Ethnically Challenged

Although names and settings have been changed to protect the innocent, I was privately entertained by the following--while shamelessly eavesdropping and people watching...

EXT. GARDEN - LOS ANGELES - MORNING

Golden sunlight streams down in rays upon a group of three girls chatting. They're seated Indian-style in a garden pulling weeds and planting flowers; however, based on their trendy apparel, meticulously kept hair, and designer sunglasses, it's apparent that gardening is not part of their normal routine.

CAMERA PANS RIGHT

Also seated Indian-style in the grass, a slender, attractive Asian female, CHRISTI, sits alone near the three girls with a trowel unearthing unusually large dandy lions. Although alone, she seems perfectly content and enjoying her labor.

The rays of sunshine spotlight ELAINE, one of the three chatty girls, who is telling her counterparts about her latest day at work--interactions with her boss, her coworkers, the office itself, etc.

ELAINE
Yeah, so he came over to me and we
were talking about random stuff, and
then he started telling me about his
plans for the evening. He didn't
directly invite me at first, but it was
like totally obvious that he was testing
the waters, seeing if I would even be
interested. So...I had never been to that
bar before...

One of Elaine's COUNTERPARTs stops her in mid sentence.

COUNTERPART
So was he hot?

ELAINE
(pausing for effect)
He's Asian.

Christi looks up from her dandy lion, pauses, narrows her eyes, and then resumes weeding.


Despite the fact that random office boy's "Asian" description didn't answer the Counterpart's question, the conversation continued without further inquisition--and with literally no regard for the Asian girl seated directly behind the group. Office boy was ruled out without any further description.

Note to self--If you're dating an Asian guy, apparently it's common knowledge that he's unattractive. Your first descriptive adjective while talking to friends should not be "Asian."

*DISCLAIMER*
I dated an Asian--and DO NOT agree. Boo to "Elaine" and her like-minded people.

Hanger Mayhem

Today I have to go back to Old Navy.

I know, you're thinking this can't be painful. The thing is--I was just there, and already had to go back to Target last week. Why do I have to go back to these places you ask? Well, it really all boils down to a hanger and a disturbing trend that's infiltrating retail across the country.

Friday I bought a shirt. It's a really cute shirt and it would look fabulous on me--if it fit. I know, I know..."Why didn't you try it on?" This forces me to go in to my personal shopping habits, which could be an entirely seperate blog in itself, but basically I'm a get-in-and-get-out-never-enough-time kind of shopper. I perused the store, found the shirt, convinced myself I could spend the money, grabbed the hanger that had a big yellow "S" and walked to the register before I could convince myself that it was a frivelous purchase. Then I went home, happy with my decision. Maybe five hours later as I'm getting ready to go out, I remove the tags from the shirt and put it on.

The "S" prominently featured on the hanger was just toying with me and had absolutely no relation whatsoever to the shirt that I was now wearing. I bought a large, and now had nothing to wear out.

Last week I went to Target--a store that I think I should now partially own as I can't seem to leave there without the store taking at least $50 from me. This trip I was doing well, and was only buying the toiletry items that I needed...until I got to the hosiery section and saw a sale. Let me preface this buy saying I loathe the bra/panty section of any store. My get in, get out shopping style isn't even accurate in this situation. A witness would be lucky if he or she could even see me enter and leave the section I do it so fast. The awkward stares from the mom whose little boy plays amongst the panties, clearly envying your young, single tastes, and the guy walking by on his way to pick up some socks who sees what size bra you're looking at and casually stops to check you and your twin friends out--enough to make me wear the same bra for the rest of my life. At any rate, I found a bra, liked it, grabbed the hanger prominently labeled with the correct size and headed to the cash register.

The next morning I get ready for work and decide to wear my new bra--my "48-DD" bra. Realizing I would need drastic surgery to even hope to fill this bra, I planned a trip to Target once again.

Stores didn't used to have sizes on their hangers. And was it so difficult to look for a size sticker stuck to the front of a shirt or a pair of jeans? Even worse--look on each and every label?

Sized hangers have encouraged a serious level of shopping laziness to come out in me and I don't like it. Old Navy...if you're going to make me lazy, then increase the physical size of your sizes to compensate for my obesity...at least check that those oversized articles of clothing are on the appropriate hanger. Otherwise--big boo to sized hangers.

Anti Anti-smoking

It's official. I'm tired of everyone telling me smoking is bad for me. The "Surgeon General's Warning" is pretty hard to miss, and--also official--I can read.

To the woman who cleans my offices, who noticed the distinct smell of tobacco when I returned from lunch, and who went in to a twenty minute rant about how she used to smoke and "everyone in [her] country smokes but it wasn't for [her]...," congratulations.

To my boss who yesterday started laughing as I stood outside my car because I don't want it to smell like an ash tray and said "isn't it funny that someone who smokes doesn't want their car to smell like it?" No, it's actually not at all funny. It means I bought a car, and I want to keep the interior cigarette burn free, and am a generally clean person. Just because I pollute my lungs with tar does not mean I want my clothing, furniture, and car to have an uncomfortable odor.

To the douchebag who lives in my building, came outside, told me I looked like "a girl who has it together," and then accused me of being the sole polluter of the precious 5 inch by 5 inch patch of grass outside the building where his children play--fucking take your kids to the playground. Or, better yet, save your money, find a house, get a mortgage and quit blaming me because I live on the first floor and am the only person you see consistently smoking. Even if I wanted to, there's no way I could take sole responsibility for the cigarette landfill that, because of your lack of involvement, is now the only place your kids can play.

To my friends who constantly roll their eyes and ask how many I've smoked today or when I'm going to quit or insist on giving me gum, your incessant questioning only encourages me further. Smoking is a choice just like where to eat or what to where. Several of you, and you know who you are, have chosen poorly with the aforementioned examples. My choice may be a poor one as well, but at least I dress well.

As for the restaurants and bars that have banished me to the outdoors for several years now, that's fine. I don't enjoy smoking while I'm eating either. But could you refrain from building that little smokers corral outside your establishment? Confining me to a small space with those little ropy, pedestal thingies, never providing enough room, doesn't do much to increase the likelihood of my return.

To all of you... I am anti anti-smoking and have heard enough. I know it's bad for me, I accept the fact that I'm wasting money, I'm aware of the risks and the social stigma, but I'm a happier person with cigarettes in my life. I'm not ready to quit, I don't want to quit, and boo to anyone that opposes.

I Own a Purple Shirt...

Remember your college years? Those were the years when anything seemed within reason--drinking until 4 a.m. the night before an 8 a.m. class, starting a twenty-page research paper a day and a half before it was due, pulling an all-nighter to finish said paper, getting on the greyhound website and buying a ticket to NYC for the weekend before finals, experimenting with drugs, etc. I look back fondly on those years, and when I say look back, I mean I call up my friend who I was in college with less than a year ago, and reminisce. Admittedly, these years are not far behind me, yet I find myself at what I'm going to call a flooded impass.

Let me elaborate.

Let's pretend we're standing at the base of a creek. This creek is flooded, and there is no other means to cross, besides of course, wading waist deep from bank to bank. For whatever reason--running for your life, you thought it'd be cool to be a contestant on Survivor and need food, or there's an injured party on the other side--it is imperative that you cross. While it is important that you cross, you don't really want to. So you hesitantly begin your treck, twisting your ankle on rocks as your other foot getts stuck in the suction of the muddy creek bed, and working against the tremendous weight of the water. This, although less extreme, is how I feel about my life right now.

Again--further elaboration required.

I recently took on a freelance job for an independent producer who needed something right away. Promise me wealth, promise me fame, promise me a job, promise me nothing, I will do what you ask. In this case, the job turned out to be a bit more overwhelming than anticipated. Let's skip over all the mind-numbing details and just say that I had two days to complete the job, and the last night I needed to pull an all-nighter in order to finish.

Now--brief pause. All-nighters excite me--or at least they used to. The fact that I have something so important to complete, and there's the chance that I might not complete it, gives me some sick, twisted, OCD rush.

Cue the flooded impass.

Despite my full mental commitment, my cherished coffee maker, and two "fridge paks" of Diet Coke, I was unable to remain awake for the entire evening. Around 3:45 am my body began walking itself to bed. Something must have told my body to do this, but it was not me. As if pushing against myself I tried to get back to my computer, but could not.

Elizabeth Lucas's poem, "Warning, When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple," comes to mind. I will be twenty-three years old in April, and today I am wearing a purple shirt. Two nights ago, the formerly simple task of staying up all night wasn't possible, and yesterday I woke up and legitimately did not know what day it was. Alcohol abuse takes a lot longer to recover from than it used to, and I responsibly used this years tax return to pay off all my credit card debt rather than buying something cool.

Despite my best efforts to stay on my side of the creek and my metaphorical flooded impass, I think I have begun to cross in to old age. How did this happen? Who decides? Boo to bodily limitations...

This is unacceptable, and I will fight it, likely with rampant alcohol abuse.