I've decided that posting in two places in not necessary.
I'll be at regardingalex.tumblr.com.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Despicable Charitable Me
"So", said to me me nobody ever, "obviously, you're an excellent writer..."
"Do go on", I reply in British accent.
"...and you're just so handsome*..."
"Okay, get on with it!" I snarl, impatient yet smiling.
"Okay, get on with it!" I snarl, impatient yet smiling.
"...but what's another favorite attribute of yours?"
I take several seconds, thinking hard while stroking my chin. Finally, I speak. "Well, after much consideration, I think that would have to be how philanthropic I am."
*Not three days ago I entered my bathroom and, before turning the light on, caught my own reflection. "You know", I shouted to my roommate. "Sometimes I see myself and I think, you know what? I can actually be kind of handsome." I flipped the light switch onand saw my face again in the mirror. "NOPE!" I yelled. "ABORT, ABORT!"
What? What? What are you laughing at? I'm a nice guy, damn it!
Though to be honest, anyone who knows me knows I'm a bit... uh, how you say? Ah yes, cheap. I've mentioned this in passing before, but I'm really cheap. It mostly comes from a place of guilt; in essence, when I was spending my parents money I felt really bad about it, and so I thought that if I could make every dollar go as far as possible, last as long as it could, then in total I would be spending less of their money. Three dollars here by going to the matinee showing of a movie, two dollars there by saying I'm getting off at Palatine instead of Barrington on the Metra when I visit home*. I mean, we're talking pinching pennies. I still feel upset about the time when I guiltily paid only ten dollars to get into the Museum of Natural History (suggested price was like twenty bucks, but you could pay whatever you wanted) and then watched my cousin pay two dollars. Boy did that smart. For the rest of the day I was thinking, "I just threw eight perfectly good dollars down the drain." I missed that eight dollars.
I know this ridiculous, believe me.
*In my defense, they completely unceremoniously raised their prices several bucks without even asking me. I did not agree to pay such monies, and therefore I will not.
Now, in terms of my charitable contributions, I don't have that great of a track record. Examples include: .... uh .... um ... okay, I'm like ninety percent certain I put some of the change from my lunch money into those Unicef collection bins. And I live in a city with lots of homeless that I... no longer give to. Let me explain.
I am, by nature, a people-pleaser; I want everyone to like me all the time and I have a really hard time saying no to people*. So when someone asks me for change, it used to be an internal struggle: the discomfort of saying no to those people versus the unease of spending more of my money. And when I did give, all that would happen was the I'd pass another homeless person and feel really guilty (sensing a theme?) that I'd already given my change to the one before. "No I swear, I just gave to one of your contemporaries! So you shouldn't feel bad I didn't give you anything. You guys all talk, right? YOU KNOW I GAVE" felt like a... somewhat tone-deaf response.
*Regarding me having these qualities, someone recently said flatly, "that's really bad". I know.
Generally, I could say no if I was quickly moving onward, but if I was seated or couldn't escape the person asking for money, it was really difficult for me to turn them down. Once, I was waiting at Ogilvie for the Metra when a man came up to me. I was seated at the Subway eating my sandwich and was unable to parry. He explained he had lost his wallet and just needed seventy-three more cents for the train to Woodstock, that's all he needed, just seventy-three cents! With nowhere to go and feeling guilty, I counted out exactly seventy-three cents and gave it to him. He looked at me a little confusedly, said thanks, and moved on. Five minutes later I saw him in the same food court asking someone else for money. I was... not pleased. Not because of the money but because he had lied to me to get money out of me. He lied. Perhaps I'm too principled, but I don't like being lied to and inherently assume others aren't lying to me. Second, I believed the lie and was embarrassed. My embarrassment and disappointment in myself ran so deep that I resolved to be wary.
Like always, just be advised that I know how awful I am, alright?
*I once told a friend of mine's visiting relative, "Fun fact, all the homeless people are actors that have been hired by the city to generate revenue, so actually all the money you give goes into Chicago itself." "Really?"
I also dislike canvassers - my close personal friend Sean Maher agrees with me - I know they have a thankless job, but I'm sorry, if I'm walking down the street I clearly have somewhere I'm going and you're interrupting! And when they come to my place of residence? Know I'm aware I'm speaking as someone with a lot of privilege, but don't come to my home and then make me feel bad because I didn't give to whatever cause you interrupted my day to talk to me about, thanks. And believe me, I always feel bad.
So the other Friday, I was walking down my street after a really long day of a really long week at work. I was tired, I was sweaty, and I was starving. I just wanted to go home, make myself some pizza, and plop down on my couch. In the distance, there was a man on the sidewalk... as I got closer I saw he was dressed nice and holding a clipboard. "No, no, no..." I thought. "Excuse me", he said, "can I get thirty seconds of your time?"
Now, my biggest pet peeve in the world is rudeness. I abhor it. I don't understand why everyone in the world wasn't raised to be kind to others and to speak to people appropriately the way I was; the world could be a much better place if everyone took five seconds to not be an asshole. People are rude when they don't have to be, and that just baffles me. You don't need to be as deferential as, say, I don't know, ME, but you can still find a way not to be rude to someone who doesn't deserve to deal with that. So knowing this about myself, the fact that I was even ever so slightly rude to this guy shows me (in retrospect) how tired I must have been.
"You can have thirty seconds" I said curtly. I kept walking down the street towards my apartment, the guy turns and starts walking with me, and now I've forced him into a walk and talk like we're on The West Wing. He begins talking to me about this program as I start pulling the headphones out of my ears. "So basically," he continued, "if I can sell enough of these Chicago Tribune subscriptions they'll pay for me to go to college". What? I suddenly turned to stop and look at this person clearly... and suddenly I noticed how young he was. He looked like he was sixteen, seventeen maybe. He was a kid. And I suddenly thought about how embarrassed and nervous he must be having to approach strangers and jeez I didn't have to be such a dick, the thirty seconds remark and making him walk with me?! god I'm awful. I just thought, come on, I've been so spoiled - I never had to give a second thought to going to college; I didn't even really want to go. Here this kid is trying so hard to have a chance to do something that everyone who wants to should be able to do. "So how much is it, exactly?" I asked. "Thirty dollars." He said. I opened my wallet - I had exactly twenty-nine dollars in cash. I told him that I only had twenty-nine. "That's fine!" he said, "I'll put in a dollar, honestly it's fine!" He was so excited. He shook my hand and said thank you. I asked him his name - he said it was Farad. "Where do you want to go to school?" It turns out it was the school I graduated from... I told him as much. "Really?", he said excitedly, "I really want to play on the basketball team... were you on the basketball team?" "Do I look like I was on the basketball team?" I cracked. He laughed. He gave me a sincere thank you, I wished him good luck and finished walking back to my apartment.
As planned, I stuck on pizza onto the pizzazz, changed into lazy clothes, poured myself a soda and collapsed onto the couch. I flipped the TV on.
I didn't miss the twenty-nine dollars.
What? What? What are you laughing at? I'm a nice guy, damn it!
Though to be honest, anyone who knows me knows I'm a bit... uh, how you say? Ah yes, cheap. I've mentioned this in passing before, but I'm really cheap. It mostly comes from a place of guilt; in essence, when I was spending my parents money I felt really bad about it, and so I thought that if I could make every dollar go as far as possible, last as long as it could, then in total I would be spending less of their money. Three dollars here by going to the matinee showing of a movie, two dollars there by saying I'm getting off at Palatine instead of Barrington on the Metra when I visit home*. I mean, we're talking pinching pennies. I still feel upset about the time when I guiltily paid only ten dollars to get into the Museum of Natural History (suggested price was like twenty bucks, but you could pay whatever you wanted) and then watched my cousin pay two dollars. Boy did that smart. For the rest of the day I was thinking, "I just threw eight perfectly good dollars down the drain." I missed that eight dollars.
I know this ridiculous, believe me.
*In my defense, they completely unceremoniously raised their prices several bucks without even asking me. I did not agree to pay such monies, and therefore I will not.
Now, in terms of my charitable contributions, I don't have that great of a track record. Examples include: .... uh .... um ... okay, I'm like ninety percent certain I put some of the change from my lunch money into those Unicef collection bins. And I live in a city with lots of homeless that I... no longer give to. Let me explain.
I am, by nature, a people-pleaser; I want everyone to like me all the time and I have a really hard time saying no to people*. So when someone asks me for change, it used to be an internal struggle: the discomfort of saying no to those people versus the unease of spending more of my money. And when I did give, all that would happen was the I'd pass another homeless person and feel really guilty (sensing a theme?) that I'd already given my change to the one before. "No I swear, I just gave to one of your contemporaries! So you shouldn't feel bad I didn't give you anything. You guys all talk, right? YOU KNOW I GAVE" felt like a... somewhat tone-deaf response.
*Regarding me having these qualities, someone recently said flatly, "that's really bad". I know.
Generally, I could say no if I was quickly moving onward, but if I was seated or couldn't escape the person asking for money, it was really difficult for me to turn them down. Once, I was waiting at Ogilvie for the Metra when a man came up to me. I was seated at the Subway eating my sandwich and was unable to parry. He explained he had lost his wallet and just needed seventy-three more cents for the train to Woodstock, that's all he needed, just seventy-three cents! With nowhere to go and feeling guilty, I counted out exactly seventy-three cents and gave it to him. He looked at me a little confusedly, said thanks, and moved on. Five minutes later I saw him in the same food court asking someone else for money. I was... not pleased. Not because of the money but because he had lied to me to get money out of me. He lied. Perhaps I'm too principled, but I don't like being lied to and inherently assume others aren't lying to me. Second, I believed the lie and was embarrassed. My embarrassment and disappointment in myself ran so deep that I resolved to be wary.
Like always, just be advised that I know how awful I am, alright?
*I once told a friend of mine's visiting relative, "Fun fact, all the homeless people are actors that have been hired by the city to generate revenue, so actually all the money you give goes into Chicago itself." "Really?"
I also dislike canvassers - my close personal friend Sean Maher agrees with me - I know they have a thankless job, but I'm sorry, if I'm walking down the street I clearly have somewhere I'm going and you're interrupting! And when they come to my place of residence? Know I'm aware I'm speaking as someone with a lot of privilege, but don't come to my home and then make me feel bad because I didn't give to whatever cause you interrupted my day to talk to me about, thanks. And believe me, I always feel bad.
So the other Friday, I was walking down my street after a really long day of a really long week at work. I was tired, I was sweaty, and I was starving. I just wanted to go home, make myself some pizza, and plop down on my couch. In the distance, there was a man on the sidewalk... as I got closer I saw he was dressed nice and holding a clipboard. "No, no, no..." I thought. "Excuse me", he said, "can I get thirty seconds of your time?"
Now, my biggest pet peeve in the world is rudeness. I abhor it. I don't understand why everyone in the world wasn't raised to be kind to others and to speak to people appropriately the way I was; the world could be a much better place if everyone took five seconds to not be an asshole. People are rude when they don't have to be, and that just baffles me. You don't need to be as deferential as, say, I don't know, ME, but you can still find a way not to be rude to someone who doesn't deserve to deal with that. So knowing this about myself, the fact that I was even ever so slightly rude to this guy shows me (in retrospect) how tired I must have been.
"You can have thirty seconds" I said curtly. I kept walking down the street towards my apartment, the guy turns and starts walking with me, and now I've forced him into a walk and talk like we're on The West Wing. He begins talking to me about this program as I start pulling the headphones out of my ears. "So basically," he continued, "if I can sell enough of these Chicago Tribune subscriptions they'll pay for me to go to college". What? I suddenly turned to stop and look at this person clearly... and suddenly I noticed how young he was. He looked like he was sixteen, seventeen maybe. He was a kid. And I suddenly thought about how embarrassed and nervous he must be having to approach strangers and jeez I didn't have to be such a dick, the thirty seconds remark and making him walk with me?! god I'm awful. I just thought, come on, I've been so spoiled - I never had to give a second thought to going to college; I didn't even really want to go. Here this kid is trying so hard to have a chance to do something that everyone who wants to should be able to do. "So how much is it, exactly?" I asked. "Thirty dollars." He said. I opened my wallet - I had exactly twenty-nine dollars in cash. I told him that I only had twenty-nine. "That's fine!" he said, "I'll put in a dollar, honestly it's fine!" He was so excited. He shook my hand and said thank you. I asked him his name - he said it was Farad. "Where do you want to go to school?" It turns out it was the school I graduated from... I told him as much. "Really?", he said excitedly, "I really want to play on the basketball team... were you on the basketball team?" "Do I look like I was on the basketball team?" I cracked. He laughed. He gave me a sincere thank you, I wished him good luck and finished walking back to my apartment.
As planned, I stuck on pizza onto the pizzazz, changed into lazy clothes, poured myself a soda and collapsed onto the couch. I flipped the TV on.
I didn't miss the twenty-nine dollars.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
A Quick Expression of Political-y Feelings
So without getting overly political or sentimental, I just have to say days like today actually make me have a little faith in the universe. Because I generally feel as though the world is a shitstorm and that the universe hates goodness and that America is basically Game of Thrones where good guys just get horribly stabbed and killed and the bad guys slink away. One of these three things - Stand With Wendy, DOMA, Prop8 - would've certainly been great, but having all three so quickly together gives me feelings, you guys. Because apparently, the bad guys don't always win. Sometimes the good guys win. The good guys beat the bad guys and right is right and it's as simple as that. We don't actually live in Game of Thrones all the time. The good guys fought, and they won these battles. It's almost enough to make me think about fighting for things and stuff.
And then I remember how exhausting being politically involved is. Back to watching TV and eating.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Of Food and Vanity
Not my favorite post ever, but it'd been a while...
I sit here on my couch, staring at the empty pizza box, which is now covered with crumbs and a crumpled up, sauce-stained napkin; its former inhabitants now inhabit only my stomach. I lay back onto the couch, feeling quite nicely full. Yet somehow, I'm not sated. Dissatisfaction lingers. A question sounds in my mind, over and over on repeat.
"So, how long do I have to wait until I can get Dairy Queen?"
What is wrong with me? I just ate an entire pizza. Yet, like Ariel... I want more.* We all know that I'm a former fat kid at heart, and apparently I've maintained the appetite and eating habits of one. I love food; going out to eat is my favorite thing. And my obsessive need to feel like I'm getting my money's worth means I will always clear my plate. This is not good, since I unfortunately also suffer from a debilitating disease known as "former fat child syndrome". FFCS affects thousands, yet no one ever speaks about it, likely for fear of social stigmas**. But I will be that brave soul, that man among men, to open up about this difficult subject.
*my food network show would be called 'Today in Unnecessary Eating'
**and also because possibly they don't know about it since I made it up
Symptoms of FFCS include, but are not limited to:
**and also because possibly they don't know about it since I made it up
Symptoms of FFCS include, but are not limited to:
- Being thin and flabby
- Feeling guilty about everything you eat
- Arbitrarily deciding to order something marginally healthier than what you were about to order
- Staring at your stomach, feeling sick to it as you notice how it's expanding over time
- Refusal to go swimming, be in a bathing suit, or otherwise shirtless*
- Deciding to cut back on eating, followed by eating indiscriminately
- Looking at yourself in the mirror pitifully
- Worrying about having multiple chins
- Intense body envy of people that are 'in shape'
- Unwarranted belief that everyone is in shape but you
- Saying "I'm so fat" or "I'm gonna get so fat" and annoying the crap out of your friends who see you as a very skinny person
Your friends will think you're fishing for compliments and that you're obnoxious; this is not the case. I have never fished for complements in my life - these are, in fact, genuine feelings and concern of fatness. Your friends will not understand why a skinny person would be constantly worried about being fat... but once you've been fat, you know that at any day could be the day when you go back to where you were. Frankly, I didn't do all that much work to get thin, it just sort of happened suddenly, so it's not an illogical hypothesis that therefore I could also get fat suddenly and without warning. Look, my stomach has heft it didn't used to have anymore, okay? IT'S REAL. I packed on some weight this winter, and believe me, it ain't pretty. Fortunately, as the per the above rules, no one is allowed to see me shirtless, so no one can really tell I'm getting heavier. But since they can't tell, they again think I'm being overdramatic or exaggerating - it's a lose-lose-lose. Lose.
*you better believe swim unit in gym glass was my own personal hell
I know my lot in life... my body is the before picture, and everyone else's is the after. See, if you have FFCS, you will no doubt be more attuned to the ridiculously perfect bodies of everyone who is not you. Somehow, everyone seems to just automatically be naturally fit, those jerks. "Now, now", you're saying, "they're probably gym rats". This may be the FFCS talking, but I THINK NOT. I think yeah, some people work out, but everyone starts with some base body. Some people, me included, have a flabby base with which to work. And other people got a starter set that was way muscle-y. I had a friend in THIRD GRADE tell me he had a six-pack. I had no clue what that meant at the time, but the point is that HE WAS A THIRD GRADER WHO HAD A SIX PACK. What is that madness? Nice of his genetics, I suppose. But everytime I meet someone, it's like, "oh of COURSE you have a great body, because you're everyone else on the planet".
I find people with good bodies annoying and a personal affront to me; as if they're doing it on purpose, flailing their effortlessly perfect physiques in my face. Another symptom of FFCS is that you only remember seeing in shape people and filtering out everyone else, so despite reason telling me there are plenty of flabby people like me, my gut* tells me no, in fact everyone else is ripped. My roommate was showing me pictures of her co-workers, and sure enough, every guy was swole like Uwe Boll**. Stopping on the last co-worker, I began my frustration.
Me: I just feel if I looked like [co-worker], I'd be happier and my life would be better and perfect.
Caitlin: Yeah, but [co-worker]'s an orphan whose parents died and he lived with his grandparents and had a really sad childhood.
Me: Would I kill my parents for that body??
Caitlin: [Stares]
Me: [Biting on my nails]
Caitlin: [Still staring]
Me: I mean, obviously I wouldn't kill my parents!
I blame FFCS for my brief momentary lapse into psychosis there. You see how it works? It's dangerous!
*pun intended
**not an actual phrase but what else rhymes with swole? Bob Dole? Gary Cole? A sourdough roll? Mmm, sourdough...
I suppose the bad body thing wouldn't be that bad if I had a nice mug, but let's face it - I have a writer's face. As previously discussed, my face is not terrible when taken on it's own but when put next to a nice face it starts to look like a Picasso. My one attribute that I had going for me was my hair, until - to my horror - my haircut lady pointed out to me that my hair was thinning. I'M TOO YOUNG TO BE BALD. First I'm too young to have wrinkles, and now my hair is peacing out? She explained that it was probably due to stress, which made sense given my personality. So, in keeping with that, I immediately began stressing over how to stop stressing in order to keep my hair. A foolproof plan it is not. Frankly, it's not like I know what to do with my hair anyway - I don't know how to style it or anything - but I'd like to keep it just the same.
In dire times like these, I try to remember what Caitlin said to me following the above conversation.
"Listen, we may not be the best-looking people out there, but there are people who are WAY uglier than us. So we got that goin'."Look, it may not be the St. Crispin's Day speech, but I think those are words to live by. I mean at least I don't have a hunchback. And frankly, I don't know where I get off being so vain. It's an odd thing, because I don't care at all about it until suddenly I do. Anyone who knows me could easily point out I have no stake is my physical appearance... like I've said, I don't know what to do with my hair, I dress in an entirely non-descript fashion - I'm certainly not trying to impress anybody. So if I'm not trying to impress anyone, why do I care? What does it matter if my stomach is hanging more precariously than it was six months ago? Is it for my esteem? Would a better body or whatever really make me happier? (Strangely, I believe it would.) Is there anything I can do?
I've got two hundred dollars in Amazon.com gift cards that have been burning a hole in my pocket for a couple years now. It's incredibly frustrating because I feel like I have money but it's locked up in a safe that I can't reach. I beg and plead with everyone I know to buy them off me, since they claim to use Amazon all the time. Instead of seeing the logic in that, they just tell me how ridiculous it is that there's nothing I want to buy on Amazon. It's not ridiculous at all... I don't need things, I don't buy stuff; I have too much stuff as it is. I'm not gonna waste my money and something I don't need. The only things I spend money on are rent and going out to eat (and the Veronica Mars kickstarter). That's all I need. I'd rather get $200 worth of meals from Chipotle or spend money traveling (I wish) than an iPad I don't need. Amazon can help me with neither my rent nor with food*, so I feel like my money is in its very own episode of Locked Up Abroad.
*oh and you better believe I tried to buy food gift cards off Amazon. I made it all the way to checkout and then found out you can't use gift cards to buy gift cards and had a tiny rage-induced aneurysm.
My co-workers began suggesting things for me to buy. "A digital camera!" No, I'd use it like one time. "CD's? Music?" I laugh, as if anyone buys CD's anymore. Even if they did, I'm not into music enough to want more than one song from anybody. "Well, what do you want?" They asked, frustrated. "There's gotta be something you want!" I stood at the copier, thinking. "Can I buy abs?" I realized excitedly. They laughed, cause I'm so hilarious.
But seriously though.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Privilege of Doing Nothing
NOTE: I found this post supremely uninteresting, but hey, that's what happens when you write when you have nothing going on in your life to write about. It's either this or just stop writing like I did for about a month (as some of you kindly pointed out to me). So... yeah. Damned if you do and stuff.
And by that, what you really mean is you're going to sit around getting fat and surfing the internet.
Take this weekend, for example. I work almost every Saturday, but even with that egregious injustice I still had an entire day and a half to myself, free of work and all the heinous people and situations that arise there. "This'll be great", I figured. "I'll actually get to spend time with people who make me happy, I'll get to work on that screenplay and use the creative part of my brain. I HAVE SO MUCH TIME!" As you might have guessed, it is now Sunday night and I did no such thing. The small free time I'd built up was extinguished with the ease of blowing out a candle.
Where did it go? What did I do with it? I remember eating a sleeve and a half of almonette cookies, so that definitely happened. And I vaguely recall getting into an argument with one of the cats. The rest of it... like, there wasn't even TV on for me to watch. Normally I burn through most of my time trying to catch up on my TV, but I'm reasonably confident that this was not the case this weekend. What did I do?
What must have happened is that I fell into an internet abyss, refreshing Twitter and Facebook and going from article to article, video to video. Honestly guys, I genuinely don't remember if that's what happened, but I'm going to go ahead and guess since my free time was apparently sucked into a black hole.
My two hopes for the weekend: a) socializing and b) writing? Fail. My friend did text me about going to her friend's birthday on Saturday, but I declined. This would have entailed having to dress up*, a half hour bus ride to Wicker Park, having to pay for alcohol**, going to loud, crowded bars where I'm only going to know like three people anyway and pretending like I'm an extrovert, AND a cab ride home. In short, this was not going to happen. I'm an eighty year old man inside the body of a twenty(ish) year old one - this sounded just. totally. exhausting. I'm burnt out all the time, and this sounded like some major exertion for very little in return.
*'dress up' for me means putting the most minimal effort into trying to look halfway decent
**which as we've established I don't even like all that much
And working on that screenplay? Nope. Didn't do a damn thing. I feel really guilty about it too... I feel like I'm wasting my life, spending every precious second not doing anything meaningful or worthwhile. This morning, I remember getting up, eating lunch, and getting on the computer. It was roughly noon. "This is great... I have eight whole hours until The Good Wife is on, I'll get so much done." And now it's 10:30 and I didn't even make a dent. What's wrong with me?
Is this what working people strive for? Theoretically, you work and you work and you work so you can treat yourself, so you can have the kind of things you want to have. Does this mean what I want is to do nothing? Am I working so I can have the luxury of not working? At a glance, this seems to me to be... how do you say? Ah yes, completely fucking insane. It means all that crap and sweat and inanity is all done in the name of me laying around getting fatter? Really? This was what it was all for? That's why I put up with rude people and stress all day? This is the meaning of life and work? This is what deep down, I really want? Is to be lazy and let my creativity wither away? Now call me crazy... it doesn't really seem worth it.
Maybe for other people, they enjoy their work; they make meaning with their work. And maybe when I'm doing that someday, it'll make sense to do nothing with my free time. After all, if I'm writing at work, I don't have to write when I come home; it's already done! So I can laze around guilt-free knowing I did something worthwhile. That will be a fine day.
But today is not that day.
However, I'd like to point out something I'd forgotten, which is that there is a joy in doing nothing. Maybe it's not just laziness - when you work six days a week, there's a childlike glee in having nothing to do all day. I think I'm definitely selling doing nothing way short, because come on... you know it's fun; I have to admit it. So if it's that glee I'm chasing... and not simply me carving out time to waste away - then it ain't so bad.
Besides, I sat down and wrote this little ditty out? So that's something.
But seriously, screenplay next weekend. This time I mean it?
Sunday, March 17, 2013
In Which the Author Exposes His Criminal Side
If and when you were to meet me, you'd probably assume I'm not a dangerous guy. Too skinny and muscle-less to be at all physically intimidating, too self-conscious and self-deprecating to be threatening with my personality.
It's like the other day, when one of my bosses spoke to me with such rude condescension. Did I mention I love being spoken to like I'm an idiot?* It happens all the time. Two days ago, a not-so-nice lady acted like I was a moron for asking her if she wanted to take a call that was for her. She responded to me like I was an idiot child. Do I get to yell back at her**? To I get to call her out for being rude? Nope. But she'll pay... oh yes, she'll pay.
In brownies.
*no but actually I don't like being spoken to like an idiot
**In my head I imagined screaming at her, "I TEST VERY HIGHLY!" and running away
That, my friends, is where you would be wrong. You see, I have a darkness in me - a rebellious side, something I can't control or suppress. I have a hunger for crime that must be sated, and only one thing will quench it's thirst*...
...I must steal food from the office kitchen.
Oh yes.
*I mixed my metaphors, going from hunger to thirst but I ended up liking it so SHUT UP ABOUT IT
Before you condemn me, listen up; I'm not stealing any individual co-worker's lunch or anything. I may be a superhardcorerebel* but I'm not an asshole. The food I am stealing is communal food; the office provides food for everyone to share. Technically, since the food is for everyone, I'm not even actually stealing. BUT IT FEELS LIKE I AM, and that, dear readers, is a thrill.
*Listen, I'm way bad, okay? I got a detention one time - that's where the middle school boys get separated from the middle school men (who are also boys)
The office caters in lunch on Mondays, which is, granted, incredibly generous. My goal: make that food last me through at least Wednesday. Last week we had Jimmy John's, and a pile of sandwiches were laid out across the kitchen countertop. One for lunch, sure. And now that my work scheduled me without asking to work until seven every night, I think the very least they can do to apologize for their general heinousness is buy me dinner as well. So another sandwich it is.
Now here's where the game gets fun. See, by this point, there's sandwiches left in the fridge - but not enough for everyone to have one for lunch the next day. Someone's going to get to eat them... it might as well be me, nay, it should be me, since I appreciate free food like no other. GOD I LOVE FREE FOOD*.
*My freshman year of college, my cousin would always ask me to swipe her into the dorm dining hall so she could eat the food there; she was always so excited when I did this, which I couldn't comprehend. It was just cafeteria food! Only later, when I no longer lived in a dorm, did I truly understand the magnitude of a free-for-all buffet. I had a freshman friend of mine bring me into the dining hall several nights a week, taking plate after plate of hot food. So. Satisfying. Guys, food is the best. Food is way better than everything, WAY better than sex.
(My friend came back from Europe and told me that whenever she and her friends met people on their travels, they would ask a simple question that ALWAYS led to heated debate, and defined what kind of person you were down to the core of your very being - if you had to give up one of these two things FOR LIFE and keep only one, which would you keep: cheese or oral sex? Um, CHEESE, is that even a question?! Ossers versus cheesers, as they referred to it: the debate that defines a generation.)
The trick now is to get out of the office with the most sandwiches as possible without letting anyone notice, because while technically I'm not doing anything wrong, it's pretty tacky and classless. Very me. So it becomes a little challenge, a thrill to spice up my day. I slip a Jimmy John's up my sleeve or hide it behind folders and quickly get it over to my backpack. I've now banked one sandwich*. This is only the beginning. I leave that sandwich in my fridge at home, then take one out of the fridge "for lunch" the next day, but instead place it in my bag. Then, at lunchtime, I take another from the fridge. I just banked two more sandwiches. I'll eat free Jimmy John's until Thursday.
*remember to say "BANK" when you get your sandwich or you could end up being The Weakest Link
There are more opportunities. On Fridays, the higher-ups get a bunch of desserts catered in from a bakery... these are delicious, hot-ticket items. Once they finish their meeting, the leftovers remain on the conference table, and we underlings fend for ourselves trying to get to them first. These missions are especially dangerous, because it's in full view of the office, and I don't want anyone to see me taking a brownie, pecan bar, AND a miniature bundt cake (see above, re: tacky and classless). So you have to be lightning quick... you need to just act like you're perusing, maybe you're not really hungry.... then BAM, grab as much as you can, quickly wrap it in a paper towel so it looks like you took just one, and then get it back to your bag to eat at home at your leisure. You could be caught at any moment... but if you're cunning, you won't be.
But that's not all! I've managed to get out of the office with hot peppers, pizza, entire trays of chinese food, and of course, there's that crystalline moment when you take a bottle of cholula from work. It's the simple things in life you treasure.
There are more opportunities. On Fridays, the higher-ups get a bunch of desserts catered in from a bakery... these are delicious, hot-ticket items. Once they finish their meeting, the leftovers remain on the conference table, and we underlings fend for ourselves trying to get to them first. These missions are especially dangerous, because it's in full view of the office, and I don't want anyone to see me taking a brownie, pecan bar, AND a miniature bundt cake (see above, re: tacky and classless). So you have to be lightning quick... you need to just act like you're perusing, maybe you're not really hungry.... then BAM, grab as much as you can, quickly wrap it in a paper towel so it looks like you took just one, and then get it back to your bag to eat at home at your leisure. You could be caught at any moment... but if you're cunning, you won't be.
But that's not all! I've managed to get out of the office with hot peppers, pizza, entire trays of chinese food, and of course, there's that crystalline moment when you take a bottle of cholula from work. It's the simple things in life you treasure.
But let's examine this phenomenon: why does it give me such a rush? Well, the first thing I should consider is that I might be a kleptomaniac. I doubt it though, since I don't shoplift... much.* So what else could be driving this insane, pulse-pounding need to take free food? I think my love of free food meets this desire to rebel, to stick it to the man. "You're gonna treat me like shit? Well I'm not going to take it lying down! I'm going to take it home with me in a container!" I feel like since I can't speak out, I stand up for myself in other ways. Wonderful, tasty food ways.
*no but actually I don't shoplift
It's like the other day, when one of my bosses spoke to me with such rude condescension. Did I mention I love being spoken to like I'm an idiot?* It happens all the time. Two days ago, a not-so-nice lady acted like I was a moron for asking her if she wanted to take a call that was for her. She responded to me like I was an idiot child. Do I get to yell back at her**? To I get to call her out for being rude? Nope. But she'll pay... oh yes, she'll pay.
In brownies.
*no but actually I don't like being spoken to like an idiot
**In my head I imagined screaming at her, "I TEST VERY HIGHLY!" and running away
Monday, February 11, 2013
The Click is a Lie
I was going to start this post - since it somewhat gets into the genuine, scary depths of my crazy - with my traditional apology for being semi-serious this week (especially since last week wasn't exactly an upper). But I've decided to officially retire the "sorry that I'm being not hilarious this week" intro permanently. I just figure that A) if you're here reading, you're at the very least mildly interested in my thoughts, and like any person they're not always chipper and B) I may be crazy, but I don't think I'm the only person in the world who's gone down spiraling down the crazy thoughts rabbit hole; so maybe someone out there will find this relatable.
Or maybe no one does and I'm an anxiety-ridden nutbag. One of the two, definitely. Either way, like Hannah Horvath before me, I'm going to write a blog that exposes all of my vulnerabilities to the entire internet.*
*Having said that, I'm shooting for something more light-hearted NEXT week, don't you fret. If this is your first time with us, go ahead and check out some of the early posts. I'm sometimes funny, I'm told.
For the last six months or so, I'd had a plan for the near future. Having a plan is fun, because it's a way to trick your brain into thinking you have any control over or sense of what the future holds. It keeps you from losing your mind the way you would if you spent every second going, "WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN? WHAT WILL BECOME OF ME?" I'd applied to a couple grad school programs in California, and been contacted by one of them to do an interview. This was certainly encouraging, though I wasn't putting too much stock into it. I don't even know that grad school is what I want to do - getting a creative degree doesn't even guarantee you success, and grad school is hella expensive. To top it all off, I'm not even certain the area of study is even what I want to do with my life.
But those concerns aside, the plan was the plan, and I was happy to go along with it and not feel completely lost in the world.* Fall: move to California. A plan, a plan. Last week, the aforementioned educational institution contacted me to let me know that they actually would not like me to come in for that interview and that also they would not like me to come in ever in any way shape or form. Yes, in addition to the interview being rescinded, I was informed I was not accepted into the program. The reason it stung is because I had been asked for the interview; I felt like a child who'd been offered candy, suddenly considered eating the candy and started to like the sound of it, then suddenly had the candy torn away. And then his parents got hit by a bus or something, I don't know. The point is, it didn't feel good. This all was on top of the generally unfun current state of my life - all work, no play. Like, seriously - I have no social life, I don't do anything creatively fulfilling... I just go to that damn office all day.
*Baseball and deluding ourselves - the two national pastimes.
So later on, I was half-watching the season premiere of Smash. Before you make fun of me, know that I have my reasons; firstly, as someone who enjoys being part of the critical conversation about TV, Smash is show that comes up a lot, and I like seeing things for myself so I can have my own opinion. Second, it's a show I only need to half-watch so I can do other, more important things while it's on.* At some point during the episode, some of the young characters went to a party at someone's Brooklyn apartment. I suddenly got sad. It was a bunch of young, creative people in a great city having fun** and enjoying themselves. I wanted that. I wanted to feel excited. "Maybe I should move to New York", I thought.
*By important things, I of course mean looking at stuff on the internet. Because I am nothing if not an exemplary couch potato.
**What is this thing you call fun?
I think it speaks to how deep my longing must be that a thin, barely interesting scene of young people sort of having mild fun from the TV show "Smash" was all it took to snap me. Clearly, I may have been fragile to begin with. Because with that tiny thought - "Maybe I should move to New York" - the plan (location, career path) I'd been sitting on for six months just evaporated. Gone in a second; like being outside in Chicago winter and suddenly having your clothes disintegrate - the protection is no more. The bottom fell out and I suddenly began to free fall. Hollowed out completely, I went to go lay down, my mind racing:
Oh (lowercase g) god - maybe that plan wasn't even the right plan. There are six million different plans... what do I do? If that wasn't the right plan, what is the right plan? What am I doing with my life? What should I do next? I need to move, I need to get out of here; I need a new start*. I feel like somewhere there's a fun, exciting, creatively fulfilling life and I'm missing it. I'm wasting my life away doing nothing worthwhile, and someday I'm going to be old and full of regret**. I think other people are living the life I want to live and I hate them, I'm just jealous and angry and sad, and that's not very becoming so I hate myself for being so petty. I want to tear my skin off and combust and be a whole new awesome person and fly away somewhere and start something. A new version of my life - life 2.0. I feel like I've spent years and years now just being lost. I'm tired.
*My mind suddenly became fixated on the need to move - for some reason, in my brain moving meant an amazing exciting life. Because that's TOTALLY how that works.
**And REALLY gross-sounding coughs.
There's this constant hum, always buzzing inside of me, this worry that time is running out by the second. That I'm not there yet, that there's still more work to do.
"What do you want?" my friend Andrew texted me. "Like, what would make you happy?"
Belonging somewhere. Contributing something. Feeling like I'm a part of something and that I matter or I make things better, and that I'm not wasting my potential and all these big things I hope for myself aren't a joke, because maybe I genuinely am special or something. The thought of never amounting to anything... it makes my skin crawl, it makes me sick. What a disappointment I turn out to be.
And then also, of course, I have tons of cool, awesome friends who I'm constantly doing cool, exciting things with, and we go over to each other's places and laugh and laugh because we're just. so. cool. Obviously.
"But, like, what specifically would you?"
Well, if I knew that I probably wouldn't be freaking out, would I? That's the problem. I wish I knew exactly where I supposed to go, because then I would just go there. I wouldn't be constantly tearing my hair out feeling like I'm not finding this place I'm supposed to be. I don't know what it is, but I'd like to actually spend my days doing something, anything that uses my intelligence and skill. I'd be way saner if I knew exactly what it was, because I'd know what I'm shooting for and I wouldn't feel so adrift. I don't know, writing maybe, working in TV or film or even writing about pop culture, or blogging or really just working in any field REMOTELY adjacent to ANYTHING I like or have to offer. At my job I'm constantly made to feel like an idiot, but I am, in fact, NOT an idiot. Maybe I'm not meant to be involved in TV. Maybe I'm going to pull a Single White Female on David Sedaris and write short essays. But I know I feel pointless and like I'm wasting the few good qualities that I have.
The future is so vast, so empty, so enormous that staring into it strikes fear into my heart. That hum starts, and I feel like I can't breathe because I'm just nowhere near the place I need to get to, and oh yeah, I don't even know where that place is so good lucking finding it. I'm trying to steer the ship in the right direction but it's like I don't even know what directions are. It feels so horrible, like I have this knot in my stomach all the time. Sometimes, I think it would be easy to just give up and stop fighting it, to stop thinking about my future and how ambiguous it is. I see people in my office who've settled comfortably into numbness*, and I think that might be nice - to stop thrashing against the waves of the water and just float and let the waves push you along.
*In a moment of weakness and daydreaming, I imagined taking a chair and smashing out the window of my 35th floor office, shouting goodbye forever to the office, and taking off flying into the horizon, the air rushing past my face. I said, smiling to my co-worker, "What if someone just blasted through one of the windows and flew away? Can you imagine? What would you even do?" She took a moment. "I'd pray." She said.
My roommate tried to tell me this is just part of being in your twenties, but I think that's a lie. Several of my co-workers are in their thirties, and if anything, i've learned that your thirties are just more twenties*, so we're all just fucked, aren't we? Is this it forever? Is all of life actually spent just scrambling around, grasping at anything that seems like happiness? If so, boy, was I lied to. My whole life I was led to believe that at some point you figure things out and you click and life settles in and things will be okay.
*The thirties are the sequel to the twenties, tentatively titled "Twenties 2: Electric Boogaloo", coming in spring of 2014 from TriStar Pictures.
But the click is a lie. And ninety percent of my anxiety is because I want that click, I'm waiting for that click, and I feel wrong - deeply wrong - for not feeling that click... the click of security, of certainty, of confidence, of whatever it is I feel like I'm missing and am searching for. Of knowledge in what I should be doing, in feeling whole and right and feeling direction. The click is never coming, I think.
I wish we didn't lie to our kids. I wish we didn't perpetuate this fantasy that you grow up and things get straight and you're happy and life is hunky-dory. Maybe if we were honest about that fact that life is confusing and scary and there's no way to guarantee anything for certain, crazy type-A people like me won't beat themselves into an emotional pulp for not feeling this fictional emotion they're supposed to be feeling. I wouldn't feel the hum of "you're not perfectly happy yet, you're not figured out yet, YOU BETTER GET MOVING BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS". If the click is indeed a lie, then nobody else is. We're all in this thing together, right? This big mess is all of ours.
And so that's, I think, why I wrote this bizarre, lunatic episode down. If anything, this weird stream-of-consciousness is my hope that everyone else is with me, that everyone else is just as lost or messy as I am. Maybe the click is real, and you're all perfect and fine and together like your Facebook status updates would lead me to believe.*
*Everyone's "MY LIFE IS AMAZING" posts do nothing to alleviate my feeling that I'm failing. Everyone, stop faking it. Seriously, you don't need to try so hard.
But I think - I hope - that the click isn't real. And if you feel that way, and you tell me that, and I know that it's fake, and that this sudden feeling of certainty and security and tranquility that I'm waiting for isn't coming... than maybe I can stop worrying about it. I can stop feeling bad that I don't have it, because maybe it's an impossible thing to have.
.
.
.
Get back to me, would you? Kthxbai.
Or maybe no one does and I'm an anxiety-ridden nutbag. One of the two, definitely. Either way, like Hannah Horvath before me, I'm going to write a blog that exposes all of my vulnerabilities to the entire internet.*
*Having said that, I'm shooting for something more light-hearted NEXT week, don't you fret. If this is your first time with us, go ahead and check out some of the early posts. I'm sometimes funny, I'm told.
For the last six months or so, I'd had a plan for the near future. Having a plan is fun, because it's a way to trick your brain into thinking you have any control over or sense of what the future holds. It keeps you from losing your mind the way you would if you spent every second going, "WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN? WHAT WILL BECOME OF ME?" I'd applied to a couple grad school programs in California, and been contacted by one of them to do an interview. This was certainly encouraging, though I wasn't putting too much stock into it. I don't even know that grad school is what I want to do - getting a creative degree doesn't even guarantee you success, and grad school is hella expensive. To top it all off, I'm not even certain the area of study is even what I want to do with my life.
But those concerns aside, the plan was the plan, and I was happy to go along with it and not feel completely lost in the world.* Fall: move to California. A plan, a plan. Last week, the aforementioned educational institution contacted me to let me know that they actually would not like me to come in for that interview and that also they would not like me to come in ever in any way shape or form. Yes, in addition to the interview being rescinded, I was informed I was not accepted into the program. The reason it stung is because I had been asked for the interview; I felt like a child who'd been offered candy, suddenly considered eating the candy and started to like the sound of it, then suddenly had the candy torn away. And then his parents got hit by a bus or something, I don't know. The point is, it didn't feel good. This all was on top of the generally unfun current state of my life - all work, no play. Like, seriously - I have no social life, I don't do anything creatively fulfilling... I just go to that damn office all day.
*Baseball and deluding ourselves - the two national pastimes.
So later on, I was half-watching the season premiere of Smash. Before you make fun of me, know that I have my reasons; firstly, as someone who enjoys being part of the critical conversation about TV, Smash is show that comes up a lot, and I like seeing things for myself so I can have my own opinion. Second, it's a show I only need to half-watch so I can do other, more important things while it's on.* At some point during the episode, some of the young characters went to a party at someone's Brooklyn apartment. I suddenly got sad. It was a bunch of young, creative people in a great city having fun** and enjoying themselves. I wanted that. I wanted to feel excited. "Maybe I should move to New York", I thought.
*By important things, I of course mean looking at stuff on the internet. Because I am nothing if not an exemplary couch potato.
**What is this thing you call fun?
I think it speaks to how deep my longing must be that a thin, barely interesting scene of young people sort of having mild fun from the TV show "Smash" was all it took to snap me. Clearly, I may have been fragile to begin with. Because with that tiny thought - "Maybe I should move to New York" - the plan (location, career path) I'd been sitting on for six months just evaporated. Gone in a second; like being outside in Chicago winter and suddenly having your clothes disintegrate - the protection is no more. The bottom fell out and I suddenly began to free fall. Hollowed out completely, I went to go lay down, my mind racing:
Oh (lowercase g) god - maybe that plan wasn't even the right plan. There are six million different plans... what do I do? If that wasn't the right plan, what is the right plan? What am I doing with my life? What should I do next? I need to move, I need to get out of here; I need a new start*. I feel like somewhere there's a fun, exciting, creatively fulfilling life and I'm missing it. I'm wasting my life away doing nothing worthwhile, and someday I'm going to be old and full of regret**. I think other people are living the life I want to live and I hate them, I'm just jealous and angry and sad, and that's not very becoming so I hate myself for being so petty. I want to tear my skin off and combust and be a whole new awesome person and fly away somewhere and start something. A new version of my life - life 2.0. I feel like I've spent years and years now just being lost. I'm tired.
*My mind suddenly became fixated on the need to move - for some reason, in my brain moving meant an amazing exciting life. Because that's TOTALLY how that works.
**And REALLY gross-sounding coughs.
There's this constant hum, always buzzing inside of me, this worry that time is running out by the second. That I'm not there yet, that there's still more work to do.
"What do you want?" my friend Andrew texted me. "Like, what would make you happy?"
Belonging somewhere. Contributing something. Feeling like I'm a part of something and that I matter or I make things better, and that I'm not wasting my potential and all these big things I hope for myself aren't a joke, because maybe I genuinely am special or something. The thought of never amounting to anything... it makes my skin crawl, it makes me sick. What a disappointment I turn out to be.
And then also, of course, I have tons of cool, awesome friends who I'm constantly doing cool, exciting things with, and we go over to each other's places and laugh and laugh because we're just. so. cool. Obviously.
"But, like, what specifically would you?"
Well, if I knew that I probably wouldn't be freaking out, would I? That's the problem. I wish I knew exactly where I supposed to go, because then I would just go there. I wouldn't be constantly tearing my hair out feeling like I'm not finding this place I'm supposed to be. I don't know what it is, but I'd like to actually spend my days doing something, anything that uses my intelligence and skill. I'd be way saner if I knew exactly what it was, because I'd know what I'm shooting for and I wouldn't feel so adrift. I don't know, writing maybe, working in TV or film or even writing about pop culture, or blogging or really just working in any field REMOTELY adjacent to ANYTHING I like or have to offer. At my job I'm constantly made to feel like an idiot, but I am, in fact, NOT an idiot. Maybe I'm not meant to be involved in TV. Maybe I'm going to pull a Single White Female on David Sedaris and write short essays. But I know I feel pointless and like I'm wasting the few good qualities that I have.
The future is so vast, so empty, so enormous that staring into it strikes fear into my heart. That hum starts, and I feel like I can't breathe because I'm just nowhere near the place I need to get to, and oh yeah, I don't even know where that place is so good lucking finding it. I'm trying to steer the ship in the right direction but it's like I don't even know what directions are. It feels so horrible, like I have this knot in my stomach all the time. Sometimes, I think it would be easy to just give up and stop fighting it, to stop thinking about my future and how ambiguous it is. I see people in my office who've settled comfortably into numbness*, and I think that might be nice - to stop thrashing against the waves of the water and just float and let the waves push you along.
*In a moment of weakness and daydreaming, I imagined taking a chair and smashing out the window of my 35th floor office, shouting goodbye forever to the office, and taking off flying into the horizon, the air rushing past my face. I said, smiling to my co-worker, "What if someone just blasted through one of the windows and flew away? Can you imagine? What would you even do?" She took a moment. "I'd pray." She said.
My roommate tried to tell me this is just part of being in your twenties, but I think that's a lie. Several of my co-workers are in their thirties, and if anything, i've learned that your thirties are just more twenties*, so we're all just fucked, aren't we? Is this it forever? Is all of life actually spent just scrambling around, grasping at anything that seems like happiness? If so, boy, was I lied to. My whole life I was led to believe that at some point you figure things out and you click and life settles in and things will be okay.
*The thirties are the sequel to the twenties, tentatively titled "Twenties 2: Electric Boogaloo", coming in spring of 2014 from TriStar Pictures.
But the click is a lie. And ninety percent of my anxiety is because I want that click, I'm waiting for that click, and I feel wrong - deeply wrong - for not feeling that click... the click of security, of certainty, of confidence, of whatever it is I feel like I'm missing and am searching for. Of knowledge in what I should be doing, in feeling whole and right and feeling direction. The click is never coming, I think.
I wish we didn't lie to our kids. I wish we didn't perpetuate this fantasy that you grow up and things get straight and you're happy and life is hunky-dory. Maybe if we were honest about that fact that life is confusing and scary and there's no way to guarantee anything for certain, crazy type-A people like me won't beat themselves into an emotional pulp for not feeling this fictional emotion they're supposed to be feeling. I wouldn't feel the hum of "you're not perfectly happy yet, you're not figured out yet, YOU BETTER GET MOVING BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS". If the click is indeed a lie, then nobody else is. We're all in this thing together, right? This big mess is all of ours.
And so that's, I think, why I wrote this bizarre, lunatic episode down. If anything, this weird stream-of-consciousness is my hope that everyone else is with me, that everyone else is just as lost or messy as I am. Maybe the click is real, and you're all perfect and fine and together like your Facebook status updates would lead me to believe.*
*Everyone's "MY LIFE IS AMAZING" posts do nothing to alleviate my feeling that I'm failing. Everyone, stop faking it. Seriously, you don't need to try so hard.
But I think - I hope - that the click isn't real. And if you feel that way, and you tell me that, and I know that it's fake, and that this sudden feeling of certainty and security and tranquility that I'm waiting for isn't coming... than maybe I can stop worrying about it. I can stop feeling bad that I don't have it, because maybe it's an impossible thing to have.
.
.
.
Get back to me, would you? Kthxbai.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
The Dark Side of the Force
So for a while now I've had nothing to say - I still don't. Let's see what happens when I try to write something while having zero ideas or energy, shall we? The zero energy you can thank my job for (I hate you so much, job) but the zero ideas might just be me. I'm so distracted and exhausted by work that my brain isn't spitting out anything remotely exciting or creative.
Another thing I can thank work for is the slow darkening of my soul.
It's hard to be my normal hilarrrrrrious self while the dark side of the force is nipping at my heels.
At first, when I began at my job and found that most (though not all) people were snappy, rude, and generally agitated and irritable, I wondered why; why would anyone start with agitated? How could you wake up that way? Wouldn't you wake up fairly neutral (with maybe a standard deviation of, say, two on the feelings scale) and then become agitated during the day?
Then it clicked: they're irritable because they work here. This job made them this way.
When the head honcho creates a toxic work space, it trickles down. Trickle-down economics may be horse shit, but trickle-down tension is most definitely a thing. It's displacement. It's the chain of screaming. You feel bad and you can't give it back to those above you, so you get pissy with others. Which is maybe why people at my work think it's okay to snap at me on first request. Listen, if you've asked me to do something ten times and I haven't done it, snap away.* But to just start by snapping? I can't fathom it.
*Though frankly, I would never snap at anyone the way people do at me, because I think rudeness is a disgusting, unnecessary pollution that makes the world a worse place and I have NO PATIENCE FOR IT.
Some people deal with the tension in other ways. A fifty-something man in my office literally started muttering swears under his breath and having a mini tantrum at his desk when I asked him questions about the job I was supposed to be doing. At my work, I've been given no training, so people kindly speak to me like I'm an idiot when I don't know how to do something that there's no earthly way I would know how to do. Sometimes it bothers me that people think I'm stupid, and sometimes I just go, I know I'm smart, I don't care what these assholes think.
The sad cloud of office life does other weird things to people. The same muttering swearing guy asked me a question about a client, and I told him that the client's family member had cancer. After a moment, he dejectedly said, "I'm probably going to get cancer. My dad had cancer. I'm probably going to get it." Stunned by the most depressing person I'd ever seen, I tried to connect with him by chuckling awkwardly and then telling him, "my dad's dad had cancer", having nothing else to really contribute. "Doesn't look good for you", he said. I quit trying to talk to him after that.
It's bad energy. It's smelly, smelly energy and it's bringing me to a smelly place. Now that I'm being forced (and yes, I do mean forced) to work three out of four Saturdays a month, the weeks blur by, no space for me to do anything of any import in my free time. I'm drained - I showed up at my friend's birthday last Saturday in a complete grumpy work haze - she took one look at me as I walked in the door and said, "okay, you need to start getting more excited like right now". I found myself having real, genuine anger at a waitress who brought me a Pepsi when I had clearly said Diet Pepsi. I got grumbly with my own friends for trying to make plans together when I had already made plans for my single precious day off - as if they could know that. Now I'm being rude to my own friends? My friends are all I've got, and if work is making it so I'm not even happy with them, what's the point of any of it? Not worth it, probably.
I'm becoming one of them. It's a disease, a zombie virus spreading and making us all grumpy angry people. The only reason I'm not completely desolate is because I know something that my bosses don't: I don't plan on being there past the fall. I mean, ideally I'm not there past next month, but finding a job, as I can easily recall, is not easy. But in the fall I know I'm gonna move happily the hell away from this job. So when my co-workers tell me, "after a couple years you get used to it", I laugh in my head. When I hear a co-worker tell me that he's soon approaching his five-year mark - even though he'd made a pact with himself that if he was there for five years he'd have to take a dive out the window - I know in my head there's no way I'll get trapped here. It won't be so bad.
I just have to fight the grumpy. I do not want to be the angry people I work with; I'm not that guy. Anyone who's read any of my blogs could tell you I'm nowhere near mature enough to be a stern office worker. I'm way too silly and weird. Gotta hold on to the silly. And the weird.
My insane nightmare boss - the one who says stuff like this - is constantly ranting and raving and yelling and degrading people, and I've taken to writing down every nutbag thing he says on my notepad, because I think someday it'll be useful to me. It's all gonna come out.
Fight the dark side. Fight the power.
Another thing I can thank work for is the slow darkening of my soul.
It's hard to be my normal hilarrrrrrious self while the dark side of the force is nipping at my heels.
At first, when I began at my job and found that most (though not all) people were snappy, rude, and generally agitated and irritable, I wondered why; why would anyone start with agitated? How could you wake up that way? Wouldn't you wake up fairly neutral (with maybe a standard deviation of, say, two on the feelings scale) and then become agitated during the day?
Then it clicked: they're irritable because they work here. This job made them this way.
When the head honcho creates a toxic work space, it trickles down. Trickle-down economics may be horse shit, but trickle-down tension is most definitely a thing. It's displacement. It's the chain of screaming. You feel bad and you can't give it back to those above you, so you get pissy with others. Which is maybe why people at my work think it's okay to snap at me on first request. Listen, if you've asked me to do something ten times and I haven't done it, snap away.* But to just start by snapping? I can't fathom it.
*Though frankly, I would never snap at anyone the way people do at me, because I think rudeness is a disgusting, unnecessary pollution that makes the world a worse place and I have NO PATIENCE FOR IT.
Some people deal with the tension in other ways. A fifty-something man in my office literally started muttering swears under his breath and having a mini tantrum at his desk when I asked him questions about the job I was supposed to be doing. At my work, I've been given no training, so people kindly speak to me like I'm an idiot when I don't know how to do something that there's no earthly way I would know how to do. Sometimes it bothers me that people think I'm stupid, and sometimes I just go, I know I'm smart, I don't care what these assholes think.
The sad cloud of office life does other weird things to people. The same muttering swearing guy asked me a question about a client, and I told him that the client's family member had cancer. After a moment, he dejectedly said, "I'm probably going to get cancer. My dad had cancer. I'm probably going to get it." Stunned by the most depressing person I'd ever seen, I tried to connect with him by chuckling awkwardly and then telling him, "my dad's dad had cancer", having nothing else to really contribute. "Doesn't look good for you", he said. I quit trying to talk to him after that.
It's bad energy. It's smelly, smelly energy and it's bringing me to a smelly place. Now that I'm being forced (and yes, I do mean forced) to work three out of four Saturdays a month, the weeks blur by, no space for me to do anything of any import in my free time. I'm drained - I showed up at my friend's birthday last Saturday in a complete grumpy work haze - she took one look at me as I walked in the door and said, "okay, you need to start getting more excited like right now". I found myself having real, genuine anger at a waitress who brought me a Pepsi when I had clearly said Diet Pepsi. I got grumbly with my own friends for trying to make plans together when I had already made plans for my single precious day off - as if they could know that. Now I'm being rude to my own friends? My friends are all I've got, and if work is making it so I'm not even happy with them, what's the point of any of it? Not worth it, probably.
I'm becoming one of them. It's a disease, a zombie virus spreading and making us all grumpy angry people. The only reason I'm not completely desolate is because I know something that my bosses don't: I don't plan on being there past the fall. I mean, ideally I'm not there past next month, but finding a job, as I can easily recall, is not easy. But in the fall I know I'm gonna move happily the hell away from this job. So when my co-workers tell me, "after a couple years you get used to it", I laugh in my head. When I hear a co-worker tell me that he's soon approaching his five-year mark - even though he'd made a pact with himself that if he was there for five years he'd have to take a dive out the window - I know in my head there's no way I'll get trapped here. It won't be so bad.
I just have to fight the grumpy. I do not want to be the angry people I work with; I'm not that guy. Anyone who's read any of my blogs could tell you I'm nowhere near mature enough to be a stern office worker. I'm way too silly and weird. Gotta hold on to the silly. And the weird.
My insane nightmare boss - the one who says stuff like this - is constantly ranting and raving and yelling and degrading people, and I've taken to writing down every nutbag thing he says on my notepad, because I think someday it'll be useful to me. It's all gonna come out.
Fight the dark side. Fight the power.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Skye
Sorry for the absence of comedy, you'll just have to deal with it
I chose her, sort of. I remember walking down the cement stairs with my dad and sister, down through the dank basement to the corner that was cordoned off by the puppy fence. The little yellow lab puppies were running everywhere, tearing newspapers apart and being generally rambunctious. They were beautiful, adorable... how were we supposed to pick one to take home? I wanted to take them all home.
Then, emerging from puppy chaos, she slowly wobbled up to me on her little puppy legs. I crouched down to say hello. It was done... she was mine.
Skye was a crazy girl. Our previous dog, Flint, had been trained so perfectly. Flint was a total spartan - always followed commands, always down for a solid, wholesome game of catch. Skye was not that. I think this may be in part due to the fact that while my father trained Flint, my family asked a twelve-year old boy (um: me) to take Skye to doggy training. I was not a) good at dog training or b) particularly interested in dog training, so while I could sort of blame myself for Skye's shoddy training, I think she just had a natural crazy streak in her. It was who she was - she was way too excitable, way too curious to be bogged down or tamed by instructions or orders. She had that glint in her eye.
It also helped that she was pretty freakin' cute.
Her energy never stopped being puppy-like. Growing up - and then again when I eventually came back home - I would walk Skye every day. It was good bonding time for us, but also it was an excuse for me to get a little exercise (for once). And honestly, year after year while walking her, people would stop me and ask, "how old is your puppy?" I'd laugh and tell them: 8, 9, 10... it happened even just a couple months ago - because her energy was boundless. She was so curious... even while walking the same trail we walked every day for years, she still found new and exciting things to smell. When one of the family would enter the house, she was immediately at the door, making that dog-crying squeaking noise with excitement*. "I know, I know" I'd say, petting her head. The squeaking would continue. "It's okay. Calm down." She'd make that same excited squeaking whenever I said her favorite phrase to her - "youwannagoforawalk?" - and then she'd start running around in circles because she could barely contain herself.
*This led my mom to start affectionately calling her "Squeaky Fromme" in a singsongy voice, which I never stopped finding creepy.
Anyone in the neighborhood would be able to tell you she had energy - because she would bark like a madwoman whenever anyone walked by our house. She never bit anyone in her whole life, and she was actually kind of a big softy when push came to shove - she was a big fraidy cat, scared of most other animals - but if someone was on our property, her bark was loud. So I always felt awful when a terrified delivery man would be standing in our driveway white-faced or trembling as a harmless labrador barked like she was a doberman.* "Sorry, she's really actually very sweet" I'd say as I dragged her inside.
*Someone I DIDN'T feel bad for was a ridiculously bitchy mother walking her children home from school who shouted at a high-school aged me, "Why don't you keep Cujo inside the house?" in an INCREDIBLY smarmy tone. It was not genuine concern - it was rude. Had I not been SO stunned by a grown woman acting like such a childish brat - I stood, aghast - I honestly would have given her the finger, or just been like, "Go fuck yourself!" which is pretty extreme for me, especially as a high-schooler speaking to an adult. But she was SO exceptionally and unnecessarily rude.
That was another thing about the lack of training: she never listened to me. When distracted by a person, another dog, a car, or anything that required barking at, I would shout her name over and over, but she never came running. She was single-minded in protecting the house. So I looked like a hapless child waving a piece of cheese around to get her to come inside. See, we caved. A treat brought her inside, and it became the routine. She wasn't stupid, that girl. I should note, however, that she was trained in some aspects: she brought my dad the paper every single morning, without fail, rain or shine.
So while her loudness aided in her reputation as crazy, the reputation came mostly from my early diagnosis that Skye was bi-polar. She vacillated so strongly and severely between SO EXCITED SO HAPPY WANT TO PLAY WANT TO KISS YOU I LOVE YOU to I'm sad I'm just gonna make my big sad eyes at you and slowly walk over to the corner. "I know", I'd say in a faux-pouty voice, "being a dog is a rough gig, I know." She was usually in one of those two moods, our little bi-polar girl.
But I understood her. I got her. I kind of find myself in those two settings too - laughing happy or super depressed - and maybe that makes us even more of soul siblings. We were both crazy. And we took care of each other. I'd rub her belly and behind her ears (her favorite spots) until she made that low, rumbly noise of content that's as close to a dog purring as I've ever heard. And plenty of times if I was sad or crying she'd come up to me and start licking my face. Once when I was full-on snotty ugly-crying - don't remember why - I looked at Skye and said, "you love me, right Skye?" and she proceeded to give me a tongue bath. She loved me. She knew what I needed. And I loved her right back.
I'd like to think we had a special relationship - when I left for college, I'd hoped she would miss me, at the very least because I was the boy who took her on walks. The first time I came home from college after being away, she ran around and squeaked crazier and louder than ever before. I knew she'd missed me. I'd missed her too. When I would come in from the city on the train and my mom would pick me up, Skye's head would be hanging out the car window. And many feet away, she'd see me coming in the distance and start freaking out. I was so touched that she recognized me.
When we found out she was sick, it was upsetting. She had been tired and scarily thin lately, and our walks had taken more out of her, I could tell. It was so frustrating because I could tell she was looking at me like, "I wanna go! I'm so excited! It's my dumb body that's being lame here." It wasn't fair. She could've lived for ten more years if longevity was determined by sharpness of mind, because she was still as present as ever. But despite the cancer diagnosis, she bounced back. The medications were working, she gained back a healthy amount of weight - like a phoenix, she was coming back for round two, our little fighter. Five months went by, good as new.
So when my mother texted me that I should probably come home and see her, I knew it had to be bad. I left straight from work to the train station - I didn't stop at the apartment to get anything. I went out to the suburbs, and when I got home, she wasn't at the door to greet me. This was odd. I found her laying in the dining room. Her energy was gone - she was tapped. I said hi and gave her some love - her tail wagged slowly a little bit, so I think she knew it was me. She tried to get up but she couldn't stand... to say this broke my heart would be an incredible understatement. She could barely move, so my mom and I fed her cheeseburger and then I grabbed my pillow and some blankets and laid with her there on the hardwood floor. I said some important stuff to her. She licked me a little. The next morning I got up early to take the train back to work in the city, and I kissed her and said goodbye. My parents told me they were going to take her the next day to get put to sleep, and as much as I wanted to hold on to her forever I knew it was the right thing to do... I mean, this wasn't the dog we knew. Her little legs couldn't even hold her up anymore. It wasn't right. And as horrible as that was, I try to make myself feel better by telling myself that this was only the last couple days that were so bad for her, and that 99% of her life was the good stuff. I'm not going to think of her being sick when I think of her - I'm going to think of the way her ears perked back and she cocked her head to the side when you said her name.
Besides, it turns out putting her to sleep wasn't even an issue, because that same day - the day I said goodbye to her and kissed her on her head - she passed away on her own. I don't know if the fact that it was the same day I said goodbye is a coincidence or not, but I'm just grateful I got to tell her how much I loved her and how thankful I was for everything she gave me.
And now I'm really sad. I'm just really sad.
If my memory is correct, to say "I chose her" is inaccurate. Because it was her who wandered out from the puppy parade and introduced herself to me. She made the choice.
I wonder if she saw that chubby little kid walk into her pen and thought, "He's mine. He's going to be my boy." I wonder if she could have known how much love and how much joy she would bring to him. How much better and more beautiful she'd make his little life. And how fiercely he would love her. He would love her so, so much.
I mean, probably not I guess. Puppies probably have no way of knowing that stuff.
But maybe they do.
I chose her, sort of. I remember walking down the cement stairs with my dad and sister, down through the dank basement to the corner that was cordoned off by the puppy fence. The little yellow lab puppies were running everywhere, tearing newspapers apart and being generally rambunctious. They were beautiful, adorable... how were we supposed to pick one to take home? I wanted to take them all home.
Then, emerging from puppy chaos, she slowly wobbled up to me on her little puppy legs. I crouched down to say hello. It was done... she was mine.
Skye was a crazy girl. Our previous dog, Flint, had been trained so perfectly. Flint was a total spartan - always followed commands, always down for a solid, wholesome game of catch. Skye was not that. I think this may be in part due to the fact that while my father trained Flint, my family asked a twelve-year old boy (um: me) to take Skye to doggy training. I was not a) good at dog training or b) particularly interested in dog training, so while I could sort of blame myself for Skye's shoddy training, I think she just had a natural crazy streak in her. It was who she was - she was way too excitable, way too curious to be bogged down or tamed by instructions or orders. She had that glint in her eye.
It also helped that she was pretty freakin' cute.
Her energy never stopped being puppy-like. Growing up - and then again when I eventually came back home - I would walk Skye every day. It was good bonding time for us, but also it was an excuse for me to get a little exercise (for once). And honestly, year after year while walking her, people would stop me and ask, "how old is your puppy?" I'd laugh and tell them: 8, 9, 10... it happened even just a couple months ago - because her energy was boundless. She was so curious... even while walking the same trail we walked every day for years, she still found new and exciting things to smell. When one of the family would enter the house, she was immediately at the door, making that dog-crying squeaking noise with excitement*. "I know, I know" I'd say, petting her head. The squeaking would continue. "It's okay. Calm down." She'd make that same excited squeaking whenever I said her favorite phrase to her - "youwannagoforawalk?" - and then she'd start running around in circles because she could barely contain herself.
*This led my mom to start affectionately calling her "Squeaky Fromme" in a singsongy voice, which I never stopped finding creepy.
Anyone in the neighborhood would be able to tell you she had energy - because she would bark like a madwoman whenever anyone walked by our house. She never bit anyone in her whole life, and she was actually kind of a big softy when push came to shove - she was a big fraidy cat, scared of most other animals - but if someone was on our property, her bark was loud. So I always felt awful when a terrified delivery man would be standing in our driveway white-faced or trembling as a harmless labrador barked like she was a doberman.* "Sorry, she's really actually very sweet" I'd say as I dragged her inside.
*Someone I DIDN'T feel bad for was a ridiculously bitchy mother walking her children home from school who shouted at a high-school aged me, "Why don't you keep Cujo inside the house?" in an INCREDIBLY smarmy tone. It was not genuine concern - it was rude. Had I not been SO stunned by a grown woman acting like such a childish brat - I stood, aghast - I honestly would have given her the finger, or just been like, "Go fuck yourself!" which is pretty extreme for me, especially as a high-schooler speaking to an adult. But she was SO exceptionally and unnecessarily rude.
That was another thing about the lack of training: she never listened to me. When distracted by a person, another dog, a car, or anything that required barking at, I would shout her name over and over, but she never came running. She was single-minded in protecting the house. So I looked like a hapless child waving a piece of cheese around to get her to come inside. See, we caved. A treat brought her inside, and it became the routine. She wasn't stupid, that girl. I should note, however, that she was trained in some aspects: she brought my dad the paper every single morning, without fail, rain or shine.
So while her loudness aided in her reputation as crazy, the reputation came mostly from my early diagnosis that Skye was bi-polar. She vacillated so strongly and severely between SO EXCITED SO HAPPY WANT TO PLAY WANT TO KISS YOU I LOVE YOU to I'm sad I'm just gonna make my big sad eyes at you and slowly walk over to the corner. "I know", I'd say in a faux-pouty voice, "being a dog is a rough gig, I know." She was usually in one of those two moods, our little bi-polar girl.
But I understood her. I got her. I kind of find myself in those two settings too - laughing happy or super depressed - and maybe that makes us even more of soul siblings. We were both crazy. And we took care of each other. I'd rub her belly and behind her ears (her favorite spots) until she made that low, rumbly noise of content that's as close to a dog purring as I've ever heard. And plenty of times if I was sad or crying she'd come up to me and start licking my face. Once when I was full-on snotty ugly-crying - don't remember why - I looked at Skye and said, "you love me, right Skye?" and she proceeded to give me a tongue bath. She loved me. She knew what I needed. And I loved her right back.
I'd like to think we had a special relationship - when I left for college, I'd hoped she would miss me, at the very least because I was the boy who took her on walks. The first time I came home from college after being away, she ran around and squeaked crazier and louder than ever before. I knew she'd missed me. I'd missed her too. When I would come in from the city on the train and my mom would pick me up, Skye's head would be hanging out the car window. And many feet away, she'd see me coming in the distance and start freaking out. I was so touched that she recognized me.
When we found out she was sick, it was upsetting. She had been tired and scarily thin lately, and our walks had taken more out of her, I could tell. It was so frustrating because I could tell she was looking at me like, "I wanna go! I'm so excited! It's my dumb body that's being lame here." It wasn't fair. She could've lived for ten more years if longevity was determined by sharpness of mind, because she was still as present as ever. But despite the cancer diagnosis, she bounced back. The medications were working, she gained back a healthy amount of weight - like a phoenix, she was coming back for round two, our little fighter. Five months went by, good as new.
So when my mother texted me that I should probably come home and see her, I knew it had to be bad. I left straight from work to the train station - I didn't stop at the apartment to get anything. I went out to the suburbs, and when I got home, she wasn't at the door to greet me. This was odd. I found her laying in the dining room. Her energy was gone - she was tapped. I said hi and gave her some love - her tail wagged slowly a little bit, so I think she knew it was me. She tried to get up but she couldn't stand... to say this broke my heart would be an incredible understatement. She could barely move, so my mom and I fed her cheeseburger and then I grabbed my pillow and some blankets and laid with her there on the hardwood floor. I said some important stuff to her. She licked me a little. The next morning I got up early to take the train back to work in the city, and I kissed her and said goodbye. My parents told me they were going to take her the next day to get put to sleep, and as much as I wanted to hold on to her forever I knew it was the right thing to do... I mean, this wasn't the dog we knew. Her little legs couldn't even hold her up anymore. It wasn't right. And as horrible as that was, I try to make myself feel better by telling myself that this was only the last couple days that were so bad for her, and that 99% of her life was the good stuff. I'm not going to think of her being sick when I think of her - I'm going to think of the way her ears perked back and she cocked her head to the side when you said her name.
Besides, it turns out putting her to sleep wasn't even an issue, because that same day - the day I said goodbye to her and kissed her on her head - she passed away on her own. I don't know if the fact that it was the same day I said goodbye is a coincidence or not, but I'm just grateful I got to tell her how much I loved her and how thankful I was for everything she gave me.
And now I'm really sad. I'm just really sad.
If my memory is correct, to say "I chose her" is inaccurate. Because it was her who wandered out from the puppy parade and introduced herself to me. She made the choice.
I wonder if she saw that chubby little kid walk into her pen and thought, "He's mine. He's going to be my boy." I wonder if she could have known how much love and how much joy she would bring to him. How much better and more beautiful she'd make his little life. And how fiercely he would love her. He would love her so, so much.
I mean, probably not I guess. Puppies probably have no way of knowing that stuff.
But maybe they do.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Scar Wars
I've been fighting the urge to write about my nightmare boss or work at all in any specific detail - despite the fact that it's great material, rife with potential, and would probably make for very readable blog posts, I live in fear that I'll get called into the boss's office, where he or she will tell me that they've found my blog and know what I've been saying about them. The boss then proceeds to start striking me with a belt. Or maybe just yells at me, I'm not sure, definitely one of the two. And despite the fact that at the end of the day it actually doesn't really matter what the boss thinks of me - it's just a job, something I'll do in between graduating and something more fulfilling, this job is not my life - being yelled at and shamed isn't fun for me, I've learned. So I'm gonna hold my tongue, for now. Besides, I'm already sure that a character with an eerily similar name to my boss will be an excellent addition to my screenplay.
It's a weird thing - at first when I started writing, I was worried there'd be nothing to write about because my life was so boring and uneventful... now there are events (see: the withering quote above) but I find myself holding back from writing about them. Clearly, there's no way to win - grass is always greener, yada yada yada.
So today as I stared into the mirror at myself worrying about the wrinkles in my forehead, I took a moment to instead fixate on something else - the scar on my upper lip. I had recently had a conversation with my friend Andrew that went like this:
*I got this word from my roommate. We've around each other so much that we've begun using each other's phrases - for example, I now have the word 'steeze' in my personal lexicon, and my roommate now punctuates sentences by going "ALL RIGHT!" and bouncing her shoulders up and down. It's a fair-trade off.
The scar I have on my upper lip - honestly, I can't quite remember how I got it, but I think it was from something boring, like cutting myself shaving. Yet it's fairly pronounced and severe for just being a razor accident... so I'd like to imagine that I have an alternate identity while sleepwalking, or had my memories deleted by enemy spies, or at least got into a bar fight or something. But no matter the scenario, the scar definitely resulted from a really intricate, swash-buckling sword fight. I was mostly winning but my enemy got one good nick in - right on my lip, so I'd never be able to look in a mirror without remembering the battle.* I'm pretty sure about that.
*How ironic for him that I HAVE forgotten the battle, though. A shame, really.
I have another tiny scar on/under my bottom lip that I only noticed while staring in the mirror searching for scars so I could write this. I've literally never seen it before, but it's literally in the shape of a tiny lightning bolt, right out of Harry Potter. Which is awesome. I shall attribute this scar to the same sword fight as the other - he probably got both lips with a single swipe.
I also have two light scratches on my cheek - they're barely deep at all so most of the time they can't be seen - only in certain light or if I find them and point them out would you probably notice at all. It's as if just a couple layers of skin got lazered off or something... so the two scratches and the accompanying divot an inch below them came from when I was five or six... our family had a dog, Smokey, who had been with my father since college. He was in his late teens, which is real freakin' old for a dog. Apparently as a four or five year old I was just trying to play with him, and accidentally gave his tail a tug? And sweet, old Smokey - who never before nor ever after bit anyone - took a chunk out of my face. From what I gather, I probably deserved it, both for the tugging of the tail and also for the frivolous flaunting of my youth in front of a decidedly elderly dog.
I have a tiny scar under my ear, on my neck - I once had a super sexy cyst, and once I confirmed to my immediate relief that it wasn't cancer, made an appointment to have it removed. When the doctor told me the surgery would leave "only a tiny scar [...] it'll be completely cosmetic", I was elated to get to tell everyone I was having cosmetic surgery, cause - come on - that's just funny.*
*While I was under I also had a nose job, an eyebrows lift, full botox, a tummy tuck, abdominal etching, and butt implants. Cause, y'know, I live by the Johnny Tsunami mentality - go big or go home.
My gnarliest scar of all is underneath my chin - a huge circle with a line coming off it - kind of in the shape of a ladle, or a miniature big dipper.* You might not notice it since it's conveniently tucked away in a place where people normally can't see, and even then sometimes it doesn't stand out - except if I have stubble, in which case there's just a giant patch missing.** When I was six or so, I opened the closet door of the guest bedroom - a room that would later become my sister's once she went and got born. The door smacked me as it opened, but it didn't hurt anymore that bumping your elbow or something - seconds later I'd forgotten. After hanging out in the guest room for a little bit - it had a TV, you see - I went into the bathroom. In the mirror, I saw myself covered in red paint. "That's weird", I thought. Then it clicked - it was blood, everywhere - coming down from my chin and all over my shirt. Then suddenly - THROBBING PAIN. PAIN, PAIN, PAIN. It was like my brain fell asleep at the wheel, saw that I was bleeding at the same time as I did, and then was like, "crap, hit the pain switch! Crank it up to ten!" And then I began screaming.
*A regular sized dipper?
**I'm going to go ahead and pretend this is a 'look'.
My parents rushed in - my mom, horrified and in the throes of a stage-ten panic, immediately left to go get Slurpees. People have different ways of dealing with stress, okay. My dad, who is a podiatrist, immediately splayed me out on the countertop, grabbed his med bag, and sewed me up himself, right there in our house. When asked about the scar and the fact that it's so enormous, my dad shrugs, holds his hands up in the air and with a guilty smile and simply says, "I'm not a face doctor!"
The point is, my face is busted. I was joking about the cosmetic surgery before but maybe it's time to invest and fix this puppy up! Frankly, I'm amazed I wrote any of this out at all - I don't know if it ended up being readable in any way but I'm exhausted all the time now from work so LEAVE ME ALONE!
I mean... thank you as always for reading.
It's a weird thing - at first when I started writing, I was worried there'd be nothing to write about because my life was so boring and uneventful... now there are events (see: the withering quote above) but I find myself holding back from writing about them. Clearly, there's no way to win - grass is always greener, yada yada yada.
So today as I stared into the mirror at myself worrying about the wrinkles in my forehead, I took a moment to instead fixate on something else - the scar on my upper lip. I had recently had a conversation with my friend Andrew that went like this:
Andrew: That scar over your lip is actually kind of cool.
Me: You wanna know how I got this scar? [...] Voldemort.I then proceeded to laugh hysterically, both because I had responded with that so immediately (I'M SO CLEVER) but also because I'd always fancied myself as having a bit of a Harry Potter steeze.* My best friend as a child was a wisecracking ginger boy, and with my smarty-pantsness and dark hair, I always thought we were just so Ron and Harry. (Though we all know that, in fact, I was Neville Longbottom. Mwop mwop.) I wanted to get into crazy exciting adventures, though I'm pretty sure the wildest we got was ding-dong-ditching. Anyways, I started thinking about the scars I have on my face. Are there stories worth telling there? I'm not entirely sure, but talking about those will keep me from talking about work. And I like the idea of walking through your scars... I pictured a weathered old biker in a bar going through each and every last one of his over a pint, the stories getting progressively more wild with each tale.
*I got this word from my roommate. We've around each other so much that we've begun using each other's phrases - for example, I now have the word 'steeze' in my personal lexicon, and my roommate now punctuates sentences by going "ALL RIGHT!" and bouncing her shoulders up and down. It's a fair-trade off.
The scar I have on my upper lip - honestly, I can't quite remember how I got it, but I think it was from something boring, like cutting myself shaving. Yet it's fairly pronounced and severe for just being a razor accident... so I'd like to imagine that I have an alternate identity while sleepwalking, or had my memories deleted by enemy spies, or at least got into a bar fight or something. But no matter the scenario, the scar definitely resulted from a really intricate, swash-buckling sword fight. I was mostly winning but my enemy got one good nick in - right on my lip, so I'd never be able to look in a mirror without remembering the battle.* I'm pretty sure about that.
*How ironic for him that I HAVE forgotten the battle, though. A shame, really.
I have another tiny scar on/under my bottom lip that I only noticed while staring in the mirror searching for scars so I could write this. I've literally never seen it before, but it's literally in the shape of a tiny lightning bolt, right out of Harry Potter. Which is awesome. I shall attribute this scar to the same sword fight as the other - he probably got both lips with a single swipe.
I also have two light scratches on my cheek - they're barely deep at all so most of the time they can't be seen - only in certain light or if I find them and point them out would you probably notice at all. It's as if just a couple layers of skin got lazered off or something... so the two scratches and the accompanying divot an inch below them came from when I was five or six... our family had a dog, Smokey, who had been with my father since college. He was in his late teens, which is real freakin' old for a dog. Apparently as a four or five year old I was just trying to play with him, and accidentally gave his tail a tug? And sweet, old Smokey - who never before nor ever after bit anyone - took a chunk out of my face. From what I gather, I probably deserved it, both for the tugging of the tail and also for the frivolous flaunting of my youth in front of a decidedly elderly dog.
I have a tiny scar under my ear, on my neck - I once had a super sexy cyst, and once I confirmed to my immediate relief that it wasn't cancer, made an appointment to have it removed. When the doctor told me the surgery would leave "only a tiny scar [...] it'll be completely cosmetic", I was elated to get to tell everyone I was having cosmetic surgery, cause - come on - that's just funny.*
*While I was under I also had a nose job, an eyebrows lift, full botox, a tummy tuck, abdominal etching, and butt implants. Cause, y'know, I live by the Johnny Tsunami mentality - go big or go home.
My gnarliest scar of all is underneath my chin - a huge circle with a line coming off it - kind of in the shape of a ladle, or a miniature big dipper.* You might not notice it since it's conveniently tucked away in a place where people normally can't see, and even then sometimes it doesn't stand out - except if I have stubble, in which case there's just a giant patch missing.** When I was six or so, I opened the closet door of the guest bedroom - a room that would later become my sister's once she went and got born. The door smacked me as it opened, but it didn't hurt anymore that bumping your elbow or something - seconds later I'd forgotten. After hanging out in the guest room for a little bit - it had a TV, you see - I went into the bathroom. In the mirror, I saw myself covered in red paint. "That's weird", I thought. Then it clicked - it was blood, everywhere - coming down from my chin and all over my shirt. Then suddenly - THROBBING PAIN. PAIN, PAIN, PAIN. It was like my brain fell asleep at the wheel, saw that I was bleeding at the same time as I did, and then was like, "crap, hit the pain switch! Crank it up to ten!" And then I began screaming.
*A regular sized dipper?
**I'm going to go ahead and pretend this is a 'look'.
My parents rushed in - my mom, horrified and in the throes of a stage-ten panic, immediately left to go get Slurpees. People have different ways of dealing with stress, okay. My dad, who is a podiatrist, immediately splayed me out on the countertop, grabbed his med bag, and sewed me up himself, right there in our house. When asked about the scar and the fact that it's so enormous, my dad shrugs, holds his hands up in the air and with a guilty smile and simply says, "I'm not a face doctor!"
The point is, my face is busted. I was joking about the cosmetic surgery before but maybe it's time to invest and fix this puppy up! Frankly, I'm amazed I wrote any of this out at all - I don't know if it ended up being readable in any way but I'm exhausted all the time now from work so LEAVE ME ALONE!
I mean... thank you as always for reading.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Nine to Five
We're gonna get a little serious again this week - but sorry, I need to get some things off my chest:
I've now been employed for over half a month, and BOY am I exhausted.
Pause for laughs.
The sad and true fact is I am genuinely exhausted. Aaaaaaand I might hate my job. Now I know what you're thinking - "Alex, didn't you spend a great deal of time complaining about your lack of job? No matter where you are, you'll find something to be unhappy about. Is it possible that you are just an unwavering grump who will never EVER be happy under any circumstances? "
...
Um. It's possible. I hope that's not actually true, because being permanently unhappy is just a terrible trait to have from an evolutionary standpoint.
But I don't think I'm incredibly off-base in that when I was searching for a job I was also searching for some small kind of fulfillment - I thought having a job would make me feel less adrift - and that's not what I'll be getting with my current job. Which, for the record, I'm very grateful for - should anyone work-related stumble on this I'd absolutely hate for them to be offended. I needed a job, and it's not my workplace's fault that I quickly discovered the type of work doesn't stimulate me in any way whosoever. It works for some people - I'm just not one of those people. There's no creativity anywhere - not a spark, not a drop. And it's not as though I thought there would be... but only after actually working do I realize how the days fly by and I feel like I've done nothing that I care about. And that's sorta the death of me.
I have this horrible nightmare fear of me working there the rest of my life, droning on and on forever. In a previous blog I had an awful precognition:
Like I said, jobs like this work for some people. I look around at the people I work with; I barely know any of them, a couple I've been introduced to. A lot of people are young-ish, and as they go about their work and mention how long they've had the job, I wonder - did they have some burning, deep passion once? Did they want something more exciting, something with imagination? Was that passion snuffed out over time? Will that happen to me? Or am I just a different breed than they are? I overheard one guy talking in between work banter about something funny that happened to him in college, and I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach - this guy had been in college not too long ago... and now, here he was, no longer speaking like a college student but instead an incredibly dull old person. Working in an office is watching young people become old right before your very eyes.
I feel like whatever it is that makes young people old, whatever it is that snuff's out people's fires - I think it's creeping up on me. I feel like it's wrapping its hands around my neck as I writhe and thrash about, trying to throw it off. I literally had to say to someone the other day, "the copier is out of toner". What's happening to me? Who am I? I fight it. I never let myself think of work as anything other than temporary... because maybe not doing that is how it gets you. My tasks at work are fairly menial, and so I'm very fortunate that I am, for the time being, allowed to listen to my iPod while I do those tasks. As I stand at the scanner, I bob my head a little to the beat. As I walk down the rows of desktops, I imagine bursting out into song, singing along to my music, then pushing all the computers off the desks and jumping atop one and dancing. I dance and dance, defiant - unleashing the joy that I have no place for all week at work and have accordingly been saving up for some time. The others in the office stare, stunned. They don't understand what I'm doing.
It's worth noting, of course, that I barely know these people - they could be incredibly vibrant and passionate outside of the office. I'm certainly different at work than I am at home. But I have a sinking suspicion I feel differently than a lot of them. I think a lot of them think this is a perfect job for them. And, for the record, if I am a different breed, I definitely don't think I'm a better breed. I respect everyone in there - I wish I could work like that and be satisfied. Life would be so much easier - I'd already have figured it all out. I'd be happy.
But does this make me a privileged asshole? Shouldn't I just shut up and be happy with the work? Maybe yes.
But I'm not. And I can't really change how I feel, as much as my life would be easier if I could. And remember my vision of the future? It's now been updated: I flash-forward and hear people talking - "Remember Alex? What ever happened to him? He was kinda funny and smart and creative? Oh, he never amounted to anything. I think he works in some office somewhere." And it makes me sick to my stomach... the idea that I never become anything. That all my potential just fizzles away as others soar.
It's gonna keep me up at night. So I need to do something - because my weeks are going by with nothing of note, nothing to look forward to, nothing to be excited about. I'm thinking maybe I'm gonna write a full-length screenplay; in the past I've written a short screenplay and a television pilot, but maybe I should take on a big project... because I need something to do in my life that makes me feel at all good or intelligent or fun or creative or smart or witty or special or like I have something to contribute. Without that something, I feel like my soul is shriveling up like a raisin. And not even a chocolate-covered raisin - just a wrinkly, chewy little raisin.
Something besides this blog, of course.
I've now been employed for over half a month, and BOY am I exhausted.
Pause for laughs.
The sad and true fact is I am genuinely exhausted. Aaaaaaand I might hate my job. Now I know what you're thinking - "Alex, didn't you spend a great deal of time complaining about your lack of job? No matter where you are, you'll find something to be unhappy about. Is it possible that you are just an unwavering grump who will never EVER be happy under any circumstances? "
...
Um. It's possible. I hope that's not actually true, because being permanently unhappy is just a terrible trait to have from an evolutionary standpoint.
But I don't think I'm incredibly off-base in that when I was searching for a job I was also searching for some small kind of fulfillment - I thought having a job would make me feel less adrift - and that's not what I'll be getting with my current job. Which, for the record, I'm very grateful for - should anyone work-related stumble on this I'd absolutely hate for them to be offended. I needed a job, and it's not my workplace's fault that I quickly discovered the type of work doesn't stimulate me in any way whosoever. It works for some people - I'm just not one of those people. There's no creativity anywhere - not a spark, not a drop. And it's not as though I thought there would be... but only after actually working do I realize how the days fly by and I feel like I've done nothing that I care about. And that's sorta the death of me.
I have this horrible nightmare fear of me working there the rest of my life, droning on and on forever. In a previous blog I had an awful precognition:
I just suddenly felt a part of an endless monotonous drift towards a life with no excitement. I had a vision of the future, That's So Raven-style, only instead of seeing myself falling into a cake or dressed up as old lady like Raven usually does, I saw myself not working or worse, working at a job that I cared noting about and fulfilled me in no way, coming home every night and watching TV, nothing gratifying, nothing to look forward to, and nothing to feel good about until the day I die.And while certainly overdramatic, it's coming true just a little bit. I get up at seven so I can be at work at 8:30, by the time I get home it's six PM - I eat dinner, watch some TV and then I need to get to bed so I can get up early for work the next morning. Where does the time go? My work certainly doesn't come home with me, I don't think about it once I leave, so looking back my week seems like I did nothing. I barely have any time to think, and on the weekends I'm so tired that I don't want to go out or anything; I'm so happy that I get to stay home. The week passes and I think, "What was the point? What did I do? What is any of this for if I'm not even working towards anything?"
Like I said, jobs like this work for some people. I look around at the people I work with; I barely know any of them, a couple I've been introduced to. A lot of people are young-ish, and as they go about their work and mention how long they've had the job, I wonder - did they have some burning, deep passion once? Did they want something more exciting, something with imagination? Was that passion snuffed out over time? Will that happen to me? Or am I just a different breed than they are? I overheard one guy talking in between work banter about something funny that happened to him in college, and I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach - this guy had been in college not too long ago... and now, here he was, no longer speaking like a college student but instead an incredibly dull old person. Working in an office is watching young people become old right before your very eyes.
I feel like whatever it is that makes young people old, whatever it is that snuff's out people's fires - I think it's creeping up on me. I feel like it's wrapping its hands around my neck as I writhe and thrash about, trying to throw it off. I literally had to say to someone the other day, "the copier is out of toner". What's happening to me? Who am I? I fight it. I never let myself think of work as anything other than temporary... because maybe not doing that is how it gets you. My tasks at work are fairly menial, and so I'm very fortunate that I am, for the time being, allowed to listen to my iPod while I do those tasks. As I stand at the scanner, I bob my head a little to the beat. As I walk down the rows of desktops, I imagine bursting out into song, singing along to my music, then pushing all the computers off the desks and jumping atop one and dancing. I dance and dance, defiant - unleashing the joy that I have no place for all week at work and have accordingly been saving up for some time. The others in the office stare, stunned. They don't understand what I'm doing.
It's worth noting, of course, that I barely know these people - they could be incredibly vibrant and passionate outside of the office. I'm certainly different at work than I am at home. But I have a sinking suspicion I feel differently than a lot of them. I think a lot of them think this is a perfect job for them. And, for the record, if I am a different breed, I definitely don't think I'm a better breed. I respect everyone in there - I wish I could work like that and be satisfied. Life would be so much easier - I'd already have figured it all out. I'd be happy.
But does this make me a privileged asshole? Shouldn't I just shut up and be happy with the work? Maybe yes.
But I'm not. And I can't really change how I feel, as much as my life would be easier if I could. And remember my vision of the future? It's now been updated: I flash-forward and hear people talking - "Remember Alex? What ever happened to him? He was kinda funny and smart and creative? Oh, he never amounted to anything. I think he works in some office somewhere." And it makes me sick to my stomach... the idea that I never become anything. That all my potential just fizzles away as others soar.
It's gonna keep me up at night. So I need to do something - because my weeks are going by with nothing of note, nothing to look forward to, nothing to be excited about. I'm thinking maybe I'm gonna write a full-length screenplay; in the past I've written a short screenplay and a television pilot, but maybe I should take on a big project... because I need something to do in my life that makes me feel at all good or intelligent or fun or creative or smart or witty or special or like I have something to contribute. Without that something, I feel like my soul is shriveling up like a raisin. And not even a chocolate-covered raisin - just a wrinkly, chewy little raisin.
Something besides this blog, of course.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
A Chrismukkah Carol
Being a Jew on Christmas normally meant being home with the family for a relatively quiet day, but not this year. Alex's entire family had gone on vacation to the Dominican Republic without him. For Alex had acquired a nasty ailment - a job - and like, can't just leave whenever he wants to or something, I don't know. Anyway, Alex was alone in his family home, taking care of his beloved dog, Skye, while his family basked in the sunny, warm Dominican air.
Even for someone with no attachment to the holiday itself, the prospect of being alone on Christmas was still depressing. The thought of how quiet his house would be while everyone else's houses were filled with laughter was not comforting in the least. Every year this happened - since he'd been a child, Alex had always been confused, then later angered, by the way the world disappeared and shut down every year for two days in December. Nobody could ever hang out, and winter break was supposed to be all about hanging out. It's a time for family and friends, only on the 24th and the 25th no one remembered their friends because they were too busy appreciating their families, ugh.
It was Christmas Eve, and Alex had been alone in his empty house for several days getting restless. Just before bed, he let the dog out one final time, closed the garage, and went to lock the front door. "Christmas is awful!" Alex shouted out the outside. "JUST FOR THE RECORD!" He slammed the door, turned the lock, and went to bed. He'd been sleeping for an hour or so when he was jostled awake by Skye pawing his arm. "Skye", he mumbled, "stoppppppp". She climbed over him and starting licking his face. "C'mon Skye, cut it outttttt" he grumbled. "Listen", said Skye, "I have to tell you something."
"What? What are you talking about?" Alex asked her. "I'm supposed to tell you something", she whispered. Alex opened his eyes, looking at his yellow labrador sister. "Oh my god, I'm dreaming. Okay, for a second I thought you were talking to me." "I was! I was I was!" She said excitedly. "I know, but I'm in a dream. I thought I was going insane." "Listen, here's what I'm supposed to tell you: tonight you're gonna be visited by three ghosts-" Alex rolled over to the bedside table and grabbed the open box of Cheez-its he'd left there. "You wanna treat?" Alex asked in his high voice he used exclusively when talking to Skye. Skye's ears perked up. "OH MY GOD YES, YES I DO!" She shouted. Alex got out of bed, holding a single Cheez-it above her face and walking out of the bedroom. "PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE" she begged, following him. He hurled the Cheez-it across the hallway - she took off bounding after it, and Alex went back into his room and closed the door. He climbed back under the blissfully warm covers, pulled a pillow over his head, and drifted back to sleep.
"TIME TO GET UP!" A chirpy voice shouted. Alex screamed and fell out of bed, running to the light and flipping it on as fast as he could. In front of him was a thirtysomething blonde woman, dressed in casual business attire with her hair in tight bun and a holding clipboard. "WHO ARE YOU?! Get out of here!" He shouted, heart still pounding. "I'm the ghost of Christmas past!" She smiled. "I don't celebrate Christmas. I'm Jewish." Her smile fell. "What? Are you sure?" "Yeah", he said tersely. "Both parents?" "Yes, both parents." he rolled his eyes - that question annoyed him like crazy. "And you really don't celebrate Christmas?" "NO", he shouted - he hated that question most of all, "WHY would I celebrate Christmas?" The ghost frowned and looked down at her clipboard. "Well... listen, I don't really know how we had this mix-up, but I have to do my job. Take my hand." "Do I have a choice?" "NOPE!"
And suddenly, they were flying through the cold night air, wisps of clouds around them. Alex held on to her hand as tightly as he could, and also wished he'd grabbed a sweater, because it was freezing. When they touched down in a parking lot, it was daytime. "Where are we?" Alex asked. The ghost pointed ahead, "look!" he turned and saw - "CENTURY 16 MOVIE THEATER". Alex smiled. "Are we going to a movie? I have so many I need to see before the Oscars..." suddenly he was distracted by the sight of his own family - himself included - walking out of the parking lot and towards the theater doors. "Your family is going to see a movie on Christmas?" The ghost asked, seeming partly disappointed and partly confused. "We're. Jewish." He said through gritted teeth. Brow furrowed, the ghost said, "take a look at your past; here your family is... goingtothemovies" she rushed through that last bit as fast as she could. "does this fill you with memories of happy childhood Christmases times?" "Childhood, what? No - when is this, 2008?" "Are you sure you don't celebrate Christmas??" the ghost said, her panicky voice increasing in pitch as she flipped through her clipboard, getting redder and redder in the face with each passing moment. Alex ran up to the theater window and looked at the movie posters. "I remember - we saw Marley and Me, BIG mistake. It was like - just sobbing hysterically. That dog looks exactly like our dog." He ran inside and over to his family in the ticket line. "Mom!" He tapped her on the shoulder. "Mom, don't see Marley and Me, it's gonna make everyone really sad. Mom? MOM?" "She can't hear you." The ghost said. "They don't see us. Time to move on."
At that moment, an incredibly obese man with long curly hair pulled up next to them in a mobility scooter. "I've got it from here", he said, grabbing a handful of Doritos out the scooter's basket and stuffing them in his mouth. "Oh, thank god" said the ghost of Christmas past, "I don't know what to do with this one." She said, pointing her thumb at Alex. "Who are you?" asked Alex. "The ghost of Christmas present! Now get in!" Suddenly there was a second scooter. "I can walk-" "Get in the scooter." Alex hopped aboard his scooter and followed the second ghost, who had already started driving away. "Look at what everyone is doing for Christmas right now!" Suddenly the two arrived in an unfamiliar living room. "Do you know this girl?" the ghost asked, motioning to a young girl opening Christmas presents. "Um, maybe? I think she's one of my sister's friends - I can't keep them straight, there's like a million different girls I have to drive to soccer practice-" the girl began screaming, hurling her new iPad Mini across the room and yelling that it wasn't what she wanted. "See, this girl is miserable on her Christmas." The ghost raised an eyebrow at Alex. "And that's MY fault?" Alex shouted as his scooter lurched forward, moving on its own. "Let's keep going..." the ghost beckoned and they drove into another room. A boy was kneeling in front of the toilet, vomiting profusely. Alex quickly turned his head away from the sight. "I know him, that's my friend Andrew..." "Yes, and he ate too much food for his Christmas dinner", said the ghost, taking a swig from an energy drink, "or perhaps he got food poisoning." Alex, unable to watch more upchucking, hit the gas on his scooter, and was suddenly in someone's dining room. A family sat at the table, hurling insults at each other, screaming over one another, slurring their words. "These are friends of my parents... why are they so drunk?" "Because it's Christmas", the ghost said before burping. "Can I go home now? This is all really upsetting. Christmas sucks." "Not until you hang out with me." Said a new voice.
Alex, suddenly outdoors, turned and saw a rail-thin, incredibly pale boy. He was wearing a black hoodie, skinny jeans, and couldn't have been older than sixteen. He had dyed black hair with a single blue streak that hung over his eyes and was leaning up against a Mini Cooper. "Why? Does my Christmas future involve a bunch of emo parties?" Alex said, horrified. "SHUTUP." Said the ghost of Christmas yet to come. "Let's go." Alex walked up to the passenger seat, but the ghost appeared directly in front of him, blocking the door. "You have to drive, I only have my permit." "Seriously?" asked Alex. The ghost didn't budge, so Alex walked around to the driver's side door and got in. "Where to?" Suddenly the car was driving on its own, so Alex took his hands off the wheel and waited until it came to a stop - at a funeral home. "Oh... this is really creepy, I don't want to do this." Alex said. "We have to", said the ghost, flipping his hair off his face. Alex got out of the car and entered the building, ghost at his side. The place was full of people wearing black and crying, holding each other. "Look there", said the ghost, pointing down a long hallway. Alex could see a large photo of someone. "You have to go see." "Please", Alex begged, "this is gross, I don't want to know when I'm going to die." "You don't have a choice." The ghost exhaled towards Alex, and the wind sent Alex flying down the hallway. "NO!" Alex yelled, getting closer to the photo. "PLEASE, NO!" but it was too late - he was at the photo. The ghost was again standing next to him. "Look", the ghost ordered. Alex turned his head to see - it was a framed school photo of the black-haired kid, maybe a year or two younger, hair parted and smiling real big, showing off his braces.. "Is this you?" Alex said to the ghost, annoyed. "Yeah, I come here confront myself with my own mortality, it's pretty deep, you probably wouldn't get it-" "SEND ME HOME!" Alex screamed -
- and he sat upright in bed - Skye was laying at the foot of it. She lifted her head up, startled by Alex jolting awake. She was looking at him - she cocked her head to one side, looking quizzical. "That was the stupidest, most pointless trip I've ever been on." Alex said aloud. "Those ghosts need to get their act together, because that was ridiculous. Like, what a bunch of hot messes." Skye put her head back down onto the comforter. "But at least now I know how to talk", said Skye. "Yeah girl, at least you can talk now." Alex said, petting her head.
Merry Christmas, y'all.
Even for someone with no attachment to the holiday itself, the prospect of being alone on Christmas was still depressing. The thought of how quiet his house would be while everyone else's houses were filled with laughter was not comforting in the least. Every year this happened - since he'd been a child, Alex had always been confused, then later angered, by the way the world disappeared and shut down every year for two days in December. Nobody could ever hang out, and winter break was supposed to be all about hanging out. It's a time for family and friends, only on the 24th and the 25th no one remembered their friends because they were too busy appreciating their families, ugh.
It was Christmas Eve, and Alex had been alone in his empty house for several days getting restless. Just before bed, he let the dog out one final time, closed the garage, and went to lock the front door. "Christmas is awful!" Alex shouted out the outside. "JUST FOR THE RECORD!" He slammed the door, turned the lock, and went to bed. He'd been sleeping for an hour or so when he was jostled awake by Skye pawing his arm. "Skye", he mumbled, "stoppppppp". She climbed over him and starting licking his face. "C'mon Skye, cut it outttttt" he grumbled. "Listen", said Skye, "I have to tell you something."
"What? What are you talking about?" Alex asked her. "I'm supposed to tell you something", she whispered. Alex opened his eyes, looking at his yellow labrador sister. "Oh my god, I'm dreaming. Okay, for a second I thought you were talking to me." "I was! I was I was!" She said excitedly. "I know, but I'm in a dream. I thought I was going insane." "Listen, here's what I'm supposed to tell you: tonight you're gonna be visited by three ghosts-" Alex rolled over to the bedside table and grabbed the open box of Cheez-its he'd left there. "You wanna treat?" Alex asked in his high voice he used exclusively when talking to Skye. Skye's ears perked up. "OH MY GOD YES, YES I DO!" She shouted. Alex got out of bed, holding a single Cheez-it above her face and walking out of the bedroom. "PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE" she begged, following him. He hurled the Cheez-it across the hallway - she took off bounding after it, and Alex went back into his room and closed the door. He climbed back under the blissfully warm covers, pulled a pillow over his head, and drifted back to sleep.
"TIME TO GET UP!" A chirpy voice shouted. Alex screamed and fell out of bed, running to the light and flipping it on as fast as he could. In front of him was a thirtysomething blonde woman, dressed in casual business attire with her hair in tight bun and a holding clipboard. "WHO ARE YOU?! Get out of here!" He shouted, heart still pounding. "I'm the ghost of Christmas past!" She smiled. "I don't celebrate Christmas. I'm Jewish." Her smile fell. "What? Are you sure?" "Yeah", he said tersely. "Both parents?" "Yes, both parents." he rolled his eyes - that question annoyed him like crazy. "And you really don't celebrate Christmas?" "NO", he shouted - he hated that question most of all, "WHY would I celebrate Christmas?" The ghost frowned and looked down at her clipboard. "Well... listen, I don't really know how we had this mix-up, but I have to do my job. Take my hand." "Do I have a choice?" "NOPE!"
And suddenly, they were flying through the cold night air, wisps of clouds around them. Alex held on to her hand as tightly as he could, and also wished he'd grabbed a sweater, because it was freezing. When they touched down in a parking lot, it was daytime. "Where are we?" Alex asked. The ghost pointed ahead, "look!" he turned and saw - "CENTURY 16 MOVIE THEATER". Alex smiled. "Are we going to a movie? I have so many I need to see before the Oscars..." suddenly he was distracted by the sight of his own family - himself included - walking out of the parking lot and towards the theater doors. "Your family is going to see a movie on Christmas?" The ghost asked, seeming partly disappointed and partly confused. "We're. Jewish." He said through gritted teeth. Brow furrowed, the ghost said, "take a look at your past; here your family is... goingtothemovies" she rushed through that last bit as fast as she could. "does this fill you with memories of happy childhood Christmases times?" "Childhood, what? No - when is this, 2008?" "Are you sure you don't celebrate Christmas??" the ghost said, her panicky voice increasing in pitch as she flipped through her clipboard, getting redder and redder in the face with each passing moment. Alex ran up to the theater window and looked at the movie posters. "I remember - we saw Marley and Me, BIG mistake. It was like - just sobbing hysterically. That dog looks exactly like our dog." He ran inside and over to his family in the ticket line. "Mom!" He tapped her on the shoulder. "Mom, don't see Marley and Me, it's gonna make everyone really sad. Mom? MOM?" "She can't hear you." The ghost said. "They don't see us. Time to move on."
At that moment, an incredibly obese man with long curly hair pulled up next to them in a mobility scooter. "I've got it from here", he said, grabbing a handful of Doritos out the scooter's basket and stuffing them in his mouth. "Oh, thank god" said the ghost of Christmas past, "I don't know what to do with this one." She said, pointing her thumb at Alex. "Who are you?" asked Alex. "The ghost of Christmas present! Now get in!" Suddenly there was a second scooter. "I can walk-" "Get in the scooter." Alex hopped aboard his scooter and followed the second ghost, who had already started driving away. "Look at what everyone is doing for Christmas right now!" Suddenly the two arrived in an unfamiliar living room. "Do you know this girl?" the ghost asked, motioning to a young girl opening Christmas presents. "Um, maybe? I think she's one of my sister's friends - I can't keep them straight, there's like a million different girls I have to drive to soccer practice-" the girl began screaming, hurling her new iPad Mini across the room and yelling that it wasn't what she wanted. "See, this girl is miserable on her Christmas." The ghost raised an eyebrow at Alex. "And that's MY fault?" Alex shouted as his scooter lurched forward, moving on its own. "Let's keep going..." the ghost beckoned and they drove into another room. A boy was kneeling in front of the toilet, vomiting profusely. Alex quickly turned his head away from the sight. "I know him, that's my friend Andrew..." "Yes, and he ate too much food for his Christmas dinner", said the ghost, taking a swig from an energy drink, "or perhaps he got food poisoning." Alex, unable to watch more upchucking, hit the gas on his scooter, and was suddenly in someone's dining room. A family sat at the table, hurling insults at each other, screaming over one another, slurring their words. "These are friends of my parents... why are they so drunk?" "Because it's Christmas", the ghost said before burping. "Can I go home now? This is all really upsetting. Christmas sucks." "Not until you hang out with me." Said a new voice.
Alex, suddenly outdoors, turned and saw a rail-thin, incredibly pale boy. He was wearing a black hoodie, skinny jeans, and couldn't have been older than sixteen. He had dyed black hair with a single blue streak that hung over his eyes and was leaning up against a Mini Cooper. "Why? Does my Christmas future involve a bunch of emo parties?" Alex said, horrified. "SHUTUP." Said the ghost of Christmas yet to come. "Let's go." Alex walked up to the passenger seat, but the ghost appeared directly in front of him, blocking the door. "You have to drive, I only have my permit." "Seriously?" asked Alex. The ghost didn't budge, so Alex walked around to the driver's side door and got in. "Where to?" Suddenly the car was driving on its own, so Alex took his hands off the wheel and waited until it came to a stop - at a funeral home. "Oh... this is really creepy, I don't want to do this." Alex said. "We have to", said the ghost, flipping his hair off his face. Alex got out of the car and entered the building, ghost at his side. The place was full of people wearing black and crying, holding each other. "Look there", said the ghost, pointing down a long hallway. Alex could see a large photo of someone. "You have to go see." "Please", Alex begged, "this is gross, I don't want to know when I'm going to die." "You don't have a choice." The ghost exhaled towards Alex, and the wind sent Alex flying down the hallway. "NO!" Alex yelled, getting closer to the photo. "PLEASE, NO!" but it was too late - he was at the photo. The ghost was again standing next to him. "Look", the ghost ordered. Alex turned his head to see - it was a framed school photo of the black-haired kid, maybe a year or two younger, hair parted and smiling real big, showing off his braces.. "Is this you?" Alex said to the ghost, annoyed. "Yeah, I come here confront myself with my own mortality, it's pretty deep, you probably wouldn't get it-" "SEND ME HOME!" Alex screamed -
- and he sat upright in bed - Skye was laying at the foot of it. She lifted her head up, startled by Alex jolting awake. She was looking at him - she cocked her head to one side, looking quizzical. "That was the stupidest, most pointless trip I've ever been on." Alex said aloud. "Those ghosts need to get their act together, because that was ridiculous. Like, what a bunch of hot messes." Skye put her head back down onto the comforter. "But at least now I know how to talk", said Skye. "Yeah girl, at least you can talk now." Alex said, petting her head.
Merry Christmas, y'all.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
The Lunch Break From Hell
So guess what everybody? I'm employed.
Did you hear me? I'm EMPLOYED. All of my insane malaise has come to an end!
Wait, this is me - no it hasn't. But it's certainly lessening, or at least changing. So what is my job? Well, I'm not really going to talk about it specifically, because upon being hired I signed roughly one million agreements that I would not be blogging, tweeting, or otherwise talking about the company. And I feel that getting fired after two days is sort of tacky, so I'm going to follow the rule. All you need to know is that it's an office job, I'm doing a lot of typing and filing, work certainly beneath someone of such incredible creative genius as I.
I'm joking of course, but I actually did have a moment, immediately after being hired, where I looked around and thought something to the effect of, "What am I doing here? I'm a creative, funny, person who should be doing something grand... not wasting my uniquely original voice typing away in some office", and then I felt like Hannah Horvath and promptly kicked myself for being such an asshole.* So, maybe I'm not being fulfilled creatively at this point, but was I really being creatively fulfilled toiling away into madness alone in my apartment? Methinks not. And also - it's just a job for now. I know it's not my career, it's not a permanent-life-forever decision... despite every choice I've ever made feeling permanent and life-altering, they usually aren't. I mean, if in ten years I'm still working in the office AND I don't have any new Twitter followers, then we can all collectively agree I turned out to be a failure. So, until then... I'm just a good little worker bee, and I'm genuinely grateful and relieved to be employed.
*I will say that the longer I'm out of college, the more "Girls" goes from being hilarious to way-too-real and very chilling.
But it's still just Alex dressed up as a worker bee, which means I'm still going to have ridiculous, embarrassing things happen, because that's my life story. The things range from small to colossal. I was hired on the spot on Thursday, and sat around for a good hour or so because no one had anything for me to do. A guy who I'll name "Tom" was in charge of babysitting me. Essentially, I sat next to him while he worked at his station. Finally, after a solid forty-five minutes of doing nothing, he asked me to put a stack of papers somewhere. He was youngish (under 30?) so, trying to bond with my brand-new co-worker and eager to do any sort of task, I said, "You got it, Macgruber." He turned to me, and dead serious, said, "That's not even close to my name." Um. Um. He'd never even heard of Macgruber. He thought I was just guessing at his name... and that I decided to take a shot in the dark and go with Macgruber? Anyway, I sputtered, "oh, no - it's an SNL sketch". "Saturday Night Live?" he asked, as if SNL could stand for anything else. I said yes, and he said, "Oh, I don't do that". Uh oh. If the people in the office don't know or enjoy pop culture, how are we ever going to get along? I suddenly remembered that I do not belong in an office by any stretch of the imagination.
So Friday, my first full day of work, was when the incident happened. Something very embarrassing that only happened two days ago, which means it's VERY BIG OF ME THAT I'M ALREADY FINDING THE HUMOR IN IT, DON'T YOU AGREE?!
Where was I? So my first day was plodding along, the hours ticking away, and I was starting to get really hungry. But, being thepushover people-pleaser that I am, I didn't want to ask for my lunch break on the first day because somehow that felt rude to me? Welcome to my brain. Anyway, it was nearly two, and after finishing a spreadsheet, I handed it to my supervisor and said, "Would it be okay if I took lunch now?" She said sure, and I went down the elevator to the ground floor of the building where I sat in the commissary with a banana, yogurt, and juice box that I had pulled from the office kitchen (I didn't steal them, they're for the employees) and checked the last several hours of news and updates from Twitter. This was odd for me, since usually I check Twitter all day long - but now I had hours worth of backlog, and trying to get through it all and open and read all the articles I wanted to in a half hour was more difficult than I'd imagined. As my break was ending, I was still reading stuff on my phone. I got in the elevator, hit floor 35, waited until the elevator stopped, and exited all without looking up from my phone. When I peeled my eyes from the screen, I realized I was actually at floor 33. Whoops. I turned right back around and hit the button for the elevator and waited. And waited. This is silly, I thought, waiting around to go up two floors, how lazy am I? I can use the stairs. So I wandered around until I found door a stairwell, which I entered. I walked up two flights to floor 35 and tried the door. It was locked. Well, that's just annoying, I thought, and went back down to 33 and tried the door. It wouldn't open.
It wouldn't open. Now my nerves started to kick in... trying not to freak out, I went down another floor and tried the door. No dice. I was trying like hell to keep full-on panic at bay... and I was semi-succeeding. What am I going to do? Oh my god, I'm going to have to call my office on my FIRST DAY of work and tell them that I'm LOCKED IN THE STAIRWELL? I felt full-body embarrassment seize me at just the thought. No, no, no - that should be my last resort ONLY. Not wanting to go there, I realized my other, equally unpleasant option: I was going to have to walk down all the stairs. Maybe the doors on the upper floors with offices wouldn't open, but there's no way the ground floor would be locked. So, resigning myself, I began making my way down the stairs. LOTS of stairs. Keep in mind that I was dressed in a button-up shirt with a sweater over it AND wearing my coat, which I had brought with me on break. Down and down and down the stairs I went, getting sweaty and gross fast.* Finally I got to the bottom... and saw, "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, ALARM WILL SOUND".
*This is a reference probably nobody will get, but I felt like I was in a real-life version of that part in Final Fantasy VII where you go up all those flights of stairs in the Shin-Ra building. #nerdalert
Now was the time. The time for me to begin FULL-ON PANICKING. My heart was racing, and not because I had just been forced to actually exercise. No no no no no.... serious panic set in, not just because of the ridiculous embarrassment of the situation and the thought of having to call the office to send someone to get me out, but actually more so because of the sudden intense wave of claustrophobia that hit me like a ton of bricks.* I felt trapped, stuck in this endless, gray, concrete stairwell with NO WAY OUT. No way out, no way out... "WHY IS THIS HERE?" I screamed inside my head, "WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING STAIRS YOU CAN ONLY ENTER BUT NEVER LEAVE? IT MAKES NO SENSE!" Shirking logical thinking in lieu of full hysteria, I began running up the stairs, pounding on the doors at every floor. No answer, no answer... AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Finally, at the 16th floor, I heard movement. I waited, hoping against hope that this was my salvation. The door slowly opened, and a completely nonplussed forty-something man was looking at me. I'm sure I looked like a sweaty, lunatic child; I was suddenly very acutely aware of the fact that I was in no way, shape, or form a grown-up of any kind. I walked through, and realized the door had opened DIRECTLY INTO AN OFFICE. Not a hallway - an office. Others were at their cubicles working. "Thank you so much", I whispered quieter than I think I've ever spoken, both because people were working and but also because my embarrassment was genuinely affecting my body, and I found that my vocal chords could just barely produce actual speech. "I got locked in the stairwell." "Well that's not good." He said bemusedly.
*I'm not overly claustrophobic - I'm fine in elevators, but if the elevator got stuck, then I'd probably start to get nervous.
And with that, I briskly walked through the office to the exit, and took the elevator back up to the proper floor, where I entered my actual place of work. Maybe no one noticed, but as is often the case, I felt like shame was radiating so strongly from me that everyone noticed... not to mention the fact that I was a SWEATY MESS, both due to the panic and the running up and down stairs; only after I had sat at my station for a little bit, calmed down and resumed working, did I notice my thighs were burning. Exercise, man.
You guys, I'm pretty sure I'm fifteen. I'm fifteen, right?
Did you hear me? I'm EMPLOYED. All of my insane malaise has come to an end!
Wait, this is me - no it hasn't. But it's certainly lessening, or at least changing. So what is my job? Well, I'm not really going to talk about it specifically, because upon being hired I signed roughly one million agreements that I would not be blogging, tweeting, or otherwise talking about the company. And I feel that getting fired after two days is sort of tacky, so I'm going to follow the rule. All you need to know is that it's an office job, I'm doing a lot of typing and filing, work certainly beneath someone of such incredible creative genius as I.
I'm joking of course, but I actually did have a moment, immediately after being hired, where I looked around and thought something to the effect of, "What am I doing here? I'm a creative, funny, person who should be doing something grand... not wasting my uniquely original voice typing away in some office", and then I felt like Hannah Horvath and promptly kicked myself for being such an asshole.* So, maybe I'm not being fulfilled creatively at this point, but was I really being creatively fulfilled toiling away into madness alone in my apartment? Methinks not. And also - it's just a job for now. I know it's not my career, it's not a permanent-life-forever decision... despite every choice I've ever made feeling permanent and life-altering, they usually aren't. I mean, if in ten years I'm still working in the office AND I don't have any new Twitter followers, then we can all collectively agree I turned out to be a failure. So, until then... I'm just a good little worker bee, and I'm genuinely grateful and relieved to be employed.
*I will say that the longer I'm out of college, the more "Girls" goes from being hilarious to way-too-real and very chilling.
But it's still just Alex dressed up as a worker bee, which means I'm still going to have ridiculous, embarrassing things happen, because that's my life story. The things range from small to colossal. I was hired on the spot on Thursday, and sat around for a good hour or so because no one had anything for me to do. A guy who I'll name "Tom" was in charge of babysitting me. Essentially, I sat next to him while he worked at his station. Finally, after a solid forty-five minutes of doing nothing, he asked me to put a stack of papers somewhere. He was youngish (under 30?) so, trying to bond with my brand-new co-worker and eager to do any sort of task, I said, "You got it, Macgruber." He turned to me, and dead serious, said, "That's not even close to my name." Um. Um. He'd never even heard of Macgruber. He thought I was just guessing at his name... and that I decided to take a shot in the dark and go with Macgruber? Anyway, I sputtered, "oh, no - it's an SNL sketch". "Saturday Night Live?" he asked, as if SNL could stand for anything else. I said yes, and he said, "Oh, I don't do that". Uh oh. If the people in the office don't know or enjoy pop culture, how are we ever going to get along? I suddenly remembered that I do not belong in an office by any stretch of the imagination.
So Friday, my first full day of work, was when the incident happened. Something very embarrassing that only happened two days ago, which means it's VERY BIG OF ME THAT I'M ALREADY FINDING THE HUMOR IN IT, DON'T YOU AGREE?!
Where was I? So my first day was plodding along, the hours ticking away, and I was starting to get really hungry. But, being the
It wouldn't open. Now my nerves started to kick in... trying not to freak out, I went down another floor and tried the door. No dice. I was trying like hell to keep full-on panic at bay... and I was semi-succeeding. What am I going to do? Oh my god, I'm going to have to call my office on my FIRST DAY of work and tell them that I'm LOCKED IN THE STAIRWELL? I felt full-body embarrassment seize me at just the thought. No, no, no - that should be my last resort ONLY. Not wanting to go there, I realized my other, equally unpleasant option: I was going to have to walk down all the stairs. Maybe the doors on the upper floors with offices wouldn't open, but there's no way the ground floor would be locked. So, resigning myself, I began making my way down the stairs. LOTS of stairs. Keep in mind that I was dressed in a button-up shirt with a sweater over it AND wearing my coat, which I had brought with me on break. Down and down and down the stairs I went, getting sweaty and gross fast.* Finally I got to the bottom... and saw, "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, ALARM WILL SOUND".
*This is a reference probably nobody will get, but I felt like I was in a real-life version of that part in Final Fantasy VII where you go up all those flights of stairs in the Shin-Ra building. #nerdalert
Now was the time. The time for me to begin FULL-ON PANICKING. My heart was racing, and not because I had just been forced to actually exercise. No no no no no.... serious panic set in, not just because of the ridiculous embarrassment of the situation and the thought of having to call the office to send someone to get me out, but actually more so because of the sudden intense wave of claustrophobia that hit me like a ton of bricks.* I felt trapped, stuck in this endless, gray, concrete stairwell with NO WAY OUT. No way out, no way out... "WHY IS THIS HERE?" I screamed inside my head, "WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING STAIRS YOU CAN ONLY ENTER BUT NEVER LEAVE? IT MAKES NO SENSE!" Shirking logical thinking in lieu of full hysteria, I began running up the stairs, pounding on the doors at every floor. No answer, no answer... AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Finally, at the 16th floor, I heard movement. I waited, hoping against hope that this was my salvation. The door slowly opened, and a completely nonplussed forty-something man was looking at me. I'm sure I looked like a sweaty, lunatic child; I was suddenly very acutely aware of the fact that I was in no way, shape, or form a grown-up of any kind. I walked through, and realized the door had opened DIRECTLY INTO AN OFFICE. Not a hallway - an office. Others were at their cubicles working. "Thank you so much", I whispered quieter than I think I've ever spoken, both because people were working and but also because my embarrassment was genuinely affecting my body, and I found that my vocal chords could just barely produce actual speech. "I got locked in the stairwell." "Well that's not good." He said bemusedly.
*I'm not overly claustrophobic - I'm fine in elevators, but if the elevator got stuck, then I'd probably start to get nervous.
And with that, I briskly walked through the office to the exit, and took the elevator back up to the proper floor, where I entered my actual place of work. Maybe no one noticed, but as is often the case, I felt like shame was radiating so strongly from me that everyone noticed... not to mention the fact that I was a SWEATY MESS, both due to the panic and the running up and down stairs; only after I had sat at my station for a little bit, calmed down and resumed working, did I notice my thighs were burning. Exercise, man.
You guys, I'm pretty sure I'm fifteen. I'm fifteen, right?
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Listmania: My Top Ten TV Shows of 2012
Note: this post was amended from its original order
So here's the deal: upon finishing my INCREDIBLY long "Top Ten TV of 2012" list, I found that despite the pleas of many to write about TV, that I should be a TV critic... I don't know that it was as fun. Maybe if I was tearing shows apart it'd be, but to say nice things, well - I don't feel like I said anything particularly original. AND I LIKE BEING ORIGINAL. So it was a fun diversion, but I think I'll stick with writing about life and things that BECAUSE MY EGO IS HUGE AND I MUST TALK ABOUT MYSELF CONSTANTLY OR I'LL DIE. But it took me a REALLY long time to write so I'm posting the list, okay?
***
So, guess what errybody? I've decided to try my hand at actually writing about my favorite topic: TV! That's right kiddos, I'm going to take a stab at writing slightly critically* about the thing I love most in the world:my family my friends food. I mean TV. But food is my other favorite, for the record.
*I mean critically as in I'm evaluating like a critic, not as in I'm going to TEAR THESE SHOWS TO SHREDS.
What were we talking about? How I'm really excited for dinner? OH - television! With the year coming to an end, I'm going to go ahead and list my top ten favorite television shows for the year 2012. This proved trickier than I thought - it would be easier to do a top ten list for the regular TV season: September through May. For example, a list of favorites from '11-'12 season would be simpler because it would mean evaluating just a a single season of any given show. Instead, going by the single year 2012 means that I have the end of one season and the beginning of the next, usually. So if a show had a great season last year but the current season's been so-so, it becomes harder to rank, doesn't it? Also it means I have all cable shows - those that air in the winter, spring, summer AND fall to deal with. Oh, seasons. Now listen - I watch a lot of TV. A LOT. So believe me - I was looking at a lot of options, and it was tough to select the shows that made my list. Many great shows are not on this list... I just went with my gut. It's also worth noting that unlike an actual TV critic, I don't actually watch everything, so if you're pissed that Mad Men isn't on the list, sorry, I don't watch it (go ahead, throw your tomatoes, I've heard it all: I'm the worst, how could I call myself a TV fan, etc). Also, everyone knows I have AMAZING TASTE, so trust me when I say these shows are where it's at, okay? Let's begin:
10. Bob's Burgers
"What's Bob's Burgers?" Well my friends, it's the best show airing right now in Fox's forever-running "Animation Domination" Sunday lineup - a lineup that more famously includes Family Guy and The Simpsons*. It's not one of the twelve-hundred - oh, another script was just sold! twelve-hundred and one - shows from Seth MacFarlane, but that's part of what makes it such a breath of fresh air. With South Park being very hit or miss as of late**, Bob's Burgers has become the bastion for animated comedies right now - primarily because of the great character work. The show - about a family and the Burger restaurant they run - did something that seems simple but has proven difficult for many a live-action show: create a cast of funny characters with original points of view, then just let them react to the weekly situation. That's where sitcom comes from: situation comedy.*** Since the characters on Bob's Burgers are so fun and unique, even the simplest premise becomes original. Nowhere else on TV will you get a character like Tina, the monotone-voiced, mild-mannered oldest daughter who secretly writes "erotic friend fiction". Every character is so specific, and voiced excellently; the show collected an array of great comedians and voice actors to fill out the cast, who often record together - most shows have each actor record separately, this show doesn't. Accordingly, the result is great improvised exchanges between characters and comic timing that can't be faked. And the show isn't afraid to get... weird. Bob's Burgers has had some of the most delightfully bizarre musical numbers in my recent memory. And, of course, the show contains one of my current favorite characters on TV: Linda, the delightfully earnest, excitable matriarch with the imitable voice. My roommate and I sing the following to the cats virtually every day:
*I don't know anyone who watches new episodes of The Simpsons. Does anyone? How has that show been running so long? Has anyone EVER said to you, "did you see this week's Simpsons? Oh, you have to!"
**I'll still love South Park forever though. The hits are still hits.
***Sitcom: a classic portmanteau.
9. The Good Wife
There was a time when TGW was my absolute number one favorite show on TV - while we're not quite there right now, there's no denying it's still some of the classiest, smartest-written drama around. And who would've thought that some of the most subtle, nuanced acting, character development, and storytelling would be on CBS? The network of boring old people procedurals and ONLY procedurals. Yet somehow, they also get the ONLY network television show nominated for the best drama Emmy in the last couple years?* You know the other networks must be pissed - like, "they make ONE show that's not about solving murders and it's better than all our shows? What the hell?" But TGW is probably better than any show on air at addressing morality and its grey areas; very rarely is there a right or wrong, only difficult choices that slowly weigh on you. This isn't a show where good will just triumph over evil - it's much more realistic than that, more upsetting. When gross Mike Kresteva (played by Matthew Perry - TGW uses guest stars better than any other show) tells complete fabricated lies about Alicia in the press, she demands Eli counter the lies somehow. But he tells her, rightly so, that nothing she says will matter anymore - the story is out now, and that's the way it is. TGW also features two of my personal favorite performances on television - Julianna Margulies as Alicia and Archie Panjabi as everyone's favorite superhero, Kalinda. Margulies is so good and so consistent - constantly imbuing Alicia with intelligence, strength, and vulnerability - that you can almost forget what an incredible actress she is because the performance seems so natural. She's also evolved the character over the years. And frankly, I would watch Archie Panjabi read the phone book. Kalinda is just so mysterious, so dynamic yet playful, and such a badass that it's no wonder she's already won an Emmy for the part. TGW excels at character and theme - like the end of the season three finale, which beautifully contrasts Alicia and Kalinda both dealing with their pasts. Do you run from it? Do you run back to it? Do you fight? Do you give in? And despite people not loving the way the return of Kalinda's husband story played out (with it apparently now over, it just didn't really seem to have a point or matter all that much), it can't be denied that the visual of Kalinda pulling up a chair and waiting with a loaded gun for the knock of the door was a fantastic scene and an even better cliffhanger. (Clip is queued.)
*The rest are on cable.
8. Suburgatory
Oh, Suburgatory! How you've slowly nestled your way into mi corazón. What started as a solid lead-in to Modern Family has quickly surpassed that show in both laughs and heart. For those uninitiated, the show follows a teenage girl and her father who move from New York City into suburbia, and the cartoonish inhabitants they encounter upon arriving. Jeremy Sisto and Jane Levy are great and bring wonderful wry groundedness to their New York transplants. But of course, the showiest parts on the show belong to the supporting cast. The show's smartest move was assembling the best large ensemble of actors on television - tremendously funny people like Ana Gasteyer, Chris Parnell, Alan Tudyk, and Cheryl Hines, just to name a few. The world of Chatswin (the fictional town) is populated with memorable, vivid characters - right down to the smaller, recurring parts, like Carmen, the maid who learned English almost exclusively by listening to NPR's "All Things Considered". There's no weak link on the show; no boring characters. Everyone you'll meet is funny and engaging. And then, while maintaining the comedy, the show is also constantly telling wonderfully emotional stories. The characters on this show have compelling relationships that can be played for laughs, but can also be incredibly heartwarming. After all, the show is centered around a girl who's never met her mother - when she does finally meet her, it couldn't just be a slapsticky reunion. There's real emotion there, and the entire cast is filled with people who are genuinely great at comedy and at playing those more earnest moments. Cheryl Hines is a perfect example of this - her character, Dallas, is a heightened, ridiculous person, but when the moments are really important - a stolen kiss under the mistletoe, for example - she tugs at your heartstrings with the best of them. And of course, we must be thankful to Suburgatory for giving us one of TV's best creations: Dalia Royce, the spoiled, blonde queen bee of Chatswin High with a delivery so dry it would make the sahara thirsty. Take a look at a classic Dalia speech:
5. Happy Endings
If Happy Endings gets cancelled because you jerks aren't watching it, I'm going to be very upset with all of you. I mean it. Anyway, this comedy - about six friends living in Chicago - quickly became my favorite sitcom of the '11-'12 season. Why? IT BRINGS ME JOY. Why else? The writing is pretty on point. The dialogue and the jokes come lightning quick, with brilliantly weird, funny lines tossed away constantly - this makes the episodes great for re-watching, to pick up the things you missed the first go-around. And there's lots of wonderful, off-kilter pop culture references, which - shocker! - I love.*
The cast is great, particularly Adam Pally as Max - with his odd Chicagoish accent and comically intense commitment - and Casey Wilson as the perpetually unlucky Penny. I barely noticed her on SNL, but she's amahzing here. Seriously, her line deliveries are unbelievable. It's that thing of when** great writing meets an incredible performer and they're just a perfect fit for each other. Genuinely, there were moments during season two where I was like, "she's our new Lucy". She makes the tiniest moments exponentially funnier. While season three hasn't been as great so far - pairing Dave and Alex isn't quite leading to comedy gold - but I remember how in the middle of the second season, I couldn't wait for each new episode because each one was a total gem, just hilarious week after week. There was a long stretch of episodes where the show could do no wrong. Remembering my own excitement for each new installment is enough to buoy the show pretty high on my list. Please enjoy one of Penny's choicest lines below.
*Example-
Penny: "It was 2002, it was such a crazy time - we were all still reeling from the events surrounding the film Vanilla Sky."
Alex: "I'm tired of people using Vanilla Sky as an excuse for everything!"
**Insert your favorite Stefon quote here.
4. Southland
I always describe Southland as "the best show you're not watching". It's true - it's deftly written and filmed and has some of the best slow-burn acting of any series in my memory. If I could describe the show in one word, it would be raw. Here's the backstory on Southland: the show - about the police force in Los Angeles - started on NBC with a really short season of seven episodes. Then NBC ordered the disaster that was The Jay Leno Show for primetime and cancelled everything that aired in the 10 PM hour. Poor Southland didn't stand a chance... until TNT picked up the show, airing season one and the unaired NBC-made season two. Without NBC breathing down their necks, the show blossomed from being a very good, solid cop drama into a tour-de-force. Gritty, dark, and made with a realism that no other show possesses, the show seems to really accurately reflect the life of a patrol cop. It's in the way it's filmed - as if you're on the ground with the LAPD. And it's not just shootouts and high drama - stories aren't wrapped up with a pretty bow. The show captures the little moments for a beat cop - like the dark humor of like an assholey guy flagging you down for an emergency and saying he needs a ride to work. From a domestic battery to a disturbing the peace call, these cops deal with it all. But it's not a procedural - there aren't cases of the week, and these characters are incredibly deep. Week after the week, the show examines the compromises made on the job, how it wears on the soul. These people are wounded. John Cooper, played with deep weariness and unwavering intensity by Michael Cudlitz, is one of the most complicated people on television. It's Emmy-level work - not that the Emmys notice shows like this. And Regina King is excellent. She's able to convey so much with just her eyes, which is on this show is key; the show doesn't have characters delivering exposition about feelings - what you get instead is great actors and subtext. And this season featured a searing performance from Lucy Liu - so incredible in her arc that she won the Television Critic's Award for best guest star. Of course, the Emmys didn't even nominate her - but Emmys or no Emmys, Southland is still one of the best shows on television.
3. Game of Thrones
Is there a show more epic or on a grander scale than Game of Thrones right now? Lordy, methinks not. The show has so many fascinating characters, so many exotic locales, and so much story left to tell. If you think I'm not down for the ride, you'd be mistaken. It's definitely the most sumptuous show on TV with its exquisite locations and sets. For several weeks I got to watch new episodes in a friend's home theater, and damn me if the show didn't look even more magnificent and expansive on a massive screen. The characters are dynamic, the actors incredibly versatile and game... and the plot is a roller coaster. This show deals with the highest of stakes, and waiting in between episodes is incredibly painful. Not to mention that there's only ten episodes in a season - so every single immaculately-produced episode is like a rare find, a treat to be savored before they're all gone. Getting a new episode of Game of Thrones is more exciting than running downstairs to open presents on Hanukkah morning. The joy of having a universe so large is that with that many characters, everyone can have so many favorites - the downside, of course, being that sometimes episodes don't deal with your favorites.* But it's the deal you make when you agree to immerse yourself in Game of Thrones, and it's well worth it. How many shows on TV are this electrically exciting? It's like nothing else out there. In this clip, my homegirl Khaleesi lays down the law.** (Clip is queued.)
*Is Jon Snow the most boring, dour drag on an otherwise amazing show or what? What am I missing?
**Could someone make a TV shirt that says 'Khaleesi is my Homegirl'? Thanks.
2. Girls
Girls emerged last season with so much hype and scrutiny, I wasn't sure I could form my own opinion on it without shutting out the deluge of comments, praise, and criticism lobbed at the show at every turn. I watched the first episode - I thought it was fine, an occasional funny moment. Then came the second episode - when I started thinking intellectually, "wow, this is really smart and funny". Finally, episode three. My brain started to click with the show, but with that episode, my heart did. I fell in love with it. So funny, so brutally honest, and with such a distinctly original voice, Girls hooked me. Lena Dunham has so much hatred directed towards her, but I judge her on her work alone - and the show is excellent. Her writing is funny, but is always revealing something or saying something more at the same time as it's making you laugh (or as is often the case in the show, making you CRINGE). Not to mention she also happens to be an excellent actress - boy, some people get all the luck, huh? People say the show is about selfish people as if the show isn't aware of that fact - it clearly knows how flawed its protagonists are. And Dunham's voice is just ever so left-of-center - relatable enough that everyone watching is going, "Oh my god, [character] is JUST like [real-life person]! This situation is exactly like what happened to me!" but weird enough that the show is usually also pointing out something new or hilarious. I haven't had this much anticipation for a second season of any show since Veronica Mars. For the clip, I thought about finding something shorter - but instead simply decided to go with hilarious story in episode three that made me a believer. In them, Hannah meets her ex-boyfriend for a drink, and things do not go as planned, to say the least. The hysterical left-turns in this conversation could give you whiplash...
1. Parenthood
So here's the deal: upon finishing my INCREDIBLY long "Top Ten TV of 2012" list, I found that despite the pleas of many to write about TV, that I should be a TV critic... I don't know that it was as fun. Maybe if I was tearing shows apart it'd be, but to say nice things, well - I don't feel like I said anything particularly original. AND I LIKE BEING ORIGINAL. So it was a fun diversion, but I think I'll stick with writing about life and things that BECAUSE MY EGO IS HUGE AND I MUST TALK ABOUT MYSELF CONSTANTLY OR I'LL DIE. But it took me a REALLY long time to write so I'm posting the list, okay?
***
So, guess what errybody? I've decided to try my hand at actually writing about my favorite topic: TV! That's right kiddos, I'm going to take a stab at writing slightly critically* about the thing I love most in the world:
*I mean critically as in I'm evaluating like a critic, not as in I'm going to TEAR THESE SHOWS TO SHREDS.
What were we talking about? How I'm really excited for dinner? OH - television! With the year coming to an end, I'm going to go ahead and list my top ten favorite television shows for the year 2012. This proved trickier than I thought - it would be easier to do a top ten list for the regular TV season: September through May. For example, a list of favorites from '11-'12 season would be simpler because it would mean evaluating just a a single season of any given show. Instead, going by the single year 2012 means that I have the end of one season and the beginning of the next, usually. So if a show had a great season last year but the current season's been so-so, it becomes harder to rank, doesn't it? Also it means I have all cable shows - those that air in the winter, spring, summer AND fall to deal with. Oh, seasons. Now listen - I watch a lot of TV. A LOT. So believe me - I was looking at a lot of options, and it was tough to select the shows that made my list. Many great shows are not on this list... I just went with my gut. It's also worth noting that unlike an actual TV critic, I don't actually watch everything, so if you're pissed that Mad Men isn't on the list, sorry, I don't watch it (go ahead, throw your tomatoes, I've heard it all: I'm the worst, how could I call myself a TV fan, etc). Also, everyone knows I have AMAZING TASTE, so trust me when I say these shows are where it's at, okay? Let's begin:
10. Bob's Burgers
"What's Bob's Burgers?" Well my friends, it's the best show airing right now in Fox's forever-running "Animation Domination" Sunday lineup - a lineup that more famously includes Family Guy and The Simpsons*. It's not one of the twelve-hundred - oh, another script was just sold! twelve-hundred and one - shows from Seth MacFarlane, but that's part of what makes it such a breath of fresh air. With South Park being very hit or miss as of late**, Bob's Burgers has become the bastion for animated comedies right now - primarily because of the great character work. The show - about a family and the Burger restaurant they run - did something that seems simple but has proven difficult for many a live-action show: create a cast of funny characters with original points of view, then just let them react to the weekly situation. That's where sitcom comes from: situation comedy.*** Since the characters on Bob's Burgers are so fun and unique, even the simplest premise becomes original. Nowhere else on TV will you get a character like Tina, the monotone-voiced, mild-mannered oldest daughter who secretly writes "erotic friend fiction". Every character is so specific, and voiced excellently; the show collected an array of great comedians and voice actors to fill out the cast, who often record together - most shows have each actor record separately, this show doesn't. Accordingly, the result is great improvised exchanges between characters and comic timing that can't be faked. And the show isn't afraid to get... weird. Bob's Burgers has had some of the most delightfully bizarre musical numbers in my recent memory. And, of course, the show contains one of my current favorite characters on TV: Linda, the delightfully earnest, excitable matriarch with the imitable voice. My roommate and I sing the following to the cats virtually every day:
*I don't know anyone who watches new episodes of The Simpsons. Does anyone? How has that show been running so long? Has anyone EVER said to you, "did you see this week's Simpsons? Oh, you have to!"
**I'll still love South Park forever though. The hits are still hits.
***Sitcom: a classic portmanteau.
There was a time when TGW was my absolute number one favorite show on TV - while we're not quite there right now, there's no denying it's still some of the classiest, smartest-written drama around. And who would've thought that some of the most subtle, nuanced acting, character development, and storytelling would be on CBS? The network of boring old people procedurals and ONLY procedurals. Yet somehow, they also get the ONLY network television show nominated for the best drama Emmy in the last couple years?* You know the other networks must be pissed - like, "they make ONE show that's not about solving murders and it's better than all our shows? What the hell?" But TGW is probably better than any show on air at addressing morality and its grey areas; very rarely is there a right or wrong, only difficult choices that slowly weigh on you. This isn't a show where good will just triumph over evil - it's much more realistic than that, more upsetting. When gross Mike Kresteva (played by Matthew Perry - TGW uses guest stars better than any other show) tells complete fabricated lies about Alicia in the press, she demands Eli counter the lies somehow. But he tells her, rightly so, that nothing she says will matter anymore - the story is out now, and that's the way it is. TGW also features two of my personal favorite performances on television - Julianna Margulies as Alicia and Archie Panjabi as everyone's favorite superhero, Kalinda. Margulies is so good and so consistent - constantly imbuing Alicia with intelligence, strength, and vulnerability - that you can almost forget what an incredible actress she is because the performance seems so natural. She's also evolved the character over the years. And frankly, I would watch Archie Panjabi read the phone book. Kalinda is just so mysterious, so dynamic yet playful, and such a badass that it's no wonder she's already won an Emmy for the part. TGW excels at character and theme - like the end of the season three finale, which beautifully contrasts Alicia and Kalinda both dealing with their pasts. Do you run from it? Do you run back to it? Do you fight? Do you give in? And despite people not loving the way the return of Kalinda's husband story played out (with it apparently now over, it just didn't really seem to have a point or matter all that much), it can't be denied that the visual of Kalinda pulling up a chair and waiting with a loaded gun for the knock of the door was a fantastic scene and an even better cliffhanger. (Clip is queued.)
*The rest are on cable.
8. Suburgatory
Oh, Suburgatory! How you've slowly nestled your way into mi corazón. What started as a solid lead-in to Modern Family has quickly surpassed that show in both laughs and heart. For those uninitiated, the show follows a teenage girl and her father who move from New York City into suburbia, and the cartoonish inhabitants they encounter upon arriving. Jeremy Sisto and Jane Levy are great and bring wonderful wry groundedness to their New York transplants. But of course, the showiest parts on the show belong to the supporting cast. The show's smartest move was assembling the best large ensemble of actors on television - tremendously funny people like Ana Gasteyer, Chris Parnell, Alan Tudyk, and Cheryl Hines, just to name a few. The world of Chatswin (the fictional town) is populated with memorable, vivid characters - right down to the smaller, recurring parts, like Carmen, the maid who learned English almost exclusively by listening to NPR's "All Things Considered". There's no weak link on the show; no boring characters. Everyone you'll meet is funny and engaging. And then, while maintaining the comedy, the show is also constantly telling wonderfully emotional stories. The characters on this show have compelling relationships that can be played for laughs, but can also be incredibly heartwarming. After all, the show is centered around a girl who's never met her mother - when she does finally meet her, it couldn't just be a slapsticky reunion. There's real emotion there, and the entire cast is filled with people who are genuinely great at comedy and at playing those more earnest moments. Cheryl Hines is a perfect example of this - her character, Dallas, is a heightened, ridiculous person, but when the moments are really important - a stolen kiss under the mistletoe, for example - she tugs at your heartstrings with the best of them. And of course, we must be thankful to Suburgatory for giving us one of TV's best creations: Dalia Royce, the spoiled, blonde queen bee of Chatswin High with a delivery so dry it would make the sahara thirsty. Take a look at a classic Dalia speech:
7. Homeland
I don't really know what I could possibly write about this show that hasn't already been said, given that the internet is always discussing it... but I'll do my best. If you haven't seen the show, you've heard of or about it, possibly that it won a bunch of Emmys this year. Well, the Emmys were deserved, kids. Homeland is the real deal. The current season may not be over, but I've seen enough to know the show belongs in my top ten list for sure. I can't say too much about the show without spoiling it for those who would like to watch it, but basically, it's Claire Danes at the CIA hunting terrorists. That incredibly simplistic explanation doesn't even begin to convey the intensity of the show, the twisty, dangerous game that it is. And while Homeland's plot is incredible at zigging where you thought it would zag, the plot isn't even the main reason the show is so captivating: it's the character work, the psychological zigging and zagging that's truly extraordinary. Everything everyone's said about Claire Danes? It's true. It isn't hyperbole: she is amazing. A raw, truly transcendent performance - it's watching a master of the craft at work. I didn't really know there was still acting like that going on in our generation, but it's there. Damian Lewis is no slouch either - a pivotal, extended scene this season just between the two of them made me go, "gees, I don't know why I ever thought I could be an actor, I could never do that". Frankly, I know that Oscars are for movies and not TV, but they should give Danes all the Oscars for this one. This year, I think they should open up the envelope for Best Actress at the Academy Awards and read, "Claire Danes, Homeland", because her work is unparalleled. (Spoilers in clip, obviously)
6. 30 Rock
30 Rock has always been one of my favorite shows, and after a couple of wayward seasons (wayward for this show still means solid episodes and hilarious one-liners, just maybe not as consistently many as before) the show is ending on a high. Liz Lemon is my hero, and Tina Fey is a genius, original, weird woman who has stolen my heart. Hyperbole? Nah. I identify with Liz, I root for Liz... not to mention that week in and week out she does something that is scarily close to home - from seeing all the dark colors in her closet and wondering if she's depressed (which I wrote about) to "Why are my arms so weak? It's like I did that push-up last year for nothing!" - I find myself Lizzing with solidarity. Not only is the show back to being hilarious line-by-line, but the way this final season and a half has really come back to what Liz wants from life and her happiness is really lovely. From the episode last season where Liz rediscovered her desire to have kids to the wonderful wedding episode this year, I keep watching 30 Rock and being genuinely moved and happy for Liz. And that's happening in the same year as the episode where Liz became The Joker and tried to destroy New York City. The show is still as bizarre and oddball and has it's uniquely wacky worldview while also bringing some warm fuzzies for this final season. What more could you want? Liz's wedding is really a perfect manifestation of what the show is - a genuinely happy, emotional moment (Tina Fey's performance as she panics in the courthouse really got me) and then bride is dressed as Princess Leia with bling for a wedding ring and surrounded by homeless people. I will miss this show when it's gone, and I will miss Liz Lemon most of a all - but I've got a feeling she's gonna be just fine as she goes off into the sunset.
If Happy Endings gets cancelled because you jerks aren't watching it, I'm going to be very upset with all of you. I mean it. Anyway, this comedy - about six friends living in Chicago - quickly became my favorite sitcom of the '11-'12 season. Why? IT BRINGS ME JOY. Why else? The writing is pretty on point. The dialogue and the jokes come lightning quick, with brilliantly weird, funny lines tossed away constantly - this makes the episodes great for re-watching, to pick up the things you missed the first go-around. And there's lots of wonderful, off-kilter pop culture references, which - shocker! - I love.*
The cast is great, particularly Adam Pally as Max - with his odd Chicagoish accent and comically intense commitment - and Casey Wilson as the perpetually unlucky Penny. I barely noticed her on SNL, but she's amahzing here. Seriously, her line deliveries are unbelievable. It's that thing of when** great writing meets an incredible performer and they're just a perfect fit for each other. Genuinely, there were moments during season two where I was like, "she's our new Lucy". She makes the tiniest moments exponentially funnier. While season three hasn't been as great so far - pairing Dave and Alex isn't quite leading to comedy gold - but I remember how in the middle of the second season, I couldn't wait for each new episode because each one was a total gem, just hilarious week after week. There was a long stretch of episodes where the show could do no wrong. Remembering my own excitement for each new installment is enough to buoy the show pretty high on my list. Please enjoy one of Penny's choicest lines below.
Penny: "It was 2002, it was such a crazy time - we were all still reeling from the events surrounding the film Vanilla Sky."
Alex: "I'm tired of people using Vanilla Sky as an excuse for everything!"
**Insert your favorite Stefon quote here.
4. Southland
I always describe Southland as "the best show you're not watching". It's true - it's deftly written and filmed and has some of the best slow-burn acting of any series in my memory. If I could describe the show in one word, it would be raw. Here's the backstory on Southland: the show - about the police force in Los Angeles - started on NBC with a really short season of seven episodes. Then NBC ordered the disaster that was The Jay Leno Show for primetime and cancelled everything that aired in the 10 PM hour. Poor Southland didn't stand a chance... until TNT picked up the show, airing season one and the unaired NBC-made season two. Without NBC breathing down their necks, the show blossomed from being a very good, solid cop drama into a tour-de-force. Gritty, dark, and made with a realism that no other show possesses, the show seems to really accurately reflect the life of a patrol cop. It's in the way it's filmed - as if you're on the ground with the LAPD. And it's not just shootouts and high drama - stories aren't wrapped up with a pretty bow. The show captures the little moments for a beat cop - like the dark humor of like an assholey guy flagging you down for an emergency and saying he needs a ride to work. From a domestic battery to a disturbing the peace call, these cops deal with it all. But it's not a procedural - there aren't cases of the week, and these characters are incredibly deep. Week after the week, the show examines the compromises made on the job, how it wears on the soul. These people are wounded. John Cooper, played with deep weariness and unwavering intensity by Michael Cudlitz, is one of the most complicated people on television. It's Emmy-level work - not that the Emmys notice shows like this. And Regina King is excellent. She's able to convey so much with just her eyes, which is on this show is key; the show doesn't have characters delivering exposition about feelings - what you get instead is great actors and subtext. And this season featured a searing performance from Lucy Liu - so incredible in her arc that she won the Television Critic's Award for best guest star. Of course, the Emmys didn't even nominate her - but Emmys or no Emmys, Southland is still one of the best shows on television.
3. Game of Thrones
Is there a show more epic or on a grander scale than Game of Thrones right now? Lordy, methinks not. The show has so many fascinating characters, so many exotic locales, and so much story left to tell. If you think I'm not down for the ride, you'd be mistaken. It's definitely the most sumptuous show on TV with its exquisite locations and sets. For several weeks I got to watch new episodes in a friend's home theater, and damn me if the show didn't look even more magnificent and expansive on a massive screen. The characters are dynamic, the actors incredibly versatile and game... and the plot is a roller coaster. This show deals with the highest of stakes, and waiting in between episodes is incredibly painful. Not to mention that there's only ten episodes in a season - so every single immaculately-produced episode is like a rare find, a treat to be savored before they're all gone. Getting a new episode of Game of Thrones is more exciting than running downstairs to open presents on Hanukkah morning. The joy of having a universe so large is that with that many characters, everyone can have so many favorites - the downside, of course, being that sometimes episodes don't deal with your favorites.* But it's the deal you make when you agree to immerse yourself in Game of Thrones, and it's well worth it. How many shows on TV are this electrically exciting? It's like nothing else out there. In this clip, my homegirl Khaleesi lays down the law.** (Clip is queued.)
*Is Jon Snow the most boring, dour drag on an otherwise amazing show or what? What am I missing?
**Could someone make a TV shirt that says 'Khaleesi is my Homegirl'? Thanks.
2. Girls
Girls emerged last season with so much hype and scrutiny, I wasn't sure I could form my own opinion on it without shutting out the deluge of comments, praise, and criticism lobbed at the show at every turn. I watched the first episode - I thought it was fine, an occasional funny moment. Then came the second episode - when I started thinking intellectually, "wow, this is really smart and funny". Finally, episode three. My brain started to click with the show, but with that episode, my heart did. I fell in love with it. So funny, so brutally honest, and with such a distinctly original voice, Girls hooked me. Lena Dunham has so much hatred directed towards her, but I judge her on her work alone - and the show is excellent. Her writing is funny, but is always revealing something or saying something more at the same time as it's making you laugh (or as is often the case in the show, making you CRINGE). Not to mention she also happens to be an excellent actress - boy, some people get all the luck, huh? People say the show is about selfish people as if the show isn't aware of that fact - it clearly knows how flawed its protagonists are. And Dunham's voice is just ever so left-of-center - relatable enough that everyone watching is going, "Oh my god, [character] is JUST like [real-life person]! This situation is exactly like what happened to me!" but weird enough that the show is usually also pointing out something new or hilarious. I haven't had this much anticipation for a second season of any show since Veronica Mars. For the clip, I thought about finding something shorter - but instead simply decided to go with hilarious story in episode three that made me a believer. In them, Hannah meets her ex-boyfriend for a drink, and things do not go as planned, to say the least. The hysterical left-turns in this conversation could give you whiplash...
1. Parenthood
I'm not crying. I'm not crying. I'm not crying. If you watch Parenthood, these words might be familiar to you. They are a mantra that we who watch Parenthood need to practice and live with... because every single week the show hits you right in the heart. The show is about small stories, day-to-day life, which is maybe why it isn't exactly a monster in the ratings... but I assure you, if you're passing on Parenthood, you're missing out. There's something to be said for looking at life's little moments. It's a show that benefits from watching episode after episode, because the more you know the characters, the more meaningful all the little things become. Parenthood is incredibly consistent - top to bottom, the acting, writing, and directing are always impeccable and tonally sound. Everyone in the cast is excellent. If I can take a moment and single one person out (I can!), I must say that Monica Potter is exceptional. Incredible. Remarkable in every way (and I was saying that she was the one to watch way back in season two before she had her big storyline this year). All the characters are familiar yet distinct; the Bravermans are so real that they're often frustrating - they make bad decisions and have personality traits that irritate you - just like your actual family, just like real life. It makes the show such a fertile topic for discussion, because you feel like you're talking about people you know - "Sarah is DRIVING ME NUTS". And just like real life, you like some family members better than others. That's why it's great that the show has a large ensemble of characters to follow. And I know I often see my family and moments similar to my life in the show... I remember one specific scene, where Kristina, longingly desperate for Haddie to not be upset with her, insists they paint her room together - and I thought, "that's my mother". The show feels like home. And that's why it's my number one. And oh yeah, did I mention I cry pretty much every week?
And now, a scene that made me cry. SPOILERS ahead.
And now, a scene that made me cry. SPOILERS ahead.
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