I just went to get a glass of water and saw my half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol in the fridge. The hot pink bottle caught my eye and suddenly, it was a stare down. But I won. I slammed the fridge door and bolted back to my bedroom, skidding and sliding in my slippers down the dark hallway before making it safely under the covers.
As a kid, my mom took me to doctor after doctor after doctor. I always had a horrible stomachache. They’d gotten progressively worse. At first it was just a small one, often from milk, so Mom cut milk out of my diet. But the pain continued to increase, until finally I’d have to stay home from school and my brow was thick with sweat. These doctors had no idea what was wrong and all my mom could do was give me Pepto-Bismol to help with the hurt.
My grandma came to visit from Montana around this time, and what I didn’t know was that she had trouble sleeping. Well, Grandma busted me one night guzzling Pepto in the cold, hard light of the fridge. Initially, I’d faked the stomachaches to drink Pepto. That smooth, licorice taste was like the candy I was never allowed to have, so no wonder I started sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to drink more, which eventually caused my stomachaches. So yeah, mom wasn’t too thrilled with me after that.
Well, I still love the taste of Pepto, and I don’t keep it in the house because it’s hard for me to keep my hands off it. But here was a half-gone bottle waiting for me in the fridge, taunting me. My own liquid pink temptation. It probably won’t last the night. At some point, I’ll give in, put this blog down and go grab the bottle. I’ll return, taking shots from that little plastic cup they seal up with the bottle, making it as pleasurable to drink as Highland Park scotch. Then I’ll say “Screw the cup!” and take hits straight from the bottle.
Anyway, here’s the story why it’s waiting for me in the fridge:
It’s Memorial Day Weekend. Everyone’s barbequing and I’m on the rag. Seriously, how could my timing be worse? Three days off and I get stuck with bitchiness on Friday, fatigue on Saturday and cramps on Sunday. Propped up with pillows and a blanket on The Boyfriend™’s couch, I whimper away most of Sunday, whining about what Monday would hold for me: the return of acid rain? Female pattern baldness? M.C. Hammer pants?
Man, I was in a mood. I skulked beneath that blanket, barking out commands to The Boyfriend™: “No, go there. Yeah, on that shelf. Search through that box––no, you went through that one already, the one on the left. That one, yeah. Oh my god, behind you! Jesus, watch OUT! Reload. Good job, baby. Now loot that other corpse. You always forget to loot the corpses. It’s absolutely imperative you don’t forget, because where else are we going to get ammo between here and Rivet City?”
Oh. Guess forgot to mention that I made him play Fallout 3 to entertain me. But if he didn’t have me, the Queen of Bethesda RPGs, he’d have left so many caps on feral ghouls that we would’ve never gotten the Chinese assault rifle repaired and made it through the Capital Wastelands that day. But after ten hours of straight playing, I let him take a break and felt very awkward, yet relieved, that he was fine making dinner without me. My body ached in this strange way and I couldn’t imagine standing in the kitchen, or really even moving around.
Then it was back to entertaining me with the Bloody Mess Perk (“Watch this headshot, sweetie!”), but I started to fade, and even bodies exploding and limbs falling to the four corners of his 50-inch plasma couldn’t keep me interested. I’d been kicking the blanket off and pulling it back on for about an hour when I tumbled off the couch and hobbled to the bathroom, hunched over like Igor from cramping pains and a gut roiling with dinner and stomach acid.
Glad I had my hair in a ponytail because, at approximately 7pm, I lost half of my dinner in his downstairs bathroom. I coughed a bit just as the sound of gunfire ceased.
“Honey? Are you okay?” The Boyfriend™ asks with distracted concern.
“I’m fine! Go back to slaying!”
I rinse my mouth out and stagger back onto the couch. Moaning, I pull the blanket back up, cursing my reproductive organs for functioning properly. The Boyfriend™ asks if it’s the Perk making me sick, or if my incredibly dreaded motion sickness from first person games––strangely absent during Half Life 2 yesterday and now today––had returned. I reassure him that it’s from my period, that sometimes I throw up from the pain. The Boyfriend™ puts Fallout on pause, looks at me, and asks with sad, sad eyes if there’s anything I need or that he can do. No, there’s really nothing, I’ll be better tomorrow, as long as acid rain doesn’t fall.
Fifteen minutes later, the only comforts I have are two things: how cool the porcelain feels against my burning, clammy palms as I clutch the basin of his toilet, and that he has regular maids who do a great job of cleaning said toilet because it could have been oh so much worse each time I shove my head into it. I stay hunched on his cool, brick bathroom floor, drenched in sweat. I don’t know for how long but there’s a tap on the door at some point. He pushes the door open and now I’m thinking I look like a crazed, pinned feral ghoul from Fallout, crouched there on the bathroom floor.
“Honey?”
The words “I’m fine, I’m fine” start to come out but are quickly replaced with vomit rushing up my throat. I kick the door shut with my foot so he doesn’t see me spewing bits of carne asada with a color of liquid I don’t recognize as anything going into me at any point in the last year.
After that, I’m shaking and he’s put video games aside. But how the hell are we going to discuss the moral dilemma of the Tenpenny Tower quest if I can’t stop hurling? is what I’m thinking as I cling to the bowl shivering. This will stop, I reassure myself. I’m done, there’s nothing left in my stomach––ouch, fuck, ouch it’s sore––this is from motion sickness building uuuUUULLP
“Christie, what can I do?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
No, I really wasn’t. My sweat’s so hot and my body’s so cold that my t-shirt flash frozen to my skin. I was like one of those bags of chicken you get in the frozen foods section, a big old sack of icy poultry, slouching on The Boyfriend™’s bathroom floor. Vomiting in front of him. Oh, humiliation. I wanted to crawl into that toilet and pull the lid down after me, because anything was better than looking up at his worried face or hearing his concerned voice through the door. And all the while, my image withers: I was a dainty rose, grown to perfection, with perfect petals that never wilt. I do not have bodily functions, I do not make messes, because girls are lovely little things. But most of all: Girls. Don’t. Vomit.
You know what girls also don’t do? Shit the most god-awful smelling diarrhea that shreds paint off the wall like it was wallpaper. It was midnight. Monday. Acid rain. I wish The Boyfriend™ had wallpaper, because it would’ve caught fire, burning the bathroom and consuming me so I didn’t have to live with the humiliation of what happened next: I started throwing up and having diarrhea at the same time. This happened to me several years ago, and a vicious ER nurse stabbed me with an IV and I passed out on the gurney, followed by throwing up in my sleep for nine hours. So I clawed for water and dumped it down my throat only to throw it up and shit it out about thirty seconds later.
I don’t know how long this lasted, but I rebuffed attempts to take me to the hospital and somehow ended up in the master bathroom. The Boyfriend™ put me to bed (I just can’t believe that. I would never put something so loathsome as Myself With the Stomach Flu into a bed). I vaguely recall the clock reading 2am when I woke up feeling like my stomach had been scrubbed out with steel wool and my lower back whacked with a lead pipe. But my stomach quivered and my colon trembled, so I started crawling across the bedroom floor to the bathroom.
“Christie, where are you––?” The Boyfriend™ calls after me. “Wait, I’ll carry you.”
“No, no,” I moan. “Go to sleep. Don’t want to wake you.”
“Oh, my God!”
I think this is where he wanted to pick up the giant metal Calphalon pasta pot he’d put beside the bed and bash my head in with it. But he didn’t because The Boyfriend™ possesses tremendous patience. He waits outside the bathroom while I shiver, throw up bile into his upstairs trashcan and unload murky swamp water into the toilet, then faint and fall off the toilet.
Repeat this scene like three or four times and randomly add in me crying, “Mommy, I want my mommy before I die of swine flu,” and you know pretty much the rest of the story. He also moved a pillow and blankets into the bathroom, then lay down on the floor and slept next to me. For the next year, The Boyfriend™ can pull this out at any time and use this as a bargaining chip. He wants to play poker with the boys when I want to go shopping for Victorian antiques and lacey curtains? Go, with my sincerest blessing, and here’s a case of premium beer I bought just for y’all. Sainthood has been achieved. Saint The Boyfriend™.
I wake up Monday morning hardly able to stand. After trying to walk down the stairs, then scooch down one stair at a time on my aching ass, I let The Boyfriend™ help me. Then I actually ask him to go to the store and get me Saltines, Vitamin Water and, yes, Pepto-Bismol, which I salivated for the entire time he was away. And I hope you don’t believe for one moment that I wasn’t considering driving myself to the store, because I was. The only thing that stopped me was, well, I couldn’t actually walk, so I reasoned that I couldn’t actually work the pedals to my car. Or even get down the stairs outside The Boyfriend™’s condo.
So here’s the funny thing: helping myself to Pepto-Bismol made things worse for me as a kid, and resisting help for myself made things worse for me as an adult, leading me back to needing Pepto-Bismol (which I’ve resisted pulling from the fridge because my stomach––four days later––finally stopped aching). I learned once that I should only take things when I actually need them, and now I learned (sort of) to take help when I actually need it.
Fuck you, Pepto-Bismol. You aren’t supposed to be a life lesson; you’re supposed to be a guilty pleasure.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Hurray For Torture!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I haven’t been blogging because I’ve been playing World of WarCraft, I promise (wait, when the fuck did I become accountable to you all?). I moved. Gearing up for the move, actually moving, and then unpacking took its toll. But that just wasn’t enough suffering. I still need more.
So let’s discuss legal torture. Er. That needs clarification because this is just not a political blog. Okay so: legal, voluntary torture on American soil that is publicly acceptable.
You’re probably wondering, “How can this be?” but if you pause and consider, for a moment, all the people who attend Pentecostal and Baptist church on Sundays, suddenly it makes sense.
And then there’s the Bar Method.
The Bar Method is an exercise class. And while church is generally free (though somehow you get pressured into tithing, and not for that “luscious” tax break), the Bar Method is not. So, in fact, those who attend Bar Method classes pay someone to perform legal, voluntary torture upon them. No, no. That isn’t quite correct. It’s actually more psychologically fucked up than that. They pay someone to encourage them to participate in legal, voluntary, group torture. And they pay a lot. It’s like Scientology (hi, Holly), except the uniform doesn’t exactly resemble a Snuggie in Cult Member Red. Instead, it’s Lulu Lemon Athletica.
That’s right. When you attend these classes, they take amazing care of you. The incubu––er instructors often say such things as, “Bring your hips back a bit more––perfect form, beautiful,” while you’re actually thinking “Burning…burning…trembling…oh Jesus H. Christ motherfucker I’m goingtodiehelphelp consumed by flames in Hell being whipped by startlingly attractive and thin demons must return must have their bodies must…” Demons dressed in Lulu Lemon Athletica. And all around you, others with those lean, strong muscles who’ve been drinking this hell water for a much longer time, wear the stylish Snuggie-in-Disguise too…
So what is Lulu Lemon Athletica? It’s exercise clothing meant to last through the Apocalypse (or five years, whichever comes first). Say you’re being chased by Satan’s Hellhound Harbingers of Doom. If they happen to bite you in the ass, that shit won’t rip, and you can get away––for now. But…(index finger tapping your chin)...why…(eyes narrowing)…only if…(eyes widening in realization).
That’s right. You got it. All the portals leading from Earth directly into Hell are in the Lulu Lemon dressing rooms. And what they sell there isn’t super expensive athletic wear that sucks up your sweat while being of such a fine weave that it lasts through the flames of Hades. They sell exercise attire that preps you for your afterlife uniform while you’re still here on Earth! No wonder people work out and guzzle juiced wheat grass. You want to avoid Hell for as long as possible. Except the Devil is smart. He’s conditioning these people ahead of time for the flaying of skin and the weeping and the gnashing of teeth, because those are the things you feel and the sounds you hear at the Bar Method. Over the pumping Britney Spears remixes and the wooden flute yoga standards you sometimes hear a quiet whimpering or a sharp cry of pain, startling you out of position and reminding you of that contract you signed, the one about the studio’s “legal responsibilities” and such. That red pen was rather dark, wasn’t it? And when the room clears after an hour of contorting your body in ways God didn’t create it to move in, the room reeks of more than just sweat. Could that be the slight tinge of brimstone? And if eau d’evil doesn’t stay with you when you leave, the burning muscles, singed by Beelzebub’s touch, does. Leaving you virtually incapacitated. For days.
You want more evidence? Well, I don’t have “evidence” per se, but you can check out barmethod.com. I mean, look at those marketing pictures. We all know from Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups commercials that the Devil’s got Madison Avenue’s best working for him. No one can resist the chocolate-peanut buttery goodness of those things, not even the women in those photos. And in comparison to those women, you’ve been Slothful, you cow, with your vile Reese’s breath (eat more, cow! keep your bovine buddies employed!) You Envy their lean legs. Lust floods into your gut, making your stomach puff out until you realize that you NEED THOSE FLAT ABS. Wrath: because you can’t have them immediately; you must work for them, and work for them, oh, you will. You will. It has you running to the Lulu Hell Portal and delving into a Gluttony of fashionable Luon (trademarked combination of cotton, Spandex and Hellweave to soak up all that sweat from the flames). After all, the Devil wants his subjects looking good on the racks––and did I mention they have an actual rack there? Says so right on their website, so check it. Signing up for classes, you anticipate the Pride you’ll feel when other women gaze longingly at your incredibly shapely calves. And Greed? You’re going to do this alone. Don’t tell anyone, because you want to look better than all your friends who are still trapped, doing “mere” Pilates and yoga to tone their Madge-riffically flabby triceps.
But it’s all cool. After two weeks at this, my ass looks Beyoncé-licious in my Groove Crop II pants. Not to mention the litany of ab exercises at 9am Sunday mornings is much better than an actual litany. And, if we are truly soulless creatures, we better make sure our earthly bodies look damn good.
So let’s discuss legal torture. Er. That needs clarification because this is just not a political blog. Okay so: legal, voluntary torture on American soil that is publicly acceptable.
You’re probably wondering, “How can this be?” but if you pause and consider, for a moment, all the people who attend Pentecostal and Baptist church on Sundays, suddenly it makes sense.
And then there’s the Bar Method.
The Bar Method is an exercise class. And while church is generally free (though somehow you get pressured into tithing, and not for that “luscious” tax break), the Bar Method is not. So, in fact, those who attend Bar Method classes pay someone to perform legal, voluntary torture upon them. No, no. That isn’t quite correct. It’s actually more psychologically fucked up than that. They pay someone to encourage them to participate in legal, voluntary, group torture. And they pay a lot. It’s like Scientology (hi, Holly), except the uniform doesn’t exactly resemble a Snuggie in Cult Member Red. Instead, it’s Lulu Lemon Athletica.
That’s right. When you attend these classes, they take amazing care of you. The incubu––er instructors often say such things as, “Bring your hips back a bit more––perfect form, beautiful,” while you’re actually thinking “Burning…burning…trembling…oh Jesus H. Christ motherfucker I’m goingtodiehelphelp consumed by flames in Hell being whipped by startlingly attractive and thin demons must return must have their bodies must…” Demons dressed in Lulu Lemon Athletica. And all around you, others with those lean, strong muscles who’ve been drinking this hell water for a much longer time, wear the stylish Snuggie-in-Disguise too…
So what is Lulu Lemon Athletica? It’s exercise clothing meant to last through the Apocalypse (or five years, whichever comes first). Say you’re being chased by Satan’s Hellhound Harbingers of Doom. If they happen to bite you in the ass, that shit won’t rip, and you can get away––for now. But…(index finger tapping your chin)...why…(eyes narrowing)…only if…(eyes widening in realization).
That’s right. You got it. All the portals leading from Earth directly into Hell are in the Lulu Lemon dressing rooms. And what they sell there isn’t super expensive athletic wear that sucks up your sweat while being of such a fine weave that it lasts through the flames of Hades. They sell exercise attire that preps you for your afterlife uniform while you’re still here on Earth! No wonder people work out and guzzle juiced wheat grass. You want to avoid Hell for as long as possible. Except the Devil is smart. He’s conditioning these people ahead of time for the flaying of skin and the weeping and the gnashing of teeth, because those are the things you feel and the sounds you hear at the Bar Method. Over the pumping Britney Spears remixes and the wooden flute yoga standards you sometimes hear a quiet whimpering or a sharp cry of pain, startling you out of position and reminding you of that contract you signed, the one about the studio’s “legal responsibilities” and such. That red pen was rather dark, wasn’t it? And when the room clears after an hour of contorting your body in ways God didn’t create it to move in, the room reeks of more than just sweat. Could that be the slight tinge of brimstone? And if eau d’evil doesn’t stay with you when you leave, the burning muscles, singed by Beelzebub’s touch, does. Leaving you virtually incapacitated. For days.
You want more evidence? Well, I don’t have “evidence” per se, but you can check out barmethod.com. I mean, look at those marketing pictures. We all know from Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups commercials that the Devil’s got Madison Avenue’s best working for him. No one can resist the chocolate-peanut buttery goodness of those things, not even the women in those photos. And in comparison to those women, you’ve been Slothful, you cow, with your vile Reese’s breath (eat more, cow! keep your bovine buddies employed!) You Envy their lean legs. Lust floods into your gut, making your stomach puff out until you realize that you NEED THOSE FLAT ABS. Wrath: because you can’t have them immediately; you must work for them, and work for them, oh, you will. You will. It has you running to the Lulu Hell Portal and delving into a Gluttony of fashionable Luon (trademarked combination of cotton, Spandex and Hellweave to soak up all that sweat from the flames). After all, the Devil wants his subjects looking good on the racks––and did I mention they have an actual rack there? Says so right on their website, so check it. Signing up for classes, you anticipate the Pride you’ll feel when other women gaze longingly at your incredibly shapely calves. And Greed? You’re going to do this alone. Don’t tell anyone, because you want to look better than all your friends who are still trapped, doing “mere” Pilates and yoga to tone their Madge-riffically flabby triceps.
But it’s all cool. After two weeks at this, my ass looks Beyoncé-licious in my Groove Crop II pants. Not to mention the litany of ab exercises at 9am Sunday mornings is much better than an actual litany. And, if we are truly soulless creatures, we better make sure our earthly bodies look damn good.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Transfer of Love
Friday, May 8, 2009
This is how serious my relationship is getting:
“Dinner?”
Yes, darling. We’re having dinner with Will and April tonight, then seeing Star Trek. I shoot off a few suggestions, and I’m so glad I have him around, as he points out important things like:
“Hungarian all-you-can-eat buffet? You hate buffets.”
I also hate Hungarians.
Okay, I don’t. I’m just saying that. But really, I love that The Boyfriend™ knows this bizarre little fact about me. I love that he cares to remember it. What I don’t love is the disappointment I feel when I realize that Vampire Barbeque is a buffet. You shouldn’t be allowed to go wrong with places that serve Vampire Barbeque because when it happens, people like me are left with this strange void in their life, a place where Vampire Barbeque should have resided, like in the left coronary artery.
So while he’s looking up a few other places to dine at, I distract myself by doing something very serious. It’s a decision I’ve procrastinated on since The Boyfriend™ and I became exclusive. I knew I’d have to do something about it, but I just didn’t want to. It’s a very serious financial and personal decision that will also have a tremendous impact on our relationship. I didn’t want to get it wrong. It’s just that I’m just not sure that The Boyfriend™ and I are at this certain stage in our relationship, though the buffet comment warms my heart. I mean, he knows my credit score. Isn’t that serious enough? How can my finger still tremble? How can I constantly close my web browser, unable to make a decision? Why am I not sure about committing with such entirety? But I can’t keep putting this off any longer. I must make a decision: one or three months? (I just can’t bear to look at the six months, because I know choosing that payment plan would jinx us, like, tonight).
“Darling.”
“Yes?” he asks.
“Do you have any plans to dump me in the next three months?”
“Uh…no?”
“If I choose three months, you cannot dump me until August 8.” He is locked in and committed to me, no matter how bad my PMS is, and even if I buy that hairless Sphinx cat in order to taunt him with it for the next 15 years. For the next three months, he is The Boyfriend™ even if he makes feeble attempts to say that he isn’t. I will get him drunk (two beers should do it) and have Kat von D tattoo it on his ass like a cattle brand.
“But since you’re moving I’ll be hanging out at your place more, and we could be spending more time together just chilling.” Okay, for that comment, it’ll be a henna’d cattle brand tattoo.
And though I know this is a super sweet comment, I don’t think he’s looking at the full scope of what he’s saying: I lack an Xbox, cable TV¬¬hell, even a TV. If I were to stop writing for a moment and turn around, I’d be looking at his TV, some plasma-filled thing that’s wider than I am tall, and with speakers that resemble a three-year-old dressed as Darth Vader (creepy shit when you wander downstairs at 2am to get a glass of water). Somehow I think he’s mistaking my new apartment as a fun place for a man to be, like “Romper Room” (well, actually, that’s a terrible analogy, because The Boyfriend™ would not think “Romper Room” is a fun place to be, but a child molester would, so what I really should compare it to is, like, Spearmint Rhino or some other strip club, but then you might think my new apartment has poles and there’ll be Victorian strippers there, and suddenly I’m living in a London brothel––wow, tangent). So really. I mean, I know my new place is all cool and Victorian, but…really? I think I have a couple Magic decks somewhere, but otherwise, you’ll be hanging out at a place that’s more than architecturally Victorian, baby.
But back to the WWF Relationship SmackDown! (available only on PlayStation). “You cannot dump me until it runs out. This is the law.”
“I think me buying you a plane ticket to Lake Tahoe in July is a bigger sign I can’t dump you. Then again, the last girl did.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been to Vegas and Oakland with you. And if Oakland didn’t do it, I’m sure Tahoe won’t. I mean it’s Oakland…”
“She went to Vegas and Oakland too.” Hm. Apparently The Boyfriend™ has an M.O. For my sanity, I’m not going to think about this. Instead, I blink. Then look back to the choices before me on my laptop screen:
$41.97 for relationship security sounds like a great deal. I love American because you can’t pay for relationship security in socialist countries; instead everyone is equally miserable there. So I buy my happiness through renewing my World of WarCraft subscription while he continues talking: “I posted a pic of us on my guild website and said you’d be transferring soon.”
“It’s done. Three freaking months of me committing to you and to you committing to YOU DID WHAT!?”
“I’ll pay for your server transfer.” To compliment the pussy waxing, apparently.
“A pic of my character, right?”
“No...Of you and me. We have a forum for that kind of thing.”
Um, what exactly is “that kind of thing” because images of furry porn swim before my eyes––some with tentacle-laden octopus costumes and slave girl Leia outfits. Suddenly, I need to make the best of this situation, whether it deals with reality or not.
“Tell me it’s a picture of me dressed as my undead priest for Halloween.”
“You dressed as her for Halloween? You are a dork.”
No, no, I didn’t. I was just saying that as some bizarre form of comfort to myself, a complete and utter rejection of reality as a coping mechanism (which sounds strangely like a description for schizophrenia). But what would be wrong with dressing as my WarCraft character for Halloween anyway, Mr. I’ve-Got-A-First-Edition-D&D-Boxed-Set? After that comment, start dreading Halloween, motherfucker.
However, there are more important things afoot right now rather than how I’ll possibly make a perfect rendition of my Dark Shroud of the Scourge, let alone remove my entire jaw for the evening of October 31st (which, as I’m fully aware, is his sister’s wedding):
“Well, how good do I look in that picture?”
“It’s the one of us at XS.”
Ohhhh….At the Wynn nightclub, where my tits are popping out of a leopard print dress. So I’d say I look pretty good. Excellent.
“One of the ‘holy boobage’ shots?”
“Yup.”
“Holy boobage” should really be called “Holly boobage,” because she was kind enough to point out the obvious: your tits are out of proportion with the rest of your body, girlfriend (well, hers are too, so neyh!).
Anyway, I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, his entire guild now knows that I’m not an ugly cow, that I don’t sit around playing WarCraft all day while eating tubs of chocolate malted crunch ice cream with the anti-freeze ice cream scoop. On the other, I’m terrified that his guild’s off-tank will download that picture, Photoshop The Boyfriend™’s face out and beat off to it every time I’m healing him in a raid––then blame the healer when he dies (typical).
“Out of curiosity, which one?”
“The one I look the thinnest in.”
It’s good to know that we’re both equally as vain.
“Dinner?”
Yes, darling. We’re having dinner with Will and April tonight, then seeing Star Trek. I shoot off a few suggestions, and I’m so glad I have him around, as he points out important things like:
“Hungarian all-you-can-eat buffet? You hate buffets.”
I also hate Hungarians.
Okay, I don’t. I’m just saying that. But really, I love that The Boyfriend™ knows this bizarre little fact about me. I love that he cares to remember it. What I don’t love is the disappointment I feel when I realize that Vampire Barbeque is a buffet. You shouldn’t be allowed to go wrong with places that serve Vampire Barbeque because when it happens, people like me are left with this strange void in their life, a place where Vampire Barbeque should have resided, like in the left coronary artery.
So while he’s looking up a few other places to dine at, I distract myself by doing something very serious. It’s a decision I’ve procrastinated on since The Boyfriend™ and I became exclusive. I knew I’d have to do something about it, but I just didn’t want to. It’s a very serious financial and personal decision that will also have a tremendous impact on our relationship. I didn’t want to get it wrong. It’s just that I’m just not sure that The Boyfriend™ and I are at this certain stage in our relationship, though the buffet comment warms my heart. I mean, he knows my credit score. Isn’t that serious enough? How can my finger still tremble? How can I constantly close my web browser, unable to make a decision? Why am I not sure about committing with such entirety? But I can’t keep putting this off any longer. I must make a decision: one or three months? (I just can’t bear to look at the six months, because I know choosing that payment plan would jinx us, like, tonight).
“Darling.”
“Yes?” he asks.
“Do you have any plans to dump me in the next three months?”
“Uh…no?”
“If I choose three months, you cannot dump me until August 8.” He is locked in and committed to me, no matter how bad my PMS is, and even if I buy that hairless Sphinx cat in order to taunt him with it for the next 15 years. For the next three months, he is The Boyfriend™ even if he makes feeble attempts to say that he isn’t. I will get him drunk (two beers should do it) and have Kat von D tattoo it on his ass like a cattle brand.
“But since you’re moving I’ll be hanging out at your place more, and we could be spending more time together just chilling.” Okay, for that comment, it’ll be a henna’d cattle brand tattoo.
And though I know this is a super sweet comment, I don’t think he’s looking at the full scope of what he’s saying: I lack an Xbox, cable TV¬¬hell, even a TV. If I were to stop writing for a moment and turn around, I’d be looking at his TV, some plasma-filled thing that’s wider than I am tall, and with speakers that resemble a three-year-old dressed as Darth Vader (creepy shit when you wander downstairs at 2am to get a glass of water). Somehow I think he’s mistaking my new apartment as a fun place for a man to be, like “Romper Room” (well, actually, that’s a terrible analogy, because The Boyfriend™ would not think “Romper Room” is a fun place to be, but a child molester would, so what I really should compare it to is, like, Spearmint Rhino or some other strip club, but then you might think my new apartment has poles and there’ll be Victorian strippers there, and suddenly I’m living in a London brothel––wow, tangent). So really. I mean, I know my new place is all cool and Victorian, but…really? I think I have a couple Magic decks somewhere, but otherwise, you’ll be hanging out at a place that’s more than architecturally Victorian, baby.
But back to the WWF Relationship SmackDown! (available only on PlayStation). “You cannot dump me until it runs out. This is the law.”
“I think me buying you a plane ticket to Lake Tahoe in July is a bigger sign I can’t dump you. Then again, the last girl did.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been to Vegas and Oakland with you. And if Oakland didn’t do it, I’m sure Tahoe won’t. I mean it’s Oakland…”
“She went to Vegas and Oakland too.” Hm. Apparently The Boyfriend™ has an M.O. For my sanity, I’m not going to think about this. Instead, I blink. Then look back to the choices before me on my laptop screen:
$14.99 for 1 month reoccurring
$41.97 for 3 months reoccurring (save $3).
$41.97 for relationship security sounds like a great deal. I love American because you can’t pay for relationship security in socialist countries; instead everyone is equally miserable there. So I buy my happiness through renewing my World of WarCraft subscription while he continues talking: “I posted a pic of us on my guild website and said you’d be transferring soon.”
“It’s done. Three freaking months of me committing to you and to you committing to YOU DID WHAT!?”
“I’ll pay for your server transfer.” To compliment the pussy waxing, apparently.
“A pic of my character, right?”
“No...Of you and me. We have a forum for that kind of thing.”
Um, what exactly is “that kind of thing” because images of furry porn swim before my eyes––some with tentacle-laden octopus costumes and slave girl Leia outfits. Suddenly, I need to make the best of this situation, whether it deals with reality or not.
“Tell me it’s a picture of me dressed as my undead priest for Halloween.”
“You dressed as her for Halloween? You are a dork.”
No, no, I didn’t. I was just saying that as some bizarre form of comfort to myself, a complete and utter rejection of reality as a coping mechanism (which sounds strangely like a description for schizophrenia). But what would be wrong with dressing as my WarCraft character for Halloween anyway, Mr. I’ve-Got-A-First-Edition-D&D-Boxed-Set? After that comment, start dreading Halloween, motherfucker.
However, there are more important things afoot right now rather than how I’ll possibly make a perfect rendition of my Dark Shroud of the Scourge, let alone remove my entire jaw for the evening of October 31st (which, as I’m fully aware, is his sister’s wedding):
“Well, how good do I look in that picture?”
“It’s the one of us at XS.”
Ohhhh….At the Wynn nightclub, where my tits are popping out of a leopard print dress. So I’d say I look pretty good. Excellent.
“One of the ‘holy boobage’ shots?”
“Yup.”
“Holy boobage” should really be called “Holly boobage,” because she was kind enough to point out the obvious: your tits are out of proportion with the rest of your body, girlfriend (well, hers are too, so neyh!).
Anyway, I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, his entire guild now knows that I’m not an ugly cow, that I don’t sit around playing WarCraft all day while eating tubs of chocolate malted crunch ice cream with the anti-freeze ice cream scoop. On the other, I’m terrified that his guild’s off-tank will download that picture, Photoshop The Boyfriend™’s face out and beat off to it every time I’m healing him in a raid––then blame the healer when he dies (typical).
“Out of curiosity, which one?”
“The one I look the thinnest in.”
It’s good to know that we’re both equally as vain.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Job Hunt
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
So I've been traveling (more blogging on that later), but here's some entertainment that might just cheer you up in this dire economy. Your job hunt couldn't possibly be as bad as mine, because I discovered that I'm not even qualified to work at McDonald's:
Selling myself is the most painful thing that I can possibly do, but I sell myself the only way I know how––which, despite the economy, is not on a street corner, you perverted assholes. It’s through writing fantastic paragraphs, with intricate sentences and very particular words. But it’s about me, the most horrible topic there is to write about in a formal fashion. If I could write a cover letter like a blog, things might be different. Or I’d still be unemployed. Who knows?
Physically, it’s worse than getting beaten with a sock full of oranges. Psychologically, it’s worse than The Boyfriend™ telling me, “The homeless girl begging at the freeway off ramp today was totally hot––I’d do her.” My guts twist and churn and I want to cry as I figure out ways to jam “detail oriented” and “team player” into sentences that somehow describe me. I cull the job description for verbs and adjectives that I can build upon and conjoin with specific and interesting things to say about myself. All this in, like, five sentences. It’s like brain surgery, except they’ll never pay me or respect me as much.
But it’s done. I’m proud of the vile piece of marketing that I’ve produced yet have no faith in. If it was about anything else, I wouldn’t cringe.
I ask The Boyfriend™, “Will you look at my cover letter for type-os?”
“Of course,” he answers, because he’s so amazingly wonderful.
Thirty seconds later: “Wow.”
You know that $10K my mom spent on braces for me? It’s worth it, because I’m beaming. My cheeks are positively aching from the smile. I’m a pro at cover letters. Warner Bros. will hire me for sure. The Boyfriend™ sees what a brilliant writer I am, thinks I’m so talented to be able to evoke meaning through subtle yet complex nuances, even in tedious cover letters. At this moment, if I had a cage full of delicate, cooing doves, I would release them into the world to share their beauty and my joy with all of humanity––not to mention some deeply brilliant and abstract comparison to Bladerunner is forming in the recesses of my mind.
“Please tell me you didn’t send this.”
Rot in hell, you treasonous son of a bitch. If I had those doves, I’d release them and let my dog Annie chase them around The Boyfriend’s™ condo while they shit all over his couch.
“No…I didn’t…”
“Good. Give me a sec. I need rewrite time.”
Re…write…? Rewrite my words? I type 110 words a minute, yet with this paragraph of pain I pecked each letter of each word out over the course of three agonizing hours. Every vowel was another knot forming in my shoulder. There were too many consonants that I almost became bulimic, wanting to throw up after each one appeared on the screen.
“You’re applying for a job, not a Ph.D.”
I pouted. My writing got into a Ph.D. program.
“Let alone an entry level job.”
Oh God, I am so not entry level. Anyone that’s spent two years bottle feeding 18-year-olds the tools to communicate effectively on paper can’t possibly be entry level. More importantly, this was an entry-level job that I was applying for? Did all entry-level jobs sound this good because, frankly, it came off as pretty posh. But did they mask indentured servitude as posh these days? It’s been so long since I’ve had a real job, in the real world. Now I wondered if I was shooting too low, if I’d end up trying to pay off student loans on a salary comparable to my master’s degree funding. And shouldn’t a master’s count for something? But these are all matters I’d like to discuss in detail in a blog about deconstructing the state of education in this country; or even write a critical analysis on it, possibly drawing on Richard Dreyfuss’ brilliant insights.
“Why is the word “choreography” in here? When were you a dance instructor?”
“THAT IS A GOOD WORD.”
“No, it’s not.”
“And “innate”? What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t you dare take that out. It’s a fantastic word.”
“If I have to look it up, then the idiot reading your resume isn’t going to understand what you’re saying.”
Wait, you mean the rest of the world doesn’t use “choreography” as an alternate and more colorful word variation on “coordination” and “orchestrating”? And “innate” isn’t part of the common vernacular? I use “innate” every day.
“Well, at least let me take “innate” out. But just know that 90% of the people who read it are going to think you’re a dance instructor.”
Oh. No. Realization dawns.
No wonder I was still unemployed. I’d been sending out slightly altered versions of this cover letter for weeks. I sounded like an academic snob. Who wants to work with someone like that? No one outside the Academy––oh shit, look at that. Who in the real world knows what the fuck the “Academy” is? Exactly just how pretentious have I been sounding? Apparently, I have been sending out cover letters where I present a theory of how to integrate my analytical abilities within a creative environment through a poststructuralist framework, particularly in parallel to Deleuzean metaphysics.
I have serious problems. I need to get off this theory train and into the real, functioning world. I need to stop debating form in my cover letters like I’m having a debate with T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land, motherfucker? Let me tell you something about a wasteland: it’s about to be my life if I don’t normal the fuck out.
Well, there’s one way to fix this, and that is by deconstructing this cover letter in an appropriate fashion:
Selling myself is the most painful thing that I can possibly do, but I sell myself the only way I know how––which, despite the economy, is not on a street corner, you perverted assholes. It’s through writing fantastic paragraphs, with intricate sentences and very particular words. But it’s about me, the most horrible topic there is to write about in a formal fashion. If I could write a cover letter like a blog, things might be different. Or I’d still be unemployed. Who knows?
Physically, it’s worse than getting beaten with a sock full of oranges. Psychologically, it’s worse than The Boyfriend™ telling me, “The homeless girl begging at the freeway off ramp today was totally hot––I’d do her.” My guts twist and churn and I want to cry as I figure out ways to jam “detail oriented” and “team player” into sentences that somehow describe me. I cull the job description for verbs and adjectives that I can build upon and conjoin with specific and interesting things to say about myself. All this in, like, five sentences. It’s like brain surgery, except they’ll never pay me or respect me as much.
But it’s done. I’m proud of the vile piece of marketing that I’ve produced yet have no faith in. If it was about anything else, I wouldn’t cringe.
I ask The Boyfriend™, “Will you look at my cover letter for type-os?”
“Of course,” he answers, because he’s so amazingly wonderful.
Thirty seconds later: “Wow.”
You know that $10K my mom spent on braces for me? It’s worth it, because I’m beaming. My cheeks are positively aching from the smile. I’m a pro at cover letters. Warner Bros. will hire me for sure. The Boyfriend™ sees what a brilliant writer I am, thinks I’m so talented to be able to evoke meaning through subtle yet complex nuances, even in tedious cover letters. At this moment, if I had a cage full of delicate, cooing doves, I would release them into the world to share their beauty and my joy with all of humanity––not to mention some deeply brilliant and abstract comparison to Bladerunner is forming in the recesses of my mind.
“Please tell me you didn’t send this.”
Rot in hell, you treasonous son of a bitch. If I had those doves, I’d release them and let my dog Annie chase them around The Boyfriend’s™ condo while they shit all over his couch.
“No…I didn’t…”
“Good. Give me a sec. I need rewrite time.”
Re…write…? Rewrite my words? I type 110 words a minute, yet with this paragraph of pain I pecked each letter of each word out over the course of three agonizing hours. Every vowel was another knot forming in my shoulder. There were too many consonants that I almost became bulimic, wanting to throw up after each one appeared on the screen.
“You’re applying for a job, not a Ph.D.”
I pouted. My writing got into a Ph.D. program.
“Let alone an entry level job.”
Oh God, I am so not entry level. Anyone that’s spent two years bottle feeding 18-year-olds the tools to communicate effectively on paper can’t possibly be entry level. More importantly, this was an entry-level job that I was applying for? Did all entry-level jobs sound this good because, frankly, it came off as pretty posh. But did they mask indentured servitude as posh these days? It’s been so long since I’ve had a real job, in the real world. Now I wondered if I was shooting too low, if I’d end up trying to pay off student loans on a salary comparable to my master’s degree funding. And shouldn’t a master’s count for something? But these are all matters I’d like to discuss in detail in a blog about deconstructing the state of education in this country; or even write a critical analysis on it, possibly drawing on Richard Dreyfuss’ brilliant insights.
“Why is the word “choreography” in here? When were you a dance instructor?”
“THAT IS A GOOD WORD.”
“No, it’s not.”
“And “innate”? What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t you dare take that out. It’s a fantastic word.”
“If I have to look it up, then the idiot reading your resume isn’t going to understand what you’re saying.”
Wait, you mean the rest of the world doesn’t use “choreography” as an alternate and more colorful word variation on “coordination” and “orchestrating”? And “innate” isn’t part of the common vernacular? I use “innate” every day.
“Well, at least let me take “innate” out. But just know that 90% of the people who read it are going to think you’re a dance instructor.”
Oh. No. Realization dawns.
No wonder I was still unemployed. I’d been sending out slightly altered versions of this cover letter for weeks. I sounded like an academic snob. Who wants to work with someone like that? No one outside the Academy––oh shit, look at that. Who in the real world knows what the fuck the “Academy” is? Exactly just how pretentious have I been sounding? Apparently, I have been sending out cover letters where I present a theory of how to integrate my analytical abilities within a creative environment through a poststructuralist framework, particularly in parallel to Deleuzean metaphysics.
I have serious problems. I need to get off this theory train and into the real, functioning world. I need to stop debating form in my cover letters like I’m having a debate with T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land, motherfucker? Let me tell you something about a wasteland: it’s about to be my life if I don’t normal the fuck out.
Well, there’s one way to fix this, and that is by deconstructing this cover letter in an appropriate fashion:
To whom it may concern:Wait. Is “emulate” too academic?
I am applying for the position of Creative Administrator for the Creative Affairs Department at Warner Bros. Animation, Inc., as listed on the Times-Warner website on April 29, 2009. My résumé has been uploaded to the Times-Warner employment site for your consideration.
I am both creative and organized, making me an ideal candidate for this job opening. These aspects, when combined with my innate choreographic abilities, form someone who is very capable of navigating the production, the coordination and the assembly of artwork. I am also a dedicated Brazilian waxer, and I put out on the third date.
I look forward to meeting with you to discuss the future possibilities of this position, and even positions that emulate scenes from the film “Secretary”.
Sincerely,
Christie L. Cleveland
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