F is for Fuck (Love, K)

So in our post-NYE haze M and I decided that we need some inspiration for posts. Aside from a recent *ahem* issue with Henry Kissinger, I was feeling fairly rootless. We came up with the idea, then, of just picking a random word based on a beginning letter and expounding on said topic. Well M gave me “F,” and so I now bring to you an entry I’m incredibly excited about –

F is for Fuck

I may or may not have mentioned I’m originally from Jersey (I’m too lazy to read old posts to figure out if I have), but this fact may or may not explain my love affair with this word. It’s actually not an affair, it’s a full-on relationship. This relationship precedes the current one with Boyfriend, and will endure much beyond. I love the word fuck. You have no idea how much I love it. I use it daily, at least about 20 times. Not necessarily always out loud, usually in all places (public and private) and sometimes just to myself no-so-quietly on the Metro.

I know there have been books written on this, so it’s not particularly insightful, but I’m trying to explain this from my perspective. Comedians are always commenting on the linguistic and syntactic flexibility of the word fuck. It can be so many different parts of speech.

Noun – Gilbert Arenas is a dumb fuck.

Proper noun – For Fuck’s sake.

Verb (trans) – Fuck this weather.

Verb (intrans) – Fuck off.

Adjective – I hate this fucking weather.

Preposition – Well, change this to “proposition” and there you go. If you think of an example that doesn’t read “fuckly,” let me know. Although fuckly works, too.

Moderately intelligible – fuckity fucking fuck fuck.

Inset – Un-fucking-believable

Multiple uses – Oh fuck you, I seriously fucking hate this fucking assignment and it pisses the fuck out of me that you think I should fucking drop every other fucking thing I’m doing to work on this piece of fucking shit right now. (Can you tell the kind of day I’m having at work?)

Did I mention that MS Word is recognizing fuck as a proper word, fuckly and fuckity as not words, and “fuck fuck” as containing a repeated work? Thanks, software developers, for being realistic. Although, you fucking assholes, heteronomative is a fucking word, thank you very fucking much. You know how fucking obnoxious it is to have all of your fucking papers redlined all the fucking time? It’s really fucking distracting.

The beauty of this word, however, really lies in its power. It can mean nothing, and it can mean everything. It can be sexy, it can be dangerous. You can say it lovingly, you can say it lustfully. You can say it angrily, tiredly, sadly. You can use it while depressed or bored or irritated. It can be offensive, or it can be just another word. It can be a beautiful word, and it can be a harsh word. You can emphasize it or slur it (“Ahhh, fer’ ‘fuckssake…”). It’s thrilling, it’s shocking, it’s normal. If you’re like me, and/or have longtime friends like me, it’s just a favorite element of casual parlance. This upsets Boyfriend for reasons beyond my understanding. Honestly, it also seemed to mildly shock some of my sorority sisters. But that’s because these people refuse to recognize the gorgeous flexibility of this word. It doesn’t have to be shocking. It should only be shocking if you mean it to be. It’s so fucking amazing. If you’re a master linguist or a smooth talker, fuck can mean anything and everything. It’s a really fucking awesome word.

I’ll admit, in some moments, I catch myself having an uncommon sensitivity to the word in my speech. This usually occurs at work. There are, of course, times when a rational person recognizes these words need to be used carefully (a lesson my brother has not yet learned, to my immense scorn) I have accidently said that word in front of someone I work for (a person in front of whom I should not have been saying that word), and like a pussy I blushed. (Fuck me.)

Normally, however, I’m almost always perfect at it, and I really do think my execution is great. It just rolls off my tongue. It never really feels like I’m cursing, and if you spend enough time around me you’ll start to see it as just a speech pattern, too. As far as I’m concerned, it’s used primarily for purposes of emphasis or qualification. It indicates degree of severity, or shittiness of situation. It can also just be a one-off, like “oh, fuck this,” that doesn’t really mean much except I kind of don’t like whatever it is I’m referring to.

For those of you who spend time thinking about intonation and phonetics, you’ll recognize that fuck is partially considered offensive because it’s a harsh sounding word. It’s a short word, a hard ending, one vowel. It’s quick and it’s dirty and it’s rough. I really like that about it, because it gives you that impression of power on a whole other level. Words always have power, of course, and words that our culture shuffles to the category of “curses” have an entire other level of power. Words that have the added benefit of sounding like this have even more. It’s intoxicating, it’s exhilarating.

I fucking love fuck. I fucking love this fucking word.

K's Guide to Holiday Parties

Holiday party season should be in full swing right now. Whether it’s your boring office event, a friend’s holiday party, or a crazy new year’s party, we’ve all got something we’re going to (and hopefully more than one if one of them is the office event). So I decided I’d put together a handy little guide to party etiquette, Bitchy Words style.

This shouldn’t be anything you haven’t heard before (for the most part), but they’re things I clearly needed to remind myself before M’s big party last weekend. So, using my sad self as an illustration, I’m going to give you an anecdotal guide to What Not to Do At Parties (and sometimes, What To Do). As a prefatory note, Boyfriend stayed at home so I was going stag at this particular event – partially leading to many of these rule violations.

So once upon a time / last Saturday, M’s Christmas party occurred. I was scheduled to party hop that night, ended up having a minor emotional issue that turned into full-on hairbrush-and-shoe-throwing mode, and decided to fuck it and just go to M’s. Who the fuck wants to go all the way out to Clarendon anyway? Not me. (AN: While “Don’t be a hot mess” is also a rule, it’s more of a general rule and I’m not putting it on this specific rule. I am absurdly guilty of violating this rule.)

So I arrive around eight, and M hands me a cup of pink stuff, about which I immediately remark that it “tastes like pink.” Dumb remark, but the drink really was good. BAD IDEA. In this case, pink equals lots of gin. Lots and lots of gin. I don’t remember the exact formula, but I know it included champagne and some kind of pink juice, with said gin. Which brings me to the first Rule –

Rule: Don’t Drink Gin. Ever.

In addition to the fact that gin smells like feet and is really an old man’s drink, it’s also deadly. Like vodka, its taste is easily masked by fruit juice and will fuck you the hell up if you drink more than say, one or two. I had, say, three or four…plus. In addition to mulled wine (which I don’t remember the taste of at all, M, so you’ll have to make it again).

Anyway, continued drinking of pink drink accompanies standing at the kitchen counter and making conversation with people around me. Pink drink plus one incited two awkward conversations that I’ll not forget now for a long time. Conversation number one was a bizarrely long conversation about two NBA basketball players that my conversation partner (girl) went to high school with. I discintly remember talking much more enthusiastically about sports than I actually feel, as well as eating way way way too much soft cheese. So, second Rule –

Rule: Watch what you eat at parties /while drinking.

This is right up M’s alley, because it involves healthy eating. This is something I should remember in particular with my weird-ass triglyceride issues and tend to forget frequently. I think I ate like an entire round of mysterious soft cheese on those thin circle crackers. HELLO CHOLESTEROL. I tried about three mini quiche things, but switched back to the cheese quickly. What saddens me most about this (besides the staggering amount of fat I consumed) was that this prevented me from eating the Chex Mix I desperately wanted. M had graciously promised to set some aside for me from the leftovers (and please tell me you did that…!), but I still unfortunately skewed my eating to that night entirely to the “fat-ass” side. Oh, and did I mention that this was my dinner?

Conversation number two was actually with M’s boyfriend and one or two other random guys. I remember that it was about Tiger Woods and that it went on for like almost two hours (of the three or so that I was there). If there’s one thing you should know about me in addition to my charming sarcasm and sense of humor, it’s that I like to argue. When I’m drunk, I like to argue to the death. Unfortunately, this always has one of two very bad side effects. It either a) offends people or b) makes them think I’m flirting with them. Option b was the unfortunate result of my arguing last Saturday, leading to the next Rule –

Rule: Don’t let boys think you’re flirting with them when you’re really just mocking them.

Mad props to M’s boyfriend for knowing me well enough to understand that I was just being stubborn, but major eugh points to other guy (forgot his name, M) for thinking me arguing vehemently against his “family man” advertising premise means I have any interest in him. Also, at what point in a conversation where I KNOW I drunkenly mentioned Boyfriend like seven times does another guy think, damn, she wants me. Although, the supposed drunken dancing/swaying that M insists I did in front of him may have helped, but to be fair I don’t remember that. Also, he looks like this, only rounder, and…no.

But anyway, somewhere in between these two conversations I found time to talk extensively to M’s boyfriend about video games, during which enthusiastic explorations of Mass Effect I spilled said pink drink ALL OVER my wonderful dress. Remember that dress? Woe is me and my dry-cleaning bill. Next Rule –

Rule: Be careful with your clothes.

A rule none of us EVER follow because girls like to look nice in fancy/expensive clothing and all drunk people spill. Whether you’re the drunk one or someone else is, alcohol will be spilled on your clothes at some point, with like a 90% probability. We all know this, and we all ignore it. I guess the Rule should actually be –

Rule: Set aside a fund for post-party drycleaning.

So after spilling on myself extensively I decide (or M decides and I agree? I remember thinking going home was a good idea) it’s time to go home. I vote Metro and M says “don’t be a moron, take a cab” and she walks me outside. I remember none of this time, so this is according to M. Something about muttering incoherently and loudly insisting on smoking a cigarette RIGHT NOW and only IN THAT EXACT SPOT. At least we were outside…so no rule out of this. As an on and off and former frequent smoker, I don’t regret doing that, as long as I don’t find any burns on my dress later. The next rule will come from me coming home.

This I remember even less of. My last memory is getting into my apartment building, and all is black after that. But, I woke up at 6:30 am in my pajamas with my dress hanging up, my makeup off, and my shoes back in the box. So I decided to wake Boyfriend up (who was asleep, but I was still drunk) and ask him extensively about it. So between 6:30 and 7:30 on Sunday morning he recounted to me my antics, which I’m sure were charming. In addition to physically removing me from my dress and unstrapping my heels (which Boyfriend says I had no chance of getting off on my own, as my attempts to undo the buckle apparently consisted of a half-hearted flicking every ten seconds), Boyfriend also managed to get me into pajamas and brush my teeth. My conversation post passing out also consisted of a variety of three sentences repeated cyclically – one of which was a question about one of the NBA players conversation partner #1 mentioned. I will never forget this man. Eugh. Longish story made shorter, Rule –

Rule: Thank your roommate/boyfriend for all they do for you.

Did I mention that the pre-party shoe-throwing was at Boyfriend? And he still brushed my teeth?

The rest of the story involves being drunk for the next 7 hours or so, a horrific hangover, and a heartburn lasting three days. Gin gives you heartburn…who knew?

So having come to the end of my personal drunken odyssey of the weekend, I’m losing interest in coming up with other rules. After New Years Eve, I will update with the new rules I’ve discovered and broken.

Remember kids, stay sexy and stay bitchy.

M - Don't Sell Me Stuff (and M's thoughts on tipping)

I would like to add to the nonsenese from K's last post. It was going to eventually wind up in a post about people trying to sell me things when I'm minding my own business, but it's relevant in a round about way, so you all get a mutated post about just that....people who try to sell me things and tipping.

As a preference, when I am at the mall, I make a wide arc around the people trying to get me to try the hair straightener or just see how this sea salt scrub feels. I hate being asked if I want to try something. These people literally place themselves in your way and talk to you. I would have approached you if I was interested, so when I'm on my phone avoiding eye contct with you, take a hint and shove it where the sun don't shine. Likewise, I hate when people with causes approach me. If I'm trying to go to the metro at 8:30 in the morning, I'm probably trying to make it to work on time and I do not have time to help you legalize gay marriage, nor do I have time to hear you tell me how I'm killing the planet as I'm leaving the metro at 5:30. I want to go home, open a bottle of wine, and think about anything but Green Peace. Whales be damned, Say Yes to the Dress is on and it's the episode I missed from last week.

About a months ago, I was at CVS to pick up a few things immediately after work. I hate going someplace when I am still lugging my laptop around, but I did it because I needed toliet paper. As in CW didn't tell me we were out of toliet paper and I learned for myself at 6am that morning. Regardless, as I was entering CVS, where a homeless man thinks that by opening a door for me that I could otherwise open myself he deserves a tip (Nice try, but no thanks. Keep your cup out of my face and let me open my own door after I spray it down with lysol.), I am assaulted by someone who looks remarkably like the most henious ex I've ever had. To give you an idea, he looks something like Aaron Eckhart, which is too bad because I love Thank You For Smoking but I break out in hives when I watch it due to this resemblence.

So Aaron Eckhart basically assaults with me friendliness. That sleezy friendliness. Hives started creeping up my leg. He was from the Washington Post and wanted to ask me a few questions, did I have a moment. I did what I do in a panick stricken state and just stared at him. He took this as a cue to start asking me questions. Did I read the post? Yes (I said yes, but I meant no, I only read the Wall Street Journal and the Express, which I guess is the WaPo). Great, he says, do I read the Sunday edition. Yes. (No, but I had a mental image of when my dad was visiting and picked up the WaPo on Sunday.) Excellent. Where did I buy said paper? At the Safeway across the street. (That's probably where dad bought it). Long story short, it resulted in me buying like 8 weeks of Sunday WaPo delivery, which I only use for the coupons. This is why I avoid people hawking things to me. I cannot say no because I am too polite to say I'm not interested while they're talking, then they go on for 15 minutes and at the end I feel like my inability to say no wasted their time and bingo....I'm out 20 bucks.

I've been receiving my paper for about 4 weeks now -- one of those weeks I stole what I presume was my paper from my neighbor's door since it never materialized and since I called after 11 about it, I was shit out of luck. No refund, no second delivery, nothing. They're fault....and I was going to pay for it? F that. So I stole my neighbor's paper, or my paper that was wrongly delivered. I've never seen them receive the paper, so I made an assumption and acted on it.

This Sunday, something unusual happened. When I dumped my paper out of it's plastic bag and went to read the Arts section, an envelope floated out. I wish I hadn't tossed it so I could have taken a picture, but I was so irritated by it that I chucked it immediately. The envelope was self addressed to someone who is not me. I turned it around and read: "If you wish to remember you paper carrier this holiday season, please use this envelope." I'm sorry, what?

I do understand tipping your mail carrier/trash dude. Maybe it's a Southern thing, K, but my mom always put a loaf of pumpkin bread in the mail box. Granted, in the world of anthrax and whatnot, I can imagnie you'd probably not consume it, but I get it. My mom later switched to candles...but we never did cash. In fact, in the South, unless you're talking to your valet, lawn man, hairdresser, etc (where you pay them) you did not gift someone cash who provided a service that you did not directly pay them to do. That's tacky. And in the South, tacky is about as bad as it gets.

Here's a brief guide for you Bitchy Words folks:
If you tip in $$ (whatever amount): valet, babysitter/dog sitter, hair dresser, nail salon, lawn man. Basically, people you pay in cash anyway for a service.
Do not tip in $$ (or at all if you don't want to): mail carrier, newspaper dude, trash man, essentially, any public service in which your taxes already pay their salary. I realize that my newspaper carrier is not a public service dude, but there's a reason this job was originally given to kids with bikes. It's that easy and it doesn't take $$$ to make a kid happy. Also keep in mind that I don't track down whoever reads my meters to give them something, nor do I tip the copy who sits outside of my building. My obscenly high taxes are my tip to the city and they can distribute in that employee fund as they see fit.

Really, while my mom might bake for a day and tip service people with those gifts...I don't feel the need to tip someone who is doing their job adequately. For that matter, I don't even tip my hair dresser, even though he is awesome. You're supposed to tip those kinds of people for a full service. Are you shitting me? In this economy? Hell, in ANY economy? ANOTHER 200 bucks on top of my hair cut/color is outrageous. I'm already getting screwed if ask me.

Bottom line: I'd consider tipping my mail carrier if every time I had a package he called me ahead of time to arrange a good time for me to be home and him to deliver it, or if I got a chocolate every day. No dice if you just stick mail in the slot and tell me I have to wait an hour in line to pick up a package you won't leave at my door.

My tip this year? Saying Merry Christmas. If I feel really generous, I might consider that you're from a different religious background and say Happy Holidays. But don't count on it.

K - That Good Old Holiday Spirit

Last week was super-hectic, and I also happened to be incredibly sick (but thank you cough syrup with codeine), so again – apologies about the delay in posting. Hopefully M has been keeping you all entertained. However, sickness only accentuated my normal cynicism, and I came across this delightful announcement in my apartment elevator about holiday tips for our building employees. Hence, le blog post.

As a bit of background, I live in a rather nice apartment building in a nice area…what you’d call an adult apartment. There are families with children (unfortunately a great many of them) in this building, in addition to my young professional demographic, and the even more unfortunate population of embassy staff &. co. I hate embassy families. They’re self-important, rude, and obnoxious because they know they can get away with murder. Hell, over the summer I can tell you for a fact that over half of these fucking brats have nannies to take them down to the pool…because their stupid mothers couldn’t be bothered. Rich assholes. That, and a bunch of incredibly irate old women make up the population of the building. Those women alone should be tipping our staff, because they’re the ones every single fucking morning harassing the front desk girl because there is something wrong with the espresso machine in the lobby. (There is always something wrong with the espresso machine in the lobby.)

To start out with, I have no problem with the essential concept of tipping your concierge, etc. for the holidays…it’s just the way in which this particular notice was framed. However, this is assuming the employees deserve it. If that sounds harsh, it comes from personal experience. M and I lived in a building where some of the front desk staff were honest-to-god harpies. I’m talking unbelievable bitches who were not only too old to be competent at their job, but blithely didn’t give a shit that they were incompetent and preferred to be absolutely nasty to anyone under 35. No lie. Those old witches were straight up heinous. And they deserved no thanks for anyone.

My current building, fortunately, has no such problems. I’ve actually had really great service from them (including during a really awkward situation with a neighboring couple who was/is, to put it bluntly, fucking disgusting to the point where it interferes with MY quality of life), so I’m more than happy to give them big ups. I wouldn’t be opposed to some kind of holiday tip for mediocre service either, because it’s not necessarily like a bonus for effort, just a “hey, it’s Christmas” kind of deal. But the people in my building who have put together this “holiday fund drive,” complete with delightful color posters (Sharon and Ruth Ann…go figure) have me a bit confused. Their rationale for why we should donate is as follows:

“If you lived in a house, you’d give holiday tips to the trash collector, cleaners, mail deliverer, and lawn guys.”

Would I really? First of all, I am not from a family that ever used a maid, so our mythical “cleaner” was Mom and she got presents, not tips. I have NEVER IN MY LIFE heard of tipping the mail man, and I’m even from a rural area where we know all the post office staff. Trash collectors? You know how much fucking money they make? For working like 3 hours a day? If I recall correctly, there was some kind of kick-up in DC a year or so ago about trash collectors starting too early, because they got paid for a whole day’s work that they finished at 8 am. Not cool, homie. And now it’s illegal for them to get trash earlier than 7. At least in NW… And I also may be making that up. (Well, someone else made it up, because I heard it somewhere. Why the hell would I make that up?) So anyway…no one who makes twice as much as I do is getting a tip from me. My bosses get cards, and they give me a couple hundred dollars in cash. It’s an established socio-economic hierarchy thing. They make like 100s of Ks a year…and I do not. They get cards. I would not give a garbage man a card, though. We do, however, have a lawn guy because my mom’s house has 3 acres and there is no way she could mow that herself. The lawn guy is also nice enough to come plow the driveway in the winter. We call him Grassman (not to his face) and he’s a secretly a biker dude / hippie. Lots of tattoos, long hair, etc. I would give him a tip because Grassman rocks.

Farther down on the page they’ve put “Cash gifts are welcome, too.” Wait, what was I giving before? A personal check? So you cunts can add a few more zeros? How do you know it won’t bounce? Do you want my credit card number? A gift card? Can I do that? Can I give a Starbucks gift card as a donation? How do you split that among the 31 employees (a number I now know, thanks to Sharon and Ruth Ann)? Oh, wait, I read up again (and I’ve read this like every day for a week and only last night ripped one off the wall as “research” for this post) and saw the detail I’ve been missing - “Make checks out to the [Apartment Building] Employees Holiday Fund.” They’ve also used the name the building was called like five years ago before it was bought out by the current management company, so clearly Sharon and Ruth Ann has problems adjusting to change. So they’ve apparently, what, created a shell company to collect these donations? Is this tax deductible? Why would you want to collect hundreds of checks (presuming most people donate)? You know how much of a pain in the ass that would be at the bank? You probably do, because I bet you bitches are the type who writes out a check for your groceries. Taking about 5 solid minutes to do so, might I add.

Sharon and Ruth Ann, you have discouraged my interest in Christmas spirit. I’m hoping that your collective stupidity is not enough to actually deter me from donating, but for now, it’s certainly going to piss me off. And Sharon, by the way, charmed6@[emaildomain].net is not an appropriate e-mail address for an adult. Just fyizzle.

M - Dreams and The Wave

So I hope you folks had a great Thanksgiving all stuffed yourselves. I ran a 5k on Thanksgiving morning and actually didn't really want leftover pie. Made you feel fat didn't I? It's cool. My ego boost is only momentary. When I'm home, my mom and I drink entirely too much wine. Like caloric amounts in the full pie range of wine. Not enough that I'm throwing up, or even stumble back to my bedroom, but enough that I get dreams that are messed the f up.

One dream in particular really had me unhinged for about....oh the entire vacation. I gave K the short story while I ruminated on it's meaning. *90's wavey screen entering dream sequence*

Your favorite blogger, M, is boarding a large cruise ship. I have a big suitcase stuffed with clothes (literally coming out the sides) all cartoony and I'm stick thin (I guess I was feeling like a champ off of Clois de Bois), in a black bikini and one of those ridiculous big floppy straw hats ala Lauren from The OC (or whatever that stupid show is with the kids that I hate/secretly want to be because they're paid 10k an episode to go "Um....like...I hate you." I can do that and you can pay me in prosecco and SweetGreen.)

Oh and sparkly heels. Don't forget the stripper sparkle heels. I was ROCKIN that shit.

So I drop my comic suitcase into a room and next few moments are kinda a funky mix of exploring the ship by going up and down utility ladders (in sparkle stripper heels), and flirting with various men.

At one point, I walk onto a stage and it just so happens that I'm the star of the HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL OMFG1!!11! that they're putting on. You guessed it folks, I basically am one of those bitches from faux-ality tv in my stupid hat and I don't know any of my choreography. Cue a space alien version of Christopher Walken all up in my grill (these are phrases I use in my dream. no joke.) making all these ridiculous hand movements and telling me to "work it work it." I flop my hands in the air and leave even though the big show is that night but because I am fabulous and have a big hat, I don't care. Suddenly, I'm on the deck with all my girlz and even though we secretly hate each other, we're all like BFFs and talking about getting a tan while we're on this school boat business. This is the thought that literally crosses my mind in my dream: My brother goes to school in the mountains (which is true) and he has a tan (not really true), therefore, because I am on a boat school, I will also be tan. This made perfect sense and all my BFFs literally mind-read my thoughts and were all like omg so true you and your bro can be tan-buddies. I cannot make this shit up. Clearly an MTV writer jumped into my brain and crapped out this dream because this is even less cohesive than The Hills or whatever.

Now, I'm walking into a classical Beauty and the Beast-esq library which is dark and cold and while I'm looking over some books in a corner, a certain someone from my past bum rushes me and is tickling me and trying to be all playful. Note. Of all the guys I've dated while CW and I were on a break, this guy was literally the hottest piece of ass I have ever laid hands on. That story is for another day and another blog post when I feel like trumping up my ego. But trust me when I say....while it turned out that his dick face personality was proportionately related to how hot he was....I was still extremely sad to let it go because it was just.that.bad/good. It was really my first experience of being used and using in equal amounts--a perfect storm of hot, steamy, fucked up college life. Nom.

This is all delicious in my dream, until, in a flash, I realize CW is on the school boat with me and this would be a big no-no. So what does the MTV writer crapping my dreams do? Sharts. Becase CW walks into the library. Except he doesn't. Right as fucked up college hook up (FUCHU) kisses me, he literally pops his head around the corner like my cat does when she's on the sofa and trying to look into our bedroom. Goddamnit. AND THEN DISAPPEARS before I can explain that FUCHU is to blame and while I'm loudly protesting, FUCHU picks me up in the way he always did after I yelled at him for blowing me off, and carries me into this secret bedroom in the back of the library with a portal view of the ocean. HOLY CHEESEWHIZ thank you MTV writer in my brain!

....then I woke up. Something hates me and from where that dream was going, it wasn't my mini MTV writer tucked away in my brain under the "hot and steamy" section.

Of course, I did what ever person does in that situation does, and tried to go back to sleep. I did and I did dream, but I'll just say there were sea monsters involved and something about 2012 and leave it at that.

So then, of course, all morning (or afternoon since I got up at 11:30 regularly), I walked around feeling like I had cheated. I tried to blame my mini MTV writer (Let's call him Eric.), but I still felt ridiculous guilt. Did I still have serious feelings for FUCHU? No. Did I still see sparkles when CW walks into the room? Yes. Most definately. Then what?

Oh god. Here it comes. I had what I want to trademark as The Wave.

K knows exactly what I'm talking about, or at least she pretended to while I spilled. K and I used to be roommates in a ridiculous apartment off campus without male supervision (read: boyfriends). We lived the single life, which often involved getting drunk on a random night on cheap wine and walking to CVS across campus. We flirted with boys, we had ridiculous drama and allowed ourselves to be embroiled in it, and we were desperate to go to what we have now: steady jobs, good pay check, cute/serious boyfriends, and no serious drama.

The Wave basically happens when all of a sudden from head to toe you get a kind of wave feeling and long, with every ounce in your body, for a stupid drunk night with your old roommate and a bottle of 3 Buck Chuck and all the irresponsibility that came with it. It's not repeatable. We can't recreate it because when we've sobered up and finished the pizza and laughed/cried, we still go home to our very good lives. I can't describe it, but it's just not the same. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you've never been nostalgic over something you loved dearly. It's a mix of feeling the loss of that time when we could be irresponsible and the hope we had for the future we're currently living.

They say that hindsight is 20-20, which is total bullshit because I think once you get just a little past a great time in your life (whether you noticed it or not), all of a sudden, that time was the shit and wtf where did it go? We forget the extreme heartache (I didn't see CW for 7 months), the anxiety (job search, PhD applications...actually that's still happening), and the indigestion (wine, pizza, whatever K eats) that came with those great memories that were hard won. In all reality, we were really fucking miserable a good deal of the time.

But we have hatched a plan to try to recreate it all. We'll go out and go dancing and have pizza and be ridiculous. And then, I told CW about it. Normally, he couldn't care less. But this time.

M: So, K and I are going to go out one weekend and go dancing and all that. Just a heads up. We'll go on a Friday night when you're not home.
CW: Ah. Going on the prowl?
M: What? NO!
CW: I know you, you're going to come home with like 10 phone numbers.
M: I am not!!! We'll go to DC9 where people don't hit on you.
CW: Mmmmmhmmmm.
M: (sorry K) NO! I'm going to chaperone K!
CW: aaahaha and I'm sure she's telling her boyfriend the same thing.
M: Oh please "Mr. Soccer moms have been hitting on me all week" (this is true, he was at a soccer tournament this weekend for his half sister0
CW: It's different.
M: Is not. If you and I went out and some girl started hitting on you, you'd totally come back and be like "yeah, sorry about that, the bar is totally packed" then tell me about how the girls swarmed you.

The above conversation was all said in jest and lovingly. Mostly because we know each other well enough for him to know what I really want--freedom from my life. Not from him, per say, but from this life of responsibility. And he knows that I'll probably go out, K and I will drink just enough to feel tired and want to go home and I'll come home and whine about it and then fall asleep, drooling on his chest, mumbling how much I love him while he plays video games.

Maybe Eric can write a new dream for me that quenches my wave.

M- People I Hate, Part 2

So today, I was going to grace you all with a funny series of quips on words that make me go "buuuhhhhh" (Ron White style, for any of you out there who have seen Tater Salad too many times.) Then I became incensed with the metro (again) for no particular reason....other than that the North Dupont Metro down escalator is STILL out of service....and had mentally planned out my post about hating WMATA....

But then. Something special happened. I had a Planet Earth Goes Corporate moment. You know that one scene where after like days of waiting, the camera man catches the bird of paradise doing that ridiculous mating dance?



This was like seeing that. I was in shock and awe, because I have seen probably every single strange incident that can happen in normal daily corporate life. Examples include:

- Sexually harassed by clients? Been there, done that, over a seminar on shipping corpses, nonetheless.
- Watched boss drink straight from wine bottle in the office? Check.
- Had my skirt blow up while delivering a massive proposal and show my underwear to my senior manager and co-worker? You betcha.

But this one, this one takes the cake. I finally witnessed a CD in action. The CD's. I can't really flesh out for you what that means because I'm in no mood for someone to google and randomly come up with that and trace it somehow back to me. But. While the C stands for....Corporate...Suffice to say, the D's stands for douchebag.

As I am rarely in my own office, I don't often get to see CD's in action. You see, CD's are amazingly well camoflagued as normal, caring individuals who would rather avoid conflict and putter along at work than get in your face and make a scene. CD's only show their true colors when threatened while in a state of holier-than-thou-art. When a male CD is threatened during this phase of his lifecycle, he becomes immensely douchey, territorial, and excreets something that smells vaguely of shit, coffee, and menthols. Office behaviorial scientists of dubbed this secretion "self importance" and have determined that it comes from a mixture of brown nosing, large quantities of bad coffee intake, and, clearly, a nicotine addiction. Smarter CDs have tried to cover their self-importance by dousing themselves in cologne. Usually to much avail as it amps up the smell of the self love stink. Non-CDs can smell the predator coming and usually run. A classic example would be Andy from The Office. And I don't mean heart-broken, sweet, kinda weird Andy....I mean the asshole pre-anger management Andy.

So. My experience.

I've been sitting in what my office calls a telephone room. Probably because it's just about the same size as an old school telephone booth with a chair and a small shelf that comes out of the wall for your laptop. I love these rooms. Why? There is a door. I can pretend that I'm important enough to have a door to close. Mostly, these rooms are used for having conference calls about sensitive information. I use this room becasue there aren't any other desks available and because they're hidden behind the other cubes....so no one ever walks by and I can gchat my life away while waiting for some work--any work.

This has not been an issue for the past month that I have randomly been in this office and taken one of these telephone cubes. Until today. You see, you can't reserve these rooms. These are the only 4 rooms, aside from partner's offices, that cannot be reserved. While I was actually doing work (amazing! my manager gave me something to do!) I heard a little "tink tink tink" on the glass door. I turned around, confused, to face....a CD. I knew it from the little smirk he was trying to guise as apologetic.

The M/CD exchange

M: Hi, can I help you?
CD: Yes, I believe I reserved this room.
M: I don't think that's possible, actually, these rooms can't be reserved.
CD: Well I reserved it.
M: Okay, well it's possible that you're looking for the cubes on the other side of that wall.
CD: No, it's this cube.
M: *looks for cube number, cannot find one, gives up* well, there are three other phone cubes here, the two there are available.
CD: I reserved this one.
M: *thinks CD is joking...realizes he isn't* .....since I have all my stuff spread out here, would you mind using that one down there? I'm sure that if you're expecting to cram another person in there with you, that they will find you if you move one door down.
CD: Listen, I have a phone call in 5 minutes, I need to use this room.
M: That phone room is just fine, no one is in it, and the phone works just as well.
CD: I reserved this room, it is policy for you to leave this room. You shouldn't even be using this room if you didn't reserve it.

***** at this point in time, I'm somewhere between extremely pissed and totally amused. This guy was so anal retentive that he literally had to have this cube that he just knew as a reserved room. He was going to shit himself if I didn't conceed and give it to him. I was tempted, but already really ready to go back to my gchat with K.*****

M: If it's really that big of a deal to you, would you mind moving out of the way so I can move to the room next to you? And by the way, for future reference, even if you did reserve the room, if you're not here by 10am, that reservation is cancelled. Just an FYI so you don't make someone needless move all their stuff next time.
CD: Oh thank you so much. I know I reserved this room. I've had it for the past two days. Sorry about the hassle.

********

No. You are not sorry about the hassle. You basically just splooged yourself over this hassle and, like the f'ing spinless moron that I am, I MOVED. COME ON M.

Ugh. So. To all those CDs out there. Your boy here got a pass. One pass. This isn't three strikes you're out....this is next time, I'm going to be a bitch and accidentally spill my coffee on you while I'm moving all my shit. I hope that cube still smells like my god awful commuter shoes.

K - I Wish I Were an Engineer

I haven’t been writing this week for essentially one reason - I’ve been stuck writing the same fucking thing over and over again. So, in the tradition of this blog, I’m going to tool on the project in question – the personal essay.

We have all had to write that shit. College applications, cover letters for jobs, fellowship proposals…you name it. Everyone wants some kind of personal statement, usually in addition to a more formal and professional statement of purpose. I, for one, am terrible at personal statements. I write critically, not artistically. If I were applying to a fucking MFA program or to be a reporter, yeah, I get it. I should be creative and engaging, I should let the committee or whoever get to know me. Creative and engaging I may be in some venues, but possibility not at the level of…shall we say propriety? they’re looking for. I definitely have neither the patience nor the skill set to do this kind of shit.

I’ve come up with a few different “types” of personal essays. No matter how original organizations think they are with coming up with the stupid questions, they’re not. Every single personal prompt falls into one of a few categories. I came up with three – but mostly because I had to stop writing this in order to do my actual job. The broadly personal essay, the social essay, and the practical essay. I’ll start with one I’ve been struggling with.

“We place great weight on your personal statement. This statement is your opportunity to get the committee interested in you, in your potential as a professional and as a human being.”

I’m sorry, but what the fuck does that even mean? As a human being? I can give you all the evidence of professionalism that you what, but what the fuck does my value as a human being matter? Do you think I can tell you in 500 words anything significant, let alone convincing? Hell the shit I’d say in 500 words about myself is likely to be a lie anyway. Umm…I like poor people and flowers and organic food? (lies right there.) I really passionately enjoy whatever it is the fuck I am telling you I want to be doing? The answer to that is either yes or no, and you both want me to answer yes and tell me explicitly that it doesn’t matter if I answer yes because presumably everybody is answering yes. My value as a human being has nothing to do with why you’d hire/admit me. You have hired/admitted many complete assholes before, and you will do so in the future. You want me because I can do this shit and I can do it well, but you refuse to acknowledge that. Instead, you come up with elaborately useless prompts that probably serve more to deter applications than encourage creative responses. Unfortunately, my value as a human being is going to have to be fabricated.

Another kind is the one places in California just skeet over. The “minority disadvantaged” type. Or social service/service to society one. This is another one I have to answer.

“Please describe how your personal background informs your decision to pursue a graduate degree. Please include information on how you have overcome barriers to access higher education, evidence of how you have come to understand the barriers faced by others, evidence of your academic service to advance equitable access to higher education for women, racial minorities, and individuals from other groups that have been historically underrepresented in higher education, evidence of your research focusing on underserved populations or related issues of inequality, or evidence of your leadership among such groups.”

I am not a minority. I do not come from an underprivileged background, nor do I have any kind of racial, sexual, or religious identifier that sets me apart. I had no barriers. I did what I wanted, when I wanted to. I have mostly paid for shit myself, but hey…a lot of people do that. Not anything spectacular. Do I have any intention of focusing on underserved populations? Asshole, if you read my PROFESSIONAL RESPONSE, you would see that I want to get a fucking advanced degree in literature. THEY ARE ALL DEAD. THIS WILL NOT HELP ANYONE. ACADEMIA IS LARGELY CHARACTERIZED BY THE STUDY OF SHIT THAT ONLY VAGUELY HELPS ANYONE, AND ALMOST ALWAYS IS JUST KIND OF COOL. I am ok with building a career on stuff that I think is “kind of cool.” But now I have to make it seem like this somehow correlates to an interest in helping Malaysian children with AIDS express their religious freedom in Kansas. Or some shit like that. Really?

One that M would know more about is actually a prompt that I think comes up more in interviews for the corporate world. It’s the scenario question. It also, however, comes up when you’re interviewing for a writing tutor job – so that’s where I’ve seen it. "If x and y happens, and there are spaghettios on the ceiling and your dog is missing and you’re eating a taco, and it’s raining …how would you sell z product to a client in Malayasia?" My response is again, what the fuck? M has done shit like this before, and is probably good at it.

I suck at it. I’d say something along the lines of… “well the spaghettios represent the commercialization and commodification of the Italian culture, and their presence on the ceiling signifies their rejection of the subjugating culture of Anglo-patriarchy, while the consumption of the taco represents the erasure of femininity through the corruption of the vaginal symbol, as well as the violent oppression of female minorities. And…umm, the dog missing is indicative of the disruption of domestic spaces and the interruption of the ways in which familial bonds are forged through misplaced identification with the non-human in such a fashion as to recreate new boundaries and new ways of living in western society. And…I would not sell z product to Malaysia because that again represents the hegemonic economic culture recursively possessing and repossessing eastern culture in a move that is once blatant Orientalism and a systematic assertion of sexual authority. And the rain is a manifestation of fertility that suggests a hope for renewal and the elision of polluted ideals.”

M would say “Clean the shit off the ceiling, put a call to animal control for the dog, throw out the taco and eat a salad, and convince the bastards they want whatever shit you’re selling because it will make them sexy/skinny/trendy. And who gives a shit if it’s raining? Work from home!”

Constructive versus deconstructive. Guess who wins that one?

Bottom line, a statement about you personally is likely not going to make you stand out unless you hit one of several levels of qualification. All organizations like to set standards for their applicants, with a set list of previous experience and/or qualifications they’d like to see in their potential hires, whether pre-determined by them or by social standard. I’m assuming we’re all out of college, so I’m not going to include things like “playing sports, debate team, and national honors society” because that’s crap no one cares about post-18.

Category 1: Cure a disease/do some kind of absurd precocious genetics work, start a not-for-profit organization benefiting abused women/children/animals, or build a Whole-Foods level organic vegetable business in your mom’s kitchen garden. Category one is the one no one in our age group gets to, and one that 95% of people won’t get to. NO ONE.

Category 2: Write a book, volunteer in the Peace Corps, serve in the military, or pursue some kind of completely different career for a while and have a dramatic and genius change of heart. Category two handles the people with multiple, diverse perspectives, prestigious social service, or people whose acceptance is basically mandated (veterans). People who have either less drive than me or more time on their hands.

Category 3: Volunteer with Teach for America or Americorps, teach English in some random ass Asian country, do some kind of pro-bono work. People who have done the less adventurous and tamer of the social services, or people who have the balls to live in shitty countries and eat grossly unhealthy food for the “experience,” all while doing nothing that any other asshole with a college degree couldn’t do. (I really do feel like Peace Corps has more social capital than the others ones do…maybe because of the risk of death or AIDS.) (Yes, Malaysia and AIDS are our recurring themes for today.)

Category 4: Volunteer in schools, work with charities, donate money, organize benefit events or donation drives. Stuff most people can do if they decide to get off their asses. This is the category I am in. I have done a decent amount of volunteer work and directed some benefit projects. I only donate money to a few causes, but I do so regularly.

I would not get hired. Because anyone can do this shit. This is majorly fucking depressing. I’ve figured out that you need to do the math on this. You can mostly reside in one category, but you need to have at least one thing a category above you. My idea is to print some kind of shitty chapbook on recycled paper of free verse poems and see what happens. So I have mostly Category 4, but something I’m hoping will count as quasi Category 2. I have never written a poem before. Yeah…not gonna happen.

I still haven’t answered the prompt.