Right now I’m tempted to open with this:
!Estoy en Chile, Beeeetches!
However, lest I be deemed uncouth, I’ll utilize my unyielding self restraint and go with this:
Hey guys check it out—I’m in Chile!
Yeah, for real. I’m here. Three plane rides, two layovers, four meals, fifteen internet minutes, five thousand miles, and twenty-four hours later, I made it. It may have been the longest single journey of my life. It may have been strange at times. It may have kind of sucked. But it went smoothly, and I am alive and well and practically Chilean.
If anyone out there cares to visit at any point, I welcome the idea but will set forth one suggestion: do yourself a favor and spring for a non (maybe one) stop ticket. You will thank me, and yourself, later. Being the frugal cheapass that I am (thanks Dad!), when I booked my flight(s) in January, I naturally went with the least expensive. I “knew” at the time I’d probably regret it. But did I really know? No. I had no idea. I’m awfully glad it’s over, and everything was fine so I guess there’s no use lamenting.
Hey! Here are some fun facts about my flights:
1) The airport in El Salvador is really humid. It is also old, and has extremely uncomfortable seats, not ideal for sleeping on. Luckily I was able to overcome the chair thing, and in a manner not unlike McGuyver, fashioned myself a somewhat comfortable resting position with my various carryon items. I imagine I looked a lot like a rich hobo.
2) El Salvador must be a very devout place, because on all the flat screen TVs affixed to the walls played primitive music videos - scenes of hillsides and cottages accompanied by the eerie voices of children singing “Jesus, Jesus, you are king.” Don’t get me wrong, I love The Jesus, but it was just… so weird. And the creepy voices kept waking me up out of my half-sleep throughout the eight hours I was there. Yeah. Eight hours. Brutal.
3) Peru, on the other hand, has a very nice, very modern International terminal. Not a bad place to hang out if you’re bored. Contrary to my suspicions there are no armed guards, and their chairs don’t have immobile armrests, which is conducive to sleep. So props, Peru. You’re doing something right.
4) Tylenol PM is perhaps the best invention known to the modern day traveler. My arsenal included a U-shaped neck pillow with the insignia “#1 Dad!” embroidered on the front, a nice eye-mask courtesy of one Thomas O’Brien (OMG love you babe!), earplugs, and a set of impossible crossword puzzles I have since thrown away. But I think the Tylenol PM really was the deal-breaker. That stuff knocked me on my ass.
5) Seeing my name written on a small whiteboard in the hands of an eager looking shuttle driver sort of made me feel like a rock star.
Interesting stuff, no? International travel is just the best!
It was four in the morning by the time I reached my destination. I had little idea of what to expect, so you can imagine my hesitancy when I arrived at an ominous looking doorway, barricaded by two sets of locked doors. My host (an extremely amiable man named Nelson) was waiting for me, so with the touch of a button I was able to get through obstacle number one. Obstacle number two, however, wasn’t so easy. Obstacle number two was eight flights of stairs. Eight flights of stairs ain’t so bad on any given Sunday, but try it with a backpack, and three realllllly heavy suitcases (I didn’t exactly pack light). And then throw in complete darkness. It’s effing scary, and almost impossible. By floor six I was sweating, severely dehydrated, exhausted, and not entirely sure I had the right building. I was about to be terrified—
And then I saw the elevator.
They say American tourists are rude, but really we are just stupid.
Case in point: It’s winter here, and cold as a witch’s tit, and I brought one pair of jeans that I know fits me. One pair. Who does that. As I write this, I wear sweats, a long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, fuzzy socks courtesy of one Thomas O’Brien (OMG love you babe!), and still I’m freezing my ass off. It’s not that I don’t have respect for Chilean culture. I knew it would be winter when I got here. I’m just a bit of an idiot and didn’t think to go shopping beforehand.
So, there are a few things I’ll need to get under control, Spanish being one of them*, before things settle down. But I’m here, and I’m alive, and I haven’t yet had diarrhea.**
And I say that’s pretty damn good.
*I’m actually doing surprisingly well considering the fact that the last Spanish class I took was 7 years ago.
** You have no idea how happy I am about this.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
How Nice Life Would Be In A Breastless World, or Fun-bags That Aren't Fun Are Just Bags
Having boobs sort of sucks, and I wish they didn't exist.
To all the gentlemen out there reading this, I realize that your opinions may differ. Chances are you really like boobs. You might even be obsessed with them. Against your (allegedly) better judgement, I'd encourage you to open up your mind to the awesome possibility of a world without breasts.
The diatribe that will shortly follow may seem a little uncalled for, but you must believe it's not. My breast-hate is not entirely unfounded. I've been the owner of two of my own for upwards of a decade. With the exception of winning me a free drink here and here, rarely have they served me well. In fact, I'm one of a multitude of women young and old who has voluntarily reduced the size of her boobs for perfectly legit physiological reasons. My life is better for it, but wouldn't it be nice if an invasive surgery wasn't necessary at all? I wholeheartedly believe, albeit pointlessly, that a world without boobs would simply be a better place.
Looks like fun!
Think about it: If we didn't have boobs, we wouldn't need fake boobs. And if we didn't have fake boobs, we wouldn't have horrible television shows like "The Real Housewives of Orange County," now would we. This, my friends, is the point.
Third reason: Cancer. Breast cancer kills millions of women ever year, and it scares the living shit out of me. So who effing needs it?
Other miscellaneous reasons include: underboob sweat, the excessive cost of decent bras, the impossibility of removing your shirt in public without being gawked at or called a slut, and accidentally bumping into people with your boobs is embarrassing. Also, 8 lbs of useless flesh pressing against my lungs impairs my breathing. Lifting my boobs off my chest actually makes breathing easier, so that can't be good for my health.
Hopefully I'm making myself clear.
Breasts have been near the focus of our existence as a species since the very beginning. True, boobies are not strictly for oogling or feeling up. The mammary gland is actually a useful organ for those who choose to reproduce. I'm just surprised we haven't evolved beyond our need for boobs.
The other edge to this sword is of course the fact that I'm glad I have boobs. I feel it's better to be born with than born without, sort of like I feel it's better to be born American than Canadian. Or that Coke is better than Pepsi. Or that dogs are better than cats.* After 10 years I'm pretty used to the disadvantages, though I do wish buying clothes was easier for well endowed women.
I'm sure that if you have an enormous penis, you can relate.
*Way, way better.
To all the gentlemen out there reading this, I realize that your opinions may differ. Chances are you really like boobs. You might even be obsessed with them. Against your (allegedly) better judgement, I'd encourage you to open up your mind to the awesome possibility of a world without breasts.
The diatribe that will shortly follow may seem a little uncalled for, but you must believe it's not. My breast-hate is not entirely unfounded. I've been the owner of two of my own for upwards of a decade. With the exception of winning me a free drink here and here, rarely have they served me well. In fact, I'm one of a multitude of women young and old who has voluntarily reduced the size of her boobs for perfectly legit physiological reasons. My life is better for it, but wouldn't it be nice if an invasive surgery wasn't necessary at all? I wholeheartedly believe, albeit pointlessly, that a world without boobs would simply be a better place.
The first of many reasons I support a titless utopia is the issue of pain. Hate to break it to you, but boobs hurt. At least mine do. The initial growth of breasts is perhaps the most painful period of all. What turns into a veritable tumor of flesh and glands begins its existence as a little hard ball. Around age 10 these painful 'mosquito bites' make their first appearance causing unbearable tenderness and unsightly stretch marks for the next 4 to 6 years. But the pain doesn't stop there. It continues once a month for the rest of a woman's adult life, making it damn near impossible to do things most men take for granted like running, jumping, hugging, and getting punched in the chest. Breasts of the large variety can cause chronic back pain, and I've heard tit-feeding babies isn't the most comfortable thing in the world. Who's excited for bite marks and breast pumps? Ladies, I'm talking to you.
Looks like fun!Another reason for my anti-boob position is the inherent unfairness of genetic variation. Any room with people in it will house as many breast types as it will women. Some boobs are small, some boobs are large. Most are lopsided. Many are made of silicone. This wide array of breast shapes, sizes, and chemical composition is the root of a lot of self-esteem issues for a shit-ton of women. Unless your boobs are perfectly proportioned to your frame, which, let's face it rarely happens, they're either too big or too small. Now, I've only ever been on one side of the size spectrum, so I can't speak for lesser endowed girls. But I can only imagine that it's not any fun being small chested. Many women are the subject of mean comments, cruel names, and unkind gossip for either being too small, too big, or too fake. I'm not really an advocate of fake boobs, nor am I and advocate of boobs at all, but what can we expect as a society if the emphasis is so squarely placed on boobie perfection? Hundreds of thousands of women put themselves under the knife every year in the name of their tiny/sagging/lopsided breasts. Some of them are under the age of 18. This is crazy to me! Am I the only one who thinks this is crazy?
Think about it: If we didn't have boobs, we wouldn't need fake boobs. And if we didn't have fake boobs, we wouldn't have horrible television shows like "The Real Housewives of Orange County," now would we. This, my friends, is the point.
Third reason: Cancer. Breast cancer kills millions of women ever year, and it scares the living shit out of me. So who effing needs it?
Other miscellaneous reasons include: underboob sweat, the excessive cost of decent bras, the impossibility of removing your shirt in public without being gawked at or called a slut, and accidentally bumping into people with your boobs is embarrassing. Also, 8 lbs of useless flesh pressing against my lungs impairs my breathing. Lifting my boobs off my chest actually makes breathing easier, so that can't be good for my health.
Hopefully I'm making myself clear.
Breasts have been near the focus of our existence as a species since the very beginning. True, boobies are not strictly for oogling or feeling up. The mammary gland is actually a useful organ for those who choose to reproduce. I'm just surprised we haven't evolved beyond our need for boobs.
The other edge to this sword is of course the fact that I'm glad I have boobs. I feel it's better to be born with than born without, sort of like I feel it's better to be born American than Canadian. Or that Coke is better than Pepsi. Or that dogs are better than cats.* After 10 years I'm pretty used to the disadvantages, though I do wish buying clothes was easier for well endowed women.
I'm sure that if you have an enormous penis, you can relate.
*Way, way better.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Desperate: A Sadly Appropriate Word For Housewife, or Motherhood Can Wait
I like kids, for the most part.
As an employee of the local school system, I spend a lot of time with kids. I enjoy the goofy things they say, and the way they dance around living rooms babbling nonsense. I generally like their carefree demeanor, and the untainted way in which they see the world. Someday I can see myself being a mother, and a good one at that. But that doesn't mean I want to have kids any time (even remotely) soon.
That's because for the last week and half, I've been playing single-mom/nurse to my 21 year old sister who has had debilitating kidney stones. With both dad and mom out of town, Lisa got to step in as surrogate parent; a role I didn't anticipate being so completely draining. I truly empathize with my ailing sibling, because she really has been in pain. But I'm super tired of taking care of her.
A week of doing dishes, cleaning up her unending messes*, taking her to the doctor, then to the ER, then to the doctor, then doing the grocery shopping, then changing the cat litter, then walking the dog, then making every meal and picking up prescriptions has sent me straight to the same place I fear a lot of wives and mothers have been before: Desperation.
How do I know I'm desperate? Because today as I was leaving the gym, I sincerely wanted to text my dog. I thought, "I miss Tilly, she is my best friend and she understands. I wish I could text her." I know I'm desperate because I sing songs about what I'm making for lunch to an audience of two animals. I've barely showered, and only change out of pajamas in dire circumstances. Perhaps worst of all, I used a free rental at Blockbuster on "Chariots of Fire." Why I did that, I'll never know. It's a terrible movie that I turned off in order to watch back to back TLC specials on obese teenagers - which I actually morbidly enjoy.
Playing Mom to a 21 year old sister, a 4 year old terrier, and a 5 month old cat has almost no redeeming benefits. I mean, I suppose I can martyr myself in the hopes of garnering pity, but beyond that, there is nothing really in it for me. The cat is a constant, unceasing pain in the ass, the sister is high maintenance, and the dog requires more love and attention than I do. It's exhausting. And only the dog says Thank You.
As a child, you cannot possibly contemplate the extreme task of child-rearing. None of us asked to be born, but after we were, the asking never ends. We badger our parents from the moment we're conceived for nourishment, shelter, attention, entertainment, and love. When my mom used to tell me to stop bothering her because she was tired, I didn't believe her. Instead, I thought maybe she was punishing me for future crimes. Moms don't get tired, was the commonly held belief among children my age. Moms exist to serve me and and only me. Eff you, Mom for wanting to read a book without interruptions. Don't you recognize my need to dance in front of you? Why aren't you making me more macaroni and cheese? You selfish bitch.
Now I know how she felt. Good moms and dads are the superheroes of the world. Perhaps as an actual parent, as opposed to a stand-in, the barrage of requests isn't viewed as a list of chores. Perhaps having kids is rewarding.
It must be, right?
*You have no idea just how messy.
As an employee of the local school system, I spend a lot of time with kids. I enjoy the goofy things they say, and the way they dance around living rooms babbling nonsense. I generally like their carefree demeanor, and the untainted way in which they see the world. Someday I can see myself being a mother, and a good one at that. But that doesn't mean I want to have kids any time (even remotely) soon.
That's because for the last week and half, I've been playing single-mom/nurse to my 21 year old sister who has had debilitating kidney stones. With both dad and mom out of town, Lisa got to step in as surrogate parent; a role I didn't anticipate being so completely draining. I truly empathize with my ailing sibling, because she really has been in pain. But I'm super tired of taking care of her.
A week of doing dishes, cleaning up her unending messes*, taking her to the doctor, then to the ER, then to the doctor, then doing the grocery shopping, then changing the cat litter, then walking the dog, then making every meal and picking up prescriptions has sent me straight to the same place I fear a lot of wives and mothers have been before: Desperation.
How do I know I'm desperate? Because today as I was leaving the gym, I sincerely wanted to text my dog. I thought, "I miss Tilly, she is my best friend and she understands. I wish I could text her." I know I'm desperate because I sing songs about what I'm making for lunch to an audience of two animals. I've barely showered, and only change out of pajamas in dire circumstances. Perhaps worst of all, I used a free rental at Blockbuster on "Chariots of Fire." Why I did that, I'll never know. It's a terrible movie that I turned off in order to watch back to back TLC specials on obese teenagers - which I actually morbidly enjoy.
Playing Mom to a 21 year old sister, a 4 year old terrier, and a 5 month old cat has almost no redeeming benefits. I mean, I suppose I can martyr myself in the hopes of garnering pity, but beyond that, there is nothing really in it for me. The cat is a constant, unceasing pain in the ass, the sister is high maintenance, and the dog requires more love and attention than I do. It's exhausting. And only the dog says Thank You.
As a child, you cannot possibly contemplate the extreme task of child-rearing. None of us asked to be born, but after we were, the asking never ends. We badger our parents from the moment we're conceived for nourishment, shelter, attention, entertainment, and love. When my mom used to tell me to stop bothering her because she was tired, I didn't believe her. Instead, I thought maybe she was punishing me for future crimes. Moms don't get tired, was the commonly held belief among children my age. Moms exist to serve me and and only me. Eff you, Mom for wanting to read a book without interruptions. Don't you recognize my need to dance in front of you? Why aren't you making me more macaroni and cheese? You selfish bitch.
Now I know how she felt. Good moms and dads are the superheroes of the world. Perhaps as an actual parent, as opposed to a stand-in, the barrage of requests isn't viewed as a list of chores. Perhaps having kids is rewarding.
It must be, right?
*You have no idea just how messy.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Dear Bratty High School Kid, or "Your Outfit Is Stupid and So Are You"
Dear Little High School Snot-Nosed Brat Wearing Skinny Jeans and Vans,
Your outfit looks stupid. Not only is it stupid, it makes you look fat.
I'm sorry, but when I subbed for your English class today, I couldn't help but notice how inexcusably rude you were throughout the entire period. It's funny that in our modern world, where the advances of the Internet, and Wikipedia, and Books are all easily at your disposal, the simple task of watching a movie has somehow become impossible. School, if it escaped you, is a place where people go to learn things. All kinds of things. You'd really be surprised if you ever cared to put down your X-Box controller and crack open a book. Oh, I'm sorry. Books are the heavy things they give you at the library. They have words printed on them and they are made of paper.
I know it's difficult to last an entire period without the use of your iPhone, but it's not necessary to have in class. Your incessant use of technology has numbed your already undersized brain, leaving you incapable of producing a full sentence, much less a coherent thought. Granted, you've been on ADD medication since you were seven years old, but that's no excuse for shouting "WHAT?" when I called your name politely while taking roll this morning. The proper way to respond when the teacher, or substitute teacher, calls your name is to say, "Here," or "Present," audibly, but not so loud you hurt my ears or those of your peers.
Yes, I realize the movie we were assigned to watch was somewhat boring, and not something you'd chose to watch yourself. This does not matter. You are a student. That means, when you are asked to do something, like sit quietly and watch a movie for a couple of hours, you do it. You shut your ugly, pimply, dirty face, and you do it. Don't talk back to me when I ask you to be quiet. The first time when I asked you to please be quiet, I said "Please." Then, thirty seconds later, when you decided my request wasn't worth paying attention to, I told you to shut up. I find it quite entertaining that my use of the phrase "Shut up" comes as any kind of shock to you. You're being a little shit, isn't that your goal? My language could be harsher, you skinny fuck, but as a responsible adult, I chose to refrain. Unlike you. You are an over-indulged little bitch and I hope I never see you again.
But I digress. I meant to insult your outfit, and I got a little sidetracked. Forgive me. Where was I? Oh yes, your skinny jeans. They look terrible. When I was a child, we wore leggings, only to realize years later how unforgivably bad we looked. I still grimace at the days when my jeans fit me so tight my legs looked like suffocating pythons. If my pants fit me the way yours do, I'd cry. Let me remind you that you are a boy. Of course, it's hard for me to tell because your hair is so damn long. Don't get me wrong, long hair is all well and good. It's just that you look awful with long hair. Your mother should impose her female sense of style on you and insist that you cut that nappy, wannabe-surfer dust mop you have sitting on your head. Next to your friends, you do not stand out. Vans should send your generation thank-you cards for keeping their brand relevant. Without your lemming-like tendency to conform, their original style sneaker would have been fashionably obsolete years ago. I don't know who made up this new skinnnies/Vans combination, but they ought to be publicly humiliated and shamed into telling you that the postmodern, post-Punk, pre-pubescent militia you've joined is a consipiracy designed to get you to buy new back-to-school clothes.
I want to believe that you'll grow out of this nasty phase you're in to become a more productive, compassionate adult. I want to think that one day you'll look back on these years with a clearer perspective and realize what a shit you were. I want to believe in a better future for our nation, but you're making it really hard.
I hope you stop texting and start having normal human conversations with people. I hope you choose to learn something while you're in school instead of blindly try to impress your totally unimpressive friends. I hope you choose to use birth control.
As your sub, my hopes for you are many, and I pray you will heed the call when the challenges of the future are thrust toward you. I just hope you iPod doesn't get in the way.
Your outfit looks stupid. Not only is it stupid, it makes you look fat.
I'm sorry, but when I subbed for your English class today, I couldn't help but notice how inexcusably rude you were throughout the entire period. It's funny that in our modern world, where the advances of the Internet, and Wikipedia, and Books are all easily at your disposal, the simple task of watching a movie has somehow become impossible. School, if it escaped you, is a place where people go to learn things. All kinds of things. You'd really be surprised if you ever cared to put down your X-Box controller and crack open a book. Oh, I'm sorry. Books are the heavy things they give you at the library. They have words printed on them and they are made of paper.
I know it's difficult to last an entire period without the use of your iPhone, but it's not necessary to have in class. Your incessant use of technology has numbed your already undersized brain, leaving you incapable of producing a full sentence, much less a coherent thought. Granted, you've been on ADD medication since you were seven years old, but that's no excuse for shouting "WHAT?" when I called your name politely while taking roll this morning. The proper way to respond when the teacher, or substitute teacher, calls your name is to say, "Here," or "Present," audibly, but not so loud you hurt my ears or those of your peers.
Yes, I realize the movie we were assigned to watch was somewhat boring, and not something you'd chose to watch yourself. This does not matter. You are a student. That means, when you are asked to do something, like sit quietly and watch a movie for a couple of hours, you do it. You shut your ugly, pimply, dirty face, and you do it. Don't talk back to me when I ask you to be quiet. The first time when I asked you to please be quiet, I said "Please." Then, thirty seconds later, when you decided my request wasn't worth paying attention to, I told you to shut up. I find it quite entertaining that my use of the phrase "Shut up" comes as any kind of shock to you. You're being a little shit, isn't that your goal? My language could be harsher, you skinny fuck, but as a responsible adult, I chose to refrain. Unlike you. You are an over-indulged little bitch and I hope I never see you again.
But I digress. I meant to insult your outfit, and I got a little sidetracked. Forgive me. Where was I? Oh yes, your skinny jeans. They look terrible. When I was a child, we wore leggings, only to realize years later how unforgivably bad we looked. I still grimace at the days when my jeans fit me so tight my legs looked like suffocating pythons. If my pants fit me the way yours do, I'd cry. Let me remind you that you are a boy. Of course, it's hard for me to tell because your hair is so damn long. Don't get me wrong, long hair is all well and good. It's just that you look awful with long hair. Your mother should impose her female sense of style on you and insist that you cut that nappy, wannabe-surfer dust mop you have sitting on your head. Next to your friends, you do not stand out. Vans should send your generation thank-you cards for keeping their brand relevant. Without your lemming-like tendency to conform, their original style sneaker would have been fashionably obsolete years ago. I don't know who made up this new skinnnies/Vans combination, but they ought to be publicly humiliated and shamed into telling you that the postmodern, post-Punk, pre-pubescent militia you've joined is a consipiracy designed to get you to buy new back-to-school clothes.
I want to believe that you'll grow out of this nasty phase you're in to become a more productive, compassionate adult. I want to think that one day you'll look back on these years with a clearer perspective and realize what a shit you were. I want to believe in a better future for our nation, but you're making it really hard.
I hope you stop texting and start having normal human conversations with people. I hope you choose to learn something while you're in school instead of blindly try to impress your totally unimpressive friends. I hope you choose to use birth control.
As your sub, my hopes for you are many, and I pray you will heed the call when the challenges of the future are thrust toward you. I just hope you iPod doesn't get in the way.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
I Used To Hate Guitar Hero But Now I Like It or, What Else Am I Missing Out On?
The kind of people who play video games in their spare time are usually not "my" kind of people.
If you know me at all, you know I make this kind of sweeping generalization a lot, and I make no apologies for it. More often than not, gamers exhibit qualities that just don't jive with me. When I think of a "typical" video game playing dude-person, I think: Anti-social, pimply, over-mothered and under-sexed nerd. Video games aren't sexy. They aren't attractive. They don't score points with Lisa Zine. I find gaming extremely geeky, and not in a Rivers Cuomo circa The Blue Album kind of way. I'm (sorta) sorry for feeling this way, but mostly I'm not.
So why then, do I love Guitar Hero?
My sister got a Wii for Christmas, and ever since, I've been addicted to this stupidly awesome game, and it has me questioning my values. Why now, God? Why must you make me eat my words? Why let my addictive personality disprove years of firm belief?
I am drowning in my own hypocrisy.
As a kid, video games were the farthest thing from my mind. Young Lisa preferred embossing personalized stationery and constructing flimsy tables out of wood scraps. Young Lisa wove friendship bracelets (for herself), and learned how to sew pajama pants.* Young Lisa devoted her youth to practical skills. Life-enriching skills. Amish skills. Video games? Puh-leaze. Such activities provided nothing of any tangible value, and in my laughably small circle of childhood friends, Handset-Alacrity and Ability-to-sit-in-one-place-for-hours-at-a-time did not garner much esteem or respect. But then again, neither did doing extra-credit book reports. Shit.
In 1995, the same year I wrote three unassigned essays on The Earth's Layers, Sharks, and Frogs, I played Sonic the Hedgehog on my friends' Sega Genesis. This phase lasted perhaps 3 months. I can count the number of times I played on one hand. I was pathetic at this game.
At age 15 my mom thought it appropriate to buy my sister and me a Nintendo 64. She'd heard, no doubt on Oprah, that Nintendo 64s were very popular among kids our age. Apparently she had forgotten that she was the mother of two daughters. Daughters who had never before expressed any interest in video games. Mom threw in Mario Kart (which was OK I guess) and a game that accompanied "A Bug's Life." As in the Pixar movie. Just like you're thinking, it completely sucked. If I recall correctly, in order to beat a level, you had to find a golden seed or something. For the remainder of our Christmas vacation I searched and searched for the golden seed, arduously making it to Level 2. It frustrated the bejeezus out of me until one day, our 5 year old neighbor came over and beat the game within the span of an hour. Bullshit.
In college, I took a course that explored communicative elements of video games (I think?) and in it the professor described the habits of World of Warcraft players in China. There are kids out there who won't bathe or eat because they can't stand the thought of leaving Warcraftland. Actual jobs have been created by players who need to take breaks from their virtual world, but refuse to miss whatever cyber-battle might happen in their absence. They hire people to play for them. Avatar stand-ins. What the hell. People have even killed themselves over shit that happened in Second Life. The real world is hard enough, people. Why get suicidal over things that...aren't...real? I don't get it, and likely never will.
Such was the extent of my relationship with video games, until Guitar Hero. When the game first came out, I absolutely hated it when friends would interrupt a perfectly rousing conversation only to stare, zombie-like, at the television set and hit buttons on a fake, cheap looking virtual instrument. I'd storm out of the room like a little child, saying things like, "I hate Guitar Hero. Your guitar looks stupid. This party sucks, etc." But all that's changed now. Because I'm actually pretty good at Guitar Hero. I like music, and I've always liked buttons. And when it comes to new things, I'll usually get hooked on those with which I show an immediate proficiency. So lucky me. I have something to do on Friday nights.
I realize I'm very late in jumping on the bandwagon. I'm always late to the bandwagon. I was late for Sex and the City. Late for LOST. I only just now started playing with Pogs. But so what. Better late than never, I say. If anything, Guitar Hero has taught me a lesson to be less hateful and to realize that I'm probably good at a lot of things I haven't tried. Like cocaine.
It beats sewing pajama pants.
*I can prove it.
If you know me at all, you know I make this kind of sweeping generalization a lot, and I make no apologies for it. More often than not, gamers exhibit qualities that just don't jive with me. When I think of a "typical" video game playing dude-person, I think: Anti-social, pimply, over-mothered and under-sexed nerd. Video games aren't sexy. They aren't attractive. They don't score points with Lisa Zine. I find gaming extremely geeky, and not in a Rivers Cuomo circa The Blue Album kind of way. I'm (sorta) sorry for feeling this way, but mostly I'm not.
So why then, do I love Guitar Hero?
My sister got a Wii for Christmas, and ever since, I've been addicted to this stupidly awesome game, and it has me questioning my values. Why now, God? Why must you make me eat my words? Why let my addictive personality disprove years of firm belief?
I am drowning in my own hypocrisy.
As a kid, video games were the farthest thing from my mind. Young Lisa preferred embossing personalized stationery and constructing flimsy tables out of wood scraps. Young Lisa wove friendship bracelets (for herself), and learned how to sew pajama pants.* Young Lisa devoted her youth to practical skills. Life-enriching skills. Amish skills. Video games? Puh-leaze. Such activities provided nothing of any tangible value, and in my laughably small circle of childhood friends, Handset-Alacrity and Ability-to-sit-in-one-place-for-hours-at-a-time did not garner much esteem or respect. But then again, neither did doing extra-credit book reports. Shit.
In 1995, the same year I wrote three unassigned essays on The Earth's Layers, Sharks, and Frogs, I played Sonic the Hedgehog on my friends' Sega Genesis. This phase lasted perhaps 3 months. I can count the number of times I played on one hand. I was pathetic at this game.
At age 15 my mom thought it appropriate to buy my sister and me a Nintendo 64. She'd heard, no doubt on Oprah, that Nintendo 64s were very popular among kids our age. Apparently she had forgotten that she was the mother of two daughters. Daughters who had never before expressed any interest in video games. Mom threw in Mario Kart (which was OK I guess) and a game that accompanied "A Bug's Life." As in the Pixar movie. Just like you're thinking, it completely sucked. If I recall correctly, in order to beat a level, you had to find a golden seed or something. For the remainder of our Christmas vacation I searched and searched for the golden seed, arduously making it to Level 2. It frustrated the bejeezus out of me until one day, our 5 year old neighbor came over and beat the game within the span of an hour. Bullshit.
In college, I took a course that explored communicative elements of video games (I think?) and in it the professor described the habits of World of Warcraft players in China. There are kids out there who won't bathe or eat because they can't stand the thought of leaving Warcraftland. Actual jobs have been created by players who need to take breaks from their virtual world, but refuse to miss whatever cyber-battle might happen in their absence. They hire people to play for them. Avatar stand-ins. What the hell. People have even killed themselves over shit that happened in Second Life. The real world is hard enough, people. Why get suicidal over things that...aren't...real? I don't get it, and likely never will.
Such was the extent of my relationship with video games, until Guitar Hero. When the game first came out, I absolutely hated it when friends would interrupt a perfectly rousing conversation only to stare, zombie-like, at the television set and hit buttons on a fake, cheap looking virtual instrument. I'd storm out of the room like a little child, saying things like, "I hate Guitar Hero. Your guitar looks stupid. This party sucks, etc." But all that's changed now. Because I'm actually pretty good at Guitar Hero. I like music, and I've always liked buttons. And when it comes to new things, I'll usually get hooked on those with which I show an immediate proficiency. So lucky me. I have something to do on Friday nights.
I realize I'm very late in jumping on the bandwagon. I'm always late to the bandwagon. I was late for Sex and the City. Late for LOST. I only just now started playing with Pogs. But so what. Better late than never, I say. If anything, Guitar Hero has taught me a lesson to be less hateful and to realize that I'm probably good at a lot of things I haven't tried. Like cocaine.
It beats sewing pajama pants.
*I can prove it.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The Possibilities Are Not Endless, or Recession Job Hunting is a Bitch
This goddamn recession is killing my spirit.
Lucky for me, I live at home. Actually, the 'luckiness' of this is questionable at this point, since I'm not quite sure if I'm happy about the situation, but at least my bills aren't as high. Anyway, lately I've realized that substitute teaching provides a pretty pathetic cash-flow, and even my really fancy private tutoring gig isn't leaving my pockets full. In a town saturated with over-eager high school kids and Post-Lay-Off Recessionites, the job pool is shallow. So what's a girl to do?
In just a few days into this New Year I have already exhausted the very short list of potential employers I could stand to work for and have moved on to much browner pastures. Yesterday when I stopped into Borders, the employees informed me that their store had recently laid off 5 employees. Pretty bad odds, I'd say. Of course it doesn't help that earlier that morning I'd heard on NPR* that Borders is in danger of falling off the NYSE. I wonder how long ago I would have been kicked off the NYSE. Clearly, I'm not the only one whose stock is low.
Basically I need a job and there isn't much out there. According to Careerbuilder and Craigslist, I've assembled a short list of possibilities, and they are laughable. I will tell you which one I eventually choose.
Here are my options (in no particular order):
1. Receptionist - Western Dental Services. Apparently in order to do this job, I must be a team-player. I didn't realize that answering phones in a pleasant dental-esque voice required me to have experience playing sports. I applied for this job today. I want to cry.
2. Waitress - Red Robin. Until yesterday, I had not set foot in a Red Robin since high school. This restaurant has been in operation for at least 15 years in the same Folsom location, which means people DO eat there. I don't know who these people are, but they are out there somewhere keeping this godawful place alive. Desperate in my search, I walked in yesterday hoping to talk to someone about getting a job. I had to psych myself up in the parking lot, repeating to myself quietly "You are not too good for this." When three minutes later no one had greeted me at the podium, I walked out. I am not sorry.
3. Store Manager - Home Consignments. I love used furniture, so this seems like a natural fit.
4. Burrito Maker - Chipotle. I'm frequently mistaken for being Mexican, so it's entirely likely that I'd be an excellent burrito maker. I love Chipotle, and could get free burritos while on the job. Of course, I prefer burrito bowls, but I'm sure I could also get those for free.
5. Food Service Worker - In-N-Out Burger. $10.00/hr plus benefits for full time employees. It sounds OK, until I imagine having to take orders for Double-Doubles and Animal Style Fries from local high school kids who I'll be tutoring later that day. Plus wearing that dorky hat makes me want to cringe. And I'd get really fat. I'm thinking this one won't work out.
6. Media Buyer Assistant - ExpressMedia. Sounds cool, right? It might even be cool. I did a little research, and it looks like the company buys airtime for Longform Media clients (a.k.a. Infomercials). What could be cooler than calling local news stations to book midnight time-slots for thirty minute Proactiv infomercials? The answer is nothing. Nothing is cooler than that.
So, friends, things aren't looking so good. It's a grim reality that I'm sure I'll come to terms with, even if I do end up deep frying potatoes, or selling used coffee tables. Money is money, and it's too bad we all need it so badly, because without it losing your job wouldn't really be an issue. I've had to come to grips with the fact that even with a college degree, I'm really not too good for anything. And that hurts.
If you have any suggestions, please send them my way. I'm open to persuasion, and at this point I'll consider almost anything - with the exception of sign spinning.
Happy Recession.
*Don't you hate it when people drop NPR into casual conversation? It's so snobby and elitist. I do it all the time.
Lucky for me, I live at home. Actually, the 'luckiness' of this is questionable at this point, since I'm not quite sure if I'm happy about the situation, but at least my bills aren't as high. Anyway, lately I've realized that substitute teaching provides a pretty pathetic cash-flow, and even my really fancy private tutoring gig isn't leaving my pockets full. In a town saturated with over-eager high school kids and Post-Lay-Off Recessionites, the job pool is shallow. So what's a girl to do?
In just a few days into this New Year I have already exhausted the very short list of potential employers I could stand to work for and have moved on to much browner pastures. Yesterday when I stopped into Borders, the employees informed me that their store had recently laid off 5 employees. Pretty bad odds, I'd say. Of course it doesn't help that earlier that morning I'd heard on NPR* that Borders is in danger of falling off the NYSE. I wonder how long ago I would have been kicked off the NYSE. Clearly, I'm not the only one whose stock is low.
Basically I need a job and there isn't much out there. According to Careerbuilder and Craigslist, I've assembled a short list of possibilities, and they are laughable. I will tell you which one I eventually choose.
Here are my options (in no particular order):
1. Receptionist - Western Dental Services. Apparently in order to do this job, I must be a team-player. I didn't realize that answering phones in a pleasant dental-esque voice required me to have experience playing sports. I applied for this job today. I want to cry.
2. Waitress - Red Robin. Until yesterday, I had not set foot in a Red Robin since high school. This restaurant has been in operation for at least 15 years in the same Folsom location, which means people DO eat there. I don't know who these people are, but they are out there somewhere keeping this godawful place alive. Desperate in my search, I walked in yesterday hoping to talk to someone about getting a job. I had to psych myself up in the parking lot, repeating to myself quietly "You are not too good for this." When three minutes later no one had greeted me at the podium, I walked out. I am not sorry.
3. Store Manager - Home Consignments. I love used furniture, so this seems like a natural fit.
4. Burrito Maker - Chipotle. I'm frequently mistaken for being Mexican, so it's entirely likely that I'd be an excellent burrito maker. I love Chipotle, and could get free burritos while on the job. Of course, I prefer burrito bowls, but I'm sure I could also get those for free.
5. Food Service Worker - In-N-Out Burger. $10.00/hr plus benefits for full time employees. It sounds OK, until I imagine having to take orders for Double-Doubles and Animal Style Fries from local high school kids who I'll be tutoring later that day. Plus wearing that dorky hat makes me want to cringe. And I'd get really fat. I'm thinking this one won't work out.
6. Media Buyer Assistant - ExpressMedia. Sounds cool, right? It might even be cool. I did a little research, and it looks like the company buys airtime for Longform Media clients (a.k.a. Infomercials). What could be cooler than calling local news stations to book midnight time-slots for thirty minute Proactiv infomercials? The answer is nothing. Nothing is cooler than that.
So, friends, things aren't looking so good. It's a grim reality that I'm sure I'll come to terms with, even if I do end up deep frying potatoes, or selling used coffee tables. Money is money, and it's too bad we all need it so badly, because without it losing your job wouldn't really be an issue. I've had to come to grips with the fact that even with a college degree, I'm really not too good for anything. And that hurts.
If you have any suggestions, please send them my way. I'm open to persuasion, and at this point I'll consider almost anything - with the exception of sign spinning.
Happy Recession.
*Don't you hate it when people drop NPR into casual conversation? It's so snobby and elitist. I do it all the time.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Santa is a Native American or, "I Played a Slot and I Liked It"
Of all the many splendid things the holiday season brings, weight-gain and Seasonal-Affect Disorder included, I think the gifts of this particular Christmas season have far out-shined any of the past, and possibly the future.
This year, Santa brought me the Red Hawk Casino.
I never used to like casinos until Red Hawk came along. The only time in my life I had ever gambled before was once when I was 18. Some friends and I took a late-summer sojourn to the Jackson Rancheria where I immediately lost $11.50 on some quarter slots. After the shocking blow to my already unstable confidence in the art of frittering money away, I vowed to never gamble again. Multiple trips to Vegas during college were moderately expensive, and the few dollars I had in my piddly bank account were spent on hotel rooms, trashy outfits, and lots of booze. My lavish lifestyle left me rich in memories, but close to penniless, so of course I wasn't going to lose the meager leftovers playing Keno next to a geriatric chain-smoker at the Barbary Coast.
But things have changed now. Old people don't bother me as much, and I've discovered that Keno is actually fun. The vow I once made has been broken, because friends, you're reading the words of a winner.
On my first visit to the Hawk (ca-caw!), I won $115 on some two-cent machines called "Hot Shot." I love Hot Shot. Yes, it's mindless, and most of the time you don't really win much more than maybe 60 cents, but if you're lucky like me you'll hit what they call a Double-Money, or Triple-Money, or Extra-Money bonus round. Getting a bonus round is like taking a giant hit of heroin. Now, I've never taken a hit of heroin, but I'd imagine this is as close as I'll ever come. The game console lights up, the tone of the music rises, reaches a climax, and Woo-Hoo!! You've won!! When I saw that little cash counter going up and up and up, well, I just about peed.
On my second visit to my new favorite place, I won $54 playing Caveman Keno. This otherwise obscure game would have gone unplayed had it not been for the sage advice of my mother, who knowingly indulges my unhealthy behavior. Caveman Keno only costs a quarter per play, which makes it somewhat more affordable than other games, and it keeps you playing for a good long time. In other words, it's an Endurance Game. Endurance Game is a term I just coined, so you can all thank me for that.
Oh! And there are free self-serve soda machines! (Sorry, no free booze. Yes, I too was disappointed). So if you're sorta down on your luck, just think, you're paying yourself back with every Pepsi you drink. MSRP on a medium Pepsi is roughly $2.00, so if you need to justify losing any significant part of your savings, just think, it's money you would have spent on drinks anyway. Perfectly sound logic if you ask me.
I'm sure that had my first two visits to this Native American paradise had resulted in losses, this blog would have never happened. But the reality is that I did win, and I might have a gambling addiction. I get high just talking about it. Just this morning I had the idea to create a gambling jar where I can put spare change, and then when it fills I'll reward myself for being a diligent change-saver and I'll use the money to feed my addiction at Red Hawk. What else am I going to do with my spare change? Probably nothing. I love this plan!
Naturally, it's best to manage all vices with care and moderation. But it's really hard when you reach that moment, just before placing another bet, and the room becomes latent with possibility. You press your finger to the button, and Hope is palpable. The music plays in a celebration of potential wealth and prosperity. The Future is calling.
Anyway, if you're in the foothill area, call me and I'll show you what I mean. Visualize the win, embrace the poor-odds, and drink the ambrosia of the soda machine.
Just don't get pissed at me if you lose.
In a time where things are looking grim for a lot of people, the Red Hawk Casino is like a shiny, neon, blinking beacon of hope, lighting the thick economic darkness. Not only does it offer the chance of coming home a winner, it's also a local employer. So gambling can't be all that bad. I love it there, and until I lose money, I will keep returning.
It is so damn scary how close that place is.
This year, Santa brought me the Red Hawk Casino.
I never used to like casinos until Red Hawk came along. The only time in my life I had ever gambled before was once when I was 18. Some friends and I took a late-summer sojourn to the Jackson Rancheria where I immediately lost $11.50 on some quarter slots. After the shocking blow to my already unstable confidence in the art of frittering money away, I vowed to never gamble again. Multiple trips to Vegas during college were moderately expensive, and the few dollars I had in my piddly bank account were spent on hotel rooms, trashy outfits, and lots of booze. My lavish lifestyle left me rich in memories, but close to penniless, so of course I wasn't going to lose the meager leftovers playing Keno next to a geriatric chain-smoker at the Barbary Coast.
But things have changed now. Old people don't bother me as much, and I've discovered that Keno is actually fun. The vow I once made has been broken, because friends, you're reading the words of a winner.
On my first visit to the Hawk (ca-caw!), I won $115 on some two-cent machines called "Hot Shot." I love Hot Shot. Yes, it's mindless, and most of the time you don't really win much more than maybe 60 cents, but if you're lucky like me you'll hit what they call a Double-Money, or Triple-Money, or Extra-Money bonus round. Getting a bonus round is like taking a giant hit of heroin. Now, I've never taken a hit of heroin, but I'd imagine this is as close as I'll ever come. The game console lights up, the tone of the music rises, reaches a climax, and Woo-Hoo!! You've won!! When I saw that little cash counter going up and up and up, well, I just about peed.
On my second visit to my new favorite place, I won $54 playing Caveman Keno. This otherwise obscure game would have gone unplayed had it not been for the sage advice of my mother, who knowingly indulges my unhealthy behavior. Caveman Keno only costs a quarter per play, which makes it somewhat more affordable than other games, and it keeps you playing for a good long time. In other words, it's an Endurance Game. Endurance Game is a term I just coined, so you can all thank me for that.
Oh! And there are free self-serve soda machines! (Sorry, no free booze. Yes, I too was disappointed). So if you're sorta down on your luck, just think, you're paying yourself back with every Pepsi you drink. MSRP on a medium Pepsi is roughly $2.00, so if you need to justify losing any significant part of your savings, just think, it's money you would have spent on drinks anyway. Perfectly sound logic if you ask me.
I'm sure that had my first two visits to this Native American paradise had resulted in losses, this blog would have never happened. But the reality is that I did win, and I might have a gambling addiction. I get high just talking about it. Just this morning I had the idea to create a gambling jar where I can put spare change, and then when it fills I'll reward myself for being a diligent change-saver and I'll use the money to feed my addiction at Red Hawk. What else am I going to do with my spare change? Probably nothing. I love this plan!
Naturally, it's best to manage all vices with care and moderation. But it's really hard when you reach that moment, just before placing another bet, and the room becomes latent with possibility. You press your finger to the button, and Hope is palpable. The music plays in a celebration of potential wealth and prosperity. The Future is calling.
Anyway, if you're in the foothill area, call me and I'll show you what I mean. Visualize the win, embrace the poor-odds, and drink the ambrosia of the soda machine.
Just don't get pissed at me if you lose.
In a time where things are looking grim for a lot of people, the Red Hawk Casino is like a shiny, neon, blinking beacon of hope, lighting the thick economic darkness. Not only does it offer the chance of coming home a winner, it's also a local employer. So gambling can't be all that bad. I love it there, and until I lose money, I will keep returning.
It is so damn scary how close that place is.
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