I could blame society for shaping an ADD generation, I could blame Facebook, Twitter, and Gchat, for being addictive distractions, I could blame Snookie and the Situation for providing hours of mindless and spray tanned entertainment- but mostly I blame myself. I am passionless.
I moved out to Los Angeles to be a writer. Yet, in these past few months, I have not yet proven myself to be one. I wake up, go to work, come home and fall asleep to re-runs of Grey’s Anatomy on Lifetime…sexy. I remember being filled with butterfly worthy excitement when I would open Final Draft and start typing “INT.” or “EXT” and all those secret codes that screenwriters know.
And for some reason “Sister Act 2; Back in the Habbit” keeps haunting my thoughts, ( like it does for most people without direction). All I can hear is Whoopie Goldberg say, “If you wake up in the morning and all you want to do is sing, then you are meant to be a singer.” Although I am an excellent karaoke performer, I can’t sing, but I used to feel that way about writing. Now, I’m not sure. But the problem isn’t that I don’t know if I want to write or not. It’s the fact that I don’t want to do anything. The only thing I think about in the morning is “My god, did a cat die outside my room last night, what the hell was that noise?”
People say, “Do what makes you happy.” But the things that make me happy are puppies and Starbucks… so that leaves me a little lost. My lack of motivation and passion leaves me disappointed in myself and horrified at my selfishness.
I have a friend who is an amazing writer. His writing is naturally funny, relatable, and charming. But more importantly, he loves doing it. Unfortunately, due to outside forces, he cannot be in LA and pursue his dream. Then there’s me- I have the perfect job to get my foot in the door, I’m in the right place at the right time with the right people- and I don’t do anything about it.
My roommate plays Ultimate Frisbee and joins tournaments all over the west coast, my eldest sister tries different exercise classes, my other sister paints and sews- and I watch “So You Think You Can Dance” clips on Youtube.
I think I might be a life sell-out at the ripe age of 22.
And although becoming a morbidly obese shut-in does have its perks, I think I’m going to take Whoopie’s advice on this one- “If you want to be somebody, and you want to go somewhere, you better wake up and pay attention.” This woman is a wise EGOT-er who was friends with my dear sweet P. Swayze, so she should be taken seriously.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Creeper Series # 2... They play with my emotions...
I went to the ATM last Sunday to deposit some much needed checks into my account. Since Saturdays have become my real day of rest, I hadn’t had the chance to go to the bank on a day when it is actually open. So I walked through the completely deserted bank parking lot, right next to “Midtown Lanes”, “Skate Round the World” skating rink, and where lots of homeless people play with seagulls. As I was finishing up my deposit, I heard a male voice say, “How are you doing today?”
My immediate thought: I’m going to be raped.
I turned to see a Hispanic man in his late 20’s with a zip-up hoodie on and sun glasses. I tried to pick out some features that I could later put into a police report if they ever found me after the kidnapping.
“I’m fine, I got to go.”
I rushed to my car and locked the doors. Then the guilt set in. What if that was just a nice man who wanted to know how my day was? What if he was just lonely? Or he felt the awkwardness of us being the only two people in this parking lot?
Then I felt the cold slap of vanity. Why would he want to rape me? Do I think so highly of myself to think that this man would be so violently attracted to me that he would be forced into a state of monstrous lust and mental instability? I do look great in a clean pair of slacks, but I think it’s completely vain to just assume people would want to rape me.
But then my thoughts took a turn… Well, am I rape-able? Am I borderline? Would someone risk jail time in order to be with me? Or if I were alone in a dark deserted ally at 3:00am, would they pass by and say “No, thanks”? I just don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection. I heard this comedian say one time that it is always the ugly friend who is worried about getting raped. I never thought I was the ugly friend...maybe the one who should have gotten braces or the one who is so severely pale that I look close to death, but I never considered myself the ugly one. I could very well be that girl.
So maybe I'm lucky for every whistle, cat call, and parking lot "Good Afternoon" that I get.
I’m not saying my dream man carries a knife and drives a nondescript van, but I’m just saying it might better to have a van full of foreign men yell “Hallo Honnnies” than no foreign men at all.
My immediate thought: I’m going to be raped.
I turned to see a Hispanic man in his late 20’s with a zip-up hoodie on and sun glasses. I tried to pick out some features that I could later put into a police report if they ever found me after the kidnapping.
“I’m fine, I got to go.”
I rushed to my car and locked the doors. Then the guilt set in. What if that was just a nice man who wanted to know how my day was? What if he was just lonely? Or he felt the awkwardness of us being the only two people in this parking lot?
Then I felt the cold slap of vanity. Why would he want to rape me? Do I think so highly of myself to think that this man would be so violently attracted to me that he would be forced into a state of monstrous lust and mental instability? I do look great in a clean pair of slacks, but I think it’s completely vain to just assume people would want to rape me.
But then my thoughts took a turn… Well, am I rape-able? Am I borderline? Would someone risk jail time in order to be with me? Or if I were alone in a dark deserted ally at 3:00am, would they pass by and say “No, thanks”? I just don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection. I heard this comedian say one time that it is always the ugly friend who is worried about getting raped. I never thought I was the ugly friend...maybe the one who should have gotten braces or the one who is so severely pale that I look close to death, but I never considered myself the ugly one. I could very well be that girl.
So maybe I'm lucky for every whistle, cat call, and parking lot "Good Afternoon" that I get.
I’m not saying my dream man carries a knife and drives a nondescript van, but I’m just saying it might better to have a van full of foreign men yell “Hallo Honnnies” than no foreign men at all.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Creeper Series #1
Creepers in the morning, creepers in the evening, creepers at suppertime…when you’re living in Los Angeles, you can get creepers anytime.
I don’t know if the constant heat or the berating sun, but there is a growing epidemic of ‘the crazy’ happening in the minds of Los Angeles' males.
Yesterday morning, my two roommates and I decided to go hiking in Runyon Canyon, which is a very popular and dusty hiking trail in the mountains in LA. Minus the fact that I didn’t have any sort of running shoes and had to borrow a pair of Keds that were a size too big which led to me slipping left and right down a large mountain- or the fact that we were run down by Queen Latifia and her dog ( true story.)- the trail was lovely. All sorts of pretty LA people with their dogs, walking on their legs, wearing short shorts- it was like a dream. After 20 minutes of intense "slick shoe" climbing, we had finally reached the top of the trail.
All three of us sat on this large wooden bench overlooking smoggy Los Angeles, resting our legs, and trying not to breathe as loud as the other- disguising our out of shape and suffering lungs. And then it just had to happen- enter creepy 43 year old man who thinks he has something original to say:
“Having fun on that bench?”….
Uhhh….yep.
“Just watching you girls on that bench, makes me feel like a kid again.”
Confusion.
He went through the list of questions that his kind asks- Where are you girls from? What do you want to do? How old are you?
Each question getting a little more like someone would ask before they’re caught on camera by “To Catch a Predator.”
Then we somehow got on the subject of how people our age these days are starting to get married earlier than in the previous generation. Creeper man then said that he wasn’t mature enough at our age to be married and have kids, then he asked if we were mature… I answered:
“Well, physically, yes. I’ve been able to bare children since the age of 9.”
Not understanding the joke, he continued…
“Wait, really? Wow.”
“Yes, I have a few kids back east. Well, I’m not sure if their mine- they claim they are but I haven’t seen any DNA test results yet. It’s my goal to have a kid in each state by the time I’m 24.”
Still not understanding that I was joking he asked, “ Did you donate your ovaries?”
“Yes. All of them.”
He then went on a rant about how humans shouldn’t be monogamous because it goes against nature and that people should only get married to have children…which I’m pretty sure contradicts his previous point…
Then he just started laughing hysterically for a little bit, and we uncomfortably laughed, adding in “Oh jeez” and “That’s for sure” here and there to break the weird silences. But then he struck back with the ultimate creep comeback:
“Do you want my dog to lay across your laps?”
“Uhh… no, that’s ok”
“Or how about my son?” he points to a 12 year old blond boy sitting behind us, obviously not trying to be seen…I can’t blame the kid.
“Hey Zack, how about sitting on these girls’ laps?”
“Uh, no, no that’s ok…” We were trapped. Surrounded by crazy and stuck on a mountain with a panting wet dog and a 12 year-old boy who might sexually harass us with his father…
After refusing many times over, they got the hint and started to trek back down the mountain looking for their next victims…
I can move from coast to coast, touch each ocean, and even climb a mountain, but I have and will always attract 43 year-old recently divorced males who harass me and their dogs.
I don’t know if the constant heat or the berating sun, but there is a growing epidemic of ‘the crazy’ happening in the minds of Los Angeles' males.
Yesterday morning, my two roommates and I decided to go hiking in Runyon Canyon, which is a very popular and dusty hiking trail in the mountains in LA. Minus the fact that I didn’t have any sort of running shoes and had to borrow a pair of Keds that were a size too big which led to me slipping left and right down a large mountain- or the fact that we were run down by Queen Latifia and her dog ( true story.)- the trail was lovely. All sorts of pretty LA people with their dogs, walking on their legs, wearing short shorts- it was like a dream. After 20 minutes of intense "slick shoe" climbing, we had finally reached the top of the trail.
All three of us sat on this large wooden bench overlooking smoggy Los Angeles, resting our legs, and trying not to breathe as loud as the other- disguising our out of shape and suffering lungs. And then it just had to happen- enter creepy 43 year old man who thinks he has something original to say:
“Having fun on that bench?”….
Uhhh….yep.
“Just watching you girls on that bench, makes me feel like a kid again.”
Confusion.
He went through the list of questions that his kind asks- Where are you girls from? What do you want to do? How old are you?
Each question getting a little more like someone would ask before they’re caught on camera by “To Catch a Predator.”
Then we somehow got on the subject of how people our age these days are starting to get married earlier than in the previous generation. Creeper man then said that he wasn’t mature enough at our age to be married and have kids, then he asked if we were mature… I answered:
“Well, physically, yes. I’ve been able to bare children since the age of 9.”
Not understanding the joke, he continued…
“Wait, really? Wow.”
“Yes, I have a few kids back east. Well, I’m not sure if their mine- they claim they are but I haven’t seen any DNA test results yet. It’s my goal to have a kid in each state by the time I’m 24.”
Still not understanding that I was joking he asked, “ Did you donate your ovaries?”
“Yes. All of them.”
He then went on a rant about how humans shouldn’t be monogamous because it goes against nature and that people should only get married to have children…which I’m pretty sure contradicts his previous point…
Then he just started laughing hysterically for a little bit, and we uncomfortably laughed, adding in “Oh jeez” and “That’s for sure” here and there to break the weird silences. But then he struck back with the ultimate creep comeback:
“Do you want my dog to lay across your laps?”
“Uhh… no, that’s ok”
“Or how about my son?” he points to a 12 year old blond boy sitting behind us, obviously not trying to be seen…I can’t blame the kid.
“Hey Zack, how about sitting on these girls’ laps?”
“Uh, no, no that’s ok…” We were trapped. Surrounded by crazy and stuck on a mountain with a panting wet dog and a 12 year-old boy who might sexually harass us with his father…
After refusing many times over, they got the hint and started to trek back down the mountain looking for their next victims…
I can move from coast to coast, touch each ocean, and even climb a mountain, but I have and will always attract 43 year-old recently divorced males who harass me and their dogs.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Awkward Moose.
During the summer before my Junior year at BU, I was hired to work for the Office of Orientation along with about 70 other fellow classmates. Early on in the summer, when we were all still getting to know each other, 6 of us decided to go out and get some pizza. Mind you, this was basically the first week of training, so I was barely sure of everybody’s name. Therefore, I was completely unprepared for what was about to come out at T Anthony’s pizzeria that night.
The conversation had been light exchanges and humorous stories from summers past until something changed. Someone started talking about their trouble with drug use.
It was as if the whole room went silent. I could feel my face growing red as my teeth grabbed my lower lip to stop it from smiling. From person to person, the stories seemed to try to topple each other with how dramatic their lives have been. They were openly sharing stories of rehab, physical abuse, and sexual conquests around a pepperoni pizza and people they had met only a few days earlier. I felt ridiculous in a ridiculous situation. The conversation took a pause and I felt their eyes come upon my side of the table. It was time to contribute a secret that had ruined our lives but that we could share without a second thought.
I looked up at my friend who was sitting across from me. Then, with a perfect beat, my friend confessed, “I was in band in middle school.”
I burst out laughing.
Do you ever have those moments when the best inappropriate response pops into your head but you know your future happiness and financial stability depends on you not acting like a jack-ass?
Because my life, like the United States of America, is completely out of debt and have no money issues at all….I’ve been going on a few interviews for jobs. And it seems that each interviewer is reading from the "Dummies Guide to Interviewing" list of questions. I don’t even think they really listen to your answers. I believe that they are just thinking about when they get to leave for the day- or, if they’re like me, they’ve had the Hamster Dance stuck in their head since 7th grade.
Anywhoozle, when I was in one of these interviews, I had a little bit of a John Nash-Beautiful Mind-Moment, in which I heard this voice in my head answering the questions for me.
Here are a few that came to mind:
(Them): If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be?
(Me): Bendy.
(Them): What would you say your one weakness is?
(Me): Dairy Products
(Them): What are your strengths?
(Me): Deep- knee bends
(Them): What is your ideal job?
(Me): Hamburglar.
I just can't take serious situations seriously. It's not like I'm dead inside or anything. Believe me, I've had my fair share of locking myself in my room listening to Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me" sitting in a prom dress and crying.
It's just that if I have to put on pants, comb my hair, and sit in a waiting room for 40 minutes just so I can lie and tell someone that I'm passionate about waking up at 7:30 am to go and answer phones for 10 hours a day, 5 days a week, just so I can barely afford to shop at the 99 cents store- I want to be able to tell them that dairy makes me irritable.
The conversation had been light exchanges and humorous stories from summers past until something changed. Someone started talking about their trouble with drug use.
It was as if the whole room went silent. I could feel my face growing red as my teeth grabbed my lower lip to stop it from smiling. From person to person, the stories seemed to try to topple each other with how dramatic their lives have been. They were openly sharing stories of rehab, physical abuse, and sexual conquests around a pepperoni pizza and people they had met only a few days earlier. I felt ridiculous in a ridiculous situation. The conversation took a pause and I felt their eyes come upon my side of the table. It was time to contribute a secret that had ruined our lives but that we could share without a second thought.
I looked up at my friend who was sitting across from me. Then, with a perfect beat, my friend confessed, “I was in band in middle school.”
I burst out laughing.
Do you ever have those moments when the best inappropriate response pops into your head but you know your future happiness and financial stability depends on you not acting like a jack-ass?
Because my life, like the United States of America, is completely out of debt and have no money issues at all….I’ve been going on a few interviews for jobs. And it seems that each interviewer is reading from the "Dummies Guide to Interviewing" list of questions. I don’t even think they really listen to your answers. I believe that they are just thinking about when they get to leave for the day- or, if they’re like me, they’ve had the Hamster Dance stuck in their head since 7th grade.
Anywhoozle, when I was in one of these interviews, I had a little bit of a John Nash-Beautiful Mind-Moment, in which I heard this voice in my head answering the questions for me.
Here are a few that came to mind:
(Them): If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be?
(Me): Bendy.
(Them): What would you say your one weakness is?
(Me): Dairy Products
(Them): What are your strengths?
(Me): Deep- knee bends
(Them): What is your ideal job?
(Me): Hamburglar.
I just can't take serious situations seriously. It's not like I'm dead inside or anything. Believe me, I've had my fair share of locking myself in my room listening to Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me" sitting in a prom dress and crying.
It's just that if I have to put on pants, comb my hair, and sit in a waiting room for 40 minutes just so I can lie and tell someone that I'm passionate about waking up at 7:30 am to go and answer phones for 10 hours a day, 5 days a week, just so I can barely afford to shop at the 99 cents store- I want to be able to tell them that dairy makes me irritable.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Day of All Days
I turned 22 years old this past August 19th. I wouldn’t say it was the most memorable birthday I’ve ever had, but it definitely had its moments.. It certainly wasn’t comparable to my 7th Jungle themed birthday, in which my older siblings insisted on only playing the “Shaft” theme song while my first grade friends tried to play spin the tail on the donkey- most appropriate. And nothing compares (Sinead O’Connor) to my 21st birthday in which my sister, Annie, and I performed the best karaoke rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin.’” We were rocking out and had the whole bar singing along to this glorious 80’s jam, when the guitar solo hit. I decided to do a fake air guitar kick. SWOOSH. My shoe flew into the arms of my friend Kasey. Then, in my drunken mind I decided that I would look ridiculous standing up on stage with one shoe on, so I decided to kick my other show off to Kasey. SWOOSH- my shoe went over Casey’s head toward the back of the bar- CRASH- hit a drink right out of a guy’s hand. SILENCE…. Then- “YEAHHHHHHHHHH!” The crowd went nuts and we continued the most passionate Journey tribute I think those souls have ever seen.
Yet this year’s party proved itself to be a contender- not from what I remember about the party, but what was discovered in the aftermath. I thought it was going to be a disappointment. After all, this was my first birthday away from my friends and family and I know about 6 people in all of Los Angeles (4 if you aren’t counting internet friends and male suitors on J-Date). But I was determined to make the best of it, and by “the best of it” I meant throw a Quinceanera. It was to be the best 15th birthday I ever had…and it was…it really was. It started off kind of small, a few friends, a few strangers, and lots of rum. Then something happened…it was as if someone hit the fast forward button and the night just went by in a swirl of sombreros, slow grinding, and unintentional slip n’ slides. It seemed that so much happened all at once that it was hard to judge whether the party was a success or not… but I think it was definitely one for the books…
I had gone to bed somewhere around 3:00am that night, but at 5:23am I awoke from my bed because of a strange noise coming from outside my bedroom door. It sounded like someone was pouring water on the ground. QUE?! I opened my door. There was one of the party go-ers with his pants down, peeing in front of my door, which happens to be right next to the bathroom…which was completely open.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I just starred at this kid who could barely stand up. His friend came running down my hallway yelling “Trent! NOOOO!” This startled Trent and he ran toward his friend down the hall…still peeing. I grabbed a bunch of paper towels, through them over Trent’s contribution, and yelled for him to clean it up. I went back to bed.
7:14am- I am sleeping until – SLAP! I’m hit in the face. I open my eyes- there’s my roommate, BEAST ( the narcoleptic vegetarian, who is family friends with Michael Bolton). “That’s for the pots in my bed!” And she walks out of my room. Although I am known for putting pots in beds when I’m angry at someone- this time I was wrongfully accused.
Cut to Beast’s room in which she awoke to a half naked Jewish man, three girls from an ultimate Frisbee team (one of which was dress like an octopus), and three frying pans in her bed, and a temporary tattoo of the Loch Ness Monster on her arm. I’m sure anyone would resort to physical violence after waking up to this.
8:42am- Beast, Johnna, and I sit and reflect on the events of the last night. 70 empty beer cans and only a $20 profit of the last night, we decide that there is only one place we want to spend our money…
10:20am- We sit outside Pizza Hut waiting for our order.
11:04am- Beast finds a barely eaten burrito and 3 barely opened bottles of vodka in our cupboard…we continue to celebrate.
5:00pm- We toast to a hell of a wedding season and all go back to bed.
8:30am Monday morning- I leave to go to work. I get into my car but I notice that the back seats are down, there is a pair of men’s sneakers, baseball cap, and melted wax inside my car…Some man had a nice relaxing alone time in the back seat of my Kia, lit some candles, then walked away the next morning without his shoes and probably feeling a little pretty.
Now, I’ve never been to another Quinceanera before, but if this is how they all end up- I’m only partying with 15 year old Mexican kids from now on.
Yet this year’s party proved itself to be a contender- not from what I remember about the party, but what was discovered in the aftermath. I thought it was going to be a disappointment. After all, this was my first birthday away from my friends and family and I know about 6 people in all of Los Angeles (4 if you aren’t counting internet friends and male suitors on J-Date). But I was determined to make the best of it, and by “the best of it” I meant throw a Quinceanera. It was to be the best 15th birthday I ever had…and it was…it really was. It started off kind of small, a few friends, a few strangers, and lots of rum. Then something happened…it was as if someone hit the fast forward button and the night just went by in a swirl of sombreros, slow grinding, and unintentional slip n’ slides. It seemed that so much happened all at once that it was hard to judge whether the party was a success or not… but I think it was definitely one for the books…
I had gone to bed somewhere around 3:00am that night, but at 5:23am I awoke from my bed because of a strange noise coming from outside my bedroom door. It sounded like someone was pouring water on the ground. QUE?! I opened my door. There was one of the party go-ers with his pants down, peeing in front of my door, which happens to be right next to the bathroom…which was completely open.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I just starred at this kid who could barely stand up. His friend came running down my hallway yelling “Trent! NOOOO!” This startled Trent and he ran toward his friend down the hall…still peeing. I grabbed a bunch of paper towels, through them over Trent’s contribution, and yelled for him to clean it up. I went back to bed.
7:14am- I am sleeping until – SLAP! I’m hit in the face. I open my eyes- there’s my roommate, BEAST ( the narcoleptic vegetarian, who is family friends with Michael Bolton). “That’s for the pots in my bed!” And she walks out of my room. Although I am known for putting pots in beds when I’m angry at someone- this time I was wrongfully accused.
Cut to Beast’s room in which she awoke to a half naked Jewish man, three girls from an ultimate Frisbee team (one of which was dress like an octopus), and three frying pans in her bed, and a temporary tattoo of the Loch Ness Monster on her arm. I’m sure anyone would resort to physical violence after waking up to this.
8:42am- Beast, Johnna, and I sit and reflect on the events of the last night. 70 empty beer cans and only a $20 profit of the last night, we decide that there is only one place we want to spend our money…
10:20am- We sit outside Pizza Hut waiting for our order.
11:04am- Beast finds a barely eaten burrito and 3 barely opened bottles of vodka in our cupboard…we continue to celebrate.
5:00pm- We toast to a hell of a wedding season and all go back to bed.
8:30am Monday morning- I leave to go to work. I get into my car but I notice that the back seats are down, there is a pair of men’s sneakers, baseball cap, and melted wax inside my car…Some man had a nice relaxing alone time in the back seat of my Kia, lit some candles, then walked away the next morning without his shoes and probably feeling a little pretty.
Now, I’ve never been to another Quinceanera before, but if this is how they all end up- I’m only partying with 15 year old Mexican kids from now on.
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