Hold the Glimmer

Posts Tagged ‘gtfohwts

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.

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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.

Are five days enough to let the heat cool off from the Spike Lee/Tyler Perry black-on-blacker race wars?  Speaking of which, I think that bitch Madea snuck into my dresser drawer and replaced all my ties and dress socks with panty hose and a do-it-yourself home weave kit!  Hey, if the mumu fits… no no, fuck that shit, I’ll keep my day job, thanks very much.  It may be hectic and thankless, but it’s dignified – sort of.  Anyway enough about transgendered millionaires, here’s a bitch-fit about you and me…

Look, I get it.  You’re busy at work.  I’m busy too.  I work for one of the biggest defense contractors on the planet.  The team I work with, the shit we do – it represents roughly 9 billion dollars in potential revenue.  So trust me, I am fucking busy.  But, I also have needs.  I get lonely in this tiny office with no windows.  Our understaffed team is made up of a tough skinned little old lady and two over-the-hill programmers.  While they are all friendly and great to work with, they couldn’t understand me on a personal level if their pensions depended on it.  Alright, I’ll be honest, I’m one of those people who needs constant communication with someone… ANYONE… but preferably someone who cares enough to reciprocate my attention.  So when I’m not training stubborn financial experts, testing software modifications, troubleshooting user issues, answering calls and emails, or working one of the many side projects that totally aren’t in my job description – I like to reach out and touch who ever is available, digitally I mean.  I’m talking about my only medium of sanity between the 8 to 5 hours, gchat.  If you’re on it, if I see your name on a daily basis, chances are I’ve asked what you’re wearing at least a few times.  And if you’re cool, you’ve probably lied and described something far more interesting than the bland corporate costume you bedrudgingly threw on that morning.  Maybe it’s kind of sad, but that’s the best entertainment I get all day. 
 
People are different, though.  We all have different schedules, responsibilities and distractions swirling around our heads.  We have diverse needs and communication abilities as well.  So it’s no surprise that there are so many various types of gchatters.  How many, you ask?  Did I take the time to categorize them and compile a list one day while stuck on a teleconference that really had nothing to do with me?   Maybe I did.  And maybe now you have something to read as you multitask between facebooking and pretending to give a shit about your job…
 
The Ghost – I IMed you three hours ago and you still haven’t responded, even though your status never went idle (yeah, I noticed, that’s what it’s there for).  Do you have me on the pay-no-mind list?  Did you die at your desk and your twitching rigormortis-stricken hand just keeps moving the mouse to fool your friends into thinking you’re still alive?  I know, I know, you’re furiously firing off emails and other such banalities that are paramount to your career.  Seriously though, everyone has a few a minutes in their to day to say hi to a friend and see how they’re doing.  In some cultures, that’s how they show they care. 

The Brick Wall – Hi. OK. You? Yeah. Oh. Cool…  I don’t think talking to one of these ice boxes even qualifies as a conversation.  I don’t know a lot of people who are completely bereft of personality – but maybe being at work just sucks it right out of you.  Perhaps you’re really quite interesting and have fascinating stories and opinions in real life, but you’re just illiterate or can’t type well.  No no, I understand.  You’re busy.  If you don’t even have the time to formulate full sentences or share a complete thought, maybe you should cut the bullshit and go handle your business.  I don’t want to tell you how to be a better slave or anything, it’s just an idea.

The Cliffhanger – You could be the greatest storyteller ever, if you could just finish a god damn story.  You escaped from the whore house brawl, stole the cop car, chased by thugs, you jumped from the speeding vehicle, hid in the bushes, then suddenly…. Ten minutes go by, twenty minutes, your name turns idle, you get logged off… What happened?  Did the thugs catch you as you were finishing that sentence?  No warning, no “hey, I’ll be right back, sorry.”  I don’t hear from you again for two days and when I finally do, you don’t even have the decency to finish the story!  In the meantime, I broke three office chairs from hanging on the edge of them for so long.  It’s not just the stories, either.  It happens during just about every conversation we have online.  They never end, you just disappear as if we weren’t even talking.  Imagine if we were having a discussion in person, and right as you were about to make a point, I turned around and walked away…

The Emo Queen – God, life is SO hard, isn’t it?  Shit, I pat myself on the back just for getting out of bed in the morning.  But once I’m caffeinated and showered, I lose the morose attitude and brighten up quite a bit.  After all, it’s just life – no big deal.  Then I get an IM that goes something like, “Kill me pleeaaaase, my mom said my green shirt is uglyyyyy.  I want to dieeee.”  Wow.  Relax, sweetheart.  Don’t kill yourself just because your mom is a shallow bitch and you have no taste… my mom points out that I’m losing my hair all the time.  You want to know why I’m losing it?  Because of her.  That’s no reason to cry.  Check my wrists – no scars, Ma!  So get over yourself, throw a sweater over that tragedy, and make your mom happy for a change.  Try doing it with a smile – it’s easier than you’re making it.

Tracy- The Perfect Gchatter (she put me up to it, I swear) – How am I?  Well besides choking on my tea from disbelief, I’m great!  Thanks for taking the time to ask.  Oh and you have an interesting anecdote, follow up commentary, and a warm, positive outlook?  Holy cow, it’s almost like there’s a human being on the other end of this electric window!  Perfect gchatter, I know your name isn’t always Tracy, but I am always happy to hear from you.  Hell I might even stop what I was doing just to say I miss you and make plans to hang out.  Then, when all that show of emotion is done, we’ll actually bid each other farewell before getting back to the insanity of corporate life.  I’ll do it with a smile on my face, because my day has just been MADE – you can bet your sweet ass on that.
 
I could go on for days, I’m sure.  But in the interest of time and space, I’ll wrap this up.  Let’s be real, nobody is perfect.  We’re all different.  I’m guilty of being all those characters at some point or another (and so is Tracy, but don’t tell her I said so).  My only goal here is to poke fun and make people aware of how they come across when they’re click clacking with their buddies.  Next time you’re escaping the monotony of your work day, just remember that’s a real live person you’re talking to – probably a friend.  So act like it.  lol. omg. asl? gtfohwts.


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