Sneak a peek into the life of a single, 20-something female who is not in the entertainment industry and who does not have fake breasts. Yes, we do exist. What you are about to read is based on fact and is not for the weak of stomach. You have been warned.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sunlight - It Does Your Roommate Good
I understand that everyone lives their lives as they see fit. Fine. Awesome. Dandy. But I need to voice my opinion (and that's all it is) on how disgusted I get when I am faced with laziness. Not just temporary “oh man I drank too much last night so I‘m going to veg out for the day” laziness, but, consistent, CONSTANT, all-consuming laziness.
I’ve mentioned before how modern technology, although wonderful on so many levels, reinforces that gene we carry that encourages us to take short cuts exerting as little energy as possible in every task we attempt to fulfill. Most of us fight that gene and live a well-balanced life. But, in my house, there is one technology that causes my 20-something roommate to waste his life away - the damn boob tube. Supplemented by the “old school” technologies of a sofa, Doritos and pot-filled bongs, my roommate has to be one of the laziest human beings that I’ve had associated in my life….and it often drives me to the brink of insanity.
I know what you’re thinking: “To each their own, Rachel. Focus on your own life and don’t worry about his life or anyone else’s.” But you know what? We share a 900 square foot house with one living room and one bathroom and he makes me want to literally light a fire under his ass and force him outside so that I can get a moment of peace and quiet in my house without hearing the "The Simpsons" in the background.
I brought the subject up yesterday during one of our girltime bitchfests because each time I walked in and out of the house this weekend there he was, solidly planted on the couch - TiVo remote in one hand and his handy-dandy bong in the other. “BOOP BOOP” goes the tivo, “GURGLE GURGLE” goes the bong and my eyes roll to the back of my head. I want to scream at him, “DO SOMETHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Walk. Bike. Skip. Stand on your head. Read. Smoke your ganja on the patio. I don‘t care. Just stop growing couch sores on your body, exposing me to your mug and wasting away your precious 20s.”
It’s such a waste. There are people who fight for their lives on a daily basis. I highly doubt that their fighting so that they can catch the next episode of "Survivor". Shoot, there’s a dude down on the boardwalk all the time who has no legs and just scoots himself around on a skateboard. If he can stay active and enjoy life, shouldn’t we all? HELLLLOOOO, we live in Southern California. We didn’t move here for the air quality or the exceptional local news. We moved here for sunshine and warmth. Well, except him. Apparently he moved here for the caress of my sofa, the quality marijuana and the Comcast buffet of television stations.
I suppose one person’s weakness can be turned into another’s strength. Seeing his vomit-inducing laziness and wasted youth reminds me of how lucky I am to be healthy, young and living in a place that allows me so many opportunities. No matter how beat I am, every time I come home and see his marshmallow ass rotting away on the couch, I tie up the Nikes, harness up the dog or jump on the pink cruiser and embrace the fact that I still have knees and hips that work on their own.
I just beg you. If you are a person who only sees the sunlight when you’re walking out to pick up the mail or forced at gunpoint, please please please take some time and expose your skin to the cancer-inducing sun rays. And if you’re not going to do it for yourself, do it for those who live with you. And if you don’t? I’ll write another blog and this time it’ll be about you. And you won’t like that.
PS: Ironically, I’m sitting here writing this at 6:45 in the evening, and as I peer into the living room, there he is - literally drooling on the couch and it’s sunny and glorious outside. Groody. I'm going for a walk.
"Hello. My name is Rachel and I'm a new myspace addict."
"Hello Rachel."
My friend Lyn thought it was a great idea to get me hooked, causing my eyes to cross. OH GREAT. Just what I need - another reason to screw around. GOOD IDEA LYN. ;) I could be reading Socrates or writing poetry. But alas, I am cruising the internet for people that I knew in a different lifetime. Sweet.
Luckily, I've been able to contain myself during the workday as to not interfere with my highly efficient productivity (by the way, this has to be short because I'm playing golf today) and retain my employment. But my evenings are shot. Myspace = Mywasted evenings.
Last night I spent four, count them, FOUR hours on the stupid thing playing with the page format and searching for people that I haven't spoken to in years. And really, I have no desire to actually talk to these people again, but, sometimes it's good to see that I'm not the only one who has made a mockery out of my 20s.
But what I never realized is (even after watching all those Dateline specials) that it's a farkin' meat market! Even though my profile says that I'm on it for "friends and networking", I've been getting dozens of emails a day from woo-ful males throughout the greater LA area trying to get with this girl in pink. One guy even wrote me an in-depth email about his "sensual hands and lolling voice". Ewe. DELETE. Freak is probably a serial killer who hypnotizes and strangles his prey.
I see now why parents freak out about their kids rolling rampant and unsupervised through this whole new "world" of sorts - just inhabited with freaks and pervs. But as an adult (at least I play one by day), I am able to weed through them and make ample use of the delete button. Delete delete delete denied delete delete denied. And although I am currently addicted to the crack that is myspace, my kids will NEVER EVER EVER see the likes of the site (when they actually exist that is).
I made a stunning discovery today. You may want to take a seat before you read this because it could truly be life changing. Probably not, but, I suppose it could be if you had absolutely nothing else going on in your life. (Hmmm, like the person who blogs about it...)
I used to love the band Mr. Mister. How can you not with a sweet name like that? I was reminded of my love for Mr. Mister today when their song “Kyrie” came on my ipod (that’s the beauty of the ipod – you are constantly surprised by those retarded songs from the 80s that people sneak into your itunes). But, until today, I always thought the song was, “Carry a Laser”.
“Carry a laser down the road that I must travel Carry a laster through the darkness of the niiiiiiight…”
Who wouldn’t think that? Duh. When it came on today, I was instructed that those most definitely were not the lyrics so I went ahead and googled them to find out the truth. And the truth is what I found.
In reality, the lyrics are “Kyrie eleison….”
“Who the hell is Kyrie Eleison?” I thought.
So again, I googled.
What I came to find out that “Kyrie eleison” is actually Greek for “Lord have mercy”. Hmmmmm, a little different than what I thought.
So, does this mean that Mr. Mister was a Holy Roller band? I suppose even men with puffy bangs and mullets can sing about the Big Man Upstairs. Sunday school taught me he is all accepting.
I love making up my own lyrics to songs. I don’t do it on purpose but “peas and carrots” only works for a little while. You look mucho cooler if you’re singing actual lyrics (even if they are completely off base).
For years I thought the song, “You Can Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac was “You Can Comb Your Own Hair”. (Go ahead – sing it.) My co-worker’s two little girls sing, “You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman” as “You Make Me Feel Like An Anchovy Woman”. (Go ahead. Try that one too.) And we’ve all heard “Friends’” Phoebe do her “Hold me closer Tony Danza” rendition of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer”.
I would love to hear more if you have any.
And as for Mr. Mister being a Holy Roller band? Well, hopefully the Lord had some mercy and helped their hair. Just sayin'….
What is it about free food that causes people to revert back to our evolutionary ancestors? I can understand the desperation of people in third world countries, etc., but, why do people who can afford to feed themselves turn into such raging lunatics when they are presented with free food? All manners, couth and civility go out the window and it turns into a scene from Wild Animal Kingdom.
You know you’ve seen it. Costco free sample days? Weddings? If there is free food, there is also the stench of animal-like desperation. And it stinks. You would think that the caterers have put crack into the food. Freaks. Example: This weekend was opening weekend at the playhouse that I work at on the weekends. Like all opening nights, the theatre provides a reception after the show that includes free booze and food. This particular evening, the caterers brought in a nice array of fresh strawberries for “make your own” strawberry shortcake. What a classy, aesthetically pleasing idea – BEFORE the chowhounds go at it.
And go at it they did. We stood there in absolute disgust as seemingly normal adults shoveled strawberry after strawberry into their fat faces. Some using silverware, others not. Piling the strawberries into large pyramids balancing on the weak paper plates. Everywhere we turned there was the glomming of strawberries. It was traumatic.
But it gets better.
At one point, in the middle of the reception, a woman whipped out a Tupperware container from her purse and proceeded to load up on strawberries. Let me repeat myself. She WHIPPED A TUPPERWARE CONTAINER OUT OF HER PURSE. I would like to say that this was a stray homeless woman from off the street, but, no, it wasn’t; it was a theatre-going, diamond-ring sporting, Prada-pimping woman with absolutely no shame. You couldn’t help but just stare at her and wonder what the hell was going through her head. You would have thunk she hit gold. But really the only thing she hit was rock bottom.
My lovely readers, please promise me that you will never be “those” people. We all like to get something for nothing, but, a cracker and cheese here or a strawberry there is fine. Let’s not gorge ourselves to a point that you make the bartender want to vomit all over herself. It’s really not attractive. The gorging nor the vomiting.
If my life consisted of something more than work this week, I would have written something. Alas, not so much. Work work work work. I's gots to bring home the bacon, yo. Hopefully, I'll take a few minutes off this weekend and bust out some adventures for your reading pleasure (or displeasure depending on whether you're a fan or not - and if you're not - piss off.)
In the meantime, please keep your fingers crossed that the Buffalo Sabres (that's hockey for those of you who are very very very slow) crush the Senators in Game 5 on Saturday. My nails are down to bloody nubs from the anxiety. And that's just not hot.
I promise more adventures to come. As someone told me the other day, "All work and no play makes Rachel really f-ing boring." Wow. Gotta love the support of a work ethic.
Hugs and Kisses to those of you that deserve them.....
I had to give kudos to one of the best marketing campaigns I've seen in a while. (Warning: not for the easily offended.) The key is to check out all the options - particularly the music video. Oh, good times. http://shaveeverywhere.com
If you have ever approached a four-way stop sign and: a) panicked; b) stopped and allowed 8 cars to go before you grow balls and do it yourself; c) lost all ability to understand even the simplest of concepts; d) all of the above Go to jail and do not pass GO - you should immediately be turned into the moron-police and be forced to resign your driving privileges.
That theory alone would reduce the traffic congestion in the greater Los Angeles area by a minimum of 65.7843% (+/- .34%).
As a semi-intelligent, self-aware and self-proclaimed amazing driver, when I am faced with a four-way stop I use common sense. First one there goes, and if no one goes by the count of 2 - I'm out. Or, as my friend Will says, "If anyone hesitates, I roll." But for those poor individuals that are apparently less than smart (at least when it comes to driving), the four-way stop can really be reason for distress.
Now, not to make a sweeping generalization or anything (but I will), but the elderly seem to have the toughest time with the F.W.S (four-way stop). (Apparently, F.W.S. weren't introduced into society until after I was born??) So, I went to www.seniordrivers.org to find out if the F.W.S. was addressed to that generation. Sure enough, there was not only a website called seniordrivers.org (I was just being a smart ass and typed that in) but they did address the situation at hand.
And I quote seniordrivers.org : "When approaching a four-way stop, stop and look for oncoming traffic, and proceed when it is safe to do so." Hey, now there's a novel idea. I mean, stop and then go when it's safe? Wow. Who would have thunk?
Maybe I sound bitchy, and that's ok because it's my party and I'll cry if I want to. It just really baffles me that seemingly normal, quasi-intelligent people can be so severely challenged by such a simple concept. COME ON PEOPLE. No one is asking you to define the laws of thermodynamics or calculate the temperature of the third moon to the west of jupiter's lowest point. You stop. You go.
Like I said, if you can't do it take the bus, a cab, walk, bike, rollerblade, cartwheel or skateboard. Just don't drive anymore. By doing that, you will make the lives of us superior ones much easier.
Have you ever stopped to listen to some of the things we say on a daily basis? We say things when we don't even know what they mean. We are verbal followers.
I started thinking about this the other day when one of our euro interns was having a conversation with two of our co-workers and something he said was misheard by the co-workers as "It's like shoes in hell." In reality, he said, "It's like choosing hell", but, we were amused with "shoes in hell" and now we use it in everyday lingo, such as, "Wow. That blows like shoes in hell." Now, let's say that we're out in public and without our knowing, someone hears our comment and then proceeds to "follow" and pass it along to their friends. The next thing you know, I'll be sitting at home watching "Scrubs" and "shoes in hell" will be written into the script.
Parallel to "shoes in hell", I was reading an article regarding some comments that were made by the Buffalo Sabres headcoach (ROCK 'EM SABRES, by the way). He said, "They're a great team. We're really going to have to mind our p's and q's." I read it, read it again, and then said out loud, "What the hell does 'mind your p's and q's' mean?" You hear people say it all the time in a variety of contexts, but, in reality, show me one person who really knows what it means.
Another example (one I am regularly guilty of): "Yah, we just did it for shits and giggles." Wha? I say it all the time. I use in interchangeably with "for the hell of it" or "just because" but I have zero clue what it is and where it came from. If you take it literally, it's rather vile. So why do I say it? I'm being a verbal follower.
The verbal follower theory is just that - my theory. But I'm taking a stand. I will no longer be a verbal follower; if I don't know what it means, then I'm not going to say it. It needs to be done. I will be a leader (I KNOW that "shoes in hell" is going to spread like wild fire and someday someone will be blogging about what the hell it means). So the next time you hear someone say, "The cat's out of the bag" or "she's so loosey goosey" take a stand and say, "What does that mean?" At the very least, it will be amusing to see their reaction.
PS: If anyone finds out what "shits and giggles" means, please let me know. It's a personal favorite of mine.....
My theory is, when in doubt - feng shui. I lie - that just sounded good. I've actually never feng shui'd before but I thought, "Better late than never, eh?"
If you remember, I tried some holistic stuff a few months ago when I became the human pin cushion with acupuncture for my back, and we all know how that rocked my world. So, perhaps there's validity to chi and feng shui and energy rerouting, etc. I figure it's worth a whirl.
I went online (because god forbid we crack a book) and got some information on love and feng shui since, in reality, that's the one thing I have crap luck at. (That and blackjack, but, I couldn't find that covered anywhere on the feng shui websites.)
The first step was to break the bedroom into 9 squares, each square representing a certain aspect of my life (knowledge, kids, money, career, love, etc). Unfortunately, when you have a bedroom that is about 10'x12' your "squares" kind of blend together. I pretty much said "screw it" to all the squares but the love one - the southwest corner of my room. Now, wouldn't you know it, that's where my TV and lingerie stand are (by the way, the lingerie stand holds sweaters - perhaps that's where my problems begin).
The sites gave numerous objects to place in this special corner - flowers, candles, pictures, pendants, incense, etc. But the key was to have everything in pairs. BINGO. That explains it all. Floyd, my fish, needs a date. He sits in the southwest corner alone and that MUST be the reason for my ill-fated love life. I went out and bought him a mate, Magpie.
She died within 24 hours. Uh oh.
I also put two roses, two pink candles and all my framed photos in the corner. Unfortunately, now that corner of my room looked like a makeshift shrine which creeped me out a bit and just appeared extremely cluttered.
And because I'm Rachel? That doesn't fly.
My feng shui had the shelf life of the Floyd's girlfriend. I couldn't stand the hodgepodge of crap that loomed like a psycho girl's love shrine in the corner. It's just not me. The roses got carted to the kitchen, the framed pictures went back to where they originally lived, Floyd remains single and I kept the candles for shits and giggles (plus they smell like strawberries, mmmm).
I just don't think bedroom feng shui can work when your bedroom is the size of a large closet, which for a lot of us 20-somethings in LA is the case (for the bargain basement price of $2500 a month).
I'll stick with my original set up - I added a few plants and cleaned the cobwebs out from behind my dresser. I think that'll help my chi, feng shui karma for a bit - at the very least, it got my ass in gear to clean my room.
There is a term out there, "cougars", which is used to describe an older woman who dates a younger man (i.e., Demi Moore, Mira Sorvino, etc). This whole concept was brought to the front of my brain today when I read an article about how a 104-year-old woman in Malaysia married a 33-year-old man - and the woman is poor. Granted, this is an extreme and quite frankly, gross exaggeration of the concept, but, nonetheless, the whole "cougar movement" seems to be the new "it" thing.
And this is worrisome for a woman in her 20s.
For the first time in, well, perhaps the history of human beings, women in their 20s are getting the bum deal. We always compete with the younger babes and now the cougars are out and hotter than ever. So where does that leave us?
First of all, don't get me wrong, I'm all for it. It's nice to finally see that women don't "expire" at 30 as it seems they have in the past - particularly in the media. You can see it in the movies (can you say "Basic Instinct 2") on TV ("Desperate Housewives") and the magazines (Meg Ryan is gracing the cover of Allure this month - what is she - almost 50?) - hot cougars everywhere.
But if you think about it, us women in our 20s, we're in this strange abyss. The days of the tight little bods and youthful innocence of our teens are gone and we're not as seasoned as the cougs. We're definitely still hot to trot but in a strange purgatory. [Clarification: I am NOT trying to age myself, I just think it's interesting that we're the forgotten generation of women right now.]
I was reading an article on askmen.com about "cougars" and there was a very simple explanation. Older women rock because: "More often than not, an older woman has faced her insecurities and fears head on... she likely has enough life experience to know what matters and what doesn't... Older women have the self-confidence that could only come from experience and the knowledge that they can handle whatever life throws their way." We women in our 20s are still dealing with those insecurities (ha ha - hello, my blog) and men really want a woman who could just plain give a shit what you think.
It's a bittersweet concept. It's about time that men realize that women retain their beauty and sexiness with age - it also reinforces the idea of finding yourself and settling into a career before settling down. But it also depletes the fish pool of eligible bachelors in their late 20s early 30s for those of us stuck in the middle.
We're fermenting - not freshly bottled but we're still waiting to be adequately aged.
I must say that receiving a phonecall saying that one of your best friends has been in a bad car accident has to be one of the worst experiences in the world. You know nothing. You're helpless and in LA traffic, it takes you 45 minutes to get to the hospital. Good times, good times.
That's exactly what happened late last week. Upon receipt of the phonecall from Gwen, I raced to the UCLA Medical Center where our friend had been taken to the emergency room as a trauma patient. Thank god she was awake and they had found only two small hairline fractures - but she was in excruciating pain so we were asked to stay to confirm nothing else was wrong. Unfortunately, if you don't have health insurance, you get shoved to the back of the line. Or, in her case - the hallway. There we sat. And sat. And sat. Her on the stretcher thing, Gwen at her feet and I at her head. And there we sat for 12 hours.
For the first couple hours after we knew she was going to be ok we tried to keep her in good spirits through the pain (in addition to the morphine). I think we were also trying to keep ourselves in good spirits (sans morphine, of course) because we kept cracking jokes and making each other laugh at what seemed like the most inappropriate times. We giggled at the hot paramedics and doctors and nicknamed the people around us (we were in the hallway, remember, so there were people everywhere around us): "Mean Radiology Man", "Blue Eyed Eric", "Chester the Molester", "Bloody Stump Guy", "Drunk F-ing Assumer" and "Dr. Dickhead". We had a chip buffet out of the vending machine and even, dare I say, took pictures with our camera phones - Gwen and I posing with her like "Weekend at Bernie's".
I know, I know, I know. We're demented. We're obnoxious. We're immature.
But you know what? I realized that sometimes, you have to laugh. Everyone deals with situations differently. Receiving a call from the ER Social Worker alerting you that one of your best friends has been brought in as a trauma patient causes a definite raise in bloodpressure and your mind plays tricks on you. But she was ok. We were all going to be ok. And our laughter was simply our way of letting each other know that. (Ok, and maybe we are slightly demented.)
Some of the ER workers enjoyed our antics and I'm sure there are some who didn't. But when you put three girls on display (and for one of us quite literally - can you say hospital gown?), you have to deal with the consequences. They could have admitted her to a room, but, that blue sheet, indicating her lack of private health insurance was our ticket to make the most out of a bad situation.
A few lessons learned:
1. ALWAYS maintain health insurance - no matter what. Eat Raman noodles and water, but, carry health insurance.
2. Don't talk on your cell phone and drive through red lights.
3. Always wear good underwear - you never know when two hot paramedics might have to cut them off.
4. Chili cheese Fritos are the bomb. Likewise for habenero Doritos.
5. Don't take things for granted because it can be taken from you at any minute. Live it up. Carpe diem.
