tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728411790664068062024-02-18T20:54:23.757-08:00Rotation RevolutionEleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-52867872195413927292012-03-19T08:00:00.000-07:002012-03-19T12:48:42.786-07:00Sometimes the perfect job just EMAILS you.<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">From: </span><b class="gmail_sendername" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Michael Welsh</b><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span dir="ltr" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><<a href="mailto:paypof@aol.com" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">paypof@aol.com</a>></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Date: Fri, Mar 16, 2012 at 3:14 PM</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Subject: Re: Personal Assistant Needed ( Contact me on </span><a href="tel:916-222-4213" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank" value="+19162224213">916-222-4213</a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> )</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">To: </span><a href="mailto:ethibeaux@gmail.com" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">ethibeaux@gmail.com</a><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">I'm got your email through the Monster.com employment database. </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Oh really? I did not realize I HAD a <a href="http://monster.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">monster.com</a> account. Good to know.</span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"> I am looking for someone who can handle my personal and business errands during his or her spare time. </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">I’m a her. Please continue. I’m intrigued by your ambiguity. </span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">I need your service because I am constantly traveling abroad on business. I own an Art Gallery that specializes in international art.</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Oh right. I remember now. Back before I decided to throw in the towel and become an audio engineer, I was actively pursuing an entry-level career in the international art trade. It's so great how you did all this research on me before reaching out. I can see that you really care, and are totally </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">legitimate</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">. </span></span></span></i><b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />Your Responsibilities are. </span></b><i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Oh hell, you lost me. </span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />1. Receive my mail and Drop them off at the post office or shipping center. </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Take your mail, and then send it back to you. The post office feedback loop. Got it. </span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />2. Pay my bills on my behalf and sit for delivery at home.</span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"> Can I pay MY bills on your behalf as well? </span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />3. Pick up my items at your nearby post office at your convenience. </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Your items? Are we talking about international art, or maybe balloons of heroin? Either way is cool, I just like to know.</span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />4. When you get my mail or package, you would mail all items to where I want them shipped. .All expenses and shipping charges will be covered by me. </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">That’s a relief. I was worried I was going to have to pay for all this international shipping. Because you’re abroad, and I will apparently be living at the post office. Are you sure this isn't just a position FOR the post office?</span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />The contents of the packages are mostly art materials and paintings. In addition, there will be clothing I need for business and personal letters. No heavy packages are ever delivered! </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">What kind of “art” are we dealing with? </span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Do I get to read the personal letters first? Even if you say no, I think I probably will anyway. Are they love letters? Are you running some kind of "Letters to Juilet" ring here? I saw that movie, it wasn't very good. </span></i></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I am currently away on business in China. If you decide to accept the position, please read the employment requirements listed below. </span></span></span></b><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><i>I was with you until you said China. I have a personal issue with the Chinese. (</i>Author's note: this is a joke. I love the Chinese. Big fan. Seriously.)</span></span><b style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br /><br />A. You are an honest and trustworthy citizen. </span></b><i style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">I was with you until “honest.” Everything after that just doesn’t <b>sound </b>like me.</span></i><b style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />B. You will be required to work between 15 and 20hrs a month. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><i>A MONTH? That is just so much post office and sitting around<b>. </b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />C You need to be able to check your EMAIL 3 to 5 times daily. </span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">That is too much commitment to having my phone with me at all times. Also, I only have e-mail. I don’t know what EMAIL is. It sounds aggressive.<b> </b></span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><br /><br />THE PAY IS $1000 WEEKLY and you are entitle to a brand new car after 1month if you are hardworking and honest with me, WHICH IS NOT A BAD OFFER.</b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Okay, in the “list of requirements,” hardworking was not mentioned. I feel this is an unfair addition to you already overwhelming technical qualifications. That being said, I think we should discuss how $1000/weekly breaks down when I am required to do NO MORE than 20 hours of a work a month. Technically, that is 4 hours a week. You are telling me that you need this mail checked SO BADLY that you are willing to pay $250 an hour? What exactly do you mean by “international art?” I can only assume you mean black market internal organs.</span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">I do like cars, though. What do you need from me to get this going?</span></i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"></span></b></div>
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<b><br /><br />In closing, I have a couple of questions for you.</b></div>
<b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">First, If I were to mail you money to do my shopping plus an upfront payment for your service, where would you want it mailed to?</b><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Preferably my Gringotts vault, because it is the safest, securest place in all the land.<b> </b></span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />Second, how would you like for your name appear on the money or check? </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">In all caps, underlined twice, and no less than three crying emoticons bookending it.</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"></span></b><br />
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<b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Maybe you can provide me with the following details below</span></b><br />
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Name: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">E. “Snootypants” Swifty-Lavigne Thibeaux (III)</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />Address: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Third bunk from the left, Slytherin House, The Dungeon</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />City: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Hogwarts</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />State: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Magical Mayhem</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />Zip: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">...pity do dah?</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />CELL OR PHONE: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Cell number 294; Phone numberI’M A WITCH I DON’T HAVE A PHONE.</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br />Occupation: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">I would like one, yes.</span></i><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><br /><br />What is your bank Name: </span></b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Gringotts. Please see my accountant, Griphook, for further instructions. Do not anger the dragon.</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;">Also, Robb Stark is King of the North. I’m pretty sure my bank is in his territory. I’d check with him, too. </span></i></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-17700951418547947652012-03-08T08:00:00.000-08:002012-03-08T09:44:18.531-08:00Eviction notices and definitions<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">There was a very specific practice at the dinner table of my
childhood. Every night, my mother would ask about school. Greg, my older
brother, would mention some test he did well on, or a question that he answered
correctly. Geofrey, my little brother, would complain about eating chicken for
dinner two days in a row. I would tell my parents that I did, in fact, go to
school. That’s how it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">After the round robin of daily anecdotes, my father would
start talking about <i>something. </i>A
general concept, a life skill, some sort of scientific anomaly – it varied from
day to day. And in the middle of explaining it, he would slip a higher-level
vocabulary word or technical term in to the conversation. Greg would nod along.
Geofrey would complain about how he didn’t want gumbo, he just wanted white
rice with butter. I would fume silently for a few minutes, pushing my food
around the plate, mentally scraping together all the context clues I could accumulate.
My first concern, of course, was if I was being mocked; after I could eliminate
that, my focus turned to what the hell Patrick Thibeaux was talking about this
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Okay, stop. What does ‘anachronism’ mean?” I would cave. <i>Every time. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">My father would look to Greg first, who, by this point in
the meal, had already finished inhaling his food, <i>as he is the fastest eater on the planet</i>. Greg would mumble
something <i>close </i>to the
Merriam-Webster dictionary, and my father would then recite the actual
definition, <i>complete with the parts of
speech and a quick pronunciation guide.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Why couldn’t you just say that? I knew <i>those</i> words,” I would whine. <i>Every
time. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Knowledge is power,” Greg would reply as he reached across
the table to steal the last slice of French bread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Fifteen seconds later a fight would erupt over dishes versus
homework. Thirty seconds later my parents would send us all to our rooms just
to shut everyone up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">As adolescents, defining people and words and concepts is a
cornerstone of development. Starting out, it’s just objects, or tangible ideas.
People are identified as how they relate to you: teacher, mother, crazy person
at the bus stop. Learning how to put finite words to specific people or ideas
meant that they were understood, and understanding builds confidence in one’s
ability to navigate the universe around him/her. The next time I heard the word
“anachronism” in conversation, I wouldn’t need to spend 45 seconds trying to
decide if that was a word that meant, “Eleanor sucks.” <i>I already knew all of those words by heart anyway. </i>Confidence, and
competence: definitions are the gateway to effective communication, and
self-esteem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">So naturally it seems remarkably unfair that the older I
get, the less I am really able to define in a universal way. Definitions
change, words are adapted, shifted ever so slightly to fit a new purpose. What
was once micro is now being viewed from a macro perspective, and all that I
once had confidence in knowing begins to distort away from the edges of my
mental reach. People and concepts I previously put in one compartment of my mind now
belong in different compartments, or no compartment at all. It has become
painstakingly clear to me that definitions are no longer just for memorizing.
Words are loaded, and labels mean so much more than any dinner
conversation could convey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">For example, all my life I have been gathering information on what it means to be a grown up. I watched my parents reach the
top shelf where the good cereal was kept; I watched my mother attend
parent-teacher conferences to discuss Greg’s “gifted” status, or <i>my inability to just shut the hell up.</i> I
watched my father make sacrifices and work terribly long hours so my brothers
and I could want for nothing and get the best education available. I watched as
the ‘he said – she said’ game blew up in my face when I tried to pit my parents
against each other. But now that it is almost time for me to leave the 18-24
bracket, the only thing I know about being a grown up is that my parents were
awesome at it, and I should still be an undecided college major. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">What I seem to stumble over most is that definitions have
multiple meanings now. There is what the word means according to Merriam
Webster – the idea that when I use a word in this manner, people will know that
I mean this thing. Then, and maybe more tragically, there is what the word
means to me when I say it. I feel this way, and I have selected this word
because that is how my feelings are best reflected. Take, for instance, when I
say the word, “girlfriend.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">To me, this word is a label that means I have chosen to be
on his side no matter what, to spend my time and energy invested in his
happiness, to say, ‘You, more than any other person, are worth the blinders.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">To the world around me, this label means, “I have decided
that I will not let anyone else buy me dinner, unless I’m really hungry.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">And occasionally and unfortunately to him, the word means
“someone who is supposed to do everything I like, make my life easier, and have
no more friends that are just her own.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">We all have little compartments in our minds where we define
people and ideas: this is my brother; she’s like my sister. He’s my
ex-boyfriend, or that’s just my coworker. Each term means something very
specific, not just about a person’s relationship to me, but more significantly,
how I relate to them. So when someone’s definition changes, so do the
compartments. When he tells me that he cannot think of a reason he wants to be
with me, he is giving notice of moving out. And so I adapt. He leaves the
boyfriend box, the box that is a relationship like no other, and I clean up
afterwards. Sweep up the floors and plaster over the holes in the walls that
got punched through when he flung open the door too hard. I prepare the now
emptied room for a new tenant. I change the locks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Change is uncomfortable, but inevitable. Starting something
new, letting go of something old, either situation brings with it an alteration
in what was previously defined. It’s a strange territory to live in, the limbo
of not knowing what to call someone, of not knowing how to interact with
someone, but it is absolutely necessary. The confidence of having all the right
words falters; the dizzying notion of opening and soon closing my mouth out of
an inability to explain how I feel in common terms is so very frustrating. He
is, well, he is who he is. And I am who I am. We are whatever we are. It’s not
eloquent and it’s not safe, but it’s the truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Adaptation is a skill; being ever resilient, faithfully
taking the blows and returning to a new, compromised medium is no small feat.
There are people in this world who welcome change; there are people who fight
it. Then there are people who ignore it. It doesn’t much matter which person I
am, because it doesn’t diminish the fact that nothing stays the same, not ever.
Sometimes definitions change in a positive way, and sometimes getting someone
to get all their shit out of the compartment they didn’t want to live in
anymore is like pulling teeth. It’s not ideal, but it is what it is. Like a
very smart person once told me, “you don’t have to embrace it, but you have to
accept it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">At the dinner table now, my mother might ask how our day
was. Greg would mumble something about ‘fine’ through mouthfuls of whatever
food was on the table. Geofrey would mention a new concept he learned in
college, or maybe a paper he did well on. And in a flurry of words, I would
describe a conversation or two, something that was amusing, and something that
was uncomfortable. Maybe my father would offer a new vocabulary word, or
abstract concept. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">But always, my brother would finalize the argument. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Knowledge is power,” Greg would remind us as he grabbed the 7<sup>th</sup> and 8<sup>th</sup> slice of pizza without asking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Definitions are knowledge. Knowledge is power. Power is
control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Definitions are just another form of control; to not have
definite answers to people and words and concepts is just a lack of control,
like a roller coaster. And I think I’ve made it abundantly clear how I feel
about those things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-51062402321119726922012-02-23T08:00:00.000-08:002012-03-08T01:33:52.302-08:00Mighty Morphin' Wedding Woes.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">There have only
been a handful of times in my life when I was genuinely convinced I might die.
Once right before the train took off on Space Mountain; once when I was eight
and a duck tried to eat me; once when I was a 16-year-old girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And once when my
best friend since the third grade asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Now, I need to
be clear about one thing: these psychological near-deaths are self-made and
extremely self-perpetuated. The bride, my adoptive sister and <i>actual</i> cousin, could not have been
saner. Maybe it’s because I don’t understand that shows like “Bridezillas” and
“Platinum Weddings” are not the industry standard, but I prepared for the
worst. So the reality of our situation dances closely to ironic,
retrospectively. If we had been taking bets, those of you who put your money on
me for being the most “crazy in a bad way,” could be shopping for that new
yacht right now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">For me, vanity
has always been, and will always be the cause of my undoing. However, that term
spans much further than perfect hair and manicured nail beds. Vanity is the
devil on my shoulder who says, “They are all waiting for you to fall flat on
your face. Everyone is looking at you to do something stupid, something so very
<i>Eleanor.</i>” But rather than addressing the
foolishness of that particular idea, I focus on the minutest details of my
physical appearance in order to maintain some sort of control. If my shoes
match perfectly with the dress, and my nails are painted and not chipped, and
my eyebrows arch cleanly at every angle, I will win this wedding. I will prove
to the voices in my head and the couple of people who still know my name that I
am no longer the Eleanor who messes everything up. I’m Eleanor 2.0. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You see, when I
was in Kindergarten, I had to take the bus to school with my big brother. There
was a group of kids that waited a couple houses down from ours every morning,
and I didn’t particularly get along with any of them, especially not Tyler McAllister.
The thing was, Tyler and I had different political beliefs. He was a chauvinist
in the making, and I felt that it was ridiculously unfair for me to have to be
the pink Power Ranger just because I was a girl<i>. Everyone knows I should have been the black Ranger. EVERYONE.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It was a rainy
Tuesday morning when our childish disagreement came to blows, and before I knew
it, Tyler had pushed me down into a muddy ditch. My school uniform, because it
was Louisiana and my family is Catholic, was ruined. (It was ruined because of
the mud. Not because I’m Catholic, just to clarify.) Immediately and without
hesitation, I pulled myself up; I thought of the meanest thing a five-year-old
could say to a seven-year-old and walked back to the house to change. These are
the facts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The story I have
been telling myself for two decades is entirely different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I have spent the
majority of my existence believing I needed help; that my life would not begin
until a hand pulled me up from that ditch and then proceeded to punch Tyler McAllister
in the face for being such a wang. For years I have let myself sit in that
ditch, just waiting for someone to save me from being the sad, pathetic girl
who gets pushed around and forced to be the pink Power Ranger. 19 years of
telling myself I needed someone to fix me, 19 years of sitting in a ditch, just
waiting. It very well could be the help I’ve been hoping for wasn’t a strong
hand and a chivalrous act of violence. It was a wake up call in the middle of
the night that simply said, “That’s enough, Eleanor. Get up.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I told myself
that someone had to <i>permit</i> me to be
the black Ranger; until someone said it was all right, I was just a fool
wearing the wrong suit. But the thing is, I didn’t want to be the black Ranger
because I hated pink. The black Ranger was awesome and did awesome stuff. The
pink Ranger sucked. And sure, I can’t put together Ikea
furniture very well, and I call my father every time my car makes a new
squeaking noise, but I moved 2000 miles across the country on my own, and I was
Prom Queen and no matter what I might <i>think</i>
happened, I did actually pull myself out of that ditch. Does that sound like
something the pink Ranger would do? NO.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It was in those
few moments before I walked down the aisle at Meaghan and Phil’s wedding that I
realized why I couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting with my bouquet or staring at
the scar on my left index finger from a lost battle with a microphone stand:
more desperately than I wanted anything, I wanted to be a different person. Over
the course of those forty feet, my only thought was that I was no longer going
to be that girl who had to be “Heart” when we played Captain Planet. Everyone
in that room was going to see a confident, graceful woman who surely never got
pushed around, and was never told she was the pink Power Ranger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And then I forgot
to bow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The priest was
whispering to me calmly, “you need to bow,” and the church was laughing because
I made a face that said, “Yep! I messed up!” It was only then that I realized I
was the exact same person I have always been. Constantly being told to be the
pink Power Ranger, and forever refusing to even entertain the thought. I am
still the girl who gets punched in the face for mouthing off about the Queen of
England. I am still the girl who tells Tyler McAllister where he should go and
what to do when he gets there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It was twenty
seconds after I accepted this fact that I was brought to joyous tears over
another obvious realization: the entire event, the reason I was there, had <i>nothing to do with me. </i>I watched the
most stunning bride that will ever live walk down that same aisle with a smile
that broke me into a thousand little pieces and simultaneously put me back
together, and I thought, “We used to have serious conversations about beanie
babies. You and I built a Geocities webpage about cheese and stayed up all night
chatting on AOL Instant Messenger constantly. We used to LiveJournal. And now
you’re getting married. And I have lived through your life with you and that’s
why I’m here. And no one cares what I do, because we all just care about you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And I was free
from the pressure and I was free from my own vanity, and I remembered what it
felt like to think about someone else for a moment. And that was nice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">That was something
the black Power Ranger would<i> </i>do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-43729670226008013272012-01-18T08:00:00.000-08:002012-01-18T08:00:01.626-08:00Funny Person Syndrome<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I grew up a “funny person.” This is a clinical condition.
One of the fatal attributes of funny person syndrome is an uncontrollable need
to have the last word in any exchange. The last word is where the joke lies.
The last word sends the conversation off to the next topic in a blaze of
hilarity and glory. The last word wins. Funny people can’t feel successful
losing a conversation unless they set themselves up for the loss in order to be
funny. Funny people have control issues. My name is Eleanor Thibeaux, and I am
a funny person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">What is misleading about funny person syndrome is that most
of the time, the side-effects are the antithesis of amusing. It’s a compulsive
desire to be the ending punctuation in any interactive event. Funny people seek
a certain level of supercilious personal validation from having the final say
or getting the loudest laugh. This works just fine in social situations and the
blogosphere *<b>cough right guys? cough* </b>but not so much in intimate relationships. The last word, like any drug
addiction, leads funny people like myself shaking and spinning out of control
in between fixes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I never considered myself a last word addict. I like to make
jokes, and often see any conversation as an opportunity to banter and stretch
my rhetorical legs. While I do have a flair for the dramatics and an eye for
the absurd, I understand that in the real world, <i>where I occasionally vacation, </i>there is a time and place for
everything. So two weeks ago when my relationship ended prematurely, I thought
only to suffer in silence. I have lived in shame of many dozen overly emotional
live journal accounts to know that some personal information is best kept to
the messy handwritten notebooks of yore. But in spite of my radio silence to
the outside world, the ideas began to gather. First I thought only in sad
phrases; then as the hours ticked away, the justified resentment and
frustration scratched and clawed my pathetic weepy words into scorned
sentences. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Before I knew it, I had a paragraph; then suddenly I had a
short answer essay. How exonerating it would be to spin my words around his
dizzied head just once more. Surely after everything that happened, I deserved
the chance to defend myself! With my inner crazy person at the helm, a scene
with blurred edges plays just behind my eyes of venomous words and objects
thrown. The crazy person is free from any social obligation to remain calm and
civil; she doesn’t buckle under the weight of anxiety or worry about his
feelings. When she’s in charge, I say things like, “You can’t break up with me.
That’s not how this works. Redo. I break up with you. There!” She’s fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Unfortunately, too much exposure to the real world and a
substantial amount of years logged as a girl scout has its pitfalls. As the
golden rule pulls annoyingly at the sleeve of my conscious, I catch my tongue. Because
even if I were to say all the things I want to say, would it really be the
right answer? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The last word might just be the singular “goodbye,” and
there is a very likely chance was not meant to be mine to speak. The issue at
hand is that everyone goes on and on about closure, like it’s this crucial goal
we <i>need </i>in order to survive the rest
of our life. Books and movies drill it in to our brains; the only way to move
on is to recite a heartfelt speech that is both honest and vindicating in the
middle of the street, or maybe under an awning at a coffee shop with rain
spilling down over the sides creating a curtain of sadness and feelings that
would bring even a soulless individual to tears. My speech houses all that was
left unsaid. My speech has swear words and more cons than pros. My speech has
literary devices to really drive the message home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Yet, the problem with my speech is glaring. Only one side of
it is within my control. Even if I found myself in this movie moment, I can
only script one character. That’s the beauty and curse of reality – it’s all
improv. You can choose the scene and the characters, but the dialogue is
ever-changing. It’s why the phrase, “that’s not what I meant,” is so damn
popular. Real life isn’t a movie or a book or a blog. The grace of the real
world is in the things we didn’t mean to say, or the things we know we
shouldn’t have said. Does he regret showing me a pros and cons list about
myself? I can venture to guess he does, <i>and
after my blog went up, I can only assume he REALLY does now. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">So if I catch him at Starbucks and it’s raining for the
first time all winter, and my brain implodes and the lines I have been
repeating since the day he told me he couldn’t think of a reason to be with me
come cascading out, will I find the personal validation I so vainly seek? Will
he see the metaphorical light and realize what a huge mistake he has made? Despite
the fact that I am confident our relationship has run its course, will telling
him everything I think he should know really make him miss me like I want him
to? And if he misses me, will that be the closure I think I need in order to
move forward?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">In a moment of brutal clarity, I realized the answer is not
the one I wanted. Telling him the things that he did that drove me insane won’t
make me feel any less sad that the relationship is over. Listing off all the
super cool qualities about myself that he so casually left off his stupid list
won’t make him really see me the way I think he should. Even if he realizes he
misses me the way I want him to, he won’t tell me. The closure isn’t lying in
wake of my self-proclaimed protagonist monologue; it is in accepting that the
validation I seek externally must first exist internally. If I truly believe I
am all those things that <i>should</i> have
been in the pros column, then it doesn’t matter if he knows it. More to the
point, if he needs me to tell him what is great about me, maybe throwing in the
towel was for the best. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">If he doesn’t see the significance of my qualities, or the
humanity in my flaws, it is because his values are focused elsewhere. Just as
he could never make me love rollercoasters or get a cockatoo for a pet, I
cannot redirect his vision of what makes for a worthwhile partner. For the first
time, I am beginning to understand that the last word isn’t the final moment. There
will be other stories with more moments and happier endings. And if I can keep
my mouth shut, maybe there will be a story that doesn’t need a punch line at
all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-85593104032826141392011-12-22T08:00:00.000-08:002011-12-22T08:00:01.482-08:00Pros, Cons, and I still hate roller coasters.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Growing up,
people tell us to make a list of the qualities we want in a relationship. When
you’re a kid, it’s for a best friend. I wrote things like “thinks beanie babies
are awesome” and “is hilarious.” It’s a lesson in positive reinforcement, think
only of things you want, and then look for those things in other people. I am
very good at this; it shows in the quality of my close friends. Individually,
they exemplify the very epitome of a “pros only” list, littering my social
circle with positive, affable characteristics. When you are eight, the only
thing that matters is finding the good things about others around you. There is
plenty of time to figure out what is bad about them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But as we got
older, the balance of our list was fulfilled as experience and mistakes taught
difficult lessons about the uniqueness of the human race. Friends fight over
unforgettable wrongs; girls and boys fall in and out of love, irreparably.
Suddenly, my list of positive attributes was stunted parallel to the qualities
I had learned I did not appreciate in my close relationships. Suddenly, “thinks
beanie babies are awesome” runs correspondingly to “but has a job;” and “is
hilarious” is countered quickly with “but is not cruel.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some people
write these lists down, locked away for decades only to be unearthed when a
new, vicious trait rears its unforgivable head. Others, like myself, only keep
a mental running tally of the qualities that seem only to offend my own
neurotic personality. I don’t tend to mesh well with competitive boys, because
I am overly competitive. Girls that lose themselves in romantic relationships
have no staying power in my life, as I put as much importance and weight on
each of my relationships, no matter the slant. It is only through
trial-and-error that these facts become screamingly obvious; it is only after
many, many errors do I realize the trial needs to change. Still, the lists
remain abstract, describing no one in particular, only the ideology of a
perfect human being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So my problem as
of late seems to be stomaching the notion of a physical list with my name in
bright lights. Without going in to the over-intrusive details, it seems I have
been confronted with a list of pros and cons. Scrawling down the entire page,
scratches on both sides of the wall, the pros sang of my greatness, and the
cons gnawed at a much less gracious side of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">This begs the
question: when someone in you life has written down a list of things that are
good , and a list of things that are not so good about you, what response, if
any, is suitable? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">First and
foremost, being a girl has its pitfalls. Night after night, I keep myself awake
bouncing back and forth between acceptance and anger. There are moments when I
think, how could anyone ever think such unfair thoughts about me and still
claim to love me? Then there are moments when I remember that every criticism
can be constructive if you make it so.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">To be entirely
honest, there were bullet points in the list that were echoes of previous claims.
My hyper-organized state of mind often leads me down a road of bossiness and
overbearing standards of control. The high standard of logic and rationality
instilled in me from an early age often distorts in to sharp cynicism and critical
judgment. I have been informed by numerous people, some still very much present
in my life, that my teasing nature turns soon sour when I get so swept up in
the joke, I forget the human being behind it. These are qualities I should work
to amend; these are choices I make based on learned behaviors. They are not engrained
irrevocably in my DNA. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still, there
were items on the list I felt were better suited for a different column. A
column labeled “things that I wish you were.” These are the things that cause
the flashes of momentary resentment. A point on my fear of roller coasters, which
is directly linked to my irrational fear of heights and uncontrollable
speed. Often when I was younger,
my father would try to rationalize with me, explaining that a rollercoaster would
not go any faster than 50-60 MPH, and that when I was in the car, he and my
mother drove much faster than that. He said, “you aren’t afraid then, right? So
you don’t need to be afraid now.” I tried Space Mountain. It was dark, so I
could get through it, no tears. I did not have fun. I tried the Big Thunder Mountain ride. It was daylight and I
began sobbing after the first “minor” drop. I absolutely did not have fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So I accept what
it is that frightens me. I faced the fears when I did not understand them, but
at some point, being an adult means you don’t HAVE to do everything that isn’t
fun for you. Just because I don’t want to ride the roller coasters doesn’t mean
I don’t want to go to theme parks. It means I get to hold your stuff while you
ride the roller coasters. It means I get to have the kind of fun that is fun
for me, and you get to have the kind of fun that is fun for you. It means you
accept that I am the girl who doesn’t like roller coasters, but will always be
willing to try a new sandwich shop. Or will never make you feel guilty for
taking a nap in the middle of the day if you’re tired. Or will always
proof-read anything you email to her as soon as she gets the email. It means
that I don’t like to go camping, but I will talk you through your computer
problems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think the real
issue at hand is that upon seeing a pros and cons list all about Eleanor, my
eyes merely skimmed the list of pros. The first few were superficial, nothing
that had ever mattered to me in this life or the one before. Compliments on
hygiene and fashion sense register at a 0 on a scale of what qualifies a person
to be worth her salt. They were countered with cons about my interests, almost
to say that I had the wrong interests. Almost to say, you’re pretty, but you
don’t like anything good. So maybe
the real problem is that I didn’t give the list the balance it worked so hard
to maintain. Like a weighted scale, I hit the ground when my eyes saw the
column of negatives. No amount of compliments could undo what was done; it was
as if I was looking at a graded paper, skipping over all the questions I got
right, my eyes only set for the red ink of what I got wrong. Everyday I wake up
and tell myself to be better than the day before. If someone could come up with
that many cons about me, was I even succeeding at all? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Maybe it’s just
me, but if I had to do it again, I don’t think I’d look at the list. Curiosity
killed the cat, and if the cat died of getting his heart broken just a little,
then by all accounts I should be dead. I know there are things about me that
are bad; selfish tendencies and I am a little bit spoiled. But for better or
worse, it is all part of who I am at this very moment in time. It has taken me
decades to accept that person, for all the pretty, and all the ugly, but I
have. Maybe I owe anyone else the same amount of time to accept me for me. But
the argument still stands, would decades of time hoping someone will love you
for you be considered a foolish waste of time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the end of
the day, a girl can only accept a list of pros and cons for exactly what it is:
a piece of paper cluttered with someone else’s opinion. The columns remain
balanced: the bad opinions weigh just as much as the good ones. If you take one
seriously, you must take the other just as seriously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is possible
that this was the universe’s way of getting me to realize that lists can be
used for evil - that my compulsive organized vigilance comes at a price. It
could even be that if I decided not to hate birds, I would be a better person.
At this moment in time, I don’t think it makes any difference. For now I will
try every day to be better, fix what I can, accept what I can’t, and always go
to bed knowing that every choice I made was because I wanted to make it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And I think tomorrow, I’m going to paint my nails
orange. </span><!--EndFragment-->Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-4802506218078371782011-12-02T21:26:00.001-08:002011-12-02T21:27:14.390-08:00transcribing snapshots<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>It is winter where I am and the wind can knock you off those
too expensive stiletto heels that you saw Jennifer Aniston wearing and just had
to have. It was crazy to buy them, standing flat footed you are already almost
five feet eight inches tall, but everyone keeps whispering about how beautiful
tall women are, so you pretend you don’t notice the way you tower over everyone
like a professional basketball player in Chinatown. The heels make your legs
look longer, anyhow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s frightfully cold out, and while everyone is decorating
Christmas trees and making plans to be with family, you are stuck inside a
poorly insulated studio apartment staring at a wall of post-it notes. The
ability to remain so organized is enviable, but after re-reading the same
chapter five times in a row, it becomes more difficult to believe that any of
what you have written so far could be considered “good.” Yet, you remind
yourself that if Stephanie Meyer could churn out the crap that was the Twilight
Saga and people praised her, it stands to reason you could do something decent.
Then again, Stephanie Meyer has a degree in English, and you work at a
bookstore for a wink above minimum wage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It cannot be easy, one would venture to guess, to watch your
close friends fall in love and get married without thinking you could do it
better. So it stands to reason that no matter how much you like those friends,
somewhere inside, you like yourself more. Maybe that’s why it feels like you
are always drawing the short straw. Maybe your straw isn’t really the short one
at all; it’s just not as pretty or smart as the straws you really wanted. Maybe
you drew a bendy straw and you have to straighten it out and stretch the
crinkled part out a bit to feel like a winner. Maybe this game of drawing
straws takes effort. Then again, you are the one that decided to be an artist.
It could be you cut your own straw before the game even started.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Its winter where I am and you have no idea what you’re
doing. There is no plan; you cannot even decipher which angle to play. You are
wide-eyed, confused with not a single definite thought in that pretty little
head. You drink coffee in the morning, you carry a laptop with you everywhere.
You eat dinner at night, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. You drink too
much wine sometimes and say things that are very true. You talk about how none
of you know what to do next. Yet somehow, when it’s a “we”, and it’s not “you”
and it’s not “them,” it feels okay to not have a clue. Being unmarried doesn’t
mean being alone. Being single doesn’t have to be lonely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s frightfully cold out, and the temperature is dropping.
Your worries and concerns will never keep you warm. The next move is to simply
keep moving. And maybe spend your money on scarves, not stilettos. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-47543625669524104202011-09-22T08:00:00.000-07:002011-09-24T13:08:19.005-07:00Rotation Revolution takes on The Economy!<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
It goes terribly.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
For two weeks every year until I graduated college,
I was the first one at the mailbox. Why? Birthday mail. Typically my birthday mail
started to roll in around my older brother’s birthday, much to his dismay.
Fingers crossed for the brightly colored envelopes, filled with the green
stuff, crisp ten or twenty dollar bills flattened between a cute “you’re older
and we care” birthday card (or between tin foil if you’re my grandfather, who apparently doesn't trust anyone, <i>especially</i> the United States Parcel Service.) And if it
wasn’t cash money, it was a check, though to my small "totes-understands-the-true-value-of-money" brain, all a check meant was a longer
wait to something useful. Something I could exchange for stuff. Maybe I should
have started this out by saying how much <b>I
love stuff. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
So moving out to California right after my 18<sup>th</sup>
birthday was scary on many different levels, but <i>mostly</i> I was afraid of losing birthday mail. What if no one gave my
relatives my new address and all my birthday mail got lost and someone else
ended up with the money I <i>deserved</i>
for surviving another year in this world? I kept myself from dying for 365
days; I earned this! The loss of birthday money was depressing. But the
metaphorical kick that came when I was already down was the type of mail that
began to arrive on a monthly basis. It was the antithesis of birthday money. It
was bills. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
These things I had never considered, paying for electricity,
for television or the Internet. Paying someone to let me live in an apartment
every month – it was shocking. I had to get a job, but that was okay, because I
had gotten jobs before. I worked for the theater, and I worked at the pet
store. I was good with the concept of jobs. What was unsettling was the idea
that money I earned from said jobs would have to pay for these things that were
boring. I worked eight hours, just so I could have electricity for one month?
Gross. Eight hours of shelving CD’s
should be new shoe money, not the ability to microwave stuff. Not to mention
that it took three days of 9 hour shifts to even make enough money to pay for
the food I was trying to microwave. Growing up went from exciting to a hassle
in 4.8 seconds, flat. Bills were my Aston Martin race to bummer-ville. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The craziest thing about money is just when you think you
get it, you don’t. I got the hang of half-assed budgeting. Sure, I held my
breath at the end of every month, and maybe that last week before pay day and
after I paid my rent was a little lean, but hey, if the checks didn’t bounce, I
was good. My father tried to teach me spreadsheets, the advantages to online
banking, and I tried to get it, but it was like being 10 years old again with
birthday money. Except now birthday money was living on this tiny blue card
that was accepted practically everywhere. The problem with card money is that you don’t
feel your wallet getting thinner until it’s empty. Suddenly, I had fifteen
pairs of converse, and top ramen for dinner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Essentially, I was making all the wrong compromises. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Throughout college, I was still getting financial support
from my parents. They wanted me to focus on my education, which was awesome
because working full time and going to school full time was leading me down a
very dark road lined<i> </i>with mobsters in pin-striped suits with portable gambling briefcases and illegal booze they
snuck out of the speakeasies. <i>And sure, they sing and say things like,
“what’s a pretty dame like you doing in this part of town,” but in dark
alleys that sounds less charming than one who watched a lot of flapper musicals would expect. </i>No, I was one of the
lucky few in this country whose parents could afford to help, and while I am
forever grateful for the advantages I have, I think that’s part of my problem.
I didn’t grow up knowing what it was like to just NOT have money. It was cash
in my mom’s wallet, my parents cards always being accepted. It was my father
always picking up the tab and scolding me for trying to look at the dinner
bill. <i>Don’t be rude and give me that, he
would say. It turns out, not everyone thinks that’s rude. Unless you look at
it, say something like “oh shit, that’s expensive. Glad I’m not paying,” and
then hand it to them. That is still considered rude, apparently. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Overall, money was just there, and if I needed something, I
got it. New school supplies, new clothes. Dresses for dances, lunch money. “Mom
I need twenty bucks,” and after a lot of eye rolling, if I could come up with a
good enough reason, I got it. I didn’t have diamond shoes or a pony in my
backyard, but I didn’t struggle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
But now it’s almost like I live in a constant state of
denial. I go out with friends and try to pick up the tab as much as possible. I
live outside my means because I don’t understand the borders OF my means. I’ve
been out of college for almost three years now and I’m still holding my breath
at the end of the month. Sure, I’m making more money, and not asking for help,
but I’m definitely not considering my financial state a successful one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
So you take a girl waiting for birthday money in a state of
fiscal denial, and then you throw her into a failing economy, and the universe
implodes. I took ONE semester of economics in high school. Translation: I do
not actually <i>get</i> the economy. A
hypothetical successful economy went right over my head, so needless to say how
much I don’t understand the one we have right now. People are losing money,
banks are poor. There’s a guy in a suit on Fox that’s always really upset with
President Obama, and Jon Stewart is hilarious, but in a way that I know is
supposed to be sad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
When it comes to the economy, I’m the girl sitting quietly
in the corner of the room, head down, eyes averted, trying to not to call
attention to how much she has NO CLUE what everyone is talking about. I’m the
kid in class that didn’t do her homework and is praying to all the Gods she’s
ever heard of that she doesn’t get called out on it. I finally stepped out from underneath the protective shield
of my father’s intellect, and it turns out the sun is really bright out here in
the real world and my sunglasses aren’t polarized. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Last week, Wells Fargo sent out an email that everyone with
my particular type of account will now be charged $15 a month just to keep
his/her account open. Previous to this email, I was paying zero a month because
an automatic transfer of $75 was waiving the fee. Apparently that wasn’t
applicable anymore. Apparently something in the economy is different this month, and no one is telling me what. The email went on to inform me that if I had a mortgage
with the bank, or a constant balance of $7500 in my checking account, the fee
would still be waived. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Translation: If you are poor, you shall be punished. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Remember that Aston Martin that could get me from zero to
miserable in 4.8 seconds? It turns out, it can also take a girl from zero to “freaking
pissed” in approximately the same amount of time. Bills became “the bank” and
then “the man” and I was on a tear. No one could run, no one could hide.
Eleanor Angry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“You mean to tell me,” I said, breath held for as long as my
temper was tamed, “that I am supposed to pay you $175 a year, just to keep my
money there? That’s <insert non-classy, colorful language here.>” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Then I received a notice that a fee had been taken from my
saving account for “Excessive Activity.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
So I asked the age-old trouble-inducing question: Why? Why
did the bank deem it fair and necessary to take that money from me? I discovered
that apparently, there is a federal law that limits the number of times you can
take money from your saving account in a month. Regardless of what you put in
it, if you have more than six transactions in a month, they charge you $10.00
as an “excessive use fee.” So the government has decided that there is a limit
to the number of times I can move my money from my account to my other account.
And if I do it too much, they’re going to take $10 from me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Thirty dollars was removed from my account before anyone
said a damned thing to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And that’s what gets me about the bank. They can just TAKE
money from you. Like, it’s there, and then it’s gone, and they don’t even ask.
I work a job that makes me cry because I hate it so much, but I show up because
I understand to an extent that I have to because it’s part of being an adult.
Sometimes life makes you cry but you keep going and you push through it because
those are the rules. I follow the rules. And the bank takes thirty bucks from me.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And what’s this law even for? What is the purpose for “Regulation
D?” Apparently, this law was put in place as part of an anti-terrorism,
anti-money laundering counter measure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Pardon my language but, are you fucking kidding me? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Isn’t there some way to assess the account in question before
just taking money from it? Like, hmmm, this client has under $7500 dollars in
her account (way under) and seems to just really like coffee. Maybe she isn’t a
sleeper cell. Oh look at that, she’s an audio engineer who also gets direct
deposit from a well known book store. If she’s laundering money, she’s really bad at
it. Maybe we don’t assume she’s in violation of horrendous federal crime and we
LEAVE HER THE HELL ALONE. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
But no, they needed that thirty bucks to pay off the
mortgage on that fourth summer home in Panama he got stuck with in the divorce. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Dear Wells Fargo slash The Man slash The Government, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Thanks for the consideration. I did, at one point, think to
launder millions of dollars to off-shore accounts like I saw in that episode of
The Mentalist last Thursday, but after you fined me ten dollars for excessive
activity, I decided against it. You just saved America, again. I have been
successful thwarted, and will no longer be living the life of crime I had once
envisioned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Sincerely, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Account #xxxxxxxx288</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
p.s. I know you didn’t get it, but that was sarcasm. I hate
you. You owe me $30. And a keychain.</div>
Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-10944646022659543972011-08-04T08:00:00.000-07:002011-08-08T13:04:50.656-07:00This is not a work of fiction. This is how the little vein in my head popped.<br />
<div style="font-weight: bold;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">I am standing in an
aisle. I am stone-faced serious to the populace and I am standing in the middle
of the aisle, just waiting. I am waiting for the moment to pass, so I may
continue on in this conversation; but see, I have just been asked who the
author of “The Diary of Anne Frank” is, and I am not permitted to laugh. I am
being paid a breath above minimum wage to not make a snarky comment, roll my
eyes and walk away, so I am standing in an aisle, silent, staring at the rows
of books in front of me. Forget alphabetizing or shelving, or putting away
magazines. I have not made a single noise of mockery; I am earning my wage.</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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And this is my life. Day in and day out, I see faces, and they tell me they are
looking for a book. And minute after minute, hour after hour, I don’t make fun
of their plainly obvious statement, for as we all know, they have entered a
bookstore. I don’t gesture around the room and respond, “well look away, we
have several.” No, I smile, and I ask which book he or she is looking for. I am
asked for the book with the green cover. I am asked for the book by that one
guy who wrote that other book about travelling to Africa. I am asked if I have
read that book. I am asked why we don’t have every single book they’re looking
for in the store. And still, I smile.<br />
<br />
<i>Okay. Sometimes, I don’t smile.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
People are funny. The way we walk around, genuinely assuming that the planet,
and all of her minute, little players, revolves solely around our happiness.
And heaven forbid anyone stand in the way of anyone else’s happiness. This is
America. We are a “want” society. Therefore, if Average Joe <i>wants </i>an obscure Christian
Inspiration book published last in 1984, then Average Joe had better have it in
his hot little hands before his parking validation wears off. And if Average
Joe doesn’t want to buy anything other than that book we don’t have, then who
are we to say that he isn’t allowed to have free parking? This is America. We
pay for parking now? We have to actually purchase things to get the “parking
validation with purchase” type deal? Bullshit.<br />
<br />
I can’t say the variety of the customers that ebb and flow through the doors of
our humble bookstore don’t keep things interesting. The parentless children
that think the escalator is some sort of carnival ride that they are permitted
to climb all over. Because of these rascals inability to learn from other’s
mistakes, I have perfected my teacher voice. “<i>Please do not play on the escalator,” she raises her voice, cocks one
eyebrow as the children double back to make sure she’s still watching. ‘That’s
right,’ she thinks. ‘You’re still visible. I can still see you.’ </i>And
yet, where would I be without them? Surely the presence of unsupervised
underlings is nothing but job security.<i> If
my job were to be a bookselling Mary Poppins</i>. But it turns out, I don’t
know CPR, and I hate kids. And if they run out of the store while Mom and Dad
are enjoying coffees and reading 17 different magazines in the Café section, I
will not be tried by a jury of my peers. But that’s just another way the world
revolves around Average Joe. If he doesn’t want to watch his kids, well, it
takes a village, right? <i>I live in
the village of Oakland, Joe. That’s like 4 villages over. Find a new
babysitter.</i><br />
<br />
But nothing holds a candle to the first-time bookstore visitor. Wide-eyed,
awkwardly thumbing through display table items, unsure of what bookstore
employees actually look like. But then, she snags one of us, after a few failed
attempts with some of the bookstore veterans mulling around. And she asks where
the dictionaries are. So I stroll with her, metaphorically handholding, as is
our policy, over to the dictionary and reference section, and point them out.
And then she looks at me, takes in my appearance and estimated knowledge on the
subject of reference guides and asks, “what’s the difference?”<br />
<br />
“The difference? With what?”<br />
<br />
She picks up a copy of an Oxford dictionary, turning it over and back again,
inspecting the outside cover and responds, “between this, and this Webster one?”<br />
<br />
I stare at her. And suddenly, it dawns on me, I don’t really know. A dictionary
is a dictionary to me. So I ask her to clarify the question. I simply must have
missed the point.<br />
<br />
“Well, which one has the best words?”<br />
<br />
I bite down on my lower lip. Hard. Because now my mind is blank, aside from the
fire of a thousand snarky retorts, all of which I am unable to allow escape
from my mouth. Which one has better words? It’s a freaking dictionary. It has
all the words a regular, average American human is going to need to know to
make it in this dog-eat-dog world. But this puppy dog-eyed lady is looking to
me, the wise bookseller, to give her life some direction.<br />
<br />
“Well, I guess I’d go with Oxford, because it has the word, “muggle” in it.”<br />
<br />
Yep. That’s my answer. And the kicker is, she nods along, like I’ve just said
something profound. I haven’t. I’ve just made a joke of an answer because there
isn’t REALLY an answer to that question.<br />
<br />
She stares at the bay of dictionaries, in what I can only assume is thoughtful
silence. Running her hands over the volumes, I'm tempted to just silently slip
away, despite the fact that her body is still positioned openly towards me, indicating a
presumed continuation of our little chat.<br />
<br />
"What about this one? Is this one better?" She has now picked up the
Collegiate Oxford dictionary. Words are failing me. What about it? Yeah, lady,
that's still a dictionary. It's a dictionary with a fancy word in front of it,
designed to encourage college students to use it, as to insinuate that it was
created specifically for them. Up until now, I didn't understand the
purpose of putting the word "collegiate" on there. I do now. It's to
confuse people like you. Oxford is trying to be funny. <i>Oxford is trying to break me.</i><br />
<br />
"It's got a better cover."<br />
<br />
Time is moving slower now, as I have found myself unwittingly trapped in the
reference section with no rescue in sight. It’s like a smoke signal has gone up
above my head that says, “dumb conversation happening, steer clear.” So when I
think she’s distracted with something else, I start to act upon my emergency
exit strategy; Then she calls me over to the thesaurus section.<br />
<br />
“What are these?” she plucks out a fifth edition Thesaurus from the top shelf.<br />
<br />
“Those are thesauruses,” I respond. Thesauruses? Thesaurusi? Hmm, not sure. I
probably should have just made it singular. 'That's a thesaurus.' Oh well. <i>Really</i> don’t think she’ll notice.<br />
<br />
“Well, is this better than this?” She is gesturing to the Oxford Dictionary,
clutched tightly against her chest.<br />
<br />
“Better?" My words are coming out too slowly now. "No. They’re
different things.”<br />
<br />
“What’s the difference?” Silence. Stone-faced expression. I am not going to
laugh. I am not going to cry. I am going to count the books on this shelf until
I don't want to punch her. <i>I will be
counting for a long time.</i><br />
<br />
“Between a dictionary and a thesaurus? A dictionary has the definition of
words, and a thesaurus has synonyms and antonyms,” and let’s rephrase that, “like
meaning, and opposite meaning words.”<br />
<br />
“Well which one should I get? I need it for college.”<br />
<br />
HOLD THE PHONE. I have spent the past fifteen minutes explaining to you which
dictionary is best, the <i>apparently</i> subtle
differences between a dictionary and thesaurus, and you’re telling me you need
to use this for college? Now, back in my day, you had to graduate high school
before you got the thumbs up for college. And I know I can’t tell you all that
crap about compounds and solutions and I never quite got the hang of that “two
trains are headed towards each other at different speeds” question, but by God,
I could tell you the difference between these two ENTIRELY SEPARATE reference
materials.<br />
<br />
But I am a professional. And I am getting paid to not say all these things. I
am earning my money, painfully, self-loathingly, minute by minute. So I take
the thesaurus from her hand, I smile reassuringly, and push the Oxford
dictionary towards her.<br />
<br />
“This is what you need. Trust me.”<br />
<br />
And now, before my brain explodes and blood starts to leak out of my ears, I
walk away.<br />
<br />
This is my life.<br />
<br />
And if anything cuts it short, this is how I will die.<br />
<br />
Counting dictionaries.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span><br />
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<br />Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-91131918174036813962011-07-14T14:08:00.000-07:002011-08-06T13:40:25.240-07:00Days in the Tower<link href="file://localhost/Users/ethibeaux/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Years ago, my hair was blue-black. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Don’t believe me? Look.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal5OMhONAOb3DJS7lD_K3yW-Ji-ll4aKNlOE98cUSV-Paquw_a1x1dTDRnBPyK_zKx3xIuh2zRJ53Nd2j1yNKkyMzHqFTRmIJfr-qSwxQ4pqP2KA-1aArUjkmegXZfTsks9qgWHPMZ2pi/s1600/bluehair.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal5OMhONAOb3DJS7lD_K3yW-Ji-ll4aKNlOE98cUSV-Paquw_a1x1dTDRnBPyK_zKx3xIuh2zRJ53Nd2j1yNKkyMzHqFTRmIJfr-qSwxQ4pqP2KA-1aArUjkmegXZfTsks9qgWHPMZ2pi/s320/bluehair.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Let's move on now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
I’m not quite sure what happened. It was a period in my life that is a befuddled blur upon hindsight, like I'd been dosed with Rohypnol steadily and then hypnotized for 12 months. It was societal anaphylactic shock. Growing up in suburban Spring, Texas, where the most "culture" our town got was the grand opening of the new P. F. Changs in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fancy</i> strip mall, the move from suburbia to the urban sprawl of the California Bay Area was distressing. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Keep in mind, this was the same period of time when I felt it was necessary to have both a Facebook AND a MySpace.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It seems there were <u>a lot</u> of things working against the coherent thought process.<o:p></o:p></i></div></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I rebelled against everything and went desperately searching for the exact way to express my frustrations. I dyed my hair black. I pierced my eyebrow and then my lip, and I dressed in grungy black clothes. I plastered my college apartment walls with Anti-Flag, Bad Religion and Green Day posters and allowed my musical preferences to explain what<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> exactly </i>my deal was<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>And then I did the only other thing I could possibly do to solidify my new identity: I got a job at a record store.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somewhere deep down inside, each of us has built an image of him or herself based on that first job. Everyone has that job, the one we get for any number of reasons, but it somehow defines who we are in that pivotal time of our lives. Everything revolved around <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> job. Not just my schedule and the way I dressed, the people I hung out with or the stuff I knew; no, more significantly than any of that, my job at Tower Records gave me the identity I was longing for after being uprooted from everything I believed to have understood. I was air dropped in the middle of a foreign environment, engulfed entirely in the “my work is my self” mindset so loved by these California city folk and so I did the only thing I could think to do: I dyed my hair. I dyed my hair, swallowed my anxiety, learned everything I needed to know about Bay Area rap music, and dived right in. Because when it’s sink or swim, I guess I figured if you look like a piranha, and talked like a piranha, then maybe the other piranha wouldn't pick your scales off one-by-one and then gut you. Maybe you'd just get to swim along with them. Maybe somehow you'd BECOME a piranha, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before we get too far into this, let me be clear: I loved my job. I would still be gainfully employed by Tower, were it not for the failing music industry and short-sighted business strategy of its forefathers. I could wear whatever, I could say whatever, and at the end of the night, I would spent hours just hanging out with my co-workers voluntarily. We harassed each other over the loudspeaker, and I had perfected my countout sheet signature to a T. Everyone knew who’s indecipherable scribbled initials were who’s, and if you messed up, you’d hear about it right away. None of this corporate HR paperwork crap. If you didn’t do your job, Cristian would wake you up at 8 AM the next morning, scolding you in broken English and a smattering of Romanian swear words. That’s just how it was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I became the girl at the record store with the black hair and the sullen attitude. I learned how to make annoyed faces while sounding perfectly polite over the phone with customer’s asking for the new song “that they heard on the radio.” I learned how to play the “guess what song I just heard on the radio” game, and I even won a surprising number of times. I figured out a way to openly resent people to their faces without making them mad, and I finally understood just what it feels like when a complete stranger calls you a bitch in the middle of a crowded store. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It feels a lot like losing the“have you heard that new song they’re playing on the radio?” game. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Life at Tower brought a lot of firsts. The first time I ever got asked out at work, therefore allowing me to mark “meet a boy at a record store” off from my bucketlist. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t remember his name, but he drove a white Acura Integra. And he was really tall.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And something about San Diego. He either lived there, or knew a lot about it or something. Whatever. It didn’t last long. Story of my life, anyone? <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tower Records was my first key holding job. Four or five months after I started, I got promoted to a supervisor position, and they gave me keys to the whole store. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Fun Fact: It takes approximately 2.5 seconds after receiving keys to a business for that kind of power to go right to a 19 year-old’s head. <o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, I had power. I had authority. I could authorize returns and I could be left alone in the store. I mean, I was on my way to the top; I had keys for crying out loud! But with a moderate amount of power, comes some form of responsibility, and suddenly I was being held accountable for stuff I didn’t care about. My sweet job at the record store where I could talk about music and flirt with my blue-haired coworker, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who’s name shall be withheld due to the intense embarrassment I feel for my inexplicable adoration of his punk ass,</i> had turned into a real job. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And let’s not forget that while I was living the "High Fidelity" lifestyle at Tower as a full time shift supervisor, I was also a full time student down the street at Ex’pression College. I would get up at seven in the morning to be at school by nine, and then leave school by noon to work from noon to eight; then I would rush out to get back to school for a lab that lasted until midnight. And I would do this three times a week. In retrospect, I can see where people get off calling me a work-a-holic, but I still have no idea how I survived. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Though if anyone is looking for a jumping off point to my addiction to redbull, I’d say that’s a safe bet.</i> Redbull and cigarettes became a meal. It was an exhausting time. It was an unhealthy time. <i>It was a regular Charles Dickens spinoff.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the whole time I thought I was living the California dream. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And yet, this fairytale I convinced myself I was living has a tragic ending. Tower Records announced it was filing for bankruptcy in November of 2006, and my store was closed by Christmas. I remember the last night, standing in the empty aisles, staring down the rows and rows of vacant CD bays, and it was all so heartbreaking. The chapter of my life that was entirely mine, full of careless mistakes and personal triumphs was being ended before I was ready. It was a family, <i>granted it was </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one brought together by a crooked manager to had been arrested in the middle of the store some time in April for grand theft totaling over $25,000, but whatever. Details, details.</i> It was with the most sincere sorrow that we all parted ways. No more Ticketmaster calls. No more new release Tuesdays. No more “supervisor meetings” in the art room, which really just turned into a game of “hide from the clerks and do as little work as possible.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You know, I might know another reason the company failed. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So without a record store, it became increasingly difficult to be the record store girl. The piercings came out. It took four years, but my hair is no longer black. My Anti-Flag hoodie that I coveted so much during that time got one too many holes in it and finally hit the trash can. I turned 22 and realized that who I was as a person did not have to be inextricably tied to what I did for a living. I graduated college; I fell in love. I fell out of love and I left California. I finally accepted my deep-seated love for musicals and cheesy pop music, and I figured out that I could listen to both Katy Perry <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> Rancid without the universe imploding. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But even now, so many years later, after moving away and moving back, I still drive by the old Tower Records building in Emeryville and see those red-framed double doors and all of it rushes right back. The feeling of sweeping in through the glass doors, sunglasses on and stone expression. Punching in the code to the back room and the faces that would greet me. And then without fail, Rob would ask, "Oh Eleanor, what's upsetting you today?" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I was home. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">So now I have <i>red</i> hair.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Look.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Got it? Okay.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And honestly, I have no idea if these two girls would get along. Blue hair might find Red hair obnoxious for having too much product in her hair and too much Lady GaGa on her iPod. Red hair would absolutely recognize the sheer desperation that blue hair was hiding just behind all that black eye shadow, desperation to fit in while simultaneously standing out. Blue hair wouldn't be caught dead in a dress, and red hair hasn't worn a t-shirt in almost a year. But at least they could see eye to eye on one thing: </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">On-sale mornings for Ticketmaster really suck. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-33928744315231351812011-05-17T12:12:00.000-07:002011-09-22T12:31:42.332-07:00Eleanor V. Physical Fitness, Part [a billion].I’ve always had issues with exercise. Back when I was a kid, I played too many sports to really worry about it. My borderline obsessive-compulsive addiction to competition heavily outweighed my inclination towards sitting around eating double stuffed Oreos. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And by heavily outweighed, I mean, I still did it, I just had to wait until after volleyball camp. </i><br />
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However, and I think I’m entirely entitled to do so, I’m inclined to place blame on the seductive lure of theatrical arts as it pertains to my physical fitness downfall. What 15-year-old kid <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wouldn’t</i> choose the life of a drama kid over the 4:30 AM wake up call for JV basketball practice? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As romantic and enticing as it sounds, the act of choking down a complete, balanced meal at 5 AM under the direction of a sadistic coach 30 minutes prior to being forced to run lines until you vomit said meal back up, it’s really not awesome. </i>And yet, even with all the perks of a theatrical life, my physical condition dwindled. And yes, “dwindled” is just a nice way of saying, “I got fat.” </div>
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And it’s at some point around the age of 17, this girl wakes up to realize, holy smokes. I’m fat, and my depression is a direct result of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fat</i>. If I had only been a little more masochistic, I could have avoided this unpleasantness. But hindsight is 20/20, the grass is greener on the other side, second mouse gets the cheese, whatever. The point was I needed to get back into a shape that was a little less round. And that has been a daily battle ever since.</div>
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First I tried the gym. Let’s speak only a moment of the hell that is “the gym.” There are two types of people that go to the gym. There is the ridiculously fit woman, with her Britney Spears “Baby One More Time” abs and non-moving massive chesticles, who is running for probably close to 4 hours on the treadmill with a speed that far out-rolls my 5.5 average speed. And she’s always smiling. SMILING. She’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happy</i> to be only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kind of</i> sweating and running, with her boobies sticking so far out in front of her that somehow, defying any kind of physical explanation, they keep bumping into the Stairmaster in the row in front of her. And I just want to punch her perfectly made up smiling face for beating me to the perfect ab condition, and being so happy in place that makes me so miserable. And then I want to shove hamburgers and snickerdoodles in her face until she cries. So she can know suffering as I have. </div>
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Then there’s the horribly sweaty, disgusting large man on the recumbent bike in front of me. I don’t care where I am, what machine I’m on, I could be in the free weight zone and he’d move that stupid bike to right in front of my eye line and make me see him, and smell him and his 1.5 speed with zero resistance fake bike ride. Flashes of high school basketball practice start to resurface. That moment you’re on your eleventh set of lines, and something for just a brief second starts to smell a little bit like eggs and BAM, I’m looking at a trashcan and wanting to die. People have two smells at the gym: vomit-inducing or the popular ‘I just bathed in cologne’ smell, which can also be vomit-inducing. I don’t know about anyone else, but my entire goal is to smell like NOTHING. I go to the gym, I wear the deodorizing kind of deodorant, and that’s it. You know why? Because when I’m at the gym, I don’t really want anyone to see me. I don’t want to be seen or smelled or touched. I want to get my two hours of self-loathing physical abuse out of the way and I want to go home and shower. That’s it. And I think the gym would be a better, happier place if everyone else would adopt this goal. An entire room full of people minding their own business, smelling like nothing, and averting their eyes? That’s the dream. </div>
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I’ve tried other means of exercise. Let’s be honest, I’m broke and can’t really afford the gym as it is. So I thought I’d give “running the lake” a shot. I thought, that looks like it’s fulfilling. All those people, jogging in adorable track suits with their iPods and designer running shoes. I have an iPod! I can buy shoes! I can totally do that. </div>
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And then I tried.</div>
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And about four minutes after I started, I realized one true thing: I am not a “run at the lake” kind of girl. </div>
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That shit is HARD. All those people you see running the lake? Forget those people. I don’t know where this energy comes from, and how they are thinking ANYTHING that’s not, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“oh God this sucks. How much longer? How has it only been half of a glee song? Why did I think I could do this? I’m a failure at everything, ever. I’m getting a cramp. Gotta walk it off. Can’t stop. Shouldn’t stop. I’m a survivor. No I’m not. Fuck it, I’m gonna walk the next three miles. Then I want a beer.”</i> </div>
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Needless to say, that didn’t last.</div>
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So I thought about getting a bike. That looks like an appropriate amount of work. But every time I look at bikes for sale, I think, man, everyone that I hate rides a stupid bike. Can I really bring myself to be one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those</i> people? I would be a bike rider<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>And you know buying a bike for exercise is just a gateway to becoming a full on cyclist. Because you think, man, it’s such a nice day, I think I’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bike </i>to the post office today. And then it’s the bank. And then it’s the grocery store and you’re buying cargo-carrying accessories for your exercise bike. And suddenly you’ve got one pant leg rolled up on your way to work, yelling at cars who cut into the bike lane too early without looking and suddenly, you’re THAT person. </div>
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No, it seems that if I were to purchase a bike for any reason, it would ultimately result in an entire psychiatric break that involved a public denouncement of said bicycle, abandoning it in a gutter and throwing my helmet at some other oncoming cyclist, with a false accusation of his involvement in the deterioration of my dignity. And that just sounds like a mess. </div>
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So if the gym is out, and I’m not a runner, and I can’t get a bike for personal integrity reasons, what’s left? I thought about rollerblades, but those really only make sense if you live in the suburbs of Spring, Texas, where roads are actually paved, and there’s a roller-rink right around the corner from the local Jewish Community Center that your best friend has to attend every Saturday, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">which is weird cause in school they said being Jewish was a religious thing and everyone knows religious stuff is for Sunday, on account of that’s what the Pope said. </i>And I keep seeing ads for “creative exercise” which is like those acrobat and trapeze classes you can take at gymnastic places, but my irreversible fear of heights, falling and dying seem to put a damper on that possibility. </div>
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So I’ve got three hundred dollars worth of track suits and overpriced running shoes and no where to go, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aside from a ‘no-costume-necessary’ walk on role as Sue Sylvester’s college intern on a rather odd episode of Glee. </i>I could vow to eat better, but the minute disaster strikes it’s me, some yoga pants, a Law & Order marathon and a bag of kettle korn as my only confidant. Counting calories only works if you count ALL the calories, and not the ones that “don’t count,” like morning coffee, or any food that’s free. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If I didn’t pay for it fiscally, I shouldn’t have to pay for it calorically either. </i></div>
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So I’ll just take up residence between this rock, and that hard place, and hope that my California lifestyle warrants enough accidental exercise to keep me from getting stuck in between the two.</div>
Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-6187026007334554912011-02-03T17:10:00.000-08:002011-08-03T01:24:13.592-07:00Retail Wars [COMPACTED]<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There is a rumor going around that people can change. I don’t buy into this. I think habits can be altered, I believe that people grow up, but the innate characteristics that define an individual have always been, and will always be imbedded deeply in each decision they make, invariably. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My older brother will always try to fix things rather than buy new ones. <i>He will also always take something entirely apart, regardless of whether or not he is confident he knows how to put it back together. </i>My mother will always strike up personal conversations with strangers, even if we’re in a hurry. She can’t help it. <i>Consequentially, falling under the category of a learned behavior, now I can’t either. </i> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And I, no matter what the device or circumstance in which I have been put into contact with it, will never be able to successfully operate heavy machinery. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In eighth grade, everyone in my year was required to take an aptitude test. When we got our results back, mine was heavily in favor of a creative career path. Music and arts, maybe technology. <i>So if ‘successful’ can be defined by how on par I am with that write up, then my hours logged on the internet should deem me the most successful 23 year old to ever have lived.</i> However, the most interesting part of my test results was in bold print, down at the very bottom of the page. </span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Due to remarkably low scores in the spatial relations portion, this candidate should not pursue the operation of heavy machinery.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now, I was inclined to roll my eyes and remark the ridiculousness behind the notion of unfolding hole-punched pieces of paper in my mind as an end-all answer to my ability to judge relative distance. And yet, I am who I am. Constantly slamming my hands into tables and counters, racking my knee on the edge of the footboard and taking turns around corners too sharply, resulting in a collision of shoulder and doorframe. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then there was the time I crashed my uncle’s motorcycle into my other uncle’s house. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What I’m trying to say is, the signs are there. The test put it in bold print. If a girl can’t imagine where the stupid holes are in the folded square of paper when you unfold it, she should not be your go-to with something that could crush an Excursion into a tiny little Wall-E sized square.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So when the receiving manager sends me out with a trash bin full of cardboard to the trash compactor, maybe I should have reminded myself about that blurb at the bottom of my aptitude results. But I didn’t. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe I should have prefaced the assignment with, “I’ve never used a trash compactor before.” But I didn’t. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And maybe I should have considered my uncanny ability to break large objects by simply being exactly who I am. But I didn’t. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rather, I wanted to be the confident, capable employee I worked so hard to pretend to be during the interview process. And in my defense, I never actually lied. He never asked if I was comfortable with this task, nor did he inquire about my previous experience with compacting things. To this day, I don’t think he would have cared. No, assigning a trash run to the new girl simply meant that he wasn’t going to have to go outside in the cold and do it. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It took me about 10 minutes to navigate my way through the service halls of the shopping complex. Being an “authorized personnel,” <i>which doesn’t mean much more than ‘walks with disgruntled intent’,</i> doesn’t automatically give you a sense of direction. And the halls look the same. Really long, cold, and a perfect place to get murdered. Had it not been 10 in the morning, I probably would have assumed homicide to be inevitable. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But after I ran the trash bin into a parked UPS truck for the second time in the loading zone, <i>because on top of my stellar sense of direction, I’m a great full trash can driver, </i>I finally found a really big machine with a door that said “COMPACTOR.” Now, I might not have scored off the charts on the logic part of the aptitude test either, but I could deduce this much. Chalk to up to a life skill. Stuff that says “compactor” probably compacts stuff. It’s like “toaster<i>.</i>” <i>Or mircrowave…er. Okay, that one doesn’t work. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So here I am. And I’m a girl, so I read the instructions on the door. <i>The door that was broken and wouldn’t stay shut, which made following number 7, the rule that textually yelled, </i>MAKE SURE DOOR IS COMPLETELY CLOSED TO PREVENT BODILY HARM, <i>very difficult. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The device had four buttons. A green one that said “forward.” A red one that said “reverse.” A bigger red one that said “Emergency Stop” and a black one that had its label rubbed off. <i>I made a mental note that if the machine started to smoke, I’d just throw caution to the wind and hit the black one. Maybe what it used to say was “anti catch-fire setting.” However, the implied usage of this feature was just one more thing to make me very uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I open the door and start throwing cardboard in. Fifty plus boxes later, the free space in the compactor is full, and it’s button-pushing time. I go with green. It starts up, I take several steps back, my arms glued to my sides, and a little bit I’m holding my breath. Everything is going okay, until the machine starts making this vibrating, grinding sound. And then the boxes that had been progressing forward, began to move in the opposite direction. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Holy crap.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My heart is currently residing in my throat, as I look around to see if anyone else is around to notice this sound. I figured if they were, but didn’t think anything of it, then I was all good. It doesn’t sound like a good sound, and then again, I’m instantly reminded that I have no freaking clue what it sounds like when trash is being compacted correctly. The boxes are moving in the wrong direction, this I’m sure. So I panic and hit the bigger red button, all the while saying, “EMERGENCY STOP!” to myself. The machine stops. <i>Thank God at least that one was labeled. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At this point I am just staring at the machine. I still have half a trash can of boxes left, and I can’t just go back with them and be like, “Eh, changed my mind!” But now visions of a broken trash compactor are dancing through my brain, and I’m weighing my options. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I could ditch the remaining cardboard in the big dumpster and walk away. I could pretend I was never there. I could let the next low-level employee think she or he broke it. There’s no way I’d get caught.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Except that all the boxes on top of the freshly broken shopping complex trash compactor are all labeled with my company’s name. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">DAMNIT.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That idea is out. So okay, now I just have to fix it. I’m handy. I fixed the squeak in my office chair the other day. I fixed my friends computer. I can fix…a trash compactor. Oh wait. No. No I can’t. I don’t even know what the black button really does. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe the black button is the “fix trash compactor” button. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">All this time I’m just standing in front of the door to the compactor, staring at the traitorous boxes. “Why can’t you just work? Why me? Why do you have to break on me?” Yes, I’m trying to evoke sympathy from the machine. And I’m getting nothing. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At this point, I have to just make a decision. Do I go back, admit defeat and get fired? Do I call mall maintenance and try to get it fixed without my boss knowing? <i>Does my big brother know how to fix a trash compactor? Cause I could call him. </i>Finally I just hit the green button again. Because what are the chances that I’ve really broken this machine? Honestly. Like 50-50. So I am really holding my breath this time, and the machine is still making the grinding sound and the boxes are still moving in reverse, but maybe that’s just how trash compacts? I have no idea either way. It looks wrong, but then again, anything outside of a computer screen looks weird to me. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then, all the boxes fall to the bottom of the compactor and there’s room. And the machine shuts itself off. No black button necessary. So I take a few hesitant steps up and peek over the edge of the door. It seems there’s a big blocky thing that pushes forward all the boxes, and the ones that don’t fit accordion upwards as the blocky thing retreats. And then you put more boxes in, and it does the whole thing again. Forward, then reverse. Blocky thing. I now understand the trash compactor. It’s a Christmas miracle. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I throw the rest of the boxes in there, and since they didn’t fill up the open space, I just left them. Because I know better than to push my luck. <i>And I know better than to push any more buttons.</i> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And now I just do my best to never be around when it’s time for a trash run. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And also, it smells really bad over there. </span></div>
Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-3073470551234245092011-01-25T08:00:00.000-08:002011-01-25T15:18:56.476-08:00Life Lessons (One Hundred.)The beloved coming-of-age teen dramas of my youth have led me horribly, horribly astray.<br />
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I never thought I’d be such an optimistically confused 20-something, and yet, here I am. According to the aforementioned films, the hardest part about growing up is supposed to be finding a passion; after that, everything else is to simply fall into place. And I believed this until recently, because recently, gaping cracks and considerable holes have been steadily appearing in this hypothesis. Spreading cracks, like maybe the thing I love to do isn’t the only thing I can be doing. Cavernous holes, like maybe the direction I’ve been heading wasn’t meant to be the only direction I traveled. It seems the more I unwillingly stare at these cracks and holes in the foundation of my life, the bigger they get, allowing equal parts of opportunity and chaos to seep in to my state of mind. <br />
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As a junior in high school, working as the lead sound technician for our theater, I had an epiphany about what I wanted my future to look like. Sitting at the top of the theater, in the sound booth, working as a sound engineer, I was sure I could love what I was doing for the rest of my life. It seems silly now, but at 16 years old, every decision presented itself as not only cut and dry, but finite. The plan was to be a recording engineer, to sit in major label studios with big name musicians, helping to take their raw material and creative vision, and turn it into award-winning, revolutionary albums. From my earliest memory, I have always known what I wanted. I made the plan, outlined it thoroughly with the bullet point hierarchy down to the lowercased roman numerals, and then executed it with fanatical precision. <br />
Diving in with blind enthusiasm, I raced across the country to college to start an entirely new life, with nothing to fall back on but my own firm resolve. After three years of full-time jobs and full-time course schedules, resulting in part-time sleep and freelance concerns for my health, I strode across a stage in ceremonial attire and triumphantly moved my 2008 tassel from left to right. This was part of the plan. However unfortunate, the failing economy and dwindling job market was not. In my ambitious, optimistic eight-step road map, I never considered that I would enter the industry at a time when those major studios were being served eviction notices, nor did I consider that I would enter the industry as those big name musicians were beginning to record in home studios on computers. Most certainly, my magic eight ball neglected to tell me that I would enter the industry just as the top engineers and producers were freelancing anything and everything just to keep their own careers afloat. <br />
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Regardless, I had a plan, a plan on which I was determined to follow through. With two completed internships, both resulting in glowing recommendations, as well as a smattering of freelance and independent contracting jobs, I was making progress. However, the more I sat in front of a computer, editing dialog for commercials or restructuring file management systems for studios, mastering the quick keys for “find” and “new folder” on both Macintosh and Windows systems, an invaluable skill, I might add, the less creatively satisfied I felt. <br />
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I refused to accept defeat. I refused to admit that I might have been wrong, that the career I had been so sure of for so long might not be the perfect one for me. I powered through, knowing the minute I showed any signs of dissatisfaction with my professional life, I was allowing the words “Eleanor” and “failure” to become disturbingly synonymous. But the mounting artistic frustration inside of me leaked out in various ways, the most prevalent being an online blog. This blog became a lifeline, a haven for my floundering ambition, and with each new post, it became apparent that I was optimistically confused. <br />
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I never thought I’d be the girl that had to start over. The daunting task of figuring out what makes me happy, finding my path and pursuing it was supposed to be done and over with as soon as I got to my freshman orientation. But here I am in my early twenties, still making discoveries and coming to the realization that my fullest potential might be down a road I had previously overlooked. My whole life up to this point had structure; it had direction. Graduate high school, go to college, pick a major, and then get a job in that field. That was my father’s life; that is my older brother’s life. I was surrounded by a system, a working, logical system, so of course I had to get it all backwards. Chalk it up to middle-child syndrome; I guess I just had to be different. <br />
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So being different landed me on a bench in front of a Barnes and Noble, filling out a standard, faceless corporate job application, head in my hands crying, because I was twenty-three with absolutely zero applicable skills. Overqualified to work in retail, under-qualified for any kind of management position, however most certainly qualified to shop in the self-help and psychology section. I was crying because reality continued to e-mail me, obnoxiously reminding me that he’s not going anywhere, no matter what identity crisis comes calling. In spite of it all, I was still going to owe Pacific Gas & Electric $29.85. <br />
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Now I’ve reached a crossroad I didn’t expect to encounter so quickly. It’s a frightening notion, to consider throwing away three years of rigorous training and experience, but even more so to think of spending another two, or three, or even ten years chasing down an entirely different career. Sitting in that sound booth some eight years ago, I never dreamed I’d be shopping around fill-in-the-blank job applications in retail outlets, attempting to tailor my coveted information-based skills and qualifications simply to justify a lackluster desire to sell hardback books and half-priced calendars to American consumers.<br />
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The line between being a responsible, logical adult and following a passion seems to grow, simultaneously, blurrier and more distinct the closer I get to it; as if it’s only something I can see best out of the corner of my eye. When one path leads to a place you’re not particularly excited about, and the other leads to a place you aren’t even sure exists, and there’s a “no loitering” sign right in the middle of the two, what is the mature decision? At what point does pursuing a practical course of action become ridiculous? And conversely, at what point does pursuing one’s passion become the practical course of action? It appears there are steps, invisible steps, to which, even while I plotted my course, I was not privy. <br />
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What I want to do, and the person I want to be, have always been inextricably linked in my mind. Learning to look at myself as a complete person, rather than the partial image my resume presents, has been a challenge, to say the least, and one I take on daily. As far as what I’ve learned, well, that’s just life. Sometimes, it follows the bullet points, and then sometimes, it makes you cry in public. I never thought I’d be a person who changed her mind, but then again, I also never thought I’d be a redhead again. Apparently, things can change.Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-3607105924256026552010-12-09T08:00:00.000-08:002010-12-09T08:00:04.592-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This blog is going on hiatus until January. </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Because even self-deprecating narcissists need a break. </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See you in 2011!</span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></b></i></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-73906881229709133132010-12-02T18:00:00.001-08:002011-09-22T12:30:27.980-07:00Holidays for Grown-UpsThat’s right, Ladies and Gentlefellas, it’s that time of year again: the season of competitive consumerism and mass hysteria. Break out the credit cards, lay-away rain checks and your copy of “Deck the Halls without Breaking the Chair!” – it’s the holidays.<br />
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The holiday season is essentially the ultimate challenge that the entire year leads up to; as kids, we worked to be good, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or at least covertly bad, </i>so we could get that pony we asked for every year, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but never actually got EVEN THOUGH we’re 23 years old, totes responsible enough for it now, and have been above average in the nice-ness contest for at least 15 of those years. </i>And as adults, we spend all year saving money in the “Christmas gift” fund, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or as I like to call it ‘what I’ll buy myself because I worked all year for this money and do you realize how many times I had to say “how are you” without actually caring? Fund.’ </i>Around September, we start unpacking the wool coats and scarves, and get reacquainted with the color combinations of red and green, blue and white, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and…red, green and yellow? I don’t actually know what Kwanzaa colors are. Apparently in my mind it’s Kwanzaa: A very Rastafarian holiday. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Then it’s the madness and overzealous patriotism or disenfranchisement of Thanksgiving. In one corner you have the Happy Thanksgiving-ers who make the elementary hand-turkeys and actually own a weaved-wicker cornucopia for their dining table centerpiece. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cough, my mother, cough. </i>In the other corner, you have the Chandler’s of the holiday, who are adamant about reminded everyone that it’s a holiday celebrating the massacre and eventual domination of the Native Americans by the evil pale faces. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That Disney animated movie Pocahontas really put a damper on the pilgrim image. Then again, I’m French, and we celebrate Bastille Day. Tons of people died then, too. Bon Temps!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Yet, once the dust settles on the heated Facebook Status debates of patriotism versus genocide, and everyone revives from their self-inflicted turkey comas, it’s all hands on deck Christmas time. Black Friday, Mass Chaos Sunday, Cyber Monday – it’s all part of the festivities. Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald singing Silver Bells blaring dauntingly through tiny department store speakers. Gifts for Dad! Gifts for Mom! Gifts for your IRS Auditor! It’s inescapable. And as an adult, Christmas and the entire holiday season looks so different than I remember from my youth. </div>
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When you’re a kid, Christmas is nothing but bright, shiny paper, toys-r-us catalogs on Saturday mornings and advent calendar chocolates, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what is this one, a bible verse? Bleh. This door sucks. </i>Holidays are tailored for children. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>It’s the root of some of the most significant life lessons. Patience. Charity. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Figuring out that you only have to be well behaved for the last three months leading up to December 25<sup>th</sup> because mom and dad don’t really remember much before then, save for a fist fight or minor arson conviction. </i>And then just like that, just like magic, there’s stuff. Tons of stuff. Bright colored boxes with sticky tags that say your name on them; and all that matters is that the boxes are for you, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and that you have more than either of your brothers, on account of how girls rule and boys drool. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Christmas is the way I learned the value of details. When I was six, I asked for “anything horses.” That year I got a book of every different breed of horse, and a Shetland pony-themed diary. The next year, I learned that to be more specific. Instead of “anything horses,” I wrote down, “actual horses.” That year, I got tiny plastic horse statues, and a wooden stable for 12, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">which is hilarious since I think I ended up with about 15 horses. This also taught me that in life, you have to choose favorites. The prettiest get shelter, and the defective Appaloosa gets to hang out in the bottom of the toy chest.</i> While I was disappointed that my parents seemingly didn’t get the hint, I learned the power of specificity and detail. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s why this year, I put links to horse adoption websites, as well as an amazon.com direct link to a feed bag. And I customized a saddle with the name Sequoia embroidered on the side. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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But as a grown-up, Christmas is an opportunity to get someone else to buy you stuff you need, rather than just whatever you want. And while it does seem like a bit of the magic has left the season when the first thing on your Christmas list is a coffee maker, that’s part of holiday evolution. The same year you start asking for kitchen appliances as gifts is the year you realize that you won’t be benefitting at all from the annual cookie exchange because you’re not 8 anymore, and can’t eat 17 snicker doodles worth of dough while you’re making 2 dozen of them. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mainly because you spent all your money on the ingredients and packaging and therefore can’t afford new clothes when you consume your way into the next size of pants. </i> So you try to live vicariously through the joyous smells of baking cookies and breads and those delicious, traitorous complex carbohydrates. And you smile while you watch children hoard your baked goods at parties and social gatherings, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">though the real reason you’re smiling is because you’re imagining getting a type of marshmallow gun and blasting macaroons at their stupid fast-metabolism faces. </i>But that’s the nature of the holiday: kids get all the cookies, and you are old enough to get hammered at the Christmas party. It’s life’s way of compromising.</div>
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There are lots of things that suck about holidays for adults. You’re expected to hold actual conversations with relatives you only see once a year. As for that, I recommend coming up with a really realistic fake relationship if you don’t have a real one. Make him perfect enough to gush about for around the 45-minute mark, but give him some flaws so you have a reason to break up with him around mid-January. Don’t have him cheat on you, cause that makes you look sad, but something a little more significant than “he left his shoes in the middle of the floor.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I always go with “he really liked cats.” That works best in my family. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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You have to bake. You have to clean. You have to share the wine you’ve been stockpiling all year because it’s rude to show up without anything, and everyone likes alcohol. It’s no longer cute to give hand-made cards as someone’s only gift, and if you send out ANY Christmas cards, you have to send them to everyone you’ve ever made eye contact with, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or they’ll holiday spirit-sue you.</i> You have to come up with something under budget and amazing for your office secret santa swap, and you’ll never know a freaking thing about the person you get. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Again, I suggest booze. </i>You have to offer to help cook/clean/organize at any party or family event you attend, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and if you’re me, somehow you end up volunteering to organize their home office. Thanks a lot, southern manners. Now I’m a volunteer administrative assistant. </i></div>
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But even in spite of all those things I hate about the holidays, I really do love the holidays. Starbucks has seasonal drinks. Nights always smell like burning wood and charcoal. The excuse, “but it’s Christmas” is finally relevant again. Staying inside and watching copious amounts of television is perfectly acceptable. And then, there’s hope that maybe this year you really WILL get that pony. </div>
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Besides, fewer people can judge me for blaring “(It Must’ve Been Ol’) Santa Claus” by Harry Connick Jr. on repeat. </div>
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And that, my friends in blogland, is what I call a win.</div>
Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-40745118084227469502010-11-25T06:01:00.000-08:002010-11-25T06:01:00.642-08:0011.25 [2010]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi579or0Los-82kDqNZTpTTAwUcNlT_BjMuS116J4FiKIjKrHkJZuJl46C22xrgvghAVCwg_0JcKh5zCI22w0xRA4sRC5vGypsrjl3LG08qIFYWTyF9e_z17N0jcV6jurSsSPcHW9w5Zvvw/s1600/happyTG.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi579or0Los-82kDqNZTpTTAwUcNlT_BjMuS116J4FiKIjKrHkJZuJl46C22xrgvghAVCwg_0JcKh5zCI22w0xRA4sRC5vGypsrjl3LG08qIFYWTyF9e_z17N0jcV6jurSsSPcHW9w5Zvvw/s400/happyTG.png" width="400" /></a></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-14916588911282349862010-11-25T06:00:00.046-08:002010-11-25T06:00:02.962-08:00The Most Complicated Non-Relationship, ever.There are approximately 1,056 different ways to reject someone without actually having to say “I don’t like you.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am responsible for just like half of those. </i>Putting yourself out there in that capacity, be it asking someone out on a date, applying for a job, or simply striking up a conversation with a stranger is number three on the most stressful things you will ever do in life. Two is divorce, and one is trying to get a driver’s license from the state of California. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reference to a previous blog, whaaaat!<o:p></o:p></i><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The problem is, however, how do you tell the difference between when someone is being honest, and when someone is just trying to ditch you? Like when someone tells you that they like you, but don’t want to date you because of their career. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who else gets asked out and dumped in the same night? Just me. </i>It’s like, okay, so you care about me so much that you don’t want to hurt me? Or you don’t care about me enough to put forth the effort. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Effort does suck, in his defense. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Television, movies, and the romance section of any given bookstore will tell anyone that dating is fun. It’s exciting and new and awesome. Well, I’m almost positive that in the metaphorical bookstore of my life, they got the labels for “romance” and “science fiction/fantasy” mixed up, because it’s not easy, it’s not really fun, and sure, it’s exciting - in a terrible, awkward way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because when it comes to dating, my life is this.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ54XOQS3kTs0AXlsylaX-JishBKZLB9a6Jk86Ayes2Kq73jJOAaE8wWBo5ubCj9Jc2sM7dNVWsJzJe1lup0U_s3HILuJCg-5Lro50TgfWErFEZn1p4iIhN67vOUJcXT1UtCRDWYVo0HCp/s1600/likeyou.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ54XOQS3kTs0AXlsylaX-JishBKZLB9a6Jk86Ayes2Kq73jJOAaE8wWBo5ubCj9Jc2sM7dNVWsJzJe1lup0U_s3HILuJCg-5Lro50TgfWErFEZn1p4iIhN67vOUJcXT1UtCRDWYVo0HCp/s320/likeyou.png" width="320" /></a></div>Okay then, this is going well. We’re on the same page, no games. Look at us, all cute and flirty and off-book after only a month of rehearsals, just like the really good actors. Wait a minute, I think my script was missing a page...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMZKYTlRSNd3GbZqH9WXPEFChS2sJ-UKpYqhmO99OEGQpMkYe_sR27b29qsKXd6Ze7EiUt-02wkiarztBOHpAgy9nJ1YqEn5MsdzB3-R62vAZGKvvnHjFsf0HSw83h-RpJNvfX5t2mFWT/s1600/latvia.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMZKYTlRSNd3GbZqH9WXPEFChS2sJ-UKpYqhmO99OEGQpMkYe_sR27b29qsKXd6Ze7EiUt-02wkiarztBOHpAgy9nJ1YqEn5MsdzB3-R62vAZGKvvnHjFsf0HSw83h-RpJNvfX5t2mFWT/s320/latvia.png" width="320" /></a></div>Oh, come ON. You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell is even in Latvia?<br />
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“you’re really smart, and pretty, and confident. You’re the real deal. Just what I’ve been looking for. Except you know, Latvia 4evarrrr”<br />
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Okay, so I’m smart and pretty, <i>and you forgot hilarious, but whatever. I can deal. Just fit it in somewhere else.</i> But apparently I’m not smart or pretty ENOUGH to be cooler than Latvia. So, just for my knowledge of where this ridiculous bar for who is smart/pretty/awesome enough to actually DATE is set, what exactly are the standards? Are you looking for Ms. ActuallyWikipedia to walk into the bar any time soon? Cause I’m pretty sure that the girl who knows everything that Wikipedia knows doesn’t look like Christina Hendricks.<br />
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She looks more like this.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzKsOBPJp2gTAmYMQneyJCd-Tib0JeKfRWR52O3rH9b3fB6ySGvAo1FYwhsF_EtCj3vCWvNAZl0ANFG-LYO54gPPms_WlX-U-9_BLESGRrzqEVQqmDbebmvvkGxSfGCXRA8ojSuKsdf4a/s1600/princesswiki.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzKsOBPJp2gTAmYMQneyJCd-Tib0JeKfRWR52O3rH9b3fB6ySGvAo1FYwhsF_EtCj3vCWvNAZl0ANFG-LYO54gPPms_WlX-U-9_BLESGRrzqEVQqmDbebmvvkGxSfGCXRA8ojSuKsdf4a/s320/princesswiki.png" width="320" /></a></div>So that’s your girl I guess. And not to be a buzz kill, but I don’t know that Latvia even has Wikipedia.<i> I mean, they weren’t even invited to play in the World Cup. That’s pretty embarrassing.</i> But seriously, for real, have a freaking blast. I’m over it. <i>I hope you get eaten by some kind of Latvian mountain lion.</i> It sounds like you’re going to be really successful and happy in Latvia.<br />
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What’s really frustrating about all of this isn’t that I totally got major-leagued by some stupid Eastern European country that isn’t considered worldly enough for soccer, but it’s that I don’t even get a say in the matter. He’s all, I like you, you’re great, but you know, Latvia! And that’s it. Great. Well, Latvia might be exotic and exciting, but has LATVIA seen every episode of Friends enough times to quote entire scenes? NO. Does Latvia high-five you for not scratching on the eightball? NO. Do you even know anything about Latvia?<i> I bet if you were dating Ms. ActuallyWikipedia she could just tell you, but you’d have to find restaurants with high vaulted ceilings in order to accommodate her ENORMOUS SKULL. </i><br />
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And as if that wasn't annoying enough, the fact is that there’s still six months left before he can even go to Latvia, not to mention the time it will take to acquire work visas and you know, other legal documents, <i>because no matter what the liberal hemp-wearing lunatics on the University Avenue bridge over the I-80E tell you – we are not actually considered citizens of Earth.</i> So he's telling me that he doesn't want to go out on a single date because he might go to Latvia in more than half a year, and I'm getting the impression that no matter what clothes I think I'm putting on, I walk into the room wearing this: <br />
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What I’m saying is, “hey, how have you been?” but what he’s hearing is, “unless you plan on being three blocks away from me for the next decade of your life, I’m out.” Go to Latvia if you want to. Go to Portland or Norfolk or the <i>MOON</i> if that’s what you really want to do with your life. But if you’re not going like, tomorrow, then hey, maybe we can get coffee. Just a thought. Because we might go get coffee, and find out that you’re an avid Creed fan, and then I’ll make up some crap about being super busy and maybe getting deported back to Texas, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something about a bloody brick through a DMV window, </i>and that will be that. The point is, at least we’ll know. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We’ll know that you have terrible taste in music. And I will never look at you without hearing “With arms wide opeeeeeeen” looping through my brain. That would explain the cringing, though. <o:p></o:p></i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">I think the real issue at hand is everyone innate fear of getting close to someone, and inevitably getting hurt if and when they leave. From someone who's done a lot of leaving, I know how much it sucks to walk away from people you care about, not knowing when you'll see them again. And even knowing that I wouldn't be able to spend every single day of my life with these people, never once have I regretted knowing them in the capacity that I do. If I turned my back on every new person I met, on the off chance that I might one day live in another city, I'd be really lonely, and super bored. <i>Not to mention how completely devoid of blog topics I'd be. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">But at the same time, I don't plan on attempting to force anyone into risks they are clearly not ready to take, because that's equally stupid. I don't make a habit of chasing people down, and for as often as I joke about it, I would never actually grab someone square by the shoulders and yell <i>'LOVE ME!' </i>in his face. <i>If for no other reason that how much it doesn't work. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have a problem with fix-it relationships, and the people who know me best will be the first to throw down the red flag and tell me to make a run for it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's like my fabulous friend Wies said, <b>"Oh no, Eleanor. Do you need a new project? Try knitting."</b></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-366169645995691122010-11-18T06:00:00.006-08:002010-11-23T23:33:12.902-08:00The Battle of DMV-Pleasanton [alternately titled: How California hates Texas.]I don’t think it needs to be stated again, but I will for continuity sake: <b>I am broke</b>. So, in order to cut spending down, I decided I wanted to get a library card. A while ago, I made the trek down to the local Oakland Public Library, only to discover that I need a California Driver’s License with my current address on it in order to obtain said card. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apparently they think I’m planning on checking out hundreds of books, and making a run for the Texas border.</i> So after much procrastination, I finally got myself to the DMV this week. I brought everything I could imagine needing in order to justify myself to the California state government, hoping, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in vain,</i> that this would be a one-trip affair.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know why I pretend like things will ever be easy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To get off on the right foot, I show up without a pen. First time in my life I don’t have a pen, and it’s at the freaking DMV. Awesome. I wait patiently, for an hour and a half, while numbers and letters that are not mine creep across the “now serving” screen. I listen to the ramblings of the crazy wannabe truck driver next to me as his quizzes me on commercial license test questions, all of which I respond with “D. none of the above.” I don’t laugh at the woman verbally abusing her husband on the phone for leaving the house, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">EVEN THOUGH IT’S UNLOCKED NOW</i>, and I even patiently explain the DMV ticket to window process to the old Asian woman clutching her handbag as if I’m going to rip it out of her hands at any moment, screaming LONG LIVE ANARCHY all the way out the door. Finally, G095 is called, and I race up to window number 6 with a pleasant smile on my face. Let’s do this, California. Let’s work as a team, and make me an official resident of your state. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I hand over my form, filled out entirely and beautifully, and she types my name into the archaic plastic box masquerading as a computer. I’ve had a state license before, so like the lady told me up front, two hours previously, it’s just a renewal, right? Well, here’s the thing about renewing your license. California has to recognize you as a citizen of earth before you can renew a CA driver’s license. So when the woman tells me I’m not in the system, I laugh and say, “yes I am. I’m wearing a Ramones t-shirt in my photo.” She doesn’t know who The Ramones are, nor is she as amused by this statement as I am. So she asks me what my name was when I lived in California. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s the thing about names. My name is, has always been, and save for a potential stint in the witness protection program, or induction into the MIB, will always be Eleanor Thibeaux. That’s it, that’s my name. So she asks to see another form of identification, and I give her my passport. Again, she asks if that’s my name. Yes, I managed to write the same name on both my application AND my legal United States of America-issued proof of citizenship. How is this possible? Because, government lady, THAT IS MY NAME. Then she wants my social. Then she wants to know the name attached to my social security number. So I hand her my social security card, and again, it says Eleanor Thibeaux. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> What are the chances? Man, I’m one detail-oriented Russian spy. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So we do the “what’s your name” dance a couple more times, until she finally says I don’t exist in the California database. So then she picks up my form again, and re-reads it. This whole time, she’s smiling at me, and we have a nice rapport going until she sees those five stupid little letters written in the smallest handwriting I could manage legibly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Previous License State or Foreign country: TEXAS” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s as if I had just walked up to her, punched her in the neck and told her I killed her dog. The mood shift was palpable. It’s like, if there were going to be another war in a revolutionary manner, it would be the California-Texas Revolutionary War. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The conservatives are coming! The conservatives are coming! <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, now my friend in the California state bureaucracy is glaring at me kind of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">menacingly</i>. And of course, she still doesn’t have enough “proof.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They always want proof. </i>She’s got my passport, which I remind her, and I cringe as she reads the part that says “Place of Birth: Texas, USA” because I’m pretty sure Californians don’t think Texas should be considered part of the union. It’s like back when the white people didn’t want the black people sharing their water fountains, only now, its Californians not wanting Texans to…breathe their air? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Which I guess is fair, since the Golden State is so disgustingly green, and Texans really like SUV’s.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then she says to me, “I need proof of your residency in Texas.” So I quizzically hand over to my Texas Driver’s License, and allow the pictorial representation of a proud, billowing Texas flag to do my talking for me. She stares at it, repulsed for a moment, and then looks back up at me. “I need proof from the state, like you need to contact them and have them send the information to you.” I’m sorry, is my completely legitimate driver’s license not enough? What, do you want me to get a brick from the Alamo speckled with the blood of like, a billion angry Mexicans to prove that I lived in the state?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2M1DmTI635P5KNcbIlQAVnOVfY79zeFprGADe2N2trfa3bN4I4rqxfM7gR8-va3A1HEri2juN6m9dGp8RAOWGzeNdIpqiEJqqu5eZUnWcLi-5SHOrAm1t9KOdQt3Y4lawwpgIYD9szoV/s1600/alamobrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2M1DmTI635P5KNcbIlQAVnOVfY79zeFprGADe2N2trfa3bN4I4rqxfM7gR8-va3A1HEri2juN6m9dGp8RAOWGzeNdIpqiEJqqu5eZUnWcLi-5SHOrAm1t9KOdQt3Y4lawwpgIYD9szoV/s320/alamobrick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
It’s just absurd, the battle of Texas vs. California. There’s Team Lone Star, which is maybe one of the dumbest things to rally behind – the picture of a star. At least California has an animate object. They have a bear. But then again, it’s a golden bear, and WTF is that, if it’s not some kind of delicious cookie treat commonly referred to as “Teddy Grahams.”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-xfdCr62FzrJ7-dG4ZSgW-LqQWuYsqW1Lroum84l07i7TKmMlBoYs-QFQRnln95uI9x4-l3C8xbiAMpptQlwZKo2aK1fasdg9yRpN-w9MU3mEc76gwSKccXrb3pktdUCF4hvBA5UOIN5/s1600/txvca1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-xfdCr62FzrJ7-dG4ZSgW-LqQWuYsqW1Lroum84l07i7TKmMlBoYs-QFQRnln95uI9x4-l3C8xbiAMpptQlwZKo2aK1fasdg9yRpN-w9MU3mEc76gwSKccXrb3pktdUCF4hvBA5UOIN5/s320/txvca1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">So you’ve got the Californians and their self-righteous “we love the planet, peace and pursuit of happiness” crap, and then you’ve got Texans, who also love freedom, only it’s freedom to exploit the planet, and the pursuit of happiness as it pertains to their agenda. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be whoever you want, just don’t be different. </i>And the Texans, to be honest, are confused - because wasn’t it originally Californians who were all about manifest destiny? And Texas is like, “Come on, Cali, we got Mexican problems, too!” But California is all “we love our Mexicans, just don’t let them vote, because last time we did, we got a cliché action star as our Governor. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oops, our bad. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i>But then again, Texas had George W. and well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oops, that was OUR bad.</i></div><br />
So there’s a war. Stars versus bears. And well look at that, it turns out the Texas Lone Star is actually a firepower star like in Super Mario Brothers and it makes everyone in the Texas army spit fireballs that kill snapping plants and oh what’s that? YELLOW BEARS. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">But don’t worry, Chief Golden Bear has a plan.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2q8ISU2Ac8F0eOrzkMIQAIybu-Xg6CWkyCLXqMYt1VjUeFP_Qw4t0qB5pc2R3BHbqMqV4rlw3G7WZbh-wBrdLI4qmC_zUnRpaaYJ2eBrQ04PWsllfxz8EZQM8dWl67UJExy8vu4gjfQW/s1600/txvca2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2q8ISU2Ac8F0eOrzkMIQAIybu-Xg6CWkyCLXqMYt1VjUeFP_Qw4t0qB5pc2R3BHbqMqV4rlw3G7WZbh-wBrdLI4qmC_zUnRpaaYJ2eBrQ04PWsllfxz8EZQM8dWl67UJExy8vu4gjfQW/s320/txvca2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So there I am in the middle of civil freedom lasers and religious agenda fireballs, and all I really wanted was a library card. And you can’t explain to Texas why you want to live in California, and you can’t apologize enough to California for having anything to do with Texas. So when the DMV employee says, “You need to contact Texas and tell them…” all I hear is, “you’re really screwed.” Texas is mad at me for leaving; Texas thinks I’m a traitor to America and that I stabbed Sam Houston right in the back. But California really doesn’t care, because all California hears is, “I was born in Texas, therefore, I was born into evil, and I hate the earth. Viva La Offshore drilling.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But here’s the thing both California, and Texas for all intents and purposes, don’t realize about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>. I’m not a quitter. You think you can subdue me with a run-around, illogical governmental process? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve been wasting other people’s time my whole life; I know how this works.</i> I will get that library card; I will get you to admit I live here, and I will get my picture taken by one of your menial state employees, who probably hates you more than I do. And you know what I plan to do once I have a state issued ID? I’m going to get in-state discounts on my education. I’m going to vote against the majority. I’m going to go to other states and act poorly, therefore further ruining the already diminished reputation of the state of California. I will commit minor offenses in the name of the Golden State AND it’s bear. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now who’s screwed?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Game on, California. </div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-56965175251817619062010-11-11T06:00:00.003-08:002010-11-23T23:33:43.402-08:00Currently Seeking: Seasonal Boyfriend. [ +author notes. ]I fell asleep to the sounds of rain and wind last night. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, I fell asleep, then woke up going, “what the hell is that sound?” and then fell BACK asleep to it.</i> In the beautiful Bay Area of California, that means it is officially winter. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And while we’re on it,</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does this mean we get two falls next year? Cause uh, we got skipped. </i>The first rain of winter washes away the dirt, debris and wreckage of summer, leaving behind a fresh, clean palette for a whole array of new mistakes. That’s right, the smell of wool coats and desperation is once again revived here in Oakland.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are several distinct differences between seasonal dating. Summer is more a season for casual dates, flings, and overall maintaining that coveted “single” Facebook relationship status. Summer dating is easy. Everyone is wearing single layers, there’s more to do outside, and even without alcohol everyone just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seems </i>pleasantly intoxicated. People are more social during the summer; they want to get out, breathe fresh air, and meet new people. Summer is when there is baseball. Baseball dates are the best kind of non-committal dates ever. Kiss him if you want, blame it on the kiss cam. If you just want to be friends, punch him in the arm when there’s a home run and high five EVERYONE around you. <i>He’ll work it out on his own. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Winter dating is a beast of an entirely different nature. Winter is more Ella Fitzgerald than summer’s Katy Perry. Winter presents challenges that stop those non-commitment oriented parties dead in their tracks. Date ideas are now indoor, intimate and more expensive. In a recession, a person really has to be sure he or she is interested before taking that step. What if the date is a dud? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did I really just drop $60 bucks on someone who doesn’t realize New Orleans isn’t a state?</i> So the selection process has to last longer; it has more significant questions, and it’s all about reading between the lines. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Because the state of New Orleans is actually only a tiny part of the conglomerate state of Louisiana. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another thing about winter is this: it’s cold. You know what’s not cold? The human body. It operates comfortably at a cozy 98.6 degrees, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unless it’s my human body, which rests annoyingly healthy at 96.4 degrees, rendering me the crazy chick that is always freezing. </i>This is where that light aroma of desperation comes in, the need for human contact, if simply for the sole purpose of a walking, talking space heater. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sadly, I could do without the talking part more often than not, but I’ve never been able to get that amendment to pass in the relationship negotiation process. </i>People are walking around, staring down potential hand warmers with intent and purpose practically leaking out of their pores. It’s true - people are sweating emotions left and right as soon as we roll those clocks back and break out the rain boots. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And let’s not forget the other enemy working against the single ladies and gents of the winter season: holidays. Dates to parties, holiday-oriented social gatherings. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Being able to tell your uncle that you’re <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">not</b> single because of that really annoying way you end every sentence with “I’m just saying.”</i> Having to be dressed up and socially involved after hours with your coworkers is bad enough, but going to those kind of gatherings alone is worse. Showing up to a work party by yourself totally ruins your cover of “it’s okay that I don’t talk to any of you here, because I have a super rad social life that fulfills me entirely.” In fact, now they just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> that you would rather be alone than go to one of their stupid Sunday afternoon tea + sandwich parties. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I like tea, and I love sandwiches, and I just didn’t want you slightly neurotic women to ruin either of them for me. No offense. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that first rain falls and it’s a race against the clock. Find a boyfriend. Find a boyfriend. Find a boy that could be abstractly construed as your boyfriend, and cling to him for dear life until the sun stays in the sky past 5:30 pm. It doesn’t much matter if you love him, it doesn’t really even matter if you like him, just GET him. Bonus points if you can snag one that’s funny, because he’ll make the mandatory work social gatherings slightly less painful, and he might even want to see the same movies you do. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But if you can’t find one that’s funny, try to find one that’s so attractive no one cares what he is saying. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What I think what you’re supposed to hold out for is that one guy. The one that gives you an “oh crap” feeling when you run into him unexpectedly on the street; the one that makes your heart race out of panic because this was a dialog you hadn’t rehearsed seventeen times while getting ready for work that morning. The one that makes you think, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oh dang, I can’t feel my legs.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>I have one of those. The guy I always want to run into, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but then panic when I do, turn the volume up on my iPod and make a sharp right into whatever store is next. Apparently I’m dissatisfied with my service at Verizon, and I’m thinking about switching to T-Mobile?</i> He’s the guy that I will ramble about for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hours </i>if someone will listen. And yes, he’s tall and funny and covertly polite. [End gush.] What the rulebook says, and by rulebook, I mean “The Notebook,” is that I’m supposed to hold out for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> guy. But what happens when that guy is an idiot and doesn’t get with the program by the right calendar date? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I mean, how many times do you have to say, “I don’t much care for you,” before he finally accepts that you like him and asks you out? </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Winter in the Bay Area is cold and wet and gray. You know what cures weather depression? A super cute boyfriend that brings you coffee and is always willing to watch Dexter with you. So I’m conflicted. It’s almost like I need a temp agency for boyfriends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><blockquote>“I only need him for three-four months, so I can give Oblivious McTakesForever time to catch up to the inevitable and get with the picture here. Must be able to memorize coffee order, enjoy television crime dramas, and preferably types 65 GWAM.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, I’ve fallen victim to the hype. I love hype. I’m all about hype. The same people that ranted about how jealous they were of my singledom in the summer are talking about winter and romantic crap and boyfriends and how great it all is, and the metaphorical tables have turned. And while I’m sure “because it’s winter” probably isn’t a solid reason to jump into a relationship, lately I’ve been hard pressed to come up with a reason that is. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For the record, “because I’m bored” got the ax, along with “because it’s Wednesday” and “because I’m poor and I want someone to buy me this purse.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div>--------<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Some notes: </div><div><br />
</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">+</span></b> I am embarking on a couple new projects at the end of Twenty-Ten, <i>thumbs down to all you two thousand and ten-ers</i>, one of which is holiday cards. I'm a nerd for standard mail, as I get ever so disappointed when all I receive on a regular basis are bills, credit card applications, and most commonly, someone else's mail. <i>A little piece of me dies every time I write "not this address." </i>So I am extending an invite for all my readers to send me their addresses, <i>don't worry, I only stalk within my own zip code. And whatever zip code Jake Gyllenhaal lives in</i>, so if you're interested, e-mail me <a href="mailto:ethibeaux@gmail.com">here</a> with your info. </div><div><br />
</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">+</span></b> I am often quoting that line from <i>Julie & Julia, </i>when Amy Adams is standing in her small apartment, one hand on her hip, the other pointing a butcher knife exasperatedly in her husband's general direction, and says, "I could write a blog. I have thoughts." Blogging is a hit-or-miss notion in today's society, because while it's true that anyone can do it, the ones that make it are not only well written, but also interactive. They encourage feedback, <i>not one of my strongest qualities, </i>and also pose questions for the readers to weigh in on. Well, that doesn't really sound like me, but I'm willing to give it a go. Starting in January, I will be tagging on an <b>"Ask Eleanor [with caution]"</b> section to each post. I will be posting a link on the left hand column with a link to contact me with questions, and I will do my best to answer them to the best of my cynical, sardonic abilities. So please write in, otherwise I'll just make up my own questions, and that's just sad.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>+</b></span> On a more personal note, I will be attempting, for the first time in my whole life, making an étouffée all by my onesies. It's all part of an elaborate pre-Harry Potter 7A dinner with a couple of friends, including my <i>other </i>favorite blogger <a href="http://marina-blogs-here.blogspot.com/">m.holshev</a> - and the chances of it going horribly, horribly wrong are hovering obscurely around 50%. All I'm saying is, come December 17, 2010 - check in on my twitter feed. I'll be documenting.<br />
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</div></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-49187008538548722232010-11-04T06:00:00.003-07:002010-11-23T23:33:57.302-08:00it's just like an interior design consultant, for my life.<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">For most ladies, the notion of arranged marriages in the western hemisphere has become entirely offensive. Even while women in our eastern counterpart sing its praises, all my American girls can think when a man speaks without horror of arranged marriage is, “WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL ME I CAN’T VOTE AND LOCK ME IN THE KITCHEN?!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Well, here’s my stance: Shrug to voting, and go ahead and lock me in the kitchen, I’ll just build a fort out of tablecloths and paper towels, with a frying pan/spatula doorbell and a sign on the door that says “No Boyz Ah-loud” written in hardened mustard. <i>Now who looks dumb?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But in all honesty, this arranged marriage concept might have some merit. Because when it comes to making important choices, I lack a certain level of…rationality and intellect. I can go to a restaurant and never choose the wrong thing for dinner, but every time I think I’ve landed the right boyfriend, BAM, he has issues about his mother and can’t hold a job. <i>And might be a raging alcoholic.</i> I think it has something to do with the type of men I find attractive. I have this uncanny ability to seek out the oddball, the one with the “hasn’t showered today” look, <i>though I have incredibly high standards for hygiene so it really limits the playing field there, </i>and sadly unless he’s a celebrity/professional athlete or trust fund kid, there’s a particular caliber of person accompanying that look. It’s so irritating. Because you know who usually looks unkempt and understated? Unemployed guys. And I make this choice EVERY TIME.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t believe me? Don’t worry, I have an example.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Let me introduce Captain GreenShirt and his friend, Scruffy McBlackShirt.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkdlNOITL_yqCm6eEyQsPSjGaIOn-GBN5nNShdkICO_ljbfeBrQz8rOnypA50NxdxyXf9AdOzb3LeMIqfcjIZeCVq3Svqn20SJ9sAKOeJSTki4G1cNx-BdEJYRmb2-1zb0iqNVLK8hOQW/s1600/talesoftwoboys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkdlNOITL_yqCm6eEyQsPSjGaIOn-GBN5nNShdkICO_ljbfeBrQz8rOnypA50NxdxyXf9AdOzb3LeMIqfcjIZeCVq3Svqn20SJ9sAKOeJSTki4G1cNx-BdEJYRmb2-1zb0iqNVLK8hOQW/s320/talesoftwoboys.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Well, hey there boys. So here we are, and we’re talking; we're talking about punching strangers and how being a diver is less cool than being a spy, and about how Texas sucks but it’s not as bad as Alabama. <i>Roll tide, roll? </i>And all the while, this conversation is happening about three feet from us.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDb5k3_NBwyyX4LXKKDcO-DaEMx-7uiwMHVxGROYEV2PLAsOhOlq-oog1cxXWPrdlsNj2t2gN2lntJyRXfuecWkzKEWZ1-ASzOCG0TdNfa5OjUkZby3Uj_eWvnlwITv8ZpFup3Z-COuT6/s1600/kacishelby1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDb5k3_NBwyyX4LXKKDcO-DaEMx-7uiwMHVxGROYEV2PLAsOhOlq-oog1cxXWPrdlsNj2t2gN2lntJyRXfuecWkzKEWZ1-ASzOCG0TdNfa5OjUkZby3Uj_eWvnlwITv8ZpFup3Z-COuT6/s320/kacishelby1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks ladies. Now, was I looking for my future husband on the streets of New Orleans? No, not really. <i>Oh did I forget to mention that’s where this is taking place? Yep, Bourbon Street. Another solid choice on my part. </i>But the fact of the matter still stands the same. When presented with a choice, this is almost invariably the outcome.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsC-PsGIx02Ud2SkJoTGqq8p9RfdWftq2XDiQ1iqxt9mSdKaSYOyki9KrggoyiubzVpA4QciJdPtC4BgbYNIDlezrEgsH3rg8n5WjpRmAJJMrQZGeB-C0PGyzI0fBcZAscwFN0hgIWIMt/s1600/winnertakeall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsC-PsGIx02Ud2SkJoTGqq8p9RfdWftq2XDiQ1iqxt9mSdKaSYOyki9KrggoyiubzVpA4QciJdPtC4BgbYNIDlezrEgsH3rg8n5WjpRmAJJMrQZGeB-C0PGyzI0fBcZAscwFN0hgIWIMt/s320/winnertakeall.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That’s right. I passed up the polite, well-established, adorable guy to talk about superheroes and decade old footwear with a Gary, the sometimes-diver from Washington State with almost zero life goals based in reality. If being a life choice maker was a profession, I would be the least qualified. <i>Or I’d be qualified in the way that people would ask, “What would Eleanor do” and then NOT do that thing. </i>So arranged marriage starts to sound pretty good to me.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s be honest here, in a world where arranged marriages are the norm, I have a better chance of being happy in the long run. Because you know what makes me happy? Designer sunglasses. Shoes. More than one meal a day. And these are things that I’m not going to find on my own, on account of how apparently some stupid part of my brain things underemployment and apathy is cute. So why not introduce an objective third party into the situation. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Arranged marriages provide a certain level of stability that I think could really work for me. Sure, there’s a chance I could get stuck with a real boring accountant type, but at least I’d have SOMEONE. Free form dating is reckless, riddled with uncertainty and overwhelming. Sure, sometimes it’s super cool to meet someone who thinks your jokes are funny, and really gets why you love NCIS and high fives so much, but then again, these are things anyone could learn. I could take my stable, boring accountant husband and say, “I like NCIS because it’s about solving crimes, and the Navy,” and then make him high five me. It’s almost like training a pet. He might not think it’s cool, he might not want to do it, but he will because let’s be honest, he’s stuck with me. <i>And what’s that old phrase? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.</i></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And as far as I’m concerned, if arranged marriages made a comeback, I think I could land a good one, because not only is my father a fantastic negotiator, <i>all car salesmen be warned, P. Thibeaux is not to be hustled, </i>but we also have a good deal of leverage, being from Texas and all. Unrefined oil can make a killing these days. I could be dating the proverbial Prince of Persia with that kind of dowry.<i> And by proverbial, I mean…Jake Gyllenhaal as the Prince of Persia.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Aka - This guy.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoaKafR5MCsdxHygzQnEb2IyXWmAbdM3BaS7O05Jcdh6_ZTbMU8QAGfNWPwlHOchrjRQHVeWbzaegoBSiwPK_IQfhSOlmm7JKwUq9SOV9A0XANhbRYNNreQHkFo4sUYhWJNnsnY0wonuM/s1600/gyllenhaal-prince-persia-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoaKafR5MCsdxHygzQnEb2IyXWmAbdM3BaS7O05Jcdh6_ZTbMU8QAGfNWPwlHOchrjRQHVeWbzaegoBSiwPK_IQfhSOlmm7JKwUq9SOV9A0XANhbRYNNreQHkFo4sUYhWJNnsnY0wonuM/s320/gyllenhaal-prince-persia-1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="212" /></span></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">...word.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So if those are my choices, if I can either be left to my own devices and end up with Scruffy McBlackShirt of Washington State with his “I dunno” career path and minus one checking account lifestyle, or Jake Gyllenhaal as the Prince of Persia, I’m gonna say, forget how I <i>feel, </i>I’ll just play a lot of online scrabble and get an amazon.com credit card under the name “Princess Eleanor of hypothetical Persia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Go ahead, sexism and archaic moral code, put a price tag on my head. Just make sure that being hilarious, good at technology, and addicted to caffeine are all taken into consideration, and bring on the applications. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I’m throwing in the towel. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s do this.</span></div></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-59119553468729660992010-10-07T06:00:00.004-07:002010-11-23T23:34:51.277-08:00Concert First Dates (and how I abuse my power to ruin other's happiness.)<div class="MsoNormal">Every time I interview myself in the bathroom mirror while applying make up, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t judge, you know you do it, too, </i>I always as me the same question: Where DO you come up with your material? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, me, the answer is simple, really. My life is my source.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As an audio engineer, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s right, it only took about 91 posts before I finally got to what I “do” for a living. Huzzah. </i>I am lucky enough to go to work every day in a field most people categorize in their checking account “where my money goes” pie chart as entertainment or social activities. I get to witness, soberly, a lot of interesting human interactions, as well as be classically jaded by all genres of music, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or some groups that can only be classified as “experimental noise.” </i>My position also awards me a horrible amount of power and control over the success or failure of an entire roomful of people’s evenings. As the 2003 production team of “Annie Get Your Gun” figured out the hard way, giving someone like me control over a substantial group of individuals is rarely a good idea. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s not often that a stage manager as cute as me could make so many people want to kill themselves. I’m one of a kind, really. </i>But even setting my own role in this aside for just a moment, concerts really do make for a truly awful first date. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First dates are awkward as a general rule. Three hours beforehand, you never know where exactly the line is between dressed up and dressed down enough to strike the perfect impression on a gentleman caller. If I wear a dress, I run the risk of him wearing jeans and I look stupid. If I wear jeans and he’s more dressed up, and then we go to a fancy restaurant, again, I’ll look stupid. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fancy meaning, a place that isn’t…Rudy’s Can’t Fail Café? Think Denny’s, but punk rock and not gross. And they have beer. </i>So once you finally give up on the entire notion of getting the right outfit, you have to worry about what you’re going to talk about. Because it’s a first date and you have to talk about something, right? Well, if you’re first date is at a concert or some kind of music festival, freaking forget it. You won’t be able to hear his response anyway. You know why? Because if I’m doing my job, I make sure of that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So take away the conversation, and what do you have? Two relative strangers swaying awkwardly next to each other, both afraid to get too into the music and end up looking like an idiot, but still trying to pay enough attention to what’s going on just so you don’t sing the wrong lyrics. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Which then turns into a head-to-head version of that terrible game show, “Don’t Forget the Lyrics.” What happened to you, Wayne Brady? </i>So now a first date has turned into a credibility test and lyrical competition, and it’s too loud for even the occasional witty banter. No one walks away from something like that unscathed. NO ONE.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another pitfall of the concert first date? Shoes. Concerts usually involve a lot of standing if you’re doing it right, and that’s the kiss of death for most girls. Why? Because a woman’s main source of confidence is her chosen footwear. I have spent more hours agonizing over which pair of shoes to wear than any allotted amount of time worrying about what I’m going to wear with them. Once I’ve chosen the shoes, I work the rest of the outfit around them. My go-to first date shoes are usually my truly amazing, and understated Steven Madden ankle boots. But when you introduce the element of 3-4 hours of standing around time, those boots are out. Because even for as wonderful as they are, four hours of standing around in them might actually kill me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I refuse to be the first person to be taken out by a pair of shoes, even if they are Steve Madden. </i> So now I’m wearing converse, and my last ditch attempt at mustering up my aloof, coy persona is DOA. Sure, I rock the converse pretty regularly, and I bet I was wearing them when Mr. DumbDateIdea asked me out, but that’s different. That was spontaneous and casual. This is not. But it is now. In one big swoop, before we’ve even gone out, I’m annoyed and uncomfortable. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really good going, dude.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that’s where we are. Pairs of awkward people in stupid shoes pretending like they care about whatever band is on stage so much that they couldn’t possibly tear their eyes away. And then there’s me, standing behind a console generating a disgusting amount of heat, and I’ve already been dealing with these bullshit musician-types for about three hours prior to the first-daters arrival. I’m not happy. I’m disgruntled, mildly sweaty, and sleepy. And if I’m not happy, why in the world would I want anyone else to be happy? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I will see your awkward swaying, and raise you an almost-painful decibel wall of sound. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just call me Phil Spector, right down to the “might be a serial killer” tendencies. </i>I hear you, Hipster McGee, talking about finding the sweet spot of the room. She looks impressed, but I know the truth. You’re a moron. The sweet spot of the room is exactly where I’m standing. Because I have the mutes and faders and equalizers. What do you have? An ugly sweatervest/pretentious Dockers combo and dollar store earplugs. And Captain Sweetspot-Sweatervest says something like, “I found these guys before they were anything.”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>And I can’t believe GenericDate SecondChoiceToms is still standing next to him. Before they were anything? Look around you. This place is only just bigger than my studio apartment. They’re still not really anything. There’s not even anyone else here. You’re standing in the middle a moderately empty room, you putz. My advice? Shut up and just buy her another beer before she realizes your Buddy Holly glasses don’t even have lenses.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First dates should be in quiet places, places with distractions, but not overwhelming ones. Not concerts. Sure, it seems like a really romantic, creative thing, but you’ll crash and burn before you can even fork over the cover charge. Save the concert date for a three-month anniversary or something, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you know, when you have run out of things to say to each other anyway. </i></div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-70671750539638699952010-09-30T06:00:00.036-07:002010-11-23T23:34:38.055-08:00Fight, Flight, or Flip the Monopoly board when he's not looking.<div class="MsoNormal">If I learned anything from The Notebook, it’s that relationships are about commitment, no matter the odds. When your true love leaves, write 365 letters and then build her a house. Then when she finally comes back, yell at her and tell her she’s a pain in the ass. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then take her out the middle of a lake and let a rainstorm ruin her clothes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because when it’s love, you have to fight. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not just for love, but also, for your right to party. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, maybe that’s the rule if you’re Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams, and you live in South Carolina in the 40’s, but from as far as I can tell, that’s not really how it works for the rest of us. Because not every love story is a novel. <i>Y</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eah, I said it, Nicholas Sparks, what are you gonna do about it? </i>In fact, not every love story is even a love story. The problem is that it’s rather difficult, especially being right in the midst of it all, to tell whether it’s right to fight, or throw in the towel. What is the maximum number of letters a guy can write before the next one is substantial ground for a restraining order? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As living, breathing beings, we are armed with two coping mechanisms: fight, or flight. When we feel pressure, when we're put in a position that inspires stress or panic, we can respond to stand and fight whatever it is, or we can get the hell out of there. Given these choices, I am a flighter – not a fighter. When push comes to shove, I fake left and make a break for the nearest exit. But often times, the concept of “flight” is automatic acknowledgement of defeat, and that is something I simply cannot accept. So as a society, we have developed a third choice, “flip the Monopoly board.” No one wins, no one loses, and no one owns Park Place anymore because the top hat is now under the futon. It’s called quitting, and I’m a fan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been in relationships. The good kind, the ambiguous kind, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or as I like to refer to them, common law relationships, </i>and of course, the cliché and devastating bad kind. Clearly, none of them have really worked out, as evidenced by my current singledom. Yet, maybe more importantly, I’ve seen relationships happen. The beginning parts, where everything is awesome and "he’s so wonderful and smart, did I tell you he’s smart? Gosh, he’s got TWO degrees." The middle parts, where "all he ever does is talk about his degrees and they weren’t even from an Ivy League college, I mean what the hell is that about? He might as well have just gone to Chico State and majored in sleeping with drunk sorority chicks." And then the ending parts, where he actually went up to Chico State for a weekend and slept with said drunk sorority chicks. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, you ARE the one who suggested it. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's surprising to me, sometimes, how long it took to get to the ending parts. And then, even after it’s over, after the hair dryers have been thrown, the long soliloquies and monologues have been screamed across parking lots, what baffles me most is how often that’s not even the real ending. No, it seems that the break-up is merely a fake end of a band’s set, where they say goodbye, walk off the stage, only to come back on after a few minutes for the expected encore performance. Relationships really don’t need encore performances when all you could think about for the last 4 songs was what you were going to do after the show, how uncomfortable your shoes are, and how you didn’t even really like the band that much in the first place. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Their first album was pretty good, but then they went and tried to do this indie electronic thing, and the keytar just looks stupid on everyone.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think the real issue is that everyone has this negative connotation about the concept of quitting. It’s not necessarily our fault; we’ve been bombarded with anti-quitting propaganda for years. “Quitters never win,” “Wars are not won by evacuations,” and my favorite, “Pain is temporary. Quitting last forever.” Look at that pressure! Throw around a couple of those, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">toss in a, “there’s no crying in baseball” here and there</i>, and you have a bunch of fully committed, entirely despondent couples. Everyone is just so convinced that giving up is a cowardly act, and yet sometimes, giving up is the most courageous thing to do. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was in a relationship a few years ago, and at one point I realized, we were both miserable. We were so miserable, but so accustomed to being miserable that we didn’t even realize that we were unhappy. It just became the thing that defined our relationship. We were together because we loved each other, but for that very reason, we resented each other. Because quitting was what weak people did, and we were stronger than that. We were so strong, in fact, that it quickly digressed into a contest to see which of us could squeeze the very life force out of the other on a daily basis. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> We kept a tally sheet, which actually turned into more of a scroll, but it was a causality, like many a photograph and t-shirt, of our love’s termination. </i>It wasn’t an easy thing to do, to walk away, but after the fog cleared, it was the bravest thing we could have done for each other. To walk away, and to let the other go. I flipped the board, but he didn’t even look under the furniture for all the pieces. No winners, no losers. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, except for the person who owned the game, because those pieces are kind of important if you ever want to play again.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> If it’s so easily accepted that people change as they age, priorities shift, personality traits mature or adapt at varying paces, then why is it so surprising to some that people who were once compatible don’t necessarily remain such? When I was 19, I really liked dying my hair black and listening to Anti-Flag. I dated people who shared my affinity for those things. My hair is now red and I really enjoy the musical stylings of “Florence + the Machine.” Do you think I’m dating the same kind of person I was dating when I was 19? Hell no. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seriously, back off the hair. It was a thing I was doing at the time. It was just a phase. </i>When something stops working, it’s okay to walk away from it. And when someone makes the decision to walk away from you, it won’t do much good trying to hold on to him or her. If he decided to go, you can't tie him to you. <i>He knows how to undo the same knots you do, and if he doesn't, well, there are books.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not advocating quitting because things are difficult. I’m advocating quitting when it hurts. I’m advocating letting things die peacefully. If you have to keep using the defibrillator every 5 minutes just to revive a six-times-stopped heart, maybe you just let it go that seventh time. It’s not so cute, showing up at her work with flowers a week after you threw her journal out the window and she called you “certifiably insane.” Maybe she didn’t mean it exactly, but I can guarantee she meant it kind of. It’s a fine line, between dedication and stalking, but a very important one to locate, and abide by. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After all, true love is never having to hear him read his Miranda Rights. </div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-23751438710114073712010-09-27T12:32:00.000-07:002010-09-27T12:32:09.904-07:00technically, literally, actually.Some of you might have noticed, <i>most of you probably didn't...</i><br />
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There was no blog last Thursday.<br />
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I ran into some technically difficulties. The difficulty being: everything I wrote technically sucked.<br />
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Don't believe me?<br />
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Forget you, ClipIt. <i>Just because it LOOKS like I'm writing a letter doesn't mean I want to be. Some of us just like to start out grocery lists with "To Whom It May Concern." </i><br />
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<b>I'll be back on schedule this week. Thanks for your involuntary patience. </b><br />
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</i>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-86316525730376073632010-09-16T06:00:00.020-07:002011-09-22T12:30:00.018-07:00Peter Pan Generation: Second to the right, then straight on 'til late morning, early afternoonish. Text me first.<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day, I called my mother in a panic. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Mom: Hello, dear. </span></div>
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Eleanor: Am I a fuck up? </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Mom: It’s so unattractive when you use that language.</span></div>
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Eleanor: Am I? </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Mom: Are you what? Unattractive? When you talk like that, yes</span>.</div>
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Eleanor: No, Mom. A fuck up. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Mom: You know I don’t know what that means.</span></div>
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Eleanor: Useless, directionless, a failure at being grown up. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Mom: Oh sweetie, you’re just…a free spirit. </span></div>
Eleanor: A free spirit? Dear God. You know who else used to be called free spirits? Fucking flower power hippie children. I can’t be a hippie, Mom. I hate people. I hate them.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Mom: Your anxiety attacks are fascinating.</span></div>
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Eleanor: …Thanks.</div>
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This proceeded with the “what do you want to do with your life?” question to which I responded, “live off my parents until I find my rich husband. Or get hired as a professional friend.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">These are also the same careers I wanted when I was 7</i>. I often joke about my blog being the voice of “disenfranchised youth and functional alcoholics,” because that’s how I view my life; I still think of myself as “youth,” regardless of my governmentally instituted “young adult” status. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If I’m not responsible enough to rent a car, then I don’t have to be responsible for anything.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I am a proud member of the Peter Pan Generation. </div>
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I cannot possibly be an adult. When I was in school, I was only a piece of America’s “future.” I was preparing for the future – I wasn’t there yet. And as I look around at my current state, I don’t think this is really the “future” they were talking about. If the future is now the present, then don’t be expecting this economy to turn around any time soon. The adults of the future, who are now the young adults of the present, are not really adults at all. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There’s still a part of me that wants to give up the day-to-day life and be a vigilante crime fighter. Is that who you want spear-heading the years to come? Didn’t think so. That’s who you want at least 20 feet away from you at all times. </i></div>
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Recently, the New York Times posted an article entitled, “What Is It About 20-Somethings?” where the author discusses several different explanations for why the 20-somethings of today’s America are taking so long to grow up. Changing social circumstances, new discoveries in neurological developments, and the workplace shift from skill-based trades to information-based jobs: it all boils down to the same issue. My generation is in denial. </div>
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There are five generally accepted milestones of achieving adulthood in our society.</div>
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<b>In 1960, 77 percent of women and 65 percent of men had, by the time they reached 30, passed all five milestones. [In 2000,] fewer than half of the women and one-third of the men had done so</b>.</blockquote>
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Let’s take a gander at these life goals that I’m supposed to be working avidly towards. </div>
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1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Completing school: Well see, there you go. I have not one, but TWO pieces of cardstock paper protected by overpriced custom frames. <b>Level 1, completed.</b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">2</span>.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></i>Leaving Home: Okay, well I did that. Then I went back, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not unlike 40% of my generation, so back off</i>, and then I left again. I think this level is only really complete when your old bedroom is a gym, or crafts room. Or in my parent’s case…a room belonging to a family you don’t know. <b>Level 2, completed – but I think I lost a life in the process</b>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hopefully one of the next levels will have an opportunity for a 1UP. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Financial Independence and Stability: This is where I stumble. This is the level I can’t seem to get past. I get pretty far, past those stupid skeleton bird things, and past the big chomper on the chain, but just as I get my confidence up, a plant spits a fireball at me and I’m dead. Back to the beginning. Calling Daddy, making small talk before he finally just goes, “how much do you need now?” <b>Level 3, GAME OVER</b>. </div>
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4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Marriage: To this, I say with eloquence: do what now? I have my own apartment. I manage my bills, avoid evictions, I grocery shop, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or don’t, and consequentially skip entire meals</i>, sometimes I even clean. This is, however, only for myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And it would be horrifying to admit how often my dishes go undone, and laundry piles up. </i> The only relationships I’m even halfway good at are with my local bartenders and sandwich shop owners. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whose love, I believe, is only semi-conditional. </i>I’m not hating on the concept, but sometimes I wonder if people realize once you marry someone, they’re there…ALL THE TIME. Throwing their laundry in with yours, eating the food you bought without telling you, putting the mixing spoons back in the wrong drawer even after you’ve told him a hundred times where the mixing spoons go. You can’t send them home. They <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> home. And I think marriage makes people boring. Don’t believe me? Go on my Facebook newsfeed. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Unmarried McAwesome</b>: is going cliff diving in Costa Rica, and then is going to meet up with Indiana Jones for a secret excursion. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Married LeNolife</b>: is spending Friday night with her new puppy, and making Banana Nut Bread. </div>
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See? And the crazy thing is, Married LeNolife used to go cliff diving! But then she had a party in a white dress and moved in with a guy who sells real estate and now they have a puppy and that’s all they talk about, and that’s all they will talk about until she gets knocked up. And then THAT’S all she’ll talk about. Which brings me to the final level: </div>
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5.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Having a child: Clearly I’m out of the running of achieving adulthood. I couldn’t get past the fire plant. But if this is the rest of the game, I think I will just see the sights around Level 3, and hit up the sky bars to collect all those coins arranged in the shape of dollar signs and hidden power stars. Remember when I talked about how I skip meals because I’m too lazy to go to the grocery store? Remember when I said I don’t ever do my laundry until I’m absolutely out of clothes to wear a fourth time? Remember when I talked about never doing the dishes? I can’t even take care of myself, let alone be responsible for another human life; a little one, who can’t read the “don’t drink the poison” signs on bottles, and doesn’t understand sarcasm. Having a kid is the kiss of death for a social life. We’re 20-somethings! We’re young enough to do all those really stupid things that are gonna make great stories in our 30’s. What better a time to get arrested than when you’re in your 20’s? Why would I give up spending a night in jail to spend 4 hours trying to get my kid to stop writing on the wall with my eyeliner? Not for me, thanks.</div>
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Our parents lived in a different world. The American Dream was all about building a life with a family and kids, going to college or going to war; the world was in a state of reconstruct, and it was up to them to do the reconstructing. The Peter Pan Generation’s American Dream is to study abroad undecided for as long as possible. 'Don’t pick a major until you’re stateside,' that’s the life for us. Then once we've got that ambiguous bachelor’s degree, we spend a summer pretending to look for a job, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all the while complaining about this damned economy, </i>and then just go back to school for a graduate’s program because, well, what else is there to do? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Move back in with my parents? Hell no, I still haven’t studied in Australia! </i> </div>
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In my generation, most 20-somethings are “remain[ing] un-tethered” to romantic partners or permanent homes. We avoid ties like we avoid responsibility, <i>like we avoid dinner with the parents.</i> Essentially, the Peter Pan Generation is just a bunch of wild cards running around the country, changing direction as often as we change hairstyles. Jumping from “passion” to “passion,” a habit that was reserved for the artists and drug addicts of our parents’ generation. No wonder they’re looking at us like a bunch of coked out vagabonds. It’s been their experience that if a kid is listless, impulsive, and lacking any interest in planning for the future, he or she is probably addicted to crank. It’s hard to explain that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i> of us aren’t meth-heads, we’re just overly optimistic, and immensely confused. In evaluating my own life, I treat my skills like receipts to an auditor on my kitchen table. Take the box, dump the whole of its contents out on the surface and sardonically state, “good fucking luck.” This is what I’ve got – you tell me what to do with it. </div>
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Whether it’s fear, laziness, economical circumstance, or some crazy neurological development process, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and let’s not rule out the ever-popular mommy-and-daddy-issues, </i>the fact is that my fellow 20-somethings and I are simply in no rush to be grown ups. </div>
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Because grown-ups become pirates. And we kill pirates. </div>
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<b>Lookie, lookie – I’ve got Hookie.</b> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I couldn’t help it. Sorry. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"</i><i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/magazine/22Adulthood-t.html?_r=1">What Is It With 20-Somethings</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">?" by Robin Marantz Henig</i></div>
Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-46115326351831889142010-09-09T07:00:00.005-07:002010-11-23T23:34:26.676-08:00Bottom Line: I'll be Queen with or without you.Recently, I’ve been throwing around the word “accidentally” too often. I <i>accidentally</i> gave a guy my number. I <i>accidentally</i> went on a date with him. I <i>accidentally</i> told him I was a lesbian. It was an accident.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, the last one was really just my fault, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because sometimes I try to play along with movie references I don’t get because I don’t want to admit that I don’t get them and then four days later I realize that I told him I was gay and I mean, how do you bounce back from something like that? You don't, that's how.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i>But seriously, the first two are a direct result of the communication breakdown between boys and girls of the 21<sup>st</sup> century. The girls are embracing the challenges and structures of romantic confrontation, and the boys, well, the boys just want to "kick it."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;">It usually goes something like this:</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLussjrGK0e8MjMD545JI_xMEw0AN2r-H85F_PGRwH5krKdKPHv144qgxF2qqlodFtaSB6yyWZ5jFoWTsd74TJWdVVXEhdDy7dzTcjz30_mKeq9uDCJQjfhHa7L7vLHarNtQjLJfShZn-q/s1600/boyvgirl.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="470" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514679814928844930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLussjrGK0e8MjMD545JI_xMEw0AN2r-H85F_PGRwH5krKdKPHv144qgxF2qqlodFtaSB6yyWZ5jFoWTsd74TJWdVVXEhdDy7dzTcjz30_mKeq9uDCJQjfhHa7L7vLHarNtQjLJfShZn-q/s640/boyvgirl.png" style="display: block; height: 294px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" width="640" /></a></div><br />
There's no honor in it anymore. It's all "whatever" and "I don't care" and "I'll text you" and no one is getting chased by the campus police for illegally singing, "Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You" with the entire marching band during soccer practice. <i>Not to mention that Smarmy Pete never even slightly resembles Heath Ledger, but that's almost irrelevant at this point. </i><i><br />
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And I think I know how guys and girls got so far off. For my fellow ladies, I like to call it "Disney Princess Propaganda." From the early, impressionable ages of my youth, I was bombarded with fairytales and love stories, subliminal suggestions and heightened, unrealistic expectations. Sleeping Beauty falls in love with the first guy that kisses her and they're soulmates fo' life. Ariel gets her man without saying a single word. (Maybe that's my problem.) <i>Even when I was six, all I remember thinking is, yeah, but I mean, boys can fall in love with the really annoying seagull-type, too, right?</i> And Jasmine. Fucking Jasmine. Jasmine falls in love with a broke, homeless guy who pretends to be rich, lies to her, and then ends up getting to be King of Agrabah anyway. <i>I mean, what the hell kind of life lesson is that? </i>But they were all happy. So by the time I was seven, I wanted to be Queen of the United States, and I was planning on marrying into it. <i>I didn't have much patience for governmental logistics. </i><br />
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Then I graduated to PG-13 movies. I grew up enough to realize that the US wasn't going to make me queen, but I still had the terrible notion of true love swimming treacherously through my mind. I just <i>knew</i> that Justin Timberlake was going to stand outside my house with a boombox above his head, declaring his undying love for me, and then we would dance to "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer in my backyard with outdoor string lights and I could say that line about not being a hooker. I was in love with my conceptual theory on love - it's rules and protocols. I wanted all of it. I'm 23 years old, I still want all of it. I'm just much more pessimistic about the entire practice now.<br />
<br />
Because while my I was watching "Runaway Bride" for the 30th time, <i>daydreaming about all the ways Brian, the adorable drummer from fifth period Geometry could prove to be my very own Richard Gere</i>, the boys of my generation were playing baseball, stealing cars and running over pedestrians in Grand Theft Auto, and shooting each other with bottle rockets.<br />
<br />
Translation: They were doing everything humanly possible to avoid learning the rules of dating.<br />
<br />
Consequence: "wanna hang out?"<br />
Answer: No. Pass. Super pass.<br />
<br />
Why? Because it's <i>wrong</i>. You got it all wrong. Try again. I do not want to<i> hang out</i>. I want you to talk me out of jumping off the side of the Titanic into the Atlantic Ocean and then take me dancing with a bunch of drunk irish people. I want you to use the word "date." Don't try to be smooth and elusive, because that's how I accidentally end up on a third maybe-date wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with my hands when we get to the driver-side door of my Scion.<br />
<br />
It's a wonder anyone gets together these days. I swear, I walk around and see "couples" and I wonder how long they've just been "hanging out." The Victorian Era had it right. There should be a courting process. It should involve fancy clothes, hard-soled shoes, flowers and love letters sealed with wax. I honestly don't think I'd care one bit if the only reason a gentleman caller was interested in me was because he wanted to usurp my father's reign and be King of France, just so long as he holds the door for me and takes off his top hat when I walk in the room. <i>Even in my fantasy life, my standards and lowered and realistic, because really, King of France? Can you say 'under-achiever?' </i>All I want is a little definition. A little effort. A little...commitment to the cause. Am I demanding a ring before you kiss me? No. <i>Although a ring would be necessary if you want those goats my father talked about. Actually, in my case, I think the dowry would be cattle. Or barrels of unrefined oil. You know, cause of Texas and whatever. </i>Just man up, say what you mean, and under no circumstance should you shrug at any point during the conversation<i>.</i><i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
I know that the male population won't change, so I'm sure I'll continue to "hang out." But I'm not happy about it. And don't get mad at me when I don't know we've been dating for three months. Getting my Facebook status to change from "Single" to "In A Relationship" takes a blatant simple sentence, or two. <br />
<div><br />
</div><div>...and "Tuesday" presents.</div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-972841179066406806.post-30379062914872783652010-09-02T07:00:00.025-07:002010-11-23T23:36:09.520-08:00Clause 13BIn the television series, Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw is a writer whose column in the New York Star is heavily, if not strictly, based off her life experiences in the tumultuous world of dating and relationships. Conceptually, this is makes for not only an entertaining series, but also an incredibly helpful one. In actuality, there was one major difference between Ms. Bradshaw’s upper-side Manhattan romances and my north-side Oakland dating life that provided a substantial road block in the show's usefulness.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">None of the guys that asked for Carrie Bradshaw’s number then continued to text her at 3 AM to see if she wanted to “hang out.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s three in the morning. That’s when I’m watching Law & Order: SVU marathons, duh.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While Carrie Bradshaw got to concern herself with designer shoes and menus in French, I have been much more preoccupied with establishing the foundations of an exit strategy for times when my seemingly harmless conversations with GenericName O’PotentialStalker go horribly, horribly awry. Ladies of the realistic dating scene need to have plans. They need plans, pass codes and safety checkpoints. On more than one occasion, I have felt the overwhelming urge to shout out, “Send the away team!” only to be met with perplexed, furtive glances from eavesdroppers, and blank stares from everyone else. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I have developed the contractual agreement that I like to refer to as “Clause 13B.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Clause 13B is an amendment to the binding friendship contract signed, and mutually adhered to between two “friends.” (<i>intensity of relationship to be defined previously in the contract.)</i> Clause 13B is a particularly precarious one, and isn’t present in just an average friendship agreement. Only contracts of the highest caliber have this amendment, due to the sensitive nature of its contents. Certain experiences and milestones must be successfully met and achieved before this clause is added. And the activation of such a clause is only acceptable in the more dire and desperate of situations. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For example, lets talk for a moment about Tecate Tony. Tecate Tony is named such for two reasons; the first being that he is one of those guys who gets drunk off Tecate, the cheapest beer served in an already exceedingly cheap hipster bar. Secondly, Tecate Tony is so stereotypically sketchy, I have to call him “Tony” because knowing his actual name would just be acknowledging that he was a real person, and it’s hard to live in a world where people like Tecate Tony breathe the same air as I do. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He is not someone I would ever notice, at least not until I can feel his eyes boring into my skin like some kind of heavy-handed tattoo artist. Even his gaze from a distance is unnerving. He is so thickly coated in grease and sleaze that the reflection of the dim lights of the bar make him glow in a most ominous way. Tecate Tony eyes his target, and immediately goes in for the kill. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I use the term, “kill” because once he starts talking to me, I wish I were dead</i>. He doesn’t make any secret of the fact that he wants to sleep with said target. His opening line is either, “I saw you from across the bar, and I knew I had to at least try to speak with someone so beautiful,” or “Is your man here? No? Well that’s good for me, and too bad for him.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Next, he usually asks if I’m okay, on account of how I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.</i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tecate Tony is relentless. Tecate Tony doesn’t take a hint. Tecate Tony is so intense and overbearing that once he gets my number because I’ve run out of ways to say no and I panic with the truth, I walk away feeling shell-shocked and light-headed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the “I was just attacked with a road-side bomb by a bunch of militant vigilantes in the desert” kind of way.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>This is where Clause 13B is useful. Clause 13B is a text message that says, “My battleship is sunk. Send reinforcements to scavenge the wreckage and search for survivors,” or the simple phrase, “I went to Guam once, the forced labor conditions were truly appalling,” uttered loudly enough to be heard by a 5 foot radius of potential rescue workers. Clause 13B distress signals are received, and then met with bathroom trips, cigarette breaks or the ever finite, “Your boyfriend just called me, he says he’s going to work on his motorcycle with his gang of biker buddies who drink whiskey and potentially run a fight club out of the basement of an abandoned meth lab, and he wanted you to pick up his shotguns from the place where they were getting cleaned.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Result of Clause 13B execution</b>: Tecate Tony is temporarily thrown off his path, and I am able to slip away silently into the night. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, while Tecate Tony’s are easy to spot, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or at least smell by the distinct aroma of dollar store cologne,</i> the Smarmy Pete’s are a different story. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smarmy Pete has game. He doesn’t open with a line, he opens with, “how’s it going?” Smarmy Pete strikes up a normal conversation, and asks a lot of questions. What’s your name? What do you do? Are you a musician? Did you see the A-Team movie? Batman or Spiderman? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come on Pete, is that even a question?</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He looks average, sometimes he’s even mildly attractive, but the sneakiest part about Smarmy Pete is his unassuming nature. Where Tecate Tony was creeping me out before I even decided to go out, Smarmy Pete is harmless, and even kind of funny. He doesn’t have lines, and holding a conversation with him doesn’t make me want to gouge out my eyes with cocktail straws. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My problem with Smarmy Pete is that I don’t realize he’s flirting with me. Call me naïve, but I still operate under the notion of men and women being able to hold platonic conversations. It’s not surprising when people, ladies or fellas, want to talk to me – I’m an easy person to talk to. I tell stories, I have an interesting job, I make self-deprecating jokes that kill. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What gets me are the people that don’t think I’m funny.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">*Yeah, I’m talking about you, CargoPants Todd. What’s WITH you?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So the Smarmy Pete’s of the world have consistently eluded me. Because one minute we’re talking shop about analog versus digital recording, and trading phone numbers under the premise of recording an EP sometime, and the next minute, I’m being asked if I prefer Thai or Chinese. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is this an independent study, or do you work for a national survey group? I only ask because if at all possible, I’m trying to avoid that foreboding ‘Oh, crap,’ feeling.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a situation that needs an earlier, unexpected initiation of Clause 13B. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In cases of Smarmy Pete’s, the activation of Clause 13B hinges on the rescuer, rather than the rescuee. The rescuer, as explained in the textual legal document, is morally obligated to alert the other signed party to the hidden agenda unfolding right before her very eyes. There are a number of ways to accomplish this, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">though one suggested method of shouting out, “THAT ONE IS SMARMY” was officially rejected after a trial-and-error period, ending almost exclusively in error.</i> A text with the phrase, “these are not the droids you’re looking for” or the interruption, “Hey El, remember that time we saw that plastic bag, only it wasn’t a plastic bag, it was a bird and it flew right at you and you were all like, ‘nothing is what it’s supposed to be!!’ Man, that was the craziest thing” are both valid signals. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Result of Clause 13B execution</b>: Smarmy Pete was unable to segue into his inevitable, "can I walk you home?" speech, and before he realizes the bathroom is the other direction, I'm halfway to Taco Bell. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I accept that most people don’t have problems like I do. I acknowledge that my life is an anomaly, and sounds almost entirely fictitious when recapped. Still, I think most things in my life would run smoother if I had appropriate exit strategies in place. Dating, grocery store trips, wars in the Middle East. Clause 13B is merely an attempt at establishing such safety measures. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary if my dating history read more like Big from <i>Sex and the City</i> and less like Bender from <i>Futurama</i>, but it doesn’t. I guess that’s the difference between Manolo Blahniks and Chuck Taylors.<br />
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Yeah, THAT’S the difference. </div>Eleanorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02180970919111480173noreply@blogger.com3