“Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.”—Hunter S. Thompson
“Look, I’m gonna spare you the effort. I think that religion is meant for people who aren’t smart enough to understand how the world really works. They’re so scared of being small and insignificant that they need someone to tell them how special and important they really are.”—C.O.G.
“The paradox of a moment is that an instant in time can be more significant than the sum of all moments up until then. Perhaps this is the root of my obsession: a romanticism for the speed at which life can change and the desire for it to do so.”—
One of the many reasons I connect with certain people in my life on a deeper level is through humor. I have many people I call friends and who I spend time with but only select group who I consider to be true best friends. These are individuals are by no means collectively similar but exemplify various traits that I admire. Each of my close friends has taught me something or seems to possess at least one trait I would like to embody myself. Of the girls I’ve called friends since childhood they’ve shown me how to be less judgmental (though I admittedly don’t always put this into action), they accept me regardless of what I do or say and they seem to be significantly less elitist than many of my friends in New York. This is a fact that I’ve only learned to appreciate by moving away from Connecticut and a bit ironic given the area I grew up in epitomizes what most of the country thinks about Connecticut.
When I speak of humor, as you know if you’ve read any of my prior posts, I appreciate dry, black comedy and most of my closest friends are like-minded. One friend in particular, a girl I’ve known since I was around 8 years old, is pretty much the female version of my soul mate. She is one of the funniest girls I know and can successfully launch me into a fit of laughter with a few simple words. She is as sarcastic, if not more, than I am and possesses a similar drive to learn more about the world. When I go back to Connecticut I typically spend at least half my time at her apartment laughing at stupid things and talking about books, politics, anything really.
If I could successfully push her to write a book I’m fairly certain it would be a best seller. Her and her twin sister have been close but battling for as long as I can remember. This sibling rivalry has led to an endless series of hilarious situations in which I would only find myself with the two of them. The first time I slept over their house in sixth grade, a Mexican standoff ensued rather quickly as a result of a life or death situation every person finds themselves in at one time or another: Who is going to call to order the pizza? This debate turned combative somewhere around the time the proposal of pepperoni was raised resulting in my friend and I locking ourselves in her room while thwarting off attacks from her sister who stood foaming at the mouth on the other side of the door. While we stood, ears pressed to the door, waiting for the imminent threat to retreat she went searching for reinforcements in the kitchen. She quickly returned brandishing her weapon of choice, a kitchen knife, and began systematically jamming it through the sides of the door in between kicking it in hopes to overtake us through brutal force. I, an only child, was equal parts amused and horrified by this turn of events. I had certainly never encountered this at home… there was no one there threatening to stab me at a moment’s notice and I immediately felt slighted.
Over the years, my friendship with these girls has grown and continues to churn out plenty of ridiculous memories. This includes my being hit with one of my own shoes in a college dorm room after being caught in the crossfire of an erupting argument which I’m sure was as serious if not more than the Great Pizza Debacle of ‘94. That same year came the argument to end all arguments which resulted in the three of us not speaking to each other for at least several days. What else do 18 year old college girls argue about other than whether Michael Skakel’s ties to the Kennedy family were a factor in the state’s inability to prosecute him as a teenager in 1975? Yes, THIS of all things, led to a shouting match most likely horrifying the sane individuals in our dorm. What can I say? I have a lot of opinions. And just for the record, they WERE a factor regardless of what anyone tells you.
Today, even though I no longer live in Connecticut we are still as close as ever. I text them almost every day with some ridiculous situation or person I’ve encountered that only they would find amusing. This entire post was prompted based on a text I woke up to this morning that reminded me how much I love my friends.
One of the sisters was pressured into taking a meditation class last night by one of our other friends and her reaction to said class resulted in the below simply amazing text messages.
Her: A brief synopsis of the meditation session: A rotund, portly gentleman came in late, took the farthest seat from the door requiring him to walk across the entire room, and started the meditation off by shifting in his chair, coughing, clearing his throat and repeatedly wiping his sweaty hands on his polyester pants making a loud swishing sound. He then capped it off by telling the instructor, “When I close my eyes and try to focus through my third eye (a meditation term) I keep getting a headache. Am I doing something wrong?” C expects me to go again next week.
Her: I found myself opening my eyes and glaring at everyone in the room. He’s lucky he got out of there alive. Meditate on that, sucker.
I am completely certain that at the age of 75 we will be on a porch somewhere waving our canes in the air and complaining about the local teenagers ruining the neighborhood. Oh man, I can’t wait.
Him:You do what you feel is right in your heart...just know that you do NOT want this war.
Me:Don't poke a queen... you will get the repercussions.
Him:The problem for you is that you would have to leave that pillow-topped throne of yours... an occurrence unlikely to happen even in the most dire of situations. this will not be a cold war...I will attack you with the fury of a thousand suns and ensure that you never so much as think the words status update again.
Me:Don't you know anything? Those who sit on pillowtopped thrones have minions... armys of minions. I will throw your ass RIGHT in the tower
never to be heard from again.
Me:And if I must, I will chop that "valuable" head of yours RIGHT off.
Him:I've seen your minions. Forged from the molds of angry housewives at too early of an age, unless your idea is to have them nag me into walking into that "tower" then your plan is flawed at best. Anyone else who you call upon would prefer my company over your treachery.
Me:Oh please, what are you, a one man army? I would have your men toppling like dominoes.
Me:All I need is cheese and alcohol and you are a goner. Your men would sell your soul to the devil for a single piece of pepperoni if they were given the option.
Him:My army moves in silence....look to your left, then to your right...at least 2 of the people you see are currently plotting your demise.
Me:I know about your fear of ZOMBIES, your Achilles heel.
Him:You shut your whorish mouth.
Him:You.....you are evil. I didn't want to do this but I too know of your greatest fear... a blossoming blonde who is roaming the city again by the name of Mrs. R.
Him:If you care to continue this foolish war I will have no problem setting up a small get together, just the two of you.
Me:Pfff, she doesn't exist to me, it's not my fault she's jealous of the queen.
Him:I actually agree with you on that last point.
Me:As I knew you would.
Me:I'm currently waving my wand around my desk triumphantly.
Me:From time to time I hit people with it so they know where they stand.
Him:Greatest will be the fall of the arrogant. I'm going to enjoy tearing you down should you choose to follow through with your idle threats.
Me:You'll have to reach me first.
Me:Don't think I haven't built Roman Empire style walls around my home.
Me:I'll throw you a rope. And then drop it as soon as you grab hold.
Me:Oh yea and there is also a moat filled with zombies around said wall
so... have fun with that.
Him:I fear none of these. All I need is the very computer I sit before to ruin you.
If you’re anything like me or a large number of people (I am NOT alone), you dislike public speaking. And when I say dislike it in reference to myself, I mean hate, avoid, detest, abhor, loathe, really any of the above. I have a memory of being in what I’m pretty sure was third grade and reading a poem in front of the class… pretty sure I was also dressed like Peggy Fleming complete with pink leg warmers but my brain may be failing me there. Instead of reading the poem, I actually cried until the teacher left me alone.
It’s a strange thing to have a fear of even if it is extremely common. If I can speak freely on a conference call or sitting at a table, where does the anxiety come in if I have to stand up? What’s the real difference? In my rational mind, there isn’t one. But that hasn’t stopped me from feeling like I’m going to pass out or forget the English language given the opportunity.
As far back as I can remember I have been avoiding any type of speaking in a public situation. In college, I would drop a class if I discovered an oral presentation was any part of the syllabus. I’ve managed to push myself through group presentations if forced but always dreaded them before, during and after. Growing up, it wasn’t something I saw as an issue… just something I wasn’t going to do.
In my professional life, my priorities have changed a bit. It is the only thing I feel will hold me back if I let it. When it comes to my experience, my input and my overall intelligence, I know what I’m talking about (or at least I think I do which is half the battle). But if I can’t speak to it in a formal setting then it’s all a bit wasted. I actually took a public speaking course last year which I think helped a bit but hasn’t alleviated all anxiety. It’s more about managing it than eliminating it… so they say.
As my 30th birthday approached last week, here it was. My manager sat on my desk on Monday morning smiling.
We have a large new business pitch coming up on Friday for a global beer client… and I want you to lead it. I also really want this business so… no pressure.
My immediate reaction? I want to leap from this building. I want to announce that I refuse to turn 30 years old and I want catapult myself into the East River in protest. Maybe I will wear a cape while I do it or a V for Vendetta mask to protest… public speaking?
While my initial reaction was one of pure dread I also thought to myself… here it is. I’m going to be 30 years old on Saturday and I need to kick this problem. I need to get over this and stop letting it hold me back. I could not decide if this was horrible timing or perfect timing being the day before my birthday.
Our team worked on the presentation all week. Making changes almost every hour based on new client feedback… your typical ‘We said we wanted that, but we really wanted this’ edits. The night before the pitch, I think I slept for a total of one hour. I rolled around in bed imagining every terrible scenario and actually thought to myself, if I can’t do this, my career is going to be ruined. Even my inner monologue is dramatic. Like, buddy, shut up much?
On Friday morning I sat at my desk going over the slides in my head. Over and over and over. While everyone has that inner voice in their head, I have several. I have one voice that tells me I can’t do it and I have another voice, most likely implanted there by my mother, that says, just do it. Stop complaining and DO it.
The meeting was scheduled for 4pm on Friday afternoon. Which, um what? Who schedules a new business meeting then? Really? Awesome.
By the time we got in the car to go uptown, I was almost, dare I say it, excited? I was going to do this and I was going to do it well. Or I was going to crash and burn in a spectacular fashion but either way I was going to try. This was my Mad Men moment.
As we sat down in the conference room in their 19th floor office, which is complete with a circular bar and a happy hour going on near us (it apparently doesn’t suck to work for a beer brand), I was nervous but in control. There was no escaping this situation so I might as well own it.
As the pitch began, believe it or not, I didn’t choke, I didn’t forget how to speak and I didn’t faint. After the first slide a lot of my jitters started to subside. I wouldn’t say I actually enjoyed it but it wasn’t nearly as terrible as I had imagined. I would say I did well. And the feeling of having successfully presented to this client may be one of the greatest feelings I’ve ever felt.
As we were walking out, the feeling of accomplishment and having proved to myself I could do something I previously wouldn’t have wanted to do – incredible. And oddly enough, I think over time I might actually enjoy presenting. Let’s not say I’m a pro but maybe I could be one day.
All I know is the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. It was a birthday present to me. Happy 30th!
“I mean I truly believe there exists some combination of words – there must exist certain words in a certain specific order that would explain all of this, but with her I just can’t ever seem to find them.”—Walter White, Breaking Bad
I read an article today entitled “The Unofficial Goldman Sachs Guide to Being a Man.” While I fulled expected the advice dispensed to enrage me to a level that might result in a computer flying from my ninth floor office window… I was pleasantly surprised to learn I actually AGREED with most of it. While this doesn’t change the fact that most GS traders make me want to bang my head on the wall, the tidbits the piece shared on what it means to be a man should be followed by all men. Yes, there were some I found to be silly like “Own a handcrafted shotgun. It’s a beautiful thing.” Because… shut up.
Below are some of the things that Goldman Sachs seems to have right.. if only their employees would take note.
Stop talking about where you went to college.
Rebel from business casual. Burn your khakis and wear a suit or jeans.
You will regret your tattoos.
Join Twitter; become your own curator of information.
If you perspire, wear a damn undershirt.
People are tired of you being the funny, drunk guy.
Tip more than you should.
Don’t split a check.
Find a Times New Roman in the streets and a Wingdings in the sheets. She exists.
Buy a tuxedo before you are thirty. Stay that size.
Measure yourself only against your previous self.
Place-dropping is worse than name-dropping.
Yes, of course you have to buy her dinner.
The New Yorker is not high-brow. Neither is The Economist.
If you believe in evolution, you should know something about how it works.
Eating out alone can be magnificent. Find a place where you can sit at the bar.
Read more. It allows you to borrow someone else’s brain, and will make you more interesting at a dinner party – provided that you don’t initiate conversation with, “So, who are you reading…”
A midst the U.S.’s current posturing on whether or not we will take military action against Syria, I would like to make it known that should we push ourselves into a third World War… I will be the first to quietly exit this country. Over the past several weeks I have been taking the time to learn a few valuable new accents including Canadian… ayy… and British… cheers! I’m taking a trip to London in the next few weeks that may very well turn into my escape from America. Friends, if you don’t hear from me? It’s been real, mates.
Over the past few centuries, American culture has bled egocentricity. Those dirty tank top wearing, sporadically bathing, toothless wonders you see on Cops and any local news broadcast didn’t turn out that way by accident. You know the ones I mean. The ones who seem to pop up any time there is a camera within miles to shout ‘MERICA! and pump their fists in the air. These are the individuals who watched The Lone Ranger like it was a documentary.
I, being an American, obviously have pride for the country I was born and grew up in but there’s a difference in having pride and simply having a lack of cultural awareness. I can say being born in this country has allowed me access to some amazing things like education and women’s rights. What I can’t say is that America is the greatest country in the world. I haven’t lived in every country in the world. I haven’t even visited most countries in the world. And if I can’t say that, Bob and Tiffany, from their trailer in Arkansas, certainly shouldn’t be saying it. Yea, I’m talkin’ to you, Tiffany.
I think a lot of Americans have a very narrow view of what our world as a whole encompasses. They haven’t seen and rarely think about citizens of other countries and what their daily lives consist of. They have no awareness of the fact that countries like England seem to be getting along just fine, if not better, without community troughs full of automatic weapons or that somehow, despite so many people fighting tooth and nail against the Affordable Care Act, there are at least 36 other countries in the world with better healthcare than the U.S. And that includes the U.K. and even places like Libya and Cuba. What does that say about us?
I guess my point here is with many of our citizens holding onto this cowboy view of our country, it scares me to think of the situations many believe we should attempt to solve as ‘the world’s watchdog’. Now mind you, I will be watching from an undisclosed location outside of this country, preferably a tree house or log cabin without windows, but have we really thought through the outcome of taking military action against Syria? Is congress really convinced that Bashar al-Assad’s forces led these attacks on the country’s people? Maybe I sound like a crazy conspiracy theorist but after our endless weapons of mass destruction hunt that turned up a big fat NOTHING, I’m hesitant to say WHO did it. Perhaps that’s why our Brit friends have no interest in getting involved either.
All I know is that if we attack Syria and they attempt retaliation whether that be towards us or Israel, I don’t care to find out how quickly things might escalate. Thanks but no thanks on getting into it with Iran, China, Russia or pretty much anyone over an issue no one would back us on. I’m pretty sure our reputation as a country is intact without having to prove it through force. Give me a ticket to an uninhabited island and a fridge full of cheese and I’m good to go, my friends.
And now that I’ve opened myself up to a range of insults and political arguments, I will be going. See ya, ‘Merica!
As I stared at the e-mail, a unique mix of fear, anxiety and pure rage began to take over my mind and body. Breathe, I thought to myself, hands hovering over the keyboard.
“Sorry, sorry. Last week’s event went well. Bradley Cooper and Mary-Kate Olsen were there and Bradley drank one of our cocktails. I’m trying to get Page Six to run something and will follow up with the team as soon as I receive more feedback. Yes, we’ve sent them a bottle as a gift.”
I was so focused on the words jumping off my computer screen I had almost forgotten I was on the phone with a client.
Are you fucking KIDDING me, they read. YOU PROMISED ME ANOTHER YEAR. I don’t even know what to say to you, InHerHazelEyes. This is beyond unprofessional.
While I listened to the remainder of this call, the author of this lovely e-mail tried repeatedly to call my office line. NOT HAPPENING, I thought. The last thing I wanted to do was to discuss my resignation with her over the phone while she was in the midst of one of her of psychotic episodes. It was like trying to reason with a rapid dog gnawing on your arm.
As I sat at my desk in the garment district, my all white desk accented by a single pink organizer, I looked around at the place in which I had spent the past three years. The office’s desks, chairs and walls were all white. Nothing was to be under the desks, on or around the desks or on the walls. Place a picture of your dead grandmother next to your computer and get your head whacked for the unidentified object cluttering up the aesthetic of the room.
During my second year there, a girl who lasted no longer than 3 weeks at the agency carried in a box of items to put up on her desk, apparently unaware of the fact that the rest of the office looked like an alien operating room. She spent one entire afternoon unpacking this box which included photo albums, picture frames, stuffed animals, colored pens and pencils and one large ceramic muffin. And I will repeat, one large ceramic muffin. She had apparently mistaken her new job at a PR firm for that of the head office at The Babysitters Club. It immediately became a joke among the rest of the adult employees who spent time finding reasons to walk by her desk to see what new objects they could spot.
I think I just saw a stuffed dolphin next to her mouse.
Does that pen have tassels hanging from it?!
She’s got animal magnets. SWEET LORD, I think one winked at me!
Unfortunately, her and her magical treasure chest of sparkles were kindly shooed out the door shortly thereafter. I would have liked to have had more time to examine the origins of that ceramic muffin.
That afternoon as I sat on the phone, interns ran back and forth carrying pieces of clothing in and out of the showroom. A few girls stood at one desk discussing gift bags for an event. Liz’s glass office sat at the very end of our row of desks. This allowed her to walk up and down the floor at will and resulted in our nicknaming the space ‘The Runway’. My desk was positioned directly at the other end of the runway allowing me the ability to see her coming.
The partitions between our desks sported tiny holes in them which actually allowed me to see her charging forward without standing up. Pressing my face against the wall while squinting one eye might have looked crazy if everyone else wasn’t doing it too. It was like looking thru the peephole in your apartment to see if it was your mom or a serial killer. Personally, I would silently lock the top lock at the sight of either.
As a woman, Liz, who was one of two partners, stood no taller than I. At 45, she was small but didn’t seem to know it. She often sashayed into our 36th Street office in skin tight leather pants and purses that were worth more than my apartment. For her age? She didn’t look bad. She was usually well put together. And if she wasn’t, like the time she crossed the line by attempting to pull off a plaid skirt she obviously swiped from an Upper East Side middle schooler, she didn’t care. Her eyes reflected an intensity you rarely see in most people. Her demeanor equally intense. She was one of the first women I’ve known who demonstrated a complete fearlessness towards the world around her. If she had something to say, she was going to say it. And typically about 4 inches from your face.
Liz’s ability to be overtly direct and highly driven had resulted in the rise of a well-known, highly respected PR firm based in the fashion and entertainment industries. It had grown to three offices and from the outside looking in, any girl would KILL for your job. Only problem is, from the inside looking out, the ankle chain cutting up your leg and chaining you to your desk tended to get a little itchy. Also, you haven’t eaten in three weeks and having a cigarette crouched behind a UPS truck on the street doesn’t count. Shit, did she see us??
When I first moved to the city in 2007, I thought this was my dream job, and at the time it was. I was introduced to a world I hadn’t known existed. I was a sheltered Connecticut kid. This world of black dresses and high heels, celebrities and champagne, night clubs and expensive dinners was new. I was given the opportunity to network in an industry of people who seemed to make New York City turn. I was young and the glitter of the industry pulled me right in.
Along with parties and openings came work. Work in the morning. Work at night. Work in my dreams and more often my nightmares. Anyone who thinks publicists have it easy couldn’t be more wrong. They are typically functioning on no sleep, working on three clients too many and getting paid half of what they deserve. When you leave your office at 6pm their days are just beginning. If I left that office before 9pm any night of the week, it was a miracle. Or it more likely meant I would be there until 11pm the following night.
If I wasn’t at work, I was looking at my BlackBerry. Looking at the 3, 4, 6, 12 e-mails that piled in every 15 minutes. Did she just e-mail me 7 times? Did she just ask me to call her at 5am? No I am NOT reading you the Post over the phone. It was almost impossible to keep up. It was like a nervous tick that you developed over time. Check e-mail. Check e-mail. Check e-mail. I probably started to look like an actual crack addict to those around me while I twitched my way around New York dizzy from lack of sleep.
When I started there, I heard all the stories.
Have you spoken to “S” in L.A. yet? Did you hear about the time she threw a shoe at someone? Or the time she fired our receptionist over the phone? How about when she had her assistant stealing menus from restaurants for her book? Or when she called Liz the Pillsbury Doughboy?
S was the company’s other partner. She made Liz look like a tiny kitten in a sparkly tutu. If you thought Liz was direct, S was not only direct but also flat out mean… “fucking” being one of her preferred adjectives. One of the first phone conversations I ever had with her entailed her asking me where the prior receptionist was and then announcing that, “Liz must have been on drugs the day she hired that girl so I hope you’re better than she was. She answered the phone like a fucking grave digger.” This was followed shortly after by her being so kind as to let me know that “this company is not a fucking bank. I am not a fucking bank. Watch how you use UPS.” Alright, thanks for that lovely and absolutely necessary tirade. I’ll be sure to ride my bicycle to LA next time I have a package to deliver to save you 20 cents.
When you’re 23 and don’t have much figured out, this lifestyle seems like a gift. You’re constantly meeting new people, most of them your age and you get to do so in places you wouldn’t normally have access to or could afford without your job. You learn who’s who in the city, who can help you and then New York starts to seem a lot smaller, not so overwhelming. You embrace the stress like it’s a privilege. Like it’s a privilege to be barked at daily, to live with a perpetual knot in your stomach, to be told you need to do more, more, more. This is how entertainment PR is run. If you are fired or quit, there are ten more 22 year old girls waiting for your spot, thinking it’s what they want. Ten more fools lining up to be slaughtered.
There are many things I learned within the confinement of those office walls. First was not to include semi colons, the words ‘fashion forward’ or ‘objectives’ in a deck you were creating for S. As she told one of my close friends, “I don’t ever want to see a fucking objectives page in a deck you send me. And ‘fashion forward?’ What does THAT mean.. that’s not even a fucking word.” And let’s hope you wrote down these corrections with one of the company’s trademark orange pens and not a black marker. Use a black marker on anything going out of that office and take the chance of having her actually assault you. Her 1990s style wedge sandals and all.
Second, don’t ever leave a message on behalf of Liz or S unless you want to be publicly humiliated. A few months before I quit, one of the interns (she wasn’t too bright to begin with) called a director for Liz and left an unnecessary message to call her back. This resulted in Liz walking over, tapping on her head and asking the poor girl if she had anything in there. She was then promptly told to “get the fuck out” while the rest of the agency watched. Pretty sure the girl burst into tears right there on the spot.
Third, use your gender to your advantage. While I was completely turned off the first time Liz told me to flirt a little with a client to push him on something, there was a very tiny bit of usable knowledge in that incredibly distasteful and inappropriate statement. No, don’t go on dates with clients. No, don’t sleep around to get what you want. But you’re a girl and you have access to some great things. Make use of it. Don’t be afraid to make your presence known. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you want. If people want to assume you’re some ditsy girl in a cute outfit, let them.
Now these may seem like silly lessons but you learned very quickly what you could handle. After a few years there, people couldn’t intimidate me. I’d put up with being yelled at and harassed by the best of them. I’d made it a point where I could fight back when I needed to in order to prove my worth and confidence. As a result, I could walk into interviews knowing I could handle whatever they threw at me. Literally or metaphorically. Words or objects.
My years there have created an effect much like Stockholm syndrome. I have become grateful to my captors. Don’t get me wrong, I would move to Alaska and bury myself in a ditch before ever working there again BUT, I wouldn’t take that time back. I couldn’t have had a better first job. I couldn’t have learned more anywhere else. I look back on it almost like a boot camp for life. I made some great friends and memories along the way.
Spending 12 hours days around people is a fitting way to make close friends. Two of the girls I worked with remain some of my closest friends today partly as a result of our sorority/cult like experience there. It was like coming home from a war still intact and with stories to tell.
The final straw for me was a fashion client who, despite all our advice, was insistent on planning an event around Thanksgiving week. If you know anything about PR, you know the media are not around on holidays. And the last thing they want to do the day before Thanksgiving is go to another event after spending the fall going to about 3,208 of them. If you’re a publicist, this perfect little storm creates a scenario in which you are on the phone begging reporters to come to your event.
I’ll give you a gift card. No? A free dinner? A car? A house? A new born baby? PLEASE JESUS CHRIST, JUST COME!
I remember the conference call that sent me over the edge like it was yesterday.
Agency: We need a good celebrity presence if this event is going to work. And we need someone who is younger to hit your demographic but within your budget range. Let’s pull up the recommendations we shared with you yesterday.
Client: We haven’t looked at that yet. We don’t know how to read. What about Justin Bieber? Where is Justin Bieber? Can somebody locate Justin Bieber?
Agency: You cannot afford him and he’s most likely not working in New York the day before Thanksgiving. Please pull up the e-mail we sent you yesterday.
Client: What? What is “e-mail?” Justin Bieber? PLEASE LOCATE JUSTIN BIEBER. PLEASE LOCATE JUSTIN BIEBER. J-BIEBS! J-BIEBS! J-BIEBS!
It was like talking to gang of Justin Bieber-obsessed parrots. No matter what advice we gave, they just repeated themselves over and over and over. One day I long to be a client so I can throw my brain into the ocean, never to be seen again. I actually laid my head on the desk and began to hope our office building might spontaneously collapse at that very moment. If the windows of the office had been open that day, I very well may have jumped to my death.
Almost 3 years later, I can think of these memories and laugh. Because of therapy and medication, I no longer shudder when e-mails pop up on my computer screen. I can wake up in the morning and breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have 4 events that week. I can leave work at a normal hour and not spend the evening talking to people I don’t particularly like. And most importantly, I DON’T HAVE TO DISCUSS JUSTIN BIEBER WITH CLIENTS. This is a gift more valuable to me than money or jewels or gold. Justin Bieber doesn’t cross my daily path, and I don’t cross his. We now have an understanding.
“The iPhone 2 led to the 3, but I didn’t get the 4 or the 5 because I’m holding out for the 7, which, I’ve heard on good authority, can also be used as a Taser. This will mean I’ve got one less thing to carry around. And isn’t that technology’s job? To lighten our burden? To broaden our horizons? To make it possible to talk to your attorney and listen to a Styx album and check the obituaries in the town where your parents continue to live and videotape a race riot and send a text message and stun someone into submission all at the same time?”—David Sedaris
Perhaps out of boredom, my roommate and I have have taken much pleasure in nominating several of our male friends for The Bachelorette over the past several years without their knowledge. Last season, we nominated a good friend and were actually contacted by one of the producers to see if she could interview him for a possible spot on the show. Annoyingly, he refused despite our best efforts to drug and carry him to the interview and we have been on the search for a new candidate ever since.
Last night over drinks we convinced one of my college friends to take the questionnaire the show’s producer shared with us so we could send it to her with his photo. He shared his responses with us this morning and I think it’s safe to say he will not be chosen for next season’s filming….
What are your hobbies? Winning.
What is a unique talent of which you are most proud? It involves a woman, one bucket of ice, a lemon and a 9-iron. I will discuss more later.
Why are you America’s most eligible bachelor? Because I killed my last wife.
Nicknames? The terminator.
What is the most important part of a relationship to you? Control.
If you could compare yourself to one animal, what would it be? A liger, of course. A lion/tiger half-breed.
"Um… guys?," whispered Ashley from behind the dressing room door. "Guys? GUYS!," she said a few seconds later a little more urgently.
WHAT?, I thought to myself. What could be more important than this pair of blue and white heinous pair of American Eagle surfing shorts I am trying on at this very moment? I want them. I need them. I LOVE them. YOU ARE INTERRUPTING OUR LOVE AFFAIR.
“Oh… god,” I heard Johanna moan as I slowly pushed open my door to see what the problem was. Peering around the corner my eyes immediately locked onto an expanding red puddle of liquid on the floor visible from inside Ashley’s dressing room.
To preface this unfolding situation, I will let you in on a fact most who know me today wouldn’t guess… at the age of 15, I was a complete degenerate. An innocent looking, well-dressed degenerate. If I had grown up in California and 10 years later, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have been a valued member of the Bling Ring. And I would have enjoyed it.
At the age of 29, I don’t do drugs (for the most part), I don’t drive drunk and I don’t steal. The fear of the sheer embarrassment of ever being arrested keeps me from even thinking about doing something I’m not supposed to these days. I’ll leave the mug shots to Lindsay Lohan and Amanda Bynes… who I have formed an unhealthy interest in lately. Is she crazy? Is she not? Who is allowing her access to that blue eye shadow? SO MANY QUESTIONS.
At the age of 15, consequences didn’t exist in my mind. Is this person too drunk to drive? Well, he’s puking out the window but I’ll be fine. Do I have the money to buy this black mini dress? Nope but I want it and I’m going to take it anyway. Do I know what this little blue pill is going to do? No idea but give it to me. I had no fear of the repercussions for my actions. In my underdeveloped brain, nothing bad had ever happened and nothing bad ever could. To be quite honest, I’m lucky I didn’t get into more trouble than I did as a teenager given some of the incredibly stupid decisions I made at the time. My choices did result in one 8th grade suspension, one freshman year arrest, one lifetime ban from a Connecticut Filene’s (which I am more than ok with) and many nights vomiting in or around the line of trees growing along my parents’ front lawn. Memories, people, memories.
So back to this American Eagle dressing room scene. Now that you know a little more about my fifteen year old self, it is safe to assume I was about to place those lovely shorts into my bag and stroll out of that store. You can also assume my friends were aware of what I was about to do and that they were also eyeing merchandise to pilfer. There’s only one thing better than a single thieving degenerate and that’s THREE!
As the red liquid pooling on the floor continued to grow in size, I walked towards the room. This idiot broke an ink tag, I thought to myself. How is she going to talk her way out of this one?
“Oh my god,” repeated Johanna as I pushed open the room’s door. There stood Ashley, eyes like saucers, shirt in hand, with this red liquid dripping down her arm.
As I got closed I realized it was not ink on the floor, and not only was it not ink but that Ashley was bleeding profusely from her hand.
"WHAT HAPPENED??," I said.
"I, I, I just, I don’t know, I reached in my bag to get something to break off the sensor and I cut myself," whispered Ashley. "I don’t know what to do, oh my god, what do we do?," she said as she wrapped her hand in an American Eagle polo.
"You need stitches," said Johanna. "You can’t walk out of here like that! We have to tell someone!"
"I can’t get in trouble. My mom will MURDER me. Tell them I cut myself by accident. Oh my god… oh my god!"
As Ashley continued to bleed, Johanna and I looked at each other and realized one of us had to go tell a store employee that our friend was in the midst of staging a murder scene in their dressing room before she started bleeding into the actual store. I’ve worked in retail before and one thing I can assume most customers never appreciate? Puddles of blood.
"Ok, OK, I’ll go get someone. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine," I said to Ashley. Jesus Christ, you have to be KIDDING, I said to myself.
"Excuse me, miss? Um.. I think my friend just cut herself in your dressing room, err I think she might need to go to the hospital…," I trailed off.
"What?," she stared back at me.
"My friend, she’s bleeding, I think she cut herself." I pointed to the dressing room.
As the sales woman followed me to the back of the store, I almost started laughing at the ridiculousness of the scene. Ashley now sat on the floor, hand wrapped in a new blood spattered version of their classic signature tee.
"Miss, I’m going to call an ambulance," said the sales woman upon examining the situation. "Just stay there, don’t move." Johanna and I made eye contact at this moment and began snickering a bit.
"THIS ISN’T FUNNY," wailed Ashley. This only served to encourage us and our snickers increased to clearly audible laughter.
"If you tell anyone about this I’ll kill you both. Seriously. NO ONE CAN KNOW ABOUT THIS. PROMISE ME!"
"Uh huhh… sure," we both promised in between fits of laughter.
For some unknown reason I cannot recall, Johanna and I drove her car to the hospital instead of going in the ambulance with Ashley. Not only did we laugh the entire way there, we continued laughing all the way to the emergency waiting room.
While sick patients walked by, parents waited with worrisome faces, we sat together sharing fits of giggles like two morons. Looking back now, the level of immaturity I was capable of achieving at fifteen is almost impressive.
After about 30 minutes, an orderly strolled out from behind the ER’s doors to ask us if we wanted to go back and see Ashley. Of course we did. And of course we continued laughing. We laughed from the waiting room to the hall and right into Ashley’s room.
The doctor who was assigned to her was still hovering over her hand and finishing up the last of her stitches. Ashley grimaced and gave us both dirty looks as we smiled back at her.
"Good job… Great job, buddy," I said. "Seriously, shut up!," snapped Ashley, followed by an unnecessarily harsh look from the doctor.
Johanna and I looked around the room for a few minutes while still cackling like retarded children as the doctor finished up. When she was done she asked us to wait outside while she gave Ashley directions for follow up.
It was only in the car ride home we were informed that in addition to giving her follow up directions, the doctor had shared a tidbit of wisdom with Ashley.
"You are who you surround yourself with," the woman had said to her. "And those two may not be the best choice."
My response? Laughter of course. Would you expect anything less?
Despite our monumental immaturity, we didn’t tell anyone. No one at school other than Ashley’s sister found out and only the three of us alone continue to mock her about it today.
Personally, I still laugh at most things inappropriately. And I don’t think it’s a sign of immaturity anymore but more a sign of my unique sense of humor. At least that’s what I tell myself anyway.
“It’s the way people try not to change that’s unnatural. The way we cling to what things were instead of letting things be what they are. The way we cling to old memories instead of forming new ones. The way we insist on believing despite every scientific indication that anything in this lifetime is permanent. Change is constant. How we experience change that’s up to us. It can feel like death or it can feel like a second chance at life. If we open our fingers, loosen our grips, go with it, it can feel like pure adrenaline. Like at any moment we can have another chance at life. Like at any moment, we can be born all over again.”—Meredith Grey