Archive for the ‘You’ve come a long way’ Category
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.
Hold the Metta
Posted on: July 12, 2011
I can’t say with any degree of accuracy where or who I’ve been since I last disgraced the interwebs with my complaint-laden gibberish. Hazy snapshots come to mind, but much like a conversation with my parents – I can never divulge anything more than generalities and insignificant details. I’d like to say that I’ve grown as a person, learned about myself and the world, gained culture and wisdom and understanding; but the reality is I’ve burned off too many brain cells to have possibly gained anything more than an early onset of alzheimer’s and a lifetime ban from… well, it’s not important.
Lately I’ve been wondering how much is too much? How far is too far? At what point do we stop pushing the limits of public intoxication and weekend warriorhood? When do we make the jump from running-into-the-stands Ron Artest to sweet charitable goofball Metta World Peace? What the fuck does Metta even mean, anyway? (Editors note: I’ve decided that Metta is my new favorite word and officially a new glimmer game. See how many times you can use that word in a day; via email, casual conversation with your boss, to the girl crying in the bathroom stall next door…you get the picture. Game on!)
Maybe I was supposed to cut the shit after college, but it has only gotten worse – or better, depending on your perspective. These days I have money to party in ways I always wanted when I was a broke student living on spaghetti and Italian dressing. Now, every year feels like a competition to outdo last year, and the result is always the same – I’m the big winner. The best is yet to come, which is both exciting and frightening, because as I keep surpassing myself – I’m almost positive that my body is losing. It has to be. Something has to give at some point. It’s only a matter of time…
Normal people chalk up their hazy years to youthful rebellion and move onto the long boring phase of domesticity as a result of their ensuing maturity. They get real jobs, settle down, have kids, and everything else takes a backseat to “life.” I’ve started a career, not a star-studded one, but a career to be proud of nonetheless. One that requires me to be a responsible upstanding adult, which I appear to be during work hours. I’m surrounded by nice people – friendly grown folks who work hard even on their days off, pick up their kids from school, pay their mortgages, remodel their homes, and occasionally play golf or poker if they have a couple of hours free. Nice people – fucking squares. Did they start off that way? God forbid. Was it a gradual breaking of the exuberance and spirit that once had them preaching free love and Tuesday night skinny dipping? It seems that even the ex-hipsters and night owls eventually sold out in the name of practicality and parenthood – two concepts with which I’m entirely unfamiliar.
The other night I tried something completely outrageous and out-of-character. It was despicable, unforgivable; my parents would be proud. I stayed home, and did nothing. Actually, I stayed in my hotel room. I’m living at the Marina Del Rey Marriott right now, not that it matters or that you care – it’s just a detail to flesh out the story. So, on a weekend night (it was Thursday, but I had Friday off), I sat in my hotel room, ordered room service, and watched my view of the pacific ocean with its sandy beaches and docked sailboats. It was quiet, serene; just lovely. I remember thinking, which is already a big deal for me… “Maybe I can do this – mellow out and step back from the edge.” I’ve always been attracted to the locomotive lifestyle of monsters and rockstars. All my heroes had the grit to push their limits, and as a result cranked out some incredibly profound bodies of work. But, then again, all my heroes are either dead or in rehab. Perhaps there’s something to this simple life of sobriety. It seems a moment can be enjoyed without slurring obscenities over loud music, or offending patrons at late night diners. Of course by 10pm I was absolutely bored with the view, the television, the room, the book I brought, and myself. I hit the 8th floor for some free concierge Chivas, and the rest of the weekend was a blur from that point on…
This is my life
Do you know how many times a day I get asked if I have a gun?
Moments ago, our Chief of Compliance walked out of a heated meeting in our Chief of Legal’s office, which just so happens to be right across from my desk. She slammed her papers on my desk, threw her glasses across the room, and asked if I had a gun. I forced a chuckle, gave some kind of witty “OHHHHH It’s THAT kind of day” response, and went back to my important Sarah Palin gchat convo with Duke. A mere 49 seconds later, above mentioned Chief Legal strides out of his office and to my desk- “I just need one bullet, just one.” Um. Excuse me? REAL SHIT, CORPORATE. REAL. SHIT. I understand corporate is brutal, but recently this question has been surfacing more often than “Tracy, where’s the toner?” (same place as it has been since the day we opened up shop folks. The toner has yet to move. The toner will never move. The toner is still in the exact same place as the day you asked a year ago. I still remember this conversation because you then proceeded in asking where the supply room was and I asked if you, as a founding officer of this fine establishment, knew where anything in this office is. You replied with “no”, a hearty laugh, and a swift exit. I digress.) Does corporate really think of guns that often? Are we thisclose to letting the postal office off the hook and coining “going corporate?” Do I get a gun too?
Please?
Speaking of firepower, here’s your fun fact of the day:
Operation Glimmer was a code name used to throw off the dirty Germy’s during WW2.
(Thank you again, Howard Stern and Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Glimmer)
Oh glimmer, how you make my world go round….
In continuing with our efforts to keep this blog going and holding the glimmer in any way, shape, or form – I’m going to clear up some confusion. You see, Duke and I are often asked what exactly it means to “hold the glimmer”. Most of the time, I respond with “How am I supposed to know?” or “Who the fuck are you anyway?” or “Find your own definition, you bastard devil child!” This time is different. I may have an answer and you may have to continue reading to see if this really fleshes out in to a worthy response. Chances are dimmer than a candle during Chanukah, but let’s hold the glimmer (see what I did there.)
The problem with defining hold the glimmer is that it’s a lot like love- everyone has their own interpretation (my love definition comes from Sleepless in Seattle, yours…unclear (and stay tuned for the next blog on how movies ruined my ideals of love, life, friendship, money, …everything.))
A few years ago, I sat down to a regular Sunday night of catching up on important current events and cultural affairs (read- trash TV) before the monotonous work week. As I was perusing the options, the remote got jammed and landed me directly in the middle of Lamar and Khloe’s televised nuptials (slight fabrication, I chose to stop where I did. You see, up to that point, I had yet to watch any Kardashian filth. These Kardashians run amok throughout my town, live directly across the street from my boss who constantly reminds me of their lavish affairs and camera crews, and have yet to do anything of worth outside of beautifying their family for money and seriously awesome threads.) As I watched in awe and dismay, I started realizing the Kardashians are what’s wrong with the world (big statement with no follow up. Sorry.) You know the saying, “The world is your oyster”? Well the oysters are running out. They’re nearly fucking extinct. And it’s the likes of those Kardashians who are ravenously inhaling them; raw, fried, doused in vinaigrette, whatever… Do we finally understand the oyster comments now? OK.
So with the idea that the world is your oyster, comes the fact that you actually have to find your oyster. This is no easy task and I have no advice in how to find said oyster, as I’m currently still figuring this out myself. You’re reading this blog. You get where I am in life. From 9-5, it’s not pretty.
You may have to dig through three hundred shredded paper boxes to find one receipt for your bosses refundable car wash, alphabetically organize your said boss’ preferred hotel choices for when he stays in New York, or merely clean 20 coffee cups a day for the shmucks who left them in the sink and “forgot” to rinse them out the day before. You may get yelled at for stealing toilet paper from the bathrooms because upper management decided they had no interest in further budgeting for your or any of the other two hundred and seventy employees constantly running nose. These instances are all variables, all events that change from day to day and there is really only one way to handle them: hold the glimmer.
Holding the glimmer is keeping the hope that someday, somehow, somewhere, you will find your oyster. Some find immediate relief in drinking, be it at the office (I don’t follow the “it’s 5pm somewhere!” rule. “There’s alcohol somewhere that’s not being consumed” is my rule.) , at a conservative family function when you’re the only one with “liberal” seemingly tattooed to your head, or in your third year of the same class that’s keeping you from your BA. A cup is a cup after all, and your relationship with what’s in that cup is entirely up to you and the cup. Maybe your definition of “hold the glimmer” is laughing at old people when they fall. Falling is funny and age should not be a factor in laughter and entertainment. I don’t judge. I’m the one making paper clip chains, remember? Maybe you’re brand new to the entire concept of hold the glimmer, and your idea consists of inhaling expensive cupcakes, listening to Insane Clown Posse, all while reading our blog. GO CRAZY, you weirdo (but change the fucking station and take off the makeup. You probably look ridiculous. Just sayin…). You do you, and send me a red velvet one if you can. But in the mean time, whichever way you find most effective- hold the glimmer. Hold it tight, hold it close, just hold the glimmer.
Below, you will find proof of Duke and I attempting to bar blog. As he posted before, it was a complete debaucherous mess, ending in aioli on Asians (and multiple other sauces and fried foods), a righteous Friday morning hangover, and no post. Write a comment, Shoot us an email, “like” our facebook fan page, and follow us on twitter @holdtheglimmer and @DukeHTG….because we have feelings too.
Guess who’s who?
Hold the Glimmer 