MENTION, I GOT A JOB, SINCE I'VE BEEN SO BUSY NOT HAVING ONE FOR SO LONG. If I haven't said anything, the answer is NO, I haven't heard, or worse, they rejected me. Thanks for bringing that up.
"Have you tried, like, Starbucks?" Have you tried sticking your thumb up your ass? I'm sorry, but I just spent a fuckton of money to change careers so I think I'm going to stick to that area, thanks. And for the record, before I went back to school I DID apply to Starbucks, and they wanted nothing to do with me. I just added more education and backed myself into a seriously overqualified corner, I don't think this new degree is what I was missing when they didn't hire me the first time.
"You should go use your career services office. It's part of what you paid for." You are correct on the second part, I DID pay for it, and it's fucking worthless. I might as well go throw my resumes off a building and hope one lands on a CEO's head. The career services office may or may not have told me to "lower my expectations" and "take what I can get" when it came to internships, so I'd hate to see what they say about jobs. I had 2 unpaid internships, I really can't lower my expectations any more than that, since slavery is illegal. Whatever happened to "What are you interested in doing? We have connections in that industry, here are some contacts"? Also I have very little trust in you when you a) look 10 years younger than me and went straight into "career services" without having A CAREER and b) when you post "administrative assistant" jobs on the daily email to STUDENTS AND ALUMNI. Hi, we went to school so we wouldn't HAVE to be administrative assistants, thanks.
"Why are you moving to THE VALLEY?" Oh, I don't know, BECAUSE I'M FUCKING POOR?? Sure, the valley isn't on my list of "places I must live at one point in my life" but it's cheap, it's safe and it's surprisingly closer to my friends than Silverlake. And when your landlord sells your building you don't have time to wait til you get a job to go apartment hunting in better neighborhoods, you just find what you can afford where you won't get shot and you take it.
"Let me tell you about my recent vacation to Europe/the Caribbean/somewhere else you can't afford!" NOPE. Stop right there. That's fantastic that mommy and daddy paid to send you on a nice vacation after graduation and you don't have any stress about finding a job because you can either live with them or they'll support you, but I'm fucking 32 and that shit doesn't happen anymore. If you're my age and employed and taking a vacation, good for you, you deserve it. You worked hard, saved money and vacation days and I'd be doing the same thing. You're not who I'm talking to. And if you just happen to have boatloads of money for whatever reason and go on vacations weekly and continuously post about it on facebook, I might just have to unfollow you. And yes, I did go on a "bar trip" after law school, but it was entirely financed by my airline points and a gift of my parents hotel points. That's right, COMPLETELY FREE (minus food/drink/entertainment), unless you count the $100 copay from the ambulance ride and emergency room visit. So you can't call me out about being hypocritical on this one.
"Have you considered being a stripper?" Actually, yes, yes I have. There are a few things that get in the way of that career path, however - my profound hatred for being nude and inability to conceal my disgust of gross humans. That and I've been told that when I'm trying to be sexy, I look decidedly NOT sexy. While I consider myself in somewhat better shape than Chris Farley, my being a stripper would be very similar to that SNL sketch with him and Patrick Swayze being Chippendales - and people aren't paying to laugh when they come to a strip club.
"Isn't it nice to have some time off?" Look, I enjoy the fact that I get to choose my wakeup time every morning, but when "time off" is your default and it's not PAID time off, then NO, IT'S NOT NICE. It's not nice to spend every day on the computer searching for jobs, bothering your friends about potential openings at their company or paying for your gas in quarters. No, I don't particularly like the free time I spend on the phone with this or that company asking why my car/insurance/cable payment is late. And there's only so much time you can spend reading at Starbucks before you start to hate both reading and Starbucks. And life.
"You should move home (with your parents)" a) where my parents live is not "home" - I have never lived there nor do I know a soul. My home is here, and it is unfortunate that my parents don't live here, but they don't. b) if I did move "home," what the hell would I do? There are WAY fewer jobs in Columbia, Missouri, population 50-100k, than there are here in the greater Los Angeles area. If I moved "home" I'd have to work at Applebees with a side gig at the Flying J truck stop down the road, or I could pretend the last four years of my life didn't exist and go be an attorney again in a place where I have no friends. That worked out well the first 2 times.
"Don't you have money saved up? Weren't you a lawyer?" HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH go fuck yourself.
I'm somewhat of an expert in being unemployed. There was that whole time when I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life so I was more looking for temporary jobs than real ones (mostly because no one would offer me a real one with an out-of-date advertising degree and a law license in another state), then there's now - the "post-graduate-school-job-search" unemployment. My daily life is spent on the computer, filling out form after form of shit that is on the resume I uploaded but the company wants me to take the time to fill it out AGAIN. It is not a good life. It is a shitty, shitty life where you have to ask other people for money (my parents) and generally feel terrible about how much of a complete failure you have become.
So to make my life a tiny bit less shitty, let's agree that we should not ask the following questions:
"So, how's the job search going?" - Um, fucking terrible, thank you for asking. I literally have nothing in my life but searching for jobs, asking for jobs, or talking about jobs I'm applying for, so if I don't bring it up, it's probably NOT GOING TOO WELL. People like to share good news. I am one of those people. When I get an interview, since it's such a rare occasion, I blast that news all over social media and hire a plane to fly a banner. So if I don't bring up some lovely tidbit about how I got a lead on a job or had an interview or someone called me, ASSUME IT'S NOT GOING WELL.
"Have you heard from Company X?" Once again, do you think I'd keep it from you if I'd just been hired? NO. I would probably incite a riot with glitter and unicorns and trombones so that the entire city of LA would know I was newly employed with Company X. OH, I FORGOT TO MENTION, I GOT A JOB, SINCE I'VE BEEN SO BUSY NOT HAVING ONE FOR SO LONG. If I haven't said anything, the answer is NO, I haven't heard, or worse, they rejected me. Thanks for bringing that up.
"Have you tried, like, Starbucks?" Have you tried sticking your thumb up your ass? I'm sorry, but I just spent a fuckton of money to change careers so I think I'm going to stick to that area, thanks. And for the record, before I went back to school I DID apply to Starbucks, and they wanted nothing to do with me. I just added more education and backed myself into a seriously overqualified corner, I don't think this new degree is what I was missing when they didn't hire me the first time.
"You should go use your career services office. It's part of what you paid for." You are correct on the second part, I DID pay for it, and it's fucking worthless. I might as well go throw my resumes off a building and hope one lands on a CEO's head. The career services office may or may not have told me to "lower my expectations" and "take what I can get" when it came to internships, so I'd hate to see what they say about jobs. I had 2 unpaid internships, I really can't lower my expectations any more than that, since slavery is illegal. Whatever happened to "What are you interested in doing? We have connections in that industry, here are some contacts"? Also I have very little trust in you when you a) look 10 years younger than me and went straight into "career services" without having A CAREER and b) when you post "administrative assistant" jobs on the daily email to STUDENTS AND ALUMNI. Hi, we went to school so we wouldn't HAVE to be administrative assistants, thanks.
"Why are you moving to THE VALLEY?" Oh, I don't know, BECAUSE I'M FUCKING POOR?? Sure, the valley isn't on my list of "places I must live at one point in my life" but it's cheap, it's safe and it's surprisingly closer to my friends than Silverlake. And when your landlord sells your building you don't have time to wait til you get a job to go apartment hunting in better neighborhoods, you just find what you can afford where you won't get shot and you take it.
"Let me tell you about my recent vacation to Europe/the Caribbean/somewhere else you can't afford!" NOPE. Stop right there. That's fantastic that mommy and daddy paid to send you on a nice vacation after graduation and you don't have any stress about finding a job because you can either live with them or they'll support you, but I'm fucking 32 and that shit doesn't happen anymore. If you're my age and employed and taking a vacation, good for you, you deserve it. You worked hard, saved money and vacation days and I'd be doing the same thing. You're not who I'm talking to. And if you just happen to have boatloads of money for whatever reason and go on vacations weekly and continuously post about it on facebook, I might just have to unfollow you. And yes, I did go on a "bar trip" after law school, but it was entirely financed by my airline points and a gift of my parents hotel points. That's right, COMPLETELY FREE (minus food/drink/entertainment), unless you count the $100 copay from the ambulance ride and emergency room visit. So you can't call me out about being hypocritical on this one.
"Have you considered being a stripper?" Actually, yes, yes I have. There are a few things that get in the way of that career path, however - my profound hatred for being nude and inability to conceal my disgust of gross humans. That and I've been told that when I'm trying to be sexy, I look decidedly NOT sexy. While I consider myself in somewhat better shape than Chris Farley, my being a stripper would be very similar to that SNL sketch with him and Patrick Swayze being Chippendales - and people aren't paying to laugh when they come to a strip club.
"Isn't it nice to have some time off?" Look, I enjoy the fact that I get to choose my wakeup time every morning, but when "time off" is your default and it's not PAID time off, then NO, IT'S NOT NICE. It's not nice to spend every day on the computer searching for jobs, bothering your friends about potential openings at their company or paying for your gas in quarters. No, I don't particularly like the free time I spend on the phone with this or that company asking why my car/insurance/cable payment is late. And there's only so much time you can spend reading at Starbucks before you start to hate both reading and Starbucks. And life.
"You should move home (with your parents)" a) where my parents live is not "home" - I have never lived there nor do I know a soul. My home is here, and it is unfortunate that my parents don't live here, but they don't. b) if I did move "home," what the hell would I do? There are WAY fewer jobs in Columbia, Missouri, population 50-100k, than there are here in the greater Los Angeles area. If I moved "home" I'd have to work at Applebees with a side gig at the Flying J truck stop down the road, or I could pretend the last four years of my life didn't exist and go be an attorney again in a place where I have no friends. That worked out well the first 2 times.
"Don't you have money saved up? Weren't you a lawyer?" HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH go fuck yourself.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
26 REASONS NOT TO RUN A MARATHON
A few days ago Huffington Post ran an article entitled "26 Reasons Not to Run a Marathon". Although I haven't been as vocal about my extreme distaste for running in past blogs, I'm going to say it right now: I really fucking hate running. And while I didn't necessarily need 26 reasons not to run a marathon because I wasn't wrestling with that decision in my mind (nor have I ever), I still read it, and it inspired me to put together my own list of why you should never run a marathon.
I've run races in the past - some 5ks, a 10k and a 12k - and when I say "run" I mean "walked up the hills and ran down them really fast to make up for walking." My participation in said races was sometimes voluntary, sometimes not - in fact my first 5k I was told about when I arrived at the airport to visit my friend for the weekend and found I had unknowingly been signed up for competitive running, an activity in which I did not partake, competitively or not, at any point in my life.
Running is not fun. Granted, this is coming from someone with asthma and the lung capacity of a squirrel, but seriously. Other parts of my body don't like it either and they work just fine. Yet for whatever reason, I've had a dysfunctional relationship with running where I try it, remember it sucks, stop, forget how much it sucks, decide "maybe it'll be easier this time," sign up for another (short) race, begin training for said race, remember "oh god, this is fucking torture," reluctantly run/walk the race and have momentary happiness at the end when I get a free tshirt and a medal as though I was a winner of some sort. And I get really pissed if they don't have finishers medals for everyone, because what the hell did I get out of this if not some trophy that will jingle with all the others on my closet doorhandle for the rest of my young life?
I've heard people say after a race "I feel so great, I want to run a half marathon next!" What? I did a 10k and at the end I thought "I have no interest in ever running this far again, pretty sure I'll just stop here."
Running sucks. Running 26 miles sucks SO MUCH that I can barely express how dumb it is, especially since we're not hunting buffalo within a 50-mile perimeter for survival anymore. So below you will find my insightful and true facts about why you shouldn't run a marathon:
1) I really shouldn't have to say this, but do you people know about the first "marathon?" A guy had to run 26.2 miles from somewhere I should probably Wikipedia in Greece to a town called Marathon to deliver an important message, like a war was coming or the king died or there was an invasion of locusts, I don't fucking remember. Anyway, when the guy reaches Marathon with his message, completing his journey, HE DIES. He runs 26.2 miles and INSTANTLY DIES, because human beings are not meant to just fucking run and run and run and run.
So someone thought, "Hey, let's commemorate this historic moment by doing this thing that killed this guy." Because we also have competitions commemorating the Titanic by intentionally sinking a ship and seeing who can get to the lifeboats and survive every year, so why not try this other thing that has NOT BEEN ACCOMPLISHED WITHOUT DEATH.
2) It hurts. Running hurts me after about 45 seconds, but running will hurt ANYONE who does it for 3-5 hours straight. Your legs wish they were amputated, your lungs wish you would just take up smoking and your heart is just screaming "FUCK YOUUUUU" the entire time. The HuffPost article even talks about how marathons INJURE YOUR HEART, which is probably what happened to the poor guy that is rolling in his grave because other idiots are doing what he gave his life for FOR FUN.
"Don't eat too much fat! Don't eat too much salt! Don't smoke! It's bad for your heart!" We haven't turned these things into competitions (ok, maybe the eating thing but everyone acknowledges that's a terrible idea), but let's go run so far we break our most important organ!
3) YOU WILL NEVER WIN. Ever. No matter how many marathons you run, how fast you get, how much you train, you're not Kenyan (unless you are, in fact, Kenyan). There is nothing you can do to become physically Kenyan even if you go take a citizenship test (which has not been proven to make you faster), so ladies and gentlemen, you will never win a marathon. Everyone knows only Kenyans win marathons, and I'm pretty sure their flag has a dude running on it (I have no fucking clue what the flag looks like). So just give up.
4) Any event where it is not only possible but acceptable to shit and piss in your pants has no place in mainstream civilization. I have obviously not done it, but I've seen some YouTube videos that I can't unsee. Oh, gotta go to the bathroom at some point during the running of 26 miles? I can't bear to lose the precious minutes it might take to use a port-o-potty or at least a piece of foliage, so I'll just do it in my pants. Voluntary pants-shitting is just not something I'm comfortable becoming a part of America - I've shit my pants and it was most DEFINITELY not voluntary, nor did it earn me anything other than an ambulance ride and a really embarrassing walk of shame through a nice hotel. If people have to clean up feces off the street after an event it sure as hell better be a parade and the poo from horses, because people shitting in the street needs to stay in the movies with Maya Rudolph. Just...no.
Ok, so I'm pretty sure I don't need 26 reasons not to run a marathon. The first one should be pretty solid, and if you're not convinced, the second one should convince you. And if someone tells you about something good about marathon running, ask them "When that happened was any part of your body in pain?" They'll be lying if they say no. Even a child has the wisdom to know that "that hurts" means "maybe I should stop doing that." Apparently we lose that wisdom over time.
I've run races in the past - some 5ks, a 10k and a 12k - and when I say "run" I mean "walked up the hills and ran down them really fast to make up for walking." My participation in said races was sometimes voluntary, sometimes not - in fact my first 5k I was told about when I arrived at the airport to visit my friend for the weekend and found I had unknowingly been signed up for competitive running, an activity in which I did not partake, competitively or not, at any point in my life.
Running is not fun. Granted, this is coming from someone with asthma and the lung capacity of a squirrel, but seriously. Other parts of my body don't like it either and they work just fine. Yet for whatever reason, I've had a dysfunctional relationship with running where I try it, remember it sucks, stop, forget how much it sucks, decide "maybe it'll be easier this time," sign up for another (short) race, begin training for said race, remember "oh god, this is fucking torture," reluctantly run/walk the race and have momentary happiness at the end when I get a free tshirt and a medal as though I was a winner of some sort. And I get really pissed if they don't have finishers medals for everyone, because what the hell did I get out of this if not some trophy that will jingle with all the others on my closet doorhandle for the rest of my young life?
I've heard people say after a race "I feel so great, I want to run a half marathon next!" What? I did a 10k and at the end I thought "I have no interest in ever running this far again, pretty sure I'll just stop here."
Running sucks. Running 26 miles sucks SO MUCH that I can barely express how dumb it is, especially since we're not hunting buffalo within a 50-mile perimeter for survival anymore. So below you will find my insightful and true facts about why you shouldn't run a marathon:
1) I really shouldn't have to say this, but do you people know about the first "marathon?" A guy had to run 26.2 miles from somewhere I should probably Wikipedia in Greece to a town called Marathon to deliver an important message, like a war was coming or the king died or there was an invasion of locusts, I don't fucking remember. Anyway, when the guy reaches Marathon with his message, completing his journey, HE DIES. He runs 26.2 miles and INSTANTLY DIES, because human beings are not meant to just fucking run and run and run and run.
So someone thought, "Hey, let's commemorate this historic moment by doing this thing that killed this guy." Because we also have competitions commemorating the Titanic by intentionally sinking a ship and seeing who can get to the lifeboats and survive every year, so why not try this other thing that has NOT BEEN ACCOMPLISHED WITHOUT DEATH.
2) It hurts. Running hurts me after about 45 seconds, but running will hurt ANYONE who does it for 3-5 hours straight. Your legs wish they were amputated, your lungs wish you would just take up smoking and your heart is just screaming "FUCK YOUUUUU" the entire time. The HuffPost article even talks about how marathons INJURE YOUR HEART, which is probably what happened to the poor guy that is rolling in his grave because other idiots are doing what he gave his life for FOR FUN.
"Don't eat too much fat! Don't eat too much salt! Don't smoke! It's bad for your heart!" We haven't turned these things into competitions (ok, maybe the eating thing but everyone acknowledges that's a terrible idea), but let's go run so far we break our most important organ!
3) YOU WILL NEVER WIN. Ever. No matter how many marathons you run, how fast you get, how much you train, you're not Kenyan (unless you are, in fact, Kenyan). There is nothing you can do to become physically Kenyan even if you go take a citizenship test (which has not been proven to make you faster), so ladies and gentlemen, you will never win a marathon. Everyone knows only Kenyans win marathons, and I'm pretty sure their flag has a dude running on it (I have no fucking clue what the flag looks like). So just give up.
4) Any event where it is not only possible but acceptable to shit and piss in your pants has no place in mainstream civilization. I have obviously not done it, but I've seen some YouTube videos that I can't unsee. Oh, gotta go to the bathroom at some point during the running of 26 miles? I can't bear to lose the precious minutes it might take to use a port-o-potty or at least a piece of foliage, so I'll just do it in my pants. Voluntary pants-shitting is just not something I'm comfortable becoming a part of America - I've shit my pants and it was most DEFINITELY not voluntary, nor did it earn me anything other than an ambulance ride and a really embarrassing walk of shame through a nice hotel. If people have to clean up feces off the street after an event it sure as hell better be a parade and the poo from horses, because people shitting in the street needs to stay in the movies with Maya Rudolph. Just...no.
Ok, so I'm pretty sure I don't need 26 reasons not to run a marathon. The first one should be pretty solid, and if you're not convinced, the second one should convince you. And if someone tells you about something good about marathon running, ask them "When that happened was any part of your body in pain?" They'll be lying if they say no. Even a child has the wisdom to know that "that hurts" means "maybe I should stop doing that." Apparently we lose that wisdom over time.
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