Putting things into perspective.

Sometimes when life really gets you down, the easiest way to start to feel up again is to put your own woes and miseries into perspective. It's hard to complain about the lack of a parking space when you remind yourself, in a moment of somber reflection, that there are people in this world who unclog toilets for a living.

The other day, I arrived at work at six a.m., only to be sent out again at nine on an emergency grocery run. Nine o'clock is, of course, when every other car is just driving into the claustrophobic parking structure, while I was trying to get out. Since two vehicles can never round a corner at the same time, I only finally managed to scrape through, literally, by gauging the side of my three-month-old Toyota against the cement wall. (As my friend Mike once accurately determined, hell is most definitely a parking garage.)

Once in the grocery store, a search for large, unsalted, hard pretzels, toffee-coated pralines, Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper, and Slim Jims ensued, which meant only one thing: the boss was in town. I once purchased a single pack of gum on the company dime during one of these excursions only to have to cough up the ninety-five cents in a large public display of my powerlessness. But three boxes of pretzels no one else will eat, twelve dollar pralines, and a twenty-four can set of nasty ass cola for a one-day only appearance is, apparently, fine-d-dandy.

I return to the office to an accusing chorus of "Where were you?" Everyone's in on this one, but by the time I remind them I'd been there since six, two hours before anyone else might I add, they've all lost interest. I become known as the office slacker.

"What were you doing last night?" Jill asks me, after I let loose a particularly jaw-popping yawn.

"I was here."

"Sure."

"Until ten." I point to Jarvis, the other production assistant. "We both were."

Jarvis thinks he is funny, but isn't. So when I say, "And then I was sleeping," he jumps in with "Around!" and proceeds to explain why his joke is so hysterical. It has to do with the comic timing and the play on words.

Jarvis is an asshole. But I don't tell him this. Instead I think about the fact that I could have been a caveman. Now that would have sucked. Can you imagine? An entire existence based on just trying to freaking survive. All you do is hunt and try not to get mauled by a woolly mammoth or clobbered with a large wooden club wielded by a hairy guy named "Ug," who likes to say things like "Ug Ug Hoo Ug Ug." And you can't even tell him what a loser he is because you're a caveman too, and all you can say is "Ug ug hoo ug," right back.

Jill is reading over the receipt. "Where are the pralines?"

I look over her shoulder and point. "Right there. Above gingersnaps."

"No," she says, putting one hand on her hip so I understand the seriousness of the situation. "Where are the pralines?" I follow her eyes down to the bags.

Fuck.

Sometimes the grocery store feels like a second home to me. My first being, of course, the office, which probably explains why, lately, I've been so down on LA. In my first home, I am office wench; in my second, I am service boy. Or girl. I am not especially great at either, and am told so often. My true talents lie in a job I will not be qualified for for at least another seven years. Apparently, making coffee and photocopies for that amount of time is the only suitable preparation for a career in writing. My third home is a fairly decent apartment I hardly ever see and pay for, but only just, by home number one.

Forty-five minutes later, I return with pralines and a monster headache, roughly the size of Jill's ego. I settle into my daily activities, which, being utterly mindless, allow me to contemplate the existence of slugs and how much it must suck to be one. To be just two solid inches of slime, and that's it. I could have been born a slug. I could have lived as a blob of goo and died as a smear on the pavement. And as I sit at my desk “looking up stuff on the internet,” the entire span of my hypothetical, meaningless slug life spreads before my eyes. Day one, I am born. Day two through nine-hundred and eighteen, I just sort of hang out, maybe move a couple inches now and again, just for the heck of it. Day nine-hundred and nineteen, I find a rotting apple core on the side of the road; this is the highlight of my existence. Day nine-hundred twenty, some eight-year-old nose-picker steps on me on his way home from school. My final moments are just a blur: me, dying on the pavement, while Nose-Picker scrapes his shoe against the curb. He points one germ-filled finger in my direction and says, "Eewy." As if it’s my fault my innards are all over his foot.

I can’t even tell you how glad I am not to be a slug.

"What are you so happy about?" Jill wants to know. In our office, happiness cannot be trusted.

"Just happy."

She gives me a look. The look. Then, "Don't forget ink cartridges."

"I didn't," I say, pointing to my computer as proof. I am ordering office supplies from staples.com. It is thrilling. My parents and college professors would be proud.

Any existence in which being bludgeoned is, like, a real concern I think deserves to win some sort of pity prize. Lately, I think I’ve been taking my lack of bludgeoning for granted, and that stops now. Because even though the boss would like our refrigerator door to open in the opposite direction, and I am charged with removing the door, switching the hinges to the opposite side, and reattaching it back to the frame, I can go through my day soothed by the realization that I will not be challenged to a duel, or contracted into mercenary work, or impaled by a jousting lance while riding a horse named Goldenfire.

Four hours later, Jill looks over my handiwork, then tells me I smile weird, and I should stop. This is because if she doesn't say something mean once every four minutes, her central nervous system will spontaneously combust. But I'm over it. I could have been a beetle 'got run over by a motorbike. 'Nuff said.

In some ways, my day continued to go south, but with my new life perspective in place, nothing seemed nearly as bad as the plausible alternatives: I could have been a tire swing; I could have married King Henry VIII; I could have been a concubine. Worst yet, I could have been a prisoner during the Roman Empire, forced to battle a lion in an open-air arena with my bare hands. I don't know about you, but in a fight between me and a lion, I will lose. It's just a fact I've come to accept. I once took an online quiz that assured me I could "take" thirty fifth graders, but a lion is a whole 'nother story. In fact I'm willing to bet one lion could take thirty of me. The beauty is, I'll never know for sure.

---

ADDENDUM: More about slugs and why I'm glad I'm not one...

"Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs. Once a slug has located a mate they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruding genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground or under the cover of objects such as fallen logs.

A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation, when one or both of the slugs chews off the other's penis. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to participate in mating subsequently, but only using the female parts of its reproductive system."

--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slugs

Countdown to 24.

In six minutes, I will be twenty-four. There are a lot of things I meant to accomplish before becoming 24, and now I'm really feeling the crunch. Can I publish a well-respected novel in less than six minutes? Uh oh. Five now. Dammit.

Here are some of the other things I've yet to do, which, by the way, I'd definitely planned to accomplish before this very day.

1. Become an international pop sensation.
2. Stop a forest fire (I may actually have done this, but I'll probably never know).
3. Fall in love in the requited sense. Yes, yes, I know. Sad, sad...
4. Hold down one job that made me feel truly important for more than one year.
5. Hold down one job that made me feel truly important for more than one day.
6. Learn to blow smoke rings.
7. Tear down the house with my karaoke stylings.
8. Score a date at the grocery store.
9. Streak. It's definitely too late now.
10. Cease getting pimples.
11. Appreciate red wine.
12. Skate backwards with speed and agility, but without fear of death.
13. Fully understand my car's internal combustion engine.
14. Sustain a relationship for longer than five months.
15. Learn to play guitar. Perform at an open mic night.
16. Incorporate words like "bollocks" and "cheeky" into my everyday vernacular.
17. Brave a Brazilian wax.
18. Cook a gourmet dinner (without getting seriously flummoxed and threatening to burn the house down).
19. Invent a new word, publish it three times, and call it a day.
20. Use a chainsaw. Saw stuff in half.
21. Correctly apply make-up to face.
22. Grow four more inches.
23. Successfully swim the butterfly stroke from one end of pool to other without looking like a dying seal.
24. Genuinely and whole-heartedly love Shakespeare.
25. Master an English accent. Convince total strangers I am British.
26. Have my shit, like, all of it, together.

It's now 12:34 AM, countdown is over, and it's time for bed. Goodbye early twenties and hello mids...

I hate everything about you, no offense.

"No offense" is the weirdest saying there is. Ever notice how it's always preceded by something incredibly mean or insensitive, but then the magic phrase comes around and you're, like, not allowed to be mad? In fact, if you do get mad, the other person will probably come back with, "Hey, I said no offense." Yes, but you also said I was an immature ugly-face. I chose to pay attention to that part of the sentence.

Next time someone tells you "no offense," remind them that two little words can't erase a sentence-full of meaning.




BE AWARE: Even if someone says "no offense,"
they still ARE offending you.


No offense is much like the expression "just kidding." This is another magic phrase that makes it your fault if your feelings get hurt because you can't take a joke. But "just kidding" actually means "and by the way, this is what I really think of you."

While just kidding allows you to mask your true feelings in the guise of a bad joke, this type of deceit is ultimately harmful. Here's an example:

-Do you think we should break up?
-Yes. I feel stifled. You're unbelievably controlling and a terrible lay. Just kidding.
-Haha. For a second there I thought you were serious.
-I was. (pause) Just kidding! Gotcha again!
-Oh Eddie!
-Oh Babette!
They smooch. (Seems nice, doesn't it? But just wait.)

Fifteen Years Later:

-I want a divorce.
-We can't get a divorce! We have two kids and a dog and a split-level house in the suburbs.
-I've wanted to break up with you since 1994.
-You always said you were kidding about that.
-It was just a line, Babette. Like, "Nothing would make me happier." When I say "nothing would make me happier," I am also lying.
-Oh I get it. So you actually hate visiting my parents?
-Yes.
-And taking me to the movie theater?
-Yes. But only because you always have to get up to pee, and then when you come back, you make me tell you what happened while you were gone, and then I always miss something pivotal, and it ruins the whole film.
-Eddie, why are you doing this? Just give me one reason.
-Don't take this personally, but I hate you in every way.
-No, I mean, why couldn't you have done this ten years ago when I was still cute and un-cynical? Now we're both forty pounds overweight and we have baggage and a mortgage. You prick! Why did you say "just kidding" all those years ago?
-I don't know. I was a spineless coward, I guess.
-No kidding. (pause) Haha.
-Haha.
-Maybe we should just stay together and be miserable. What's fifteen more years?
-Nothing would make me happier.


On the other hand, sometimes it's fun to tell someone it is personal even when it isn't:

-Do you know what time Billy's coming over?
-No, he didn't call me back yet.
-Oh.
-What?
-What? Nothing. Just... it's probably personal.

This is REAL! This is NOT a trick! Read on!!!!

Dear Danielle,

Your friendship means so much to me, and I do not say it nearly enough.

A friendship is like a beautiful flower that blooms both day and night,
And the sun above, showering us with love, and also heat and light,
Your friendship is like all these things from which I could not part,
Even though I forget you most of the time, you're always in my heart.

Pass this letter on to twenty of your closest friends in the next hour, including the person who sent it to you, and in one week, your heart's deepest desires will come true. (This really works! My friend did it and it changed her life!!)

If you send this letter to all your friends in the next hour, the love of your life will ask you out tomorrow and you will receive ten thousand dollars on your doorstep in the coming week.

If you don’t send this to twenty people in the next hour you will die an excruciating death and harm will befall everyone you care about. You will also never be loved by anyone and will never get married, or if you are already married, you will immediately get a divorce, and your worst enemy will be the one to end up with your true love. You will also lose all of your money and get run over by a car and then a dog will bite you on your face (leading to an infected wound, and later, your aforementioned excruciating death).

A woman in San Diego once sent this letter to thirty of her closest friends within forty-five minutes and in two days she was promoted from secretary to CEO of the company she worked for! Within three months she also met and married the man of her dreams!!

A man in Wesley, MA ignored this letter completely. Now he's dead. And handicapped.

Please pass this on to twenty of your friends and let them know how much they mean to you!!!!!!!!!!

Love your friend forever,
Michelle

P.S. Remember! If you don't send this you could die!

My trip to CVS...

Today I bought my first pack of condoms. I don't know quite what this means; if anything, it may simply mean I no longer live on a college campus where free condoms are stashed in every possible location from the mailroom to every bathroom stall in a five mile radius. If I were on a college campus and somehow wound up stuck in a broom closet in the basement of some abandoned dormitory dining hall from the 1930s and suddenly found need for a condom, I'm pretty sure I'd still be in luck. Which is a wonderful thing. On TV whenever people do it in a broom closet, it looks really hot and sexy and not at all like everything around them is intensely dirty and smells like disinfectant. But now I live in Los Angeles, and I have a job. And when I go to the bathroom, I don't find thirty varieties of condoms stuck in an envelope on the back side of the door with a note that says, "Please take one."

So maybe what this purchase means is that I'm in the real world. And in the real world, you have to pay for all your shit.

Anyway, around 1 pm today, I went to CVS, determined and ready to make a purchase. I found the family planning aisle with ease and then stood there, face to face with the prophylactics, awed by the sheer number of possibilities, brands, and styles to choose from. I couldn't decide between lubricated or non, ribbed or regular, intense female pleasure design or standard pleasure design, ultra thin (this scared me... does that mean they break easily?) or regular thickness, never mind the fact that three different brand names all boasted being America's number 1 condom. I am plagued with indecision in general, a problem always exacerbated when making a decision that will affect someone else as well. And condom selection - let's hope - is just that type of decision.

But there was something else that gave me pause. I started to worry, while standing in that aisle between the yeast infection cream and home pregnancy tests, about how my primary goal in having sex seemed to be avoiding pregnancy and disease. For a moment it seemed as if having some fun along the way would be an added bonus, but mostly I was just trying to stave off Preggaritis. Frozen with indecision and a loss of determination, I phoned a friend for some advice. "Lubricated," she said. "Definitely lubricated."

I returned home with a conservatively-sized box of three, still hesitant to make any sort of long-term commitment to any one brand or style. I promptly put my new condoms in my sock drawer -- where I suppose all contraceptives not currently in use and not belonging to a college or university rightfully belong -- and there they will stay until the right situation presents itself. After which, I'm definitely gonna go for the ribbed. Or ultra-ribbed. Or heat-activated something or other. Or, you know, whatever's on sale.

cross country, day 4: what happened on day 4.

It occurs to my friend Luke that I haven't written about days 4-10 yet. He tells me this Sunday morning when I am trying to sleep because it is only 8:30 am here on the West Coast - an ungodly time for anyone to call. I do not care that it is already 11:30 in Connecticut. It's friggin dinner time in China, but I'm not about to accept calls from Beijing.





<-- Beijing








Here's the point. Luke calls to say, "Hey, Lijah. I was reading your blog" -- really??? -- "and you didn't finish."

"What? What are you talking about?" I am in the process of simultaneously recovering from the shock of being woken up and recovering from the shock of the fact that my friend Luke has actually read my blog. I am in all sorts of shock.

"What happens on day four?" he asks, rather demandingly to be honest.

"Luke, I'm sleeping."

"No, you're not."

"Well I was, and I would be if you hadn't called."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda."

"Stop watching Sex in the City," I tell him. This is why he has no guy friends to hang out with. This is why he is calling me so frigging early in the morning. This is the root evil of all his (and my) problems. "Make friends and go to brunch. Leave me alone."

"What happened on day four?"

"Jil and I went to the Badlands. We hiked. They were bad ass. Then we drove through South Dakota and read silly billboards. You know, they said things like, 'Wear fur. Help Manage Your Wildlife.'"



"Really."

"Really. And, um, something like, 'Every child deserves a life, even this kid with Down Syndrome,' and then it showed a giant picture of a baby with Down Syndrome. Oh and there were Prairie Dogs. Lots of them. And then we saw the world's only corn palace."

"Cooool."

"Not really. I guess. No, not really."

"Then what?"

"Then we found a hotel and went to bed."

"That was it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Talk to you later then."

"Okay," I say and am about to hang up the phone. "Wait! Don't you want to hear about day five?" I ask.

"Eh. Not really."

That's my friend Luke. He's like, I don't know, pretty cool. Not like *very* cool, but like, OK cool. You know what I mean?

Oh yeah. Luke wanted a shout out. Here goes. Whuddup, Luke! If you're reading this, you still owe me $4.13. Don't forget.





<---- Luke

2 bdroom and roommate wanted.

Hi. My name is Lijah. I just moved to Los Angeles from the East Coast, and I am looking for a two bedroom apartment and a person to live in the other bedroom. I am a writer/ns/responsible/clean/college grad/female. If this sounds like something you might be interested in, please take a look at the true/false exam below.

Roommate True or False Exam: Please mark true or false next to each of the statements below. Be honest; you are being actively judged.

1. I smoke.
2. I do drugs.
3. I never do my dishes. Generally I am a messy, messy person. It's gross.
4. I have never used a vacuum willingly.
5. Sometimes I don't feel like paying rent. I have bad credit.
6. I'm not very intelligent. You can tell because I leave the stove on all the time, and sometimes I forget to lock the door.
7. I can get upset easily. I like to ask people, "Are you mad at me?" even though they have no reason to be mad at me.
8. I can tell the difference between genuine Gucci and fake Gucci from a mile away. I care.
9. Music sucks.
10. Except for Enrique Iglesias.
11. Sometimes I like to have deafeningly loud sex parties. (And you will never be invited.)
12. I cannot take a joke.
13. Actually, I am no fun at all.
14. I will never talk to you ever. I am afraid of people.
15. Just kidding. I need to hang out ALL the time.
16. I think homophobia is awesome. Racism is pretty rad too. Recycling is for sissies.
17. I can correctly identify Iraq on a map of the United States.
18. My previous roommate thought I was cursed. May she rest in peace.

Congratulations. You are done with the exam. Please send your answers via email to hous-430139459@craigslist.org. Thanks!