Archive for the ‘Women are smart’ Category
Is it worth it? Lemme werk it.
Posted on: August 4, 2014
Hey there little personal writing adventure I pay attention to every few months, I mean blog. How’s it hanging? Shocked you’re still around? Me too. Shocked anyone still clicks on you? Me too. Here’s to another resolution …
(p.s. Still thinking about you, Missy Elliott. Come back to my life.)
You guys.
Things are a-happening around here! By here, I mean my life and clearly not this blog. I’m working 60+ hours a week trying to keep it all together and pay a bill or two while simultaneously juggling an almost completely non-existent social life and oddly wonderful relationship. Aside from the lack of gym visits and thousands of miles I’ve put on Winnie in the last few months (driving over 100 miles a day is and isn’t the worst thing in the world. Special shout out to the world’s best playlist’er, DJ Amber), I’m pretty damn content with how life is playing out right now. I’m just happy as hell the last few months are over and I’m actually working as a reporter with a publication.
WHAT!
Girlfriend got an internship (PAID!) at a newspaper and let me tell you, it’s pretty fucking amazing.
The last semester at school physically sucked the life out of me. Previous semesters I had deemed difficult feel like a walk at the beach in comparison to those four months of mental carnage. When I walked into the newsroom on the first day, I truly believed everything would be different. I thought I had an incredible group of people who were interested in being the best editors in the world and that we were all going to work together in some form of sick harmony to produce a weekly paper- the best weekly paper the school had ever seen. Clearly, my life is supposed to play out like a Disney movie and you bet your ass there’s a soundtrack.
Listen, there was talent on this team. There is no doubt about the talent that dedicated hours to this paper, but with that talent came the most insane egos. From college kids. From people under (and sometimes over) thirty at a community fucking college. I was challenged, lied to, made fun of and ignored on a daily basis by people who two months prior were friends I was sharing drinks with and planning our “change” to the journalism world through our printed words. I was in a room for 25+ unpaid hours a week (in between the other FOUR JOBS I WAS HOLDING DOWN. Still have NO IDEA how I survived.) with people who questioned my dedication and in return wouldn’t even acknowledge me when I said “good morning.” I was the fool for hoping that in a college setting, people would act professional and leave high school attitudes behind. I was wrong. And I suffered each and every day.
As I left the newsroom on a day where editors wouldn’t respond to my questions even when we were looking directly at each other, my adviser flagged me down in the parking lot before the tears started rolling.
“Are you OK?” -adviser
“No. I’m not OK. They don’t even acknowledge me. Everyone is so rude and they all act like they have everything to give and nothing to learn. I thought we all had something to learn here? Why are they so fucking mean?” -me, clearly
“Tracy, it doesn’t matter.” -adviser
“I lay myself out there every fucking day and it just doesn’t matter how awful they treat me?” -me, again
“Nope. There will always be people who treat you this way regardless of who you are or what you do. It doesn’t matter. You’re not doing this for them. You’re doing this for you. That matters.” –adviser
Then the clouds parted and the sun started shining and a bird flew by singing the sweet sounds of spring. I kid, I kid.
I did have a profound moment though, and at the time thought “Ya. Fuck them. This is for me.”
And it was.
Three years ago, I would have never challenged myself by applying for the editor-in-chief position. Three years ago, I would have never dedicated countless hours or energy on anything that had to do with bettering myself, let alone pursuing my dreams. Three years ago, I would have been bored, at a desk, starting a blog about keeping hope when all you want to do is melt into a pool of whiskey, Xananx and complaints (they go hand-in-hand sometimes.)
Shortly after the pep talk, I heard news of an internship, applied and was hired during the interview. I showed up to meetings I didn’t have to attend, I suggested story ideas and made myself as readily available to do whatever they needed me to do. I’ve been published three times, took photos for two of the stories and can’t even count the number of online articles under my name. I’ve met with the publisher a few times and have some solid hope that I’ll be hired for a staff position.
Now that the semester is over and I’m no longer a part of the newsroom or editor-in-chief, I’ve let go of most of the bad feelings but I do have a regret or two hanging around.
I regret assuming people were on the same path as me. They didn’t assume the leadership position that I willingly took on, I did. I regret taking things personally. In one of my favorite books, “The Four Agreements,” a cardinal rule is to not take things personally. I have the exact mantra written on a Post-It note that’s stuck to my bathroom mirror from the night I read that page over four years ago (tangent- holler Post-It’s! Four years stuck to MY bathroom mirror? Way to fucking WORK.) I took things personally and I shouldn’t have. I’m only responsible for myself and my actions and can’t control others. I regret the time I lost worrying or complaining to my boyfriend or friends when I could have easily taken things as they were and not let everything consume me.
You know what I don’t regret? Working my ass off to get to here. I feel absolutely no regret about how hard I have worked and how hard I will continue to work to be better than I am at this moment. I want whatever it is that I’m feeling right now to last forever.
Bushwhacked
Posted on: May 12, 2014
I’ve been on this health-ish kick lately (to further specify, I’m just trying not to inhale every single thing thrown in front of my freaking face. I’m human. I don’t know how to eat 7 million vegetables a day or say ‘no’ to a manhattan, but I am trying to be a better me), and have been falling in love with the gym.
I use to take a boot camp class that was incredible and changed my entire body and mind, but with being in the newsroom a zillion hours a week and holding down four jobs and a NEW INTERNSHIP (!!!!!! Just let me finish a few sentences without parentheses’ and we can discuss) my available hours to gym it up are weird. But I love it! I’m lifting weights, sweating all over disgusting gym machines, and talking to trainers about supplements and stacks and UGHH it feels so good. I see regulars and we do the “whatsup” nod to each other and I’m sure soon enough that we will all be best friends, drinking protein shakes at the park and laughing about our former fat selves … or maybe not. Whatever. A girl can dream, right?
While I’m loving the gym and their insane playlists (really, out of this world. I’ve almost asked who makes them and if I can jump in to the rotation), I am 100% not in to the gym bathrooms. Let me rephrase- I am 100% not in to the full on bush every single time I walk in to the locker rooms. It’s bush central. Lot’s of bush. Bush walking around, bush towel drying, bush SITTING ON THE ACTUAL BENCHES WHILE IT FINDS ITS CHONIES. How. Why. STOP.
I’m so pro woman. The pro-est of woman and god we are beautiful creatures, but can I just not see your bush? Can you hide that thing? I don’t care what you do with it, but can I just not have it in my face every time I walk in to the room? I’d say I see a minimum of eight new bushes a week. I’m averaging four gym trips a week and each one of those trips includes a stop in the locker room to lock up my oh-so-valuable purse (no value, quite honestly. Less value than an empty wallet. It’s. sad.) and with every turn of the corner in that freaking room is a goddamn bush.
Maybe I’m the prude? Maybe it’s just weird for me to walk around naked in a room full of women. I’m actually starting to like my body and it still freaks me out that women of ALL SIZES AND SHAPES are so ok with theirs.
And, I’m insanely jealous. To be able to feel so comfortable in your own skin … a girl can really dream. I envy each and every one of those women, of all ages, that rips off their gym clothes and full frontal walks to the sinks to wash their hands. Naked. Totally accepting of their body. One day, Tracy, one day …
On a brighter note- internship! I got one! It’s paid! It pays shit! But it pays!
Starting this summer, I will be working for an actual publication! I think this means I am actually fulfilling my dreams of writing and I am scared as shit but it’s beyond exciting. My boyfriend can attest that I’m almost always exhausted and I usually fall asleep within seventeen seconds of seeing him (he’s the greatest I SWEAR), but I’m the happiest I’ve ever been working my ass off to catch this dream. It’s all happening you guys; it’s all happening.
Hi, kids.
I totally understand your complete lack of interest in the blog. Really, I do. With the zero posts that you’ve received and read in the last year, I fathom the disinterest. You see, I became the editor-in-chief of my school newspaper and all writing has come to a halt while I deal with building a new, baller resume. That resume may or may not include the four jobs I currently hold to keep living the dream and also full-time school schedule. I’m pretty sure the last time I wrote a post, I was also diving in to a new, severely INCREDIBLE relationship. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been and (gross yourself out) madly in love. In addition, I lost a bunch of weight, gained some back, lost some more and then ran a 5k in 30 minutes. I’ve been battling body image issues like a mutha, but the gym has been newly found therapy and in the few spare hours I have per week, I hightail it over and get my ugly-sweat on. To say that I am busy is an understatement.
But, I care! I swear I do! I need to keep this blog alive! If I could turn back time (cue Cher voice), I would be documenting all of the absolutely ridiculous events in the last few months, but hey. I’m here now, right? Can I tell you about a cinema class I took over winter break? It was horrible. and magical. and really miserable. but also really wonderful.
Let’s start with the wonderful:
- I’m watching movies I’ve never seen and probably never would see because I have a fear of watching movies.
Tracy.
What.
I know. You see, it’s not that I can’t sit through one (well, that’s a slight fabrication…) I get emotionally invested … easily … in everything. I cry over commercials. I cry when the right song comes on at the right moment. I cried watching The Real World the other night. The Real World. It’s the THIRD EPISODE of THE SEASON and P.S. I’M TWENTYNINE. When you’re this emotional about the MOST INSIGNIFICANT THINGS, it’s really difficult to commit yourself to a full 90+ minutes of a storyline, let alone an ending that may or may not play in to what your head has already concocted. I’ve started slowly falling in love with actors and movies I never thought I would have any interest in. Would you believe that this girl is actually enjoying- nay, seeking out silent films? I know. Breaking barriers here.
- Adults in college level classes talk a lot and I do not want to be one of them. I know that technically every student in the room is an “adult”, but there are two or three guys that are older than 35 that LOVE to hear their voices whether they’re being relevant or not. I debated putting this in the “miserable” section, but it is truly a wonderful experience whenever they chime in and I don’t. I’m constantly reminded to shut the fuck up because I’m borderline the fourth oldest person in the room and in competition with two other people for teacher’s pet. The teacher’s pet part is due to the fact that the professor is also my journalism professor during the regular semester and he constantly reminds me and the class of how much time we spend together. If one of the old guys isn’t interjecting with one of their irrelevant non-movie stories, it’s usually my professor asking “Hey Tracy” this or “so Tracy, what do you think about…”
and, well ya. There’s the wonderful. The list of miserable?
1. You’re either absolutely insane or grinding your ass off if you sign up for an 8 a.m. class during Winter Break. It’s the worst. I’m barely alive before 11 a.m. and to have a professor that you like expecting you to be engaged in the class because everyone else except the four 35-year olds is asleep is the worst. The. Worst. And now I’m the teachers pet because no one responds to “Who is Judy Garland” and I don’t want my professor to feel that old. See, I care.
2. No coffee. How the fuck I survived a morning class without coffee or food is a goddamn miracle and in my books an automatic A. The classroom had a “problem” with insects and animals. Yes, animals. Food and drinks were strictly prohibited in the room and I sat through a MOVIE CLASS for three hours per day, four days a week without a perk.
Someway, somehow I passed the class and am currently missing it more than ever. I’ve been busting my ass every week as the editor-in-chief for this newspaper and am flat out exhausted. It’s tolling spending hours upon hours on a project that you 1. aren’t getting paid for and 2. have to be the biggest cheerleader for even when everyone has doubt in your abilities. I’ve learned more about myself in the last three months than the last twenty years. I’m constantly reminding myself that everything that happens in the newsroom is a learning opportunity and I will apply it in my professional life at one point or another.
And, I need to write more. I need to remember that this is important to me. Just holding the glimmer over here guys, holding the glimmer the best I can.
Posted on: May 22, 2012
It’s been a rough one, glimmies. I’m sure all three of you were well aware of our absence (please just let me believe you were at least.. I need SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN right now….), but SHIT has gone DOWN in the last month and I haven’t had enough time to formulate words in to a post. Let me rephrase that- I’ve had MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME to write a post because I am officially unemployed.
Step in to My Office…
Drive Me Crazy
Posted on: April 5, 2012
(ps- this is Tracy.)
Ya, I made these for a friend’s birthday party AND St. Patty’s Day. Absolutely gorgeous, I know! I’m not that single, I just really enjoy baking (and compliments…) and making my friends happy! Barf, right? It’s true, it’s true. As disheartened as I may come off on this blog, my black heart really bleeds red and I guess I put a tiny bit of effort into keeping and making friendships, because that’s what it’s all about. Besides, the more value I put on you, the more likely I’m paying my friendship dues super hardcore, which means I’m REALLY GOING TO NEED YOU WHEN I CRUMBLE, WHICH IS AT ANY GIVEN TIME BECAUSE MY LIFE IS FREAKING INCREDIBLE RIGHT NOW AND THIS SHEER JOY HAS TO END AT SOME POINT AND THAT POINT COULD VERY WELL BE ANY SECOND, SO PLEASE REMEMBER THAT TIME WHEN I TALKED TO YOU FOR HOURS, COACHING YOU ON WHAT EVER LIFE LESSON IT WAS FOR THE DAY, KEEPING YOU OFF THAT LEDGE, SENDING YOU E-TISSUES OR E-CARDS, OR CALLING YOUR OFFICE TO TELL THE RECEPTIONIST TO RUN IN TO THE BREAKROOM AND STOP YOU FROM TAKING THAT BITE OF A BEAR CLAW. Really, I might need you one day.
Oh, glimmerheads, you make my world spin round. I want to thank whomever is doing our PR all over the eastern hemisphere. We had unique views from Saudi Arabia, Paraguay, Latvia (um?), Russian Federation and United Arab Emirates just to name a few! Granted, the 4 clicks from U.A.E. were blocked due to content (hahahahahah WHAT A SENTENCE! BLOCKED IN OTHER COUNTRIES?!?! Holding the glimmer worldwide!!!) and the 4 hits this morning from Mexico were all related to Google searches that may or may not include the words: gagging, Sarah Palin eats corn dog (it was Bachmann, you idiot), choking, and bald sweat, we really do value our insanely anonymous PR rep that’s not associated with the United States.
I’ve been coming around to this whole daylight savings thing. Kinda. Don’t get it twisted, 4 out of 5 days of the week, I’m still watching the sun come up and go down behind glass windows, in a 10 hour span, with a mere kiss of actual sun during my lunch break, but that 5th day makes it all worthwhile. The beach is far too close for me to neglect, so I’ve been trying to make a habit of appreciating those sunsets from the sand. It’s oddly rewarding. That’s all I can divulge without losing my street cred. Moving on.
Now that I’m face to face with the sun during my 2hour+ daily commute (I wasn’t lying. I’m legitly facing the sun in both directions and now have to apply sun block before driving (worst hangover cure ever…)), I’ve become even more fascinated with LA drivers. First and foremost- you’re all assholes. I know we covered this in previous posts, but I’ve compiled a list of the people I hate the most- Los Angeles Drivers.
The Rule Maker
Oh, we’re going YOUR speed today? Oh, you don’t mind that your speed is 20 mph below the speed limit? Oh, your violent “slow down” hand gestures totally negates the fact that you just made an illegal u-turn into MY LANE? Oh, you want to pump your brake lights a few times in an effort to warn me that you’re now approximately 100 yards away from the car in front of you? Ohhhh ok ok- YOU make the rules and we just abide by them. Ps- you really suck.
The Show-off
OhhhhhEMmmmGeeeee WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE SUPER AWESOME RIMS THAT DO THAT TWISTY THING?!? What IS that song that you’re playing so loudly that I heard it from the underpass of the onramp a mile away?! It’s 55 degrees and all of your windows are down, how DO you DO it? That’s right. You’re that guy, driving around aimlessly, proving nothing other than the fact that you know how to drive and are probably severely less endowed than your average male counterparts. You pull up to my window at every chance you get, forgetting traffic patterns or the fact that you are negatively affecting them and making your own, hoping I’ll turn to the left to check you out as you nonchalantly pretend to sing the lyrics to your favorite song.
The Makeup Artist
This one’s a little difficult for me to write. You see, I’ve genuinely perfected the art of car make-up. Seriously. Ask any single person I know (except Duke. Duke’s a boy. Boy’s don’t understand.) and they will tell you that one of my finest gifts is transforming my face in front of a rearview mirror. I get that it’s illegal, and really dangerous, but I’ve perfected the craft and cannot stand those who haven’t. If your mascara application is affecting the flow of traffic- I hate you. If I’m stopped behind your brake lights, seeing your fingers feverishly circling concealer in to those under eye circles, with 50 yards of open freeway in front of you, I will honk. And motion. And do my best to make you feel horrible about the lack of attention you are paying to that pavement. You probably think I’m a big ole hypocrite, but the fact of the matter is that this is not me. This is you. I already explained that I have perfected the craft and have yet to negatively affect traffic due to my fake face. You have not. Fix that. (and your face. Zing!)
Mr. Sticker
I’ve been known to be a fan of flair, (mainly glitter) but my flair doesn’t fly far. I keep the fun on my desk (Whatsup awesome rhinestone calculator! Holler sparkly coffee cup holder!), or in my room, but rarely does it reach the outer limits of my car (except 2008 with my favorite Obama bumper sticker. All the cool kids were doing it.) I think it’s awesome that you want to “coexist” and that you’re a big fan of NOFX, but once you’ve passed the two sticker mark- I’m legally allowed to consider you freaking weird. And how the hell am I supposed to read whatever it is you’re promoting from the back of your window while I’m trying to avoid being stuck behind you in traffic. You are a distraction! Also, when did society deem it acceptable to not only place sticker figurines of family members in order from largest to smallest on the back of your window, but to also NAME everyone?! I’m positively freaked out when they call my name at Starbucks, let alone blasting my family on a car. Has anyone checked the national sex offender registry lately? Have you looked in to your local pedophiles (I do. Every. Single. Day. I also have a sick and twisted obsession with America’s Most Wanted, but you bet your ass I’ll be the one to find your killer. I’m still fuming I wasn’t the one to catch Whitey Bulger in Santa Monica..) Site is BOOMING and it’s because those freaks now know each of your kids’ names and their affiliation with their favorite sports. And friends, this is really important to me. If I ever happen to die, I swear to all that is holy that I will haunt your asses til the day you die if I see my name, date of birth, and date of death on the back of your car in sticker form. I’d rather be memorialized via billboard including cause of death (they never include that in obituaries and I’m always curious. Sure, they’re to honor and remember the lives of those lost, but I’m really just curious how. If I can’t be a trend setter now, I’ll be one after I die.) Thank you.
Whatsup, Ireland? How’s it going, Ecuador? Good to see you Germany and Indonesia! Thanks for stopping by, Alaska! (Listen, it’s practically its own country and I betcha a few Palin’s will 2nd the motion. (and in one swift sentence, there go all of our Alaskan readers, floating away on glaciers with their polar bears and igloos…TRACY, SHUT UP ALREADY.))
I wanted to start this post with a big shout out, thanking all of our international readers for checking out the blog! We’re so happy to be a click in your day! Now, you are more than likely an actual friend (shock- we actually have them) reading these words, who’s left the warming embrace of political, social, and economic turmoil, also known as “The United States of America,” for greener pastures in other countries (ya, I’m talking to you, Hamburg), but you have no idea the absolutely absurd amounts of value I place upon you. While some may believe that hounding your friends to read your eloquent words formed into barely readable sentences is hardly considered notable “hits” for a blog, I have much lower expectations (morals/values/whatever) and appreciate each and every one of you bowing down to peer pressure. Not only have you accepted my bullying, you’re actually passing this blog around to your little commie/socialist/grass skirt wearing friends (we are an actual blog. We have stats. I know exactly who you are. Don’t trip…I know no names, only exact locations where blog was accessed. I kid. We’re not that creepy. I think…)
Can someone explain to me the significance of daylight savings time in 2012? Yes, I specified 2012. I did not ask the significance of daylight savings time in 1912, where every household had at least four working family members, a block of ice for a freezer, and a butter churner in the back yard. Ok, maybe it wasn’t that drastic. Maybe it was? Any time period pre- regular automobile ownership is something I will never comprehend. I have a hard enough time watching Don Draper manually change the TV channel on Mad Men (but MAN I can TOTALLY get behind drinking scotch and smoking in the workplace..), let alone understanding the complexities of a 1912 lifestyle. What I’m trying to get at here is that we no longer need to subscribe to the idea that farmers need more daylight, while we’re dragging ass for a few days adjusting to a time that was forced upon us.
And what the fuck, world? Some states participate, some don’t? Some countries do, some countries don’t? Apparently, Indonesia sat down last year and said “meh, we don’t want to do daylight savings time this year…” What? How? Who declared this and why can’t we vote on it in California? And, really, what kind of ass-backwards state do WE live in requiring more daylight and fewer homos? SWITCH THAT UP PLEASE.
PS- Do you know how incredibly depressing it is watching the sunrise on your morning commute and then watching the sunset during your afternoon drive home? (Don’t get me started on new traffic congestion because people are now blinded by the rays on the drive home. Buy some sunglasses, flip your mirror down; we’ll all get through this together.) Although my office is awesome, it’s still INDOORS. It’s like the world is telling me “HAHA! How much would you have enjoyed THIS today?!?”
-Tangent- It’s an incredibly sobering feeling when you realize you can no longer online date for lack of quality men. Listen, I’m not searching for the finest cut filet mignon. Although I love filet mignon, I would choose a New York (unless you’re buying, because HELLO- New York cut is ten times more flavorful without that bougie filet price tag…). Ya, I’m using steak as an analogy for online dating. You understood it, so stop judging me (and if you didn’t, brush up on your beef knowledge before messaging me on facebook again. You’ll have even more potential to become my actual friend. Need even more of a backstory? Go here:http://wp.me/pHfRF-3m ) Almost every single person I’ve met online has been a complete opposite of what their elaborate profile described to me. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve met a few (very, very, VERY FEW) genuine guys from this whole experience, but not enough to make me believe that you’re not all a bunch of liars. A couple tips, guys:
- Don’t send me a picture from 2008, hell anything earlier than August 2011. I don’t care that you seemed to be the “man” in a picture with a sombrero and 30 stacked solo cups in Cabo. It’s Cabo. My parents have the same exact pictures, in the same exact bar, at their time share. I’m sure it was an awesome trip, and you just love the way your skin glows, but you’re 40 lbs heavier in real life and balding. Fortunately, you’re still moderately attractive in real life, but how can I not judge someone creating this “I’m wealthy with a full head of hair and ripped abs” persona online, who shows up at a bar in Tevas with a gut.
- We’re in LA, not the Colorado outback. Get rid of your Tevas.
- I’m sure your bff4LYFE is this super hot chick that you drooled over in high school, only to become besties over facebook in college after being rejected too many times. That’s awesome, really. Maybe refrain from putting every single picture of the two of you on your profile? I promise there is little to no competition, but I want to know you’re not looking for a third in the bedroom as I peruse your digital problems.
- It’s weird emphasizing your mom is your best friend. My mom is my best “mom” friend, but my best friend is my best friend, not my mom. My parents are awesome and we’re super close, but (and they’ll remind you..) they’re not my friends. They are my parents. They have friends that are a lot cooler than some “20 something chick” they created that drunken, hazy night in the 80’s. True story- At 10 years old, I tried “running away” after an argument and in the midst of searching for my favorite stuffed animal (totally necessary)my Dad swooped into my room, packed my bag, walked me downstairs, opened the front door, ushered me out of the house and said “Best of luck! Call me when you find a family better than this one!” Real bonding moment with Dad there… As excited as I am in wow-ing your folks with my…charm…I have little to no interest in shopping for lingerie with your Mom or calling her to gossip about orgasm articles in Cosmo. You should feel the same way.
My bigger problem is figuring out where one goes once realizing online dating just won’t work. Do I join an anonymous help group? Is there some kind of “singles only” farm we get shipped off to? Speaking of farms…..I was going through some old photo albums a while ago and found a picture of our first family dog, Samantha.
“Aww, Mom! Look! Samantha! She was so sweet to me…” –me
“Ya, until she tried to attack your brother when we first brought him home from the hospital.” –mom
“Um…What?” –me
“Your brother was sleeping on your lap and Samantha was insanely jealous. She jumped onto the couch and almost bit his face off. We had to put her down after that.” –mom
“EXCUSE ME?!” –me
“Honey, how many times do we have to go over this? She also attacked the neighbors, the neighbor’s kids; she was an old, aggressive beast. There was no other option.” –Mom
(my face goes blank. My jaw drops to an almost unhinged level.)
“Mom. Wait. Are you fucking kidding me right now?” –me
“Oh, come on. What’s wrong now?” –Mom
“MOM. YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU AND DAD TOOK HER TO A FAMILY THAT HAD A FARM OUTSIDE OF SAN DIEGO WHERE SHE COULD RUN AROUND AND HAVE MORE DOGS TO PLAY WITH!!!!!!” –me
“Oh, you believed that?” –Mom
“WHAT WAS MY OTHER OPTION, MOM?!?!? I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU NEVER TOLD ME AND LET ME LIVE THIS LIE FOR TWENTY YEARS?!?!?” –me
Don’t get me started on the story of my second best friend and pet fish- Bubbles. I’m still fuming.
Well Done
Posted on: September 14, 2011
Why hello there, glimmerheads! It’s been a hot minute (week, month, whatever) since we’ve spoken, but how are you? Me? I’m alive! Believe it or not, I held the glimmer long enough to not buy a gun and “go corporate” and instead got a new job! (Pause for gasp, shock, sigh, and breathe….)
Now, said new job is still within the same company, but at the absolute very least, I’m no longer responsible for spoon feeding or physically wiping my bosses’ asses. I no longer have to scrub coffee out of the poor, tantrum ridden carpets! No more verbal abuse over the phone as bossman blames me for his chauffer’s poor driving skills in Omaha! I survived hell! Can you believe it?! I now have actual responsibilities, and yes, that scares me closer to death than I need to be, but ultimately a pretty goddamn rewarding drive home, full of reflections of daily accomplishments and accolades. Who would have guessed how far a simple “you’re awesome” or “thank you” really goes? My new job makes me feel needed, wanted, appreciated- basically how any normal human being should feel. This may explain my lack of posting, but after switching to this new position and thanks to multiple comments from coworkers, I realized I was on suicide watch for the last three years. Apparently, once you start smiling again, people get weirded out by the lack of somber attitude, and wonder what’s really wrong. I’ve been elated to inform them, my absolutely freaked out parents, and all of you that I’m actually HAPPY!
Ahhhh fuck.
This blog is sooo gonna die soon.
Nope, I will not let it.
There are so many other aspects of life in which holding the glimmer is absolutely crucial. I’d tell you the recent events of a gorgeously long legged pedestrian (ya, that’s actually me, all five foot five of me) crossing the street and getting hit by a drunk driver AFTER said drunk driver had already hit a car and was trying to flee the scene around 3am in Hollywood, but I still have anxiety and leg spasms, so why not dive into where holding the glimmer is most needed- my love life.
Here is my declaration: I’m officially an on-line dater. Go find me. I don’t care. I just told you I’m online dating; do you think my integrity, morals, or values really matter anymore? Actually, are you mildly attractive with a steady income, little to no emotional or personal issues that need fixing (ie: mom/dad issues, past major drug problems, abandonment anything…)and need a date? Needle in a haystack I say, but hey, maybe you’re out there! Blog dating is still online dating, right? Duke, I think I’m on to something here…
Online dating, you are a beast of many colors. After a slightly too long “off and on” relationship, I decided I was interested in feeling actual worth again and with little to no interest in wading through the pudding-like consistency of a bar scene to find my next beau, signed myself up for some good ol internet fun (don’t you dare define fun, ok?) And fun I found!
After completing the unnecessarily arduous profile, I sat back and relaxed, hoping Mr. Right (now?) would show up in my inbox. Roughly 39 seconds later, I received this: (please note, every single name below HAS been changed (kinda), in fear of repercussions and, well, I slightly feel bad for them…)(Ok. Maybe some haven’t. Sue me.)
___________________________________________________________
Ikeepawordforyoualways:
Gorgeus Halo my beautiful. I am in study to become doctor at UCLA. GO BRUINS! Wanna meet to talk to me possible today ? Ciao
____________________________________________________________
Ok. Who the fuck is in charge of admissions at UCLA, because this person either needs to be fired, or sue the shit out of Ikeepawordforyoualways for slandering such an institution.
____________________________________________________________
Justthetip:
Wanna cuddle?
____________________________________________________________
Right. Let’s cuddle. Is this before or after you saw my legs off with a dull machete and carve out my arms then spoon feed me my toes with my own (now detached) hand? (Let’s be real honest. Screen name Justthetip- hilarious. Do I want to cuddle? I don’t even remember what it’s like to cuddle, let alone if I even know HOW to cuddle, but you bet your ass I want to. Unfortunately, I have to trust my instincts and anyone willing to be that forward in a “first impressions” kind of world gives me the heebee jeeb’s.)
After countless “let’s bang” or “will u marrie me plz” emails, I thought I found gold when I struck up a convo with a seemingly literate and attractive man. After a few email exchanges, we decided on meeting for drinks. I mean, what could go wrong over drinks?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing went wrong. There was good conversation, he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we shared some similar stories, parted ways with phone numbers and decided to meet up for dinner a week later. Easy enough, right?
The day of date, he suggested Hamburger Hamlet (let it be known- this restaurant was AWESOME…. in 1972. It was a celebrity hot spot, dark and intimate, couldn’t get a table for hours. This place is now an elderly melting pot, tables always available, a sad old hostess and a menu full of tasteless “creations” with a Rockefeller like price tag.) I cringed inside and thought to myself, “with all the awesome restaurants in Los Angeles, of all places to ever choose, of any restaurant that serves to the under 80 crowd, WHY THIS PLACE?” It wasn’t fair to judge, so I kept my first instinct quiet and decided to make the best of the decision and show up.
I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar about 10 minutes before anticipated date and ordered a Jack and Coke. As I’m waking my senses with whiskey, and realizing my date is now 10 minutes late, in walks M (that’s what we’re calling him. Just go with it.), wearing a zip up hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and with ear buds still in ear, because who could stand to walk in to a restaurant without music, right? Kill me.
We say hi, give an awkward hello hug and he comments, “Oh, you’ve already started?”
Well OF COURSE I’ve already started drinking. I hope my eyes didn’t roll back too far into my head when making eye contact, because I promise they would have if I were fully sober.
“Excuse me, bartender? Can I get a screwdriver?” –M
A Screwdriver. Really. A. Screw. Driver. A screwdriver? Are your parents in Laughlin for the weekend? Are we in your mom’s garage playing beerpong and listening to Blink182? Is this your first time consuming alcohol? Honestly, think of the last time you ordered a screwdriver from a bartender, waiter, hostess, whomever. I’m sure it won’t take too long for you to think about because you NEVER HAVE. Screwdrivers are for children who don’t drink. Screwdrivers are in lieu of Mimosa availability.
Sigh. Just go with it Tracy, just fucking go with it.
We get a table and start trying to form a conversation, but I’ve never sat next to a man who’s ordered a screwdriver, so I’m a little off myself. The waiter comes by and asks if we need more drinks and I order another Jack and Coke and M orders a Corona. Yes, a Corona. Because, what better beer would you want to quench your thirst while sitting at a restaurant that charges $50 a person minimum. I was under the impression that Corona’s were reserved as a “pool” beer, a “beach” beer, maybe an “on sale at a great price” beer, but never have I thought Corona’s were an “order at a restaurant” beer. Maybe it’s just me.
After being informed of M’s lack of interest in shell fish because it “tastes weird”, we are ready to order. As a connoisseur of the soup, I ordered the lobster bisque with a half chicken sandwich. Probably not my best order, and damn those garlic fries looked good, but I was on a date. One must be aware on a date.
“I’ll have the 12oz angus rib eye.” –M
“How would you like that prepared?” -waiter
“Well done, of course.” –M
woah.
Excuse me. I said excuse me. Are you joking? Are you fucking kidding me right now, sir? Did you honestly just order a well done steak, and then further emphasize how well done you enjoy your steak with an “of course”?! Of course you enjoy the taste of footwear for dinner? Of course you’re cooking off a campfire in Uganda?
The waiter awkwardly walks away, and M goes right back in to full conversation.
“WOAAAAHHHH woah woah woah. Hold on a second. We need to assess something here. You’re from Chicago and you just ordered a well done steak?” –me
“Ya, I don’t really like raw meat.” –M
“Oh of course, I mean, who eats raw meat.? But a well done steak? You should have just ordered a hamburger, or we could have gone to 7-11 and gotten you some beef jerky. Medium? Medium rare? Both non-raw options that give you full flavor of the steak. That just seems like such a waste of perfectly wonderful meat.” –me
“It’s just how I’ve always had it. That’s not going to change.” –M
“Well ok, I uhhmm, I have to go to the bathroom……” –me
I take out my phone and text Courtney- “he ordered a well done steak.”
“I’ll call you in 5. Get out of there immediately.”
And I did. I pulled the “my friend needs me and I have to go” card. Of course I felt guilty, but I couldn’t sit with this man and watch him attempt to cut that poor piece of meat, knife grinding into the gristled, tasteless product.
Maybe I’m that girl. Maybe all I could think of was introducing this specimen to my father at a dinner table and he orders a well done steak, with repercussions of us both getting verbally berated by the man for wasting meat, money, and time. Maybe this makes me sound like the biggest bitch of the west coast, but what else would I discover from a man who orders….screwdrivers…and eats leather? I’m just not willing to take that chance. I may be single, but I’m not desperate.
So yes, justthetip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.
Hold the Glimmer 