Neighborly-Schmeighborly

Here we are. A seemingly nice, young couple with a hyper dog that recently moved into the neighborhood. We are polite, cordial, we keep our yard tidy and we don’t leave our trashcans out for weeks at a time. To me, that’s being a good neighbor.

I met our neighbors the day we moved in. For the purposes of being discrete, we will call them Schmave and Schmancy. I had just convinced Steve that we didn’t need to keep a decade-old recliner our dog tore the seat out of or the beer pong table from college, so he left to take the chair, table, and some other crap I had to beg him to part with, to the dump. I was elbow-deep in bubble wrap, unpacking broken plates and cursing like a sailor when I heard a knock on the door.

Before I could even make it around the corner to see who it was, I heard the door open and someone shout, “Hello!” Um, hello, strange old man who is now standing in my house because apparently waiting for me to let you in wasn’t necessary…

“Hi there, neighbor! I’m Schmave. My wife Schmancy and I live next door,” he said.

“Well, it’s, uh, nice to meet you. My name is Quinn, my boyfriend Steve and I just moved in,” I said.

“Yep, this is a good house," he said as he walked through the living room I didn’t invite him into. He seemed to be inspecting the molding and the walls as if he would find a fault to make him retract that statement.

“Yes, we are pretty excited,” I said, unsure if I was about to get raped or killed or both because that’s what would happen next if this was a horror movie.

“Your boyfriend, you said? That fellow’s not your husband?”

“That’s right,” I said. This is the kind of question that usually prompts me to make a joke about living in sin but I wanted to reframe from anything that could potentially be interpreted as camaraderie or taking pleasure in this experience.

“Well, that’s all right…” Thanks for your approval, dude. “Okay, well, I brought these beers over because I saw some sweaty men moving big boxes in.” I hadn’t even noticed the beer. Sweaty men? That’s a weird thing to say, I thought.

“Oh, that’s so nice of you! Here, let me put these plates down and I’ll take them from you,” I said. I suddenly hated him less for letting himself into my home unannounced and uninvited. Beer is a peace offering. I like peace offerings.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll just go put them in the fridge.” He walked past me and around the corner. I heard bubble wrap popping between his steps and heavy breathing. I decided to stay at the door, seeing as how I didn’t invite him in, I would at least see him out.

“Okay, uh, thanks,” I said, flipping my hate switch back on—fuck the peace offering.

“All right. Well you let me know how those guys like the beer,” he said as he walked out of my kitchen. Does he think women don’t like beer?

“Well we’ve never met a beer we didn’t like!” I said, gesturing him towards the door.

“Good. Hey, if you guys need anything, just knock on our door. We’re always around!”

“Yes, I will be sure to knock.”

“Nice to meet you!” he said and showed himself out.

“You too, Schmave! Thanks for the beer!” I closed the door behind him and locked it.

I stood there, wondering what had just happened. Strange old man walks into my house through the guise of a half-knock and proceeds to walk around inside without even the slightest inclination from me that such a thing was welcome…weird. When Steve returned I relayed the story.

“Great. Well I guess we’re going to have to keep the door locked,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s like that. I think it’s more like…we need to be mean to them so they’ll leave us alone,” I said.

“But they’re old!”

“Wait a minute…You’ve already met them, haven’t you? You’ve already talked to them and made friends with them and oh god—”

“Relax. I didn’t make friends with anyone. I just talked to them a little about the fence we want to put in and other stuff—you know, neighbor-talk,” he said.

“DAMNIT, STEVE! That’s why Schmave just walked into our house—because he probably thought you were his new bestie after whatever conversation you had!”

The problem is, Steve and I have a very different philosophy about neighbor relationships. I believe that living within a few feet of each other does not mean we need to be best friends or even talk to each other, ever. Steve, however, is Mister freaking Rogers and always happy to strike up a conversation about the weather or how good so and so’s hostas look. It’s not that I’m unfriendly or mean, I just believe that befriending your neighbor is a way of condoning their nosiness, and keeping them at arms-length is best, at least at first.

“No way! I mean, he seemed a little weird, but he’s, like, 60-something. And his wife is really nice,” Steve said.

“His wife? So you met both of them?”

“Yeah, Schmave and Schmancy. They’ve lived here for 25 years and they have two cats and they just bought a new car and they like to vacation in Santa Fe and—”

“Wow, what’s left to know about them? Their bowel movements?” I opened a beer and threw it back in a single gulp.

“Hey! Did you buy beer?”

“No, Schmave brought it over for ‘all the sweaty men moving big boxes.’ And he put it in the fridge while I stood at the front door wondering why the hell he was in my house,” I said.

“Wait, he actually said ‘sweaty men’? That’s weird.”

“I KNOW! You can’t be so nice,” I said.

“But you’re so mean. We balance each other out! Besides, we have to be nice to them, at least for now…after all, we are putting that fence in,” he said.

A few weeks after Schmave’s home intrusion, we got a survey done – a necessary step any good homeowner takes prior to putting in something that defines property lines, such as a fence. Turns out, Schmave and Schmancy had stolen about eight feet of our property.

“They didn’t steal it, Quinn. They were just…taking care of it,” Steve said.

“Sure, that’s why they put down that row of bricks, as if that would be the new property line, and then invested in a bunch of expensive landscaping.”

“I can see you’re angry about this, so why don’t you let me handle it.”

“Well, it all makes sense now. Schmave’s intrusion, the forced friendliness, Schmancy’s constant questions about when a fence would be going in and what kind of fence it would be…”

“I know. We will work it out. I’ll talk to them.”

“No. I’m going to talk to them.”

I calmly explained to Schmancy that property lines were property lines and that I was very sorry about her garden, which was about to have a four-foot fence running through it, but we have a dog, and even though she’s losing some of the property she stole, at least our dog wouldn’t dig up her plants and shit on her patio. Things seemed to go okay. Then she attacked Steve.

“So Schmancy just said she was going to call a lawyer about the survey we had done,” Steve said.

“That’s adorable. Let her do it.”

“Stop. We don’t need enemies.”

“Seriously? It’s not our problem. The fencers are coming tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that...I called them and rescheduled for next weekend.”

“WHAT?”

“Well, we had to compromise. I told Schmancy we’d give her another week to move her plants…”

“She’s already had a week!”

“…and I told her we would help her.”

“!@#$%^&**&^%$#@!”

So we helped Schmancy move her stupid plants. We put the fence in. And we haven’t heard much from either of them save for the occasional Saturday when we’re doing yardwork and Schmave will stumble over with gin and tonics in hand to tell us the latest horribly offensive joke he’s heard. Everything is good. And even though Steve’s neighborliness is annoying, it makes me less…what’s that word…bitchy? We do balance each other out. I run into the house with my head down as fast as I possibly can to avoid interaction, and he saunters over to say hello, strike up conversation about road conditions and tell them that we’re getting married.

Yeah.

Like how I saved that for the very end?

MARRIED!

I’m so lucky.

Emotional Response

So I bought some new deodorant. It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed the little sticker on the cap that read, “Extra Responsive in Emotional Moments.” After several days of wear I was about to throw it out because the constant smell of Powder Fresh armpits was making me nauseous. I realized that even the slightest emotional reaction caused it to activate and flood my nostrils with a scent strong enough to taste. It felt like my deodorant was antagonizing me—with every whiff I heard it say, “Stop being such an emotional woman!” I’m not a sweaty person; however, I am a passionate (“emotional,” whatever…) person, which apparently means I need a deodorant that will turn on whenever I have a feeling that’s slightly complicated.

Why do I need a deodorant that responds to my emotions in the first place? Emotions don’t make me sweat, sitting in a 100-degree conference room to watch a PowerPoint about consumer behavior makes me sweat, attempting to run a mile with my spastic dog makes me sweat, trying on clothes at Forever 21 makes me sweat. I’m sure there’s some kind of scientific validity behind creating emotionally responsive deodorant, but when it’s positioned next to the men’s deodorant, which all have stickers on the cap that say, “Protects Men Who Take Risks,” I have to stop, throw my breasts over my shoulder and put up my feminist fighting fists. Being a woman doesn’t make me emotional. Being a person who comes from a long line of emotional people and lives a busy, sort of stressful life makes me an emotional person. But men don’t need deodorant that responds to their emotions because the only thing that makes them sweat is heavy-lifting and all the manly activities they engage in, apparently. To suggest that women are the only ones who need protection from the physical reaction her body has to emotions is to suggest that we are the only ones who feel, and if we are the only ones who feel then why in the hell haven’t we conquered the world and made men obsolete?

Fine, I'll admit that sometimes I overreact in situations and that makes me seem “emotional,” I guess. But it’s usually after someone says one of my three crazy triggers:

1. “Stop overreacting!”
2. “Calm down!”
3. “Relax!”

Now my deodorant has become my fourth crazy trigger because every time I get another heavy whiff of Powder Fresh armpits, I get defensive and emotional over the fact that it thinks I’m being emotional. I feel like screaming, “You don’t know me! You don’t know how I feel! You’re just another thing I do to disguise my real smell that maybe also gives me cancer later in life! So stop pretending to be smart because you’re NOT!”

And after typing that, all I can smell is Powder Fresh armpits...again.

It's Been Too Long...

I know. I'm sorry.

What?

OHMYGODISAIDIWASSORRY!

Gah, stop yelling at me...

I've been really busy lately. I know in the past I may have used the word "busy" when I actually meant "lazy," but this time when I say "busy" I mean, I've had so little down time that my couch had to schedule an appointment with my ass in order for me to write this. If you don't believe me you can talk to my couch.

Or don't.
Whatever.
I don't care.

But I wanted to let you know that I've been busy because a lot of exciting changes (I've been abducted) and new developments (by alien zombies) have been happening in my life, which I plan to share with you (if they don't eat my brains first) as soon as I have a chance (send help).

So stay tuned for a juicy post coming to your computer soon.

In the meantime, because I know you miss me almost as much as my couch misses me, feel free to check out my Twitter feed and follow me; it's an uncensored version of Quinnterruption and a designated dumping zone for my brain. I post whatever pops into head throughout the day in 140 characters or less, but if you're easily offended by fart jokes, odd topical references and general nonsense you might not be into it, in fact, you might want to stop reading this blog altogether.

Without Resolution

New Year’s resolutions remind me of tired Clinton/Lewinsky jokes that aren’t good enough to leave a stain (see what I did there?).

I used to make resolutions every year until I realized it’s all a part of society’s maniacal plan to turn us into productive, focused and disciplined individuals. By maintaining a steady routine, I’m able to break and reinstate every New Year’s resolution multiple times throughout the year, which means my resolutions are green because I recycle them year after year (Al Gore says it’s good for the environment). These recycled resolutions are:

1. Quit smoking (Or only smoke when I drink. Cocktail anyone?)
2. Lose ____ pounds (This year we are in the double double digits.)
3. Stop complaining so much (But it’s so hard!)
4. Eat healthier (These cookies are organic.)
5. Write more (Why not? No one reads this crap anyway.)

Usually I start the New Year off by attacking these resolutions with gusto for at least two days before I get bored and forget about them until March, but something about 2009 left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m not ready to face another year of the same resolutions. When I thought about changing my resolutions I was put off by the thought of anything coming before these five main goals, which I’ve become attached to over the years. Still, it’s like I keep hitting the snooze button on 2010. At this point, February is looking like a much better time to start working towards having Jenny McCarthy’s body by bathing suit season. But then I thought, “I can’t start on my New Year’s resolutions while people still have their Christmas lights up!” and because I live in Kansas City, this means I won’t get started on my resolutions until mid-March, maybe April (people really like their Christmas decorations here). But if I manage to accomplish one of those five goals this year, does it really matter when I start trying? Besides, January is the coldest, most depressing, uneventful month of the year and it’s hilarious to think I’m going to accomplish anything while I wait out this misery from the comfort of my couch.

For me, resolutions are like empty boxes wrapped in beautiful paper artfully adorned with ribbons and bows—meaningless, but nice as decoration. I won't be fooled into self-improvement this year just to set unreasonable expectations for myself and wallow in the disappointment of inevitable failure. So, to media targeting my guilt and feelings of inadequacy at the start of the New Year: Stop bombarding me with your resolution suggestions, top tens, anecdotes, advice and try reporting on something relevant, like how to shovel a driveway with a fork when everyone is sold out of snow shovels.

Maybe I’ll jump on the resolution bandwagon in June when everyone has given up hope and canceled their gym memberships, but for now I plan to focus on not bettering myself until I’m ready. So goodbye to 2009, I’m off like an intern’s blue dress and onto 2010.

Words of Wisdom, or Lies Our Parents Told Us

1. “Your face will stick that way.”
Uh, no it won’t. I’ve made plenty of awesome faces before and I have not found a way to make my face stick in any of those positions. This was one of those parentisms that I heard at least once a day as a child. I was the kid who spent hours contorting her face and crossing her eyes in various unnatural ways to impress my friends and serve as entertainment during my parents’ dinner parties. Although it took me many years, I have finally perfected the one eye crossed look, so maybe “your face will stick that way” isn’t entirely untrue.

2. “The Boogieman isn’t real.”
Yes, he is. He lives in the dark corners of all my fears and anxieties, and one of these days he is going to pop out of the slightly ajar closet in my room and eat my toes.

3. “Only boring people are bored.”
I’m bored right now. Am I boring? Don’t answer that. When we were growing up, my sister and I had a babysitter named Faye who used to say this to us. Whenever I approached her with those fateful three words, “I am bored,” her answer was always the same, “Well get un-bored! Only boring people are bored!” Boring people might be bored a lot, but you know what? Super interesting and awesome people are bored a lot too because super interesting and awesome shit just doesn’t happen regularly enough to keep their attention. Ha, so there! Your move, babysitter, your move.

4. “Someday, you could be President!”
It’s 1992, an election year, and I am eight years old. One day, instead of going outside for recess, I stayed inside to make friendship bracelets (for my friends who were outside playing during recess, I guess?) and I started asking my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Englebright, about the presidents. I wanted to know specifics—what kind of toys do presidents like, do they watch TV, what are their favorite colors, do they carry guns or ninja swords? As my teacher patiently answered all of my questions, she proceeded to tell me that just about anyone could be President, “You could even be the first female President,” she said. I remember thinking I must be infinitely special for her to tell me this until the next day when she decided to incorporate a lesson plan about Presidents (undoubtedly spurred by my questioning) and told the entire class, “Someday, one of you, any of you, could be President!” Seriously? Anyone? I was dejected. As I grew older I realized that my teacher was partially right, just about any asshat could end up as the President.

4a. “You can be anything you want to be.”
I made it pretty far believing that this was true, and I’m sure this belief is directly related to why I still believe I'll one day be a ("real") writer, but that’s not the point here. Before I wanted to be a writer I wanted to be a veterinarian, before that I wanted to be a singer, before that I wanted to an actress, before that it was a Ninja Turtle, and before that it was a pony. I truly believed I could be all or any of those things. I wonder what my parents would have said if I came home and told them I wanted to be a pterodactyl, or a bulldozer, or…a “shovel”?

5. “Don’t go outside with wet hair.”
This is an old wives’ tale that I will forever blame for my perpetually dry hair. But guess what? Scientists discovered that, like most wives’ tales, this one was totally made up. These days, if I leave the house with dry hair, it’s abnormal. I see wet hair almost as a courtesy, like, “Hey, just wanted to share with you the evidence of my shower this morning. I realize my cleanliness, or lack there of, might be an issue some days, but not today!”

6. “_____ are just jealous of you!”
That group of 7th grade girls who spent a week putting fake love notes from the cutest, most popular boy in school in my locker did not do it because they were jealous of me. And I didn’t fail to get invited to the party of the year because the hosts were jealous of me. And I didn’t get laid off and spend six months searching for a job because someone was jealous of me. Seriously, thank god I was born with low self-esteem because otherwise I might be walking around acting like another Kardashian.

7. “Money can’t buy you happiness.”
I don’t know about you, but a mansion on the beach with a live-in gourmet cook and masseuse, a collector’s library of first edition books, and a little person with an Italian accent who brings me a frozen cocktail with one of those tiny umbrellas whenever I blow into a conch shell would make me pretty damn happy. Don’t get deep with me about this; complicating happiness with silly things like morals is so unnecessary. So, let’s be real: Mansion + beach + cook + masseuse + books + little person + tiny umbrellas = Happiness. You might call that shallow and materialistic, but I call it blissfully content — toe-may-toe, to-my-toe.

8. Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy
A part of my childhood ended when I suddenly I realized that all of these gift-bearing creatures looked a lot like my dad. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to have kids so that I can endlessly threaten them with, “If you don’t go to bed, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents,” even if it’s May. The Easter Bunny was always confusing to me because, why would a human-sized rabbit come to your house and hide eggs? As long as candy was involved, I didn’t question anything – but for the record, I always knew the Easter Bunny was a sham. (And, okay, so what if I still sort of believe in the Tooth Fairy?)

9. “Boys only want one thing.”
My dad used to say this to me during my teen years. “Now, remember, boys only want one thing, and I know this because I was once a boy too, even though that’s hard to believe now, I was, so I know. [Awkward pause.] Just don’t be stupid, okay?” While it didn’t take me long to figure out what that one thing was for sure, I think this statement is only half true. Now that I live with a boy, I mean, man, I’m pretty sure that there could be more than one thing that they want…I’ll let you know when I figure it out.

10. “Going to college will make you a better decision maker.”
Bullshit. Going to college did not make me a better decision maker. The only thing I learned in college was how to make really bad decisions, barely avoid the repercussions and then do exactly the same thing again the next weekend. Of course, in a really roundabout way, perhaps by learning to make bad decisions well, I did become a better overall decision maker. However, I doubt this is what my high school counselor meant while he was convincing us all to spend four years drunk, I mean, go to college.

12. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”
Whenever someone says, “I promise it won’t hurt,” just know that whatever it is will hurt like shit.

13. “You’ll grow out of this phase.”
Oh really? Well I am about to enter my 13th year of what a school nurse once referred to as my “awkward phase,” so this is obviously a lie. I’m guessing there are some things we may never grow out of, or, in my case, awkwardness is more of an unfortunate characteristic as opposed to a phase.

14. Almost anything said, seen or practiced in Sex Education classes.
No, a bird doesn’t bring me my period, and yes, I am pissed about it. Also, forcing us to practice putting condoms on bananas did nothing but provide us with unrealistic expectations, which would be met with massive disappointment later in life. Am I right? Of course I am.

15. “These are the best years of your life.”
This phrase was uttered by almost every adult I knew at one point during the course of my high school experience. I know they were telling me to cherish my youth, but the only thing I ever thought was, “Really? These are the best years of my life? Really? Great, I guess I’ll just quit now, while I’m apparently ahead, because if life doesn’t get any better than field parties and 6 a.m. detention for chewing gum in the halls, then I don’t care to go on.” I can safely say that my high school years were not the best years of my life and I doubt I will ever look back and feel differently.



What lies did you hear growing up? Tell me about them in the comments. Please. I'm not ashamed to admit that I live for comments - so don't hold back.

Bathroom Politics

There is a certain amount of decorum expected when you walk into a ladies’ room, perhaps only because it says “Ladies Room” on the door, which seems to establish an atmosphere where ladylike behavior is expected. Based on my experience, I can only assume that the men’s room is an entirely different situation. Generally, I imagine groups of men peeing their names on the wall while others stand around the urinal as if it’s a magical fountain, talking about sports, plucking nose hairs, adjusting themselves, high-fiving each other, exchanging germs and doing other male-tastic things. I don’t get the feeling that there’s any unspoken sense of etiquette in a men’s room, other than to avoid looking left or right while “painting” your name on the wall. But in the ladies’ room, things are very different. For instance, we have stalls with locks—that’s our one option and there isn’t an alternative, such as an open trough, in which to relieve ourselves—and depending on the ladies’ room, sometimes there are little indulgences to be enjoyed, such as candles, Glade Plug-Ins, extra toilet paper, scented lotion and the seats are always down.

Of course, one of the drawbacks to this effort to maintain decorum in the ladies’ room is the propensity of passive aggressive behavior, which actualizes itself in the form of notes. There are notes on stall doors to tell you what to do with your feminine waste, notes above the toilet to remind you to ensure that all of your waste does in fact flush from sight, notes on the mirror to remind you to wash your hands, notes near the wash area to remind you to dispose of your paper towel in the appropriate receptacle, and notes on the door as you exit to remind you of your personal belongings in the event that you should be stupid enough to leave them in the bathroom. Despite always paying attention to the notes in every bathroom I’ve ever been in, I have never seen one as featured in Figure A below.

Figure A:

What kind of crazy pee-bandit instigated this type of note? When I read this, which is at least once every single day, I always think about the vague wording and how it’s strange that other women automatically know what this means while a man might look at it and think we were smearing poop on the walls. Basically, there’s a squatting sprinkle queen in my office building that is assaulting this one particular bathroom “DAILY! (sad face)” and what better way to encourage them to cease their pee-bandit ways than to post this handwritten note?

How many notes are in the men’s room? Probably none. Want to know why? Because they can pee standing up (incidentally, I’m amazed by how many things in life seem to come back to this one glaring disadvantage) and their tolerance for filth is exponentially higher in most cases. I know how women behave in a public restroom, and while I’ve experienced moments that left me genuinely disgusted and horrified, it’s a generally pleasant and polite atmosphere. However, I never really thought about what the men’s room must be like until I started sharing a bathroom with a man.

My boyfriend used to be responsible for cleaning the bathroom, I do my fair share of cleaning, but he was responsible for this one tiny room in our house because of his atrocious lack of ladylike behavior concerning the bathroom. I’ve come to realize that appropriate bathroom etiquette is an issue for most men, not just Steve, which only reconfirms my childhood belief that all boys are dirty, smelly dumbheads.

There is nothing worse than waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and dunking your ass in cold, dirty toilet water because the lid is up, and I think most women would agree with me on this specific type of unpleasantness. Steve and I have had many disagreements on this topic.

“If I have to lift the seat up, then why can’t you put it down?” Steve says.
“Because the seat and the lid should both always be down unless you are using the toilet!”
“But if men and women are equal, like you always say, then you should do your part in terms of lifting and lowering the lid of the toilet, right?”
“No! That’s not—no! This is a totally different issue. I’m not arguing about this anymore. Put the damn toilet seat down or I’m never making fried chicken for you ever again!”

When you share a bathroom with a man there is also the constant dusting of facial hair debris covering every surface, the dirty, discarded boxers and undershirts piled in the corner, once white bathmats are now beige because of carelessly muddy feet tracking dirt in, and don’t even get me started on replacing the empty roll of toilet paper with a full roll (not just setting it on top of the empty roll – this does not count). While my complaints are many, I never really considered the torture I was inflicting on the bathroom until the day the drain clogged.

“Um, so, I think there’s something wrong with the shower…” I said, drying my hair with a towel.
“What do you mean?” Steve said.
“Well, it just filled up with water while I was in there,” I said.
“The tub?”
“No, I was showering,” I said.
“Yeah, I get that, but the tub was filling up with water?” Steve said.
“Oh, yeah, the tub, like, it wasn’t draining,” I said, scrunching up my nose in a way that means I’m not dealing with it.
“Alright, I’ll fix it,” Steve said.

Steve grabbed some tools, went into the bathroom and closed the door. He had to close the door in order to keep the dog out—Bear likes to jump in the tub and lick the shampoo bottles (yes, we are really proud of how our dog is progressing)—but watching as he entered the bathroom with such conviction, tools in hand, ready to face the challenge, made it seem like he was embarking on a serious mission and the only thing missing was a plunger resting on his shoulder like a rifle. A few minutes later I could hear him.

“Oh my god—ugh! Sick! Ewww!” Then I heard the sound of draining water.
“Did you fix it?” I yelled from the couch. Steve walked out of the bathroom with his tools and into the kitchen.
“Uh, yeah.” He was washing his hands.
“What was the problem?”
“Well, I used an old pair of tweezers to reach down and clean out the drain and, yeah…I pulled out a bunch of hair and other shit I don’t know about.”
“Oh,” I said.
“So, it was really gross—it’s still in the trash if you want to see what I pulled out.”
“Ew, no way! Unless it was a beautiful baby unicorn or dinosaur artifacts, I’m not really interested,” I said.
“What do you mean ‘ew’? It’s your hair, your…stuff!”

After this event I began to realize that perhaps I contribute to dirtying the bathroom in a more subtle (er...ladylike?) way that I wasn’t aware of. I mean, it’s not like the glob of long, mangled blond hair that came out of our drain could have belonged to Steve. And I guess, maybe sometimes, I leave the counter (which isn’t really a counter, but rather a sink with a ledge) full of hair products and “other shit [he] doesn’t know about.” Okay, I will also admit to occasionally creating hair art on the shower walls, but only out of necessity and never out for fun. And sometimes I get a little sloppy with toothpaste, especially when I’m in a hurry (in my defense, the toothpaste usually ends up on me rather than caked on the sink).

Shortly after this drain discovery, in a moment of weakness, Steve caught me breaking my own rule of not immediately replacing the empty toilet paper roll. Yes, he caught me setting the new roll on top of the empty one, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes light up in the same way since. Now we share the duty of cleaning the bathroom, and I feel even more strongly that boys are, in fact, dirty, smelly dumbheads. As a result, I will sometimes leave a passive aggressive Post-It note on the mirror that is expertly disguised with loving wit and charm (and therefore harmless, and also surprisingly effective):

Hi honey!
The toilet is too gross to shit in.
Just FYI. K?
I love you SO much! :)
xoxoxxxxxxx
<3,
Me

WWYCD?

My dad, never a man of few words, has several phrases that he keeps in his back pocket and likes to use at the most infuriating moments. One of these phrases is, “be the bigger person,” which I know I heard at least a million times growing up because he found a way to work it into almost every tear-filled, dramatic moment I presented him with.

At age five:
Me: Daaaa-aaaad! Tori pushed me down and now I’m bleeding!
Dad: Why is your sister crying if she’s the one that pushed you down?
Me: Because I pushed her back.
Dad: That’s not what big sisters do, Quinn. You have to learn to be the bigger person.


For the longest time I’m pretty sure I believed that being physically larger than the other person in question counted as “being the bigger person.”

At age 13:
Dad: How was school today?
Me: Terrible. I hate it. I’m never going back.
Dad: Oh really, why is that?
Me: Because—because there’s this really popular girl and she’s mean to me.
Dad: She’s probably just jealous of you.
Me: Ugh! Dad! Not-uh! No one is jealous of me, stop saying that!
Dad: Well what did this popular girl do?
Me: She wrote mean things about me in like this like notebook thingy she shares with other popular girls.
Dad: Well, all you have to do is ignore it and just be the bigger person, Quinn.
Me: No! I don’t want to be the bigger person!

My dad began substituting “be the bigger person” with “take the high road” sometime after my agonizing adolescence when it had lost some, if not all, of its influence. But I hated “take the high road” even more. Where the hell is the high road? Did I miss the exit for this elusive high road? And, damnit, why is my road automatically the ‘low road’?

At age 19:
Me: I don’t know, dad. The T.A. is just a big jerkface.
Dad: What the hell is a T.A.?
Me: Teacher’s Assistant, duh.
Dad: Okay. So, basically you’re not getting a good grade because you never go to class?
Me: No! I go to class! But he’s trying to say I didn’t turn in this assignment but I totally did! I showed him the paper, it was dated and everything and he refused to believe me. I think he’s out to get me...
Dad: Well, obviously, you need to talk to your professor about this and not this P.A. or T.E. or A.T.—whatever the hell their name is—and get this cleared up. But, just remember, take the high road—no need to make any enemies.
Me: Oh my god, dad. It’s not like I’m going to go all "Jerry Springer" on him, but this is really, really, super unfair. He should be the one to take the high road, not me!
Dad: Whatever the case—you take the high road, Quinn…

At age 24:
Me: We keep getting in petty arguments.
Dad: Right, well that sometimes happens when you’ve been together for a long time.
Me: It’s so stupid, dad! We fight about doing the dishes, how to pay the bills, letting the dog out, buying groceries—crap like that.
Dad: I know it’s frustrating, but you know what…?
Me: Yes, I know, I know—be the bigger person, take the high road—I KNOW!
Dad: Exactly.
Me: Right...

I think these phrases were so ubiquitous throughout my childhood that I failed to ever think about the meaning and find a way to apply it to my own life. You can only hear “be the bigger person” and “take the high road” so many times before you start tuning it out as one of those antagonizing things your parents will inevitably say whenever you have a crisis. But the good news is that I get it now, and it’s only taken 24 years! (Ah, youth, there was so much I didn’t understand then. Luckily, I’m brilliant and know everything now…)

I’ve never been one of those overly optimistic people; I prefer to see my glasses as half empty because that leads to a quicker refill. This being said, the last six months were particularly rough. I lost my job, and then some sanity, respect and dignity. Of course, I was never that attached to the last three, but when it all hits at once and you find yourself wearing the same pajamas you spent the last three days and nights in because you haven’t left the house in a week, you start searching for a new outlook on life before your friends start planning an intervention.

After searching for inspiration in all of the places one might normally find it—nature, books, love, friendship, art—I gave up and threw myself on the couch for what I planned on being a day of utter nothingness and self loathing. With a coffee table full of candy, chips, soda and gossip magazines, I started surfing the channels for some cheesy movies I could let my brain zone out on, and that’s when it hit me as if I was the target in a particularly cruel game of dodge ball: If I was watching the movie of my life, is this really how I would want my character to act? No! The main character in the movie of my life is a badass—she’d never let herself wallow like a sloth until reaching new levels of low self-esteem, or if she did, she would have an epiphany like this and put a stop to her pathetic parade immediately so that she could get on with being as awesome as possible.

Of course, in real life, I proceeded with my day as planned because it was too inconvenient to try to change things up when I had nestled nicely into a little couch fort, but it wasn’t a day of utter nothingness as I continued to ponder this thought. Later, Tori called and was talking to me about the drama in her life—a particularly enjoyable form of entertainment to me which always wins out over anything else—and as she got to the part in the story where our dad would typically regurgitate one of his favorite phrases, I had something incredible to say.

“Well, think about it like this: what would you want your character to do if you were watching this scene in the movie of your life?” I said.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and for a brief second I began to doubt my wonderful epiphany.

“Wow. That’s a really good way to think of it—yeah! I like that!” she said.

From there we devised a solution based on her character in the movie of her life, which is far more fun than listing, and then stressing out about, the negative ways you’re afraid you might react while handling the various hypothetical situations you’ve created in your head.

Now I know what my dad really meant when he said “be the bigger person” and “take the high road.” When I talked to him the other day and I told him about my new phrase, WWYCD (What Would Your Character Do?), he was flushed with pride (or maybe it was disappointment, I’m not quite sure)—this was evidence that something he tried my whole life to teach me had finally stuck. Of course, I would have internalized the meaning much sooner had he explained it to me using a movie analogy…(I’m just saying, dad).

Haven’t you ever watched a movie or read a book and wished you could change the character’s path or their reaction? Haven’t you ever looked back at a situation and wished you behaved differently or that you could take back the bad things you said? I hate that feeling; it’s a dangerous combination of regret and dissolution that often leads to miserable passivity. But I have more faith in my opinions and decisions as a subjective audience member watching the movie of my life play out than I do as the main character—from my view as an audience member, I can see how to be the bigger person and I know how to get to the high road.

Now when I am faced with a situation I don’t know how to handle, or when I’m nervous, or worried, or anxious about whatever issue I’ve built up to be a monster taking over my mind, I think about watching my movie and what I would want my character to do (WWYCD?), and then I do it. Of course, real life presents limits that don’t exist in movies, so when I want my character to roundhouse ninja kick someone in the face, I have to think twice before acting it out...or so I’ve learned.

Hate: A Strong Word I Don't Understand

Sometimes I have to roll around in an idea before it seems like something I should talk about. I need to let the juices marinate and wait until the idea is properly saturated with uncertainty, indecision and anxiety before I make anything happen with it. Of course, this should not lead you to believe that I think before I speak, because if I did then I wouldn’t feel constantly embarrassed about my recurrent verbal diarrhea. But despite this rolling around, marinating and saturating process that I’m accustomed to, I’m going to jump into this thought, perhaps prematurely.

This past weekend was a big weekend. It was my last weekend of being unemployed and it was the debut of BareTV, an improvised talk show that I helped write sketches for. This weekend I also relearned that there are some people out there that don’t like me and probably will never like me.

I know, what the hell, right? How can you not find me a.) hilarious, b.) endearing, and 3.) awesome? I realize that my inability to comprehend why someone may not like me makes me sound like I am the most egotistic person alive, but I just have an insatiable urge to please people, and thus have them like me. Needless to say, when I find out that someone does not like me, after extraordinary efforts on my part to appear worthy of their friendship, I am obviously stunned. It’s as if there must be something wrong with the world if someone doesn’t like me, so I go out on a search for the cause of this imbalance that has resulted in someone turning down membership to the Quinn Fan Club. Why do I think like this? Because I’m an insecure narcissist? Absolutely.

During this extremely long, unpaid sabbatical of mine, I have lived in what I like to refer to as a bubble of isolation—others might call it depression. I’m not ashamed to admit that there have been entire days in recent months where I did not leave the house, change out of my pajamas, let alone shower, or have face-to-face communication with a single person. However, now that I have found a job, and most importantly, someone to pay me for this thing I do with words, I have found myself standing outside of my cozy bubble of isolation and feeling somewhat exposed. Ultimately, I think unemployment caused me to digress socially, making me painfully awkward in social situations and oblivious to social cues, especially those that mean shut up. So when I found out this weekend that someone I had tried very hard to…impress (is that the right word?) didn’t like me—in fact, she hates me, and perhaps the only thing that would make her happier is if more people hated me too—I was irrationally devastated because if I had picked up on the cues, which I now realize were plentiful, perhaps I wouldn’t have been as shocked and upset. This person isn’t cruel about it, she’s older than I am so her hatred for me is on a much more mature level, which makes it less obvious to me and makes my reaction to her dislike even more pathetic and childish: “But why? I don’t get it. It’s not fair!”

I wish was brave enough to not care about what people thought of me and whether or not they liked me, but that’s not the case (although I am extremely good at pretending otherwise). I’m sure this all comes down to some inherent need for validation that stems from my childhood and the many times I was the last person picked for kickball, but whatever.

In a general sense, I am willing to accept and understand the fact that not everyone is going to like me. In fact, I’ll even go so far as to say that in order to be successful, especially as a writer, pissing people off until they hate you seems to be a popular road to take. But writing words for people to read is different from being in a social situation with someone, bringing you’re A-game and finding out that someone still doesn’t like you.

The most disappointing part was that my reaction to finding out this person truly didn’t like me was to take one too many shots of Rumple Minze and proceed to make a fool out of myself for the rest of the night. Again, I blame unemployment for turning me into a lovable, pitied pariah for whom this type of reaction is expected and forgiven. But the next day, as I nursed the ‘I swear I’ll never drink again’ type of hangover, it made sense why this person might not like me, and also why I shouldn’t care (I know, a moment of unexpected clarity during what was otherwise a day full of agonizing brain fuzziness).

The important part is why I shouldn’t care, since the other part is obvious by now. I shouldn’t care whether or not this person likes me because lots of other people like me, I think. I shouldn’t care if this person dislikes me because their reasons for disliking me are not legitimate. I shouldn’t care because having them like me won’t make a difference at the end of any day ever. But still, I care—with every irrational, self-absorbed bone in my body, I care. And maybe I care because I’m starting a new job on Wednesday and I really want everyone to like me. Maybe I care because life would be easier if they liked me. Maybe I care because maybe I care about a lot of things that don’t matter.

There’s no resolution here, just the fact that there is someone new who openly dislikes me and I care enough to write about hating that I care about it.

On the upside, my self-esteem isn’t as bad as you, or I, thought it was because, as this experience has made clear, I apparently think I’m too awesome to hate.

Humanizing Trends

The trend of humanizing our pets is getting out of control.

The worst thing I ever did was buy a pair of light-up, doggie reindeer antlers for Bear to wear during Christmas. He ended up eating them, but only after I was able to snap some adorable pictures of him looking totally miserable.

But my own humanizing practices cannot compare to that of other idiot pet owners.

After an afternoon of dog people watching at the park, I started to wonder: why do some people talk to their pets in overly polite tones, as if they are trying to teach a child how to have better manners? Let’s be serious, your dog is never going to say, “excuse me” after barfing on the living room rug, and they’ll never open a door for you and say, “after you” in a sweeping gesture before running after that squirrel. But go ahead, keep speaking to them in an antagonizing, slow voice and hopefully someday they will bite your face off.

But I think the humanizing trend really begins and ends with cats. They are much easier to humanize than dogs. Take Kitty Wigs for example, a website that makes wigs for your cat to wear. My first reaction is to ask why the hell you feel a need to make your cat wear a blue wig—but then I remember the pair of doggie reindeer antlers and I think maybe I understand. Nevertheless, the Kitty Wigs website offers wigs in “Pink Passion,” “Bashful Blond,” “Electric Blue,” and “Silver Fox.” Each wig is about $50—$50?! Do you realize all the awesome stuff you could buy with $50? Of course you do, you’re not crazy.


The description for the Pink Passion wig says, “Pink makes your kitty feel elegant, modern and quintessentially feline.” Let’s get something straight, does a pink wig really make your cat feel “elegant, modern and quintessentially feline,” or does putting the pink kitty wig on your poor, defenseless cat make you feel “elegant, modern and quintessentially feline?” Or how about the description for Silver Fox wig: “Silver makes your kitty feel sexy and smart, like a cougar on the prowl.” So, with the Silver Fox wig, you and your cat can “prowl” the town looking for younger men with weird fetishes involving cats in wigs.

Thank god for the FAQ section of the Kitty Wigs website because I was beginning to think that this was all just a joke.

FAQ #1: Is this for real?
Answer: Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! Kitty Wigs are a fun prop to be used to enhance playtime with your feline friends. They're especially fun for photo sessions.

Now that we’ve established Kitty Wigs are, in fact, real—phew!—I am wondering how this wig for your cat can really “enhance” playtime. Are we really so selfish that we will torture our animals by taking away all their animalness for the sake of our own enjoyment? Okay, so it’s not really torture, it’s not really inhumane (does PETA know about this shit?), I guess it’s just another way for pet owners to express their loneliness—I mean, love.

Cat: Why do I have to wear a wig? I already have hair—an entire fur coat, actually—and you’re always complaining about the shedding…
Owner: Look at you, you look so pretty—totally like a human, only cat-like!
Cat: I am going to eat it.
Owner: No, no, no, don’t eat it—just sit there and look pretty. Good, kitty. See how this has enhanced our playtime? Oh, this is the best $50 I ever spent!
Cat: $50?! Are you f*%@ing kidding me?! Please tell me the proceeds go to a kitty cancer foundation…
Owner: Don’t you love your new pink wig? Don’t you feel elegant and modern? Yes you do! Yes you do!
Cat: Alright, I'm going to go play in traffic now.

So next time you see that “cute” pumpkin outfit for your dog, or you find yourself talking to them like a disobedient child, or you feel yourself rationalizing certain things by saying your cat or dog is just like you, think of Kitty Wigs and just say “NO!” to yourself.

Second City: The First Day

This week I am in the land of Midwest opportunity—Chicago—taking two classes at Second City. A few weeks ago, somewhat on an impulse, I decided to sign up for an Improv and Comedy Writing class, because this is what I should be doing during my required, unpaid sabbatical, right? So I found myself suddenly stunned and propelled to take action upon realizing that this might be the only time in my life when I can reasonably justify such an experience. Whether it was the minimal commitment of one week (as opposed to, oh say, a three-year graduate program), or finally listening to my gut instead of letting my brain get in the way (stupid brain), or maybe it took people telling me that I’m funny to realize that I want to make people laugh (at me or with me, whatever)—either way it felt, with invigorating certainty, like the right thing to do right now.

Yesterday was my first day of classes—three hours of improvisation in the morning and three hours of comedy writing in the afternoon. They call the course an “Immersion,” which sounds like they are going to hold our heads under water until we emerged as amazing talents. Nevertheless, I had a great first day. It was the kind of day I think you spend your naïve professional years dreaming of, where you feel like you are powered by a constant, flowing stream of inspiration, excitement, passion and hope. I know it sounds trite, but I had goose bumps all day, and not just because of the artic temperatures in the building (I learned that the air conditioning is kept at just above frostbite in order to maintain “electronic equipment,” which is, of course, more important than human comfort). Maybe it’s the buzz of the city in the summer, the way you can feel the energy of life and activity pulsating through your body as you walk down the street, but I wasn’t even deterred by the homeless man’s piss I accidentally walked through.

Even though I was terrified of the improv class, having always felt most comfortable scribbling on paper or hiding behind a computer screen, I must say, I enjoyed it more than the writing class. But the writing class did give me a chance to reflect as our teacher walked us through the first exercise, a favorite of mine that I am all too familiar with: “Write for 15 minutes and don’t stop. You won’t have to read what you write out loud, and I don’t care if you write the same sentence over and over again, just write for 15 minutes without stopping,” said Joe, our writing instructor. I love this exercise because it forces you to fight your way out of a block, which can happen every third word. It also helps me be less critical—when you only have 15 minutes and you can’t stop, you have to let go of the word you just wrote, the sentence you put it in, you have to reserve your criticism, avoid the urge to edit as you go and just let the words flow organically. Anyway, I’ll stop geeking-out now, below is what I wrote during this 15-minute free write.

The room we are in is divided, not in terms of people, but by paint. The lower half of the room is a sort of putrid brown, the kind of shit color you’d find in a baby’s diaper, or maybe in your grandparents’ outdated bathroom. There’s a poster on the wall that has the word CHOKING written in big red letters and even though my vision is too poor to know for sure, I assume that there are instructions on what to do when someone is choking and how to perform the hymlic maneuver. The poster is laminated and shiny, which gives it an official presence. The weird part is, I don’t see a candy machine anywhere, small objects, or even food, so it’s not like there’s anything you could even legitimately choke on. It’s as if someone decided to snag it from a doctor’s office to make up for the lack of decoration and poop-colored walls. I mean, I guess if someone chokes on a pen top, or their own saliva—both of which I’ve nearly done myself—then maybe the poster would come in handy, assuming you had time to read the fine print instructions and then apply them before the choker croaked. “Oh, what’s that you say?” [Making the universal choking gesture] “Oh, you’re choking? Okay, well can you hold on just minute while I read up on and practice the hymlic maneuver?” Unless, of course, I’m even blinder than I think and it’s not a choking poster at all…maybe “choking” is an improv thing that I don’t get yet…

The carpet is a drab navy with a weaving of gray thread throughout. The sporadic stains seem to tell stories of past clumsy students, wannabe comedians who spilt their sodas on the famed floors of Second City, not knowing at the time that this would be the only impression they would manage to leave.

The air is blowing directly on me, set to an unreasonably chilly temperature; I can feel myself shivering as I write this. I’m the only one wearing a skirt, which I now realize was a terrible choice because these people are really fond of sitting on the floor in circles. It’s odd how difficult it is to get a group of about 20 adults to stand, or sit, in a shape that even sort of resembles a circle.

The people in these classes are from everywhere. But I find it strangely comforting that at least two of the students aren’t American—one is from England and the other Australia, which must mean that these classes are a big damn deal because their investment in terms of travel is double, even quadruple, compared to everyone else. The instructors keep asking us why we are here, what made us take this class and what we hope to get out of it, but no one actually says the truth: “I’m here to be discovered.” But you hear it every time someone says, “I’m here because I want to broaden my skills” and “I’m here to see what it’s all about.” Lies, ALL LIES! If I think I am here for any other reason than the dimming hope of one day becoming famous for a talent I’m not entirely certain I possess (even as I write that I know it’s not true—I believe I do possess the talent—but perhaps it is the strength, endurance and luck that I lack…?) then I’d be kidding myself. It’s not that my goal is to be famous (that would be a shitty goal) it’s that fame just seems to be the only way success is ever measured in this field. It is validating though, surrounding yourself with people who are just as hungry as you are (seriously, I had no idea that there were people out there more desperate for attention than me).

The cold is getting me again, creeping in from all sides and wrapping around my toes like barbed wire. I wish I had a Snuggie.

That’s all I got to in 15 minutes, nothing more than a descriptive rant, which, I’ve learned, tends to be my consistent fallback in the write moment (something I plan to work on while I’m here). I'm off to my next class now and tonight I think I’m going to try to catch a few improv and comedy shows, assuming the public transit system doesn't "trick" me again. As of now, I’m feeling quite confident that what I’ll walk away with after this week will be better than any fame or discovery, instead, I think I’m going to walk away knowing what to do next, which is more than I could have ever hoped for.

I guess it's only been a day, so I should try to keep my expectations reasonable, in the event that it all of a sudden sucks.

Stay tuned...

Sisterly Love

Some of you might remember my sister, Tori (Torruption), from one of my earlier posts. Tori has a lot of opinions, and occasionally, when I have that unsure, yet still mostly excited, feeling about something I’ve written, I will ask her to read it before I post it. Of course, the fact that I continually do this in hopes of getting a positive response, despite how it usually makes me feel, might indicate an unhealthy obsession with harsh criticism and, maybe, insanity. Nevertheless, today I decided to share a post with her in which I wrote about the concept of saving. Below is the conversation that ensued on g-chat after she read it.

Tori: Do me a favor, write about something you absolutely love that doesn't have anything to do with you specifically.
Sent at 9:46 AM on Wednesday

Me: Do me a favor, and don't shoot it down when I do.
Tori: You know it’s naive so leave it alone.
Sent at 9:47 AM on Wednesday

Me: Yes, naive, but not everyone reading it has tunnel vision.
Tori: Of all the things that you would be ok with your writing being described as would you ever let it be naive?
Sent at 9:52 AM on Wednesday

Me: Yeah. I'm not so naive as to think my writing would be anything else at this point.
Sent at 9:53 AM on Wednesday

Tori: Please. Stop. Why does everything have to suck?
Me: Um. Did I say it sucked? I don't think being naive is entirely sucky. I think it's truthful, endearing, and will likely be comical at some point in the future.
Sent at 9:55 AM on Wednesday

Tori: No dude, that's just how you are these days. Stop doing that- it's like you’re on auto-suck where your automatic reaction and reasoning to everything is that you and everything you do just sucks. STOP! IT’S SO OBNOXIOUS! Don't willingly post something that you know makes you seem amateur and ignorant- it's really just that simple. Naive is only endearing when you're 12, not when your 25 talking about finances. Please, please, please for the love of god just write about something you like for once, no more self deprecation for a week alright, Sylvia Plath? Give it a rest. I want to read something that will make me laugh, and not at your expense for once.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Wednesday

Me: Ah, there it is. That wonderfully encouraging and always constructive feedback I've come to know and love.
I hope you never have children because they will die trying to live up to your impossible standards.
Tori: Well I'm glad that you aren't blowing this out of proportion and making it out to be something that it's not.
Me: Right, because that would be unreasonable.
Tori: Bringing up the ruined lives of my hypothetical children is not only relevant but totally constructive- bravo.
I'm trying to be honest with you - open your eyes.
Me: I’m just trying to spread the love.
Tori: Your blog is sinking because of this. Remember the dandelion post? Remember the Bear post? Bring me something original and light hearted- I have at least three more melancholic female literary references I can throw at you if not...
Just kidding- I can't read.

Me: Alright, Tori - back to you being the only audience that matters.
Tori: That was the most hurtful thing you've said to me on g-chat.
Me: Tell me you're kidding.
Tori: The serious joking is what makes it funny, dumbass - try to keep up!
Sent at 10:07 AM on Wednesday

Me: Right, lessons on how to be funny from the biggest bitch I know...where can I sign up?
Tori: You already have – ZING!
Okay, but really, making this about me isn't going to make that post any better so come off it…
Sent at 10:08 AM on Wednesday

Me: I just so happen to disagree with you.
Sent at 10:10 AM on Wednesday

Tori: I think you like fighting with me when you know something you write isn't very good because you know that whatever criticism you have to say about me is true and you just like being right about something.
Sent at 10:12 AM on Wednesday

Me: No, I thought that piece was good. I still think it's good. It might need a different context, and maybe a freshening of the jokes, but it's still good writing and concepting…that is, in my ever-humble opinion. But I appreciate your opinion, and I do plan to write more posts that have less to do with me…just to make you laugh.
Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday

Tori: Alright, let me read it again in a little bit.
Me: Yeah, I mean, I think you missed the point of the piece. It wasn't about finances.
Tori: So don’t talk about them.
Me: Um. You're not as smart as you say you are.
Tori: Neither are you- clearly
Me: Yes, clearly.
Sent at 10:21 AM on Wednesday

Tori: I gotta go run an errand. Sometimes I pretend like I'm a really cool investigative news reporter when I throw the bag you gave me over my shoulder.
Me: Okay. Have fun, News Reporter Barbie.

So now that my blog is apparently sinking under the weight of my self-deprecating words, I am going to try some new stuff over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, I’m not going go all perky-positive style on you and talk about smiles, sunshine and sparkles, but maybe I’ll try something like magic tricks—everyone loves a rabbit when it’s pulled out of a hat, right? In any case, I’ve started a list to help guide me.

Thing That Don’t Have To Do With Me [Sucking]:
1. Scrabble
2. Coasters
3. The Today Show
4. Throw Pillows
5. Pleather

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the list, but I’m confident (dare I say positive) that there is more to add.

Facebook Quizzes & Daily Horoscopes: A New Path to Self Awareness

I’ve stayed away from Facebook quizzes for many reasons, but to name a few:

1.) I’m too cool.
2.) The people who take Facebook quizzes are either 12 or 35.
3.) I don’t give a sh*t what animal you were in your past life, what color your aura is, or what dog breed you are—sorry.

But yesterday I surrendered to a quiz titled “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” I’m not sure what hooked me, but I think it was the possibility of being told that someone extremely likable, like Jennifer Aniston, or someone really hardcore, like Angelina Jolie, would play me in a movie. So I proceeded to take the quiz, which asked discerning personal questions like, “Would you go after another woman’s man?” and “Do you believe in true love?” and “How high maintenance are you on a scale of 1 to 10?”

My result was Debra Messing and this was the rationalization:

You are the class clown. Always trying to make others laugh. You have a genuiness about you that is obvious to all. You are the girl men leave their "arm trophies" for and are glad of it.

First of all, I don’t like Debra Messing. I put her in the same category as Hillary Swank: she is annoying, attractive only if you squint your eyes, and avoiding her only makes her appear more often. If you do see one of her movies it’s probably on accident because of a non-stop run on TBS, and even then you don’t really admit to actually watching the entire movie, only "parts of it." I mean, did anyone else see The Wedding Date? Enough said. But I am glad to know that I have a “genuiness” about me, that’s good, especially since I didn’t know “genuiness” was a word.

After “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” another quiz popped up called “What are you born to do?” and, given my current situation, it seemed wrong to not take this quiz. I was given seven questions—yes, just seven questions—to answer, which I assumed would then result in a solution to my ongoing question: what will I be now that I am a grown up? Here was the result:
I won’t even go into the countless spelling and punctuation errors in this quiz result—clearly the people creating these quizzes never passed an English class—but what the hell does this mean? This isn’t an answer to “what are you born to do?” I’m more lost after reading this than I was before I took the damn quiz! But at least it validates my ability to “make just about anyone like [me].” Obviously I don’t choose to utilize this skill on a regular basis, but it’s good to know that I have the ability.

I could see myself becoming addicted to Facebook quizzes the same way I used to be addicted to reading my daily horoscope. If you turn off the half of your brain that is meant for logical reasoning, then things like Facebook quizzes and horoscopes can be seen as ways to gather information about yourself; they are like insights into the future, ways to ease the pain of the unknown.

I used to read my horoscope everyday and it always ended up being true, except for when it wasn't. For instance, here is my horoscope for today, courtesy of yahoo.com:

Daily Extended Horoscope for June 16, 2009 (Today)
Libra: 9/23 – 10/22
Weigh your words carefully, as if they were diamonds. While it might be tempting to blurt out any ol' opinion that crosses your mind, erring on the side of caution is definitely the best measure at this time. That goes double for emails and any other written communications -- right now, it's all too easy for someone to misconstrue even the simplest statement and get hot under the collar about it.

Right, so I guess this means I shouldn't post today...?

I think I’m just going to go buy a t-shirt that says, “Everything I learned about myself I got from a Facebook quiz and my daily horoscope.” At least then people will know that I am a self-aware individual.

Networking: Just Be Yourself...Well, Not Really

Networking? Bring the cheese.

I feel about networking the same way I feel about bowel movements: everyone does it, but that doesn’t mean we need to embarrass ourselves by talking about it.

I get it. A gazillion people have already told me. Networking is important. No, seriously. I get it. If we could all just admit that networking makes us act like complete asshats, then I wouldn’t have such an issue with it. But instead, it’s like a marathon to see who can shake the most hands and collect the most business cards so they can send out a series of emails in the next 24 hours that look like this:

Hi, Important Person at a Company I Want to Work For!

I hope you had a swell time at that mixer last night. The appetizers were really delicious. Anyway, I enjoyed talking your ear off about myself. I recall you saying that you liked my scarf, and I wanted to let you know that it is available at any Target in the metro area (in case you wanted to get one and then we could be scarf buddies!!!). Also, I wanted to make sure you had all of my contact information in the event that a job opens up at your company or somewhere else that’s cooler because my interest in you is really limited to what you can do for me. So with this in mind, I’ve attached my resume which will only solidify your opinion of me as a completely mediocre candidate, and here is my website in case you’d like to see some samples of all the entirely irrelevant work I’ve done.

Thanks again, I hope you have a great day, and if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to contact me to kiss your ass until it falls off.

Sincerely,
Jobless Networking Asshat


Every article I’ve read and every speaker I’ve heard talks about networking being the most vital part of the job search in a down economy. But no one ever tells you that networking involves schmoozing like a used-car salesman. No one ever tells you that you’ll have to feign a knowledge of sailing and pretend to be fascinated by a boat named “Hoosier Daddy” because it belongs to the VP of the company you’ve sent your resume to 85 times. No, the only thing people ever tell you about networking is “be yourself,” but this is not what they really mean because networking is not something you would do if you were to “be yourself.” Am I right?

In the course of my job search, I’ve realized that any time recruiters or job search gurus say, “just be yourself” what they really mean is “just act like you’re being yourself.” How could they really mean “be yourself” when they just gave you a list of acceptable phrases to use in an interview, a list of acceptable 140-character Tweets, and an example of an acceptable Facebook page for you to use as a guideline? And then they tell you something like, “ always appear positive,” to which I always want to say, “appearing positive would really mess with my personal branding message,” because personal branding is a $100 word in the job search world.

The worst part about losing my job wasn’t the loss of financial security, health insurance or daily purpose, it was knowing that I would have to listen to endless amounts of hypocritical job search babble like, “be yourself” and “networking is the key to getting your dream job.” It’s kind of like when your parents talk about things like sex or drugs or the Internet and you suddenly feel like your ears are going to start bleeding.

I’m still in my first trimester of unemployment, but if things keep going the way they are now, and I’m forced to listen to more people talk about the job search, the importance of networking and tell me how to be myself, I am afraid that I might become a robot—kind of like a Stepford Wife only I’d be called Prospective Employee #13,976,345.