Rotation Revolution

Funny Person Syndrome

2012-01-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

I grew up a “funny person.” This is a clinical condition.One of the fatal attributes of funny person syndrome is an uncontrollable needto 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 ofhilarity and glory. The last word wins. Funny people can’t feel successfullosing a conversation unless they set themselves up for the loss in order to befunny. Funny people have control issues. My name is Eleanor Thibeaux, and I ama funny person.

What is misleading about funny person syndrome is that mostof the time, the side-effects are the antithesis of amusing. It’s a compulsivedesire to be the ending punctuation in any interactive event. Funny people seeka certain level of supercilious personal validation from having the final sayor getting the loudest laugh. This works just fine in social situations and theblogosphere *cough right guys? cough* but not so much in intimate relationships. The last word, like any drugaddiction, leads funny people like myself shaking and spinning out of controlin between fixes.

I never considered myself a last word addict. I like to makejokes, and often see any conversation as an opportunity to banter and stretchmy rhetorical legs. While I do have a flair for the dramatics and an eye forthe absurd, I understand that in the real world, where I occasionally vacation, there is a time and place foreverything. So two weeks ago when my relationship ended prematurely, I thoughtonly to suffer in silence. I have lived in shame of many dozen overly emotionallive journal accounts to know that some personal information is best kept tothe messy handwritten notebooks of yore. But in spite of my radio silence tothe outside world, the ideas began to gather. First I thought only in sadphrases; then as the hours ticked away, the justified resentment andfrustration scratched and clawed my pathetic weepy words into scornedsentences.

Before I knew it, I had a paragraph; then suddenly I had ashort answer essay. How exonerating it would be to spin my words around hisdizzied head just once more. Surely after everything that happened, I deservedthe chance to defend myself! With my inner crazy person at the helm, a scenewith blurred edges plays just behind my eyes of venomous words and objectsthrown. The crazy person is free from any social obligation to remain calm andcivil; she doesn’t buckle under the weight of anxiety or worry about hisfeelings. 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.

Unfortunately, too much exposure to the real world and asubstantial amount of years logged as a girl scout has its pitfalls. As thegolden rule pulls annoyingly at the sleeve of my conscious, I catch my tongue. Becauseeven if I were to say all the things I want to say, would it really be theright answer?

The last word might just be the singular “goodbye,” andthere is a very likely chance was not meant to be mine to speak. The issue athand is that everyone goes on and on about closure, like it’s this crucial goalwe need in order to survive the restof our life. Books and movies drill it in to our brains; the only way to moveon is to recite a heartfelt speech that is both honest and vindicating in themiddle of the street, or maybe under an awning at a coffee shop with rainspilling down over the sides creating a curtain of sadness and feelings thatwould bring even a soulless individual to tears. My speech houses all that wasleft unsaid. My speech has swear words and more cons than pros. My speech hasliterary devices to really drive the message home.

Yet, the problem with my speech is glaring. Only one side ofit is within my control. Even if I found myself in this movie moment, I canonly script one character. That’s the beauty and curse of reality – it’s allimprov. You can choose the scene and the characters, but the dialogue isever-changing. It’s why the phrase, “that’s not what I meant,” is so damnpopular. Real life isn’t a movie or a book or a blog. The grace of the realworld is in the things we didn’t mean to say, or the things we know weshouldn’t have said. Does he regret showing me a pros and cons list aboutmyself? I can venture to guess he does, andafter my blog went up, I can only assume he REALLY does now.

So if I catch him at Starbucks and it’s raining for thefirst time all winter, and my brain implodes and the lines I have beenrepeating since the day he told me he couldn’t think of a reason to be with mecome cascading out, will I find the personal validation I so vainly seek? Willhe see the metaphorical light and realize what a huge mistake he has made? Despitethe fact that I am confident our relationship has run its course, will tellinghim everything I think he should know really make him miss me like I want himto? And if he misses me, will that be the closure I think I need in order tomove forward?

In a moment of brutal clarity, I realized the answer is notthe one I wanted. Telling him the things that he did that drove me insane won’tmake me feel any less sad that the relationship is over. Listing off all thesuper cool qualities about myself that he so casually left off his stupid listwon’t make him really see me the way I think he should. Even if he realizes hemisses me the way I want him to, he won’t tell me. The closure isn’t lying inwake of my self-proclaimed protagonist monologue; it is in accepting that thevalidation I seek externally must first exist internally. If I truly believe Iam all those things that should havebeen in the pros column, then it doesn’t matter if he knows it. More to thepoint, if he needs me to tell him what is great about me, maybe throwing in thetowel was for the best.

If he doesn’t see the significance of my qualities, or thehumanity in my flaws, it is because his values are focused elsewhere. Just ashe could never make me love rollercoasters or get a cockatoo for a pet, Icannot redirect his vision of what makes for a worthwhile partner. For the firsttime, I am beginning to understand that the last word isn’t the final moment. Therewill be other stories with more moments and happier endings. And if I can keepmy mouth shut, maybe there will be a story that doesn’t need a punch line atall.

Pros, Cons, and I still hate roller coasters.

2011-12-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

Growing up,people tell us to make a list of the qualities we want in a relationship. Whenyou’re a kid, it’s for a best friend. I wrote things like “thinks beanie babiesare awesome” and “is hilarious.” It’s a lesson in positive reinforcement, thinkonly of things you want, and then look for those things in other people. I amvery 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 socialcircle with positive, affable characteristics. When you are eight, the onlything that matters is finding the good things about others around you. There isplenty of time to figure out what is bad about them.

But as we gotolder, the balance of our list was fulfilled as experience and mistakes taughtdifficult lessons about the uniqueness of the human race. Friends fight overunforgettable wrongs; girls and boys fall in and out of love, irreparably.Suddenly, my list of positive attributes was stunted parallel to the qualitiesI had learned I did not appreciate in my close relationships. Suddenly, “thinksbeanie babies are awesome” runs correspondingly to “but has a job;” and “ishilarious” is countered quickly with “but is not cruel.”

Some peoplewrite these lists down, locked away for decades only to be unearthed when anew, vicious trait rears its unforgivable head. Others, like myself, only keepa mental running tally of the qualities that seem only to offend my ownneurotic personality. I don’t tend to mesh well with competitive boys, becauseI am overly competitive. Girls that lose themselves in romantic relationshipshave no staying power in my life, as I put as much importance and weight oneach of my relationships, no matter the slant. It is only throughtrial-and-error that these facts become screamingly obvious; it is only aftermany, many errors do I realize the trial needs to change. Still, the listsremain abstract, describing no one in particular, only the ideology of aperfect human being.

So my problem asof late seems to be stomaching the notion of a physical list with my name inbright lights. Without going in to the over-intrusive details, it seems I havebeen 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 thecons gnawed at a much less gracious side of me.

This begs thequestion: when someone in you life has written down a list of things that aregood , and a list of things that are not so good about you, what response, ifany, is suitable?

First andforemost, being a girl has its pitfalls. Night after night, I keep myself awakebouncing back and forth between acceptance and anger. There are moments when Ithink, how could anyone ever think such unfair thoughts about me and stillclaim to love me? Then there are moments when I remember that every criticismcan be constructive if you make it so.

To be entirelyhonest, 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 andoverbearing standards of control. The high standard of logic and rationalityinstilled in me from an early age often distorts in to sharp cynicism and criticaljudgment. I have been informed by numerous people, some still very much presentin my life, that my teasing nature turns soon sour when I get so swept up inthe joke, I forget the human being behind it. These are qualities I should workto amend; these are choices I make based on learned behaviors. They are not engrainedirrevocably in my DNA.

Still, therewere items on the list I felt were better suited for a different column. Acolumn labeled “things that I wish you were.” These are the things that causethe flashes of momentary resentment. A point on my fear of roller coasters, whichis directly linked to my irrational fear of heights and uncontrollablespeed. Often when I was younger,my father would try to rationalize with me, explaining that a rollercoaster wouldnot go any faster than 50-60 MPH, and that when I was in the car, he and mymother drove much faster than that. He said, “you aren’t afraid then, right? Soyou don’t need to be afraid now.” I tried Space Mountain. It was dark, so Icould get through it, no tears. I did not have fun. I tried the Big Thunder Mountain ride. It was daylight and Ibegan sobbing after the first “minor” drop. I absolutely did not have fun.

So I accept whatit is that frightens me. I faced the fears when I did not understand them, butat some point, being an adult means you don’t HAVE to do everything that isn’tfun for you. Just because I don’t want to ride the roller coasters doesn’t meanI don’t want to go to theme parks. It means I get to hold your stuff while youride the roller coasters. It means I get to have the kind of fun that is funfor me, and you get to have the kind of fun that is fun for you. It means youaccept that I am the girl who doesn’t like roller coasters, but will always bewilling to try a new sandwich shop. Or will never make you feel guilty fortaking a nap in the middle of the day if you’re tired. Or will alwaysproof-read anything you email to her as soon as she gets the email. It meansthat I don’t like to go camping, but I will talk you through your computerproblems.

I think the realissue at hand is that upon seeing a pros and cons list all about Eleanor, myeyes merely skimmed the list of pros. The first few were superficial, nothingthat had ever mattered to me in this life or the one before. Compliments onhygiene and fashion sense register at a 0 on a scale of what qualifies a personto be worth her salt. They were countered with cons about my interests, almostto say that I had the wrong interests. Almost to say, you’re pretty, but youdon’t like anything good. So maybethe real problem is that I didn’t give the list the balance it worked so hardto maintain. Like a weighted scale, I hit the ground when my eyes saw thecolumn of negatives. No amount of compliments could undo what was done; it wasas if I was looking at a graded paper, skipping over all the questions I gotright, my eyes only set for the red ink of what I got wrong. Everyday I wake upand tell myself to be better than the day before. If someone could come up withthat many cons about me, was I even succeeding at all?

Maybe it’s justme, but if I had to do it again, I don’t think I’d look at the list. Curiositykilled 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 thatare bad; selfish tendencies and I am a little bit spoiled. But for better orworse, it is all part of who I am at this very moment in time. It has taken medecades to accept that person, for all the pretty, and all the ugly, but Ihave. Maybe I owe anyone else the same amount of time to accept me for me. Butthe argument still stands, would decades of time hoping someone will love youfor you be considered a foolish waste of time?

At the end ofthe 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 remainbalanced: the bad opinions weigh just as much as the good ones. If you take oneseriously, you must take the other just as seriously.

It is possiblethat this was the universe’s way of getting me to realize that lists can beused for evil - that my compulsive organized vigilance comes at a price. Itcould 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 willtry every day to be better, fix what I can, accept what I can’t, and always goto bed knowing that every choice I made was because I wanted to make it.

And I think tomorrow, I’m going to paint my nailsorange.

transcribing snapshots

2011-12-02T21:26:00.001-08:00

It is winter where I am and the wind can knock you off thosetoo expensive stiletto heels that you saw Jennifer Aniston wearing and just hadto have. It was crazy to buy them, standing flat footed you are already almostfive feet eight inches tall, but everyone keeps whispering about how beautifultall women are, so you pretend you don’t notice the way you tower over everyonelike a professional basketball player in Chinatown. The heels make your legslook longer, anyhow.

It’s frightfully cold out, and while everyone is decoratingChristmas trees and making plans to be with family, you are stuck inside apoorly insulated studio apartment staring at a wall of post-it notes. Theability to remain so organized is enviable, but after re-reading the samechapter five times in a row, it becomes more difficult to believe that any ofwhat you have written so far could be considered “good.” Yet, you remindyourself that if Stephanie Meyer could churn out the crap that was the TwilightSaga 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 abookstore for a wink above minimum wage.

It cannot be easy, one would venture to guess, to watch yourclose friends fall in love and get married without thinking you could do itbetter. 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 youare always drawing the short straw. Maybe your straw isn’t really the short oneat all; it’s just not as pretty or smart as the straws you really wanted. Maybeyou drew a bendy straw and you have to straighten it out and stretch thecrinkled part out a bit to feel like a winner. Maybe this game of drawingstraws 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.

Its winter where I am and you have no idea what you’redoing. There is no plan; you cannot even decipher which angle to play. You arewide-eyed, confused with not a single definite thought in that pretty littlehead. 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 toomuch wine sometimes and say things that are very true. You talk about how noneof 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’tmean being alone. Being single doesn’t have to be lonely.

It’s frightfully cold out, and the temperature is dropping.Your worries and concerns will never keep you warm. The next move is to simplykeep moving. And maybe spend your money on scarves, not stilettos.

Rotation Revolution takes on The Economy!

2011-09-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

It goes terribly.

For two weeks every year until I graduated college,I was the first one at the mailbox. Why? Birthday mail. Typically my birthday mailstarted to roll in around my older brother’s birthday, much to his dismay.Fingers crossed for the brightly colored envelopes, filled with the greenstuff, crisp ten or twenty dollar bills flattened between a cute “you’re olderand we care” birthday card (or between tin foil if you’re my grandfather, who apparently doesn't trust anyone, especially the United States Parcel Service.) And if itwasn’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 longerwait to something useful. Something I could exchange for stuff. Maybe I shouldhave started this out by saying how much Ilove stuff.

So moving out to California right after my 18^thbirthday was scary on many different levels, but mostly I was afraid of losing birthday mail. What if no one gave myrelatives my new address and all my birthday mail got lost and someone elseended up with the money I deservedfor surviving another year in this world? I kept myself from dying for 365days; I earned this! The loss of birthday money was depressing. But themetaphorical kick that came when I was already down was the type of mail thatbegan to arrive on a monthly basis. It was the antithesis of birthday money. Itwas bills.

These things I had never considered, paying for electricity,for television or the Internet. Paying someone to let me live in an apartmentevery month – it was shocking. I had to get a job, but that was okay, because Ihad gotten jobs before. I worked for the theater, and I worked at the petstore. I was good with the concept of jobs. What was unsettling was the ideathat money I earned from said jobs would have to pay for these things that wereboring. I worked eight hours, just so I could have electricity for one month?Gross. Eight hours of shelving CD’sshould be new shoe money, not the ability to microwave stuff. Not to mentionthat it took three days of 9 hour shifts to even make enough money to pay forthe food I was trying to microwave. Growing up went from exciting to a hasslein 4.8 seconds, flat. Bills were my Aston Martin race to bummer-ville.

The craziest thing about money is just when you think youget it, you don’t. I got the hang of half-assed budgeting. Sure, I held mybreath at the end of every month, and maybe that last week before pay day andafter I paid my rent was a little lean, but hey, if the checks didn’t bounce, Iwas good. My father tried to teach me spreadsheets, the advantages to onlinebanking, and I tried to get it, but it was like being 10 years old again withbirthday money. Except now birthday money was living on this tiny blue cardthat was accepted practically everywhere. The problem with card money is that you don’tfeel your wallet getting thinner until it’s empty. Suddenly, I had fifteenpairs of converse, and top ramen for dinner.

Essentially, I was making all the wrong compromises.

Throughout college, I was still getting financial supportfrom my parents. They wanted me to focus on my education, which was awesomebecause working full time and going to school full time was leading me down avery dark road lined with mobsters in pin-striped suits with portable gambling briefcases and illegal booze theysnuck out of the speakeasies. And sure, they sing and say things like,“what’s a pretty dame like you doing in this part of town,” but in darkalleys that sounds less charming than one who watched a lot of flapper musicals would expect. No, I was one of thelucky few in this country whose parents could afford to help, and while I amforever 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 cashin my mom’s wallet, my parents cards always being accepted. It was my fatheralways picking up the tab and scolding me for trying to look at the dinnerbill. Don’t be rude and give me that, hewould say. It turns out, not everyone thinks that’s rude. Unless you look atit, say something like “oh shit, that’s expensive. Glad I’m not paying,” andthen hand it to them. That is still considered rude, apparently.

Overall, money was just there, and if I needed something, Igot it. New school supplies, new clothes. Dresses for dances, lunch money. “MomI need twenty bucks,” and after a lot of eye rolling, if I could come up with agood enough reason, I got it. I didn’t have diamond shoes or a pony in mybackyard, but I didn’t struggle.

But now it’s almost like I live in a constant state ofdenial. I go out with friends and try to pick up the tab as much as possible. Ilive outside my means because I don’t understand the borders OF my means. I’vebeen out of college for almost three years now and I’m still holding my breathat 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.

So you take a girl waiting for birthday money in a state offiscal denial, and then you throw her into a failing economy, and the universeimplodes. I took ONE semester of economics in high school. Translation: I donot actually get the economy. Ahypothetical successful economy went right over my head, so needless to say howmuch 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 withPresident Obama, and Jon Stewart is hilarious, but in a way that I know issupposed to be sad.

When it comes to the economy, I’m the girl sitting quietlyin the corner of the room, head down, eyes averted, trying to not to callattention to how much she has NO CLUE what everyone is talking about. I’m thekid in class that didn’t do her homework and is praying to all the Gods she’sever heard of that she doesn’t get called out on it. I finally stepped out from underneath the protective shieldof my father’s intellect, and it turns out the sun is really bright out here inthe real world and my sunglasses aren’t polarized.

Last week, Wells Fargo sent out an email that everyone withmy particular type of account will now be charged $15 a month just to keephis/her account open. Previous to this email, I was paying zero a month becausean automatic transfer of $75 was waiving the fee. Apparently that wasn’tapplicable 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 mortgagewith the bank, or a constant balance of $7500 in my checking account, the feewould still be waived.

Translation: If you are poor, you shall be punished.

Remember that Aston Martin that could get me from zero tomiserable in 4.8 seconds? It turns out, it can also take a girl from zero to “freakingpissed” in approximately the same amount of time. Bills became “the bank” andthen “the man” and I was on a tear. No one could run, no one could hide.Eleanor Angry.

“You mean to tell me,” I said, breath held for as long as mytemper was tamed, “that I am supposed to pay you $175 a year, just to keep mymoney there? That’s <insert non-classy, colorful language here.>”

Then I received a notice that a fee had been taken from mysaving account for “Excessive Activity.”

So I asked the age-old trouble-inducing question: Why? Whydid the bank deem it fair and necessary to take that money from me? I discoveredthat apparently, there is a federal law that limits the number of times you cantake money from your saving account in a month. Regardless of what you put init, if you have more than six transactions in a month, they charge you $10.00as an “excessive use fee.” So the government has decided that there is a limitto 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.

Thirty dollars was removed from my account before anyonesaid a damned thing to me.

And that’s what gets me about the bank. They can just TAKEmoney 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 becauseI 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 becausethose are the rules. I follow the rules. And the bank takes thirty bucks from me.

And what’s this law even for? What is the purpose for “RegulationD?” Apparently, this law was put in place as part of an anti-terrorism,anti-money laundering counter measure.

Pardon my language but, are you fucking kidding me?

Isn’t there some way to assess the account in question beforejust taking money from it? Like, hmmm, this client has under $7500 dollars inher account (way under) and seems to just really like coffee. Maybe she isn’t asleeper cell. Oh look at that, she’s an audio engineer who also gets directdeposit from a well known book store. If she’s laundering money, she’s really bad atit. Maybe we don’t assume she’s in violation of horrendous federal crime and weLEAVE HER THE HELL ALONE.

But no, they needed that thirty bucks to pay off themortgage on that fourth summer home in Panama he got stuck with in the divorce.

Dear Wells Fargo slash The Man slash The Government,

Thanks for the consideration. I did, at one point, think tolaunder millions of dollars to off-shore accounts like I saw in that episode ofThe Mentalist last Thursday, but after you fined me ten dollars for excessiveactivity, I decided against it. You just saved America, again. I have beensuccessful thwarted, and will no longer be living the life of crime I had onceenvisioned.

Sincerely,

Account #xxxxxxxx288

p.s. I know you didn’t get it, but that was sarcasm. I hateyou. You owe me $30. And a keychain.

This is not a work of fiction. This is how the little vein in my head popped.

2011-08-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

I am standing in anaisle. I am stone-faced serious to the populace and I am standing in the middleof the aisle, just waiting. I am waiting for the moment to pass, so I maycontinue on in this conversation; but see, I have just been asked who theauthor of “The Diary of Anne Frank” is, and I am not permitted to laugh. I ambeing paid a breath above minimum wage to not make a snarky comment, roll myeyes and walk away, so I am standing in an aisle, silent, staring at the rowsof books in front of me. Forget alphabetizing or shelving, or putting awaymagazines. I have not made a single noise of mockery; I am earning my wage.

And this is my life. Day in and day out, I see faces, and they tell me they arelooking for a book. And minute after minute, hour after hour, I don’t make funof their plainly obvious statement, for as we all know, they have entered abookstore. I don’t gesture around the room and respond, “well look away, wehave several.” No, I smile, and I ask which book he or she is looking for. I amasked for the book with the green cover. I am asked for the book by that oneguy who wrote that other book about travelling to Africa. I am asked if I haveread that book. I am asked why we don’t have every single book they’re lookingfor in the store. And still, I smile.

Okay. Sometimes, I don’t smile.

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 isAmerica. We are a “want” society. Therefore, if Average Joe wants an obscure ChristianInspiration book published last in 1984, then Average Joe had better have it inhis hot little hands before his parking validation wears off. And if AverageJoe doesn’t want to buy anything other than that book we don’t have, then whoare we to say that he isn’t allowed to have free parking? This is America. Wepay for parking now? We have to actually purchase things to get the “parkingvalidation with purchase” type deal? Bullshit.

I can’t say the variety of the customers that ebb and flow through the doors ofour humble bookstore don’t keep things interesting. The parentless childrenthat think the escalator is some sort of carnival ride that they are permittedto climb all over. Because of these rascals inability to learn from other’smistakes, I have perfected my teacher voice. “Please do not play on the escalator,” she raises her voice, cocks oneeyebrow as the children double back to make sure she’s still watching. ‘That’sright,’ she thinks. ‘You’re still visible. I can still see you.’ Andyet, where would I be without them? Surely the presence of unsupervisedunderlings is nothing but job security. Ifmy job were to be a bookselling Mary Poppins. But it turns out, I don’tknow CPR, and I hate kids. And if they run out of the store while Mom and Dadare enjoying coffees and reading 17 different magazines in the Café section, Iwill not be tried by a jury of my peers. But that’s just another way the worldrevolves around Average Joe. If he doesn’t want to watch his kids, well, ittakes a village, right? I live inthe village of Oakland, Joe. That’s like 4 villages over. Find a newbabysitter.

But nothing holds a candle to the first-time bookstore visitor. Wide-eyed,awkwardly thumbing through display table items, unsure of what bookstoreemployees actually look like. But then, she snags one of us, after a few failedattempts with some of the bookstore veterans mulling around. And she asks wherethe dictionaries are. So I stroll with her, metaphorically handholding, as isour 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 thesubject of reference guides and asks, “what’s the difference?”

“The difference? With what?”

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?”

I stare at her. And suddenly, it dawns on me, I don’t really know. A dictionaryis a dictionary to me. So I ask her to clarify the question. I simply must havemissed the point.

“Well, which one has the best words?”

I bite down on my lower lip. Hard. Because now my mind is blank, aside from thefire of a thousand snarky retorts, all of which I am unable to allow escapefrom my mouth. Which one has better words? It’s a freaking dictionary. It hasall the words a regular, average American human is going to need to know tomake it in this dog-eat-dog world. But this puppy dog-eyed lady is looking tome, the wise bookseller, to give her life some direction.

“Well, I guess I’d go with Oxford, because it has the word, “muggle” in it.”

Yep. That’s my answer. And the kicker is, she nods along, like I’ve just saidsomething profound. I haven’t. I’ve just made a joke of an answer because thereisn’t REALLY an answer to that question.

She stares at the bay of dictionaries, in what I can only assume is thoughtfulsilence. Running her hands over the volumes, I'm tempted to just silently slipaway, despite the fact that her body is still positioned openly towards me, indicating apresumed continuation of our little chat.

"What about this one? Is this one better?" She has now picked up theCollegiate 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 wascreated specifically for them. Up until now, I didn't understand thepurpose of putting the word "collegiate" on there. I do now. It's toconfuse people like you. Oxford is trying to be funny. Oxford is trying to break me.

"It's got a better cover."

Time is moving slower now, as I have found myself unwittingly trapped in thereference section with no rescue in sight. It’s like a smoke signal has gone upabove my head that says, “dumb conversation happening, steer clear.” So when Ithink she’s distracted with something else, I start to act upon my emergencyexit strategy; Then she calls me over to the thesaurus section.

“What are these?” she plucks out a fifth edition Thesaurus from the top shelf.

“Those are thesauruses,” I respond. Thesauruses? Thesaurusi? Hmm, not sure. Iprobably should have just made it singular. 'That's a thesaurus.' Oh well. Really don’t think she’ll notice.

“Well, is this better than this?” She is gesturing to the Oxford Dictionary,clutched tightly against her chest.

“Better?" My words are coming out too slowly now. "No. They’redifferent things.”

“What’s the difference?” Silence. Stone-faced expression. I am not going tolaugh. I am not going to cry. I am going to count the books on this shelf untilI don't want to punch her. I will becounting for a long time.

“Between a dictionary and a thesaurus? A dictionary has the definition ofwords, and a thesaurus has synonyms and antonyms,” and let’s rephrase that, “likemeaning, and opposite meaning words.”

“Well which one should I get? I need it for college.”

HOLD THE PHONE. I have spent the past fifteen minutes explaining to you whichdictionary is best, the apparently subtledifferences between a dictionary and thesaurus, and you’re telling me you needto use this for college? Now, back in my day, you had to graduate high schoolbefore you got the thumbs up for college. And I know I can’t tell you all thatcrap about compounds and solutions and I never quite got the hang of that “twotrains are headed towards each other at different speeds” question, but by God,I could tell you the difference between these two ENTIRELY SEPARATE referencematerials.

But I am a professional. And I am getting paid to not say all these things. Iam earning my money, painfully, self-loathingly, minute by minute. So I takethe thesaurus from her hand, I smile reassuringly, and push the Oxforddictionary towards her.

“This is what you need. Trust me.”

And now, before my brain explodes and blood starts to leak out of my ears, Iwalk away.

This is my life.

And if anything cuts it short, this is how I will die.

Counting dictionaries.

Days in the Tower

2011-07-14T14:08:00.000-07:00

Years ago, my hair was blue-black.

Don’t believe me? Look.

Let's move on now.

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 fancy strip mall, the move from suburbia to the urban sprawl of the California Bay Area was distressing. Keep in mind, this was the same period of time when I felt it was necessary to have both a Facebook AND a MySpace. It seems there were a lot of things working against the coherent thought process.

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 exactly my deal was. 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.

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 that 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.

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.

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. It feels a lot like losing the“have you heard that new song they’re playing on the radio?” game.

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 don’t remember his name, but he drove a white Acura Integra. And he was really tall. 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?

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.

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.

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, who’s name shall be withheld due to the intense embarrassment I feel for my inexplicable adoration of his punk ass, had turned into a real job.

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. Though if anyone is looking for a jumping off point to my addiction to redbull, I’d say that’s a safe bet. Redbull and cigarettes became a meal. It was an exhausting time. It was an unhealthy time. It was a regular Charles Dickens spinoff.

And the whole time I thought I was living the California dream.

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, granted it was 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. 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.” You know, I might know another reason the company failed.

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 and Rancid without the universe imploding.

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?"

And I was home.

So now I have red hair.

Look.

Got it? Okay.

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:

On-sale mornings for Ticketmaster really suck.

Eleanor V. Physical Fitness, Part [a billion].

2011-05-17T12:12:00.000-07:00

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. And by heavily outweighed, I mean, I still did it, I just had to wait until after volleyball camp.

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 wouldn’t choose the life of a drama kid over the 4:30 AM wake up call for JV basketball practice? 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. 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.”

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 being fat. 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.

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 happy to be only kind of 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.

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.

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.

And then I tried.

And about four minutes after I started, I realized one true thing: I am not a “run at the lake” kind of girl.

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, “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.”

Needless to say, that didn’t last.

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 those people? I would be a bike rider. 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 bike 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.

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.

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, 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. 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.

So I’ve got three hundred dollars worth of track suits and overpriced running shoes and no where to go, aside from a ‘no-costume-necessary’ walk on role as Sue Sylvester’s college intern on a rather odd episode of Glee. 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. If I didn’t pay for it fiscally, I shouldn’t have to pay for it calorically either.

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.

Retail Wars [COMPACTED]

2011-02-03T17:10:00.000-08:00

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.

My older brother will always try to fix things rather than buy new ones. He will also always take something entirely apart, regardless of whether or not he is confident he knows how to put it back together. My mother will always strike up personal conversations with strangers, even if we’re in a hurry. She can’t help it. Consequentially, falling under the category of a learned behavior, now I can’t either.

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.

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. 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. However, the most interesting part of my test results was in bold print, down at the very bottom of the page.

Due to remarkably low scores in the spatial relations portion, this candidate should not pursue the operation of heavy machinery.

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.

Then there was the time I crashed my uncle’s motorcycle into my other uncle’s house.

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.

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.

Maybe I should have prefaced the assignment with, “I’ve never used a trash compactor before.” But I didn’t.

And maybe I should have considered my uncanny ability to break large objects by simply being exactly who I am. But I didn’t.

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.

It took me about 10 minutes to navigate my way through the service halls of the shopping complex. Being an “authorized personnel,” which doesn’t mean much more than ‘walks with disgruntled intent’, 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.

But after I ran the trash bin into a parked UPS truck for the second time in the loading zone, because on top of my stellar sense of direction, I’m a great full trash can driver, 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.” Or mircrowave…er. Okay, that one doesn’t work.

So here I am. And I’m a girl, so I read the instructions on the door. The door that was broken and wouldn’t stay shut, which made following number 7, the rule that textually yelled, MAKE SURE DOOR IS COMPLETELY CLOSED TO PREVENT BODILY HARM, very difficult.

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 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.

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.

Holy crap.

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. Thank God at least that one was labeled.

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.

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.

Except that all the boxes on top of the freshly broken shopping complex trash compactor are all labeled with my company’s name.

DAMNIT.

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.

Maybe the black button is the “fix trash compactor” button.

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.

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? Does my big brother know how to fix a trash compactor? Cause I could call him. 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.

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.

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. And I know better than to push any more buttons.

And now I just do my best to never be around when it’s time for a trash run.

And also, it smells really bad over there.

Life Lessons (One Hundred.)

2011-01-25T08:00:00.000-08:00

The beloved coming-of-age teen dramas of my youth have led me horribly, horribly astray.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

2010-12-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

This blog is going on hiatus until January.

Because even self-deprecating narcissists need a break.

See you in 2011!

Holidays for Grown-Ups

2010-12-02T18:00:00.001-08:00

That’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.

The holiday season is essentially the ultimate challenge that the entire year leads up to; as kids, we worked to be good, or at least covertly bad, so we could get that pony we asked for every year, 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. And as adults, we spend all year saving money in the “Christmas gift” fund, 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.’ Around September, we start unpacking the wool coats and scarves, and get reacquainted with the color combinations of red and green, blue and white, 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.

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. Cough, my mother, cough. 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. 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!

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.

When you’re a kid, Christmas is nothing but bright, shiny paper, toys-r-us catalogs on Saturday mornings and advent calendar chocolates, what is this one, a bible verse? Bleh. This door sucks. Holidays are tailored for children. It’s the root of some of the most significant life lessons. Patience. Charity. Figuring out that you only have to be well behaved for the last three months leading up to December 25^th because mom and dad don’t really remember much before then, save for a fist fight or minor arson conviction. 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, and that you have more than either of your brothers, on account of how girls rule and boys drool.

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, 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. While I was disappointed that my parents seemingly didn’t get the hint, I learned the power of specificity and detail. 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.

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. 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. 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, 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. 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.

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 always go with “he really liked cats.” That works best in my family.

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, or they’ll holiday spirit-sue you. 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. Again, I suggest booze. You have to offer to help cook/clean/organize at any party or family event you attend, 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.

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.

Besides, fewer people can judge me for blaring “(It Must’ve Been Ol’) Santa Claus” by Harry Connick Jr. on repeat.

And that, my friends in blogland, is what I call a win.

11.25 [2010]

2010-11-25T06:01:00.000-08:00

The Most Complicated Non-Relationship, ever.

2010-11-25T06:00:00.046-08:00

There are approximately 1,056 different ways to reject someone without actually having to say “I don’t like you.” I am responsible for just like half of those. 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. Reference to a previous blog, whaaaat!

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. Who else gets asked out and dumped in the same night? Just me. 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. Effort does suck, in his defense.

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.

Because when it comes to dating, my life is this.

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...

Oh, come ON. You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell is even in Latvia?

“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”

Okay, so I’m smart and pretty, and you forgot hilarious, but whatever. I can deal. Just fit it in somewhere else. 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.

She looks more like this.

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 mean, they weren’t even invited to play in the World Cup. That’s pretty embarrassing. But seriously, for real, have a freaking blast. I’m over it. I hope you get eaten by some kind of Latvian mountain lion. It sounds like you’re going to be really successful and happy in Latvia.

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 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.

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, 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. 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:

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 MOON 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, something about a bloody brick through a DMV window, and that will be that. The point is, at least we’ll know. 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.

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. Not to mention how completely devoid of blog topics I'd be.

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 'LOVE ME!' in his face. If for no other reason that how much it doesn't work.

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.

It's like my fabulous friend Wies said, "Oh no, Eleanor. Do you need a new project? Try knitting."

The Battle of DMV-Pleasanton [alternately titled: How California hates Texas.]

2010-11-18T06:00:00.006-08:00

I don’t think it needs to be stated again, but I will for continuity sake: I am broke. 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. Apparently they think I’m planning on checking out hundreds of books, and making a run for the Texas border. 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, in vain, that this would be a one-trip affair.

I don’t know why I pretend like things will ever be easy.

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, EVEN THOUGH IT’S UNLOCKED NOW, 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.

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.

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. What are the chances? Man, I’m one detail-oriented Russian spy.

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.

“Previous License State or Foreign country: TEXAS”

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. The conservatives are coming! The conservatives are coming!

Now, now my friend in the California state bureaucracy is glaring at me kind of menacingly. And of course, she still doesn’t have enough “proof.” They always want proof. 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? Which I guess is fair, since the Golden State is so disgustingly green, and Texans really like SUV’s.

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?

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.”

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. Be whoever you want, just don’t be different. 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. Oops, our bad.

But then again, Texas had George W. and well, oops, that was OUR bad.

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.

But don’t worry, Chief Golden Bear has a plan.

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.”

But here’s the thing both California, and Texas for all intents and purposes, don’t realize about me. I’m not a quitter. You think you can subdue me with a run-around, illogical governmental process? I’ve been wasting other people’s time my whole life; I know how this works. 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. Now who’s screwed?

Game on, California.

Currently Seeking: Seasonal Boyfriend. [ +author notes. ]

2010-11-11T06:00:00.003-08:00

I fell asleep to the sounds of rain and wind last night. Well, I fell asleep, then woke up going, “what the hell is that sound?” and then fell BACK asleep to it. In the beautiful Bay Area of California, that means it is officially winter. And while we’re on it, does this mean we get two falls next year? Cause uh, we got skipped. 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.

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 seems 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. He’ll work it out on his own.

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? Did I really just drop $60 bucks on someone who doesn’t realize New Orleans isn’t a state? So the selection process has to last longer; it has more significant questions, and it’s all about reading between the lines. Because the state of New Orleans is actually only a tiny part of the conglomerate state of Louisiana.

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, unless it’s my human body, which rests annoyingly healthy at 96.4 degrees, rendering me the crazy chick that is always freezing. 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. 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. 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.

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. Being able to tell your uncle that you’re not single because of that really annoying way you end every sentence with “I’m just saying.” 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 know that you would rather be alone than go to one of their stupid Sunday afternoon tea + sandwich parties. 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.

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. 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.

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, oh dang, I can’t feel my legs.

I have one of those. The guy I always want to run into, 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? He’s the guy that I will ramble about for hours 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 that guy. But what happens when that guy is an idiot and doesn’t get with the program by the right calendar date? 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?

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.

“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.”

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. 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.”

--------

Some notes:

+ I am embarking on a couple new projects at the end of Twenty-Ten, thumbs down to all you two thousand and ten-ers, 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. A little piece of me dies every time I write "not this address." So I am extending an invite for all my readers to send me their addresses, don't worry, I only stalk within my own zip code. And whatever zip code Jake Gyllenhaal lives in, so if you're interested, e-mail me here with your info.

+ I am often quoting that line from Julie & Julia, 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, not one of my strongest qualities, 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 "Ask Eleanor [with caution]" 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.

+ 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 other favorite blogger m.holshev - 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.

it's just like an interior design consultant, for my life.

2010-11-04T06:00:00.003-07:00

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?!”

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. Now who looks dumb?

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. And might be a raging alcoholic. 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, though I have incredibly high standards for hygiene so it really limits the playing field there, 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.

Don’t believe me? Don’t worry, I have an example.

Let me introduce Captain GreenShirt and his friend, Scruffy McBlackShirt.

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. Roll tide, roll? And all the while, this conversation is happening about three feet from us.

Thanks ladies. Now, was I looking for my future husband on the streets of New Orleans? No, not really. Oh did I forget to mention that’s where this is taking place? Yep, Bourbon Street. Another solid choice on my part. But the fact of the matter still stands the same. When presented with a choice, this is almost invariably the outcome.

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. Or I’d be qualified in the way that people would ask, “What would Eleanor do” and then NOT do that thing. So arranged marriage starts to sound pretty good to me.

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.

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. And what’s that old phrase? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

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, all car salesmen be warned, P. Thibeaux is not to be hustled, 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. And by proverbial, I mean…Jake Gyllenhaal as the Prince of Persia.

Aka - This guy.

...word.

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 feel, I’ll just play a lot of online scrabble and get an amazon.com credit card under the name “Princess Eleanor of hypothetical Persia.”

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.

I’m throwing in the towel.

Let’s do this.

Concert First Dates (and how I abuse my power to ruin other's happiness.)

2010-10-07T06:00:00.004-07:00

Every time I interview myself in the bathroom mirror while applying make up, don’t judge, you know you do it, too, I always as me the same question: Where DO you come up with your material?

Well, me, the answer is simple, really. My life is my source.

As an audio engineer, that’s right, it only took about 91 posts before I finally got to what I “do” for a living. Huzzah. 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, or some groups that can only be classified as “experimental noise.” 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. 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. But even setting my own role in this aside for just a moment, concerts really do make for a truly awful first date.

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. 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. 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.

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. 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? 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.

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. And I refuse to be the first person to be taken out by a pair of shoes, even if they are Steve Madden. 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. Really good going, dude.

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?

So I will see your awkward swaying, and raise you an almost-painful decibel wall of sound. Just call me Phil Spector, right down to the “might be a serial killer” tendencies. 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.” 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.

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, you know, when you have run out of things to say to each other anyway.

Fight, Flight, or Flip the Monopoly board when he's not looking.

2010-09-30T06:00:00.036-07:00

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.

Then take her out the middle of a lake and let a rainstorm ruin her clothes.

Because when it’s love, you have to fight. Not just for love, but also, for your right to party.

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. Yeah, I said it, Nicholas Sparks, what are you gonna do about it? 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?

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.

I’ve been in relationships. The good kind, the ambiguous kind, or as I like to refer to them, common law relationships, 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. Well, you ARE the one who suggested it.

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. 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.

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, toss in a, “there’s no crying in baseball” here and there, 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.

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. 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. 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. Well, except for the person who owned the game, because those pieces are kind of important if you ever want to play again.

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. Seriously, back off the hair. It was a thing I was doing at the time. It was just a phase. 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. He knows how to undo the same knots you do, and if he doesn't, well, there are books.

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.

After all, true love is never having to hear him read his Miranda Rights.

technically, literally, actually.

2010-09-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

Some of you might have noticed, most of you probably didn't...

There was no blog last Thursday.

I ran into some technically difficulties. The difficulty being: everything I wrote technically sucked.

Don't believe me?

Forget you, ClipIt. 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'll be back on schedule this week. Thanks for your involuntary patience.

Peter Pan Generation: Second to the right, then straight on 'til late morning, early afternoonish. Text me first.

2010-09-16T06:00:00.020-07:00

The other day, I called my mother in a panic.

Mom: Hello, dear.

Eleanor: Am I a fuck up?

Mom: It’s so unattractive when you use that language.

Eleanor: Am I?

Mom: Are you what? Unattractive? When you talk like that, yes.

Eleanor: No, Mom. A fuck up.

Mom: You know I don’t know what that means.

Eleanor: Useless, directionless, a failure at being grown up.

Mom: Oh sweetie, you’re just…a free spirit.

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.

Mom: Your anxiety attacks are fascinating.

Eleanor: …Thanks.

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.” These are also the same careers I wanted when I was 7. 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. If I’m not responsible enough to rent a car, then I don’t have to be responsible for anything.

I am a proud member of the Peter Pan Generation.

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. 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.

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.

There are five generally accepted milestones of achieving adulthood in our society.

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.

Let’s take a gander at these life goals that I’m supposed to be working avidly towards.

1. Completing school: Well see, there you go. I have not one, but TWO pieces of cardstock paper protected by overpriced custom frames. Level 1, completed.

2. Leaving Home: Okay, well I did that. Then I went back, not unlike 40% of my generation, so back off, 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. Level 2, completed – but I think I lost a life in the process. Hopefully one of the next levels will have an opportunity for a 1UP.

3. 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?” Level 3, GAME OVER.

4. Marriage: To this, I say with eloquence: do what now? I have my own apartment. I manage my bills, avoid evictions, I grocery shop, or don’t, and consequentially skip entire meals, sometimes I even clean. This is, however, only for myself. And it would be horrifying to admit how often my dishes go undone, and laundry piles up. The only relationships I’m even halfway good at are with my local bartenders and sandwich shop owners. Whose love, I believe, is only semi-conditional. 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 are home. And I think marriage makes people boring. Don’t believe me? Go on my Facebook newsfeed.

Unmarried McAwesome: is going cliff diving in Costa Rica, and then is going to meet up with Indiana Jones for a secret excursion.

Married LeNolife: is spending Friday night with her new puppy, and making Banana Nut Bread.

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:

5. 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.

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, all the while complaining about this damned economy, and then just go back to school for a graduate’s program because, well, what else is there to do? Move back in with my parents? Hell no, I still haven’t studied in Australia!

In my generation, most 20-somethings are “remain[ing] un-tethered” to romantic partners or permanent homes. We avoid ties like we avoid responsibility, like we avoid dinner with the parents. 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 most 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.

Whether it’s fear, laziness, economical circumstance, or some crazy neurological development process, and let’s not rule out the ever-popular mommy-and-daddy-issues, the fact is that my fellow 20-somethings and I are simply in no rush to be grown ups.

Because grown-ups become pirates. And we kill pirates.

Lookie, lookie – I’ve got Hookie. I couldn’t help it. Sorry.

"What Is It With 20-Somethings?" by Robin Marantz Henig

Bottom Line: I'll be Queen with or without you.

2010-09-09T07:00:00.005-07:00

Recently, I’ve been throwing around the word “accidentally” too often. I accidentally gave a guy my number. I accidentally went on a date with him. I accidentally told him I was a lesbian. It was an accident.

Okay, the last one was really just my fault, 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.

But seriously, the first two are a direct result of the communication breakdown between boys and girls of the 21^st century. The girls are embracing the challenges and structures of romantic confrontation, and the boys, well, the boys just want to "kick it."

It usually goes something like this:

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. Not to mention that Smarmy Pete never even slightly resembles Heath Ledger, but that's almost irrelevant at this point.

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.) 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? 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 mean, what the hell kind of life lesson is that? 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 didn't have much patience for governmental logistics.

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 knew 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.

Because while my I was watching "Runaway Bride" for the 30th time, daydreaming about all the ways Brian, the adorable drummer from fifth period Geometry could prove to be my very own Richard Gere, 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.

Translation: They were doing everything humanly possible to avoid learning the rules of dating.

Consequence: "wanna hang out?"
Answer: No. Pass. Super pass.

Why? Because it's wrong. You got it all wrong. Try again. I do not want to hang out. 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.

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. Even in my fantasy life, my standards and lowered and realistic, because really, King of France? Can you say 'under-achiever?' 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. 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. Just man up, say what you mean, and under no circumstance should you shrug at any point during the conversation.

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.

...and "Tuesday" presents.

Clause 13B

2010-09-02T07:00:00.025-07:00

In 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.

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.” It’s three in the morning. That’s when I’m watching Law & Order: SVU marathons, duh.

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.

So I have developed the contractual agreement that I like to refer to as “Clause 13B.”

Clause 13B is an amendment to the binding friendship contract signed, and mutually adhered to between two “friends.” (intensity of relationship to be defined previously in the contract.) 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.

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.

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 use the term, “kill” because once he starts talking to me, I wish I were dead. 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.” Next, he usually asks if I’m okay, on account of how I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

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. In the “I was just attacked with a road-side bomb by a bunch of militant vigilantes in the desert” kind of way.

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.”

Result of Clause 13B execution: Tecate Tony is temporarily thrown off his path, and I am able to slip away silently into the night.

Now, while Tecate Tony’s are easy to spot, or at least smell by the distinct aroma of dollar store cologne, the Smarmy Pete’s are a different story.

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? Come on Pete, is that even a question?

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.

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. What gets me are the people that don’t think I’m funny.

*Yeah, I’m talking about you, CargoPants Todd. What’s WITH you?

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. 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.

This is a situation that needs an earlier, unexpected initiation of Clause 13B.

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, 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. 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.

Result of Clause 13B execution: 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.

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 Sex and the City and less like Bender from Futurama, but it doesn’t. I guess that’s the difference between Manolo Blahniks and Chuck Taylors.

Yeah, THAT’S the difference.

Summer 2010, abridged.

2010-08-28T15:45:00.003-07:00

As it is nearing the end of August 2010, I figured I'd do a summer recap.

Okay, you caught me, I was too lazy to think of something to write about. But hey thanks for calling me out on that. The underside of this bus you threw me beneath is really dark.

So here it goes.

+ With my partner in crime, I explored classy SF dining, and finally found a good French restaurant, Cafe Bastille. Only downside, the three pronged fork. As Sheldon Cooper once stated, "Forks have 4 prongs, not three. Three is a trident. Forks are for eating, tridents are for ruling the seven seas."

+ I had a birthday. I turned 23. I started a new trend among my friends that I will never live down. I have successfully inspired all of my friends to be as obnoxious as humanly possible on their birthday BECAUSE it's their birthday.

+ I made my list of 23 things to do while being 23 years old. It includes taking a road trip somewhere new, making my own font, and going to my very first NFL game. One of the runner's up was, "Sing that line from 'What's My Age Again?' as many times as possible.

Because it's true, no body likes you when you're 23.

+ Even with working in the city from time to time, and the occasional trip across the bridge, I spent the summer successfully avoiding the concept of cliche Bay Area tourism. Although a photobomb-less summer was a bit of a disappointment.

+ I worked. I worked early in the morning, I worked late at night. I worked at home, I worked on site. I worked indoors, I worked out, I worked the Bay Area throughout.

+ My brother came to visit, and we hit a variety of hot spots. Livermore wine tasting, Half Moon Bay, the California Pacific Highway, and the Heart & Dagger saloon. I will be offering tours this winter, as well. See me for rates.

+ I gave up on 2010, and decided to live in 1997. All 90's music, all the time. Blues Traveler, Semisonic, Smashing Pumpkins, Cake. Absolutely no Nirvana or Whitney Houston. Because I like myself more than that.

+ I got out of Oakland, and I went to the beach. I got out of Oakland and I went to the Livermore and Pleasanton valleys. I got out of Oakland, and I went to the OTHER post office.

+ I spent almost every day with Shelby, and it was amazing. We formed a gang, a team, and wrote up a secret friendship contract. We coined catch phrases, made plans, bailed on plans to watch Criminal Minds, and ate sandwiches for multiple meals a day. We were told, "hanging out with you two is like a really bad case of Deja Vu." And we high-fived. A lot.

+ I let my apartment get too messy, I let my laundry go undone. I threw my hair in pigtails without blow drying it a few too many times. I didn't take my nail polish off when it got chipped. I put off doing the dishes a lot. I drank mimosas on back patios and had brunch with friends. I left my windows open at night, and marathoned TV shows. I lived my life.

Autumn really has her work cut out for her.

I love The Census, ver. 2.0

2010-08-21T22:50:00.004-07:00

If you remember correctly, I love the census.

Well apparently, not only do I love it, but I am really good at it. Because I was asked by the leaders of the Free World's Census Bureau to do a REinterview.

Seriously.

See? So basically a "reinterview" means that they have more in-depth questions, based off my answers from Census 1.0. This is funny to me, because most of my answers were "no" or "white."

Now let's talk about the government. My government seems to be under the impression that the time a 23-year-old, single resident, white girl is most available between the hours of 7 pm and 9 pm on Friday and Saturdays. Needless to say, I didn't answer the first three times they called. I respect the Census, or at least I fear the government enough not to do an interview with them at a bar. I might be able to out-sass Barack, but Joe Biden doesn't mess around.

Finally, one particularly sunny Thursday afternoon, around two, Beverly from the U.S. Census Bureau got ahold of me. Now, I'm the first person to admit that when it comes to diversity and uniqueness of citizenship, I'm the United State's worst example.

Why? Because this is me:

Single. Female. Early 20's. White.

But for some inexplicable reason, they wanted to delve further into my socioeconomic and cultural credentials. So we start with my name. Eleanor. E-L-E-A-N-O-R. One more time? E. L. E. A, as in adobe. N. O. R, as in resistance, as in futile. Last name. (dear lord.) T-H-I-Beta-E-A-U-Xena, as in "the warrior princess. Oh, Thibodeaux? No. Thibeaux. Tee-bow. Oh like Tim? No, nothing like Tim. Oh.

Four and a half minutes later, we've moved on. Now it's about my age.

How old were you on April 22, 2010?

22.

When is your birthday?

The first of July.

So you are now how old?

...23.

Ok, good.

Yes, I thought so.

A couple more questions about my living situation, and we've moved on to race. (I live ALONE. 500 sq. feet doesn't leave much space for illegal immigrants but I could see why you'd guess that. I do have a friend named Francisco.)

This was my favorite part of the interview. Never in my life have I ever felt so culturally devoid. The game was "yes" or "no" and the list was infinite.

Are you: White? Yes. African-American? No. Hispanic? No. Asian? No. Native American? No. Pacific Islander? No. Another race not previously named? No.

If someone asked you what race you were, what would be your natural answer? White.

Then Bev, cause I think at this point, we're nickname status, and I requested she just refer to me as "citizen" due to my affinity for all things Star Trek, asks me to think about how "others" perceive me.

Do other people think you are White? Yes. African-American? Really not. Asian? Nope. Hispanic? No ma'am. Native American? Never. Pacific Islander? Negatory. Other? Erm, no. The creative writer in me couldn't stand to keep saying the same word over again, as I put my vocabulary to the test trying to come up with new ways to say, "no."

The Bevs is now laughing at me. Let's be honest, I'm laughing at me. Because the bottom line is, I'm white. At this point in the interview, I break it down for Bev-er-bee. "Would it help if I just told you that I'm incredibly pale? Seriously, it's impressive. Blindingly white."

She asks me for the origin of my family. I am tempted to respond with, "Texas," even though I know she's just scouring my family tree for some kind of national allegiance. So I reply, "French and Scottish." Then dear, sweet Beverly asks me to spell Scottish. Oh, Bevz.

Now we're going to play the "Often, Sometimes, Rarely, Never" game. She is going to list different ethnicities, and I will reply with the degree in which I have been mistaken for them. I laugh, because I can already see how this is going, but know that government jobs aren't exactly the most fun of careers, so I'm not going to give her a hard time. But I'd just like some credit, JFK, this is what I can do for my country.

White? Often. African-American? Never. Native American? Never. Asian? Rarely. Really? No, Never. Hispanic? Nunca. What? Never. Pacific Islander? Never. Have you ever been mistaken for a race that was not named? Is vampire a race? No. Then nope.

Now she wants to talk about my parents. What race is your father? White. What race is your mother? White. How do you think I got this way?

My favorite question was next.

Eleanor, were you adopted? Man, this would be super awkward if I was and didn't know it. What did my parents census say? I'm gonna say, as far as I know - no.

Are my parents divorced? Did I live in a foster home? Did I live with a step parent?

No. Nope. Negative.

Come on Bev, clearly I grew up in the 1957 suburbs. 2 parents, 3 kids, family dog, white upper-middle class family from Spring, Texas. I'm what the government wants to know about?

Well Eleanor, that concludes our re-interview, thanks so much for your time.

It's been real, Bev. Sorry to be so uneventful and stereotypical.

Oh, that's okay. Have a good afternoon!

...Thanks.

Oh good, she's complaining. Something new.

2010-07-26T18:18:00.004-07:00

I am officially putting myself on food probation. It's like academic probation, but instead, when I eat too much, oh you know, ice cream topped with cake and a pie - I get kicked off the school soccer team and can't play in the championship and everyone gets mad at me and makes "Thibeaux is a Quitter" buttons that they wear every day. Just kidding, I'd never make the soccer team, I'm terrible. Absolutely zero eye-foot coordination. Other things I am bad at as a result of this: dancing, freestyle walking and dodging land-mines.

I've struggled with weight issues my whole life. Because let's face it, I'm never meant to be a skinny girl. I'm like two and a half skinny girls. No, I'm like if one skinny girl ate a moderately skinny girl. That would be me at my best. But when I was growing up, I watched too much TV and played sports and wanted to be popular and this is the solemn swan song of my teenage years. Bottom line, I wanted to be someone I was never going to be. So I did what any awkward, uncomfortable girl in the mid-nineties, early 2000's did, I overcompensated with humor. It was my own personal mission statement that I would use humor as a defense mechanism to mask my insecurities about myself and how disappointed I was every time I looked in the mirror until I was no longer disappointed. We all see how well the "until" part worked out.

I think the part that really sucked about my everlasting struggle with my weight was when I realized that all those stupid doctors and fitness instructors and nutritionists were absolutely right. There was no magic pill, no spell I could cast, because I think if there was, even Crabbe and Goyle would have figured it out, to instantaneously change my appearance. Growing up helped, of course. I'm much better as a young adult than I ever was as an adolescent. And of course I was never overweight enough to consider some kind of surgery, forget you National Institute of Health and your weight minimums, so I was simply stuck in the middle, not skinny enough, but not fat enough to get stapled, between the proverbial rock, and a hard place. The rock being my love of the couch and affinity for cake, and the hard place being my dislike of the concept and patrons of "the gym." It was also extra annoying because none of the easy foods, like frozen pizza or Kraft mac and cheese, are actually good for you. And being the sullen, rebellious teen I was, my parents couldn't even make me talk to them, let alone eat "healthy." I chalked their forced multi-colored meals up to parental tyranny and I stormed the castle in the form of Jack In The Box 99 cent tacos and Zebra Cakes.

Author's Note: upon scanning my Microsoft Word "Symbols" for the cent sign, because I didn't want to write out the word "cent" for no particular reason, I was mystified that while they offer the ohm symbol, there is not a cent symbol to be found. Now, I, being an audio engineer, might have a use for the mathematical term in which resistance is measured, but I cannot say that the general public needs to write "The speakers are rated 500 watts at 8 ohms" more than they would need to write, "There's the new store in town, everything is 99 cents."

It's been a lot of ups and downs, but at the end of 2009, I was finally within earshot of my ultimate weight goal. And if I'm being honest, I really deserved it. Not only did I spent 10 or more hours a week at that stupid 24-hour fitness voluntary torture warehouse, but I turned down cake. I turned down cake and french fries, and answered the question, "baked potato or salad?" with the s word more than once. It sucked. But finally getting to buy clothes you like in sizes that don't make you die inside is a reward. And finally looking like you fit in with your brothers who are essentially pipe-cleaner sized people is a reward. And not getting Kevin Smith-ed on any particular Southwest flight is a reward. And like any "formerly fat kid who found the light," I made a solemn vow: I will never look like that, again.

So that is why, my dearest friends, I am putting myself on food probation and mandatory sweat factory sessions. Because I'm too poor to buy new clothes, so the ones I've got simply have to fit. Even though I resent the gender bias when it comes to appearance and the demand for perfection, because it's not enough that I have to do the same work as you jackasses, it's not enough that I have to pretend like I care about other women's rights, but I have to look put together and flawless, and I have to shower every day while doing it. Call in Batman, we have an injustice only a seksi vigilante can handle. No, even though I resent it, I buy into wholeheartedly. Plus, Eleanor 2.0 owes it to original Eleanor to stay the right shape. Original Eleanor turned down delicious, flavor-filled carbs and suffered through tasteless "could have come from my backyard" salads for Eleanor 2.0.

But my battle cry will always be, as it has always been, I hate the gym.

How drinking makes me magic, self esteem issues, and the trouble of turning 23.

2010-07-02T20:30:00.003-07:00

I blame Panic! at the Disco and Fall Out Boy for my obsession with really long titles. I think they're funny. All-inclusive hilarity, like me on an open bar cruise.

I'm forcing myself to down a 20 oz. coffee before 9:15 pm, because I have to go back to work. Work: the job that ruined my manicure, made me bleed, and will be the reason that within a couple months, I will give the hulk a run for his money. On account of my muscles, not my already overdramatic temper, but I see why you automatically went there. No really, I love it. The reason I'm telling you this? Because sometimes it's fun to pretend like my life is super hard and I really like sympathy. Almost as much as I like attention. Actually, I think the two go hand-in-hand. You won't understand, you're not a middle child! Moving on.

The other night, I was out with some friends at the bar - and the aroma of baking pizza dough was drifting through the patio area from a few buildings away. So naturally, my friends and I called in our order. The great thing about that detail is that we googled the number for Lanesplitters, and phoned in our order, and the place is literally 2 doors down from the bar. And as we are devouring our pizza, because that shit was gone in about 7 minutes, one of my friends from out of town asked why we hadn't thought to order a pizza sooner.

And so I explained.

In the Harry Potter series, penned by the amazingly talented JK Rowling, there is a bar located in London called the Leaky Cauldron. In the first novel, it is described as a hole-in-the-wall pub that seemed to be invisible to passer-bys. Rowling writes, "Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it." Basically, it's a building that can only be seen by wizarding folk. Lanesplitters is the Leaky Cauldron of Oakland; it can only be seen by magic people. However, the thing that makes people magic is three or more alcoholic beverages.

I've lived in this area for almost 8 months now, and the only time I think to go to Lanesplitters is when I have passed the third drink marker. It's only after that third gin and juice that I realize Lanesplitters is there, and that it is delicious. And once I see it, I can't imagine life without it. It has never taken me longer than 8 minutes to finish a slice of pepperoni pizza. And that is including my drunken chatter, because I may or may not have a tendency to soberly talk at people, so when I've been drinking, it's a wonder if anyone gets a word in. I've always said it, but now I have the perfect explanation to back up my beliefs. Drinking makes me magic.

Speaking of Harry Potter, two other things come to mind. Okay, about a hundred other things come to mind, including that time I was watching Lord of the Rings and yelled "Expecto Patronum" when Gollum attacked Frodo. But more importantly, two immediately relevant things come to mind. The first being my need to admit that Harry Potter June was a bit of a failure. Damn you, Catholic guilt. I only made it through 4.5 books. It turns out I might be a little busier than I thought.

The second thing is a quote from my very fantastic friend Kristin.

"Of course I tell people to read your blog. How could I not? But it's like telling someone to read Harry Potter. What do you say? Read Harry Potter, because it's amazing. That's all there really is to say."

First off, I'm going to overlook the fact that this was said on my birthday, which was last Thursday, she could have just been playing by the rules*, and take it as pure truth and sincerity. If I had a fan page on facebook, I'd think this would be worthy of being in the "about me section." Oh wait, I do. That's right folks, my blog has reached fandom status. Well, either that, or I have friends who like the internet as much as I do. Kristin will be handling all my publicity now. Though I hope I don't really "make it" cause then I'd have to make it offic (pronounced "oh-ffish") with like, documents and crap. And I hate documents. But I like filing them. It's such a dilemma.

Here's the problem with having a fan page. You all knew I couldn't just be happy about it. While I am absolutely delighted to know that people I've never met are reading my blog and finding it mildly entertaining, having a fan page, with a fan counter, is absolutely a new source for self-consciousness and paranoia. It's like how I check my comments on this repetitively. I have to know. I have this insatiable need to be liked, which does not go well with my incurable sarcastic reflex. So basically, I want to be snarky about everything, and then I expect people to think it's funny and like me for it. Is that not really how it works? So with the addition of a fan page, I now have the ability to see exactly how many people like me, and even worse, how many people thought they liked me, and then changed their minds. What happens when one day, I have 25 fans, and then I check a few days later, like I invariably will, and I only have 23? Well readers, two things will happen.

1. I will think, for hours, about all the different scenarios that have occured in the last 72 hours to cause someone to go through the effort of finding my page, and "unlike"ing it. Was it something I said? Have I insulted any cultural groups lately? Were my attempts to mask someone's identity when I was making fun of them too thin, and therefore transparent? Author's Note: I never do that.

2. I will begin the process of trying to figure out who it was. I will scour people's newsfeeds seeing if it says "Joe NotFunny has unliked Eleanor Thibeaux" see what I did there? It's a defense mechanism. Don't judge. And when I don't find that, I will start checking the page more frequently, as to keep better tabs on my fans. I might be the creepiest paranoid blogger that has ever lived. Am I crazy? Yes. It's like my mom told me once, "yes Eleanor, you're a bit crazy, but it's only in a really, really good way." Thanks, Mom.

And if you can believe it, in all this craziness of fan pages and work, I turned 23. And as if you weren't convinced that I was insane by all the information I've divulged, let me tell you about the 48 hours of my birthday.

Something happens in my brain when it's my birthday. June 30 - July 2 is a period of time, the only period of time in my year, when I completely drop the facade of being a well-balanced, polite, self-aware individual. Strangely enough, it's also the period of time when I lose the most friends... weird, huh? I'm kidding. Sort of. It's definitely a period of time when I test my friendships to see who the real keepers are. (Shelby Cook and Brian Gomez passed with flying colors.)

So Wednesday was the start of "it's my birthday." I said that about every other sentence. Best part? It wasn't even technically true. But the truth becomes a sort of a relative abstraction around July 1. And that night, I went out. I mean that in the most literal definition. I went out, I really went out. At one point, I was telling a stranger, I believe his name was Dave? Maybe it was Peter. No wait, I think it was Andrew. You know what, that's irrelevant. Anyway, BarGuy McNoName told me that I couldn't be Batman because I was a girl. So I explained to him that first off, he was wrong, and the reason he was wrong was because it was my birthday. Secondly, I explained that he wouldn't feel that way if I had my utility belt on. A utility belt that contains a flask, hotel bottles of various liquor, a holster of straws, a mag light, and a grappling hook, of course.

I can tell you how that night started, played out, and ended with one sentence.

I fell asleep in my leather jacket.

Thursday morning I woke up, and I was still a little drunk. I was afraid of being hungover on my birthday, so I went to the bar. Apparently no one told them it was my birthday, and on my birthday, rule number 5a, my bar should open at 9:30 am. So I waited.

In the retelling of this story, a friend said, "what's amazing about you is how drunk you get the night before, close a bar, and then are up at 9:30 the next morning. In the showing of this picture, the owner of Heart and Dagger simply said, "aww Eleanor, you look so sad."

After I accepted that I'd have to wait, my silly drunk self went to breakfast. It turns out, 23 year-old Eleanor still really loves breakfast. And Bacon.

Apple mimosas. Because I wasn't intoxicated enough for 10 am.

Guess what I did next? That's right, I took a birthday nap. for three hours. The best part about napping on your birthday? You wake up, and it's still your birthday! Went to dinner with the only two people willing to tolerate me for another six hours, and I realized at this point that their patience was wearing thin. They were operating strictly on genuine love for me as a normal person, and the unyielding faith that this was just another day that would have to end at some point, and they could get their less obnoxious friend back.

Thursday night, there were shots. Thursday night, there were drinks that I didn't pay for, and drinks I didn't ask for. Thursday night, there were friends, and Thursday night at midnight, those friends sought their revenge. Turns out my own medicine? Pretty bitter.

Friday morning I returned to my senses, exited the birthday fog with my remaining dignity, because did I really sing and dance to every single Queen song that played on the jukebox? The rumor is that I really did, and went back to work as an almost functional, or as functional as I ever was, 23 year-old.

* "the rules" - this term refers to my self established set of guidelines for appropriate behavior of all parties on my birthday. This list includes, but is not limited to, "laughing at all my jokes, not making fun of me, agreeing with whatever I say, tolerating drunken rambling about my birthday, how awesome I am, and how much I love the internet."

"Are you this cute in real life?" and other questions I don't know how to answer.

2010-06-28T14:10:00.010-07:00

Internet Dating.

No one ever wants to admit that every month $39.99 gets automatically deducted from their checking account to pay for their eHarmony or Match.com account. And for those of us who think the "science of love" is total crap, or at least not worth 40 bucks, there are free sites like okCupid! or gk2gk. No one wants to admit that they spend the hours of 11 pm to 1 am answering personal questions about their likes and dislikes, or scouring profile after profile, looking for the 90% or more match of their dreams. And absolutely no one wants to admit that their date on Friday night with Peter, the 27 year old male from Castro Valley, CA who loves computers, working on his dirt bike and cooking, was arranged by a cupid-themed marshmallow.

i.e. this guy:

"I think you both like computers!"

...thanks, marshmallow. That'll be a riveting conversation.

That being said, now I will divulge a very true, only slightly pathetic fact: I have an online dating profile.

There are several reasons I signed up on okCupid.com. The truth of the matter is that meeting guys in bars is a terrible idea. This was a trial and error realization. The guy you're looking for is not in a bar. Which I often argued, 'but erm, I'm in a bar, so...is he not going to want to hang out with me?' He's in a cafe. He's in a bookstore. He's reading "Atlas Shrugged" on his way to volunteer at a soup kitchen on the SFO/Daly City BART train. He's standing next to you in the Indie Rock section of Rasputin Music, reading the credits on the newest Bon Iver album. 'Have you heard this one? Is it any good?' he'll ask. He doesn't even really know who Bon Iver is, he just wants an excuse to talk to you. You will love telling that story when introducing him to friends as your fiance.

Here's the thing, I don't talk to strangers in cafes. I don't go to bookstores to buy books, I order them from amazon.com, or steal them from friends. I don't talk to anyone on BART and being poor prevents me from being able to buy new CD's. And if I go to a music store, I'll walk out with enough records to disqualify me from the express lane at any grocery store.

I don't go out much, and when I do, it's a bar, or it's the movies, and you know all those golden opportunities to meet adorable firemen in a dark theater with everyone shushing everyone all the time. And it's always with friends. Man friends. Giant man friends. The point being, I spend approximately 86% of my life entirely inaccessible. So unless I reach the point of sheer desperation that I start setting small fires to try to draw my soulmate to me, which has crossed my mind more than once, I'm left with few options.

So my okCupid account was born. I think that vanity and my compulsive desire to talk about myself all the time played a big role in the initial sign up. When most people don't even like to write "self-summaries" in 500 or less words, I excel. It's all about the simple declarative statements. And try to make them as unrelated to each other as possible. "I like the internet. I don't play games I'm bad at. I like to give high-fives. I am a fan of sandwiches." See the picture I just painted? Don't bore people with your autobiography. If you're looking to make a connection with someone, you won't do it by telling him/her about how many times you've moved back and forth between Omaha, NE and Dansville, CA, or the name of your childhood pet. These are online banking security answers, not charming, interesting banter.

But I think the main reason I have an okC account is strictly for validation purposes. Am I interesting? Can I get my sense of humor to translate based off my dry, snarky responses to general questions? I use my social networking accounts and online profiles as writing practice just as much as I use them for their intended purposes. Sure, I love to meet new people, whatever. More than that, I think I like new people to meet me, and tell me I'm funny. Looking for love? Meh, not really. Looking for an ego boost? Heck yes. Always.

Still, I don't honestly believe that I will find my soulmate on the internet. Not because he won't like the internet, because I'm positive my adorable fireman who loves baseball and Harry Potter has a facebook, but because when it comes to technology, and internet etiquette, my standards are off the charts. If you use the wrong form of "your/you're," I've judged you. If you misspell simple words, e.g. intregued or my self, I've judged you. I have a "no response" policy for any messages sent with complete disregard for punctuation, or excessive use of ellipsis. Yes, it's a real grammatical thing, but not...everything...needs...to...trail off... Also, it should be noted, that it's just the three periods. Not six. Not eight. Eight periods does not mean it's a longer trail or omission of words. Eight periods makes you look stupid. I don't support text speak on the internet. In a character limit situation, I can understand the use of "u" instead of "you." I still refuse to use "u" or "ur" in texts. I will just send 2 messages. However, when it comes to typed messages, writing out the words is imperative with me. I think shorthand writing online makes a person look lazy, under-educated and obnoxious. If your message starts out, "how r u," please understand that I never plan on telling you "how i is."

No, after much debate, I'm sure that the person I end up with will not be from an internet dating site. Because even if he doesn't know the difference between there/their/they're, at least I'll learn to like other things about him more before I figure that out. And then I'll just be stuck. And isn't that what love and marriage is all about?

But for now, I'll just practice being witty and charming with written word, and get a couple free movies or dinners out of the process.

Hey, don't judge, a girl's gotta eat.

and I just really love movies.

My certificate should arrive any day now.

2010-05-04T08:00:00.003-07:00

By now, most people know that the main reason I have a blog is so I can talk about myself in a place where no one is allowed to interrupt me. Not that people get much of a chance to interrupt me in real life, because a lot of times - Italklikethis.

However, I've been thinking, maybe I should give back to the internet community. You know? Maybe I should share some of my knowledge, give advice to anyone who aspires to live their life like I live mine. It is unfair to have this much talent at so many different types of things, like finding ways to avoid cleaning, marathoning television shows, having a job without actually working, daytime drinking, and not at least let my readers in on some of my secrets.

So here is my first in what will hopefully become a series of advice blogs:

How to Achieve, and Maintain "Regular" Status At A Bar

After months of persistence, hard work and sheer determination, I have finally managed to become a regular at the local dive bar, Heart & Dagger Saloon. Now, some people might scoff at this, rolling their eyes and judging me for my ridiculous goals, but let me be frank when I say achieving this kind of status takes effort, and even moreso, maintaining it takes skill. I don't mind being the one to say it out loud, since I know secretly, we all want our own "Cheers," and it's okay for you to be just a little bit jealous that I have found mine.

1. Sit at the bar. The simplest way to be remembered, make them look at your face. Not only will you get faster service, rather than waving a $20 in the air, running the risk of not only getting jacked, but also looking awkward and kind of like an idiot, you will also get to know the bartenders, as they tend to chat in between customers. They pretend to care what your name is to increase tips, and you can get their attention faster on crowded nights by knowing theirs. Win, win.

2. Tip. Seriously. Do you want watered down, 20-80 mix Jack and Cokes, or would you like to actually drink? Becoming a regular isn't just a matter of showing up all the time, it's getting in with the staff, and the fastest way to Bartender Joe's heart, aside from not being a total jackass, would be tipping decently, and consistently. When you're completely obliterated later, they'll put up with your shit for a little longer. And trust me, you will be.

3. Show up at off hours. Drinking on Monday's is one of my favorite past times. Make this happen. Nothing gets you known at a bar or drinking establishment more than being part of the only couple people there while the sun is still fairly high in the sky. Get in before the doorman is there to check your ID. Not only do you get a chance to publicly drink in a more calm environment, but you also get to pick what goes on the TV, discuss different brands of the alcohol of your choice, and potentially get three vetoes on the house iPod mix. For those of you who are strictly weekend drinkers, if you're looking to start up during the week, pace yourself. Don't go all in right away, your boss will absolutely notice you are still drunk. Again, please just trust me.

4. Open or close the bar (or both.) It doesn't matter if they're opening the doors for you, or ushering your silly self out at 2 am, being there to the extremes of the operation hours shows commitment. There's nothing like a race to the bar at last call to really prove your dedication to their establishment, and to the art of alcohol consumption. If it's a weekday, I don't recommend closing bars for the beginners. Start out with opening them, work your way up to the close. Leave the Wednesday last calls for the pro's.

5. Don't be a slob. Being a regular at a bar comes with a certain level of responsibility. You're not a newbie at this drinking thing, and you're not a passing headache. That means, if you spill your beer, ask for a towel or grab some napkins, don't just walk away. If you are drinking away from the bar front, bring up the empty glasses every once and a while. Unless you're drinking outside the 7-11, most times they serve the liquor in actual glasses. And those glasses are not self-cleaning, so don't horde them. Other people wanna get trashed, too. Be considerate.

6. High-five the bouncers. Underpaid, under-appreciated, and yet, these are actually some of the most important people to know at a bar. Bouncers/doormen can help keep you out of inevitable trouble, favor your side in any and all scuffles with the opposing riff-raff, and give you a little leniency when your drinking makes you say really stupid things. So acknowledge them. Learn their names, and give them high fives, the symbolic olive branch of the adult beverage community.

7. Bring new people. It's one thing for you to show up on even numbered days, but what is really going to get you the occasional free drink is to increase business for the place. Bring your friends. You like this bar, obviously, so don't shy away from introducing it to people that you think are decent enough to hang out with. It's great to have a core group of friends, but don't keep your diamond-in-the-rough drinking joint go unheard of. You can't single-handedly support the company, so let the word of mouth advertising do it's job, if for no other reason than to keep drink prices low, morale high, and the doors open.

8. Follow the rules. Most bars, especially local, hole-in-the-wall types, don't have a lot of rules. So don't be an idiot and try to break every damn near one of them. Don't try to smoke inside,. If it's cash only, don't be a douche and try to argue why they should take your AMEX card. Who the hell are you, anyway? Don't be the guy that puts his Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboy on the pool table. Don't use the vintage arcade games as chairs, and don't try to get free songs on the jukebox because you think you're crafty. You are not.

9. Commit. Being a regular takes persistence. If you're going to do this, then you really have to do it. Doing the things that I've suggested will help expedite the process, but then you can't just fall off the wagon. See how it works both ways? Pick a bar with a good vibe, good music, and the least amount of people you want to fatally wound with a snapped pool cue. When you can start telling you're friends you'll be at "the bar" and they stop asking what bar you're talking about, well, it's a good feeling. I should note, when you start thinking about changing your mailing address to the bar, when you're friends start simply showing up there to find you rather than calling, or when you've passed out on a bench more than once on the back patio, then I suggest maybe taking a few nights off, or seeking some psychological help.

the things that come out of my mouth are astounding.

2010-04-27T13:12:00.007-07:00

My life is ridiculous. I think if I were to ever write a book, my publisher would be like, "okay, so this is clearly fiction." and when I tried to explain that it was my autobiography, he would just respond, "yeah, I'm not buying that."

You and me both, man.

I had an interview today. I looked like this:

Okay, I'm lying. I wasn't making that face. I wasn't angry at the job.

I was fairly optimistic, actually.

and cordial.

like this:

I still look a little skeptical, but you get the idea.

So I'm being interviewed. I'm answering questions.

It's awesome.

And then he asks me about being a woman in the audio industry.

"What's that like for you?"

I'm honest, and I respond.

"It's not always easy, but I don't mind. I get along with guys better, anyhow."

and he laughs. and says.

"I'm afraid you might be too attractive to work here."

yep. QUOTE.

So I was like:

I mean, I really don't know what I'm supposed to say to that. Uh, well, I could try to maybe, not wear make up? Talk about trying to throw someone off her game.

So I went with

"I could be less attractive, trust me. Not a problem."

and inside, I did this:

Fast Learner.

Responsible.

Works well under pressure.

Can be less attractive if necessary.

...my resume.

I used as many popular search terms as I could.

2010-04-21T12:46:00.005-07:00

I consider myself to be a bit of a search browser connoisseur. I’ve tried them all. I have Googled. I have searched Yahoo. Heck, I have even asked Jeeves once or twice. In my quest to find the fastest, and most inclusive search engine, I have left no URL unused. I even gave bing.com a fair shot, putting aside my overwhelming distaste for all things Bill Gates. The results were unchanged, however, as the simplicity and straightforwardness of google.com won out every time.

That was then, this is twenty-ten.

You can tell I’m serious by the way I just made that rhyme.

Through the Interweb grapevine, I heard of a new search engine/news/social-networking powerhouse called LeapFish.com. I won’t lie, at first, I thought it was in relation to those children’s educational toys, and I was a bit confused. Then I remembered that those were actually called LeapFrog, and well, frogs vs. fish, that’s an entirely different scientific classification all together. So, I managed to get over it, which is impressive, since I never get over anything. (I’m still upset about “No Country For Old Men” winning the 2009 Oscar for Best Picture. Insert ‘the Coen Brothers actually are the Academy’ joke here.)

LeapFish.com has integrated basic, simplistic search functionality with latest breaking news headlines, as well as the ability to link several social networking sites. Gone are the days of overloaded bookmark toolbars, I absolutely detest those horrid double angle bracket arrow things, because with LeapFish, it’s all on the first page. While our economy might be in a “recession” and "property value" might be at an all-time high, screen real estate still remains incredibly valuable, and hard to come by. This is where LeapFish dominates. I don’t need to keep four separate windows open to check for the latest tweets, Facebook posts, and whether or not Sandra Bullock was wearing her wedding ring at the Whole Foods on Santa Monica Blvd and Fairfax (I heard she wasn’t? zOMG.) All I need is LeapFish.com, and I’m set.

Do I sound like I'm getting paid for this?

Yes.

Am I?

No.

Do I wish I was?

...Yes.

Maybe you will disagree with me. Maybe you are already too accustomed to saying “just Google it” to make the switch now. Which, by the way, will be the reason google won't have copyright jurisdiction over it’s own name. Kleenex, round two, my friends. Proper noun does not equal verb. This is merely a friendly suggestion from one internet lover to another.

My only request is that if you start saying “LeapFish that,” don’t tell them I told you about it. I’m not so much for the ‘getting big-time sued’ thing.

New [vintage] tech toys

2010-03-31T10:25:00.000-07:00

Today started out like this: I had a lovely breakfast with my dearest Shelby. We were originally planning on grabbing a bagel from Noah's. Then we walked by Lakeshore Cafe, and suddenly I couldn't imagine not eating my usual scrambled eggs/chicken apple sausage/english muffin combo. And water. Last night I finished a bottle of Sapphire Gin (it had previously been started, but it sounds super cool in a 'I swear I'm not an alcoholic' kind of way if you say you finished it. Plus, hey, finishing anything should be an accomplishment.) (Yes, I know it was a Tuesday. I had a really bad day. Do not judge me.) So I ordered extra water.

Then I went home. And I never left again. Not even to check the mail, and I love mail! Not to do anything. I wrote letters, I emailed. I watched Criminal Minds, I perused the web. And I played with my new toys.

Yes, you heard me. A week or so ago, a good friend of mine gave me some of his gear. I know what you're thinking, oh he just gave it to you? What exactly do you mean by 'good friend?' And to that, I have to say two things: 1. well, you know dot, dot, dot, and 2. no seriously, he's moving and is too lazy to ship his bulky audio stuff to North Carolina.

So I inherited a turntable. Yes, it's called a turntable. No, I'm not going to become a DJ. It's a Pioneer, it's not for super fly scratching. Yes, for it plays records. No, I cannot MC your wedding. Why not? Because I'm not a DJ. Yes, really.

Isn't he beautiful? I am still undecided on his name.

Don't worry, there will be an update post with the official announcement.

So here's the new set up. We have my multi-input 7.1 receiver. No, I don't have a 7.1 system set up in my studio apartment, I'm rocking the L-R system. Why? Because I'm poor. Thanks for the reminder. Underneath that is the receiver for the turntable, and then your regular cable box/dvd player stack at the bottom. Oh, and my iPod wanted to make an appearance. She felt neglected. She threatened to decrease her battery life if I didn't blog about her. She has a bit of the middle child syndrome, I think. I have no idea where she gets that from...

These speakers look eerily familiar, yes? A little reminiscent of 3263 Belmont Ave #1?

That's because they're the same ones.

My old speakers. That I gave to my friend.

That he has since gifted back to me.

I love a good tech-filled entertainment center.

So much gear.

So much potential for multi-level entertainment.

It's all so exciting.

Oh yes, about that. Here's a funny story...

So my entertainment center thing is fine french craftsmanship. Swedish materials, assembled at the hands of a French/Scottish/Irish/English person. A white person. A me person. When I moved in a few months ago, I put this together. My thinking was, since the turntable did not fit on the other side, the side with shelves, I would simply take the front off one of the drawers and make it a pull-out shelf. Clever yes? Okay, well it was actually my older brother's idea. Details, details. Anyway, so I started taking the front off, which was super easy. Only the thing about this drawer is - the front is essentially what holds the entire structure together. Now, it would be safe to think that because I was the original assembler of this contraption - I would know that before I pulled everything apart. And yet, as you can so very easily see, I did not.

So now there's just the one drawer, and a lesson learned.

I will just say it.

2010-03-23T13:00:00.002-07:00

2010 dating sucks.

How are you supposed to accidentally meet your soulmate these days? No one talks to anyone anymore. I know this, because I take every precaution not to. Think I'm lying? I'm not. I will give you an example.

I live in a 36-apartment building. I leave my place early enough to avoid about 85% of my neighbors who, I believe, are simultaneously avoiding me. I swear I saw one of them run back UP the stairs to avoid walking parallel with me. I don't take it personally, I'd do the same thing. We all just don't want to talk to each other. It's not offensive if it's mutual. I walk briskly to my car, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Dog walkers, hill runners, who I curse under my breath for making me feel unnecessarily guilty with their early morning fitness routine, and anyone else within the block or so that I walk to my vehicle. Then I get in my car, windows up, and drive to BART.

Even before I get out of the car, I have my headphones on. I walk from the parking lot to the train station, eyes fixed on an unspecified target - it doesn't matter what, just so long as it isn't another person. I pretend I am focused, intent on getting to my destination in a timely manner, and that whatever I am listening to is overwhelmingly consuming. There is no way I can buy your paper, homeless man, I don't even see you. This is because I am super-focused-girl.

and here's the crux of the issue - everyone else is doing the same thing as me.

At this point, I'm on the train. I stand in my favorite spot, leaned up against one of the handicapped seat walls, and I am on my phone. I am on my phone checking my email, texting my friends in Texas who have already been awake for hours. I am checking my Facebook and Twitter. I am perusing the internet, assuming that we are either in San Francisco or above ground in Oakland. The point is, I am looking down. I cannot hear anyone (remember the headphones) and now I cannot see anyone (unless they are one of my 355 friends on Facebook.) And if I do happen to look up, maybe while a particular page is loading, I only look up to see everyone else is doing something else.

Old man with the plaid suit in the corner is reading the newspaper on his Kindle (insert 'only old people use eBooks' joke.) Middle-aged business woman is doing the crossword puzzle. Asian boy with a bike is playing some game on his iPhone. And overzealous, adorable, mid-twenties man, aka Mr. Blackberry, is emailing from his Blackberry Curve.

Now maybe you can see my problem. How on earth are Mr. Blackberry and I supposed to bump in to each other, accidentally, when the train makes a sudden shift entering the tunnel after the West Oakland stop, apologize awkwardly, make small talk for the remainder of our trip, both get off at the Powell Street station, assume it's fate and get married - breathe - if we wouldn't even notice the other one getting stabbed from the same distance? He's rocking out to The Smiths and sending out his sort-of liberal but really more of a moderate emails to his coworkers, the ones that do and say the most ridiculously hilarious things. And I am tweeting off-the-cuff snarky remarks about society and things that annoy me, while enjoying the musical stylings of my latest monthly iTunes playlist. See? We're perfect for each other but we'll never know it because we are so intent on not finding out.

This is the part where someone suggests that I just take my headphones off. Well, someone, if I did that, I would be making the first move. Call me a post-feminist but I am not a first-move maker. Why doesn't HE take HIS headphones off? And stop writing that email, it's too long. Also, Mr. Blackberry, you used the wrong form of "break" in that sentence. This is merely an example of how close we were standing, I did not actually read his email. That would be weird.

I have looked at all my Facebook notifications, I have tweeted three times. I am bored with my phone, finally. So I opt to stare blankly out the window of the SF-Daly City line train. Only we're under the bay so there is absolutely nothing to look at. So I look at my reflection in the window. My bangs are doing that fly-away thing again. Hell. I run my fingers through them before I realize that I am now blatantly using the window as a mirror and I'm THAT girl. I stop, immediately. I refocus my eyes to see Mr. Blackberry has finally finished his novel of an email. And time stops, because Mr. Blackberry is looking at me. He is looking at me through the reflective window and when we make eye contact, he smiles and laughs. He is laughing because, and I know why since we're like totes meant-to-be, because he caught me staring at my own reflection. And hello, pearly whites - what a smile. So I smile back, and we have a moment. That's right, it's only a matter of time before I am officially Mrs. Blackberry.

If this were 1997.

But no. We're both wearing headphones and we both have appointments and people outside of the train-world to attend to. It's awkward to stop emailing. It's too much commitment to take off your headphones. Who goes first? Whoever is willing to look desperate. Mr. Blackberry and I are in a stand-off of integrity and willpower. This will be our downfall.

We get off the train, at the same station, and we continue to not talk. Then we re-enter the real world, where he is late for work and I am back to ignoring early bird street merchants. I could be excited about my first date when the man I'm going to marry, but no, instead, I'm waiting in line behind some elderly tourist in Walgreens who wants to know if this Alcatraz sweatshirt is on sale.

So riddle me this, Mr. Jobs, how many more fairytale moments are your technological devices going to ruin? Also, I know you're not responsible for the Blackberry, though I'd like to know who is because well, you know, but it could have just as easily been an iPhone and that one is absolutely your fault. If I end up alone, I'm suing you. Just a heads up.

credit where credit is due

2010-03-18T10:00:00.005-07:00

It never ceases to amaze me how incredible my friends are. We're not just talking incredible as in man, that is one incredibly hilarious guy, but more as in incredibly talented. And they're willingness to share their talents with the less fortunate (e.g. myself.)

So this is a showcase blog of two of the most recent contributers to making my life (or my blog at least) a more interesting and lovely place to be. Because in the era of digital life, my blog is a place to exist. To be - a virtual location of self-deprecating hilarity.

The blog redesign

graphic design done by my lovely friend, Marina. A more permanent link to her blog - an adorable documentation of her creative ventures - can be found on the left sidebar.

A few more ways I am reaping the benefits of her abilities:

fingerless hand warmers - with red buttons.

Because aside from being talented, she is a fantastic friend who knows me too well.

and my Christmas present

lyrics from "The Mixed Tape" by Jack's Mannequin.

So perfect for my new apartment - and fits right into the color scheme. Double win.

and the recent photography -

A good friend of mine, Rob, is a freelance photographer in the Bay Area, and we had some fun the other day in and around the city limits of San Francisco. His company, Polarized Productions, is also linked in the sidebar, and I greatly encourage everyone to check it out.

here are some of shots we got that I am particularly fond of:

and now I'm off to finish of my weekend with an evening of Big Bang Theory and delicious food (hey thanks, Shelby!) Hope everyone has a great week!

Census-mania: the 2010 edition

2010-03-13T12:48:00.006-08:00

Citizens of the World Wide Web, I am excited. No, wait. I am ecstatic. Stoked. Amped. Currently displaying the side effects of excessive-caffeination (due, only in part to this Venti Mocha Frappuccino.) Why, you might ask?

Because the other day, I received this in the mail.

That's right, folks. It's United States Census time. And I cannot be more ready. This will be the first census that I will get to be an active participant in. Ever since I got my hands on this notice, I have been daydreaming about surveys and forms, multi-page questionnaires about mundane, US citizen type information. While some protest government list conspiracies and wish to go "off the grid," I opt to revel in making myself known throughout Washington DC. I am excited about the census for the same 2 reasons I love MySpace surveys and internet quizzes like "Which Character from The Big Bang Theory Are You?" ( I am Sheldon.)

1. I love to talk about myself, and

2. I love people to know things about me.

So if the envelope wasn't riveting enough, I couldn't wait to see the letter. And it did not disappoint. Now, am I sad that it wasn't addressed to me directly? Yes. But that's just because the government doesn't know me YET. This will all change in, "about one week from now." I'll be honest, I really don't much care about funding for schools and health facilities that me, and my neighbors, apparently need. I'm way over that. I'm down for some highway repairs though, because for real, 880 is horrendous. Also, I'm hoping there is a short answer section on the Census form, because I definitely have some suggestions for the United States. I'll be greatly disappointed if the entire form is multiple choice and fill in the blank.

The one other bummer about this letter is who signed it. When it comes to something as monumental as the 2010 US Census, I thought it should be sent from someone with some power. A name that can stand on it's own.

I had a few suggestions, like:

Sincerely, Barack Obama.

or Sincerely, John McClane.

or the ever-impressive: Sincerely, Batman.

Author's Note: I am fully aware that Batman was a vigilante and would, in all reality, never be in charge of a nation-wide citizen count - but how freaking cool would it be to get a letter from Batman? Seriously. SERIOUSLY.

But no, sadly, my letter, as well as the letters of several other residents of the Oakland/Piedmont area, were sent from Robert M. Groves. Who the hell is that? I mean really. I don't care about you, Mr. Groves. Your name resonates no fear, no awe. Nothing. So I changed my letter. My letter came from "the government." And I cannot wait to receive more government issued mail. Bring it on, United States of America, bring. it. on.

When I wake up in the morning, I feel more like Lily Allen, to be honest.

2010-02-23T16:03:00.009-08:00

I haven't blogged with more words than pictures because I haven't been able to write a story worth telling. I've tried, and failed. Failing = losing. I am a terrible loser. So I try to blog, I try to be funny, I fail. So I fail and that means losing and I hate losing so I get really depressed and then I definitely can't be funny because I'm wallowing in a pit of self-pity and personal degradation. The pressures of maintaining decent quality of bloggiture (read that like literature, get it?) have been getting to me. I will not apologize for my absence anymore, because I was doing the internet a favor. There is enough tragically terrible writing and failed attempts at humor floating around this intricate series of tubes (classic internet joke - one of my favorites) without me adding to it. So that's that.

Thoughts/Musings that I couldn't flesh out into entries:

+ The cover of my March 2010 copy of the Williams-Sonoma catalog has donuts on it. Delicious donuts. Perfectly shaped, glazed, and posed donuts. You know what I have to say about that? Eff you, Williams-Sonoma. I gave up junk food/empty calories for Lent and you knew that, didn't you? As if that jackass SOMEWHERE on the second floor of my apartment complex baking snicker-doodles wasn't bad enough, now I have to look at donuts. You knew, and you're a jerk.

+ I know the majority of the lyrics to that "Tik-Tok" song by that stupid girl who spells her name with a dollar sign, and I hate myself just a little bit more for that fact. But I'd like a moment to defend myself. The only reason I know that song is because it plays EVERYWHERE. In bars. (which i've consequentially stopped going to.) (okay, I'm kidding.) (Well, I have stopped going, but not because of that song.) (I wonder if there's a grammatical rule for the number of back-to-back parenthetical asides permissible in a piece of writing.) (Hmm.) What was I saying? Oh yes, they play the song in bars. In Steve Madden. In Barnes & Noble. Nowhere is safe. And because of this unfortunate series of events, every once and a while, the line "Wake up in the morning / feelin' like P. Diddy" gets stuck in my head. Now, I have an incredibly high tolerance for ridiculous song lyrics. i.e. "this shit is bananas / B-A-N-A-N-A-S,*" "You make me want to La La,**" or the ever-classic "girl I wanna be the poppa / and you can be the mom.***" But, believe it or not, there is a line. And if she hadn't crossed it by replacing the 's' in her name with a currency symbol, then she blazed right past it when she opened her mouth. Because in all honesty, what does that even mean? Seriously. Is it a metaphor? Can she spell metaphor? or would it be met@phor. (Freedom of speech is being immensely abused.)

Bonus Line: "Now the dudes are linin' up / 'cause they hear we got swagger / but we kick 'em to the curb / unless they look like Mick Jagger." *commence facebomb*

+ I have recently moved on to Blackberry Storm #4. Number one had a hard-drive issue. Number two had a defective speaker. Number three had a megapixel breakdown, so now we're on to number four. I am a big fan of giving names to my different technological devices (like Dexter - my laptop, Maxie - my hard-drive, and CC aka Central Command - my desktop) but it's hard to really get attached to a device that you know is going to cop out on you after a month or two of seemingly mutual adoration. If I was looking to be happy for a couple months before invariably succumbing to pain and suffering and a whole lot of "What could I possibly have done different? Why didn't this work out? What's wrong with me?" then I'd get a boyfriend. But no, I don't need a boyfriend - because I own the Blackberry Storm.

+ There are several reasons why I regard my parents as two of the most intelligent, capable people that have ever lived. But hands-down, one of the top reasons I think my mother is bordering on wizardry is because she, Kathryn Thibeaux, can successfully fold a fitted sheet. Now, I've never seen her in action, but time and time again, sheets would be returned to the linen closet of our home, in uniformly square piles. The entire concept of how to fold those pocketed little devils eludes me. I try, every single laundry day - I try. I get two corners together, tucked into each other with mediocre success, but then I am left with some kind of trapezoidal disfigurement. I have spent up to an hour trying to make that four-sided monstrosity into something that resembles my mother's craftsmanship - but alas. I always, without fail, resort to my own personal fitted sheet folding technique: the 'ball it up and shove it in a corner' method. Not as effective, definitely not as pretty, but kind of fun to do.

* "Hollaback Girl" by Gwen Stefani

** "La La" by Ashlee Simpson

*** "Temperature" by Sean Paul

laissez être l'amour

2010-02-14T12:44:00.001-08:00

E! True Hollywood Story: Oakland, California

2010-02-09T11:25:00.016-08:00

It might just be as bad as you think it is...

One of these days, I'll have an anecdote, and I will remember it. And when I remember it, I will write it here, and the words will work together, and it will be hilarious. And I will finally feel accomplished. Until then, I have pictures, and a couple quippy remarks. I hope you can make due for the time being.

The move from Houston, Texas to Oakland, California has caused several quizzical expressions and even more "how many times have you almost gotten shot" -type questions from family, friends and other concerned parties. To answer and lay to rest these occurrences, I have decided to put together a bit of a play-by-play of everyday life in my Oakland.

This is my home. Please note, this is not a crack house. There are no drug deals going down in the garage, no hookers or "maybe-ladies" hanging out of the windows looking for business. There are no tricked-out neon green Buick LaSabre's rolling on 22's down my street - and people don't try to sell me bedazzled OBAMA t-shirts outside my front door.

This is a lemon tree. That's right, about a half-block away from my house, there is a fully functioning lemon tree. I should note, however, that for me, this is a hazardous landmark. Because lemons come off their branches, and there is someone in my neighborhood that likes to assemble pyramids out of those fallen soldiers. Yes, 9-piece pyramids right in the middle of the sidewalk. Also, my name is Eleanor and if there is something to trip over, I will find it. Have you guessed the ending? Face hits pavement, lemons running amuck everywhere, old people laughing. Happy Friday.

The good news? There are no lemon trees in the urban ghetto. Score 1 for my Oakland.

Author's Note: I asked Shelby for a synonym for tree. She came up with 'arboreal structure.' It was too good to steal, but I had to share.

And now we have Lake Merritt, the substantial body of water within a quarter-mile radius of my non-Meth Lab residence. Check out those blue skies (thank you, Bay Area), blue water (thank you wide-angle for missing the trash along the edges), and the guy in the blue jacket (who, I swear, is not homeless.)

One of my favorite types of trees, found quite frequently around the edges of the lake. And no, they did not choose these trees because they are more challenging to pass out underneath, though I have witnessed some pretty fascinating vagabond sleeping arrangements. Not under these trees, of course. Because I don't live in the Tenderloin. (If you don't understand the reference, look here.)

Oakland Trees.

If I lived in the ghetto, these would have been chopped down, carved out (trees make a great place to stash your coke bag when the cops are around) and just set on fire 'cause "we were just so high, man." So I am using this giant plants as proof that I live in a decent area, where we like green things (in moderation of course) and oxygen.

Author's Note: My knowledge of illegal narcotics and places to hide said drugs is strictly from movies and wikipedia. I feel the need to reiterate: I am not addicted to cocaine.

My hills. My movie theater. Not exactly inner-city Compton is it? Sorry to dash your dreams of my gangster-ridden lifestyle. But Wait! There is hope.

From time to time, I do enjoy livin' the thug life. Just like this guy.

This guy, and I, we're straight thuggin' it all over the 5-1-0, G.

...and then there's this guy. Everyone else is wearing headphones for a reason, sir. We don't want to hear your arbitrary strumming. Listening to you repeat the first 4 chords of your favorite Crosby, Stills and Nash tune is not enjoyable ambiance for the rest of us. Please, put the guitar down, and do some silent pondering or something. Don't be THAT guy. No one really likes THAT guy.

This is a shout out to some poor, disgruntled, undereducated conspiracist. The Bay Area is full of anti-government, love and let love hippies, and that's all fine and wonderful. But political statements scribbled on top of electrical boxes should really have a spell-check feature. So here's to you, paranoid douchebag, there is only the 1 e in 'poisoned' and your arrow is technically pointing to a janitorial closet. But nice try.

So there you have it. Not once have I been shot at. Not once have I had to ask my neighbors to keep the rap-battles to a dull roar. Not once have I had to explain why I simply don't think I need a crack rock. And not once have I high-fived a twenty-dollar hooker on my way home.

My sincerest apologizes if I have shattered dreams of my elusive lifestyle in the Five-Ten area. But do not fret, because every once and a while, I venture out of my corner of the bay, and there are sights to be seen. Hopefully, when my ability to write wanders back to me (or I ask my parents to FedEx it, since I might have left it back in Houston, accidentally) I will be able to share those moments and events.

Until then, Raider Nation, Let's go A's, and something about the Sharks.

Holler.

South-by-West mergers

2010-01-24T11:31:00.013-08:00

A few things before I get going. I don't do New Year's resolutions, but my lack of blogging so far in 2010 is atrocious. So I'm going to do better, I promise. My goal for now is once a week. I've also put a link to my blog entry that has the tutorial for how to leave a comment if you don't have a blogger account. Just in case. No pressure.

Now let's have a story. Things are settling in, finally, out here in the beautifully odd state of California. I am finding my rhythm, my niche, and my way around town. It's been a bit more of an adjustment period than I think I originally anticipated, but good things are happening. Change is good. I forget that from time to time.

Luckily for me, I didn't have to stick it out for long before a familiar face graced The Golden State. And while I resolve to say it was a bit of a whirlwind visit, it was one fabulous weekend.

We did our thing. We ate good food. We drank good drinks. We had good laughs.

We shopped:

We were silly:

We hit up my local favorite restaurants

(with some local favorite people):

my good Texas persons met my good California persons

like this one:

Kaci Duke was my buffer. She was the sense of home I was looking for in a place that was trying to be just that. She met my friends, she approved (or disapproved) and we had plenty of "us" moments. So on Sunday, as we relaxed away our twenty-somethings' hangovers with recollections and episodes of The Office, we cooked. But we did it our way.

and it went something like this:

I rocked a vintage robots apron.

Because I'm a nerd like that.

in a good way.

It's looking pretty and fabulous at this point,

and smelling divine (just trust me.)

this photo is proof, Momma.

I use my cookware.

Things were going so well. We were following the recipe, I had everything I needed. And then, then it calls for white wine. And I'm like "great! I always have white wine!" But here's the thing about wine - you usually need a corkscrew. And here's the thing about moving into a new place, you don't automatically have a corkscrew.

So we took to youtube. "How to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew."

We tried option 1. Bang it against a hard surface.

no dice. so we took to option 2.

drill a screw into it and try to pull it out with a hammer.

screw comes out. cork does not.

option 3. push the cork through.

Third times the charm. But now we can't recork the bottle, on account of how the cork is now an acting flotation device for anything lost-at-winesea. We thought about trying to figure out a way to get it out, but the battle was long, and we were over it. Props to Kaci Duke for never giving up, never surrendering.

Solution? We'll have to finish the bottle.

One of the many reasons she's my best friend.

Now that's commitment.

Look! It was successful.

Delicious meal and an even better story.

Be expecting a lot of these shots.

Mirrored cabinets were made for me.

Extraordinary events do not happen to ordinary people.

Extraordinary people happen to ordinary events.

and that is a life worth having.

Pictures tell better stories.

2010-01-12T11:48:00.010-08:00

It's 2010. I say "Twenty-Ten." I haven't blogged about anything in over a month. I still don't know how much I have to say, so I will regale you with some pictures, and a life-update.

December First, I lived in Texas:

Then I got a job in San Francisco, so I had to leave home:

So I moved here to make a new home in a new place,

with some familiar faces (and new ones) very close by.

And set up my computer (fastest way to make me feel at home.)

Then Christmas happened. So I flew back to Texas to be with the family.

Because it wouldn't be Christmas without them.

And I put on a hat, and yelled "Gryffindor!"

But when Christmas was over, I came back to Oakland;

to make an apartment, a home.

Then, suddenly, it was New Years! I went out to dinner with Shevs and her group, and we played dress up and were fancy for a few hours.

See? Red Wine. In Wine Glasses. CLASSY.

Then I parted ways to meet up with some other friends.

And we rang in the New Year, Oakland-style.

Hopefully my next entry will have more words.

So were all your tattoos done with a bic pen?

2009-12-09T17:14:00.006-08:00

I feel like I should announce this blog as a "Location Blog" since I am not at home. I am currently tapped into Shev's internet, while I battle it out with Comcast for control over my own network. The struggle is long, but I am confident that the outcome will be triumphant.

I could write about how cold I am, about how much California traffic sucks. I could tell you how dramatic the past 36 hours have been, about how weird it is to "live" in a place that has NONE of my stuff, but I won't. Instead, I will tell you about my flight.

For those of you who follow my twitter, you know that while waiting in the Houston Hobby airport, I listened to an elderly couple argue over how to operate a Kindle. Yes, the old people were reading on electronic devices, and I had a paperback. I guess that makes me vintage, which makes me super scene, which is the goal of my life at all times.

But the more interesting story happened as I was boarding the plane. I am walking down the line to get on Southwest Flight #2848, direct service to Oakland, and I see a guy, mid-twenties, who kind of looks like my type, from behind at least. (Is that weird? Whatever. It happens.) As I'm passing him, he looks at me, and that's when I notice the generic death metal font splayed across his tshirt. Thumbs down. That's a shame. I board the flight.

This is the part where I have to tell you that I always, ALWAYS choose the window seat. I don't like to be bothered with people crawling over me, and I hate getting up on planes. Hence, I'm a window-seat girl. So I find the first empty row, clamor across the two exterior seats and settle in. Now I surreptitiously watch everyone pass by my row. And this is when the paranoia kicks in. Because I don't honestly want ANYONE to sit in my row. But at the same time, I would be offended if no one wanted to. Because everyone else is walking down that middle aisle thinking one of two things, in this order:

1. What seat do I want? Is it taken in the row?

2. Of the open seats of my choice, who could I tolerate sitting near?

So I watch the passer-bys and I think, either they're also window seat people, or I look like someone they have no interest in coexisting near. If it's the latter, then I'm annoyed. Because I showered, and I smell fantastic. I don't hog arm-rests, I don't talk, if I fall asleep, it's up against the wall, away from everyone, and I don't get up...ever. You should be FIGHTING to sit next to me. Everyone on this stupid plane should be hurdling over small children and tray tables to get to row fifteen. Besides, we are all gonna be breathing the same stupid air, so just sit in this dumb row and quit blocking the aisle.

But this was not one of the times that my internal debate had to carry on for long. Because death metal tshirt walks down the aisle, sees me, and asks if the aisle seat is taken. (This should have been my first clue. He saw that I was traveling alone. So who would I be saving that seat for? Creepy orange beard guy? No.) So I say no. Actually I said, "have at it," because I'm too weird to give simple, normal responses. For a moment, I'm flattered that he chose my row, but that moment passes, and soon - I will wish with my whole heart that I had lied.

Because Josh (oh yes, we exchanged names,) is a talker. Well, maybe not usually, but he's talking to me. And we're still on the tarmac, so my portable electronic device is still in the "off" position. Josh asks me, "how long has it been been since you've been back?"

I am confused.

I ask him to repeat the question. He clarifys. I understand his intention is to find out the purpose of my existence in seat 15A. I tell him that the last time I was in Oakland was a year ago, and that I'm moving back. (this is the part where I take a moment to revel in my statement. Holy crap. I'm moving...today. Eyes get wide, a look of fear and all consuming anxiety washes over my expression. Another question, moment passes, I can breathe again.)

So I ask Josh the reciprocating question. "What about you?" Because I am from Texas and I am polite. And I don't have anything else to do while the flight attendants secure the doors for departure. He tells me it's been six years. I feign interest. His expression shows me that he thinks this is a monumental period of time. I say "wow." This is the moment he proceeds to tell me that for the past three years (give or take) he has been in a West Texas jail.

Can I pause for a minute? Who tells someone that? Within the first ten minutes of conversation? Freaking weird.

The conversation went downhill from then on. He proceeded to tell me all the states he's had warrants in, he told me about how if he were going to go back to jail, he would want it to be the one in Marin county (on account of how that's his favorite one) and how he likes books about serial killers and death metal music. Really, really great.

As soon as we reached 10,000 feet, I put on my headphones. And I didn't take them off until the stupid flight attendant came around and motioned at me. And as the plane is in it's final descent into Oakland - Josh says this:

"Man, I wonder if I still have warrants in California?"

Why me? Why do I have to sit next to the crazy, freshly paroled nutbag? So I tell him that he should really check into that. And he laughs. But I'm not kidding. Needless to say, as soon as I could, I ran off the plane, and made a sharp left into the girl's bathroom to hide out for a bit, because I would rather have to talk to the baggage claim employee who would undoubtedly berate me for allowing my luggage to go around the carousel too many times than interact with Josh the jail-lover. I pick my battles.

Official notice:

2009-11-28T14:40:00.003-08:00

I should have made note of this sooner, rather than allow the thought of abandonment to wash over. I am currently nine days out from my 2,000 mile journey west. On December 8th, I will be making the relocation effort to Oakland, California.

So in the next week or so, I have to pack up all my things, find a place to live, start two new jobs, and then of course, the actual act of moving. I would like to say that I'll update with photos and news from the move, but in all reality, I will be doing a good job if I check my email every day.

In summation, rotation-revolution will be on a bit of a hiatus. (As if it already hasn't been.)

Best wishes, happy december, seasons greetings and any other kind of festive wishes I might miss telling you.

this is a blog.

2009-11-18T11:43:00.009-08:00

My life has been so topsy turvy (cue track from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame) that I really don't have enough focus to formulate linear thoughts. I do, however, have some things to share, so I guess I will get right down to it.

Firstly, I want to bring attention to anyone who could possibly stumble across this blog, to the documentary released last week called "Dear Jack." The hour long feature focuses on singer/songwriter Andrew McMahon as he struggles with his battle against leukemia. The doc itself is wonderful, and McMahon, who has always been one of my favorite musicians, is all together the most inspiring human being ever to walk this planet. So while I fully recommend the film, what I want to absolutely bring attention to is the Dear Jack EP available on iTunes. 4 tracks, including a remix of "Swim" which was originally on Jack's Mannequin's sophomore album "The Glass Passenger."

On a more important note, I would like to tell you about my new shoes. I've gotten a handful of eye rolls and a couple "so, do you own all of the converse now?" but those are easy to ignore. Because look how lovely they are! Everyone has their obsessions, and I am completely comfortable admitting that I love converse. I believe with the addition of this pair (which are high-tops, by the way) the count is up to twelve. Twelve is a good number right? One per month. One pair every two hours of the day. See? Divisible. Good stuff.

I also took a trip this past weekend to Crowley, Louisiana. (95% of you will not know where that is. 50% of those people will type in Crowley, Louisiana to google maps. and 17% of those people will still not know where that is. It's okay, don't feel any less geographically savvy. It's freaking small.) It was my Aunt's 50th birthday, and so all of my mother's side of the family gathered for celebratory activities. Weekends with my extended family are really fantastic, but it never fails that I come back more exhausted than I was before I left. I think part of that is because my two youngest cousins, Josh and Abby, have taken to following me around with magnetic precision. And I love it. I love it for the same reasons I love to blog. I love attention.

On Saturday, while there was much grown up chatter and cooking being accomplished, I sat in the living room of my Uncle's house and played Yahtzee for the first time, ever. For those of you less savvy to the Milton Bradley catalog, Yahtzee is a dice game. And you roll the dice and try to get things like 3 or 4-of-a-kind and you keep score and it's good fun for all. Well, it's good fun for kids, and for me if I'm winning. However, I spent the first half of the game losing, and not having fun. I mean, my scores were pathetic, and I was snapping at a 10-year-old, who was just laughing her head off at my bitterness. Abby would say, "See Eleanor, look! You got two, twos. That means you get four points! ha ha ha!" and my response was, "Yes, that's hilarious. Just roll the stupid dice."

I'm a bad loser. That's why I never got the good sportsmanship award (you know the one that all the kids are supposed to get? Yeah, all minus me) in sports, why most people only play games with me once, and why from the ages of 7-present, my brothers and I are not allowed to play Risk or Monopoly. But something wonderful happened about halfway through our rousing game of dice rolling. I rolled a Yahtzee. (Out of 5 dice, I rolled five sixes.) And I stood up and shouted Yahtzee and started to make my way into the kitchen. But apparently rolling a Yahtzee does not end the game, like I think it should. You know? Like in Jenga, the game is over when you yell Jenga! Anyway, I know that I'm 22 and it's sad to brag about defeating children, but I totally did. I dominated. And my cousin Josh told me it was "beginner's luck" and I told him that those are the kinds of things that losers say.

I might be the worst role model ever.

eleven / five / oh-nine

2009-11-05T09:05:00.005-08:00

Thoughts / Musings that I couldn't flesh out into an entire entry:

+ "White Trash Parties" are only acceptable and funny if you are not actually white trash. If your "costume" was assembled out of things in your closet that cannot be classified as "costume clothes," then maybe you should consider a different type of party theme. Suggested alternative themes: "High-School Graduate Party," "Normal, functioning members of Society Night," or the classic "Alcoholic beverages not consumed out of a Keg and/or Trashcan Party."

+The other night, I went and saw "Where the Wild Things Are" at the local movie theater. When I was walking out of the movie theater, I passed the arcade, where I saw a middle-aged man playing Guitar Hero by himself. He was really into it. This would be acceptable, sure, if he wasn't my Dad's age playing a video game in a suit. At 10:30 pm. On a Tuesday. Thumbs down.

+ I had to go to the dentist the other day (man, do I hate the dentist.) and the assistant dentist (?) told me that I might have to get a cavity filled. Actually, what the blue-scrubbed glorified teeth cleaner said was "he might not even worry about it, it's not through the enamel yet." Then the Dentist (dentists wear green scrubs. So in the oral-hygiene hierarchy: green trumps blue) said I had four cavities. And that he was being conservative. (Well duh, this is Texas, no need to brag, you're not special.) I said that I thought he was lying. He said that it wouldn't have happened if I would floss more. I said flossing was stupid. He said he looks forward to seeing me next week. I made a snarky remark about his establishment. Today, my tooth hurts. Karma = bitch.

It's sad when you can only list three things as your "thoughts" for the week. Oh well. I thought other things, they just weren't very funny. Job searching makes me want to pull my brain out through my ears with those wooden tong things that you use to get toast out of the toaster. Only my ear canals are too small, so it wouldn't even work. I cannot catch a break.

word[less] wednesday

2009-11-04T09:13:00.003-08:00

[quote] Frank Beddor "Looking Glass Wars"

[image] courtesy of Allison Krause

Hello-ween.

2009-10-31T17:00:00.001-07:00

I know that it goes against everything one could assume about me, but I'm about to say it. And you'll have to know that it's the truth, because this is my blog, the place where only the truth gets said.

Halloween is not my favorite holiday.

Now, it's among my top three, sure. But that's really only because I love any holiday that involves skull and crossbones, and playing dress up. (Sadly for me, I didn't have a reason to get a costume this year, so I will just have to go all out twice as much next year.) I have, however, had a very productive day, which is strange. I usually like to take advantage of the excuse of a holiday to avoid work-like things. (Oh you want that by when? Sorry, can't do it that day. It's Arbor Day.)

Nevertheless, I got up fairly early this morning, finished some voiceover edits and sent them off, went to the gym, successfully avoided all free candy at said gym, (Counterproductive much, 24 hour?) went to Barnes and Noble with my brother (highlight of my life: my older brother did not roll his eyes at either of my book purchases. That must mean I'm growing up.)

and then I decided to bake these.

If you're looking at the recipe and questioning the last picture, I had to improvise for my dad, who claims a cookie is "no good without chocolate." So I melted some milk chocolate chips and glazed the tops of the cookies with them. I haven't gotten to taste my creations yet, but I must say they made my house smell divine.

I will finish off my night with a viewing of one of my favorite films, "The Nightmare Before Christmas" and maybe an encore performance of "Hocus Pocus."

Happiest of Halloweens to all in the blogosphere.

lego-land empires

2009-10-27T11:09:00.007-07:00

I really have an urge to blog, probably because of the fantastic mood I've been in, because it's Autumn. Not "fall" because that's not a eloquent enough word.

Autumn is for leaves changing, crisp breezes through open windows, spicy smells, candles burning, jackets and scarves, darker hair colors, holiday buzz, exciting Pottery Barn catalogs. And none of those things can be translated in the word, "fall." So it's autumn on this blog.

Now, some of my closest friends, for obvious reasons, love Halloween. I'm really not much of a Halloween celebrator, BUT I do have a weakness for Pottery Barn's Halloween decor. Only for me, it's not so much seasonal, because the Halloween style is a year-round thing for me.

Like this:

Candle, and candle holder (or candle stand? Don't know, stand sounds weird,) are both from Pottery Barn's Halloween Decor section, and I love them. Also photographed, Good Luck Bear, who is not from Pottery Barn. He was a gift my first year of college from a co-worker. That is actually where he goes on my dresser, though even if he wasn't, I bet I would have tried to give him a cameo on the blog anyway. He's good people.

What else? I think I'm finally done traveling, at least until December, when I will finally be making my return to the Bay Area. Shevvs and I are already planning several great adventures, and we still have a month to make adjustments. We have some definites though, one of them being a movie night to see "New Moon," as we have decided is tradition since last year's "Twilight" night. (Am I outing myself as a total nerd? I guess only if you didn't pick up on that before. And that's your bad.)

I also found these beads on the kitchen table this morning,

and decided to wear them:

The other necklace is of the Steampunk persuasion, a 22nd birthday gift from a dear friend, but I am really digging these beads today. I mean, so far I've worn them to Target and the gas station, but if I go see Paranormal Activity tonight, I think I'll rock them again. I'd wear them to the gym, but that would be silly, even for me.

I guess I will leave you, my fellow internet dwellers, with my day one of my new fad of the "Daily Haiku." I love the simplicity of the structure and rules for writing these mini-poems, so I'm going to try to jot down one a day for the rest of October and all of November. Makes me want to get a Haiku journal just for this activity, but I have about 4 unused journals just waiting for some love, so I will have to just make do.

photo courtesy of: Allison Krause

New Orleans, 2009.

2009-10-20T14:53:00.005-07:00

Just a brief photo-recap of my weekend trip to New Orleans, Louisiana. You know, for those of you who haven't, or don't care to, look through the 200 photos that got posted over the past few days on Facebook.

Thoughts/Occurrences that didn't justify an entire entry.

2009-10-15T18:01:00.001-07:00

+ I was driving home the other day, and I came to a rolling stop (better described as an extremely cautious yield) at the corner stop sign. Then, I saw an SUV with police lights on top. This is the moment when I think, "Shit, was that enough of a stop for him? I looked! There wasn't anyone there! I looked!" (Yes, I was planning my defense already.) So as I continued on down the road, attempting to act as nonchalant as a 1500-pound car can look- (does anyone else do that? It's like ducking when you enter a parking garage with a fairly low height restriction, it doesn't help your car, but you do it anyway.) I glance in my rearview mirror (again, I do this very covertly, innocence being my goal) to see that it's an SUV for the fire department. I sigh in relief, and in my car, I have this conversation with myself.

"Oh, it's not a cop."

"Even so, that was a pretty good stop for that corner."

"It's like a cop for the fire department. What do you call those guys?"

"It's a fire cop."

This is the moment that I pause, reassess the words that just came out of my mouth (because yes, I was having this conversation out loud. in my car. alone.) and then I say this:

"Really, Eleanor? Fire cop? That's not a thing."

+I'm almost positive that in order to train to be a car salesmen, you have to work at a cart in the mall. I try to walk from Macy's to Urban Outfitters today, about a half-mall distance, and I get hustled by every single cart salesmen. No, I don't want to switch phone services. No, I don't want a remote-control helicopter. No, I don't need a new flat-iron and no, I do not need knockoff designer sunglasses. My only line of defense in these situations is to look busy or pissed off, and to avoid eye contact. For me, if I make the mistake of eye contact, it's over. Whatever they're selling, I'm buying. Because I can only say no so many times because I feel awful and the guilt overwhelms me. And then I'm presented with the choice of death by drowning in a sea of contrition, or buying the cheapest thing I can find on their cart-of-wonders and get the hell out of there. Nevertheless, buyers remorse always kicks in right around the time I look down at the receipt to see "All Sales Final" stamped in red ink. I feel suckered and victimized. And instantly poorer.

+ I, without fail, always have an oval shaped bruise about a third of the way past my kneecap on my left shin. It never gets a chance to fade - just change colors, like a mood ring. I have a mood bruise on my shin. Logic will deduce this occurrence to the placement of my subwoofer, which is under my desk, right around the area where one's feet would go. However, I was away from my desk for over a week, and somehow, the bruise managed to be reformed in the exact same spot from some other unknown object. Today, it is a greyish-purple which means I am "at rest, tranquil and aloof."

+The other day, I was at the bank, and an old man commented on how fast I was at texting. This, immediately, made me stumble over every word I tried to write, and also forget what I was writing in the first place. I wanted to yell at this guy, "hey JACKASS, stop watching me text!" because he was just staring at me. But the bank is a quiet place in general, and he and I were the only customers in there. Also, had I acted upon my initial thought to shout at this elderly stranger, I would have been that crazy lady at the bank, and I'm sure my deposit would have been denied.

+Today, I was at the gym, and thought of something really funny, and so as a natural response, I started smiling. Now, this would have been fine, if I hadn't also, accidentally been spaced out, and my eyes were unfocused on a guy who had noticed, and was giving me a very confused look. Because I was running on the treadmill, grinning like an idiot, and accidentally staring at a buff, no-nonsense type man. I tried to avert my eyes to the television, but it was too late. He was still looking at me like I was the weirdest person ever. And since I'm just the slightest bit neurotic, I actually considered walking over to him and explaining myself, like:

"Hi. I know you think that I was smiling at you, but really, I was just zoned out and I was thinking about this one time that my friend and I were walking and I made a joke about the wind and I said, 'you know, like a candle in the...' and I left it open, you know because, well you get it I'm sure. Anyway, she just kept talking about whether or not we should turn right at the next block, and totally just left me hanging! So I was thinking about how that was funny, and that's why I was smiling. Not because of you, in fact, I wasn't even looking at you. So now you know that. Okay, thank you for your time and enjoy the rest of your workout."

+Facebook rant: I hate it when you make a comment on someone's status, or on a photo, and then you get about 20 notifications when other people, mostly people you don't know, comment on the same thing. Do I care what these people have to say? No. I just wanted to make my quippy remark, and then that's all. I don't care what other people have to say, unless it pertains to me, which it rarely does. It's annoying to get excited when I see that little red thought-bubble at the bottom of my screen, only to find out that it really doesn't concern me at all. Hey Facebook, Eleanor Thibeaux dislikes this.

productive vacationing

2009-10-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

My trip to New York was trifold:

1. Visit my two best friends.

2. Attend AES (Audio Engineering Society) convention.

3. Mark off a few of my goals for my 22nd year of being alive.

Firstly, I will be marking off #4, "Take a long weekend in NYC" even though I was actually there for 10 days, so it was a really, really, really long weekend.

When I do finally get around to posting photos of the trip as a whole, I could very easily title that blog, "How I ate my way through New York City." An example? Two Boots to go West: New York meets Louisiana-style pizza. Pretty delicious, especially being so far away from home. Also in need of very little introduction - the two beautiful ladies accompanying me in the pictures, my girls: Alice and Allison.

Up next is #7, "Visit a History Museum." And what better museum of history is there than the American Museum of Natural History in the heart of Manhattan? I'll be planning a trip back there in the future, there was just so much that we had to skip around a bit.

I have always had a secret love of history. (Yes, I was that kid in school, usually the only one, who didn't complain about having to take history classes. I rather enjoyed them. I took AP history for advanced knowledge, not for advanced credit.) This does not begin to cover the amount of photos I have from the trip, and I will post some of my favorites in another blog. I recommend checking out the full res of this picture, to see the quote on the 2nd page.

And lastly, #15 "See a new Play" which could have been alternatively named "See three new plays." I picked the one I loved the most, though it was a tough choice. Runners up were Shrek: The Musical and Alter Boyz. But as you see, we had a winner, and it was Rock of Ages.

A musical, based solely on 80's rock music. Anyone that knows me a little bit knows how deep my love is for classic 80's hair metal and power ballads. Epically entertaining, and they served Corona in cans (as pictured above.) Does life get any better? No sir, it does not.

My Life, cameo appearance by: Parking Lot Douchebag

2009-10-12T13:47:00.001-07:00

Fun Fact # 04: I am an incredibly passive-aggressive personality, emphasis on the passive. What this means is that if and when I decide to act upon my annoyance/frustration/vexation, it is incredibly sneaky and nigh anonymous.

Now let me tell you about today.

I was perusing the internet, and got an email from Pottery Barn about a sale. I love Pottery Barn and I love things on sale, so naturally, I followed the link to their website to discover the their wood series frames were 20% off. $16 for a frame? Heck yes.

So I travel down to the mall, and get my frames. Now, as you can imagine, I am in a fantastic mood! Two new frames, a pleasant shopping experience, and I'm chit-chatting with my mother about my trip to New York. All is well. I didn't even mind that I got lost in the parking lot (cause I'm one of those smart kids that can never remember to remember where she parked...)

Here's where it gets dicey. I find my car in all his glory. I'm at the passenger side door, unlocking it to put in my shopping bag, and I hear the problem before I see it. Somewhere in the distance behind me is a horribly loud sound system coming from a car whose driver has god-awful taste in music. (I know this because I recognize the crap-rock style of throat-singing sensation Scott Stapp.) So I'm trying to continue my conversation, despite the growing intensity of the atrocious musical stylings of Creed, until I can no longer hear my mother because parking lot douchebag has decided to park right next to me.

Now I would like to paint you a picture of Parking Lot Douchebag. He is driving a jacked up, flame-decaled, must-be-compensating-for-a-lot Ford F-150 with off-roading tires that appear to have only driven obnoxiously over a median or two because the jackass operator of the vehicle couldn't wait his freaking turn to cross traffic. He drives with his windows down in the rain. Yes, that's right, it was raining, muggy and 80 degrees and this guy has his windows down like it's effing San Diego in the springtime. He is forcing everyone within a mile radius of his super-cool self to listen to his vomit-inducing taste in music, and he is wearing an NRA t-shirt. Until today, I did not realize the NRA made t-shirts. I know better now. He is caucasian, he is overweight, and sloppy. He is wearing flip-flops and has some of the nastiest looking toes I have ever seen. He is exactly what you would expect, and for a brief moment, I am sad for Texas.

At this point, I know my mother is talking, but I cannot hear her. He is idling in his parking spot, music still raging, and I am livid. So I yell into the phone:

Mom, I know you're talking, but some jackass just pulled up and his horrid music is playing so fucking loud that I cannot hear you so I'm going to have to call you back.

Now, I should mention that I did not actually intend for Parking Lot Douchebag to hear me. Again, I am of the passive-aggressive persuasion. But I am finishing my sentence as he is opening his door, and he hears me. For a moment, my thoughts are a bit of a panic, because I really don't mouth off to strangers. I have seen too many crime shows where road rage gets the best of someone and the next thing you know, your chest cavity is the new home of a nine-millimeter bullet. So I just make it a habit of not being a smartass to the unpredictable. But the window of opportunity to get shot in the head passes, and I have once again returned to my irritated state of being.

So I move around to the driver's side of the car to get in, and that's when I hear it. His voice, his nasal, nails-on-a-chalkboard-to-my-brain vocal rendition of a baby crying. He is mocking me for being pissed off at him, and something in my brain switches on. Because I drive a red sports car that screams "I might be small, but don't think for a second that I won't entirely run you over." I get OUT of my car. I turn to where he is standing, now just behind my vehicle, and I say:

You know what? You can just fucking go to hell.

And I mean it. And he's looking at me, and Parking Lot Douchebag knows I mean it. Because I might be a passive-aggressive person, and I am almost always polite to strangers because THAT is what my mother taught me to do, but there is no way in hell that this guy is going to get the last word. No sir. Parking Lot Douchebag absolutely does not get to walk away thinking that he won this interchange. I win. I'm right, I'm pissed, and I win.

Parking Lot Douchebag's trashy girlfriend gives him a nudge to keep walking, because she knows what's up. He mumbles something about me needing to get over it, and I tell him to keep fucking walking. In my head, my thoughts are "you are not thinking this through," and "who the hell is talking right now?" because you have no earthly understanding of how out-of-character this is for me. Staring down a guy twice my size, and I'm outnumbered? Not very rational, and not my style. But like I said, I was not about to let this guy win.

So they leave, and that's when I realize that my father is still on the phone. And he has heard this entire exchange and I can practically see him on the other end with his palm against his forehead, shaking his head back and forth going, "only Eleanor, no one else, only her." And he is praying to God that he doesn't hear gunfire, or police sirens and yet, he says nothing. He just waits.

And I get back on the phone and I say:

Hey Dad, Mom said she needed to call me back? That's fine, I will talk to you guys later.

And he agrees with a small chuckle in his voice, and we hang up. And I sit in my car for a few moments, reveling in the events that just took place.

Only me, no one else, only me.

paper-thin excuses.

2009-10-07T09:41:00.001-07:00

Regular blogs shall resume upon my return from New York City.

Game On, October.

2009-10-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

thirty days of September, thirty pictures.

[really long] story time!

2009-09-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

In the place of actually having something interesting to say, I would like to bring you pictures.

And I shall narrate along the way, because my photos are their own story. This is the story of how on a Thursday afternoon, while driving home from a particularly stupid gym excursion, I get a phone call from a friend. And this friend has an idea, and it's going to involve me in a big way. I know this by the way she responds after I answer.

e: Holler!

k: heeeeeeeeey friend.

e: uh oh.

k: [laughter.] I have a proposition for you...

e: Is this going to potentially get me hurt and/or in some kind of trouble with law enforcement?

k: [long period of silence] uh...maybe?

e: what is it.

So this is the part where she launches into the story of how her husband and child are going out of town for the weekend and she wants to paint her living room. Here's the catch: I'm the only other person that knows. No exceptions, the only other person. This translates to, if I'm going down, you're coming with me. So what is my response?

e: What color were you thinking?

Because let's be honest, I didn't have anything else going on. And I like to decorate and design. And I can't do any of that at my house because my house is in fact, my parents house. So I'm 100% in before she even gets to the color choices. Which, by the way, she didn't really have anything set in her mind. So I throw out my default color, "what about an earth-tone green?"

So here's what we were looking at:

Now, I'll be the first to say that I'm a fan of brown. I do, I love it. But this is too much, and definitely the wrong shade. So we went to West Elm (my stipulation of partaking in this weekend, because they were having a sale, and I wanted a bathmat.) and then afterwards, we stopped by Home Depot. And this is the part where I walk through all the color walls and just start throwing shades of green at her. Then we lay them all out, and she chooses three. We get samples, just like the pros do, and we go home to change/test them out.

And maybe have a beer:

As in my life, the beer is the focus, but in the background, you can see our test spots. At this point, we looked at each other and both thought, well now we really have to do something. Because even though we could just call it artsy, three green splotches on your living room wall is not cute.

So we go back to the Home Depot, first making a stop at Sonic, which for some reason was not only challenging, but hilarious. This was the moment we realized that we would be making a second trip to the exact same Home Depot, within three hours, in completely different outfits. (I had been wearing my favorite jeans, and was not willing to sacrifice them to the chances of non-removable paint.) So we tried to come up with a lie, but our byline just grew more outlandish and absurd rather than heading towards the realm of believability.

At the HD, as I like to call it, three distinct events occurred worth mentioning. Event #1: we chose a shade of green paint, and ordered three gallons of it, which, just FYI, is two, too many. Event #2: We met Gregory, the incredibly attractive gentleman that works in the paint department of Home Depot. He helped us choose the shade of white for the fireplace. Did I mention he was attractive? He was. (I also deduced that I could not date said Gregory because my brother's name is Gregory and that would be weird and confusing.) and then finally Event #3: to the high school girl standing behind us in line. Do not give me weird looks when I start dancing to "Eye of the Tiger" because it's your stupid ringtone in the first place. It just so happens that it is also one of my favorite gym songs. So suck on that.

We order a pizza. We drink another beer, and we start to prime.

This is about the time that we learned several different things. Things like: oops is a scary word; we are actually not as lazy as we originally thought; I find myself exceptionally funny; painting and drinking actually can work out.

and so, one more beer, and we moved on to painting:

Kaci did a lot of, ohmigod I cannot believe we're doing this, and Matt is going to freak out. But I had already forced her to commit, so she was pretty much stuck either way. And since we started, we might as well finish. Second most popular phrase of the night then became: watch the carpet! We cannot ruin the carpet!

so we did this:

And if I'm being honest, I'm still amazed at how perfectly we did not ruin the carpet. So we primed, and painted, drank beer and ate pizza. And then we sat around for an hour and a half, watching the paint dry. Now, I am here to disbar a rumor that watching paint dry is boring, because it is my experience now, that the truth is quite the opposite. Most of the conversation is not something I can divulge so freely on the internet, but trust me when I say it was not only interesting, but humorous. I should note that if you wish to achieve similar results, you should probably have one of or both of us around. I think we're key ingredients to success. So we called it a night, admiring our handiwork, and picked it up bright and early the next morning.

And now it was time for some green action:

This is the time, if there ever was one, for me to mention how challenging I find the process of taping to be. It could have been because it was late, or because I was four beers in, but for some reason, I kept taping the wrong parts of the wall. And out of sheer frustration for having to do it twice as many times as Kaci, I grew to hate the taping concept. So if you would like me to help you paint, you have been warned. I will whine for the whole taping procedure. You should also know, as my tennis coaches learned back in the fifth grade, that I like to talk, and talking slows me down. Therefore, my tennis matches were the longest, and I am a slow painter. Entertaining as hell, though.

Kaci, on the other hand, is not. And we finished painting her entire living room in less than two hours. And once again, sat back and watched the paint dry. And even though it was 10:30 in the morning, we had ourselves another beer. And we did a lot of smiling, and used the words "fresh" and "clean" a lot, and patted ourselves on the back. Because let's just be honest here, that living room looked good.

and that fireplace looked good:

and then, the part that we had been dreading since we moved everything in the first place. We had to move all the furniture back. And I had to set her TV back up, and rewire all the speakers into the receiver. (Because for Kaci, I am one-stop tech support for any and all things electrical. Seriously. Her iPod breaks, I get a call. Her phone. Her TV. Her toaster. If it plugs in, she thinks I know how to fix it.)

And once we had it all set back up, she finally seemed at ease about it. No longer was she saying that Matt was going to kill her. And the burden of being the only one to know was lifted, because she was so excited that she was telling her sister and her mom.

Free at last, free at last.

and it was worth of excitement:

You struck comedic gold when you found me.

brit pop invasion of my brain:

2009-09-27T08:21:00.001-07:00

"The Fallen" Franz Ferdinand

daily writer excerpt; 09.23.09

2009-09-23T12:52:00.001-07:00

The Goal:

Study a work of art that inspires you, that speaks to a part of your soul that cannot be seen. Just as in Mary Poppins, when they enter the paintings on the sidewalk, write a passage as you have entered this piece of art.

The night here is a different experience entirely from what the daylight hours have to offer. Sometimes, I find myself ridden with sympathy for the day; how it simply pales in comparison. For the day, albeit bright and lively as he is, only has one overwhelming source of light. At night, in this place, hundreds upon thousands of balls of fire light up the sky, sending swirls of soft, hopeful beams down on our little city. The moon does not harbor the sin of pride as the sun does. She does not shine so bright as to prevent her starry allies from being seen. No, she merely reflects the light she receives, almost as a spotlight for the main character would on a stage. Our world in constant motion. Our world of ever-changing rip-tides and waves cascading over waves of new things to come. The night illuminates not that of which we fear, but instead, the endless possibilities. So I ask you, my friends; let us turn off our artificial, mocking lights, and be led only by the moon and her burning, loving companions.

I might have been a happier person in the 1800's. or if I was Amish.

2009-09-21T11:27:00.001-07:00

m: Uh hi, ticketmaster is a fucking joke. 20 extra dollars for what? Processing?

e: Yeah, ticketmaster sucks

m: But then, going to the city to buy tickets isn't very fun either.

e: No, it's pretty much a lose-lose situation. Like my life.

Modern luxuries hate me. This much I know. About a month ago, the cooling fan in my car went out, and I was forced to make a four hour drive from Dallas to Houston, in late afternoon heat, in the middle of summer, in Texas, without air conditioning. Awesome. This of course, happened after a particularly grueling day of work, one in which Pro Tools crashed every hour, on the hour, and I dropped a case of water on my foot.

So $1300 later (because oh that's right, my radiator was leaking, too) my car was back to normal. Two weeks later, my check engine light comes on. So I do what I do. I popped the hood, took a really long look at the box that I only assumed was the engine, and went, "checked. looks fine, gotta go!" and drove for a week with that blaring yellow light, causing less fear, and more annoyance than anything else. (Because you can dim all the other dashboard lights, except that macaroni & cheese yellow symbol. Downgrade.)

Eventually my Dad sees it, asks how long it's been on (Oh a few days...) and we take it to get the computer code read and deciphered. (At this point, I think I should really just invest in one of those computer-reading keypads that they use, might save some time.) Something about a cylinder is misfiring. Of course it is. Number two, I believe? I think I have four. That doesn't seem dire. How many cylinders could I possibly need, really? So they reset the light, and I drive around until it comes back on. And then I keep driving around, because I have places to go, and you are just a stupid little light.

Here's the awesome part. The other day, the light just goes off! As if my car was to say, "okay, you called my bluff, nothing was wrong. And I'm tired of keeping up the pretense." That's right car. I stand strong, YOU back down. Eleanor is the winner, and you are the loser.

See, because at this point, I was so arrogantly operating under the notion that sometimes, things just work out. Sometimes, if you leave something along, it just fixes itself! I say arrogantly, because in my heart of hearts, I know that this will never apply to me. Because the morning that my car healed itself, the speaker in my cell phone stopped working. And then the night that my phone started to work again, my ceiling fan started making this really weird sound like it was about to spin off the wall and decapitate me. And then this morning, when my fan miraculously stopped echoing the sounds of impending doom, my car starts to overheat. again.

So for anyone out there that thinks that I'm just being overdramatic, eff you. The facts are staring you right in the face. Car. Phone. Ceiling Fan. Car. Also, my dryer doesn't dry my jeans all the way, my DVR refuses to record the season premiere of The Mentalist, and My iPod's "shuffle" feature is a freaking joke. Things that man invented to make our lives more convenient and easy are the reasons that somedays, it's all I can do to just get out of bed.

Hate is a strong word, Monday. But I really, really, really don't like you.

Whiteboard Lyric Sunday

2009-09-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

"Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" - She & Him

off the album "Volume One," and it's the closest I can get to pretending for a few moments that I could be Zooey Deschanel. Love Music. Love Style. Love Her.

meaning well,