I decided not to date until I get my act together, because 28-year-old career temps who live with their mom and still use a flip phone (prepaid!) only attract men with one or more of the following qualities:
1. felon
2. work one day a week
3. don't have a car
a. because they never learned to drive
i. not convinced he knows how to ride a bike either
4. don't speak English
5. live in a quad
a. but it's a step up from a quad because we each have our own ba--
i. it's still a quad
20121222
Free Clinic
"I like your purse!" the girl at the counter realized, surprising herself. She probably wasn't used to admiring the fashion of the people on the other side of the counter, but I was sure we had more in common with each other than either of us did with the non-English-speaking family in line behind me. The free clinic wasn't exactly a place to dress to impress. The free clinic also offered free clothing piled messily on shelves, but rather than taking some for myself, I resisted the urge to organize them by color.
When it was my turn with the volunteer doctor, he marveled, "You're the first person I've seen who filled out this whole form correctly on the first try!" I'm glad my English degree finally came in handy. At least I know how to go bargain shopping for fancy accessories... and no one can take that from me.
When it was my turn with the volunteer doctor, he marveled, "You're the first person I've seen who filled out this whole form correctly on the first try!" I'm glad my English degree finally came in handy. At least I know how to go bargain shopping for fancy accessories... and no one can take that from me.
20121127
Excuse me, Crotch-Man...
Before I went to Korea, I learned some Korean just by driving to work every day, thanks to a cd from my local library. The problem with other languages is that they're not English. My brain speaks English, so if you try to give it something else, it only hears English. So while I was supposedly learning how to communicate in Korea, I just learned how to be rude in my own culture.
I would be driving along Broad Street in Richmond because that's the only way I don't get lost, with my windows down because I had no A/C, and the volume way up so I could really hear the pronunciation. The lesson was very interactive, so I stopped at the stoplight, studiously repeating "crotch-man!" over and over, trying to remember its conjunctive properties and forget the image of some kind of porno superhero that kept popping up in my mind instead. After basic vocabulary was covered, the lesson progressed in a staged conversation between the Pimmsleur guy and myself, in a mix of English and Korean. So when Mr. Pimmsleur as the Cab Driver asked me, "Where do you want to go?" I obediently responded what I'm sure sounded to everyone in the lanes next to me like, "Hotel, asshole!" And "yo" finished every sentence, for politeness.
Ironically, my Korean friends later told me that the cd Korean was way too polite in their culture. Go figure.
I would be driving along Broad Street in Richmond because that's the only way I don't get lost, with my windows down because I had no A/C, and the volume way up so I could really hear the pronunciation. The lesson was very interactive, so I stopped at the stoplight, studiously repeating "crotch-man!" over and over, trying to remember its conjunctive properties and forget the image of some kind of porno superhero that kept popping up in my mind instead. After basic vocabulary was covered, the lesson progressed in a staged conversation between the Pimmsleur guy and myself, in a mix of English and Korean. So when Mr. Pimmsleur as the Cab Driver asked me, "Where do you want to go?" I obediently responded what I'm sure sounded to everyone in the lanes next to me like, "Hotel, asshole!" And "yo" finished every sentence, for politeness.
Ironically, my Korean friends later told me that the cd Korean was way too polite in their culture. Go figure.
20120928
The Mom Test
I was having a hard time on my own in Virginia, musing, There should be a group of people who all live together, and help each other out. I frowned, imagining myself joining a scary cult, before realizing that I had just invented... family. So instead of marrying the next man I saw, I joined that special demographic of adults who live with their parents. I moved in with my mom, and this woman's jurisdiction has more laws than California. I am choosing to study for the GRE to go to grad school to get a real job to afford my own place, rather than try to pass the impossible exam that is daily life here. At least the GRE adheres to a widely accepted standard. If you want to pass the Mom test, you are going to need some extra help. Here is a practice exam I put together:
1. The bathmat goes...
a) on the left side of the tub
b) on the right side of the tub
c) in the bathroom
(Hint: it's not c, contrary to common sense.)
2. To use the microwave...
a) push the buttons
b) cover the food with the glass lid
c) b + put the lid back on top of the microwave, but off the edge a little bit so air can get in
That's as far as I got. I have plenty more questions, but unfortunately they will not be of any use to you because I still do not know any of the answers.
Good luck!
1. The bathmat goes...
a) on the left side of the tub
b) on the right side of the tub
c) in the bathroom
(Hint: it's not c, contrary to common sense.)
2. To use the microwave...
a) push the buttons
b) cover the food with the glass lid
c) b + put the lid back on top of the microwave, but off the edge a little bit so air can get in
That's as far as I got. I have plenty more questions, but unfortunately they will not be of any use to you because I still do not know any of the answers.
Good luck!
20120922
Alcoholic Sports
We're all convinced our friend Glen is a closet alcoholic. This conclusion is mostly based on his sports of choice: golf, bowling, and pool. They all entail individually projecting a ball toward a target, and they are all easily accompanied by booze.
Glen took me out for my first time golfing. This is the most high-maintenance, leisurely "sport" ever. You rent a little car to drive around in, choose from an entire set of clubs just to hit one little ball, and drink. I even found some berries to pick when I got bored.
Bowling is pretty lazy too. When you're not actively participating, you eat nachos and Play Till You Win a stuffed bear from a machine. And doesn't it lose its appeal after you bowl 300, like a video game you've already beaten?
Don't forget pool, which hardly even pretends to be a sport as it is conveniently located in bars. ("Pool" may be used interchangeably with "darts" here.) Personally, if I'm going to play sports at a bar, I prefer to dance, which has about equal footing in the sports category yet boasts much better exercise.
Next time, I'll have to make Glen play soccer with me. I can just imagine him riding onto the field in his cart, then running into an old friend on the opposing team, shooting the breeze, and offering him some apricot brandy in exchange for cinnamon rolls, the referee passionately blowing his whistle all the while.
Glen took me out for my first time golfing. This is the most high-maintenance, leisurely "sport" ever. You rent a little car to drive around in, choose from an entire set of clubs just to hit one little ball, and drink. I even found some berries to pick when I got bored.
Bowling is pretty lazy too. When you're not actively participating, you eat nachos and Play Till You Win a stuffed bear from a machine. And doesn't it lose its appeal after you bowl 300, like a video game you've already beaten?
Don't forget pool, which hardly even pretends to be a sport as it is conveniently located in bars. ("Pool" may be used interchangeably with "darts" here.) Personally, if I'm going to play sports at a bar, I prefer to dance, which has about equal footing in the sports category yet boasts much better exercise.
Next time, I'll have to make Glen play soccer with me. I can just imagine him riding onto the field in his cart, then running into an old friend on the opposing team, shooting the breeze, and offering him some apricot brandy in exchange for cinnamon rolls, the referee passionately blowing his whistle all the while.
20120921
Happy Birthday
I am already at the Richmond airport when my mom calls. She wants to make sure I packed white shoes and my pink and green earrings. "I have a birthday present for you!"
I am heading to Oregon for my cousin's wedding. My mom has been talking for weeks about how she is going to make herself a dress out of some vintage fabric she got from Great Aunt Bess. On the plane, I start to put this information together: the pink and green fabric... the pink and green earrings... the late birthday present... oh nooo. Either my mom decided to make a dress for me instead, or... the other possibility was too terrible to consider.
"Mom, did you make us matching dresses?" I demand to know immediately after greeting her.
"No!" she insists so adamantly that I almost believe her. She disappears into the bedroom and returns holding a hanger in each hand, and flowing from the hangers are two dresses. White with pink and green flowers. Identical. It is at this moment that she has the nerve to burst out, "Happy birthday!"
"LIAR!" I roar.
"I'm not a liar!" she insists smugly. "Heidi made them." My mom and I would be the pie servers at the reception, and she thought it would be fun if we matched. Her idea of fun also includes taking the light rail to the end of the line and back for no reason, an activity I refused to participate in. The dress should be rejected, no question. But this situation was a little more complicated.
The guilt: Grandpa just died. I'm living on the wrong coast. Heidi already did the work.
On the other hand: The dresses look the same.
I mentally try to accept the dress like I mentally tried to accept white supremacy one time, just to see if I could. In both cases, I couldn't. Showing up in the same dress as someone else on accident would be a nightmare; grown women matching on purpose was just wrong.
So I don't know how to explain how I end up wearing the dress. I guess I belong to a special race after all: white floral.
It's an outdoor wedding, and as my mom, brother and I approach the site where other guests are trailing in, I feel as though I am the only one in costume at a party. I make sure my brother sits between us, and as we are sitting in rows, no one seems to notice. For a short time I am distracted by the ceremony, although horrified to find that even the bridesmaids' dresses don't match. How do I get myself into these situations?
The reception is more awkward. I take my place next to my mother behind the dessert table and concentrate on using my knife as a tool rather than a weapon. I note that the banquet servers are all wearing black pants with white shirts, and this information serves as a source of tranquility. Still, I can read the question on the faces of everyone I meet, as my mother is proudly announcing at every introduction, "...and this is my daughter!"
It's one of my most embarrassing moments, but in the end, I am proud of myself. I didn't have a nervous breakdown, I didn't try to commit suicide, and I most certainly did not abuse the gift-giving occasion for my own sick purposes.
When the day is done, the dress slides right off and the zipper doesn't even get stuck, as though it shared my discomfort with the situation. It never fit right, anyway.
I am heading to Oregon for my cousin's wedding. My mom has been talking for weeks about how she is going to make herself a dress out of some vintage fabric she got from Great Aunt Bess. On the plane, I start to put this information together: the pink and green fabric... the pink and green earrings... the late birthday present... oh nooo. Either my mom decided to make a dress for me instead, or... the other possibility was too terrible to consider.
"Mom, did you make us matching dresses?" I demand to know immediately after greeting her.
"No!" she insists so adamantly that I almost believe her. She disappears into the bedroom and returns holding a hanger in each hand, and flowing from the hangers are two dresses. White with pink and green flowers. Identical. It is at this moment that she has the nerve to burst out, "Happy birthday!"
"LIAR!" I roar.
"I'm not a liar!" she insists smugly. "Heidi made them." My mom and I would be the pie servers at the reception, and she thought it would be fun if we matched. Her idea of fun also includes taking the light rail to the end of the line and back for no reason, an activity I refused to participate in. The dress should be rejected, no question. But this situation was a little more complicated.
The guilt: Grandpa just died. I'm living on the wrong coast. Heidi already did the work.
On the other hand: The dresses look the same.
I mentally try to accept the dress like I mentally tried to accept white supremacy one time, just to see if I could. In both cases, I couldn't. Showing up in the same dress as someone else on accident would be a nightmare; grown women matching on purpose was just wrong.
So I don't know how to explain how I end up wearing the dress. I guess I belong to a special race after all: white floral.
It's an outdoor wedding, and as my mom, brother and I approach the site where other guests are trailing in, I feel as though I am the only one in costume at a party. I make sure my brother sits between us, and as we are sitting in rows, no one seems to notice. For a short time I am distracted by the ceremony, although horrified to find that even the bridesmaids' dresses don't match. How do I get myself into these situations?
The reception is more awkward. I take my place next to my mother behind the dessert table and concentrate on using my knife as a tool rather than a weapon. I note that the banquet servers are all wearing black pants with white shirts, and this information serves as a source of tranquility. Still, I can read the question on the faces of everyone I meet, as my mother is proudly announcing at every introduction, "...and this is my daughter!"
It's one of my most embarrassing moments, but in the end, I am proud of myself. I didn't have a nervous breakdown, I didn't try to commit suicide, and I most certainly did not abuse the gift-giving occasion for my own sick purposes.
When the day is done, the dress slides right off and the zipper doesn't even get stuck, as though it shared my discomfort with the situation. It never fit right, anyway.
20120821
Interview
I like to be festive, so when my friend and I went on a cross-country hippie road trip one summer, I got rid of my nicer clothes, keeping old, worn-out clothes and shoes.
After two months, we were sick of living out of the car, so Sky (formerly known as Ashley) took a bus back home and I began looking for a job in Richmond, Virginia. Armed with a yellow folder of resumes, a worthless degree, and the ever-present need to pay for it, I applied to restaurants, temp agencies, manual labor, and even a volunteer program that paid a living stipend. Anything that would pay the bills.
In my experience over the years, I have observed that the lower the pay, the more absurd the interview. Once, for a fast food joint, I was questioned for no fewer than thirty minutes about my strengths and weaknesses, what I would do in hypothetical situations, and how others would describe me. I speak English, I graduated middle school, and I can tie my own non-skid shoes. What more do you need?
My theory was confirmed true at the volunteer interview in Richmond. I wore the best outfit I could muster at the time, which was a tank top, cutoff denim skirt, and flip-flops. I flip-flopped into the room, thinking this would be a breeze. So I wasn't prepared when they threw this question at me out of nowhere, like a snowball in July: "What is your greatest accomplishment?" My greatest accomplishment? I stalled for time, going through the archives of my existence. My mind landed on field day in third grade, when we had a contest to see who could kick our shoes off our feet the farthest. I got second place. My greatest accomplishment is withstanding this cruel interrogation, you sicko terrorist!
Never before had I been faced with that question. What had I accomplished, anyway? As I mentally skimmed through my life, nothing much stood out. I haven't climbed any mountains because I've spent most of my life just trying to make it to sea level. Doesn't that count for anything? What were they expecting me to say -- that I saved a tree, or a whale, or an orphan? I feel accomplished when I save my receipt!
I ended up BSing my answer, and I didn't get the position. Rejected for a volunteer job, I lamented. I wondered what the greatest accomplishments were of the people who were selected. Maybe they raised money for hurricane victims. Maybe they invented a new medical device. Maybe they wore shoes to the interview.
After two months, we were sick of living out of the car, so Sky (formerly known as Ashley) took a bus back home and I began looking for a job in Richmond, Virginia. Armed with a yellow folder of resumes, a worthless degree, and the ever-present need to pay for it, I applied to restaurants, temp agencies, manual labor, and even a volunteer program that paid a living stipend. Anything that would pay the bills.
In my experience over the years, I have observed that the lower the pay, the more absurd the interview. Once, for a fast food joint, I was questioned for no fewer than thirty minutes about my strengths and weaknesses, what I would do in hypothetical situations, and how others would describe me. I speak English, I graduated middle school, and I can tie my own non-skid shoes. What more do you need?
My theory was confirmed true at the volunteer interview in Richmond. I wore the best outfit I could muster at the time, which was a tank top, cutoff denim skirt, and flip-flops. I flip-flopped into the room, thinking this would be a breeze. So I wasn't prepared when they threw this question at me out of nowhere, like a snowball in July: "What is your greatest accomplishment?" My greatest accomplishment? I stalled for time, going through the archives of my existence. My mind landed on field day in third grade, when we had a contest to see who could kick our shoes off our feet the farthest. I got second place. My greatest accomplishment is withstanding this cruel interrogation, you sicko terrorist!
Never before had I been faced with that question. What had I accomplished, anyway? As I mentally skimmed through my life, nothing much stood out. I haven't climbed any mountains because I've spent most of my life just trying to make it to sea level. Doesn't that count for anything? What were they expecting me to say -- that I saved a tree, or a whale, or an orphan? I feel accomplished when I save my receipt!
I ended up BSing my answer, and I didn't get the position. Rejected for a volunteer job, I lamented. I wondered what the greatest accomplishments were of the people who were selected. Maybe they raised money for hurricane victims. Maybe they invented a new medical device. Maybe they wore shoes to the interview.
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