List-Making Therapy

I make to-do lists when I get overwhelmed or stressed out. But sometimes instead of a to-do list, I end up making a different kind of list; for instance, the Unemployment Pros and Cons list I referred to in yesterday’s post. Occasionally, the lists I make are humorous and just a way for me to articulate whatever frustration is plaguing me at the moment, such as: Things That Asshats Do to Become Asshats, Reasons My Sister and I Should Never Live Together Again, Why the Olson Twins Suck at Life, and 20 Endearing Ways to Embarrass Yourself (the last one could actually be 50 ways as I’m quite experienced in this realm). Anyway, below is one I wrote today and decided to share.


Things That Will Always Make Me Feel Stupid No Matter How Much Learnin’ I Do:

1. The Stock Market. Numbers, math, numbers, abbreviated words, tiny print, percentages, points, numbers, math, down, up…I’m already tired.

2. Insurance. This is what I know: I have a plastic card that has my name and a code on it and this is what lets me play $30 at the doctor’s instead of $3,000.

3. How to change my oil, or a tire—actually, I’m not even certain that I know how to replenish my washer fluid.

4. How to drive in the snow without causing an accident. Yeah, I have an SUV, but I’m from Virginia, so I don’t get it.

5. Mortgages. When I was little I thought a mortgage was something that had to do with funeral homes and cemeteries – oh, the irony! While I still don’t understand mortgages, I might one day, thanks to HGTV.

6. Taxes. Given one through five, I don’t think I need to elaborate on this one.

7. Plumbing. No, seriously, from the disposal to the washer to the toilet—where is it all going, and why the hell does it make the basement flood?

8. Directions. I am directionally-challenged, so giving me compass instructions is pointless. If people don’t say things like, “hang a Louie and then turn at the sub shop with the space ship sign,” then I’m lost. I never know what direction North, South, East or West is in relation to where I am because I’m too busy concentrating so that my directional dyslexia doesn’t cause me to turn right when you just told me to turn left.

9. How to make a good pot of coffee. I blame a lack of patience for measuring portions.

10. This blog. I don’t really understand it. But if you do, please fill me in.

Unemployment: It Does a Body Bad

Horrific Unemployment Realization #1,525: My professional, interview-worthy clothes do not fit because unemployment has made me fat.

So I've gained some weight since I lost my job, but what is most disturbing about it is that since I’ve been unemployed (going on 90 days now), I’ve been expecting to lose weight. Right after I was laid-off, I made a list of all the pros and cons of losing my job. One of the items on the pro list was that being jobless might inadvertently make me skinny (less money = less to spend on food, drinking, etc.), sort of the same way getting mono can make you skinny (although I gained weight when I had mono, so I should have known better). Needless to say, the pro side of the list was depressingly short so I had to reach a little. But now I have to remove “unintentional weight loss” from the pro side and add “unemployed weight gain” to the con side.

Since unemployment hit (sometimes I find it comforting to refer to it as a natural disaster akin to a tornado or hurricane), my wardrobe has been reduced to three or four things: pajamas, skirts with elastic waistbands, dresses without waists and pajamas with tennis shoes (i.e., workout clothes). Pro: there is no dress code for unemployment. Con: elastic waistbands nurture denial when your middle starts to get thicker.

I don’t know how much weight I’ve gained since I’ve been unemployed. I don’t own a scale because I don’t care about a number I care about feeling good. And right now I feel like a McDonald’s Big Mac—heavy, off-balance, sloppy, over-indulgent and oozing cholesterol. But when I consider the way I’ve been living the past 90 days, this makes sense—actually, it makes me feel lucky I haven’t been hospitalized.

There are things I wouldn’t do while I was employed that being unemployed has granted me the freedom to not only do, but also not care about later. For instance, I ate ten tacos in 30 minutes on Cinco de Mayo because they were .75 cents and someone bet me that I couldn’t do it. I also find myself wandering through Quick Trip, picking up a Snickers or maybe a Krispy Kreme on my way out, because apparently I think a glazed donut will fill the void of not having a job.

I have also determined that this weight gain, which I will continue to think of as a gift I don’t yet understand, is directly related to my lack of daily exercise. When I had a job, there was structure and far less time to waste, so exercise was part of a daily routine. Now I sit at my computer for ten hours everyday dressed in workout clothes (the real kind, not just pajamas plus sneakers) and when Steve gets home he says, “looks like you worked out today” and I have to say, “I didn't, but I thought about it,” which I kind of think almost counts.

While this extra weight has been a comfort to me over the past 90 days, I am physically ready to say goodbye to the Unemployed Quinn and become Employable Quinn—job or no job. I’m ready to embrace exercise and a healthier lifestyle so that I feel less like a Big Mac and more like a celery stick - yeah physical fitness! So I'll get started just as soon as I finish eating this giant chocolate chip cookie...

“Youth is wasted on the young.”

Little Big Girls: Tori (left) and Quinn

My sister, Tori (aka Torruption), has repeated this George Bernard Shaw quote to me multiple times in the past few months. She mostly uses it to put me in my place when I am complaining and using the term “quarter life crisis” a lot. The first time she whipped out this nugget of wisdom, I made fun of her for being preachy and pretentious, to which she said: “Your middle-aged self is going to hate you for being so stupid and not enjoying your youth and she is going to laugh her ass off at what your current understanding of a crisis is.” The fact that she spoke of my “middle-aged self” as a person entirely separate from who I am now made me feel weird, like maybe I should write this person a letter and introduce myself. And then I made my brain hurt by thinking about how my current notion of crisis would strike me as funny 25 years from now—I hope it’s not funny by crisis-comparison.

Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype perfectly, but then she turned fifteen and decided to revolt against me and all my big sisterness by becoming smarter, bossier, prettier and taller. She is only 20 months younger than me, but it always felt like so much more when we were kids. When I say that Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype, I mean that she wanted to do whatever I wanted to do and she would let me boss her around, too. I think I really took those years for granted because now she is the one bossing me around, telling me what to do with my life and usually trying to help me avoid a generally pathetic existence.

Between the ages of four and nine years old, Tori and I were really into two things: Barbies and playing “Big Girls.” While Barbies was more of a collector’s game, Big Girls was like reality TV before there was reality TV.

I took Big Girls seriously. It was a detail-oriented game that required a powerful imagination to create a realistic world. First, we would dig through our trunk full of dress up clothes, which included old Christmas dresses, Princess costumes from past Halloweens, and no longer stylish pieces from our mother and grandmother’s closets. Dressing up was usually the longest and most intense part of Big Girls, and it was occasionally drawn out by the opportunity to do our hair and makeup as well.

Once the preparation for Big Girls was complete, and we looked scarily like adults, we would then devise our stories.

“Well, my name is Sandra and I am a waitress and a singer,” I would say. Dressed in pink leggings, a blouse dominated by giant shoulder pads and a be-dazzled headband, I was in character—this was an adult version of myself that was entirely invented but also somewhat realistic.

“Okay, well my name is going to be Theresa and I am going to be waitress, too,” our friend Sarah would say. Sarah was our shared best friend and Big Girls was never complete without her (mainly because she had a much older sister that left a lot of really cool “Big Girl Stuff” behind when she went to college).

“I want to be a waitress, too!” Tori would chime in.

“Well what’s your name going to be?”

“Um, Star?”

“That’s stupid, Tori. Your name can be Stephanie.”

I directed the details of Big Girls like it was a Broadway production. This was professional make believe and I was the self-proclaimed expert.

The next step of Big Girls was to stage an everyday, work-related scene. So we would round up all of our kid-size tables and chairs and set them up like a restaurant. We would then go around to tables and have conversations with our “customers.” It didn’t take long before I would be bored with the monotony of the actual waitress duties. So we would start fighting with our fake customers and then we would act out the scene of quitting our waitress jobs, which was always dramatic and usually ended with someone crying and vowing to never return (ever again!).

You see, playing Big Girls wasn’t so much about pretending to be something you actually wanted to be; it was about pretending to be something in order to feel older. Now I am officially older, legally an adult and legitimately stressed out, and I wonder why I ever pretended to feel this way when the reality of it was so near. While I am pretty sure Big Girls appealed to me because of the theatrical aspect (because I am a ham), I know that there was always a part of me that couldn’t wait to grow up, and there still is.

In a way I feel like I never really stopped playing Big Girls because everyday is an intense game of make believe where I pretend to be a writer, a professional, a capable adult—I set up the scenes, get bored, add some drama to spice it up and then sometimes I end up running away crying and vowing never to return. Because of this, I decided to write my “middle-aged self” that letter:

Dear Middle-Aged Quinn,

Remember when you were little and spent the days playing Big Girls? Maybe not, that was a REALLY long time ago for you, and your memory might suck now. Well, anyway, back then I thought that the goal was to feel older, now I know it’s inevitable. So if you feel old now, which you probably do because apparently you’ve had 25 years of crisis-worthy experience to wear you out, try to find solace in the fact that even though you’re not as cute as you used to be, at least you’re not as dumb. I hope you don’t have to pretend anymore, but if you do, I understand—I mean, we are really good at it.

Also, you didn’t waste your youth like Tori (or George Bernard Shaw) said—you just pretended your way through a different, slightly more dramatic, version of it.

Peace out!

Love,
Quarter Life Quinn

p.s. – if you’re really gross and wrinkly now, I’m sorry about all those times I never used sunscreen and all those years I smoked and pretended like it wasn’t bad for me. Don’t be mad at me, I am young and stupid now so that you can be wise and smart later…when it really matters, remember?

p.p.s. – if you got plastic surgery, I am going to pretend to be really pissed at you.

If Bear Could Talk...

Morning

Bear: So, I've pretty much had to pee for ten hours now.

Me: ‘Ello, puppy! How’s my good little boy?

Bear: Fine. Let me outside before I piss on you.

Me: Want to go outside?

Bear: Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you this by whining incessantly and making as much noise as possible.

Me: Okay, come on, let’s go…

Bear: Finally.

Day

Me: Hi little guy! What are you doing?

Bear: I’m pretending not to hear you.

Me: Come here, Bear…

Bear: No.

Me: Bear. Come.

Bear: Still. No.

Me: Want a treat?

Bear: No! Wait...yes? Depends on the treat...get the treat and then we'll see.

Me: Come here, come get a treat!

Bear: Fine. But I’m getting up because I smell chicken, and not because you wanted me to...just so we are clear.


Evening

Bear: Are we going to go on a walk or what?

Me: Want to go on a walk?

Bear: Yes, but you’re taking forever to get ready.

Me: Okay, hold on while I put on my shoes.

Bear: So…now? How about now? Now can we go? Can we go now?

Me: Just a minute…

Bear: Okay, well I’m going to run around the dining room table over and over again as fast as I can until you’re ready…

Me: No, Bear! Stop!

Bear: Fine. I'm dizzy anyway. But now I’m going to tear apart this paper towel I pulled out of the trash when you weren't looking and leave the shreds all over the kitchen.

Me: What did you do? Bad boy!

Bear: You know, all you had to do was hurry up and take me on the damn walk and this wouldn’t have happened…this is really your fault.

Me: Ugh! Come on, we are going for a walk now before you can make another mess.

Bear: I win!


The Walk

Me: Bear, wait, stop, no, Bear—wait, slow down.

Bear: Wow, look at all these sticks! I need to find the biggest one I can and then try to carry it and refuse to let go of it.

Me: Bear! Sit! Stop! Drop it…drop—give me that!

Bear: Oh well, there will be more sticks…

Me: Good boy, good drop it. Okay, slow down, buddy…hey, Bear!

Bear: You know, a sit up or two might make walking me easier. To prove it, I’m just going to run around you until you’re all twisted up and look like an idiot.

Me: Damnit, Bear!

Bear: Ha!—Hey, what’s that?

Me: Leave it alone, Bear…

Bear: But what is this smell…I’ve never smelled anything like it, I need to know…

Me: Come on, Bear…

Bear: Another dog – hey! Hi! I’m Bear, what’s your name? Can I smell you? You smell weird…what’s that, an ear? Tastes like jerky, mind if I chew it?

Other Dog: I will cut you.

Bear: Whoa, man. Let’s be friends. I’m just curious, that’s all…

Me (to other dog owner): Sorry, he’s just a puppy, so he’s really curious…

Bear: Yeah, see? Curious. Now lift up your leg so I can smell under there…

Me: Come along, Bear. No...come on…BEAR! NO!

Bear: You're a real fun-killer, you know that?


Bedtime

Bear: I’m not tired; I’ve been sleeping for the last four hours.

Me: Time for bed!

Bear: But, but, but…I think I have to go outside…yes, I need to go outside now.

Me: Come on, let’s go potty once more.

Bear: Tricked you! Now I’m just going to run around out here while you stand by the door calling for me and waking up all the neighbors.

Me: Beeeeeaaaaaarrrrr! Come on, come inside…want a treat? Beeeeaaaaarrrrrrr!

Bear: Hahahaha! What a dumbass…

Me: (squeaky toy, squeaky toy)

Bear: Hey! That’s my toy! I want to squeak that toy! Give it to me!

Me: Ha—Gotcha! Time for bed now…

Bear: Fine, lady. You might have won this one, but tomorrow is another day!

Me: That’s my good boy…are you good boy?

Bear: Yeah, I’m a good boy. See my tail wagging? Now scratch behind my ears until I fall asleep.

No, it’s MY pleasure!

The other day I went to Chick-fil-A. Even though the line for the drive-thru was as long as the Nile, I decided to join the group and wait because actually going inside to order my food would destroy my rationalization for eating Chick-fil-A in the first place. You see, going inside to order would suggest that I had the time, patience and will-power to go against convenience and therefore should be opting for a healthier meal. Also, I don’t want to be seen inside a fast-food restaurant that tries to pretend it’s not really fast food. I mean, if you have “value meals” you’re a fast-food restaurant—let’s not dance around this fact by serving only chicken with “gourmet” sauce (which they forget to give you half of the time anyway) in order to justify ridiculously high prices. It’s as if they are saying, “this ain’t no McDonalds, but, um, it kind of is because if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t eat here - now, let us bring in cows holding grammatically incorrect signs to distract you.”

I digress. Basically, I just wanted some nuggets. Chick-fil-A was sort of on my way home (I rationalized this too, by taking the long way), and thus the most convenient solution to my stomach eating itself. So, when I finally got to the speaker box with the menu to order my food I was ready, I knew what I wanted, I didn't have any questions, and so I was expecting a quick and easy transaction.

“Good evening! Welcome to Chick-fil-A! Would you like to try something from our healthy, low-fat menu today?” said an unnaturally chipper female voice from the speaker box.

Really? My rationalization got me this far, and now you’re going to use the ‘h’ word?

“No thank you,” I said.

“We have delicious fruit parfaits and fresh fruit smoothies now—”

“No, no, thanks. Can I just get…ummm…” I said, letting the ‘um’ drag on just a little too long as a punishment. “Yeah, uhhhh….I’d like some chicken nuggets, please.”

“Great! Would you like to make that a meal?”

“Ummmmmmm, yes, thanks,” I said.

“My pleasure! Would you like fries, salad, soup, coleslaw or a fruit cup with that?”

Her pleasure. Wow. Seriously? I wanted to reach through the speaker and grab this woman by the neck and tell her that this life is full of pleasures that don’t involve chicken and a drive-thru so stop acting so excited!

“Fries, well uhhhhhhhh…yeah, no, fries are good,” I said, wondering which of us was being more irritating at this point.

“And for your drink?”

“Diet Coke, please,” I said, because a fat-filled meal is not complete without a diet soda to wash it down.

“My pleasure! Okay, I have a chicken nugget meal with fries and a Diet Coke, will that be all for you today?”

I rolled my eyes at the second “my pleasure” and then recoiled, nervous that she was watching me on camera and plotting to poison my food.

“Yes, thank you—oh, wait, no, can I get some of that orange-ish, pink sauce…what’s it called? It’s like sweet and sour or something…” I said, now fully trying to antagonize her and break that annoyingly chipper disposition.

“Absolutely! A chicken nugget meal with fries and a Diet Coke and Polynesian Sauce!” she said.

“Yes, that’s it—Polynesian sauce. Thanks,” I said.

“My pleasure! That will be a billion dollars, please pull around to first window!” She didn’t really say it was a billion dollars, although that’s what I hear when the bill for one meal amounts to anything over five dollars at a fast-food restaurant.

When I get to the window a young, puberty-stricken boy handed me my order. As he ran my card, I looked for the cheerful woman taking drive-thru orders. I was hoping to find out that she was really a robot, or one of those automated voices that you get when you call your bank or try to pay your cable bill on the phone and they keep telling you to say things like ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘pay bill’ but they can’t understand you because they are machines. It turned out she was a real, live person and exactly as I expected her to be: young, pink cheeks, braces and curly blonde hair that revolved around her headpiece microphone like a halo.

“Miss? Miss, your card,” Petey Puberty was holding out my card and trying to get my attention.

“Oh, right sorry, thanks,” I said.

“My pleasure!” he said.

What a ridiculous thing to force your employees to say, I thought—“my pleasure.” Maybe I was just feeling grumpy, as I tend to get when I’m hungry, and so hearing this phrase four times in a row was too much for my bad attitude to handle.

As I drove away I thought about all the reasons it was not their pleasure. It was not your pleasure because it’s my food, which I am ordering for my pleasure. It was not your pleasure because you have to wear a stupid-ass visor and a nametag that you craftily decorate with stickers (which still doesn’t make it your pleasure). It was not your pleasure because I am the one who gets to enjoy the food and you’re the one who has to prepare it. It was not your pleasure because there’s not enough pleasure to go around, so stop trying to steal my pleasure and make it your pleasure, damnit!

In an effort to reclaim ‘my pleasure’ as my own, I opened my bag of food and reached for a golden, delicious waffle fry, but then I realized that something was terribly wrong—there was something missing…

Of course. They forgot the Polynesian Sauce.

Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn

In an effort to incorporate more visuals in this blog (apparently, like books without pictures, blogs without pictures aren't very fun either), I've asked some of my creatively inclined friends to think of, work on, draw up a ninja unicorn mascot and/or logo for me. The first to respond to this request was a dear friend, who will be known as Jobelle Holcombe. Her devotion to daily interruptions resulted in this gem:



Pretty spectacular, wouldn't you say?

I told Jobelle that my favorite part was a.) the fact that this Ninja Unicorn is drawn on a meeting agenda, and b.) the way this specific Ninja Unicorn seems to be saying, "What? You want some of this? You want a piece of me?!"

"I like how his hair is flowing in the pre-judgment day wind," Jobelle said of her design.
"His horn kind of looks like a carrot/penis," I said.

"Yeah, the horn started out a little shorter, but then I thought an uncomfortably long horn would make more of a statement. I was going to incorporate balls somewhere but the meeting ended," Jobelle said.

"No, the unicorn's anatomy gets confusing past the waist," I said.

"Yeah, kind of like a mermaids," Jobelle said.


So congratulations, Jobelle! Your design is now in the running towards becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn.


If you or someone you know is interested in becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn, please send your design, along with an explanation to quinnkatherman@gmail.com.

I'll Never Leave Your Pizzas Burning

I love music, but I am not a lyrics person. This might seem unusual given that my life revolves around words, but I could care less about what the song is actually saying because I’m more concerned with whether or not it’s fun to sing. However, I am pathetically ignorant when it comes to tone, rhythm and pitch. Growing up, I always ignored my sister who would tell me to be quiet because my singing was ruining the song for her. After years of her telling me this I eventually began to wonder if she was right, so I decided to record myself singing. I set up my tape recorder, locked my door, grabbed a microphone, I mean a hairbrush, and then belted out my best version of “Can’t Hurry Love.” I remember thinking that I sounded pretty damn good, but then I played the recording and I was devastated; what I heard sounded more like a cat in heat than an actual person singing. Since this realization, I turn down every invitation to play Rock Band because I’m afraid that my lack of musical ability will result in a loss of friendships.

Back to not being a lyrics person…I am known for misinterpreting song lyrics and I often sing along to my own version until someone kindly corrects me. For instance, I recently realized that I have been singing the wrong lyrics to the well-known song “Beast of Burden.” It didn’t occur to me until I was with a friend and the song came on the radio. After the first verse, my friend suddenly turned the volume down, “hold on, what do you think the words are?” she asked. I thought for a moment and then told her: “I’ll never leave your pizzas burning?” The song is called “Beast of Burden,” she said, as if this should have been enough for me to realize my mistake. When I failed to make the connection she said, “it’s I’ll never be your beast of burden, not—I’ll never leave your pizzas burning!”

Then there’s Widespread Panic’s song “Climb To Safety;” but what I always heard was “come and save me”—another instance in which I butcher the lyric that has the song’s title in it.

Manfred Mann’s “Blinded by the Light” is one that I will always mess up. I don’t know how anyone can listen to this song and not think it’s “wrapped up like a douche, another rumor in the night.” (The real, less cool, lyrics are: “revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”)

Less offensive is my interpretation of Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know,” the chorus of which I always heard as: “It’s not fair to deny me of the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me.” And Toto’s “Africa” I heard as “I left the grains down in Africa…I left the grains!” Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” has a tricky first verse, which I now mumble after learning that it is not “as I, turned up the column door, my faded winter coat, the springs blow in my mind” (the real lyrics are “as I, turn up the collar on my favorite winter coat, this wind is blowin' my mind”).

It never occurs to me that what I am singing doesn’t make sense because there’s no room for reason when you’re busy screaming out the wrong lyrics at the top of your lungs while driving down the highway. I’ve learned that I offend people with my singing, and now I am learning that I also offend people with my lack of concern for correct lyrics. It’s happened several times where someone corrects me, I acknowledge that I am wrong, but then I continue to sing my version. The people who care about lyrics really find this annoying. But whatever, I think my lyrics—“I’ll never leave your pizzas burning”—sound better, even if I sound like a cat in heat as I sing along.

The Creative Jealousy That Drives Us

My Green Monster of Jealousy

It’s not that I don’t want other people to do well. It’s not that I am a naturally jealous person (wait, is it?). It’s not that I don’t have my own “thang” going for me. But when you are a Creative, and trying to make a living as one, jealousy seems to rear its ugly-ass head in the dumbest, most debilitating ways.

Just the other day I received an incredibly nice, and somewhat undeserved, message from a fellow writer who said she was jealous of my blog. I had to re-read the message five times before my brain was willing to comprehend what she was saying. This writer, a woman I have always admired and felt jealous of since the day I met her, actually said: “I was depressed all weekend because your blog is so much better than mine.” What?! Come again?

I will hold her message to heart for as long as my insecurities plague me (so pretty much forever), not because it validates my mad skillz, but because it validates the green monster of jealousy that I always thought of as my own private weakness. To realize that the people I envy for their talents and creations are also capable of being jealous of me is like finding out that Starburst sells packages full of only the Pink and Red flavors (oh yeah, I’m totally serious, hit up a QuickTrip near you).

Now I realize that jealousy is not just a disease of the unemployed. Although, since I’ve been unemployed, I have had ample time to peruse the online portfolios of the unemployed ad talent out there right now, and it’s enough to make anyone want to throw their portfolio in the trash and cry in a corner. It makes me wish that we could send all of this unemployed talent to an abandoned island and call it “The Lost Land of Advertising Fame;” there they could probably start a war, or at least convince people to join a war, and maybe win a shiny award for a really great Super Bowl ad. But since this is unrealistic, I am forced to compete with these people who ooze creativity from every pore while I sit around, oozing nothing but sweat, fear and envy. Given these circumstances, putting my rinky-dink portfolio out there feels like wearing a bathing suit made of bacon and then going for a swim in shark-infested waters. At this point, I’d have better luck trying to tap-dance my way into a job.

On a positive note, I have found that this type of jealousy and creative combat can be an excellent source of motivation, and thus I have started another blog, which will serve as my resume/portfolio/bio/pseudo-professional site. You’ll find the link in the side bar, and also right here. It’s not much because I haven’t done much (I mean, geeze people, I’m only 24 years old, which is practically 12…if you divide it by two), but if you have feedback, advice, suggestions, or other projects that will help me beef it up, and create seething jealousy among other ad talent, feel free to drop me a line.

In the meantime, I’m going to put on my big girl pants, which means a slightly nicer pair of sweatpants than those I slept in, and keep on truckin’, because I’m a ninja unicorn, damnit!

My Fridge Needs a Power Suit

The other day I had unexpected company. Usually, I at least attempt to make the house appear what I call “surface clean,” which means the house is really dirty, but to an untrained eye it appears relatively neat. Obviously, there was no time to prepare the house before the company arrived. I tried to usher everyone outside to a sitting area so that no one would focus too long on the dust-laden shelves, completely unrecognizable dining room table (this is where I have created an office) and the sink full of dirty dishes. Of course, the problem with taking the party outside is that people have to come in to go to the bathroom, get a drink, get a band-aid, whatever—and when they make these trips inside they are often alone and then free to examine the house and all its gross imperfections inflicted by the inhabitants.

“So, the contents of your fridge consist of milk, vodka and leftover pudding pie,” said one of my guests.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting company. I’m pretty sure there’s yogurt in there, too,” I said, as if this was an adequate defense.

This led me to think about what a person’s refrigerator contents say about them. Milk, vodka and leftover chocolate pudding pie might suggest that I like to entertain but rarely do, that I am slightly sloppy by nature, unemployed and probably eat out a lot. I wondered about my guests and what they must have in their refrigerators based on their personalities.

Suz, the gourmet cook with the fabulous everything, probably has cilantro in a cup of water, fresh tomatoes, a raw meat marinating in some sauce-filled tupperware, eggs, milk and all the necessary staples for whipping-up a delicious meal on a whim.

Ed, funny guy with a job at a good restaurant, probably has a styrofoam container of leftovers from said restaurant, a box of baking soda in the back and maybe a half-empty pitcher of instant Gatorade.

Tim, funny guy who I just met and know little about other than that he judged the contents of my refrigerator, probably has things in his refrigerator that don’t really belong there, like a box of cereal, peanut butter and maybe a bag of flour.

Can’t we just go back to judging people on their looks, the car they drive, the brands they buy and the job they have (or don’t have)? Life was so much easier when judgment was entirely superficial and limited to one’s appearance. I can put on a pin-striped power suit and appear incredibly capable to anyone looking to pass judgment. But now I apparently have to worry about the contents of my refrigerator, too? So, I guess my question is: can I buy power suit for my refrigerator?

Exert from "Safe Travels"

Below is an exert from "Safe Travels," a collection of non-fiction essays I started awhile ago and have just recently started working on again (needless to say it's all I can think about at the moment). So, I hope you'll enjoy...

I hate flying.

The smell of people trying to cover up their smells melding with the stale air we are all fighting to breathe, the sound of children crying and the useless cooing of apologetic mothers; the crumbs of other people, the trash left behind. The flight attendants and their types: Boob Job Betty with the too small uniform, just bursting for attention; Lisping Larry with his “theatbelt thafety” instructions and constant gesticulating hands; Pissed off Patty with the “fuck you” smile who hates Boob Job Betty and probably spits in your drink when no one’s looking. And then there is that monotone voice that chirps in at all the expected elevations, the voice behind the controls, the voice you’re trusting your life with, the voice you’re glad you didn’t have to see the face of until after you got off the plane.

I wore a pair of trendy over-sized sunglasses that covered most of my face, even though it was dark outside, and a scarf draping my shoulders in artistic sweeps, even though it was unreasonably warm inside the cabin. Maybe someone would think I was famous if I looked exhausted and unimpressed, I thought. I didn’t bother to look when someone sat down in seat next to me; I was busy trying to appear unapproachable.

I wanted to sleep but an unnatural lunging motion had startled me and the jerking caused my sunglasses to dislodge and reveal my less than famous face. I grasped the silver armrest separating me from the stranger directly to my right. I watched as the cylindrical inside walls tilted from side to side and I thought of a funhouse—the type that isn’t really fun at all.

“Don’t like to fly?” The body next to me could speak. The flight was half over and we had expertly avoided engaging in any forced conversation so far. Why did he have to ruin it? I responded with an acceptable nod, rejecting his attempt at banter.

“You get used to it. After a while, you stop worrying about the plane crashing and more about just getting to wherever you're going,” the man said. He had black, spiral ringlets that sang past his shoulders. He was petit. I thought that if I stood up it would be embarrassing. That hair made me sick. It reminded me of the wads of fake hair that came in tight plastic packages at the craft store.

“So, have you ever been to San Juan?” he asked.

“Yes. Once. But I’m just making a connecting flight—” I stopped. There was something about him. I looked around, an entourage of bald spots with long black hair and black leather occupied the seats next to us and behind us. They drank champagne. The man next to me was drinking Tropicana Orange Juice from the can.

I could tell. He was famous.

It didn’t matter who he was; right now, he was just another body taking up space, breathing my air. But he started it, obligating me to inquire.

“Do—um, I mean, you look really familiar, are you, uh—” I had no idea who he was. Probably a has-been that I was too young to know but old enough to recognize from the way the present decade seemed to hang from his bones like the loose skin around his neck.

“Yeah. I was in a band,” he looked me up and down, “you’re probably too young to remember, though.” The defeat in his voice made me self-conscious. “Ever hear of Black Sabbath?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, of course!” I said, thinking: I watched The Osbournes, I know about Black Sabbath. That’s the band Ozzy was in before he got the shakes and stutters; back when he bit the heads off animals to make a crowd go wild; the career he had before reality TV and loose skin, right?

“Well, I’m not in Black Sabbath now. I was, back in the 80s. This band is called Dio.” He pointed his index finger up in the air and twirled his arm like a cowboy without a lasso. “We’re doing a concert in San Juan. It’s part of our tour,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying to figure out if reading the safety manual would be considered rude at this point.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

“Go where?” Doesn’t he know we are trapped like sardines in this bucket of aluminum? There’s nowhere to go, no way out.

“To the show. Do you want a ticket?” Neat! Does that include a backstage pass to meet your hot sons and drink from an open bar? If so, I’ll let you sign my cleavage with a Sharpie!

“I wish I could go. But I sort of have plans. I’m on my way to Anguilla—my dad is getting remarried,” I said, trying to make it sound as uninteresting as it really was.

“Ah, wouldn’t want to miss that. You like her?”

“Who?”

I was distracted. The talk was antagonizing. I was trying to mentally prepare for a crash and he was causing static in my brain waves. I was holding my breath when I wasn’t talking, and the lack of oxygen was making me stupid. Or maybe it was the third Bloody Mary I was about to finish. As I drained the last drops from the plastic cup and rattled the ice to indicate the need for a refill, one of the flight attendants, Boob Job Betty, shook her head and pointed to the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign above. “No Drink Service Due To Turbulence” would make a better sign, I thought.

I looked out the window: a mess of clouds. But I knew there was a shark-filled ocean below that I couldn’t see. Panic trickled down my spine and I suddenly realized that I had no idea how to use my seat cushion as a floatation device.

“The lady your pops is marrying – you like her?”

“Oh, right, sure, she’s nice. This is lucky number three for him, though, so we’re all keeping our fingers crossed,” I said. I hoped my sarcasm would satisfy him to silence for the rest of the flight as I laughed in the way that makes people uncomfortable, finally reaching for the safety manual to cap it off.

“Marriage is tough. But Anguilla – whoowee, that’s a nice place,” he said.

I stared out the window again and watched the wings shake as we plunged from the clouded darkness into a parade of lights. We were about to land when my stranger and I finally exchanged names.

“Ronnie—Ronnie James Dio,” he said, shaking my hand before we parted ways.

He seemed disappointed that I didn’t write it down or ask for an autograph.

He said to look for them when they came to a nearby city.

I said I would and knew I wouldn’t.

Positive Thinking: "I'm in the midst of a career change." (Translation: I got laid-off.)

It's been 60 days since I last had a job.

Typically, I like to acknowledge these unemployment milestones with a big bottle of wine and a self-loathing séance. But today I’m dedicating a blog post to it instead since a passive aggressive rant doesn’t lead to hangover hell (well, it doesn’t have to).

As part of my severance package, I was given the option to attend what was defined as "employment consultation." Once I reached the 30 days unemployed mark and had no leads to a job or any clue what I wanted to do with my future, I decided to take advantage of my former employer’s generous offer and seek help.

Upon arrival, I was directed to a room with about 15 people sitting around a conference table. We all had binders and nametags. Not only was I was the only person under the age of 40, but I was also the only one who did not have a career history with Sprint. (Although, I do have a phone history with Sprint. It was a torrid six years, full of dropped calls and roaming charges, which ended the day I called and said: your service sucks, I'm switching providers. So, I pretty much fired Sprint. For a brief moment I thought about sharing this with the group of former Sprint employees as a “funny how the world works” kind of story, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be received well so I kept it to myself.)

The consultant let us know that “let go” and “laid-off” were not positive terms, instead we were to say things like, “during my career change” or “I’m in a transition period.” Apparently using these positive terms would enable positive thinking, which would then, eventually, lead to a job. I wanted to raise my hand and ask if “terminated” was also considered a negative term but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

After two hours I was still attempting to keep an open mind but I was losing patience with the approach the career services group was promoting. Then the consultant put a slide up on the screen that was a line graph titled: "Coping with a Change in Employment: The Range of Emotions" and I knew it was over for me. Keep in mind that 30 days prior to this I had been handed a small Xerox box to pack up my personal items and vacate the premises, so having someone show me my range of negative emotions as compared to my levels of productivity in the format of a line graph in a PowerPoint slide was not my idea of helpful at this point. As I contemplated this, I was sure that my emotion line was plummeting further into the Anger, Worry and Depression danger zone where productivity does not exist.

Looking at myself now, I think I’m somewhere between Resistance and Ambivalence on the Range of Emotions line graph. I think the positive side is that I’m getting really good at handling rejection, which is keeping me from getting to the ‘I’m Going to Punch You in Your Asshat Face’* point on the line graph. So, yeah, needless to say I’m still working on the power of positive thinking...

*Note: ‘I’m Going to Punch You in Your Asshat Face’ is not a real point on the Coping with a Change in Employment: The Range of Emotions line graph, although it should be.

Dandelion Wishes

Dandelions are attacking my yard; the yellow ones and the fuzzy ones. The latter is most concerning since these are the seed-bearing parachutes that enable Dandelion Domination. As I turned to Google for appropriate dandelion killing methods and contemplated the most lethal approach, I felt a little evil, as if I was killing part of my remaining childlike wonder. When an ad, escaping the death grips of my Popup Blocker (much like a dandelion), appeared on my screen that said "Kill Weeds Dead" I decided I needed to go outside and assess the situation with childlike wonder rather than adult annoyance.

I remember dandelions as a staple in every bouquet I assembled as a kid. Growing up, our house was surrounded by open land and during the summertime it looked like a sea of green interrupted by bursts of yellow. In my mind, the dandelions gave the grass character and dimension.

When I was very young, someone taught me how to pick a fuzzy dandelion and make a wish as you blew the cottony parachutes into the wind. This fascinated me. Every time I came across one of these feathery lollipops I couldn’t resist the chance to make a wish and watch as the seeds gently left the stem. I started coming up with elaborate, multilayered wishes, thinking each snowflake-like seed deserved its own wish to float away on. But the older I got the more this favorite childhood pastime became a nuisance to garden-weary adults: "Don't do that! Now we are going to have dandelion weeds everywhere!" So I became more cautious, still making dandelion wishes when no one was looking.

I walked out into the backyard, surveying the awkwardly long stems with their parachutes of seeds and the yellow clusters, wanting to feel something other than annoyance. I reached for a snowcapped dandelion and studied the pattern, gathered my breath and made a wish, watching the seeds scatter throughout the yard and into the neighbor’s yard. I picked a few yellow blossoms, tied them together in a ring and admired the arrangement.

At the risk of sounding trite, I think there’s something we can learn from dandelions. In a way, they are nature’s interpretation of that laid-back, go-with-the-flow person we all claim to be—they aspire to float through air, letting the wind blow them to a new place where they will happily make a home; meanwhile, I get annoyed when the wind blows my hair out of place. There’s something admirable about the resilience of dandelions and their determination to prosper in the face of chemical death traps like “Kill Weeds Dead.”

Dandelions are brave interruptions that no one under the age of ten remembers how to appreciate. But today my childlike wonder was restored, rescued from the heartless dungeon of adult annoyances, and all it took was a dandelion wish.