August 15, 2012 by
I completed my graduate degree at night while working a full-time job during the day. When I finished, I didn’t read for a year. No books, no newspapers, no magazines. I was so burnt out from school, it was my way to detox and feel in control of my free time. Since then, I’ve taken classes to meet people with similar interests. I even registered to start pre-law classes at John Jay, but withdrew after 9/11.
Now online ed/distance learning is the thing and I’m back in a corporate environment that makes you create personal “development” goals. It’s all monkeyspank, I know. Anyone that knows me, knows I can personally develop by changing vibrator attachments. But whatever, I’ll play the game.
I registered for a six-week brand writing class and let me tell you, I’m through with school and admit I’m too old for this shit: homework deadlines, people that ask dumb questions, and professors that have less professional experience than me.
Deadlines and stupid people? I can just work late. I’m back to getting my education through books, documentaries, and life experience.
June 26, 2012 by
Nothing makes me happier than nachos and beer except being in a large city in a different country and STILL being thankful I’m not having sex.
On the way back from a bookstore (because that’s where single, middle-aged ladies go after work on business trips), I stopped by a brew pub to abuse my per diem. I ordered an IPA, because I like to support local beer, as well as nachos because they are my favorite food group with beer.
I had the good fortune to sit beside a four-top of 20-something know-it-alls. I realized rather than sit at the table and start my book, I needed to pull out my moleskin and take notes. Judging by the almost-finished pitcher of beer on their table, their shit was going to be good.
The cast of characters included a self-proclaimed promiscuous, white, long-haired brunette sitting beside a bed head, celery stalk body and white golf-shirt wearing hipster. On the other side, we had a lightly bearded Indian guy with long bangs sitting beside the table kingpin. This guy was a true piece of work. He had sunglasses on his head and wore a chartreuse button-down, white tie, khaki knee-length shorts, and white loafers.
I could have assumed he was a tool when his tie matched his loafers; however, when he talked loud enough to be heard by everyone and mentioned in every other sentence that he was Italian, I almost felt sorry for him. I mean, no woman really cares about your ethnicity unless you say your daddy was black, then we may pay attention.
I knew we were at a DickCon1 level when he said, “I know if I pretend to care, she’ll think I’m sensitive and will fuck me.” Yeah, that rule has been revealed in Details, Esquire, and on blogs for more than a decade. Google that shit. Or, better, put your fucking phone down, stop texting, and read a book.
There is a new super strain of gonorrhea out there and yet I fear cockroaches like this, at any age, more.
November 08, 2010 by
I woke and treated SB Man’s body like a jungle gym to the point where I knew I didn’t have to go to 24 Hour Fitness. And, honestly, sex is a much better way to get the heart rate up, right?
Little did I know, a couple hours later my 50-inch Munch “The Scream” blow-up doll would arrive at the office. Without a bike pump or other tool, I proceeded to administer mouth-to-ass plug resusitation in order to reanimate my flat fellow. About 10 minutes later, Scream was nice and tall and sitting on my desk, greeting everyone that came to marketing.
I was outside contemplating tobacco. It’s been a long time since I’ve blown that much on a Monday.
October 24, 2010 by
I was recently told that I was living my own romantic comedy. Dot com-crash-to-Wall Street girl leaves New York for Los Angeles for personal growth. Discovers the emotionally unevolved, focuses on health, gets laid off more, and then moves to a small town where she has a job and a sensible romantic life.
This is finally my fucking movie. Finally.
Living in New York was truly one of the greatest experiences of my life. I connected with a lot of smart and wonderful people. But I also saw the evils. I lived in fear for nearly nine months after I turned a dirty cop in to internal affairs. After 9/11, I figured if I was going to get whacked by the mob, it would be a better death than burning in a building. Needless to say, it all worked out and I happily left corporate slavery and chose LA as my backup plan when San Francisco was still in flames from the dot com bomb.
As I continue to look forward, it’s easy to reflect with the benefit of hindsight. And I am one of those people who wouldn’t change anything in my life because even the bad stuff shapes the future path. All those awful Los Angeles dates served some purpose (I know what I don’t want). My odd projects, contracts and jobs all taught me that no workplace is perfect (I know what I don’t want). Working is a fool’s errand. You just have to try to pick your fools wisely.
The same holds true with dating. When I was in the beginning interview stages in Santa Barbara, I went to the online personals to get a sense of the mid-40s dating scene in Santa Barbara. Call it socio-romantic ethnography. My random how-much-does-it-suck inquiry revealed dating there wasn’t much different than anywhere else: crazy ex’s, drama, kids, liars, and the chemically altered. And from that honest baseline, I developed a friendship with SB Man through a very, very long interview process.
But that’s not all.
My girlfriends in Los Angeles squealed when I told them that I saw SB Man four times in one week after I moved. “It takes about six weeks to rack up that kind of time with one man in LA. No one wants to make that kind of time commitment for fear of looking….available,” one admitted.
In New York, you knew your life was good when the trifecta of job-apartment-love was in balance. Here, I know that my patience and perseverance prevailed. I just don’t know how the movie is going to end.
September 28, 2010 by
You know you are leaving Los Angeles when you can comfortably throw out your Thomas Guide, the non-GPS bible to getting around. I knew I was leaving when the fire trucks arrived.
Your layoff lady of leisure is discontinuing her 61-week underemployment lifestyle. My nationwide job search finds me relocating to Santa Barbara, California for a marketing position with a consumer electronics company. My seven years and a couple odd months in Los Angeles has been plagued with the usual California cliches: low-speed chases in the neighborhood, workplace drug deals, and who-do-you-know business card trading. Between the odd work experiences and the tragic dating scene, I would of smoked a 45cal if it weren’t for my friends.
Those same friends turned out to wish me well with martinis at Lola’s on a record-breaking 112-degree day in West Hollywood. We were enjoying the nice central air when the electricity went out. We assumed the production company in the back bar blew a circuit while filming. We continued to drink by candlelight only to discover that the transformer behind the restaurant blew and was on fire. In typical LA-fashion, we ignored the drama and continued to drink until we were asked to leave an hour later.
That’s the sum total metaphor of my Los Angeles experience: with shit swirling everywhere, I chose to focus on my career and my love life. I got no where.
It is time to evacuate.