THAT TIME I LIVED IN A VAN FOR 36 HOURS PART I

It was everything that Chris Farley would've wanted.  There was even a river...well, some of the time there was.

Last weekend one of my best friends had her bachelorette party.  Wait, no - that term leads one to believe that I dressed pretty, partied, got massages and got free drinks.  The correct description of this event was that my friend decided that she was going to kidnap all her friends, throw us in large white molester vans and not allow us to shower for half a weekend.

She came up with this plan long before she was engaged.  We all thought it would pass, that it would be a phase and when the time came she'd do something a little more, well, traditional.  Instead, despite the best efforts of all the bridesmaids to convince her otherwise, she firmly stuck to her original plan and forced us to run 205 miles in sweaty Goodwill dresses while sleeping in parking lots like a bunch of dirty hobos.

The name of the race was RAGNAR, which I believe is an acronym for some sort of neurological disorder suffered by all who voluntarily enter.  And I did say I was forced - not at gunpoint, not threatened with a messy friend break-up, but because you don't tell the bride no.  You just don't.  There are only two things you can reasonably refuse to do for a bride - first degree murder and (contrary to the Hangover's depiction of bachelor parties) face tattoos.  So when the bride tells you that you're going to run three legs ranging from 2 to 12 miles each through unknown terrain in the dark or the scorching sun and then get in a big van and repeat, you just fucking do it.

I'm pretty sure I've made it clear in previous blog posts just exactly how much I hate running.  This fire of hatred burns deep into my soul, as well as my small asthmatic lungs.  I also hate heat, which to me is anything above 80 degrees, and this summer was pretty much like I had moved not to Sherman Oaks but in fact to the surface of the sun.  Combine that with my complete and utter lack of funds that would otherwise be used for such things as a gym membership and you have the perfect training plan for someone who hates running.  Then the only good thing that happened in months, me getting a job, further pushed away any hopes of preparation because I can't be bothered to stay awake for more than 12 hours a day and would immediately fall into bed upon my return home after a grueling day not paying attention to documents for some whiney litigant.

The only people who managed to get out of running either had major surgery or were actively cultivating a child in their womb, neither of which I was willing to do.  So I prepared for the potential that I would need one or both of my legs amputated and just went.

After a 6-ish hour drive up to San Francisco and approximately four hours of sleep in someone's nicely furnished garage, I awoke to put on my running clothes in the dark and start this race of insanity.  I took a moment of silence for my ankles and likely the last time they would ever function properly before jumping into a large white 12-passenger van with a bridal veil attached to the roof.  There was nothing ridiculous about this scenario at all.

The starting line was in Golden Gate Park, one of the prettiest places in one of the greatest cities ever.  I wasn't as nervous as I should have been simply because my view was nice.  I have since learned my lesson.  We got a safety briefing as a team, I put on my pink empire-waist prom dress that made me look and feel pregnant and I cued up Toto's "Africa" on my iPhone.  I went to the starting line, completely unaware of what I was in for.  It was too early for my brain to properly function and realize the gravity of my situation.

As the race started, I followed the other racers through the park, by ponds and flowers and giant trees.  It only took a few minutes before I started having chest pains and realizing exactly how terrible of an idea this was.  I was terrified that my team would drive by in the van looking for me to cheer me on, so I ran when I was out in the open and walked when I was behind large bushes or on a woody trail.  Did I mention this first leg was only 2.8 miles?  Yes, I was already walking.

I started running again when the trees opened up to the ocean, the beautiful beach that I'd spent many a cold day searching for sand dollars on vacation when I was younger.  Oh yay!  I bet the end of my leg is right here!  So pretty.  This wasn't that bad after all!  Funny though, they hadn't been marking the miles.  Every other race I'd been in would always tell me when I hit mile 1, mile 2, etc.  No signs, except to turn left or right.  I didn't care for this, and as you will see in part II that I have the worst estimation of distance of any human alive.

As I run along the sidewalk by the beach, I notice a sign.  "1 mile to go!"  Are you kidding me?  I've only gone 1.8 miles?  It felt like I'd been running for an hour and that I had at least gone three if not five miles.  My lungs hurt, my hips hurt, my feet hurt...and then I saw the hill.

My brain remembers it as approximately 45 degrees, but either way this hill was the ENTIRE rest of the leg.  I was supposed to run a MILE UPHILL.  NOPE.  I couldn't even do that when I was running regularly, let alone now when I was basically a blob of atrophying muscles.  No.  It wasn't going to happen.  Fuck this.  I stopped and started walking up the hill.  It was about this time that I noticed I was getting lightheaded and not walking in a very straight line. 

My mind was jumping around everywhere.  "Ohh Musee Mechanique!  I love that place!  I should go check it out.  Wait, I have to finish this damn run first.  And it's 8am, it probably won't be open.  Look at that fucking hill.  What a bunch of dickbags, who makes the last mile of ANY run a giant mountain?  Fuck this shit.  Fuck this race.  Oh, hey, that's the last person in my wave that just passed me.  Sweet, I'm last.  Am I surprised?  Nope.  Whatever.  Jesus this is the biggest hill in the entirety of earth, why does it exist?  Fuck plate tectonics, man.  Stop making things all not flat.  Who the hell is that guy?  What a creepster!  He's taking pictures!  I bet he's some sort of weird sociopath who has a wall of sweaty girls running- oh wait, he's the race photographer.  Whoops.  I guess I should pretend I'm running.  OH THERE'S THE VAN!  I'M ALMOST DONE!  IT'S RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER! ...wait, where's the exchange?  The vans are here- WHAT WHY IS IT ALL THE WAY OVER THERE?!  WHY IS THIS STILL UPHILL?  CAN'T I JUST GET IN THE VAN HERE, THAT'S MY GODDAMN VAN!"

By the time I reached the exchange and handed off to the next runner, I had approximately three working brain cells and they weren't getting enough oxygen.  I sat on the bench and apparently I looked so bad that a strange girl gave me her gigantic water and told me to keep it.   I don't really remember how I got to the van, but I do remember my friends telling me that "red is good, white and clammy is bad" and that I definitely fell into the latter category.

While stopping at Starbucks and picking up some scones at some ridiculously awesome Irish bakery, I asked "So what time do you think I'll be running my 5.25 miler?"

"5.25?  Dude, it's 6.6."

WHAT?!!!

...to be continued.

PLAYING WITH FIRE

A couple of years ago I had the completely insane idea to "go off birth control" to "see how my body felt" without artificial hormones.  It was a raging disaster as chronicled in this post and I quickly went back on my pills within 2 weeks of my "experiment."

Well, sometimes we don't pay attention to how many refills we have left, especially when the only males I speak to are either related to me or legally bound to my friends, and sometimes I run the fuck out.  I had a nice solution last time - since I had graduated and couldn't use the health center but still   had insurance, I asked my shrink to call in a refill since he's a doctor and can technically prescribe anything.  When I tried to refill it this time, I pulled up to the pharmacy drive through only to be told that they needed some sort of "authorization" for MediCal (yes I'm on poor person insurance, screw you) as to why I need birth control.

Whoa whoa whoa.  A week ago I showed up, gave you my brand new poor person insurance card, and you turned right around and handed me all my crazy meds FOR FREE.  Now you're wanting a reason I need birth control?  How about I don't want to have babies?  Or more importantly, I need the hormones or I turn into some batshit crazy sobbing little schoolgirl who can't watch people hug without having a breakdown of some form.  They literally handed me a bottle of benzos FOR FREE after asking no questions nor requiring ID of any kind (if you don't know what benzos are, google "Xanax" or watch any number of episodes of "Intervention") just a week prior.

Fine, I thought.  I'll just go to Planned Parenthood when I have some time.  Which sadly now that I'm employed is never.  I sucked it up and prepared for the worst - who knew how long I was going to be sans supplemental hormones.  Last time I broke at 2 weeks - could I go longer this time?

For those of you wondering, me not having hormonal birth control is ironically a form of birth control in itself since I can't do anything without crying or acting completely insane, but really I'd prefer to just feel normal and have my damn pills.

This time it was a little different.  I went through the first week just fine, and as I reached the beginning of the second week, I felt no different.  This worried me, because what if it came all at once and didn't build up from a little crazy but instead exploded as UBER crazy without warning?  I was trying to be cautious, so when a Robin Williams tribute special aired Tuesday I debated about whether or not to watch it while I was "unmedicated."  I took a risk and surprisingly I only cried minimally, and in a way that I could stop when it was over - not the normal "cry for hours because I got sad and can't stop the sad."

While I still planned on getting an appointment for pills, I was less worried.  That is until Thursday.  I was scrolling through Facebook at work and passed a photo of a kitten from one of the rescue organizations I follow, and it was asking for someone to adopt him.  Suddenly I started feeling weird.  It was building up, slowly, quietly - so that I didn't know what it was at first.  Oh god oh god oh god no no nononononoNONONONOOOOOOOOO!  I thought of the kitten, he needed a home, I could take him, wait no I couldn't, my cats would try to kill him... then I thought of my own cats, oh how sad I'd be if they died, oh I miss them so much, they're my furry children, I rescued them when they were babies, look what a good life they had, WHAT IF I HADN'T TAKEN THEM?!  WHERE WOULD THEY BE? 

As the crazy was building, I tried to distract myself.  Think about baseball!  Look at baby pictures - ewww, that should do it.  I tried to get as far away from sad homeless kittens as I could and luckily I could feel the impending disaster subside but I'd had quite a scare.  I wasn't immune as I thought - I needed those hormones NOW. 

The next day a similar kitten post got me on the same track, and it almost overtook me, but I calmed down again.  But I can't keep this up forever.  Someday I'm going to have to trade $32 for an appointment to get my damn pills back - which is hard as I'm trying to get as many hours as I can at work since I'm taking half of Thurs and all of Friday off.  Planned Parenthood needs to be open at midnight on Saturday.  I guarantee I wouldn't be the only one there.

It's a little scary that I need my birth control more for crazy control than my other meds - but other than brain zaps and feeling shaky (that happens to everyone, right?) I don't have problems when I miss my crazy pills.  Also I apparently can't blog an actual narrative, since I don't think this post has a real end to it.  Seriously me, wtf.

THE WEIRD KID

I'm sure it's surprising to no one that I was a very odd child.  This isn't to say I didn't have a lovely childhood - I did - but inside my shy, blonde little head were some very bizarre thoughts that I only later found out weren't completely normal.

My imagination was apparently very active, since I have no other way to explain some of the things I thought.  One of the best examples started with a simple family vacation to Epcot Center in Florida, sometime around 1985.

Our family vacations were very Disney-centric when we were young, which was good since as advanced as I was I likely wouldn't have appreciated Monet or a more "cultural" experience.  We went to both Disneyand and Disney World, but my favorite of all was Epcot Center in Florida.  It was gaudily 80s-futuristic which you may not know brings me immense joy and thrills (when they changed Tomorrowland from 50s Tomorrowland to ACTUAL FUTURE Tomorrowland I was horrified and quickly voiced my displeasure - why would I want to see actual innovation when I could see the glorious world of what people thought life would be like right now in 1955??).  In addition to glorious 80s future, there's the "World Showcase" which is basically an area that has about 10 countries, complete with replicas of actual monuments and buildings as well as restaurants and glorious shops full of foreign trinkets. This was where my obsession with Asia began.

On this particular trip, between two countries was a large construction wall painted with caricatures of children in various ethnic garb from around the world, along with the words "Coming Soon: Norway."  Most people, especially children, would look at it, think "oh, a new country is coming, cool" and stop there.  Not me, my mind was already creating a fictional Norway that was entirely too elaborate for an adolescent, let alone a toddler.

Based ENTIRELY on the wall with the pictures of children and notification that that location would soon be home to a Norway-themed area, I deduced that Norway was a country of entirely children.  Children ran the government, children worked in restaurants and factories, children were police officers, children wore adult clothing and acted like adults.  Where did Norway get all of these parentless children?  Why they were orphans, of course!  All the orphans in the world were sent to Norway to create a child society that worked as well if not better than the adult ones, because DUH.  I was very interested in visiting Norway after that to see what my young counterparts were doing while I played with my Legos and fingerpainted.

But did these children grow up?  Of course, silly - when they were adults they left Norway to enter the adult world in some other country.  Their choice, of course.  They were constantly being replaced by an influx of world orphans, so there was no worries of the country "dying out" as it were.

For the next couple of years, Norway didn't come up much, being five and all, so I forgot about this new land my brain had created.  Then we went back to Epcot.  When we walked through the World Showcase, Norway was open. I was thrilled!  And it had a ride!

Off we go to ride "Maelstrom," arguably the best ride at Epcot pre-2000, and I was in for a HUGE shock.  We walk through the doors and on one side is a store with Norwegian clothing and lots of things to use in snowy climates, and on the other was the line for Maelstrom.  As we walk through the turnstile to get in line, I notice the mural on the wall - various ships and trees and artifacts were depicted, but also people.  Grown men.  WITH BEARDS.  This was a completely inaccurate mural of what Norway was actually like. 

"Mommy!  Why are there men on the wall?  There's only supposed to be children!!"  My mom was rightfully shocked and likely concerned for my mental health as I told her the long, drawn-out history of Norway, as imagined by 5-year-old me.

I didn't get a straight answer out of her, probably because she was so completely baffled at my question, that we got on the ride before I could say anything else.  In our awesome Viking boat we floated down a river, passing MORE GROWN MEN WITH BEARDS (animatronic, but still) doing various things that should have been done by the children!  I didn't understand what was going on.  I was honestly convinced that Disney had made a huge mistake and just didn't do their research when creating the Norway exhibit.  Once we got off the ride, I brought it up again.

I don't really remember how it was finally laid out to me, but needless to say that was one of the first (if not the actual first) times that my parents probably started worrying about the sanity of their oldest child.  I was finally convinced that Norway was just another normal country, with the same ratio of kids and adults, doing normal things like being cold and dressing like Vikings.  The sad realization that there was no "child utopia" that I could visit as though it were my homeland was harsh, but I survived.

That was only the first of many weird ideas about the world that were eventually shot down by reality.  I'm still conjuring up new ones.

I'M SINGLE BECAUSE I HATE LIVE MUSIC

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.

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.

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.

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.