tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6902724728262312892024-02-20T18:31:03.125-08:00Memoirs of a BaristaCaffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-23291352712062019422010-11-03T17:34:00.000-07:002010-11-03T17:35:37.494-07:00In my twilight, <br />of late nights and bad decisions,<br />choices I relish…and a few I forgot.<br /><br />In a stupor of joyful whimsy, <br />I resemble a taller version of the incorruptibility left behind. <br />Oh so many years ago. <br /><br />In a lifetime full of friendly strangers, <br />I navigate…a sea of same-ness that blends into the background noise. <br />White noise as you ponder the journey, not quite sure of the destination or its purpose. <br /><br />Somewhere, somehow the blood that moves through your veins is suddenly frozen. <br />And in that instant you know what it is to be naked.<br /><br />Exposing the truth of your soul in the hopes that the gaping magnitude doesn’t swallow you alive,<br />after a moment of time hurled me into the ether.<br /><br />Your breath, new life.<br />Your laugh, my safeguard.<br />Your smirk, my grace.<br />Your smell, home.<br />Your touch, my redemption.<br />Your kiss, my freedom.<br /><br />Then the earth returns to its axis. Aching that the rotation’s natural progression would give pause. And for a moment in time…<br /><br />I was happy.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-35855843482012005572010-10-28T10:00:00.000-07:002010-10-28T10:01:16.906-07:00CaringWhen entering the terrifying realm of dating one must strip down the thick skin has been built up over the years and feel the sometimes painful experience of exposing oneself to another. Admittedly, this has not always been my strong suit. In fact, if anything, I am quite talented at peeking outside the ivory tower just long enough to realize that a thicker wall must be constructed for emotional safety’s sake. Bringing another person into my life, let alone letting them see the real me are foreign concepts to me, concepts that seem like an alluring siren’s song, until reality sets in. <br /><br />As an actor it is much easier to assume a reality that better suits the situation that I find myself in. To assimilate into a new culture and a new personality, while seamlessly weaving parts of my own past into this new character’s background. I can draw from personal experiences to create a familiarity for people that seems genuine enough to be believed. This is how I find myself getting through my day to day. People selectively see parts of me that I bring out when appropriate. Cues from others can be detected when that prompt character growth. Though I am nowhere near a genius (trust me, Mensa wont be knockin’ at my door anytime soon) I do have enough street smarts and enough tribal knowledge built up that I can have fully engaged conversations on subjects I know snippets about and make new friends on barely shared interests. I can safely count the number of people on one hand that know the real me and up until this point in my life, that has served me just fine.<br /><br />However, I am at an impasse on how to move forward at this point in my life and this is new to me. While I am thankful that I will always have the WONDERFUL people in my life that have seen the real me stripped down and raw and still love me for who I am and who I am becoming, I have never allowed a romantic partner in on that level. And while I do (kind of) like the idea of doing that, the very thought of it makes my extremities cold and my stomach want to bring up whatever it was digesting. Am I doomed to wander to earth a perpetual people pleaser, only showing people the sides of me that I detect they want to see? Will I never be able to allow a man to see my soul and hold my hand? Will I never be able to accept help or a favor from someone who is acting purely out of love without suspecting that I will later have to repay that favor at a greater cost to my emotional wellbeing?<br /><br />And what if I do meet someone (this is purely hypothetical) that I want to show the real me to? How does one go about removing the layers and layers of their extremities to expose the truth? How do you know if they even want to see the real you? How do you gage their reactions as the real you and not look for the clues to be found in their facial expressions and posture and adapt to what you determine they will find a more comfortable version of you? How do I tell someone that the thought of them seeing me naked makes me want to cry hot tears and hide? How do you tell someone that the thought of someone loving me for real makes me want to hurt myself? Those are things that are not easy to say yet I scream in my head when I meet someone I could really care about.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-75424938636104215332010-08-24T16:43:00.000-07:002010-08-24T16:44:41.104-07:00The Great OutdoorsAfter moving to the Northwest, I have become acutely aware of the amount of people that enjoy a wide variety of outdoors activities, like camping. They actually plan time to trek out into the cold, damp wilderness, set up a gingham shelter and sleep on the ground. I find this procedure asinine. We as humans have spent a lot of time and energy to make astounding advancements in technology so we could live a comfortable life indoors. I have been told that camping is a great way to “escape” and to reconnect with nature. Again, I have to say, this seems asinine to me. As far as I can see, the people that go camping invest a LOT of money in buying expensive and durable equipment to shield themselves from the nature they are trying to connect with.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I guess I have never been what you could call an “outdoorsy” kind of girl…I know, shocker. I have been known to enjoy an occasional long walk, I have skinny dipped in the ocean at dawn, and I have even enjoyed the beach, as long as there is shade near by…that is where my outdoorsy exposure really ends. So you can imagine my horror when I was asked to join some friends on a camping trip, in my mind the only form of camping I was aware of was 3 stars or less.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As I was faced with the fate of spending 3 whole days surviving the elements, I realized that I should probably try to arm myself. I rarely entertain the idea of buying flat shoes, let alone hiking boots. A helpful coworker suggested that I try to keep an open mind and go to REI (conveniently located across the street from where I work). I do want to point out before I begin this open-minded tale, that I find it slightly ironic that people by the thousands gather at this temperature controlled Mecca for out-of-doors activities, to buy very expensive prepackaged merchandise to enhance their experience of the great outdoors.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I was awestruck by how immense the store was. It housed literally hundreds of thousands of items all for people who wanted to go outside all in the name of “fun”. The floors were decorated with staged scenarios and pristine models of colorful equipment, it was like the Ikea showroom (only most of the items in REI have names that are slightly easier to pronounce). I wandered around for nearly an hour just staring at the displays in wonder. The first thought that came to my mind was, how many people out there actually assemble these things correctly on the first try? I’m sure the instructions to these things are more complicated than the Rosetta stone, and anyone that could actually put them together, let alone make them look as good as they looked perfectly displayed in REI, has got to be a genius of Mensa quality.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I first located the biggest item that I figured I would need, a tent. Wandering through the entire section of the store dedicated ONLY to covering oneself, I found myself overwhelmed. Did you know that there are over 20 types of tents? I didn’t. Tents with names that include, Chum, Kohte, Lavvu, Sami Tent, Loue, Pandal, Sibley…I take back my afore mentioned comment about the product names at Ikea.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Well hey there! Do you have any questions?” asked an overly chipper voice behind me. The first thought I had was to say a polite no thank you and beeline out of there to find myself a place more suited to my personality (preferably a store that stocked high heels). But instead I looked this guy dead in the face and said,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“I have a camping trip coming up, and I don’t really know what to get.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Oh well sure! I can help you with that! I’m Chip! Well, the first thing you’re going to need is a tent!” I repressed my urge to say ‘No shit Sherlock’ and instead blindly nodded and followed Chip and his popped collar down one of the isles. “Well, the first thing you should consider, is your location. Do you know where you’ll be camping?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“In the woods?” I answered. He laughed hysterically for about 2 minutes and then said,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“You’re funny!” It was all I could do to keep from kicking him in the shin, as ‘the woods’ really was my best approximation of where I would be going. My friends did of course mention where we would be camping, I just chose not to retain any of the information dispensed after hearing that we would be braving nature. Chip then noticed my helpless and somewhat miffed face that obviously had no fucking clue where I was going and abruptly stopped laughing. I believe it was at this moment when he realized that he was dealing with a camping virgin. It also must have dawned on him that this was a rare encounter in which he could sell an immense amount of useless crap to an inexperienced first timer.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“We should get you a cart” He said and rushed off. I stood in the isle, much like a cow stands in line at the slaughter house thinking “gosh this is a nice change from shitting in a field, it sure smells funny in here, but I’ll stand here because they told me to. Hmmm, I wonder where Bessy went?” Upon Chip’s return, I had come to two conclusions, one, that I was totally and completely helpless in this situation; and two, that I was going to regret letting Chip help me.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As we piled stuff into my cart Chip would pause intermittently to show me the benefits of the latest lightweight poncho or the exciting advancements in Swiss army knife technology and I would nod in feigned interest, I haven’t had to work that hard at faking anything since my last relationship.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Out of sheer morbid curiosity, I was beginning to wonder what all of this was going to cost me. In fact, I think investing in real-estate might be cheaper and at least in that case I would theoretically have a house to stay in instead of paying to expose myself to all of natures glory. “Hey Chip, what is all of this going to cost me? I need to be able to afford a couple of other things this month, like food and rent.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Well, let’s see shall we?” He whipped out a plastic calculator and began to furiously tap away, adding up just how much of dignity was going to be lost while trying to set up this equipment. “Looks like with tax, everything is going to come out to about $1,465.00” After the stunned silence that followed, I was able to muster up the only logical response I could think of,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Let me get this straight Chip, you want me to spend $1500 on equipment that I will probably only use once, that I will probably not be able to set up properly, and that I mostly likely wont even need to use unless I plan on summiting Everest on this trip?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Well, the self cooling rust resistant hydration pod is really very useful and that inflatable respite divan will give added comfort-“<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Well, let me put this a different way, Chip, the ONLY way I am spending $1500 on a 3 day weekend is if it is going to involve a passport, a bikini and barely dressed waiter resembling Brad Pitt carrying a Mojito.” <br /><br />In retrospect I think I may have bruised poor Chip’s ego a little by reacting the way I did…but the thought of spending that much money on something that ultimately means less to me than socks, was a bit too much for me to entertain seriously. Eventually I was able to walk out of there with less than $100 worth of equipment and a smile on my face…and Chip was able to walk away with at least one testicle still descended.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-55369393197473672772010-07-19T14:13:00.000-07:002010-07-19T14:14:33.785-07:00Working on my FitnessLately I have noticed that an alarming number of my friends are working up a sweat for recreational purposes. While I do find this admiral, I have a hard time picturing donning stretchy materials for any reason other than losing a bet. In fact, the last time I went running, I think I was running towards a Charles David sample sale (which admittedly you have to be pretty fit to get through without breaking a limb). To be honest, when I hear them talking about bonding over waking up at unthinkable hours, braving the elements while working up copious amounts of sweat and ultimately thrashing their bodies, all I can think about is how great it felt to wake up this morning in my freshly washed sheets on my fluffy pillow-top mattress and hit the snooze button five times until I was ready to roll out of bed.<br /><br />Now I am not lazy by any means. I have been known to sprint upstairs in 4 inch heels, crunch pretty hard when taking off the 4 inch heels, stretch into a warriors pose when grabbing the Trader Joes Baked Crispies out of my cupboard, keeping my feet at shoulder width apart while squatting onto my couch, and of course several reps of the 12oz diet coke curl. In fact, just thinking about all of this activity has caused me to break out in a small sweat.<br /><br />Lately my self-imposed guilt has gotten the best of me as I notice that my coworkers seem to developing a healthy glow and wearing smaller sizes and all I seem to be able to retain is water weight. So in an attempt to jump on the band wagon (that counts as exercise right?) I found myself walking into the gym that I have been a member of for over a year. I have never actually gone into my gym since the day I joined it and got a free tour/personal training session with a very attractive young man named Blaine…with a name like that, he really only had one clear career choice. I also got a free smoothie and a hat, so win, win. Blaine was nice to look at, but by the end of the 45 minutes that I spent with him, the only thing I wanted to do was throw my shoe at his perfectly gelled hair and wipe that crest-kid smile off his far too perfect face for doing 60 sit ups with me while not getting winded. So, needless to say, I was not looking forward to walking into unfamiliar territory that I paid an annual fee to never go to.<br /><br />After about 10 minutes of wandering around and walking into what I hope was the women’s steam room (it was too steamy to see specific body parts) I managed to find the locker room. I located a locker that was not positioned directly in front of a mirror and began the very painful process of undressing in a public forum filled with perfect strangers. I have found that when in public changes rooms, there are certain unspoken rules one of which, don’t speak to anyone while they are naked. As I was almost done pulling on my lycra calf-length exercise shorts, a much older and naked-er woman looked at me and said,<br /><br />“Where do I know you from? You look so familiar to me!” I really didn’t know how to formulate a response to this, I was having a hard enough time trying to figure out where to put my eyes.<br /><br />“Hmmmmm. I don’t know. I work in the area, maybe you know me from the building?” I asked.<br /><br />“Oh really? Where do you work?”<br /><br />“Cole and Weber across the street.”<br /><br />“Hmmmmm. Well, that’s not it. Huh, well it will probably come to me later. Have a good work out!” I smiled to the best of my ability and turned my focus back to tying my shoes.<br /><br />After locking my possessions with my extremely flimsy $2 padlock which was obviously going to detour any focused thief from walking away with my iPhone, I made my way to the cardio floor. The cardio floor is a gigantic, loosely air conditioned room that smells heavily of human sweat and old men. People hoping to secure a cardio machine stand in line waiting for the opportunity to expend energy in a controlled environment. All the treadmills were taken, so I meandered over the something called an elliptical machine. The elliptical machines are interesting looking contraptions that make me conjure images of Tony Little on his Gazel enthusiastically running suspended in air while wearing spandex and a fanny pack. I had never until that moment ever actually tried one of these machines and I have to admit, I was more than a little intimidated. Somehow the women around me were able to work with the elliptical and not fight against what seemed to be a very unnatural movement. It’s not like running, and in fact, you are forced to keep your feet still while spinning at a high rate and trying to move your hips to the movement so you don’t lock up and launch yourself into the person directly to your right or left. After several unsuccessful tries and some very sympathetic glances from my sweaty neighbors, I admitted defeat. I could not find my rhythm on that thing…hell, who was I kidding, I don’t have enough rhythm to successfully perform the Macarena.<br /><br />While trying to master the dismount from that horrible contraption, I noticed Blaine from across the room torturing yet another innocent woman who was obviously lured into that situation by his rock hard pecs and winning smile that seemed to say “Don’t worry, you could run a marathon tomorrow if you wanted to, trust me, I’m a professional.” I tried to not make direct eye contact, but somehow he saw me and waved. For some inexplicable reason, I raised my arm to wave back, which is not as it turns out a wise idea while trying to get off of a large piece of “exercise” equipment that you have never used before. Before I knew it, my foot that was still planted firmly on one of the elliptical’s moving parts dropped like a gliding rock bringing my body with it, however I somehow missed the upswing of said moving part and pitched myself forward trying to catch onto anything that didn’t have a component in motion. Instead, I ended up grabbing air as I swan dove into the front console of the machine missing knocking out my front teeth by millimeters. If that wasn’t an argument to spend the rest of my life from the safety of my couch, I don’t know what was. I swiftly tried to correct myself and ended up lurching upward and stumbling a few steps into the machine directly behind me. Not my most graceful moment, almost as bad as seeing me attempt the Macarena.<br /><br />To my horror, I noticed that the person on the machine behind me, was none other than my once naked conversation partner from the women’s locker room. Thankfully she mentioned nothing of my clumsy dismount and instead took out her ear phones to ask me if I was ok. The only thing severely bruised was my pride at this point and all I really wanted to do was run, far, far away. So I did just that. I retreated to the locker room, gathered up all my crap and bee-lined for the door vowing never to publicly work out again. <br /><br />I remembered later that night where naked woman knew me from by the way, she was a professor of mine in college 10 years ago…Why she recognized me partially clothed from across a large public locker room is a thought that still plagues me to this day.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-5717639732361962722010-06-04T09:47:00.000-07:002010-06-04T09:48:09.637-07:00Hot Wax and Speed ZonesIn Medieval times a common form of punishment was torture. A wide (and rather creative) array of methods, machines, and tools were invented for various degrees of pain and public humiliation. In England for instance, drawing and quartering an individual was a popular practice that was often done for large crowds (the disembowelment and ultimate beheading of a person was the modern equivalent of dinner and a show). Another very widely used form of torment were chastity belts, which women were regularly expected to don in order to give their future husbands and families a semblance of security that her purity was indeed intact rendering her a much more valuable bargaining chip when negotiating her potential marital union. Being a history buff, I have seen multiple examples of the wrought iron thongs, and I would have to say, I would rather be drawn and quartered. <br /><br />While such methods are no longer practiced today, there have been new rituals invented to take their place. And while ancient forms of torture were regularly acted out on the accused, we as modern women seem to willingly seek it out. I am of course talking about, waxing. Women routinely have their hair follicles ripped from their skin while a perfect stranger (usually named Ingrid or Olga) with a very heavy accent contorts our lower bodies into exposing and uncomfortable positions. After the warm sticky wax, compromising positions that would make a Chinese gymnast blush, excruciating pain, and hours of red bumpy highly sensitive skin, we are expected to pay them for this service and tip them well. <br /><br />Personally, I had never bought into this. I couldn’t see the sense in paying someone to tend to that area. But I began to notice that more and more women are beginning to liken this experience to a trip to the dentist, as regular maintenance. On a recent shopping trip with my Mom I had it brought to my attention that my “area” could use a little “control”. I was of course doing the one thing that most females dread, swimsuit shopping. Much like the chastity belts of yore, swimsuits are an uncomfortable form of female bondage popular to our era. The spandex prisons are by nature frighteningly unflattering on the wrong form and unsettlingly exposing. Lately I have noticed the stretchy material cutting into the softer regions of my body creating lumps and rivets in places I don’t want others to see. I resemble a lycra hotdog that been overstuffed – and if anything is going to maintain my chastity, it’s being seen in public in one of those. <br />At first I found it insulting that my Mother would make such an observation, but then I took a good look at the region. To add insult to emotional scaring, my Mom asked me if I wanted to go with her on her next appointment. The idea of being taken along on a hot waxing trip, was more than I could bare (no pun intended). So instead, I took down the name and number of the salon and promised to make an appointment. <br /><br />I am afraid of salons. They are actually a phobia of mine. They are a collective hive of overly maintained women doing their best to defy nature at all costs. My fears only compound when one or more of these women begin offering up life advice and gossiping about anything and everything. Of course this visit would do nothing for my terror because I was bringing myself (willingly) to have a very sensitive area of my body thrashed. My appointment was difficult to book because the Ukrainian woman who is their specialist liked to book her own appointments, <br /><br />“Ees for wax, da?” She had a very deep voice that dripped from the back of her throat and rolled into pronunciation. <br /><br />“Yes” I answered meekly “It’s my first time, so I don’t really know what to have done, or what to ask for…” She let a long pause hang uncomfortably for a few seconds, <br /><br />“Ees fierst time, da?” <br /><br />“Da” I answered, “I’m Mona’s daughter” <br /><br />“Aaaaaaah yees, Mona, she viery lovely, viery hiery” Already I was squirming with too much information, and feeling slightly exposed “eef you like Ma, den you need full hour.” <br /><br />“An hour?” I squeaked. <br /><br />“Da” She repeated. She rattled off a date and time, which I wrote down and to my horror realized it was that afternoon. Of course her “office” was as clean and sterile looking, with a couple of half-baked attempts to make it look more personable (a trickling fountain and a picture of a fuzzy kitten, which I’m assuming was the only hairy pussy apparently allowed in that room). She pointed to me and asked, <br /><br />“What you like?” <br /><br />“Oh gosh, I don’t know…” She looked at me shrewdly and answered, <br /><br />“You want same as your mother? Landing strip wis Playboy wax?” I have been told in the past that I have my Mom’s eyes, her cheekbones and her laugh, but I really didn’t want to share her bikini line. Besides hearing that my Mom ordered something with “Playboy” in the name, was just about enough for me. <br /><br />“Streep!” She ordered. <br /><br />“Streep?” I asked “as in Meryl?” <br /><br />“Your pants! Remove.” She stumbled over the word remove, but miraculously she managed to maintain her dominance in the situation. I blushed fiercely and began to sloooowly undo my belt. With my ears burning and every ounce of my dignity gone, I hopped up on the cold stiff table covered in crinkly paper and looked up at my oppressor. I tried to focus on the ceiling cracks, but as soon as the warm goo touched my inner thigh, I knew there was no turning back. With each rip tears would form in the corner of my eyes. With a powerful thrust, she lifted my leg into the air and began spreading wax on an area that I really only ever intended to have treated nicely. <br /><br />“No!” I cried “I don’t think I want to have that area done, I don’t think I am ready!” <br /><br />“Yees, must do! Thees is ugly, must Metch!” Since she already deposited the wax, I knew I was doomed so with a whimper of anticipated pain, I let her continue. Once she stopped, I looked down, only to see a red and throbbing exposed area. <br /><br />“You go home now, buy Bikini Zone and seet down” I couldn’t really argue, or mutter a cohesive sentence at this point. “Hurry! Go get, or you heav ingrown heirs I heav to pull out!” I worte a check (complete with tip) and stumbled out to my car, all the while VERY aware of my “area” and the pain it was in. <br /><br />I wasn’t fully aware of my diminished driving capacity on the trip home until the red and blue lights flashed behind me in a hail of siren noise. I glanced in my rearview mirror long enough to see the cop motioning me to pull over. I began to panic, I didn’t know what I had done and my vajayjay was beginning to burn in protest t it’s denim prison. He seemed to be taking his own sweet time even getting to my window and I began fidgeting. When he finally got to my window he leisurely leaned over and asked, <br /><br />“You know how fast you were going?” In truth, I didn’t. I hadn’t even thought to check my speedometer, so I shook me head in response to his question. <br /><br />“You know what the speed limit here is?” he questioned. Again I found myself at a loss, and again, I shook my head no. <br /><br />“Well you were going 50 and the limit’s 35” he said while searching my face for a spark of recognition, the only thing I actually did recognize at that moment was the growing ichiness going on in my nether regions. “What’s a girl like you rushing off to?” He questioned. <br /><br />“Home” I mumbled. <br /><br />“Well maybe you outta think about slowin’ it down a notch, after all, life is too fast. You should slow down and enjoy it.” <br /><br />I don’t know what it is in me that snapped, but from somewhere inside I felt a break. I literally could feel my left eye twitching in anger at his blatant disregard for my time and my obvious need to get the hell out of there. I found myself leaning out of my window and making direct eye contact with Officer Slowdown and said in my most measured tone, <br /><br />“Look, I know as a man you probably will never understand the reason behind my rushing, but I have to get home so that I can buy some industrial strength anti-inflammatory cream to apply where I have just had a full wax…including lips. In layman’s terms, I need to get home NOW so that I can go home and ice down my once hairy taco.” <br /><br />For a horrifying moment, I feared he would spontaneously combust, but instead he drew in his breath, stretched upwards and lurched towards his car. It is the first and only time I have ever talked myself out of a ticket.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-67970549975307675302010-06-02T13:29:00.001-07:002010-06-02T13:29:49.396-07:00The Mommy-HoodSomething I have noticed recently is the alarming amount of life altering announcements that I seem to be receiving from friends and colleagues in my age group. These would include engagement announcements, wedding invitations, baby showers, and divorces (a Mormon friend who got married in high school so she could have sex on prom night). As the rest of my peer group seem to be moving swiftly in to adulthood, I can’t help but feel a bit behind. I am apparently suck in limbo. <br /><br />Whether limbo is an immediate distraction right out of college, the grey matter that exists as we tumble through our mid-to-late twenties, the catholic equivalent to hell, or the drunken ice/back-breaker at parties, it is quite an uncomfortable position to be in. Especially when it is brought to your attention that the gap is ever widening. I had been doing my best to ignore that little voice inside telling me to pick a future, find a mate, blah blah blah. However what was once a nagging inclination, is now becoming a screaming modulation alerting me to the breadth of the situation (and that was just my mother). <br /><br />The trigger I believe came when I opened my mail to discover that my dorm-neighbor in college was “with child” and due in June. It didn’t surprise me that Josie was pregnant (I don’t think anyone within three doors of her room was shocked), what blew our minds was that she not only knew who the father was, she married him. Never one to turn down a name brand item, Josie had undoubtedly registered her bundle of joy at all the finest baby boutiques in Seattle. I barely had enough for the month’s rent and food let alone a Diaper Jeanie from Bed Bath and Beyond. <br /><br />I chose to ignore that I had not been invited to their nuptials or to the reception after, and instead focus on the fact that I now had to hunt down a gift. Entering into stores which cater to those who are making life-altering changes is always something I have to prepare myself for. It’s bad enough that I have to consider shopping at a facility with a name like “Bridal Barn” or “Baby Barn” or “Discount Divorce Hut” (pay for two and the third is free), but to walk freely among those who assume that I am there for the same reason they are is grim. As I pass the numbers of squealing brides and mommies-to-be I am ever aware that I have no business being in these places. <br /><br />This morning I drug myself to “Babies R Us” after my full work dayto spend my hard earned single salary on something Josie’s kid couldn’t choke on. I really wasn’t prepared for was the frightening scene unfolding in the parking lot. I was faced with an endless sea of SUVs and Mini Vans all vying for the last available parking spot, and these women were out for blood. After about 3 lengthy laps around the lot, the parking gods took pity on me and blessed me with spot about 3 miles from the store. The only catch was that I had to wait for the woman to unload her cart, strap in her kids, load up her crap, move her cart, distribute various juices and snacks to her obviously starving children, and back out. I of course followed parking lot protocol and stopped my car with enough room for her to get out and proceeded to turn on my blinker, indicating that this was indeed my parking spot. As I waited I became aware that a rather large SUV was encroaching on my cars rear end. I hoped that “Objects in Mirror are Closer then they Appear” was merely a decorative statement. After trying to mount my car, the woman driving decided that it was not obvious that I should’nt be in her way. She began honking her horn for 20 second intervals and yelling from inside her car. My first intonation was to get the fuck out of there, but then I realized that this is a public parking facility and I therefore was doing no wrong in waiting for this spot. This of course did not sit well the SUV woman, and she decided to open her car door to better alert me to her anger and colorful vocabulary. While shouting obscenities and honking her horn we had drawn ourselves a little crowd, all wondering if I would stand my ground, or if the scary eyed SUV-Bitch would drive me away. <br /><br />In the end the woman giving up her much coveted spot shot me a look of utter horror and pity, while speeding up her departure. I of course took the spot, and the ungraciously defeated SUV honked her horn for a good 30 seconds before proceeding on her way. These were mommies? <br /><br />I hiked to the entrance of the store after shelling out a couple of dollars worth of loose change to various beggars (probably fathers who had been separated from their herd and were now forced to wander the parking lot for life), and found myself in another world. Some kind of strange music played which seemed to be an odd hybrid of elevator music and whale songs, and everywhere I looked there were people expecting children, dragging children, holding children, or fussing over children. I was all alone in a sea of bodies. I fought my way to the customer service desk and obtained a copy of Josie’s lengthy registry, and began my journey into the unknown. <br /><br />While looking for a clip on accessory for the “Jolly Roller Stroller” a woman’s voice volunteered, <br />“Those are really helpful for entertaining, but they aren’t machine washable, so beware.” I turned around to find a smiling woman about my age with a child strapped to her belly in what looked like a primitive version of a Lycra torture device. “I almost went nuts trying to entertain little Tailor, until we found the baby Sling-o-Rama” She then rested her hand on the torture device for emphasis “Now, he mostly sleeps and gurgles, it’s wonderful being a Marsupial Mom. Well good luck to you!” She then waved and departed as quickly as she’d shown up leaving me to contemplate Marsupial Motherhood there in the stroller isle. <br /><br />Women form all angles were smiling at me, offering me advice and showing me how things worked. They were more then willing to follow me around and make sure that I found the best of the best as far as baby accessories went. Then it dawned on me, they weren’t helping me out of the kindness of their hearts, they were assuming that I was one of them! I began to feel ashamed that it wasn’t “baby weight” I was carrying around, it was my very own “baby fat”. All I wanted was a colorful unisex semi-engaging novelty which could pass as a decent gift, and now I was one of them. At first I played along, cooing at all the fun toys, faking rapture at the delicate baby books, and virtually salivating over the astounding advancements in breast pump technology. Then some woman named Gale began to regale about the joys of her first birth. The endless contractions, her water breaking all over the car seat, the drugs needed to keep her from gnawing her husbands hand off, the ripping of her genitals, the stitches needed, the right kind of stretch mark cream, etc. I found myself tightening the imaginary noose around my neck in anticipation of this day. Then everyone chimed in with stories of how much weight they gained, what foods they craved, how submissive their husbands were, the bloating, the gas, the hormone surges, the mood swings...and I had to get out. Motherhood was a club that I was not only unprepared for, I wanted no part of it whatsoever. Just as I felt the floor begin to spin underneath me, one of the mommies turned to me and asked, <br /><br />“When are you due?” Suddenly all eyes were on me, expecting me to gush with rapt enthusiasm over the next nine months of imminent torture. I had two choices, to lie and sign myself up for jamboree classes starting in 3 to 6 months, or I could simply say,“Oh, I’m not pregnant…” The mommies began to step away slowly all looking at me with measured anger. So I did what any other human would have done in a situation where I was obviously outnumbered by other Marsupials “yet, but we’re hoping soon!” The crowd breathed a sigh of relief and gave me numbers to their doctors so I could consider envitro 'should it come to that'.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-21996631416510906152010-06-02T13:00:00.000-07:002010-06-02T13:06:20.261-07:00FashionI have begun to notice an odd trend in our customers which baffles me to no end. For some reason the most interestingly adorned and freakishly decorated individuals always and without fail order the most boring drinks. You would think that because their outward appearance is so deliberately chosen to shock, offend, or possibly sicken others, that they would want to continue this trend in their food choices. <br />You know, like ordering a twenty shot espresso and asking us to give our finger a little nick to add some of our own blood. But no, no membranes, or mucus, or even additional shots. For the most part they’ll order drip coffee or an Americana. No bells, no whistles, and no frou-frou additions. Which I guess in today’s world of sugary-fatty-instant-Kentucky-fried-gratification, having straight coffee, is in fact quite bohemian.<br />This morning, I decided to ask one of our regular freaks why this was. I mean, there had to be a reason. The first decorated individual who always shows up in the morning, is named Jane and she is a true piece of work. A masterpiece in her own right. Her head is shaven (ala Shinade O’Conor) and adorning her melenous dome is a multitude of colorful tattoos which range from skulls and cross-bones, to Muppet Babies. Her ears have more metal then the frame of my car, and in her left earlobe there seems to be a silver steak driven all the way through. Her cloths always contain at the very least one clashing pattern or color, which if you stare directly at it, will render you temporarily stupid. And, as a matter of principle, I think she always has at least one curse word printed on her at all times. This morning her shirt was another wonder of verbal brilliance, in it’s simplicity sporting the<br />word “cunt”, and was paired with a neon kilt, completed by leg warmers and calf-length combat boots.<br /> Every piece of fabric was torn and/or filthy with bobby pins gouged into the free spaces. Her makeup seemed to be a cross between Kiss and Marilyn Manson. In fact, I think she could have given those guys tips.<br />She must have a steady source of income though (tattoo artist, side show attraction, lion tamer?...), because she came in every day and she would tip us nicely. Her answer to my query over the simplicity of her<br />drink, and she answered,<br />“Gee, I don’t know. I just never really liked any of that other weird crap people put in their drinks...just seems so unnatural to put that in coffee.” This coming from the woman who houses enough metal to be legally declared a pubic construction site. She continued, “besides man, I never liked doing what every other yuppy asshole is doing, I’d rather be an individual then let someone tell me how to be.” <br />She grinned at me, and I noticed she had strategically blacked out four of her bottom teeth with a magic marker, again displaying her disdain for the mainstream (though dental miscomformity was a new form of rebellion to me). <br />However, I did admire how Jane liked to be so different from what society dictates as “normal”. But just as I was beginning to take on a substantial form of respect for her individuality, Jane bent over to tie her laces as she was leaving, and I noticed a label protruding from her grotesquely colored skirt that read “Calvin Klein”...I don’t think I need to point out the irony.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-26667952155530570242010-03-05T10:39:00.000-08:002010-03-05T10:40:15.081-08:00Logically you know it’s going to be ok.“When we first met you seemed so illusive and brooding and intense, an enigmatic poet. What I took to be deep and mysterious, has just turned out to be really sad and unhappy.”<br /><br />-How To Be<br /><br />Oh how love can blind and cause us to lose any sense of sane judgment when it comes to the opposite sex. We want so desperately to believe in the good in another individual, especially when they seem to have seized our every thought in an act of quixotic conquest. Blindly we allow ourselves to become wrapped up in their every word and stare dreamily for hours into their eyes imagining them tangled with you in a passionate embrace. Slowly as the love dust begins to settle you begin to notice little things. Things that didn’t seem to matter at first, such as their total lack of ability to commit to any one partner in their past, or their complete inability to pay for a simple thing because they are financially destitute due to the last moronic floozy that they dated, or their blatant substance abuse problems as a means of escaping any real feelings of intimacy. What’s funny, no , what is hilarious, is that these things don’t seem to matter. In fact you stupidly think, I can help, I can make it better. If I treat them the way I always wanted to be treated, then everything will be ok. You begin to lose little pieces of yourself as you become more and more wrapped up in their charismatic personality. You can consciously feel as little things that you held so important become minor discrepancies and you let little things slip that in your former life you would normally hold your ground on.<br /><br />Still you try so hard to see the person in the light that you originally saw them in, you try so hard to keep them on that pedestal. Even when you feel them pull away. Even when you know it’s slipping. When on some level you always knew you were going to lose them to the inevitable. When you feel it in your gut that they are detaching as a method of emotional preservation and making plans to move on without you. You mourn the loss of a friend, you mourn the loss of yet another relationship, you mourn that you will no longer get to make them laugh or feel the comfort of their arms again. Your head begins to spin as you feel it slip through your fingers and all you can do is watch the pieces scatter.<br /><br />You still want to believe the best in that person, you still want to believe that they somehow care about you. You know that it’s over and for a moment your stomach sinks into your knees and you recognize the loneliness that is going to envelope you. You know that the two of you can not be friends, it just can’t happen and you feel the sadness that comes with realizing that this person is no longer going to be in your life. It’s difficult to sleep in your own bed because it suddenly feels empty. The queen size repository makes you ache with sickening anticipation of the restless sleep that awaits you.<br /><br />Logically you know it’s going to be ok. You know you are going to be fine. You existed before this person, you will exist after this person. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-79784990634878912752010-02-16T11:33:00.000-08:002010-02-16T11:34:02.917-08:00The Devine HondaI was brought up in a pretty religious home, where every Sunday we attended church and then Sunday school. Most people remember that being a child and going to church, wasn’t exactly a weekend treat. You were forced from your slumber, in order to be dressed in your best cloths (which were always too big/small, way too itchy, and usually involved some sort of embarrassing ensemble that could be used as blackmail material should anyone get a picture) to try and sit still for a couple of excruciatingly boring hours, with about 200 old people who smelled funny. No wonder so many kids rebel. It is now my belief, that one’s individual beliefs and religious dedications are that persons business, and that person’s alone. History and wars have taught us, though there are many unique beliefs throughout the world, not everyone is going to agree with our own. <br /><br />A customer came in our drive through only once, that I have ever seen, and I will never forget the experience as long as I live. It was one of those truly distinct moments which permanently etch themselves into your brain. It wasn’t so much the guy himself, but his car. He drove a blue Honda Accord (I’m not sure of the year) that was either a drastic expression of religious devotion or a psychotic obsession. Either way, it was pretty damn cool. <br /><br />On the roof of the car was painted a likeness of Jesus in his youthful carpenter days, while the rest of the car was adorned with random likenesses of Jesus, and the Virgin Mary of various colors, sizes and shapes, each more tacky then the next (some were even welded on complete with gold lame frame for a 3D effect.) Further inspection of the inside of the car, revealed an even more tacky collection of Jesus paraphernalia, which I couldn’t decided to be interesting or insulting. Along the inside of the back window was a string of Jesus Christmas lights all lit up and smiling, and underneath these lay a collection of figurines that were both big and small (complete with a water into wine Jesus action figure).<br /><br />I was jealous. Anyone who had seen this car would inevitably agree, that they too were jealous of the man’s toys and collectibles. I however, was more jealous of the concept of the car and just what it represented. Now don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean that I want to cruise around in a vehicle that is the clinical definition of “bonkers”. I was jealous of his remarkable ability to completely disregard any and all social conformities and expressively embrace his quirkiness to the world…or at least to Ballard, and Lower Queen Anne. Besides, you really kind of do need to respect anyone who can not only find, but have the balls to display in their car’s rear shelf, a bauble-head Jesus doll.<br /><br />Upon further introspection I have to wonder if the owner of the Jesus-mobile actually pumps his own gas, or if it’s supplied by immaculate fuel-injection.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-13313620029551537762010-02-16T08:41:00.000-08:002010-02-16T08:43:33.395-08:00A Translation For Anyone Who’s FlyingAnyone that has flown has heard the same out-of-a-can manufactured speech that all airlines must give as an “in case of emergency” precaution. As we all know this is their thinly veiled get out of jail free card should there in fact be something that goes horribly wrong on your flight. Because I have heard this rambling of FAA regulations and rules that were manufactured purely to make me feel better about what I can do to protect myself in “the unlikely event of a crash”, I rarely ever listen anymore when the stewardesses start their spiel. However, for the first time in years on a recent trip to Las Vegas, out of what can only be chalked up to morbid curiosity, I gave it a listen. Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but this is what I heard:<br /><br />“When the seat belt sign illuminates, you must fasten your seat belt. Insert the metal fittings one into the other, and tighten by pulling on the loose end of the strap. To release your seat belt, lift the upper portion of the buckle. We suggest that you keep your seat belt fastened throughout the flight, as we may experience turbulence.“<br /><br />Loosely translated: If you haven’t already figured out how to work the metal contraption that you most likely sat on when you first got on the plane, now would be a good time to try it out. In fact, if you’re not smart enough to work it now, don’t ask for help when the shit hits the fan. We feel obligated to tell you that it’s no one’s fault but your own when you bounce out of your seat and ricochet off of the top of the plane; just please mind the overhead bins when doing so, as contents can sometimes spill out onto unsuspecting passengers who were smart enough to work their own seatbelt and can therefore not move out of the way of the flying objects hurling at them.<br /><br />“There are several emergency exits on this aircraft. Please take a few moments now to locate your nearest exit. In some cases, your nearest exit may be behind you. If we need to evacuate the aircraft, floor-level lighting will guide you towards the exit. Doors can be opened by moving the handle in the direction of the arrow. Each door is equipped with an inflatable slide which may also be detached and used as a life raft.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: We have built several doors into this aircraft to speed up your death should something bad happen during the flight. Please take a few moments to identify where your corpse will most likely be sucked into oblivion in the event of an evacuation. Just in case you are asleep or the cabin is dark when the two- ton metal tube you are traveling in begins its involuntary decent, a pretty line of what are basically Christmas lights will illuminate and guide you towards your inevitable doom. Oh, and to make it a little more fun, if the plane plummets into water, there are some nifty little slides we’ve outfitted to each door that will inflate , we’ve painted them pretty colors to aid in your amusement with the situation.<br /><br />“Oxygen and the air pressure are always being monitored. In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically drop from a compartment above your seat. To start the flow of oxygen, pull the mask towards you. Place it firmly over your nose and mouth, secure the elastic band behind your head, and breathe normally. Although the bag does not inflate, oxygen is flowing to the mask. If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask on first, and then assist the other person. Keep your mask on until a uniformed crew member advises you to remove it.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: We are carefully monitoring the air that is constantly being recycled into the cabin and the pressure that it’s at. In the event that the air will be sucked from the cabin (you know should there be a crack in the hull or something), a little baggie is going to drop from the ceiling. Don’t be alarmed that it doesn’t look like it has any air in it, just blindly follow our orders and put the thing on, air will start to flow, trust us…and should you start to feel a sensation similar to be sleepy and the world goes dark around you, that just means it’s working. If you are traveling with a minor, an invalid, or a senior, simply ignore their screams of terror and help yourself…always gotta look out for # 1. If by some miracle you actually survive the decompression of the cabin, please keep your mask on, it is a very fetching look.<br /> <br />“In the event of an emergency, please assume the bracing position.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: If you are told to do this, you are going to die. Say a prayer, call a friend, have sex with your neighbor, or scream uncontrollably. After all, who gives a shit? We’re going to die anyway.<br /><br />“A life vest is located in a pouch under your seat or between the armrests. When instructed to do so, open the plastic pouch and remove the vest. Slip it over your head. Pass the straps around your waist and adjust at the front. To inflate the vest, pull firmly on the red cord, only when leaving the aircraft. If you need to refill the vest, blow into the mouthpieces. Use the whistle and light to attract attention.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: To give you some semblance of security, should you actually think you’re going to survive a water crash…there is a life vest located somewhere inside your seat. Whoever finds it before the plane sinks wins a prize. Whoever finds the vest, successfully puts it on, figures out how to inflate, and navigates their way out of the vacuum sealed metal tube that is sinking in the vast open sea, gets to live (and as your prize, you get a whistle and a light to attract any sea creatures that are hungry).<br /> <br />“Also, your seat bottom cushion can be used as a flotation device. Pull the cushion from the seat, slip your arms into the straps, and hug the cushion to your chest.”<br />Loosely translated: If you really are gullible, then you’re going to love this one, that thing you’re sitting on can be used as a flotation device. If you are the lucky son of a bitch who managed to find their life vest, put it on, inflate it, and get off the plane then go ahead, use that cushion to rest on while waiting for a rescue vessel that is absolutely coming to get you. Just for your reference the breasts of the woman in seat 22F also double as flotation devices…<br /><br />“The following electronic devices (calculators, CD players, laptop computers) may be used when the seat belt sign is off, or when permitted by your crew. Cellular/mobile telephones, remote-controlled toys or any electronic device operating with an antenna must be turned off at all times.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: Please turn off your phone. These really don’t interfere with the flight patterns in any way, but they really annoy the shit out of everyone else. Especially when we have to listen to you talk about how awesome your trip was, or how you irritable bowel syndrome is acting up again. Because this is now an FAA regulation we have the power to take these devices away from you, and bet your ass if it’s the latest iPhone, you’re not getting it back.<br /> <br />“We remind you that this is a non-smoking flight. Tampering with, disabling, or destroying the smoke detectors located in the lavatories is prohibited by law.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: As this is the 21st century and we all know what happens to people and their lungs when exposed to second hand smoke, could you please refrain from distributing airborne tar until after we land?<br /><br />“You will find this and all the other safety information in the card located in the seat pocket in front of you. We strongly suggest you read it before take-off. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask one of our crew members. We wish you all an enjoyable flight.”<br /><br />Loosely translated: Just in case your weren’t listening to us describe the many horrible ways in which you could possibly die while in transit, please feel free to read about them in the nifty pamphlet we have prepared, that is conveniently located in the seat pocket in front of you. We strongly suggest that you read it before the plane takes off, and if you have any questions or concerns regarding this or any other information we have given you, we strongly suggest that you go fuck yourself.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-47911222708381051912009-12-09T11:35:00.000-08:002009-12-09T11:36:18.107-08:00Single in Seattle<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have begun understand why people join cults, shave their heads, and begin worshiping in large groups. Now, don’t get me wrong I am not going to start attending meetings where you have to bring your own bed sheet and a live chicken...I can’t afford the livestock (or the bed sheet for that matter). What I mean is I suddenly understand the need to belong, the desperate urge to not feel alone. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some supplement this daunting feeling with getting married, which I don’t understand. I have a hard enough time trying to steer myself through my own constant and rather unfortunate bouts of the ridiculous, legally binding myself to another hopelessly lost, young idiot would just be asking for trouble. Besides this Saturday I am celebrating my four-year anniversary of having absolutely no romantic plans, let alone an individual who qualifies as even a possibility -why ruin such an impressive streak? </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Besides, on the infrequent and unlikely chance that I happen to stumble onto someone who sparks some interest, they either: A) aren’t attracted to me in “that” way, but would love to be my friend/fuck-buddy; B) are completely incapable of a real conversation, unless it revolves around themself; C) have some sort of weird condition which renders them a socially inept retard; or D) they’re gay…and they have better shoes then me. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am not saying that I want to get married right now, I know that I am not in any way ready. And, that is saying a lot considering I am from a town where the average marrying age is 17, (and if you’re not married by my age then you’re pregnant with your second child and unsure of who both their fathers are, but you can name the parties they were conceived at.) Yes as long communities like mine exist shows like Springer, Rikki Lake, and Maury will have a spot on daytime TV as well as an audience.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a single woman, who is expected to be independent and brimming with sexual energy, for some reason I can’t shake the feeling that I am tripping over the glamorous facade. Young women seem to believe that during their twenties they have to live out “Sex and the City”, while waiting for their white knight to come along and magically turn their lives into “Sleepless in Seattle”. Complete with a handsome, non-commitment phobic man, who declares her his soul mate while promising to love her through thick and thin (yo-yo dieting, post-baby weight gain, menopausal hot flashes, marriage counseling, etc.) Then after their blissful dream wedding, 2.5 children, a mini van, and a low interest home loan, they settle in for a long life of suburban bliss. From wild and crazy nights of youthful debauchery, to happily ever after.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, my idea of a hot Saturday night is turning into, working until 8 PM, walking back to my place and on the way picking up a can of diet coke, teriyaki chicken, with a vegetarian spring role. I never seem to have the energy to make it a blockbuster night, so instead I go home and turn on my neighbors cable (yeah it’s illegal, but it’s cheaper) then at around 11 PM, I take a bath. If I’m feeling especially racy by the end of the evening, I read a few pages of</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Monaco"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">my Cosmopolitan. My life, as a young, vibrant, and single Seattle Barista, is sizing up more to be “Sexless in Seattle”. Why can’t I retain something good, like a boyfriend, instead of water weight?</span></span></p>Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-50723972069308377952009-12-04T16:29:00.001-08:002009-12-04T16:29:44.736-08:00Seattle is colorfulAlmost every day I step outside of my office to take myself away from the of the every-day work-related hassles, to walk myself down the street and find myself something to eat. While I could make this blog entry about some of the (many) great eateries in and around the Seattle area, I am instead going to use this time to describe some of the many, many colorful sights I see on my daily constitutional.<br /><br />Imagine my horror when I looked down while patiently waiting at the crosswalk to see an uncomfortable large woman also waiting to cross the street, wearing a pair of yellow fleece-lined black Crocks. The very concept of Crocks is inherently wrong and upsetting, but fleece-lined Crocks with contrasting and garish colors is truly disturbing. Whoever thought of that should be shot on sight. Whoever willingly bought those things should be tranquilized and collected into an area wear they can be retrained in their choice of footwear. While I watched this woman waddle uncomfortably toward the other side of the street, I couldn't help but feel like it was my duty to tell her the error of her ways. The only thing that held me back from doing this was the fact that this woman could obviously take me down and crush the life out of me.<br /><br />After such a disturbing sight, I entered the supermarket with a newly diminished appetite and a slight headache. I made my way to the sodium filled snacks and made my way to the checkout. While in line to purchase my food I was confronted by yet another VERY disturbing sight. A very, very large man in full drag and makeup. While I completely support anyone’s right to be who they are and to express themselves, however, if you’re going to express yourself in public I would hope that they would want to do it in a flattering way. If you’re going to make the life decision to become a woman, then go all the way and adopt a sense of fashion as well. It seems that if you’re going to take the time to paint your nails, grow out your hair, and squeeze your man feet into a pair of size 12 narrow heels, then make sure to coordinate your outfit in an appropriate size and choose makeup that compliments the decision you have made in life. Wearing makeup that screams “Hey! I am a man dressed as a woman with a 5 o’clock shadow! Please notice me” is not really a great face to put forward (literally).<br /><br />Finally on my way back to the office after being thoroughly weirded out I noticed on the same corner as Crock lady was a gentlemen dressed in scrubs holding two leashes. At the end of both of these leashes were two squirrelly looking ferrets in little harnesses. Both ferrets were wearing what looked like tube socks as sweaters to keep them warm. I didn’t want to get too close for fear that they would want to run up my leg, look me in the eye with their beady little red devil eyes, and bite me with their evil little mouths. I am not a big fan of ferrets as you can tell, I am even less of a fan of ferrets on a leash out in public on the street. <br /><br />I do take a little bit of solace in the fact that these are things happening around me and I am not the one wearing fleece-lined Crocks, walking ferrets, or dressed in an inappropriately matched outfit. However, it does make me worry that I am in for more and more of these delightful encounters before my time in Seattle comes to a close.Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-49346909170534139872009-12-02T18:40:00.000-08:002009-12-02T18:41:16.517-08:00If you brew it, we will come.<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family:Verdana, Helvetica, Arial;"><span style="font-size:12.0px">I have been inhabiting the fair Emerald City for a few months now on a temporary freelance assignment...and loving every second out of it. It’s easy to forget that there are parts of the world that have actual seasons...instead of stapling fake snow to ones roof, or wrapping a string of lights around the palm tree in your front lawn, or asking your weekly Mexican gardeners to wear Santa hats while blowing the leaves and trash out of your driveway, people here have natural indications of seasonal changes. It’s amazing...and inconvenient for those of us who have forgotten what it feels like to have the thermometer drop below 70 degrees. The first time the temperature dipped I thought, ‘Oh my! That’s chilly, well at least I live in an area of the world that encourages layering.’ Now when I step outside of my house I think ‘Holy shit! I can feel that in my bones!’<br /><br />It’s funny, people here seem to be quite content to perpetuate many of the comical stereotypes that Seattle has been known for. For instance, there is a coffee house on EVERY corner which ALWAYS has at least one person sitting in the window writing on their laptop as if to say “Look at me, I’m creative and tortured”. Each morning I walk to work (ok some mornings I walk to work, most mornings I drive) and I pass by people clutching their cup of morning coffee as if their very life depended on the caffeine in that cup of joe – come to think of it their lives probably do depend on it. Much like the magical and inexplicable voice that called the likes of Shoeless Joe Jackson and countless other players to that cornfield baseball diamond, Seattle-ites seem to be drawn by a quiet voice that whispers “If you brew it, they will come.”<br /><br />Another stereotype that makes me chuckle is the amount of flannel that graces this city. Regardless of the fact that flannel seems to be making a comeback in the fashion world, it seems as though flannel has been here the whole time and has no intention of leaving. I’ve heard it said that jeans and a denim jacket are referred to as a “Canadian Tuxedo”, I would like to volunteer then that the North West Tuxedo is comprised of a Flannel Shirt and Corduroy Pants. It seems to be the uniform here, and while I think that it is a helpful piece of clothing to have in ones wardrobe, I do not think that it is something to don with EVERY outfit. Much like coffee, Nirvana, and rain, flannel seems to have established itself as a quintessential piece of North Western existence and you are simple not cool if you don’t wear it.<br /><br />I have also noticed the amount of Kurt Cobain look-alikes up here. Almost as if they are trying to channel the great Grunge God himself by growing out their hair and refusing to wash it frequently. Don’t get me wrong, like every woman out there who has a hankering for the moody bad boy that we can never quite “get” or save, I think it’s sexy...however, it becomes difficult to identify one’s date in a sea of look-a-likes at some Seattle concert (and yes, this has happened to me). <br /><br />It truly is more than slightly soggy up here. Don’t get me wrong, on a clear day when the sun is shining, I would hazard to say that Seattle is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, however the chances of you getting a clear day (especially in the winter) are slim to none. I have started to embrace the idea of closed toed shoes, which at first horrified me at first. I am now ok with the idea that this season I will be buying lots of boots and perhaps a pair of high-end Wellington boots. Though sadly I seem to not be able to hang on to an umbrella for more than a week at a time. In fact, I am doing my part by pouring my money into our troubled economy buying umbrellas in bulk.</span></span> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-35905431004206596782009-08-26T22:58:00.000-07:002009-08-26T23:02:53.951-07:00Blind Date 2<p class="MsoNormal">Accepting the blind date was my first mistake, but showing up was my fatal one.<span style=""> </span>In retrospect, I should have called and canceled thereby avoiding what had to be one of the most painful experiences I have ever had (and that includes falling on the balance beam in Gymnastics only to have my crotch stop my fall.)<span style=""> </span>The plan was that he would pick me up from work and from there we would go to a baseball game.<span style=""> </span>I figured it was safe, we were in a public place and if all else failed, I could at least watch the game.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">By the time 6PM rolled around I was a mental and emotional wreck.<span style=""> </span>I would have been much better suited to lay down in traffic and act as a speed detourant.<span style=""> </span>Of course,<span style=""> </span>as a girl, I did the whole self doubt thing, I second guessed my outfit, my hair, my makeup…everything.<span style=""> </span>My self doubt dissolved into pure anger because my date, Ross (“Hella cute, ex-baseball player who is studying business at the UW") was 45 minutes late.<span style=""> </span>He of course saw no problem with his lack of punctuality and indeed played it off as if everyone shows up to their dates almost an hour into them.<span style=""> </span>To make up for his tardiness he did utter sweet nothings to me upon first sight.<span style=""> </span>He said,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Man!<span style=""> </span>Thank God you’re not an uggo!<span style=""> </span>What’s up?<span style=""> </span>I saw you sitting in front of the store and I though you were either my date or a really hot hooker.”<span style=""> </span>My mental anguish over the night vanished as I realized that my date had the collective intelligence and sensitivity of a snow pea.<span style=""> </span>Why are people like that are allowed out in public, let alone to procreate is a mystery to me.<span style=""> </span>He had no social grace and obviously no internal filter for his thoughts…at least we were late for the game though.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As it turned out, Ross had decided that tickets to the game were too expensive for a first date and we would therefore be spending our evening listening to the game on his car radio while dining.<span style=""> </span>“Dining” as he put it actually consisted of the drive through at Jack In The Box.<span style=""> </span>My mother always taught me that if someone else is paying and the date is going sour, order the lobster…super sized seemed the only way to go.<span style=""> </span>We drove to what I guess was his frat's equivalent to make out point and he rolled down all the windows, reclined the seats...I couldn’t tell if this was for ambiance or to create the illusion of a soft top.<span style=""> </span>Ross turned up the game far above the decibel to allow for normal conversation and then it occurred to me that this was either part of a well laid plan to completely turn me off because he wasn’t into me and wanted to spare my feelings by making me think that he was a huge jerk…or he was just that stupid.<span style=""> </span>I feared the latter of the two.<span style=""> </span>The date itself turned out to be the romantic equivalent to contracting the West Nile Virus.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We sat in complete silence for about 10 minutes after the game was over.<span style=""> </span>I then decided to call a spade a spade and end<span style=""> </span>this date before anymore fun could be had.<span style=""> </span>I said,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Listen, this has probably been the worst date of my entire life, let’s just go home, loose each others phone numbers and pretend tonight never happened, okay?”<span style=""> </span>He looked completely dumbfounded (so I guess it would be safe to say that his expression remained the same), started the car, and drove me home.<span style=""> </span>It was safe to say that the date was doomed to failure once he tried to prove that he could fit 4 fries up his left nostril.</p>Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-26007172526506002752009-08-26T22:55:00.000-07:002009-08-26T22:58:43.098-07:00Blind Date<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CSteve%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073741899 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Ug, the though hit me last night that I haven’t met anyone or made any sort of physical contact with a member of the opposite sex in months, <span style=""></span>other than handing them a drink or change and when that starts to get exciting, I know I have hit rock bottom.<span style=""> </span>Of course when one is sexually frustrated and angry at men, one tends to harbor a slightly less then sunny attitude about life.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mel, my coworker, sensed that I was out of sorts and began gently probing to find out what my problem was.<span style=""> </span>Though Mel is a deeply sensitive and gentle individual I would never in a million years expect her to understand my problem.<span style=""> </span>She is the kind of person I would love to hate and I could easily hate if she wasn’t so Gad damn nice.<span style=""> </span>She is absolutely and without question the most gorgeous person I have ever seen close up.<span style=""> </span>You can see little flickers of envious hate flash from other womens eyes when they see her.<span style=""> </span>Men have problems constructing whole sentences when she is around and being asked out/given jewelry/marriage proposals are an ever day occurrence for her.<span style=""> </span>So, of course, she could never understand my conversation, though she did try bless her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She did try the first step in consoling any woman by trying assure me that my hips, but, thighs, legs, earlobes, etc did not look fat.<span style=""> </span>She then suggested several solutions to my frustration, one of which was knitting.<span style=""> </span>Mel wanted to teach me to knit?<span style=""> </span>It seemed even more depressing, thought practical, that I was going to be getting a jump start on something that I was going to spend the bulk of my spinsterhood doing.<span style=""> </span>However, I shot down the idea because the thought of knitting a tea cozy on Saturday night was too daunting.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She then threw out yoga as a solution.<span style=""> </span>She proposed that by channeling my energies positively and learning to breath I could effectively detract myself from the petty preoccupations of the flesh.<span style=""> </span>I could also stop shaving my legs, listen to sitar music,<span style=""> </span>burn incense, and eat only soy based foods, but for some reason breathing and contorting did not seem like an effective or feasible way to make me any less horny.<span style=""> </span>Besides I hate sitar music and those funny unitards which make me look worse then I do naked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a third and final offer, Mel wanted to fix me up with one of her friends.<span style=""> </span>Though everyone knows that blind dates are probably one of the most emotionally scaring events that one may live through, I was desperate.<span style=""> </span>I know I needed something…last night I found myself getting excited when my gums didn’t bleed when I was flossed.<span style=""> </span>I need a life.<span style=""> </span>We are going on out on Friday.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-24113181215923404262009-05-26T17:02:00.000-07:002009-05-26T17:03:46.076-07:00Reflections on "Reality" TV<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial">So last night I am not ashamed to admit (ok, I am slightly embarrassed) that I watched the season premiere of “John and Kate Plus 8”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Myself and 9.5 million other Americans tuned in to see Kate find a way to systematically excise her husbands testes yet again. For several seasons we have watched as Kate has morphed into this harping banshee who obviously loves the limelight more than her kids or the security of her marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And like everyone else out there, I have watched it all with mouth agape and eyes wide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It seems like she couldn’t possibly belittle her husband any worse…and then she finds a way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s almost painful to watch, but like an accident on the freeway, you can’t seem to look away.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial">While the stress and hardships of raising 8 children is obviously difficult and would test any marriage regardless of how strong it was, it seems that Kate acts unnecessarily mean to her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It seems to me that this is not the smartest idea because that man is the only other human being legally obligated to share in the prison of procreation that they have created.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can’t help but feel bad for those kids as they now see their miserable father retreat from the limelight and from his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It kind of seems that for the sake of ratings no one is intervening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If anything, it is being encouraged by the channel as they shamelessly promote the painfully uncomfortable situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While the kids are being raised by nannies and two absent parents the rest of the world watches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial">At least for shows like “Daisy of Love” EVERY train wreck of a human being has willingly signed up to expose themselves and their desperation for fame. The 8 children that are bring drug through this media circus are unknowingly being thrust into the front line of this entire clusterf#$@ of a situation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Because this family has willingly thrust their lives into the public eye they have knowingly opened themselves up to the criticism and repercussions of fame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While Kate claims to have done the show to document the lives of her children and to show other parents that they are not alone, it seems as though she really only did this show for fame and approval…and really isn’t that the only reason anyone willingly signs up for reality TV?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The most disturbing part was watching as Kate’s husband, who seemed largely unaffected by the hell that his wife has created for his family, hint at not-so-subtly at their pending divorce proceedings, while Kate cried in disbelief on a separate couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If she and her husband can not be in the same interview room together it should not be a huge shock that her husband wants out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-60399278027053853432009-05-26T11:39:00.000-07:002009-05-26T11:41:49.080-07:00The Dark Knight and other movie musings...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">So this weekend, like thousands of my fellow mass consuming Americans I braved the treck to my local AMC and navigated the madness of the crowds to FINALLY see the visual spectacle that is "The Dark Knight." It was (to me, a simple comic book dork) a visually stimulating movie with mostly superb acting (I am still not convinced that Maggie Gylenhall or Katie Holmes were sound choices for the role of Rachel Dawes though.) Heath Ledger was a fantastic Joker and as always Christian Bale was not only fun to look at, but a great performer to watch. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">All of this aside, I was disappointed by a few things (and luckily this is a blog, so no one can throw tomatoes at me for saying this…) I was NOT happy that they killed Two Face. I happen to be a BIG fan of the Harvey Dent character and his story line and it seemed a bit unfair that they just killed him off to preserve the "White Knight" and to keep the dichotomy of Batman (The Dark Knight) vs. Two Face (the fallen White Knight.) In fact, I thought Aaron Eckhart's performance was fantastic and I was a bit upset that I didn't get to see the character's hate and resentment build to a phenomenal battle between Batman and Two Face. As any Batman fan knows, Two Face's anger and seething hatred of Batman is developed over a very large story arc and I guess I was kind of sad that I was being spoon fed this 20 minute secondary plot to Heath Ledger's Joker.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">I was impressed by Heath Legder's acting, but I am not sold that he deserves an Oscar. It's not that I don't believe that Heath has the talent, I just don't think we should immortalize someone by bestowing a hallowed award on him just because he "accidentally" over dosed and didn't get to live to see the movie finalized. I realize that I might loose some friends over this statement, but to be honest, Christian Bale (who is also a method actor) has been subtly introducing more and more to his interpretation to the Bruce Wayne Character and if you watch Batman Begins and The Dark Knight back to back (which, yes, I will admit I did) you can see the nuances that he brings to Bruce Wayne as he descends into the lonely world of Batman while he truly realizes his isolation. Sadly, we will not be able to watch Heath develop his characterization of the immortal Joker in a second movie as he is now gone. It's like the guy who replaced Brandon Lee in The Crow…yeah, you don't remember his name either. The producers must be kicking themselves that they killed off Two Face and kept the Joker around for a third movie…and now they have to start from scratch with another actor. Oh well, at least if they put Joker in the third movie they might actually bring out my FAVORITE Batman character of ALL TIME…Harlee Quinn (I can dream right?)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">Lastly, I was vary happy watching all of the stunts. But you truly realize that you are in another generation when all of the 12 year-olds around you and their Dads are "ohhing and ahhing" over the stunts and special affects…and the only thing I could think was "He is going to get his cape stuck in the wheels of that motorcycle and have cause a big 'ole accident, that's just not safe!" </span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family: Arial">…man I'm old.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-28345324083850954792009-05-26T11:38:00.002-07:002009-05-26T11:39:29.368-07:00Single for the first time...eek<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">So today I had a truly jarring experience that I wasn't ready for.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">I had to fill out a medical form and for the first time in 4 years, I didn't have anyone to put as my "in case of emergency" contact. For years I have been putting my (now ex) boyfriend's Mom, who in the past has shuttled me back and forth from tooth surgeries and numerous other "mishaps" (of which I have a lot.) I almost wrote Lynn's name on the form and had to stop myself. The rather pregnant pause that I took while trying to think of another human who would be willing to use their gas and time seemed to take forever and I think it scared the receptionist a little bit because I looked so perplexed. In the end, I left the area blank. There was this gaping hole on the form that really set me thinking. I guess I assumed that I would always have Lynn in my life and while someday she might be a part of it again, for the time being, it would not be appropriate of me to ask that much of her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">I got a little sad. I realized for the first time in 4 ½ years, that I am really alone in CA. I got so used to the fact that the Gambino's were my pseudo family that it feels foreign to not have that around anymore. The best I can liken the feeling to is when I went to the first family Christmas after my grandmother had passed away. I remember walking through the door and giving my grandpa a hug and automatically turning to hug grandma…who wasn't there. There was this hole of carpet, where she was no longer going to be waiting for me. In that moment I remember feeling truly sad. I didn't cry at the funeral (mostly because I had to sing) but that was the closest I came to crying over her death. This felt oddly similar. Obviously not on the same scale, but still a loss and still very sad. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">I can remember quite clearly the day that Lynn drove me to get Oral surgery in some horrible shop-o-horrors in the valley and feeling very happy that someone was going to be there when I staggered out of surgery clutching my jaw. I was even more grateful for Lynn when we got into the surgery's reception area and it was filled with a bunch of geriatrics who had either lost their teeth or their minds (and in some cases both.) Everyone there had someone waiting for them and I began to see that while yes it is a safety issue, it is also a comfort issue. Even though people were sufficiently drugged and not of their right minds they were still happy to see the "in case of emergency" person when they came out of the room of horror. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">I am excited to be free and to rediscover parts of myself that were long dormant, but I still mourn the loss of that family. They were my holidays and my hugs, they provided a warmth that I was missing when I moved down here all by myself. I like to think that I am a vastly independent young woman and that I can be strong and resilient, but the truth of the matter is, sometimes I am not. I don't like relying on other people or assuming that someone will be there for me and a realized today that I took that family unit for granted. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family: Arial">Being single in LA is not a very easy thing to carry off with one's sanity intact…I guess I am going to have to put my five year plan in action and start buying more cats. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-87882064914690998132009-05-26T11:38:00.001-07:002009-05-26T11:38:33.811-07:00Oh Craigslist, how I love thee<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">In all honesty, I probably shouldn't be admitting this publicly…but it is one of my few favorite things to do during my (very) long and boring work day to sneak a quick peek at craigslist.org. I realize that this sounds kind of loopy…but it makes me feel good about myself in a strange way. You can't help but read the posting for "Wanted female roommate, non-smoker, clean, MUST have nice ass" and not have a few questions (and laughs).</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">This little diversion always leads me to ponder delightful and sometimes disturbing questions…What is the interview process for said roommate? If having a "nice ass" is such a high priority (obviously or it wouldn't have made it to the top 3) will that be in initial screening? Are photographs required with your application? How many applicants will this person have to sift through before finding the perfect ass to room with? Is general maintenance of said ass written into their lease (I would hope so)? And so on…</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">While I would like to be the perfect employee and always focused on the task at hand, it is often difficult when I know that only a few clicks away are the colorful ramblings of the Los Angeles community and other counties surrounding (I really only look a those when I have NOTHING to do). It's not like I don't hear my fare share of crazy ramblings at work – for example our CEO claims to have invented the internet (seriously) – but for some reason it is strangely comforting to know that I live in a city so accepting of such extreme personalities (note: we don't call my boss "crazy" or "extreme", he is merely "passionate" about his work.)</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">Should I be having a very slow day, it is even more fun to look at the personal ads –where having a nice ass is much higher on the priority list. I have to give these people kudos for being able to publicly put out there their inner-most desires and sometimes disgusting fetishes. How would you even begin to tell people that you met your date/significant other via craislist?</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial"> "Looking for meaningless sex, but would be open to relationship if the right one came along"</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial">Again, so many questions pop into my head when reading that…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family: Arial">Maybe in some oddly perverted way I am hoping to find one of co-workers on there, just so I will have a little leverage the next time I might need it. I don't know. All I know is suddenly my life is lookin' a lot more bright and shiny after I read a few of those ads. I guess you do what you can to survive…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-75010815268139563572009-05-26T11:37:00.000-07:002009-05-26T11:38:03.908-07:00Today's troubled times...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">In today's troubled times I can understand how one or two lost souls could admire the "fabulous" lifestyles of the rich and the famous. But further inspection of the seemingly care-free and beautiful individuals, leaves me feeling cold. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">Doesn't it appear odd to anyone that no matter how many purebred-tea-cup-what-have-yous they adopt, or how many hot-this-minute-up-and-coming-actors/models/sports stars that they swap spit with, or how many supposedly legitimate kiddily-winkies they spawn with the afore mentioned individuals, it never seems to be enough to satisfy their ever-lasting quest for love? These starlets (as dubbed by their publicist's) obtain fame and by starring in drama-filled, pre-meditated "reality" series and/or big budget re-makes of Hollywood classics and shoot to the forefront every young and impressionable pre-teen's mind. In order for them to remain at the top and be considered for "the list" they must be seen at the hottest locations around the world while performing stunt after stunt just to generate a new media frenzy. While this endless parade of parties and pre-pubescent fans may seem exciting, these girls are snorting endless lines of cocaine, popping pills and drinking gallons of name brand energy drinks just keep up with their own seemingly fabulous lifestyle.</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">Let's not forget that this small percentage of the population (roughly less then 2%) are also making an example of their perpetual bed hopping. Young fans now believe that it is standard to have more then 6 sexual partners in a year. What baffles me, is that even though it is well documented just how many times these girls have swapped bodily fluids around town, men seem to still lust after them…to be honest, I would think kissing them would be the equivalent of picking a penny up off the street and putting it in your mouth –it's dirty.</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">What's even more amazing to me is that these girls have to be dressed up like show ponies at all times. We as a consuming public demand that they be "pretty" to look at or we don't want to look at them anymore. As these girls are seen more and more, they must be picture perfect at all times. They spend small fortunes on their outer beauty just to please a group of people they don't even know but who are judging their every move. Can you imagine constantly having to be waxed, plucked, spray tanned, teased, weaved, and made up? All of their lavish potions, lotions and treatments may seem sumptuous, but it is their full time job to be primped and looking hungry. While hundreds of thousands of people are being paid by the army to go through extreme boot camp to defend their country, these people PAY to go through the same level of training, just to defend their place at the top.</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">To top this off, it seems that the newest and hottest club to get your name on the list for, is rehab or jail and it appears as though their cat fights, drunk driving, drugging, and parole violations are punished with a mere slap on the wrist. What has happened that we the public are willing to accept the LOW social standards that these supposed celebrities are setting? Why are we accepting this as "OK" and are in fact asking to see more of their drama by consuming their products, buying their hair extensions and reading the magazines that fuel their attention seeking?</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">I ask you as the younger generations approach adulthood what new/low standards will they accept as the norm? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-817947113491405772009-05-26T11:36:00.000-07:002009-05-26T11:56:22.088-07:00Halloween in LA<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">...Well it's that time of year again, and inevitably every girl in the US (and some overseas) are all pondering the multitude of possibilities that this year's costume should be. </span><span style="font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">Oh the options are truly mind boggling,</span><span style=" font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">Should I be a slutty nurse?</span><span style="font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">A slutty girl scout?</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">A slutty witch?</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">A slutty bunny?</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">A slutty mummy?</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">A slutty princess?</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">What to do…What to do…What to do.</span><span style="font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">It is at this time of the year that I seize up. In theory this holiday allows girls to embrace an otherwise shunned aspect of their personalities, I however, am not the biggest fan of displaying my otherwise slightly-less-then-stellar body (even in the name of holiday fun). </span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">Why is it that Halloween has become the excuse of every woman's inner whore to surface for one night? I remember when it was about dressing up as a Ninja Turtle (I was Donatello) and carrying around my Mom's king size pillow case in order to collect the most loot. For some reason a little part of me mourns that it is no longer a holiday for fun, but rather an annual night of panties-on-parade. Now don't get me wrong, I am ALL for fun and debauchery. However, I'm not so sure that I am into street-corner-hooker fun. I long for the days that donning an outfit for Halloween doesn't mean a trip to Fredrick's of Hollywood. </span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-line-height-alt: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">I can recall last year being invited to a party and instead of "dressing up" I went as my own self. Upon arrival I was met with a chorus of Hollywood wanna-be's all dressed in as little clothing as possible to attract the most attention. Surprisingly though, I found that more people actually spoke to me and treated me like a human being. I think this is because even though those women were undeniably beautiful and strikingly under-clad that sort of thing eventually becomes something to ogle. Either the men were too intimidated to speak to these women, or they just got tired of staring at the endless fury leopard print jane outfits and slutty police women that they eventually all began to blend in to one redundant collage of beautiful half-naked women. The you've-seen-one-you've-seen-them-all syndrome. </span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:15.0pt;">I think this year for Halloween I am going to dress up. I am going to go as <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/http://imdb.com/name/nm0000413/"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi- font-family:Verdana;font-size:11.0pt;color:#003399;">Janeane Garofalo</span></a> so that I can stand in the corner and relentlessly mock the women who's need for attention faaaarrrrrrr outweighs their sense of decency. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-84596480851652046842009-05-26T11:35:00.000-07:002009-05-26T11:36:32.080-07:00Thoughts on aging as a woman...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">OK,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">In all fairness I like to think I am a pretty easygoing girl. I like to think I can roll with the punches (as long as they're not below the belt) and take life as it ebbs and flows.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">But lately I am faced with the prospect that I am indeed NOT as relaxed as I would like to think I am. In fact, I happen to be wound rather tightly at this particular time in my life.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">I hit the last of the mile stone birthdays, 25 and am now a quarter of a century old. That in and of itself is a difficult thing to process. I am no longer young enough to be "young and stupid" but I am not old enough to be "mature and composed" so I exist in this grey area. What other birthdays do I get to look forward to? 30 - Whoop-dee-do I am officially no longer in my twenties and allowed to panic that I haven't yet figured out my life/gotten married/bought a house, etc., 35 - Only five more years until the big Four-O, 40 - Every person in their twenties annoys me because I don't have their skin elasticity and I know it's only going to sag more.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">Not to be completely pessimistic. I do know that there's a lot to look forward to in this great life of mine. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">1) Credit card debt...it's like the flu you eventually will get it and no matter what you do to prevent it, you will get it again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">2) Children...little versions of myself and the person who donated genetic material for it's creation, who will eventually learn the words "No!" and "I hate you!" and "I want that!".<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">3) Stretch marks...from having the child who resents me for most of its life and then moves out. Permanent physical reminders of the blessed event for the rest of my life rendering me unable to wear a bathing suit.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">4) Crash Dieting...to remove the the baby weight in a vain attempt to recapture my former "figure" and realizing that no matter what I try to do not everything will go back to it's original location on my body without major surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">5) "Mom jeans"...I don't know exactly why women over the age of forty adopt these horrible hybrids of 80s fashion, but it's inevitable. Sadly I see these women in Cosco buying them in bulk, checking to make sure that the waist line actually reaches the middle of their torso and that the cuffs stop just above their ankles, and that they are tapered to stone-washed perfection. It's like a black hole, they somehow suck you in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">6) A Mini Van...fight it any way you want and buy yourself an SUV and try to trick the neighbors into believing that you're a "cool" Mom, who doesn't need to roll in a mini-van. But eventually all women have to face the fact that they bought the larger car to accommodate soccer gear, bake sale confections, Mom jean sprees at Cosco, and car seats. SUVs are just boxy versions of the Mini-van, you might as well give it up and go buy a Plymouth Voyager. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">7) Gardening...I dread the day that I wear grubby old clothes and big mismatched gloves while pruning, watering, clipping, raking, planting obsessively well into my older years. Call me crazy but isn't it a bit frightening that daily conversation eventually slips from anything that is relevant to actual life and deteriorates into an advanced discussion of how ones hydrangea's are doing and how you got rid of all those pesky slugs without hurting your roses? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">8) Menopause...lets not forget this great milestone in any woman's life, finally our monthly struggle against nature's cruel fate of bloating, crabbiness, cramping, and overeating is taken away in a mere two to four years of hot and cold flashes, more cramps, more overeating, violent mood swings, embarrassing public sweating/crying, weight gain that will NEVER go away, and decreased sexual desire due to loss of hormones.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">All of life's stages are beautiful gifts that we should cherish and be thankful for. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">I suppose my anxiety mostly stems from the knowledge that I don't really know where my life is going. Though I am thankful that I have encountered people along the way who have shaped my development, and I am thankful to those who constantly show me what it is to be a good friend. It's comforting to know that we are all going through this together and that 20 years from now, we'll all be bitching about the same things.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-67670732968890907192009-05-26T11:34:00.000-07:002009-05-26T11:35:36.223-07:00I resent what I perpetuate as a consumer...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">I have my good days and I have my bad days. On a good day, I will wake up in the morning and fit into my "cute" jeans without having to do the ever seductive wiggle and heave dance just to close the zipper, I will "do" my hair and makeup, and I will look in the mirror and feel pretty confident about my appearance. On a bad day, I will feel too bloated to even try to put on my "cute" jeans and instead opt for my trusty fat jeans, I will hide my hair under a baseball cap and try to disappear under layers of clothes because my confidence is shot to hell. As a woman, I am entitled to these days, and rational or not we all have our "fat" days and our "skinny" days. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">However, even on a skinny day I can open up ANY women's magazine on a shelf and throw myself a little pity party. I want her hair, I want her stomach, I want her arms, I want her purse, I want those jeans, I want my ass to fit into those jeans the way hers does...the list goes on and on. Without even stopping to evaluate all that I have in my life to be THANKFUL for, I immediately focus on what I don't have and what I wish I had. I allow myself to fall prey to images crafted especially for women like me, images that target ALL women to aspire, to want, to feel that they need something they don't have. We are made aware everyday, that there are items, lifestyles, and bodies that are better then ours, and only when you have them, will you be a better person. Like most women, I buy into the images just enough to feel bad about what I don't have. I don't have a Lexus, I have a crappy green Honda that is colorfully decorated with the results of parking in public areas, I don't have her body, in fact even though I am a sort-of size 4 I feel too fat to even think of putting on a bathing suit, the list get longer with every turn of a page or flip of a channel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">This morning was a bad day, I rolled out of bed late and my building's water had been shut off meaning I couldn't have a shower. I felt so fat that I put on my ratty jeans, a large t-shirt, my trusty cap and ran out the door to work. I work in Los Angeles, the city born to make others want, and need what they don't have. In this town, what you drive, what you do and who you know, matter much more then if you committed a felony. The advertising agency that I work in is a creative shop that daily turns out the ads you see everyday which create the needs and wants that you never knew you even had.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">Because one of our assistants was out of the office I got to sit in a casting session for our newest client, my sole purpose was to take notes. I was not to offer an opinion, nor speak to anyone. I watched as my boss took out books of pictures containing image after image of some of the most beautiful people that I had ever seen in my life. They were unreal, bronzed, hard bodied, confident looking women with gorgeous hair and makeup. I actually felt less adequate sitting next to the photos of these women, God help me if I ever had to BE in a room with them. Next to each model was her height, weight, and measurements. Not a woman under 5 ft 10" or over 115 pounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">To my horror the art directors didn't see their task as one of simply picking the most beautiful specimen to represent the image their product should convey, instead they picked apart every single aspect of these statuesque women. Their job was to find the flaws of the seemingly flawless. I had no idea that the women I desperately wished I could slightly resemble were in actuality, not perfect. In fact, in the advertising world these women were "too fat", "too skinny", "not sexy", their "arms are too bony", her "face has too many freckles", her "nose has a funny shape to it", "too soft", and these are just the comments I can say out loud! After they selected about 4 women who resembled what they were looking for, they continued to discuss the model's "face value". My boss wanted to airbrush out certain parts of the models because they didn't have the right "look". <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">Can you imagine, we are living in a world where even the VERY few women who are considered to be "perfect", aren't perfect enough? That truly frightens me. We are forcing this false image down the throats of America in our product placements and our magazines, and convincing them that they should aspire to look like a woman who by medical standards is technically emaciated? Every minute "flaw" is airbrushed into oblivion and we are led to believe that this is reality, that people really do look like that. On the occasion that a magazine decides to print an article demanding that "real" women be seen and their larger sizes be celebrated, the pictures accompanying the story are dimly lit, VERY airbrushed, and the woman are posed so that they don't highlight their flaws. Juxtaposed with these images are the ads woven into the magazine which feature sickly thin models dressed in designer couture who are splayed across the page in provocative poses to make you desire whatever it is they are peddling. We can not escape. We can not see past the images to view the dangers that they are inspiring. Young girls starve themselves, abuse their bodies, steal money, run up credit debt, all in the name of these falsely created needs and wants to perpetuate a lifestyle that not even the women in the ad can live up to. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Verdana">It occurred to me that I had a choice, like it or not these images DO exist, and will keep on being printed in the name of profits, but I can choose to accept these images as reality or reject them as useless creations geared to mess with my perceptions. While some women will continue to kill themselves to achieve a look that not even a professional model can achieve without help and digital enhancement, I can be grateful that I have so much in my life worth smiling about. I have a wonderful family, really great friends who support me, I have an apartment I can afford, I have a job that pays my bills, I have a car that runs, the list goes on and on. These are the things I should focus on, not the fabricated needs and desires created by corporations. Don't get me wrong, I will still have my share of bad days, and I will still have a few wants that I could probably do without, but in the end it really comes down to MY conscious choice to be thankful for all that I DO have or to be resentful about the silly things I don't.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690272472826231289.post-21231641471284967602009-05-26T11:32:00.000-07:002009-05-26T11:34:54.671-07:00First thoughts when moving to LA<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US">It never really occurred to me just how much our society is a people of convenience until the other day. We became a nation built on the dreams of freedom, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness which has slowly morphed into liability suits, the pursuit of the best quick fix, and the freedom to capitalize on those looking for it. In our fast paced lives there seems to only be room for 3 minute mc-sections of our time to devoted to individual tasks throughout the day, and the less we have to work at it the better. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US">Take dining for example; when we don’t feel like picking up foodstuffs at the local market and it’s too much trouble to re-heat last night’s lean cuisine, we seek out establishments who will provide low maintenance sustenance which requires little to no effort on our part. We are willing to pay the grossly marked up prices of low-grade meats and over processed ingredients in order to satisfy our hunger. In fact, we are so desperate to put as little thought possible into certain aspects of our live, that we are willingly paying someone who probably doesn’t even have the equivalency of a middle-school diploma to prepare and handle our pre-packaged delicacies. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:Verdana; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US">I spend a good portion of my day peddling name brand java to people who are too lazy to poor pre-ground coffee into a machine and brew their own. While American’s turn a blind eye, I blatantly overcharge them for a simple cup of coffee with a well know picture on the cup. It’s not enough that I am constantly doing this day to day, but I am also instructed to smile, while cooperate America laughs all the way to the bank.</span><!--EndFragment--> </div>Caffeine Ninjahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13050781631855810981noreply@blogger.com0