My Mailbox

I’d like to start out by apologizing to my mailman (I will not use the gender-neutral “mail-person”. We’ve got actual issues to address and I refuse to waste my energy on modifying every instance of usage from the masculine to the unisex. When I hear things like “person power”, “fire person”, and “human kind”, it makes me angry we’re investing time better spent on figuring out female Viagra. Any sane-minded woman will agree.) Anyway, I’m sorry Mr. Mailman for not clearing my mailbox out more frequently. I do it about a third to half as often as I should, leaving it busting at the hinges and I’m guessing that doesn’t make your life any easier. But because I only make my way to box #702 fortnightly, it makes for an interesting compilation of items, worthy of bloggery. Today’s mail included:

1. My California License (Yay!): When the local grocery store refused to sell me a PBR tall boy because they “couldn’t verify a New York license”, I knew it was time. FYI it took 20 minutes, 2 store managers and a lot of dirty looks before they declined to sell me the damn thing. Wondering why in God’s name I would wait that long for 24 lousy ounces of beer? Ya, me too. Thanks to a lot of Bloggle food and an afternoon involving too much Coors Light and too little sunblock I’m a bit redder and a bit rounder than I’d prefer but it’s not the worst photo of me out there.

2. TIME magazine: In honesty I almost never read the whole thing but I've got a news recipe that mixes TIME, The Daily Show and “TODAY on NBC” (que the peacock and the ding, ding ding) and the result is my consumption of enough information to know what’s going on in the world without losing all faith in mankind (yes women and children and goldfish included, see above for clarification). Also, I really like being THAT girl that starts conversations with “I was reading this article in TIME…” because I’m not as narcissistic as the jackass who has to namedrop The New Yorker but I’m not the moron who’s trying to work People magazine into lunch chat either.

3. Some new ridiculously overpriced catologue that looks like Pottery Barn Kids and Restoration Hardware vomited their overpriced merchandise, painted it burnt sienna and raised the price five thousand percent. Seriously, $68 for a pillow sham? $728 for a tray table? Who is buying this crap?

4. About 14 sale papers: since I more or less shop at Trader Joe’s these are absolutely useless except for one item. I am constantly on the lookout for beer sales. Here’s a tip folks; your typical run-of-the-mill American beer (tap the rockies!) is on a good sale when the cost is fifty cents a beer or less. Which, by the way, is the same price-per-roll you should be paying for toilet paper, the 1,000 sheet kind. Just a couple pearls of wisdom for ya.

5. My Bloggle paycheck. Thanks Bloggle:) Actually it’s just a stub. It’s 2011 if you aren’t on direct deposit, 1999 called. You need to get with the program.

6. Bills: Goodbye Bloggle paycheck:(

7. Flyers from the county: Ok I get like a million mailers that update me on bridge work and drain work and road work. I thought the giant orange triangles were enough to let me know that’s still going on. Here’s a tip crises-level-in-debt California, quit wasting money sending us mailers about roadwork. It’s stupid and wasteful and we live in the year 2011 AND the heart of Silicon Valley. Build a website and call it a day!

Things I Won't Get Around to Doing Next Weekend

As the weekend comes to a close I find myself relaxing for the evening, wrapping up the last few to-do's and planning for the week ahead. Ya, that's a dirty lie. Actually, I'm surveying my apartment for all the crap I didn't do but swore on the life of.. umm... a really nice handbag I own, that I would get around to dealing with. I have no idea how I manage to convince myself that a 48 hour period is ample time for every errand, chore and social engagement (ya I said it, social engagement, do you have a less formal, all encompassing phrase for bars, pools, brunch and... more bars? No? Ok then can it.) If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results than somebody needs to get me a bottle of those happy pills stat because I have the same conversation with myself every seven days... sometimes out-loud. Friday, 5pm: "Ok, I'm gonna hit the gym, head home, shower, get ready and go out". If I'm lucky, 2 of these things actually happen. Saturday involves a variety of lies I tell myself including "I'm going hiking today" or "I'll go check out the library". Also "I'll totally have 4 hours in the morning for volunteering". Typically Saturday consists of waking up 9ish, puttering around with a cup of coffee in one hand for about an hour and a half, another hour or so watching mindless television and deciding on a gym outfit (why this matters, I have no idea. I'm sweating in it, not speed dating). Assuming I do make into workout attire and manage to get myself out the door, I can guarantee you it is now noon, at the earliest. Post-workout takes a minimum of 3 hours because there's MORE puttering, MORE mindless tv, and half a dozen conversations with (sometimes) other people about what's going on for Saturday night. Assuming I practice moderation (negatory) I'm home by 1am and up before noon on Sunday sans hangover (10 percent chance). Sunday is (inaccurately) pegged as errands/laundry/organizing day, mostly because alternate universe me does these things. In the current universe we're in, these things all happened on the same day once. It was 1999 and we had guests coming from out of town.

So it's Sunday night and I've barely scratched the surface of that big bucket-o-things that need doing. Realistically I get that there will always be more to do than time to do it in, unless you're an extremely disinterested (read 'boring') person. But I still feel like a waste of life for not having crossed more off the list, so I've got a new approach. For next weekend, and all the weekends thereafter, I'm going to tally all the things that aren't going to get done. That way, if I do manage to accomplish a sliver of a minority of the items on the list, I'll feel accomplished and not guilty.

Side-note, please don't mind the un-vacuumed carpet, dirty dishes and empty refrigerator should you stop by. Also, I'm gonna need someone to plan Friday and Saturday night and tell me what to wear, and by "tell me what to wear" I mean go to the mall and buy me something to wear. Ahh, I feel less guilty and more accomplished already!

The Industrial Revolution Wasn't All Progress

My gym is much like any other shi-shi suburban chain. There's a laser that reads my fingerprint at check in, a wall of super protein mega power bars and a 'roid rage corner I can't for the life of me understand. Sir, your neck and your head share the same circumference. Who is dating that? I'm there (in theory) five days a week and there is a certain pleasure I take in the 60 minutes I'm working out and not thinking about Bloggle or men, or whether my 401k is growing at a healthy rate. But lets be honest, the gym is pointless. Hear me out on this one. I'm assuming we're all smart enough to understand the concept of activity that's multifunctional. For example, biking to work, (which by the way I refuse to do until I can find a stylish Pope-mobile type protective bubble that keeps me from an early death at the hands of California drivers. That column sticking out from the wheel operates these things called "signal lights". Try them sometime.) The point is, we more or less acknowledge that some physical activities are of the 2-bird-1-stone functionality yet we've deluded ourselves into thinking that somehow the "fitness center" of the 21st century provides some superior purpose. I am here to tell you, it does not. Whatever evolved scientific method you think you're obtaining with your monthly dues, let me inform you, you've been misinformed.

I had an epiphany last year back east while taking a toning class called "Smart Bells". It's for stupid people who have too much money. For the record, my east coast gym was more shi-shi, and expensive than my current one and it included a full line of spa services. I loved it. Hypocritical? You bet. So, I'm in the middle of this class involving a flattened kettlebell (cause ya know if you flatten it, it's... smarter) and it hits me. This fancy, new age, total body transformation program is nothing more than farm labor minus the dirt. Now I don't have extensive farming experience but I've done enough to know what hoeing, weeding and shoveling feel like. So instead of being outdoors adding much needed oxygen to our sad deprived urban brains we were inside pantomiming the activity with ridiculous rubber-covered steel, Britney Spears in the background. At the end of the class all we had were sweat-stained (overpriced) Lululemon tank tops. If we'd been outside on the dirt square (farms, they're called farms) we'd at least have lunch to show for it. Not to mention a couple extra bucks after we sold what we couldn't eat.

At the end of the day I'm not saying we should swap out our yoga pants for Carhart coveralls. Personally, I rather like the airconditioning, sauna rooms and flat screen tv's...and I hate bugs (really really hate bugs). I just think it's worth noting the baseline of ridiculous on which these particular establishments are built.

Playground Rules Apply

Malcolm Forbes said "If you have a job without aggravation, you don't have a job". Well folks, I definitely have a job. And while that job is pretty great and I love Bloggle, there are still days I want to run screaming from the building, arms flailing. The details aren't important. Big picture; remember that kid on the playground that didn't play well with others? The one who threw stones and pushed kids off the monkey bars? Well, guess what, he grew up (physically at least), and chances are he, or his sister or cousin or someone else in that rotten family of his, is working in your office, or factory or job site. I know this because he works at my office too. And it doesn't seem right. Seriously buddy? It wasn't bad enough you put sand in my diaper and tripped me during hopscotch? Ya gotta show up at work? At my place of employment? You're not fooling me with that button down shirt. Just because you're not wearing overalls two sizes too big and you've managed to dislodge that index finger from your left nostril does not mean I don't recognize you.

I can't comprehend how King of the Swing Wedgie wriggled his way into my adult life. I don't understand how these people (swing wedgie people of the world) manage to make it past the bacteria infected scabs, through the acne breakouts and out of some character flawed university with a diploma, holding no karmic refute to speak of.

Now, I could stay wallowing in my bath of bitter and angry and grumpy-pants, wondering how life can be this cruel but that lump three feet above my ass occasionally decides to do it's job. It starts as a vague memory of Wedgie Man alone during snack time, meanders into high school fist fights and ends with the email address that gets left off the cocktail hour invite, because answering the question "Who brought that guy?" is infinitely more painful than "Hey, why didn't anyone invite me?". That rare gift Perspective drops some much needed insight into my lap. It's much better to deal with Wedgie Man than to actually be him. That's not to say I don't have a the occasional urge to staple his eyelids to the wall. I may have to put up with his ugly personality, but I don't have to look at it in the mirror every morning. And that makes it a hell of a lot easier to get up and go to work every day.

Love Letters to Retail

I've mentioned I spend a lot more time spending money on stuff these days. Enter inspirations for my Love Letters to Retail. My expectation is that this will be first of a series of short and long-term love affairs. Enjoy...

Dearest Target,

I love you. When I walk through the automatic sliding doors I am immediately flooded with your bright abrasive red marketing, like Communism... but nicer. I love how your clothes always look more expensive than they actually are and when people comment on them I get to say "Why, thank you, Target (which I pronounce "tar-jay"). You have an excellent hair accessory aisle and your clientele is significantly less smelly than at your bastard cousin Walmart's store. You are wonderful, but Target, oh why? Why when I search for single Reases Peanut Butter eggs, are there none? Why do you have giant bins of 6 packs, 12 packs and family sized bags of those delicious treats but not one single wrapped egg? I know you love me for who I am but I'm trying to REDUCE the size of me rear end and you're just not helping me with this. I still love you, I do, but I think we need to spend some time apart, at least until after all of the Easter candy is gone.

Yours Always

Lea

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Resolution Check-In

How are we all doing on those New Years resolutions we made 3 months ago? We're just about at the quarter mark so I thought I'd ask. I'm guessing if ten people read this the break down goes something like this: 4 of you are groaning (or cursing me, I dunno maybe a comb of the 2). 3 of you are putting that bag of potato chips down. Relax, I didn't say you rolled it up and put the oversized Chip Clip back on, I'm just saying you put the bag down. 1 of you is trying to remember what the hell your resolution was. 1 of you "doesn't believe in resolutions (code for "too lazy") and 1 of you is jumping up and down with your hand raised, ready to tell me how much weight you've lost, money you've saved and how many old ladies you've helped cross the street. Hey asshole, put your hand down. Nobody likes a bragger. For your entertainment I've listed my own resolutions and their status 90 days in. Feel free to judge/scrutinize/mock as you see fit.

• Get smaller: "Bloggle" cafes are great but they're not helping my waistline. Thus, I checked out a gym last night. Elderly asian men Zumba-ing, feel free to process that visual
• Write more: Given my average of one post a month, it's pretty obvious this one's not being met. I'm working on that... obviously.
• Volunteer: I went to a food pantry in San Jose, ONCE. I spent the morning muttering about kids these days and shaking my head in disapproval. Hey, where I come from teenage boys are volunteering gold mines, eager to do heavy lifting and throw things. Where these scrawny hoodlums came from I have no idea but my grandmother would've been more useful. She would have moved faster too.
• Read more: I've actually managed to read several books. Want me to recommend one? Too bad. I hate it when people do that and then months later you ask "hey how was that book I recommended?" and no matter what it's an awkward response. Here are all of the possible responses: 1. awkward moment "Ya, ya know I never got around to reading it." 2. "Meh, it was ok" awkward moment comes at the tail end this time. 3. "I did and you know what, it changed my life!" Guess how often number 3 happens. I suppose there could be a 4th option "Yes I did read it and good God was it awful. What is wrong in your psychotic head that you thought I would like that?"
• Get to know my neighborhood: There's a park 2 blocks away that allows alcohol in the "picnic areas", a Jazzercise studio behind Target, and giant ceramic fruit sculptures next to Caltrain. What more do I need to know?

Hope your New Years Resolutions are more successful than mine have been! (here's where you all comment and tell me it's ok, you're not doing any better)

Shit You Buy When You Have a Car

Let me first say I've noticed that "shit" seems to be appearing in posts fairly frequently, often in the title. Here's the thing, I LOVE the word. There's something about it that makes it so versatile. It's a noun, it's a verb, it can be used to describe a multitude of things. It's succinct and precise and I like to add a distinct stoccato when I say it. I spend a minimum of forty hours a week sidestepping with "stink" "shoot" and "dangit", the Splendas of the curse world. I don't care if it did "come from sugar" it is NOT sugar... and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

M'kay, back to the topic, shit you buy when you have a car. When you live in the city and you take the big metal germ boxes everywhere, it's a lot easier to talk yourself out of buying a LOT of shit. I don't need a dresser, I've got these lovely Rubbermaid bins. You know what's easy to carry home? PLASTIC! You know what's not? OAK! Art? Umm, frames are not only heavy but awkward to carry and easy to break. It's glass and it has pointy corners. No way that's making it 10 blocks home. Candles, lamps and bookshelves also fall under the "not a snowball's chance in hell is that worth lugging home" category. As a result, my apartments in Boston more or less always looked like I was 1. Just moving in; 2. Just moving out; or 3. Newly adopted to the freegan lifestyle (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freegan if you don't get that reference. It's some crazy hippie shit, but I kind of like that someone's using the shit people throw out for no good reason).

Out here in sunny California walking isn't an option. If you're a die hard cyclist dedicated to keeping your carbon footprint neutral, (common term being "overachiever") than you bike to work. You also wear exceptionally tight shorts. Please stop doing that. The rest of us drive our automobiles all through the town. The magical thing about my car is that it transports not only myself but all of the shit I manage to find while I'm out and about. Suddenly end tables, wine racks, blanket chests, abstract prints and glass serving bowls are making their way into my trunk at an alarming rate. I now have more canned goods, back-stocked conditioner and oversized shelving than any sane single woman should own. Frozen fruit, paper towels and Grey Goose vodka are welcome in Costco size.

Naturally, I look around and wonder "how the hell did all this shit get here?". Six months ago I had 3 mugs, a portable dvd player and a fold-up papasan chair. How did I manage to fill 600 square feet? Don't go staging an intervention, I'm not turning into a hoarder (though apparently I have been watching a little too much cable). The shit that comes through the door is waning and I do take a certain satisfaction in the furnished home that I've created. Friends/family: Come visit me sometime and see for yourself. But, leave your shit at home, I've got enough already.

I'm Not Too Old For This

Things on the west coast have been, we'll say, less than earth shattering, world rocking wild as of late. I like to think the "work hard, play hard" motto is what keeps us all from burning down cubicle walls and shoving our hands in the paper shredder, and yet lately I'm only seeing the "work hard" segment. You can see how this is cause for concern. I'm not entirely sure how I've allowed my social life to fall into such a state of disrepair but I've heard some dirty rumors that it has something to do with getting "older". I don't know a whole lot about this "older" but I don't think I like it. Suddenly my peers are talking about how they "can't go out" because it's a "work night". I'm sorry folks but, much like the sentence "I don't like pizza" I'm unable to understand those words when you string them together in that order. Nor do I understand how "older" applies to anyone with a 2 as the first digit of their age. People in their fifties say they'd kill to be in their twenties again. If this is what they'd commit a class A felony for, I'm pretty sure they'd be pissed. Seriously, when did we get serious?

You know what, I've got an idea, please stop asking what I do for a living. Reserve that for my thirties or, better yet, my eighties. I'd like for people to go back to asking me what I want to be when I grow up. That's a far more interesting question. Furthermore, I don't recall a retirement age from beer pong or an expiration date at the bottom of the Kings rules. And I'm pretty sure there's no maximum age for staying til closing time either. Let's get back to these time honored tried and true traditions. Why would we stray from them? When did Friday night turn into 2 glasses of wine, some appetizers, and everyone turning in at 9 o'clock? What happened to tequila shots and Journey at 2am, cramming in that last swig of whatever's on tap before the bouncer kicks you out? Don't stop belieeeeeeevin!!!!!!!

College graduation wasn't the retirement of stupid fun. Kids aren't either (though they are admittedly a speed bump). Life is short, the road ahead is long, you can sleep when you're dead. Raise a glass for a toast; til our livers give out or we keel over, we're not too old for this!

Real Friends Tell You When You Look Like Shit

I've been on the west coast for a few months now and people out here, and back east, occasionally ask "how's it going?" and I usually give a generic response. The weather is amazing, they've got great burritos, "Bloggle" is pretty awesome blah blah blah. It's all true of course but what I don't tend to mention is there are still a few things missing. So, while I'm working on my career and my tan, I can't say my life is complete. Then again, who can? (Someone who is lying, or on Zoloft, that's who) One of the biggest voids at the moment is a close group of friends. Let me clarify, I have lots of acquaintances. Meeting people wasn't ever something I found particularly hard but the people I define as "friends" are few among the many. A friend is someone you can count on. You can have cocktails with any old acquaintance. You call a friend at 3am to bail your ass out of jail. You catch a ride with an acquaintance. A friend will lay down in traffic for you. Acquaintances might have similar taste in movies or music but a friend knows your deepest darkest secrets. For the love of God, friends reading this please don't comment on those, you know the stories I'm talking about and my mom reads this blog, oh hi Mom, don't worry about that last part.

Someone once told me "Good friends will tell you when you look like shit" meaning an acquaintance will say you look great in the dress you've got on even if it makes your ass look like a bucket of cottage cheese because she doesn't know you well enough to know you're not fishing for compliments when you ask for her opinion. A friend will tell you to take it off and burn it and she'll use the cottage cheese reference not to be cruel but to drive home how bad a choice it was. The point is, a friend is willing to sacrifice her own image to save yours, and that's the way it's supposed to work. (She will also feed you booze until you can't stand and then hold your hair back while you puke but that analogy is slightly harder to analyze. Ask someone else to run the 'friends get you into trouble but they also get you out' scenario. That's not my angle this time around.)

I know it took me a long time to find the friends I have and it's going to take a while to select from the pool of acquaintances a local group that puts up with me long enough to make it to friend status but it's still hard to be without that core circle and I'm getting a little worried... the closest person I can count on for bail lives three thousand miles away.

No Class Passengers in the First Class Cabin

I ventured back east to spend Christmas with the family last week and while the time at home was great, the transit there and back, not so much. A kind and generous elf was nice enough to transfer miles to my ticket so I could fly first class. Now, I'm not whining about the free upgrade and the convenience didn't go unappreciated but by the last leg of the journey I cared less about the legroom and more about the clientele in the cabin.

West Coast to East Coast: The flight out had the wanna-be hot shot that wouldn't get off his phone. Excuse me sir, but this cabin is in fact NOT a conference room. No one is interested in discussing your profit margins and we certainly do not need to know about forecasts for the next quarter. You're on a plane, it's closed quarters. Have the common courtesy to save it for after we land. We have all been shoved, pushed, bumped, frisked, looked over and shoved some more before making it onto this death box. I've removed my shoes, my watch and my laptop, paid double the price for a lousy cup of coffee and all I really want to do is pass out, hopefully for the duration of this flight. I'd be remiss if I didn't also mention the over-privileged couple in the seat ahead of me and their rat of a dog. Apparently domestic first class was sub-standard and there wasn't enough room for FiFi in the seat underneath. God help us if these people ever encounter a real problem in their self centered lives. Still, I would have billed the trip as a success had it not been for the return.

East Coast to West Coast: Normally, I like the idea of managing to pull off a somewhat current style of fashion. And I was even..almost... just a teensy bit smug and a little bit satisfied, I won't lie, about dancing across the red carpet (it's small but yes they have one) in my newly purchased Cole Haan boots and hopping into that first class seat. Row 1, Seat A. As it turned out, had I donned manure stained Timberlands, a happier traveler I would have been. Then, perhaps the wretch of a woman sitting next to me might have given me a brief once over, caught a whiff of "country air" and dismissed me as a dairy farming lesbian. As it was she took a big ole dumb blond leap to the conclusion that my first class seat and my clothing filed me under the same type of soulless spoiled rotten spawn she must have sprang from. In 3 seconds flat she decided we'd be best friends and I should know and idolize her entire life story. After 45 minutes of her daddy's BMW, her BMW and her foolish sister who married a "poor man" (her EXACT words, repeated ad nauseam) I was ready to take that chilled silverware the stewardess passed me and jam it in my eye socket. She guzzled one too many glasses of wine and passed out in my lap still babbling something about how jealous people were of us. Literally IN MY LAP. I spent the next 3 hours alternating shoving her off me and pretending to be asleep during her intermittent bouts of consciousness when she tried to pick up the conversation where it left off. I've never de-boarded a plane faster.

Back and forth across this country has it's ups and downs. It's always worth the headache but I think for the foreseeable future I'll be out here on the west coast... in a car.