On the edge of the ledges I have made

Have you ever had one of those times where you're listening to a song and you feel like the lyrics have taken a part of you that you've never shared with anyone and shown a big spotlight on it? Like the singer is speaking from that place inside you where you lock all the bits of yourself that you don't want anyone to see because they're too ugly to be loved or even accepted? I love those times. I feel validated when someone else is brave enough to stand up and shout about the monster that lives inside them and I realize it's the same one I have locked away.

I know I should be posting about a more diverse group of artists, but Noah Gundersen has been on my mind a lot lately. He's got his first full length album coming out in February, and this week he released his first single from that album. I've been into Noah's music for a while and I foolishly thought I had a grip on who he was as an artist. The song isn't a stylistic jump for him. It's similar guitar and violin that he used on his EP Family. But the words are a whole nother level. And he gave me one of those moments where I felt like his lyrics were projecting all of my insecurities and faults for all to see.

"I've got a lot of loose ends, I've done some damage. I've cut the ropes so they fray" From that opening line I'm done. It's common for those of us who grow up fearing that we won't turn into good people, but at the same time not really understanding how to keep that from happening. We see every person we've hurt, every time we've been wrong. For me these moments stay with me. Noah expresses these failings that he has with sorrowful acceptance.

The chorus is just as poignant. "Here I stand on the edge of the ledges I have made, looking for a steady hand" It's the cold hard truth that most of the time the truly massive obsticles in our lives are of our own making. The way Noah sings it sounds like a call for help, a plea to the people he loves to help him be a better man.

The second verse is what really kills me though. "I drink a little too much, it makes me nervous. I've got my grandfathers blood. I take a little too much without giving back. If blessed are the meek then I'm cursed" This is such a part of me that I could feel it echoing in my head for days after I first listened to this song. What a stunning way to articulate a deep fear of the pieces of your ancestry that you know are dangerous. It amazes me that he's only 24 and able to have these profound moments of clear wisdom. Bravo.

I'll stop ranting about the song now. If you want to watch the music video you can find it here. 

Tis the season

I don't like Christmas. There, I said it. Bring on the hordes of people telling me how much of a elf-hating holly-crushing kill-joy I am. Most of the time I try to take my feelings for Christmas and bottle them up or at least pour them sneakily into some eggnog so I can consume them while still appearing Jolly.

The thing is, I have a perfectly valid reason for hating Christmas time. And that is that I actually love 99% of this stupid season. I like the lights and the gift giving and the seasonal food. I could leave the claymation specials but I enjoy a cheesy made for TV movie about discovering the true meaning of the Holidays just as much as the next girl.

The issue, I've found, lies in my family. Like clockwork, every year since I was small, there has been a major knock down drag out fight within a week of Christmas. Someone always cries. Someone always feels belittled and unloved. It's unavoidable for no real reason other than the closeness and planning brings out the ugliest part of all of us. This year will be no different. So while I am surrounded by messages of peace and giving that I want to believe in, I am forced to see the worst sides of the people I care the most about. And that'll kill the spirit pretty fast. Every time.

So in a week and a half (God save me) I will get on a plane. I will spend a week getting yelled at and watching people I love be intentionally nasty to other people I love, all while the same ten songs play relentlessly in the background. I will hate it every bit as much this year as I have all the years before and so the cycle will continue. So forgive me for not joining in with the caroling or the revelry. This season of peace and love has never meant anything other than a broken heart where I am concerned. Fala-fucking-la lalalala

This is why I stopped having cable

I know that a big part of American culture is irrational nostalgia for things that were actually shit back in the day. But having said that I think commercials are getting stupider.

I just watched a commercial for Little Caesars where a couple celebrated the great deal they got on the yoga mat covered in cheese that they plan to consume (sober which must be a change from the normal Little Caesars demographic) by giving each other a "high 85". This entails them jumping into the air and smacking their feet together as they slap hands.

Congrats guys. You have answered the question "What's the quickest way to get someone who is payed $8 an hour to sling shitty pizza to pitty me in less than 30 seconds?" 

Now I feel old AND unfunny

So I decided that live-blogging should be a thing for me, so I had a shot of whiskey (Partly for my cough) and settled down to try this. I'm going to live blog a recent Episode of CSI. A little background: this used to be one of my favorite shows in high school. I wanted to be a CSI until I realized how much blood and vomit was involved. No thanks, life. So here we go:

Well for startsies they replaced the original old fun weird guy (Grissom) with the guy from Cheers. They look similar but Cheers boy (Ted? Gonna call him Ted...) is not as quirky. And there's a dead person in a human sized hamster ball. Wacky. Never change, show. Never change.

Oooh but Brass looks old. Like he's been brow beaten with a decade and a half of the same bad scripts for 9 months of the year. I should bake him something. Everyone likes baked goods.

They've also replaced Catherine with an almost identical double who is sadly sans any personality. It's truly a shadow of what it once was. SHOULDN'T HAVE KILLED OF THE SEXY BLACK GUY YOU BASTARDS... Now, where did Greg go? Go ahead and change show.

Oh no... There he is. Greg... In a suit. What in God's name happened to you man? You listened to punk in the lab and had poorly died hair... This is how I imagine my high school reunion going. This is why I won't go to my high school reunion. I don't want to find out Bobby Griffiths is a tax attorney. And his hair is horrible. I'm so disappointed. God damn it Sanders. You done gone corporate.

Cue the crying victim. Also this blonde girl is officially annoying me. And she's only had three lines. This is gonna be a loooooong hour. I'm waiting for blondie to say "Show me on the doll where the bad man hurt you"

There are two blondes in one place. Neither have a personality. I shall call them Blondie the Younger and Blondie the Elder to avoid confusion. Neither of them is Not Catherine. I miss old CSI. Sigh. Also there are many clues but none of them mean anything. DAMN YOU SCIENCE! YOU HAVE FAILED US ALL! Blondie the elder has a delinquent son. Maybe if she wasn't spending her night off working a case... oh well

Ooh we're in the morgue. Save me Hodges.No Hodges, instead we get Not Catherine being dumb as a post. Hamster man was killed in his ball. So many dirty jokes, and yet the writers went for more puns. Where is Sarah?Taking another show of whiskey. For the cold.

Two blondies back with more clues that don't mean anything. Hodges is here. He is also a shell of his former self. I blame the death of the only black character for sucking the soul from this show. Thankfully Hodges has the first relevant clue but it has to do with concrete so I am bored as shit and don't understand why it matters.

Sarah is back. She looks old. I get that this is season 14, but God damn these people make me feel ancient. I wonder if Sarah is to the point of having her checks opened by a special butler the way the guy who created Law & Order does. Sarah has no chemistry with Not Grissom. She's Not Diane, ya know what I'm saying? No? Well they figured out that only one of the victims was on purpose or something. Not sure, I'm busy questioning why time is such a heartless bitch. I loved this show. I watched it obsessively. Much like William Petersen, I have abandoned it heartlessly, but I never expected it to come to this. Tears are coming to my eyes.

Victim blames her ex boyfriend. His name is Jared. He is clearly guilty. Cue trying to prove it for the next 30 minutes. Blondie the Elder is asking stupid questions. Blondie theYounger is about as sensitive as a brick to the nuts. Taking another shot of whiskey. Not for the cold.

Jared is here. He's a fuck-nugget. And guilty. Brass is trying to be ballsy but can't follow through. This makes Blondie the elder contemplate her parenting skills. And then she confronts Evil Jared. Not sure who is the bigger tool in this scene. Probably Jared. He has a stupid face and a sweater vest.

Not Catherine and The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-Hodges are discussing plants as they relate to the hamster. I am so bored. We've IDed the Vic. He rolled from his house which the plants clearly show. Someone beat him to death THROUGH the hamter ball. This is the first interesting thing we've had on the episode. Also the victim got off on being stuck in small spaces. He's like that creepy kid in Jr. High who used to try to get you to shove him into his own locker cuz "I can totally get myself out, wanna see?" the boredom has set in again. Also this dialogue makes me feel like I've slammed my head into a wall. Repeatedly. And Not Grissom is going through a victims mail. Aaand the package is a dead girl. Well at least I'm no longer bored.

Blondie the Younger can't get a hold of Blondie the Elder and this worries Greg. Corporate Greg. Greg who used to be so cute. They go to Blondie the Elder's house. She's so clearly dead that I feel a little bad that poor B-T-Y is gonna have to find her cold distorted body in a few scenes, probably posed dead and hanging from the Mirage sign. If i'm lucky. Weirdly enough this once concrete related clue only exists one less than a half mile of road in Vegas. I smell lazy writing, even for the monkeys. Also Greg got attacked. Suck it up, he didn't die from getting blown up, so he's basically invincible. Attacker is B-T-E's son, Greg and B-T-Y try to get him not to skip town. Fat chance.

B-T-Y is using technology. Also there's a CSI named Yager who said the words "I'm off carbs till I make CSI 3" I missed the rest of the scene as I was busy throwing up. But now Yager is sticking around for the rest of the episode. B-T-E is dead and her phone is in a trailer park. She's either been eaten by hicks or fed to a band of pigs. Farewell

Girl in the box seems to have mailed herself to hamster boy. Suffocated in transit. This case is suddenly way more boring than the one with the two blondes. Box girl's husband is a rancher. He's also the killer. This case is wrapped up and also super boring. I miss Nick. That's how bad this show has gotten.

I have thirteen minutes left. Someone kill me in a hamster ball. They're dusting a car for prints. I didn't catch who owns the car. I don't much give a shit. Someone named this character Yager. On purpose. Here's what really bugs me, this show was once revolutionary. It took crimes and dissected them like puzzles with interesting a flawed characters who had meaningful talks with each other while they solved crimes. Now it's hollow. As we all will be one day...

Oh God it's back on. Son of B-T-E is guilty of killing his mother. Also he is missing some teeth. I missed that first time round. He's a ginger with fucked up teeth. He's having negative amount of sex. Also he's not really guilty. Figure your shit out show. Taking another shot of whiskey. For the mind numbing terribleness of this show. B-T-E may not be dead. Not to fear, Yager is on the case. Looking manly but doing fuck all when the older blonde is found passed out drunk. Because she read the rest of the script after her fight with Jared the Terrible and just couldn't stand it. Hodges is pulling snot tissues out of a trailer park trash can, Greg has gone corporate, Grissom retired, Warrick is dead. I will never watch this show again. God save these people. The writing sure won't.

I don't know why I bother getting sick

So I was having a perfectly lovely conversation with my step mother about advanced stages of STDs when my father came home. He's been in Utah all day watching the University of wyomings football team get absolutely slaughtered in weather that could charitably be described as "frigid"

This was not the right time to have a conversation with him. I knew that, but so did Nicko. 

And so, after the required ten minutes it took to calm down my parents hound dogs who were convinced that my father had gone off into the unknown never to be seen again (they're not very bright), I allowed my step mother to hand the phone off to dad. And then came the problem.

You see my boss is an actor. This in and of itself is bad on a lot of levels, but this week it was an issue because he finished a play and immediately fell deathly ill with whatever strain of Ebola the little outbreak monkeys at the church theater company were passing around. And then Isaac came back to the movie theater and promptly infected me and another manager. The other manager is on codeine to soothe her cough, so I thought I was doing really well. And then I coughed while my dad was giving his yearly "well, we are all just hoping for a better season next year, and the basketball team is doing really well" speech. Coughing was a mistake. 

"You're sick." Came the voice of pure judgement. It was not a question. My father is a doctor and has spent his life carefully explaining to his daughters how to be healthy, making every illness into a personal affront. I launched into a detailed account of the play and the actors and my fellow managers death like status and about the time I was wondering allowed if I would have been Rene Russo or Kevin Spacey in the movie, my father cut into my ramble. 

"So you let yourself get sick," he said in the same tone that certain members of PETA use when addressing people found guilty of drowning kittens in burlap sacks. I felt instantly guilty for not drinking a gallon of Lysol as soon as I found out Isaac had succumbed to the plague. 

"Well..." I started. It was no use. What followed was ten minutes of the perfect mixture of condescending medical advice (he reminded me to shower more than once. Thanks daddy) and reassurances that if i had been trying at all I would not have fallen ill. At least I wasn't throwing up. That is when the conversations turn to what my diet is like. I spend at least 40 hours a week at a movie theater. My diet is shit, dad. Sorry that I'm such a disappointment. I know I'm not the daughter who runs half marathons OR the daughter that gave you grandbabies. Trying to lighten the mood I mentioned that at least I wasn't engaged when I was 19. Dad responded that when he was 19 he was premed in college. That shut me right up. 

So now I'm taking my inhaler every four hours and going to urgent care on Monday if I'm not feeling "like a six or better on my health scale" whatever that means and hopefully I can avoid hacking like a dying raccoon in earshot of my father for a few weeks. Wish me luck 

But I changed his diapers

My 19 year old nephew is engaged. His girlfriend is in the navy and just graduated boot camp and is about to head off to a station in Italy. They both plan to move onto the base there. The announcement has caused an uprising in my family, and I have spent the day playing a very careful game of dodge the social trap (like dodgeball if the balls were on fire and you were ostracized for three years for losing) and I am exhausted. I'm also of several minds on the whole issue. 

On one hand, this is a kid who has never payed rent, has never held a job for more than a few months and has never had any real responsibilities in life. And now he wants to get married. To a girl. And then assumedly they will want to have children. And once I go down this rabbit hole I end up in a deep dark cave of "oh god, I used to change his diapers and I'm not ready to get married so why the hell can he get married and what if he makes me a great aunt before I'm thirty" it's ugly. 

Another part of me is hoping that this is T growing up. The trip he took to see his now fiancé graduate from the naval academy is the longest he's been away from his parents ever. He proposed knowing that it would cause his trouble back in Colorado and he is clearly very happy with his decision. So fair play to him for finding someone who makes him that happy in this bonkers world. 

My third thought is that if this is the mistake that everyone in my family seems to think, the odds are it will work itself out. Making these big grand life errors are what shapes us, and if he is ever gonna be considered an adult, than he has to go through this without us jumping in to interfere. 

Basic conclusion? I love that kid fiercely, I always have. And I'll be here no matter what so I'm just going to sit back and watch him try to fly. Congrats little T. I'm always here for you 

The Heart of the Family

Last Friday was a very important day. It was the birthday of the strongest woman I've ever known. 

My grandmother has quite a normal life story. Grew up in the 40s in a poor household, married to one man, two kids, six grand daughters, four great grand boys. But the numbers don't say anything of the stubborn strength and patience that she pushed into everything she did. She taught me to read by getting me to sit with her while she read Calvin and Hobbes comics to me. She gave my my first novel and later, my first Shakespeare play. She had far too much patience with me, babied me when I was sick, and covered for me with my parents when I was out at punk rock shows when I was 15. 

She's had several different kinds of cancer, the latest of which (a brain tumor) will kill her one day. But that is what the doctors told us almost ten years ago. They also told us that she had less than a week to live. She saw another birthday today in pure defiance of what those doctors said. 

In our own way, every member of my family has been preparing to lose my grandmother for near a decade. These days Mimi doesn't have very many days where she is active or cognoscent of her surroundings. But the days she does, she smiles, and gives my mother or the nurses at the home a hard time. She is still Mimi sometimes. 

For my part I have been dealing with this the way I deal with every death I've seen in my relatively short life. I've been angry and told myself it won't happen. I've put the thoughts of losing my grandmother into a box in my head and locked it up tight. It's too painful, and in matters of loss I am very much a child. 

I've watched how these thoughts have taken their toll on my family. How they've broken hearts and caused fights. Mimi wouldn't want this, but none of us have really discussed it with her. The few times I've talked to her about her death she has remained hopeful and faithful to a fault. She believes she is bound for a better place and a long awaited reunion with my grandfather. I hope she's right, but without her faith to fall back on I've put that conversation in the box with everything else. 

I'm not in despair though. When I start to get angry or sad that I didn't get enough time with her or that my children won't know her like my nephews do, I pick up a book and I always read the first sentance to myself in her voice. 

I love you, Mimi. Happy birthday. 

It Hurts in a Bad Way

I've been in an abusive relationship for two and a half years. Not with a guy. With a TV show. ABC's once upon a time is well into it's 3rd year of mouth frothing lunacy and at this point, I can't stop. This show is what happens when you drug a toddler with too much cough syrup and then let him color a script with his crayons. It wasn't always this way. In the first season the characters actions and choices had genuine consequences and while there were several dud episodes, it was nothing I couldn't overlook.

Anything to do with this bitch was just terrible

Things started to go off the rails pretty fast in season two. They broke the curse that had been the whole point of the show and clearly had no idea where to go. They threw in so many plot hiccups (The evil queen has an EVILER MOTHER, Emma and Snow are trapped in fairytale land, the guy who played the evil king in the first season keeps glaring at people menacingly!) but they threw in something that made me stay anyway. They threw in an Irish pirate. It was like a cheesy fairy tale tinted version of Chocolat. I was helpless.

I'm caught in the tractor beam of his guyliner

And now it's a season later. And the plot gets worse every episode. And the kid who plays Henry makes me so angry that I have actually had fantasies about pushing him off the deck of the Titanic. He's 12. That makes me a sociopath, but by God he is just the most irritating preteen alive. 

His face just screams punch me repeatedly

But I watched the episode that aired two days ago, where nothing happened. And I'll watch the next episode, where I can just about promise you that nothing will happen. Except the characters will turn to each other and state their feelings in simple and poorly worded lines. Because it's my fault that it does this to me. I just have to learn to love it for who it is. 

This is What Meth Must Feel Like: One Woman's Attempt to Keep Up With a Caffeine Addicted Doctor

My father has the most acceptable addictions, he drinks coffee the way most people breathe air. So last week, on our first day of vacation, I attempted to keep up with him. This is my account.

11am. (Cups 1 & 2) After nearly nine hours of sleep, which is five hours more than I've logged in one go for the last week, my dad wakes me up and grunts at me that I should make coffee while he showers. I do so and slowly sip a cup while I'm getting ready to go. It is exactly the amount of caffeine I need to start my day. But my dad downs a cup and then as he fills his up again he fills mine. It's an instinctive move, he hates to see an empty coffee cup. I shrug off the voice in my head that says I don't need another cup and drink deep. We leave the room and walk towards the front desk of the resort.

12 noon (cup 3) Before we hit the front building of the complex we pass a Starbucks. My father automatically stops. He is singlehandedly keeping the Laramie location in business. He turns to me and asks what I want. I'm feeling the heart racing effect of the extra cup I had for breakfast so I ask for an iced tea. My fathers eyes betray his disappointment. It's the same look of disappointment I got when I told him I wanted to be a writer. I change my order to a latte and he grunts in approval. It occurs to me that this is going to happen several more times throughout the day. I mentally decide to turn this into a blog post and start taking notes.

We go into a meeting with the PR guy for the resort we are staying at. He is an older very conservative guy and he and my father talk mostly financial issues. I tune them out in favor of the 80s/90s radio station that plays in the background.  In my head I am Bonnie Tyler and I am holding out for a mother fucking hero. I am roughly pulled from my day dreams of big hair and nonsensical music videos by the PR guy asking me about my life in LA. He makes it clear he thinks LA is a land of godless heathens and I have to struggle not to lie and tell him I work as a bartender at a drag club that serves only sodomites and people with vaginas. My father is eying me suspiciously, probably because I am talking at about 800 words per minute. The meeting ends and we go to get lunch.

2:00pm (drink 4) We grab lunch at a little cafe on the resort property. I could feel my father try to steer us to the Starbucks again but I insisted it would be rude to carry one of their drinks into the restaurant. In the last hour the temperature has risen to at least 80 degrees and I am feeling it. I drink an iced tea as we eat and catch up. My father drinks tea as well. We decide that after lunch we should try to see the air museum in town that has the fully operational WWII planes. Dad says "as long as we can hit a Starbucks on the way" I smile and try not to think of the slight tremor that is forming in my hand. My notes are starting to look like I wrote them in middle school, or possible while drunk. The words are getting smaller and closer together.

4:00pm (drink 5) Starbucks As luck or Southern California zoning regulations would have it, there is a Starbucks less than three blocks from the museum. We stop and I let my father talk me into a "refresher" when I mention that I'm feeling dried out. "The great thing is, it has just as much kick as two shots of espresso" he tells me as he pays. I have already ordered a large. I sigh, knowing I will not be sleeping for the next year. The tremor in my hand had just started to die down, but I suspect this will make it come back much worse.

We get to the air museum to discover that it is closing in 20 minutes and the guy at the front desk looks affronted when we ask if it will really take longer than that to look at the planes. He swears it takes at least three hours to go through both the hangers of the museum and "fully appreciate the history we have here." He tells us they have a sandwich shop attached to one of the hangers in a tone that implies that we are god damn communists if we don't spend so much time there we have to stop to eat. My father thanks him and smiles (not with his eyes) and we leave. I take the short walk to the door to practice my impression of Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle. My father refuses to join in as Boris. He insists we should go to the mall we passed on our way to the air museum. The tremor in my hand is in fact back with a vengeance and I accidentally flash my high beams at two cars as I drive us to the mall.

7:00pm (drink 6) We spend an hour shopping, which is about my limit on a good day. Today has not been a good day. My attention span is that of goldfish on crack and what I find funny in the world has gone up in almost a perfect inverse of my fathers disappearing sense of humor. This only serves to make everything, from the child throwing up blue icee in the food court, to the way the cashier at the Vans store calls my father "pops", fucking hysterical. I have cried off all my eyeliner from laughing so hard. My notes from this period look like there were hastily scrawled by a third grader. I should have switched to crayon.

We stop for dinner. I'm starting to really ride the high. I want a coke, but ask for an iced tea, sensing instinctively that my father is weighing how much trouble he would really get into for slapping me upside the head now that I'm over 18. The waitress brings out what could charitably be called a bucket with iced tea in it. Under the table my legs are bouncing out morse code for "heart palpitation"

9:30pm (drink 7) After dinner my father insists that we should stop at Target. "It's so much nicer than the fucking Walmart we have." He isn't wrong. Right next to the entrance, in case anyone should feel fatigued while shopping, there is a Starbucks. My mind screams "NO" but the thought is replaced quickly as all my thoughts are. My mind is going fast enough that it occurs to me that I could probably solve world hunger if I could focus long enough to stay on a train of thought. I get a pumpkin latte. It's fucking fall, after all, and I think everything should be pumpkin flavored between October 1st and November 30th. My notes are no longer legible in any way, mostly because the writing has gotten so small and there are no spaces between words or punctuation. It is the writing Faulkner might have had if he had lived long enough to gain a ridilin habit. The whole world seems to be shaking slightly. I start to wonder if I am actually seeing sounds. While at target my father buys me an industrial sized coffee pot for the new place I just moved in to, but scoffs at my request for the pumpkin flavored coffee. My disappointment only lasts until I am distracted my the wide variety of gum at the checkout. 

10:45pm (drink 8) Back at the hotel room my father turns on the news and pulls two iced teas from the refrigerator. He hands me one and we settle in to the couch to listen to a story about a teenager who claims her school violated her first amendment rights by enforcing a dress code. My father asks why I am twitching spasmodically but I don't answer. As much focus as I can gather has gone into mentally decoding the last episode of season two of Sherlock. I will solve it I tell myself. I will know how he survived the fall if I just...

An hour later I am in bed. The lights in the room are off and I am staring at the ceiling. The dots make a pattern, I know it. In one spot they look like a map, but over there they look like blood splatter and wasn't the finale of Dexter just so disappointing but not as bad as the finale to Lost but at least those two got a finale. Supernatural just keeps marching on years after no one cared and I wonder what ever happened to the Care Bears. They've resurrected every other cartoon from my childhood and I wonder if they really run out of things if they could bring my old dog back, cuz I know Howie wasn't the brightest animal but I really miss him and the world is just so sad sometimes...

This never happens! And likely never will again

I know what you're probably not thinking: "Two posts in one day?" But then your eyes jumped down and you realized this one is short and kind of a cop out but I want it noted anyway. This is the text converstation I had with Bailey today.

Bailey: Found a note on the floor of the classroom today that says "It's hard to be glitzy. Sorry. Hope you understand"

Caitlin: You demand glitzy from you kids? Wow, way to be a hard-ass

Bailey: I found it on the floor. I want to know more about this friend spat. Who is demanding the glitzy? In what context? What is the reprocussions of being unable to handle it?

Caitlin: Maybe it's a gang thing... Has anyone gotten into snapping song-based fights in the hallways?

Bailey: Not yet, but I may have to instigate that.

Caitlin: Any students named Maria?

Bailey: No :(

Caitlin: In your Catholic school? How is that possible?

Bailey: I think one might have a sister named Maria but that makes him Tybalt, and I don't like that. Also, thank you. Nothing makes grading papers more enjoyable than a mashup of "when you're a jet" and "Maria" stuck in your head on repeat.


You're welcome B. You're welcome

There's a Difference Between Summer and Fall Music

For about two weeks at the end of September I got lost in Phospherescent's recent album Muchacho. It's an airy album. It reminds me a bit of the first Angel's and Airwaves album except it feels much more organic. Full of background organs that have no melody, but grind out notes more to provide mood. It's layered so deep that it will probably take me years to listen to it and catch everything that runs through the songs. The emotion compounds through the songs, especially Song for Zula where I can feel the lyrics running through my veins, becoming part of me for the minutes that it plays. This album is quintessential fall music for me.

Summer is all about style over substance in my musical experience. Summer is punk music and Warped Tour. Summer is blasting through a song too fast to be accurate and not caring if you get the melody right when you sing. It's too hot to think to deep about the sounds coming from the speakers as long as the songs are fast and the melody is catchy.

But fall is different. The free fall of summer leaves me flat on the floor and I want music thats soft and comforting so I can wrap myself up inside it and keep the demons at bay. I want to hear melodies that demand harmony. I want banjos and complex lyrics that I give up trying to understand because the story they hide is overshadowed by the emotion they give freely. It's a season for soul and folk and jazz. I want to challenge my mind and my soul.

That's the big part of the rant for now.

I'd also like to note that Johnny Flynn's new album is out. It's fucking brilliant and I'll have a full blown review of it up soon.

Also in things you should have in your life, Agents of SHIELD is on ABC every Tuesday night. It's geek-tastic and even though it's not what a lot of people were expecting I think it's a great way to explore the deeper parts of the universe that the Marvel comic movies have been working so hard to create. Also if it gets canceled because not enough people watch it, I swear to Joss I am moving to London where they will kill my characters but not my shows. 

"You've Heisted My Syrup" is now a thing

I was sitting at work today, innocently browsing the internet while stealthily avoiding doing what some people would describe as "my job" when I found it. Sony Pictures is making a film version of the Maple Syrup Heist. Not only that, but they ignored my PERFECT CASTING and have attached Jason Seigel to the project. This is an outrage. Bruce Willis should sue.

You know what this feels like? This feels like I mined a perfect idea, drilled it from the core of the tree of inspiration. I carefully collected that idea in a bucket or possibly a large barrel and then I took the idea and carefully distilled it down and then locked that idea in a warehouse out in the middle of the woods by placing it on a rarely visited blog on the internet. I figured the idea was safe (who steals ideas from warehouses after all) so I didn't really patrol the warehouse very often and I didn't put up any cameras or firewalls cuz that costs money. And then these tricky bastards at Sony snuck past my clever defenses (namely a fence) at the warehouse that held my distilled and sweet ideas and drilled into the idea barrels, collecting all my inspiration before stealing away into the cold black Canadian night. And for months now I believed my ideas were safe cuz, I mean fuck it, the barrels of idea were still there the few times I bothered to check. But then I went back with a plate of waffles, needing some idea topping and poof. All my mother fucking ideas are gone and probably sold on the black market.

God Damn It.

In lighter news my big sis Christy may start doing guest posts on here. She will slowly continue to post, both more frequently and with more wit than me until I abandon this whole project and cry in a corner. I've been working on my inferiority complex, but somehow I don't think it's working...

Adventures in Moving

I knew today was going to be a rough one when, at 7:45 in the morning, stuck in traffic next to a construction worker who was enthusiastically waving his little orange cone flashlight at me, my sister Christy said the word Fuck. Christy is the good sister. She doesn't drink, doesn't smoke and rarely curses outside of watching hockey or football when, like most Americans, four letter words become just another normal way of expressing frustration.

We really showed those Cocksuckers, didn't we Grandpa?

"For fuck's sake." She all but yells into the phone. She's not really mad at me but she is yelling into my ear, and I admit that at this point it doesn't matter. Two of my sisters and I decided that at the ages of 23-30 we should move in together. My parents cautioned against it and I happen to know theres a betting pool going on in the state of Colorado as to which of us breaks and kills the others first. The smart money at the moment is on me.

This is the second time in a week I have been yelled at by a nearly hysterical sister for pointing out that they forgot to do something. Last Friday it was my sister Coco who accidentally locked her boyfriend and the Ikea bed he was delivering outside of the apartment in Reseda while she was at work some 70 minutes away in Manhattan Beach. This time it was Christy who forgot to leave a check for the movers. It turned out not to matter as the moving company has recently instituted a cash only policy, but in the throws of brutal rush hour traffic, with mr cone yelling directions at me that we're clearly printed on large signs less than five feet from my windshield I confess I let the stress over take me and did the only thing I could think of. I started to cry.

When in doubt, regress

The next part of the saga was decidedly more awkward as I have never had movers before and may or may not have a small amount of trouble letting other people do work I think I'm capable of. Not that you can prove it. Upon reaching the house in Reseda and standing awkwardly around the living room pretending to arrange DVDs on a shelf while the guys lugged all of the furniture and boxes in from their truck, I started to do the only calming thing I could do in our new internetless house. I started to unpack and decide where I want shit to go. Mock all you want but the weird almost God like power of creating my own organization system in an empty space is soothing as shit. When I'm at my most over stimulated or stressed I always wonder where I rank on the autistic spectrum. Sometimes it makes me feel like if you dropped a box of matches on the floor I'd be able you count them before they hit the ground. 

I'm noticing as I unpack a frustrating amount of doubles. Any time you combine several lives together you're going to have multiples of something. We, for instance now have three different versions of the first season of Gilmore Girls. The issue is, that the multiples of our non DVD things are starting to give me a bit of an inferiority complex. We have close to a half dozen cans of tuna but the ones I moved over are neither organic or wild caught. The only rational(ish) solution I can think of is to eat them all before anyone notices. We also have enough refrigerator magnets to cover the fridge that we don't have yet, but the cute novelty ones from the exotic places outshine my frankly more practical colored clips for chip bags. They own things like wine glasses and a whole set of kitchen knives. I own a slightly over weight cat who is struggling with a cat nip addiction. Christy and I both packed the postcards we had on our fridge with the magnets we moved. Christy has postcards from six different countries on four different continents. I have a postcard with a Jane Austin quote provided by my English major best friend. Cool as I may find this, the quote is in English and there are no skyscrapers behind it, so I have to figure it doesn't exactly rank with Hong Kong or Columbia. 

I believe that's the Chinese symbol for "Inferiority complex"

It will all of course turn out ok. The movers this morning were tattooed and beautiful, my cat has finally come out from under the bed where she's been hiding for days, leaving only to eat and barf in protest on my shoes. I've managed to scrub the layer of film from christys blender that I'm fairly certain she's never used*, and tomorrow a nice man will come while I am at work to install cable so that for the first time in two years I can flip through TV channels when I'm bored. Keep tuned in though, Colorado folks. We have another person moving in at the end of the month.

*Came home today to discover someone had used the blender as a vase for flowers. It was sitting on the counter next to an actual vase. I am trying not to give up on these people...

**Second update. No one seems to be able to put anything in the kitchen back in the drawer where they found it. I may have a brilliant prank involving the can opener and a block of ice planned. "Where's the can opener?"  "Have you checked the freezer?"

Screw you too September

September is National Suicide Prevention month. Fitting since it does seem that other than a few weeks around Christmas, September is always a stressful and shitty shitty month.

I didn't ever talk about it much but I was severly depressed and suicidal in High School. Part of it was normal teenage bullshit amplified by a strained relationship with my parents but part of it was realizing that high school wouldn't have any meaning in my life once I hit college and still having to attend every damn day.

I'm better now than I was but especially in weeks like this one where I have a lot going on, I get stressed and I withdraw and then all I want to do is lock myself in my room with my guitar and play John Craigie songs to myself as I drink. A lil emo, perhaps, but oddly comforting.

So today I read that To Write Love on Her Arms is doing this promotional thing where they want people to tell them why they cannot be replaced and it kinda hit me. I'm pretty sure I could be replaced. Scary realization that I don't think that there is an aspect of my life, a singular pocket that I occupy, that couldn't be filled (Fairly easily) by another person. It's a feeling I've had for a long time. I just always assumed it was because I'm the youngest in my family. But maybe not.

I'm gonna let that hang there. Let the beautiful sounds of Widower play you out

I know, I'm terrible at this

I've had this damn blog for almost a year and I still can't seem to get myself up to the one post a week that I keep saying to myself in a soothing voice as I lay awake at night wondering why I wasn't productive that day. "Tomorrow," I mutter quietly. "Tomorrow you will post on your blog and it will make you feel better." But then I get distracted or more likely I choose to go sit in a quiet air conditioned movie theater where no one is bugging me and I can live in another world for an hour.

This is my fortress of solitude

Ok so updates. I'm about to move into a new place with two sisters and an Alex. I recommend everyone have an Alex in their lives. Damn useful. Except she's not moving in till October cuz she's on a post-college odessy so I get to have an empty room in the house for a month with an "Alex" sticky note posted on it. So not useful there. Get it together Alex. Just kidding. She's a foot taller than me and can totally beat me up.

Moving makes me stressy, so that's rough. It's also been a week of trials at work, so stressy there. But the highlight of the weekend was getting to to see Tyler Lyle in Hollywood. For those of you who don't know Tyler, go look him up. Seriously. I'll wait. He's a freaking amazing musician and his songs make my soul shine a little. I understand that the last sentence doesn't make tons of sense. Get over it. Here is Tyler playing a song called Nashville (the second song I've featured by this title)

He's so talented it hurts me. Please support him so he keeps giving music to the world.


Also I'm pretty sure I'm turning into my father. Slowly mind you, but it's still happening. Most girls turn into their mothers. I blame the fact that I spent my formative years living at my Dad's house for my new habit of calling people I'm insulting "Buckwheat" and "Sparky" in a condescending tone. Just saying. There but for the grace of a moustache and a debilitating caffeine addiction...

Everyone Should Know This Exists

So I recently watched the film Blackfish. It's amazing and eye-opening and playing at my theater starting on Friday if anyone wants to catch it. But while it was amazing, it was also pretty depressing. So to cheer myself up I spent most of the rest of the night looking up videos of whales doing some pretty BAD ASS SHIT. They kill sharks and sting rays and I was all impressed. And then I found this. This is a video of an orca in South America beaching itself so that it can munch on some seals who were foolish enough to feel that they are safe if they just don't go into the water. Stupid seals.

Look at the whale. That is a whale who just threw a flying fuck in the way of reason and acted in open defiance of evolution so that it could have what amounts to a light snack. It's so cool it pains me

You'd Think I Was Some Sort of Criminal

So I'm planning a trip to see my bestie and we already have several firm plans in motion. And then she had to bring this up...

"I've been working so hard to cultivate the image of a nice Catholic, school teacher. Then you get here and we buy lots of liquor, light plastic abortion fetuses on fire, and watched witch movies while smashed"

When she puts it like that, it sounds bad.


Sorry for the length between posts. I had a fight with my blogging website. 

How to Tell if Your Boyfriend is Gay (Written with help from my big sister)

Hello there! Are you a straight woman? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you questioning the legitimacy of your relationship? That's a shame. Maybe you're just a not very trusting person. But maybe you're just not exclusive yet and you're questioning what the status of your relationship is because when you tried to talk to him he was all "We're in a room but the door is open and there's a window but it's propped up a bit and one of us is a walrus and one of us is a cow..." and what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

This is a pickle that many in my family have found ourselves in. Thankfully my sister Caroline has devised  a fool proof test to see if your manly man secretly wants another manly man's penis. If you answer yes to any of these questions, sorry but the guy you are dating is using you for his beard. 

Does he call you "pumkin tits" or "Broadway baby"? 

These are early warning signs

Does he wear pants that flare at the bottom?

If he's not an active member of the mystery gang, these are unacceptable fashion choices.

Can he sing? Like at all?

Does he ask you to stick anything up his butt? 

Even a finger means he's a flaming homo

Does he like "smoothies"?

This unfortunately is a gradated scale. Protein smoothies are ok, but an orange julius is a cry for another man's cock

Do his parents live far away? 

Remember gays are migratory. 

Do his friends call him "Penny"?

Huge hint but surprisingly easy to miss

Does he own a lot of leather jackets or boat shoes? 

Or safari shirts? Or bowties? If yes to any of these you might as well start calling him Liberache 

Does he own a vanity?

Self explanitory

Does he know the words to West Side Story?

Fun fact: gay men will know the lyrics but gay women will not as lesbians don't like musicals. 

Does he wear "Bro tanks"? Or rocker t-shirts? 

AC/DC is the preferred shirt for the gays

Does he wear scarves or a belt? 

Is the belt buckle a penis? Is that penis a big fat one?

Does his license plate say "I heart dicks"?

Does he play any girly sports?

IE ice dancing or water polo

Does he juggle?

On his days off, does he do dudes?

Does he have long hair?

Little known fact: Kurt Cobain, Jon Bon Jovi, and Keith Richards were all gay as they come. Pun intended...

Even if none of these answers are yes if he is a broadway actor or a dancer of any kind, he's probably still gay. 

I hope you've enjoyed this test. Unless it just ended your relationship. Then sorry but also you're welcome

ADDITIONAL NOTE:
I have the whole conversation that this post is based on recorded on my phone because sometimes people think I'm exaggerating when I describe my family. Someday I will figure out how to get it off of my phone and onto this site. It's far too funny not to be shared with the world. 

 

All Hail Orlando, King of the Nerds

I know Comic Con and all it's nerd wonder is a week away, but everybody drop their cool pants for a minute and revel with me. Why? Because THIS EXISTS!!!

That, my dear minions, is Orlando "Legolas" Bloom singing along to a video someone made probably 10 years ago. They remixed a few of his lines into an infectious song that I sing to my sisters when I want to annoy the shit out of them. The fact that Sir* Bloom is acknowledging this, makes me the happiest of geeks. Bless you, you weird little elf. Bless you

*Knighthood pending

Family

My older sister Christy is back in Wyoming spending a night at our parents house with one of our older sisters. I'm not naming names cuz I don't want anyone to get all butt hurt, but it's the one who likes to antagonize and who's name rhymes with Stair-o-pine. She just threw a shoe at Christy and nailed her in the forehead. There will be bloodshed before sunrise. It is written.

Tomorrow they will laugh it off and it will become just one of those stories.

Like the time Caroline and Coco got into a screaming fight in the middle of the restaurant where Care worked.

Or the time Christy tried to drown me. A little.

Or that one time where Erika and Coco convinced a 4 year old me to answer the door to Caroline's new boy friend buck ass naked.

Or that time we played Pictionary and Lance almost had to get stitches.

The point is that by tomorrow it will be just another story, that we end with the words "Yeah, but I love my family." Or tomorrow my parents will find one of their children has smothered the other in their sleep. 

June Music Recommendation

So I've been stalking this artist named Noah Gundersen for a while. If you've heard his stuff, odds are you heard it on Sons of Anarchy (At least I hope so. If you heard it on the Vampire Diaries we're in a 2 week friend time out starting now) He's stupid talented and his lyrics tend to rip me into shreds for hours after listening to them, which only seems to make me want to hear more. There are three songs you should absolutely be listening to; David which is one of two songs from his latest album (Available on itunes and bancamp *Shameless plug*) to be featured on Sons of Anarchy, his cover of A Case of You which is a Joni Mitchell song, and Nashville seen here being performed by Noah (And all his stupid talent) and his sister Abby (And all her stupid talent). Being the tone deaf kid in that family must have been a kick to the ego.

Pictured: the family that sounds way prettier than yours

Let's take the songs one at a time. David comes flooding in on a pulsing guitar backed by a cello. It's dark and moody from the get-go as Noah weaves a verse about the struggle he's going through to become the man he wants to be. "A little less like my father and more like my dad" The chorus slows to half pace which makes me feel like the song itself is tearing at me, pushing me around like a gale force wind. It's a song born of a battle that in itself feels like a fight.

A Case of You. This is one of my favorite songs and I hate people who cover it. Except apparently Noah. It helps that he sings this song with a stunning depth of feeling, his voice breaking and straining at the emotional peaks of the chorus. It's always been a conversational song, but his phrasing and delivery make it simultaneously into a condemnation and a plea. He brings the guitar in and out perfectly so that by the time you realize he just did half of a verse a capella it's because he's pounded a chord out.

The last one I'm going to strongly insist will make your life better is Nashville. This is also off of Noah's new album. A little more story than most of his songs, the words weave a picture of a long road trip that ends in violence and heartbreak. The lyrics are well phrased and poignent and only enhanced by Noah's smokey voice and Abby's perfectly placed harmonies. "On and on and on the miles stretch for hours, the radio keeps spitting out tunes. Every other song is just another tired rhythm, another tired lover's tune"

Ok the rant is over, I'm off to put on my headphones and get lost in some good tunes.

If You Need Me I'll Be Sitting in the Park Singing Bob Dylan

I just watched the Bling Ring. It was terrifying. I'll never have children for fear that they'll turn into teenagers and someday even passingly resemble the kids in this film. I'm serious. Combine that with the fact that I've "fallen to the communists" as they say in the homeland* I'm a little sensitive to emotional changes now I feel like I was the one breaking into Paris Hilton's house and threatening to steal her dog. To help combat this sense of commercialism I'll be spending the rest of the night listening to hippie folk music and separating all of my clothes out so I can give half of them to Good Will in the morning. Fuckin thanks Hermione.

*The IT Crowd

This is the Definition of Burying the Lead

So my best friend has this habbit of watching TV documentaries. She's a "sharer" so she sometimes texts me the fascinating things she's learning. This was our actual text conversation from tonight. Love you B.

Bailey: The things you learn from Late night TV. Also there's a pteranadon living near LA.

Me: What's a that thing?

Bailey: Winged dinosaur.

Me: Fuck off. Dead. Please say dead.

Bailey: Pterodactyl.

Me:But a dead one, right? Don't fuck with me

Bailey: I apparently lives near Elizabeth Lake in the Angeles National Forrest and eats cows

Me: Fuck right off! How is this not the only thing on the news?

Bailey: It's Nessie for LA.

Me: So it's not real? Why would you tell me that?

Bailey: That it supposedly exist or that it's not real?

Me: LEAD WITH IT NOT BEING REAL

Bailey: Sorry, I thought "There's a pterodactyl living near LA" was a tip off to the speculative nature of such claims

Me: You didn't say that till you told me it was eating God Damn Cows

Bailey: Besides, a Spanish Rancher beat the holy living Hell out of it in the 1800s and it disappeared

Me: Viva la Espagne

Bailey: Have I mentioned yet how ironic U find the fact that I studies Spanish for ten years thinking "French? Nobody speaks French!" only to move to almost Canada...


In fairness, on reflection it was fairly obvious that the dinosaur wasn't real. But Holy shit how epic/terrifying would that be? Right? 

If You're Gonna Nerd Out...

As is my seasonal ritual, I changed the posters hanging in my living room today. Where once there were colorful spring-like colors there are now grays and sepias. But not because I hate the summer. I mean part of me does because I spend my summer days inside a theater lobby wallowing in A/C and low watt lighting.

When I line up for my suite in Hell, this is the line I will stand in

I changed the posters to reflect the wonderful, glasses wearing, slightly asthmatic, brilliant, heavily punched nerd that lives inside of me. I now proudly boast a poster for the British thriller The Woman in Black (Signed by Harry *mother fucking* Potter himself) and a poster for the highly anticipated season 2 of the BBC drama Copper. 

You bitches know you're jealous

I say if I'm gonna weird out the plumber who's coming tomorrow, I might as well go full throttle. 

How I Met Your Crazy Aunt Bailey

It's been a weird week. I've had a lot of stuff, good and bad, happening back home and I am full of nostalgia.

My nostalgia looks like radioactive leprechaun pee. 

My best friend just graduated from college and got a job warping the young minds of a town in Washington state. As she's about to have students with the ability to google, I will refer to her only as Bailey, or occasionally as I do in life, Bailey-Monster. This is the story of how we became friends. 

Let me set the scene. It was the first of November in Laramie Wyoming.

Like this but less inviting

A mutual friend of ours named Jenna invited myself, Bailey and two other girls over for a birthday party. The plan was to go to the one hotel in town that had a swimming pool, rent a room, and swim until we were tired enough to ingest dangerous amounts of sugar and pass out. We set out from Jenna's house and got to the hotel in time to find out that the pool was under construction. Jenna's mother was visibly panicked. She had five, unamused teenage girls in her car and nowhere to take them. She was more likely to be viciously murdered than someone than the tribesman on the Savanna that likes to throw rocks at the lions. It was then that we discovered what her original plan was. She wanted to drop us off at the hotel and leave so she could attend a college party. 

Fuckin children won't let me get my drink on

So that's how at the age of 14 I ended up at a college drink-a-thon. Ten miles outside of town. Surrounded by pagans. I'm not being hyperbolic. The party was being run by a guy named Russ with an ugly goatee. Russ was the head of the university Pagan club, and they were celebrating Samhain. My father was never told about this. Daddy, if you're reading this now, I am so sorry, it wasn't my fault. We all stood around the kitchen awkwardly avoiding touching any of the surfaces so we didn't catch herpes. Poor B was a good Catholic kid (my corrupting influence came later) and I was a strictly sober former Baptist. We had wandered into Hell. It smelled like pachouli and smoke. 

Like this but less inviting

Finally I couldn't take it any more. I chose the least threatening drunk in the area and asked him "Is there anything here that doesn't have alcohol in it?" He looked at me, blinked a few times. "I'm pretty sure the cider is ok. Yeah, the cider's good." Looking back, Drunky McAlchol was not the best choice to ask. But we were frozen and frustrated and we had a solid hour before the movie theater started its next kid movie. Jenna and the other two weren't willing to risk it but Bailey and I each had a glass. And then we each had three more. It didn't taste funny, maybe a little too much cinnamon but that was all. Thirty minutes later I am playing a Lord of the Rings themed chess set against one of the sober girls, using a terrible British accent, and referring to everyone around me as "Halfling." Bailey thought I was hysterical but she was the only one. 

I know what you drank, for it is also in my cup

We left the party, I climbed into the back of the car and pressed my face against the frozen window. It was the best feeling I've ever had. Shania Twain's "Man, I Feel Like A Woman" was playing on the radio. I understood it on a level I never have before. Shania's so much deeper than people give her credit for. I tried to tell Jenna this and she rolled her eyes. She didn't understand Shania like I did, and it was societies fault. I explained this to Bailey in halting mostly nonsensical phrases and Bailey says "You sound stupid." I quip back "Yeah well, maybe the spider was siked." Why yes, yes it was. We were hammered. Having now been drunk as an adult, I know for sure what I only guessed then. That cider was heavily alcholic, I was plastered, and my father couldn't find out or he would have me arrested. It's ten years later and I haven't lived with my father in five years, but I'm only posting this because he's in Hungary and unlikely to read this. 

Those peasants better not have wifi

When we got to the theater Bailey and I sat next to each other, laughing our asses all the way through Brother Bear. Most of you didn't see Brother Bear, but it was about an Indian (feathers not dots) kid who's brother is eaten by a bear, who he then kills only to magically be transformed into a bear himself to help raise the cub he just orphaned. It's not high comedy, but we got into imitating the bears voices and it became pretty entertaining.

Not pictured: anything normally voiced by squeeky teenage girls

 Out in the lobby after the movie trouble started. Two of the three girls still in possession of their language skills got into a political argument. Bush had just won a second term and one of a the girls was a hard core republican. Jenna's mom was taking her sweet ass time picking us up and I finally snapped. I reached my hand into my travel bag for my contact solution. "Guys, this is the talking stick. Take turns." Everyone stops. I'm not holding my contact solution. I am holding my deodorant. Everyone is laughing and Bailey chokes out "Does your deodorant talk to you?" I'm unable to answer. I can't feel my face. I can feel my abs but I really wish I couldn't. Jenna's mom pulls up and has to load five hysterical teenagers into her car. 

This is why I took up drinking

Back at Jenna's house her mother, probably asking herself quietly why she decided to have children, set us up in the side living room of the house and went to bed. Jenna and one of the girls went into her room, probably to bitch about how annoying Bailey and I were being. The last girl curled up on the couch and told us that she was going to sleep and that we were going to SHUT THE FUCK UP. We put on Practical Magic in an attempt to wind down. It backfired. At three in the morning we were still giggling. I distinctly remember Bailey-monster asking if we would be able to tell this story later. I said we might want to tone it down a bit. "But we won't tell our parents about this, right?" "Oh Hell no." It was an understanding that bound us together. We had shared in a drunken night of debauchery at the tender age of 14, we had created inside jokes that we still use a decade later, and more importantly I have blackmail material that will last a lifetime. 

Congrats on graduating Bailey. Remember that the students you're about to teach are the same age we were when we met. Warp away B-mon. Warp away

Social engagements for the socially disinclined

I'm not a social person. At least not by most peoples standards. I would much rather watch a movie or hang out at someone's house than go to a bar or (God forbid) a club. So when I got invited out for a social engagement tonight, I very nearly said no just on principal.

This is me. Almost always. 

The thing is I got asked out by a group of guys. I'm more myself with guys. I understand them. A few well placed crude jokes and an obscure Blue Oyster Cult reference and I'm in like flint. Girls are complicated and there are rules and details that I tend to railroad over too often to be really accepted. (Hint pulling someone's hair past the age of 7 is NOT OKAY) On top of being asked to play pool with the guys it was a group from a movie theater I subbed at this week. Movie theater people who are relaxed and nerdy and didn't seem to care that I have the motor functions and coordination of a drunk toddler. They wanted me to play pool with them anyway. It was like being asked to sit at the cool kids table 9 after nine years of being rightfully labeled as that awkward kid that always seems to spill stuff on herself. 

Hi guys! Did you see that ludicrous display last night? Where is everyone going?

So I agreed to go. And then I spent thirty minutes tonight sitting in my apartment, forcing myself to get ready and leave the house. Because the minute I sat down in front of my computer the idea of driving 25-30 minutes to Santa Monica seemed exhausting. I am 23 going on 92. I am waiting for my hip replacement and some days I swear I am inches from being that ancient person standing in the Walmart shouting out the answers to Jeopardy. 

Fuck no. It's "What is the Andes?" you ignorant slut!

  But eventually I went. And I learned that for years I have been playing pool wrong. With some very patient coaching I was able to make a few shots and not completely embarrass myself. And I'll be damned if I didn't have fun. So maybe I'm not one of those 23 year olds who can party with Paris Hilton and make it to their job at 9am. But I took a little step towards being a real live adult today. I'll mark it on the calendar.