I recently moved into a new house that I’m sharing with two other friends. One of my roommates went home to Oregon for a month and the other is set to make his move from New York to LA at the beginning of September. So I have been living solo for pretty much the whole month we’ve been renting. I like moving into new places because you can kind of start fresh; decorate differently and trick yourself into thinking that this will be your first grown up house. The place where you will host parties with appetizers and wine glass charms so there are no mix-ups. But then you carry your beer bong in and store it on the dining room table and you are taken harshly back to reality. The one thing I do not like about moving is having to learn all the quirks of your new place.
For instance, I’ve had to learn that the fan in the bathroom sounds like a terrorist attack, but is harmless. I’ve had to come to terms with that fact that my bedroom door only has a doorknob on the inside; making it clear to NOT go inside if the door is closed because there must be someone (not me) inside. I’ve had to grow accustomed to the squeaky front gate being the perfect entrance sound for a psycho killer, and reminding myself it’s probably just the landlord coming to turn on the sprinklers or his grandkids using the hose to fill up their water guns. And yes, all my concerns about the quirks sprout form a place of fear and that is because living I’ve been living alone for the past few weeks and THAT means I have had way too much time to think. I’m pretty confident that no one is going to break in, I live in a very safe and quiet neighborhood…And I check each door and window three times before I go to bed and use the deadbolt of my one-knobbed bedroom door each night. I’m safe.
The thing is that IF someone were to break in no one would know I was in danger because I don’t think I would scream. I think it’s unrealistic to think anyone can muster something more than a loud gasp when they are surprised by something/someone. I mean I know I can yell. But that is must more in the cheering sense. Like, I’m great at sporting events. I don’t think I would make a sound if I were in danger, most definitely not one of those bloodcurdling shrieks in movies. I’m sitting here at my computer and, for practice’s sake, can’t force myself to scream, and I’m not even paralyzed with fear right now. How could I possibly handle the real deal?
When I share this concern, which is actually much more of an observation than a concern, people tell me that in the heat of the moment, with an adrenaline rush I could and probably would scream. I beg to differ. The only screaming I’ve done off an adrenaline rush was telling an opposing player “I will fuck you up” in the middle of a basketball game. The problem being 1. It wasn’t really a scream; it was more of a low, winded, lie. And 2. I wasn’t in danger. Except of losing a playoff game. My senior year. When we really had a talented team. But WHATEVER IT’S IN THE PAST.
When I was much younger my dad told me that if there was an emergency and I needed help right away I should yell ‘fire.’ Yelling ‘fire’ gets the speediest results because a fire can affect a lot of people very quickly. I really wish that a barely audible ‘oh shit’ did the trick because then I wouldn’t be so concerned about my safety.
Don’t get me wrong I don’t actually think I will be attacked/robbed/or mugged, I have much more realistic things to worry about like running out of gas on the highway and flying. I do think, though, that I would be most okay-ish with being mugged. First of all, who mugs anymore? It’s useless. No one carries cash these days and you can cancel all your cards in a matter of 15 minutes, which might not even be necessary if you only have a debit card and the mugger doesn’t know your PIN. You really could argue that technology has affected muggings the most.
Mugger: (with gun) “Give me all your wallet!”
Muggee: “Okay, okay, here” (tosses wallet to mugger)
Mugger: (rifling through) “Dammit! No cash!”
Muggee: “My bank charges to take cash out so I never do.”
Mugger: (searching wallet) “Dammit! No credit card, only a debit card!”
Muggee: “I don’t want to develop bad credit.”
Mugger: “Fine! Give me your PIN number! Now! Give it to me!” (pointing gun at muggee’s head)
Muggee: (panicking) “Umm, okay okay. Let me think, it’s my birthday…”
Mugger: “Come on!”
Muggee: “I’m sorry I can really only think of my PIN with a keypad in front of me.”
Mugger: “Are you serious?!”
Muggee: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a little flustered.”
Mugger: (pulling out iPhone) “Here, here use the keypad on my phone.”
Muggee: “I don’t know how to use these touch screens!”
Cops arrive.
Mugger: “Dammit!!”
Now, obviously this is the ideal situation. Honestly though, I think I would be okay with a mugging as long as they leave me my drivers license, ‘cuz, I mean, come on. No one likes going to the DMV. Don’t be a jerk.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Smell Ya Later
This weekend as I was getting ready to go to dinner with some friends I decided to use some perfume that I hadn’t used in quite awhile. This smell no longer had the fresh and exciting effect on me that it once had. Instead I was immediately reminded that I used to put this perfume on in place of showering when on a time crunch OR truly overtaken by laziness. Out of habit, my nose relayed to my brain that I needed to shower when time allowed despite the fact that I just did. I washed off the perfume to stop the confusion, embarrassed that my laziness had trained my nose in such a way. I knew I would have to find a new perfume, one that I would use to highlight my cleanliness not to mask my lack there of. I was happy that my new scent was my choice, a choice I can honestly say I don’t think grandmothers have.
This week, after two encounters with grandmothers who smelled just like my own, I began to question a lot of things. Do all grandmothers use the same perfume? Is this the smell we all naturally take on as we age? And, why does it make me want meatloaf? In one week, smells had confused me into thinking I was dirty when I wasn’t, I was with my grandmother when I wasn’t and I was going to get meatloaf when I wasn’t.
I don’t understand how a lot of things work. Most of these things involve technology (I’m still trying to wrap my mind around electricity so don’t even get me STARTED on fax machines and cell phones) but our sense of smell really gets me. How can something trigger vivid memories but turn on you in a split second? I have never felt so betrayed by my own body than when I drank a glass of Sprite that tasted like the zoo smells. Like, come ON.
Aside from my sense of smell I have been focusing on a lot of other things lately. I am half way through the 4th level of Upright Citizens Brigade improv classes - BE IMPRESSED. But on another note, I am losing my nannying job in September because, damn it all, kids grow up and go to school and don’t need their nannies anymore. I will be taking some time to reflect on my time as a part-time mother and will hit you all with a very mothering and nurturing blog post. But what is more likely is a post about how I’m worried I will develop a vitamin deficiency without the plethora of fresh fruit available to me at their house. But I have great news for network executives! I am now free to hire.
This week, after two encounters with grandmothers who smelled just like my own, I began to question a lot of things. Do all grandmothers use the same perfume? Is this the smell we all naturally take on as we age? And, why does it make me want meatloaf? In one week, smells had confused me into thinking I was dirty when I wasn’t, I was with my grandmother when I wasn’t and I was going to get meatloaf when I wasn’t.
I don’t understand how a lot of things work. Most of these things involve technology (I’m still trying to wrap my mind around electricity so don’t even get me STARTED on fax machines and cell phones) but our sense of smell really gets me. How can something trigger vivid memories but turn on you in a split second? I have never felt so betrayed by my own body than when I drank a glass of Sprite that tasted like the zoo smells. Like, come ON.
Aside from my sense of smell I have been focusing on a lot of other things lately. I am half way through the 4th level of Upright Citizens Brigade improv classes - BE IMPRESSED. But on another note, I am losing my nannying job in September because, damn it all, kids grow up and go to school and don’t need their nannies anymore. I will be taking some time to reflect on my time as a part-time mother and will hit you all with a very mothering and nurturing blog post. But what is more likely is a post about how I’m worried I will develop a vitamin deficiency without the plethora of fresh fruit available to me at their house. But I have great news for network executives! I am now free to hire.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
What Happens in Vegas Goes on Blogspot
This past weekend I took a little trip to Las Vegas for a friend’s birthday. Although I think we celebrated more so as if the Apocalypse were approaching. Which, I suppose it is. Sorry to get so real so early in this post.
I have a love/hate relationship with trips to Vegas because on one hand, they are amazing. And when the fatigue wears off, your brain can finally remind you of hilarious things that happened. It’s like a gift that keeps giving. But, then on the other hand, that fatigue never fully wears off until your next trip to Vegas. The recovery from a weekend trip to Vegas is almost double the length of your actual time in Vegas. This is not so much observation as a stone hard fact. Anyway, the point of this post is not to explain what the aftermath of every trip to Vegas is like but to tell you how I (tried to) handled mine.
You all might be aware that I do not travel well. Unless I’m traveling by car and only if I’m driving. I get antsy and frantic when I have to fly. Which is never actually visible on my face or in my actions. I look more like a non-chalant zombie than a person with a fear of flying. My anxiety extends past being on planes and includes being in airports. Which made it unfortunate that I had to spend almost 4x the length of my flight in the Las Vegas airport.
Because I wanted to spend my money on bloody marys in Vegas, I took the cheapest flight back to LA, conveniently scheduled for 10:20pm. Because my friends’ flight was at 8:40, I went to the airport with them at 6:30 and because I didn’t want to entertain myself alone for 4 hours I stayed with them at their gate, which was in a different terminal. It was pleasant sitting on the floor outside of their gate, eating a personal Pizza Hut pizza. It was an extra special treat considering we spent the excess time after our hotel check-out and before leaving for the airport searching for a place to sit. The sudden and out of place rainstorm took away our best option of sitting at the pool. So we flopped over a closed craps table under a covered patio and drank six cups of water.
Getting to their terminal was a breeze but when it was time to part ways, my Vegas fatigue had hit a sassy plateau and getting to my terminal was a stressful, sweaty nightmare. Looking back, the route from their Southwest gate to my Delta gate was up an escalator, around a corner and through a door. But at the time I asked five. FIVE. TSA guards where to go. That’s almost a TSA guard every ten feet. I should mention I had lost my voice and asking anyone for anything, let alone complicated (turns out not that complicated) directions, was a major struggle.
By the time I finally boarded the plane the trip was catching up to me. I didn’t have patience to watch the 13-year-old girls giggle and crane their necks to see Randy Jackson in first class. Randy Jackson, really? I didn’t have any patience for the woman swaggering down the aisle and stopping to ask the flight attendant at row 15 if row 25 was towards the back. No, bitch, plane aisles are in alphabetical order. OF COURSE IT’S TOWARDS THE BACK. And I most certainly did not have patience for the kid sitting next to me to immediately fall asleep slumped over, only to have each movement of the plane send his body over our dividing armrests and basically in my lap. But did I do anything about any of these things? No, of course not. I did what I always do. I sat in my seat and prayed the plane didn’t crash.
I’m going to Colorado tomorrow for a ten-day free for all in the clean mountain air. And by 'free for all' I mean I’m crossing my fingers for an extra few days to work on getting my voice back. I’m sure I’ll have something fantastic to share when I get back OR while I’m there? Who knows, who knows.
I have a love/hate relationship with trips to Vegas because on one hand, they are amazing. And when the fatigue wears off, your brain can finally remind you of hilarious things that happened. It’s like a gift that keeps giving. But, then on the other hand, that fatigue never fully wears off until your next trip to Vegas. The recovery from a weekend trip to Vegas is almost double the length of your actual time in Vegas. This is not so much observation as a stone hard fact. Anyway, the point of this post is not to explain what the aftermath of every trip to Vegas is like but to tell you how I (tried to) handled mine.
You all might be aware that I do not travel well. Unless I’m traveling by car and only if I’m driving. I get antsy and frantic when I have to fly. Which is never actually visible on my face or in my actions. I look more like a non-chalant zombie than a person with a fear of flying. My anxiety extends past being on planes and includes being in airports. Which made it unfortunate that I had to spend almost 4x the length of my flight in the Las Vegas airport.
Because I wanted to spend my money on bloody marys in Vegas, I took the cheapest flight back to LA, conveniently scheduled for 10:20pm. Because my friends’ flight was at 8:40, I went to the airport with them at 6:30 and because I didn’t want to entertain myself alone for 4 hours I stayed with them at their gate, which was in a different terminal. It was pleasant sitting on the floor outside of their gate, eating a personal Pizza Hut pizza. It was an extra special treat considering we spent the excess time after our hotel check-out and before leaving for the airport searching for a place to sit. The sudden and out of place rainstorm took away our best option of sitting at the pool. So we flopped over a closed craps table under a covered patio and drank six cups of water.
Getting to their terminal was a breeze but when it was time to part ways, my Vegas fatigue had hit a sassy plateau and getting to my terminal was a stressful, sweaty nightmare. Looking back, the route from their Southwest gate to my Delta gate was up an escalator, around a corner and through a door. But at the time I asked five. FIVE. TSA guards where to go. That’s almost a TSA guard every ten feet. I should mention I had lost my voice and asking anyone for anything, let alone complicated (turns out not that complicated) directions, was a major struggle.
By the time I finally boarded the plane the trip was catching up to me. I didn’t have patience to watch the 13-year-old girls giggle and crane their necks to see Randy Jackson in first class. Randy Jackson, really? I didn’t have any patience for the woman swaggering down the aisle and stopping to ask the flight attendant at row 15 if row 25 was towards the back. No, bitch, plane aisles are in alphabetical order. OF COURSE IT’S TOWARDS THE BACK. And I most certainly did not have patience for the kid sitting next to me to immediately fall asleep slumped over, only to have each movement of the plane send his body over our dividing armrests and basically in my lap. But did I do anything about any of these things? No, of course not. I did what I always do. I sat in my seat and prayed the plane didn’t crash.
I’m going to Colorado tomorrow for a ten-day free for all in the clean mountain air. And by 'free for all' I mean I’m crossing my fingers for an extra few days to work on getting my voice back. I’m sure I’ll have something fantastic to share when I get back OR while I’m there? Who knows, who knows.
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