Category Archives: adulthood

Sister Christian, oh the time has come

So my car didn’t start this morning. I feel like that is one of those adult problems that I would have had to deal with sooner or later, but I was hoping to put it off until I had a husband or something. A rich husband who will lend me his Mercedes to drive to work. And by work I mean the manicurist. I don’t work. Not when hubs is rich. I mean, we’re so rich that I call him “hubs,” which is a disgusting word. And yes, WE’RE so rich because there was no prenup because he made it big AFTER we got married. Also, he believes in the power of love because he’s an idiot. There’s no such thing as love.

Point is: Sister Christian (my car) was being a real playa hata this morning. Drinking the Haterade. Flavor? Blue Ice-Cold Bitch.

I think it’s important to add this detail now: it’s Halloween, and my subdued-for-work costume is wearing all black, a black leather jacket, and a Dread Pirate Roberts mask. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing more pathetic than someone wearing a Dread Pirate Roberts/catburgler getup staring confusedly at her car and whimpering “Sister Christian, why?” Someone walking a dog passed me as my car sputtered and gave me a slightly amused/sympathetic look. Listen, bitch, you take your doodlepoppypoo and get out of my eye-line. Ya heeeaaard?

Anyway, I took the only course of action I could think of: I popped the hood (a miracle I even knew how to do that) and I pulled up what was probably the dipstick, but who knows. It had schmutz on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s good. I’m not sure if the level of schmutz was good, but I looked at it knowingly anyway. Everything else under the hood looked like car, so I closed it. I tried calling my parents, but they didn’t answer. WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER HAVING PARENTS IF THEY WON’T PICK UP THE PHONE? Useless. Finally, I did the only thing I could do: I turned the key in the ignition and held it there until it started. This was after about 30 seconds of sad sputtering. Awesome.

If you’ve ever been in this position, when your car finally does start, you realize that you went through a whole gamut of emotions: Panic that you’ll be late for work. Calm that there’s an actual excuse for being late to work. Anxiety that you may need to spend a lot of money on your car. Delight in thinking that you can probably take the day off (or lat least a half day). Determination in not letting a machine beat you. Relief when the car finally starts. Confusion when you wonder, “What does this meeeaaan?” And finally depression when you realize that you can go to work and still be on time, but not have enough time to stop at 7-11 for coffee. You win, Sister Christian. You hateful bitch.

I’m making up for my morning’s slow start with pure badassery, though. It’s hard to feel more badass than you do in this moment: wearing black leather and a mask and blaring Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” as you power-stomp past all your coworkers on your way to the bathroom. BLAMMO.

Harder than the Oregon Trail

I think it is a truth universally acknowledged that moving is the worst thing ever. Yes, that includes genocide, famine and just general…jackassery.First you have to put all your shit into boxes. How does one accumulate so many hair products and towels? And why do I have “Thank You” cards? I’ve never thanked anybody a day in my life. I also discovered that I own, like, four Allen wrenches. Which is weird, since I don’t own that much stuff from Ikea and when else do you get an Allen wrench? Unimportant.

But you never throw away any of this. Oh no, you bought it, so you must really need it. And I do. I’m sure I do.

Eventually there is the actual hauling of the shit to another place. I’m a cheap bastard whose furniture has the cumulative worth of about 300 dollars, so I wasn’t about to spend 50 dollars renting a van. That’s insanity. So instead I haul whatever you can haphazardly fit into my hatchback back and forth like 40 times, praying to God or the Great Atheismo that my futon frame doesn’t fall out of the back window while I’m driving down the highway.

Then there’s the daunting task of unpacking your shit. I just put it all into boxes a few days ago, and now I have to take it all again. Take it all out while keeping a general floor/organizational plan in mind. The motivation at this stage is generally lacking. It’s been over a week and I still haven’t managed to put sheets on my futon mattress. My futon mattress that is lying on the floor. Lying on the floor with a lamp and blu-ray player sitting on the corner, for whatever reason. I am essentially a hobo. A hobo with a blu-ray player, which is a very special kind of hobo. A hobo with a lack of priorities.

Case in point: I was watching Hoarders with the new roommate and she said, “I noticed that with these people the bed is always the first thing to go. They don’t put on sheets and it gets all nasty,” and my first thought was a panicked, “She knows.”Which brings me to the most awkward part about living with a new roommate: the slow process of marking your territory. In all my roommate endeavours, it’s been me moving into an empty room of an already-furnished apartment. So, like, there’s the first night where I don’t do anything. The second night I’ll leave my toothbrush out. The third night, I’ll put food in the cupboards. The fourth night, I’ll use the stove. And so on, until eventually the place screams, “Lisa lives here too, bitches! AND SHE COOKS WITH A LOT OF GARLIC AND CINNAMON!”

The Facts of Life…

…was a weak show. I get it; the girls were sassy. And they learned an important life lesson every week. Big deal. If you want to watch a show with life lessons, watch Full House because at least then you get to look at John Stamos.

Anyway, I may not have been on this planet for a really long time, but I have learned some stuff about life. So let’s just dive right on in. And don’t try to dispute any of these–they’ve been proven with SCIENCE.

  • If a friend you haven’t talked to in a long time asks you, “So, what have you been up to?” there’s an 80% chance that said friend is about to brag to you about something. There is a further 50% chance that this thing will be incredibly asinine.
  • 60% of the time, it works every time.
  • You will be robbed at one point. Just hope it’s soon and hope it’s small.
  • 50-75% of all electronic problems can be solved by turning the thing off and on again or toggling something.
  • You will never win a “who’s more exhausted” battle. The other person always is a student or has young children or something stupid.
  • People who really like Ayn Rand are always douchebags.
  • People who can quote The Simpsons (seasons 2-10) and/or Arrested Development are awesome 82% of the time.
  • If you drink a lot of water and then decide to go on a long car ride to clear your head and jam along to music, you WILL spend the whole time just thinking about how much you have to pee.
  • The SECOND you decide to start a new fitness regimen, one of your joints will spontaneously combust in terror.
  • Invest in a board game. Everyone likes board games.
  • The “Placebo Effect” does not work for hair products. Just because you spent 50 dollars and really want it to work doesn’t mean your hair will magically not be like straw.
  • The amount of happiness you feel is inversely proportional to the number of foods you restrict yourself.
  • Everyone knows not to go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line (or start a land war in Asia), but only slightly less well known is this: Never argue with a Republican unless you want to question your moral code (i.e. is murder really that bad?).
  • You can’t judge a person by the contents of their iPod or their Netflix instant stream list. Well, you can, but you’re not getting the full picture (I have an absurd amount of 90s pop and have watched a lot of American Dad)
  • No matter how good you are at something, someone is always ALWAYS better than you. Like, a lot better. Like, so much better that you should probably give up. But don’t. That person may die before you. Of course, this person will be replaced by another person who is better than you (you are really far down the line of good-ness).

I wish my spirit guide was a space coyote…

Like this one...

I think I need to go on a vision quest. Or do drugs in a national park, but I think that amounts to the same thing.
I need some sort of meerkat spiritual guide to slap me with its little hand-shaped paw and say, “Idiot! This is what you’re supposed to be doing! What you’re doing now is just wasting valuable time!”

Thanks, little meerkat. I’m working on it.

Problem is, my generation (and the adjacent ones, I’m sure) is soft. We’re like putty. Our parents told us that we can “be anything we want to be.” Awww, does my widdle pwecious snowfwake want to be an astronaut doctor cowboy? Well, baby, if you wish it, you can be it.

False, y’all.

Now there are a bunch of twenty-somethings (okay, me), who change their career paths every twenty minutes. Ad exec? No, wait: lawyer! I lied, I’m totally going to be a writer. Wait, no, speech pathologist. I LIED AGAIN: ASTRONAUT DOCTOR COWBOY!

Sometimes I wish we could revert to some kind of caste or feudal system. Can you imagine the freedom of not having existential crises every twenty goddamn minutes? You could just work on being the best serf you could be. And any time you had delusions of having a different life, someone would beat the thoughts out of you. Ahhh, bliss.

So, I guess what I’m getting at is: does anyone want to go to Joshua Tree with me?

What they didn’t teach you in Harvard business school

Since the weather is beginning to get a little more summery (at least where I am–I don’t care about where you are), neighborhood children are putting on their little entrepreneurial hats, dragging out the Fischer Price tables, and selling some lemonade.

Wait, there's a lemon behind that rock!

This little neighbor kid Wyatt (ugh…just ugh), the one who has referred to me as the “scary lady,” was having a little lemonade stand with his ever-watchful father present and standing behind him like a bouncer. Though cosmically, the 20ish year age difference (oh CHRIST I’m OLD) isn’t very much, the generational difference with respect to lemonade stand methodology could not have been more apparent.

Allow me to paint you a word-picture: this kid was proudly displaying two cartons of Minute Maid lemonade and charging 0.50 for a shot glass of the stuff (a Dixie Cup is the same as a shot glass right? I mean, we’ve all been there). So yeah, I bought a glass (mostly to appease the father), and tossed that shit back like tequila. It was warm. Very unsatisfying. If I were to yelp it, my review would not have been favorable, and those things can make or break a business. Take pride in your business, Wyatt!


Anyway, back before I was lemonade grandstanding (see what I did thurr?), I had my own lemonade stands. Some were successful, though admittedly this was before the recession hit. Long story short (too late), I learned the ins and outs of the business:

  1. You may be cute, but cuteness don’t pay the rent. Customers may buy the first glass to appease the doe-eyed hellspawn, but the PRODUCT keeps them coming back for more.
  2. Have the DECENCY to pretend that the stuff was home-made. Have a pitcher with ice cubes and everything. Displaying your cartons of Minute Maid is just so…gauche. Sure, I didn’t mix lemon juice with sugar and water–I was too young to figure out the perfect ratio. And yeah, my trusty old Country Time powder had never even been in close proximity to a real lemon, but at least I added in the water and stirred.
  3. Add ice. Lots of ice. People are buying this stuff because it’s hot out, so make sure to add enough ice without the stuff getting watered down. It’s worth the effort.
  4. Your parent should not be standing near you, staring neighbors down like the eye of Sauron. Can’t rely on daddy forever, kiddo. And if someone tried to kidnap you, throw lemonade in his eyes.
  5. The price should match the product. I guess I don’t know how inflation has affected today’s lemonade stands, but 50 cents for a Dixie Cup seems off. I needs those quarters to feed parking meters.
I hope Wyatt doesn’t represent a growing trend in today’s lemonade stands, because frankly, I don’t have the patience to put up with all this childish half-assery.

(On a tangentially related note, I remember my last lemonade stand. I was in fifth grade and my friend and I set up a little stand outside of her house. We sat there all afternoon and only sold one cup–to her mother. That was the day we discovered that we weren’t adorable anymore.)

Behold the ravages of age!

In an effort to be more proactive about negating some of the stuff I have been indiscriminately shoving down my gullet as of late, I thought to myself, Hey, wouldn’t it be neat if I woke up 30 minutes early and did that 30 Day Shred Video that I’ve had forever and never actually done. Metabolism boost! SHREDDED BODY! ARM MUSCLES!”

Boo. Yah.

And in a miracle that beats that whole water-into-wine nonsense, I actually got up at 6:30, put on workout clothes, and poised myself in front of the screen. Honestly, I could have gone back to sleep at this point and already called the day a success. But I soldiered on like…a soldier.

So there I am, jump-jacking like a moron in my bedroom at 6:30 AM, and then I hear this NOISE.

Pop! [beat] Pop! [beat] Pop!

What the HELL is happening? It sounded like a slow-paced ping pong game.

It took like five pops to realize this sound was coming from me, or, more specifically, my right ankle. WHAT THE WHAT? WHY AM I MAKING NOISES?! (Sure, if I had to guess, it’s probably from spraining my ankle, like, a bajillion times, but whatever).

There wasn’t, like, any pain, but just knowing that the noise was coming from me made me feel something. Like someone was popping bubble wrap in my joint. I would have been able to ignore the feeling if it weren’t for the noise! THE NOISE! Like The Telltale Heart, I was being driven mad by a rogue body part. And all I want is to get shredded!

So, I guess I’m just wondering: is this something my body is just going to do now? Make noises like a broken bicycle? NICE! THIS IS WHY I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE!

I’m nervous to try again tomorrow.

Just wait until I hit that quarter-life crisis (any day now)

Being an adult kind of sucks sometimes. I don’t think many people are going to deny that. I mean, once I just woke up and couldn’t move my neck. For no reason. Also, when I was a kid, I didn’t have a MasterCard bill to make me depressed. 

But sometimes being an adult is awesome. In my boredom (the type of boredom that isn’t interrupted by an emergency end-of-the-world teenage crisis every five minutes), I decided to make an oddly esoteric list on why being an adult is awesome:

I can watch things like this

  1. Last night I had dessert for dinner. Because I could. And for dessert, I had carrots.
  2. I actually like vegetables, so it’s not really this whole big thing to eat them.
  3. I can drive, so if I really feel like a Mounds bar at 9:00 PM, then I can go out and buy one. And yes, that scenario is way too specific to not have happened before.
  4. I did not attend high school during the era of Facebook and fancy phones that can take video. Ugh, can you imagine being a teenager and social networking? Kill me before that happens.
  5. I own MY OWN television, MY OWN rug, and MY OWN printer. You want to so much as LOOK at my television, you had better ask me. I mean, I researched what was the best television to buy in my price range and then I bought it. Talk about pride of ownership. What did I have 10 years ago? A discman I got as a present.
  6. I can drink alcohol and say things like, “Ah, yes, I prefer a merlot to a cabernet sauvignon. But to each his own,” and people might assume I know what I’m talking about.
  7. I am old enough to be flippant about things.
  8. I realized which math is actually important for real life, and I have promptly forgotten the rest.
  9. If I don’t want to go on a run or do some other physical activity with somebody, I can say something like, “Oh, sorry, I can’t. I have a bad knee,” and people accept it as fact, because when you’re old, your body falls apart.
  10. I understand hidden jokes in cartoons. Who knew that they could be so RACY?
  11. I’m just old enough that I’m not expected to know how to work every piece of technology ever. Which is awesome, since I don’t know how.
  12. I have learned the value of a dollar, and I have learned to disregard this knowledge when I go to Target.
  13. I can end lists with 13 items. Kids always stop at 10…or 100 if they’re annoying and ambitious.