My Solid Plan For Making It Big In Chile, or "Where Have All The Oreos Gone?"

If you've ever traveled, you know that one of the most exciting things to see in foreign places is the food selection. A country's most famous dishes are often the hallmark of its culture. Peking Duck probably tastes better if eaten in Peking. Tacos are best eaten on the streets of Tijuana* (for those brave enough to try them), and Pisco Sours are positively delightful (albeit strong and completely dangerous) in Chile.

I just noticed that the three foods I just mentioned are quite likely to give a person diarrhea. Or perhaps just me. Oops.

But this isn't really my point.

What I want to talk more specifically about is a country's "native" snack foods. I find this infinitely more interesting than restaurant fare, especially now living in another country. Chips, cookies, candies, sodas. This is my area of study. Walking into a supermarket in Chile to me is like walking into a treasure trove of cultural relics. I feel like an anthropologist from the future, scanning the aisles of a long since forgotten civilization. Except that I am very much not alone. Stores in Santiago are usually teeming with people at every hour of the day. But you at least you understand where my head is at.

Each time I visit, which seems to be somewhat frequently, I try to choose something somewhat exotic. A box of foreign cereal on Monday, a package of foreign yogurt on Tuesday, a Bag-O-Olives on Wednesday. Just looking at the labels on soda cans gets me going. With everything written in Spanish, it's like a game of Grocery Roulette - "Will this strange looking marmalde kill me, or eliminate my body odor?"** The real fun is in not knowing.

Although, amongst all the funny looking pre-packaged goodies, I have noticed one huge void - both the subject of this entry and the path by which I shall become a gazillionaire - and that is: The Oreo Cookie.

America, you may be surprised to hear this, but no, there are no Oreo cookies here in Chile. If they are here, they are at least hard to find. Why? I have NO idea! Why is this blessed little cookie, this tiny black and white gift from God not present in this country? It's cheap enough to make, it's got to be cheap enough to ship, and I'm sure it would be cheap enough to buy on any one of a million street vendor's carts. But alas, it is nowhere to be found.

Upon noticing this today - it takes longer to notice what is NOT there, versus what IS there - I felt almost moved to find the phone number for Nabisco Foods, call their CEO, and demand an answer for this horrible infraction. Do they not know that South America exists? Or are they choosing to ignore its presence and miss out on this incredible investment opportunity?

What's your DEAL, Makers of the Oreo?

If teaching English doesn't work out, I'm not going to worry too much. The simple, and most obvious remedy is to have my family ship me a box full of single wrapped Oreos. I will then walk the sidewalks of Santiago passing out my little galletas (guess what that means) raising awareness about this mass-made marvel of a confection. Surely once every super market manager has tasted for himself the irreplacable flavor of the Oreo, crowds will rush to their stores faster than you can say "Yummy." Hell, knowing the odd way things work around here, they'll probably quit their jobs and open up a chain of stores featuring the following merchandise: Oreos.

With the Chilean population newly addicted to Oreo cookies, I will offer up this exciting business opportunity to Nabisco to the tune of a hundred million dollars, and I will be crazy rich. And you will feel stupid for not doing this yourself.

Of course this is only one of a hundred different business opportunities I've scouted out. Others include: A Clothing Store for Women Over 5 Feet Tall, A Shoe Store For Women With Large Feet, A 24-Hour Plumbing Service, A Pernament Hair Removal Salon, and Champagne. If I gave it more time, I'm sure the list would be longer. But that's the idea.

So, if you're stuck in your bomb-shelter back at home, waiting out the awfulness of the U.S. economy, consider a continental shift. Come to Chile, and get rich quick.

And bring me a case of Oreos.




*This is likely untrue, seeing as Tijuana is a complete shit hole. I bet the tacos are probably good in all of Mexico.

**Let it be known I absolutely never have body odor.

Kind Of Missing Michael, or "Paying a King (of Pop's) Ransom For a Ticket To A Funeral Is Just Plain Stupid"

So I must admit something. It's not easy to say, and in fact as an American I feel kind of bad about it, but...

I don't miss Michael Jackson that much.

It's a very sad thing that he died. It truly is. I think that with our medical system, when some passes before the age of 75, there's a feeling that remains of things undone, life unlived. There's tragedy to be felt in the sense of someone's time cut short. No doubt, I sense this for Michael Jackson. He was and is a human being, a sacred existence, and for this reason I have profound respect for him in the wake of his death and I would hate for my thoughts to be misconstrued. That said, I also sense a sort of gross exaggeration regarding the world-wide impact of his death. I take major issue with this, and with the overblown display of grief that took place today at the Staples' Center in LA.

First of all, I can't stand the Staples Center, because it costs so much to park there, even for a Clippers game. So just starting out, I've got some bad feelings about all this.

Second, a wise friend made the point that for all intents and purposes, Michael Jackson died 20 years ago, and only now are we mourning him. For the last 20 some-odd years (at least the whole of the 90s), this man has been a walking spectacle that the media has made a fortnue off of, simply for his strange and really disturbing antics. Even if he wasn't all that famous, this guy would still make headlines. He was weird.

From his troubled youth in the spotlight, to his inexplicable transformation into a white man, to his get-me-the-hell-out-of Neverland Ranch, to his inappropriate friendship with McCauley Kulkin, to his uncomfortably over-sexualized marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, to his multiple molestation trials, to his holding a babychild over the balcony of a hotel... this man has been a living, breathing, tabloid cover. A hott-mess, some would say. I mean, the guy was a freak of nature. Both his talent and his ability to like, be decent at life, are off the charts out of this world. But in different directions.

No lucid American (or Chilean for that matter) over the age of 10 can say they don't know of Michael Jackson. And of that group, I'd hedge my bet that 98% of them remember all the weird shit that he did, brought to us in our living rooms in the form of "News." But was any of that remembered today? Absolutely not. Because posthumously, one's inherent crazy-freaking-nuttiness is apparently forgotten. He was arguably the best entertainer of the 20th century, and perhaps, since Entertainment is a relatively new phenomenon, the best of all time. This is without question. But guys, MJ was a whack-job. He just was, you can't tell me he wasn't.

I guess being a whack-job earns you a big fancy-ass funeral with Bono in attendance, and regards from Nelson Mandela, and a Father Of The Year award. All you have to do is change the way people listen to music.

This is almost absurd. Except for that it's Michael Jackson, and by now absurdity is to be expected.

And another thing that sort of bugs me about all this fussing over this one man (keep in mind, he is ONE MAN) - people that couldn't have possibly known him all that well were performing at his funeral. This is what bothers me about people in that ridiculous industry. They just want attention.

Case in point: Jennifer Hudson.

Ok, so Jennifer Hudson is a talented singer. She's also African American.* SO WHAT?! Does this qualify her to be singing the Free Willy Song at MJ's funeral? I seriously doubt it! Guys - she was a contestant on American Idol. After she LOST, she somehow landed a part in "Dream Girls," and the rest is history. Did you catch that? SHE DIDN'T EVEN WIN, and she's singing the Free Willy Song. At Michael Jackson's funeral. This is the man who, at age 5, was singing "ABC" and "I Want You Back," and that's all I can think of. The Free Willy Song is epic. Epic! And yet, somehow, by some stroke of fate, Jennifer Hudson - the worst actress in the "Sex and the City" movie (and that's pretty bad) - sang the Free Willy Song. At Michael Jackson's funeral.

I can't express more fully my confusion and anger that this was allowed to happen.

To make a shorter point, I think all this blabbing about Michael Jackson's passing is kind of a lot of bunk. His music is awesome. His dancing is awesome. His strange sense of fashion is at the very least memorable.

But the dude was a little bonkers, and I just think we should all take a moment of silence and remember that.



*She's totally playing the race card here, so don't get all butt-hurt at me for mentioning it.

Happy Birthday America, or "It's The 4th Of July, But Not Really In Chile"

To all of you Americans out there, Happy Independence Day!

To all of you non-Americans, Happy 4th of July! This day means nothing to you other than that 233 years ago, the homogenizing force that is The United States began its upward ascent toward (practically) worldwide cultural and nuclear domination. But if firepower and military transcendence isn't significant enough to make you raise your glass, consider it the "Pre-Birth" of such miracles as Britney Spears*, the Automobile, Electricity, and the late Michael Jackson. R.I.P.

July 4th, 1776 is the day our nation started owning yours. You should be celebrating.

That sounds awfully rude, I'm sorry - but I had nothing to do with it! I was merely a random collection of genes roaming the hillsides of England, Germany, and Scotland. I was an allele riding sidesaddle on a camel's back somewhere in the Middle East; just a twinkle in some Arab Nomad's eye. Little idea did I have that I’d someday be symbolically part of a future empire.

If anything, I hate the fact that America has somehow become the dominant player in worldwide culture-making. It frightens me to think that we all might end up listening to the same music, while wearing the same clothes, while drinking he same Starbucks latte. I fear that the fat people in “Wall-E” who ride around in personal hovercrafts drinking mind-corroding Jammer Juice (or whatever it’s called) aren’t so very far off the mark.


But it's a strange dichotomy, this mind of mine. Allow me to explain:

Since moving to Chile, my appreciation for things like Starbucks, Facebook, and the music of Jon Bon Jovi has only increased. Firstly, because there is very little good, accessible coffee in this city. Most readily available is Nescafe – and drinking is like craving a decadent piece of chocolate cake and being offered a stale gumball. Secondly, because Facebook has allowed me to both stay connected to old friends and make new ones. Thirdly, because the two times I’ve been out at dance clubs the abundance American 80s hits makes me feel so very much at home. Song after song, I revel in memories of sloppy nights in shitty karaoke bars. These things are decidedly American innovations, and I am glad they’re here. Never before have I felt so happy living on a prayer.

But simultaneously, it is unbelievably refreshing to be thousands of miles away from strip malls, Hummers, and The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I hate these things with a red, fiery passion. They are pit-stains on an otherwise perfectly good t-shirt that mark my homeland as a place full of gas-guzzling, over-indulgent consumers. But nevertheless, these things are real. So it makes me happy to be experiencing the best (and at some point, the worst) of another place.

With that, I’ve chosen to celebrate not the things that America makes, but rather the things that make me American. And today, the day my country became a country, it is Independence. It’s a quality to be proud of, and this July 4th, my first ever away from home, has been an exercise of such independence. There is something significant, I believe, to knowing there is a BBQ four thousand miles away with my name on it, and a big tub full of ice cold beers, and a tacky midway I could be strolling down somewhere, yet choosing to step out alone into the great big world…and hoping it all goes OK.

I miss my BBQ very dearly and hope to soon encounter one here in Chile, but it’s hardly what makes America, America.* I hope you’ve been able to drink a lot of beer, and eat a burger, and win some corny stuffed animals at a fair. I’m glad to be celebrating in my own little way.

And I’m glad to be doing it here.


*Actually, Britney Spears is more like a nasty, bloody sludge of cultural After-birth.

**I think it has something to do with McDonalds.

The Adventure Continues, or "Some Funny Shit Happened Today And You Should Know About It"

Another day, another litany of cultural differences I find endlessly amusing. The weather here has continued to suck some serious ballage, but as events unfold, I sorta kinda don’t really notice. I feel like a doe-eyed little kid in a candy store staring all googly-like at everything and everyone that passes me by. Only, I’m a kid who’s worried my shit’s gonna get stolen. I’m a ghetto kid.

Of course paranoia is just the first annoying habit I’ve managed to pick up. My second, and perhaps MORE annoying habit I’ve is the constant need to make comparisons to the United States. Por ejemplo:

Lisa: A Chilean department store! WOW! In the United States WE have department stores. Except we call them Macy*s, or Sears, or Target. Isn’t that cool?

[Insert other nationality here]: Uhhh, si. Muy cool. (Indifferent stare).

Lisa: A Chilean Dog! WOW! In the United States we have dogs, too! Except the stray ones we turn in to animal control and they get shot! Isn’t that cool?

[Other person]: -----And so it goes, with everything from the condition of the rain gutters, to the existence of central heating, to the quality of our produce. In the last three days, I’ve almost never stopped. It’s as if the only thing I have to talk about is Wal-Mart, and all the cheap shit you can buy there. I feel… how to say… very boring.

So in that spirit, some funny shit that happened today that I found quite entertaining only for its US Comparison Value (USCV)*.

1) My experience buying a hairdryer was not unlike that of buying a car. I walked into a Chilean Department Store (WOW!) called Paris, ironically enough, and found the home electronics department. It’s hard to describe, but the best thing I can compare it to is a make-up counter at Nordstrom. A nicely groomed, pretty young woman asked me what I needed, and I proceeded to tell her that I was in desperate need of a hair dryer. Being a curly haired woman in a straight haired world can be difficult, and although after years of therapy coming to grips with my curly-ness, I found it possible to once again have confidence in myself, however I can’t resist the urge to conform.

Ok, no I didn’t say that exactly. But the experience brought this rush of emotions I can only really express in English.

Anyway, she proceeded to then show me different makes, models, and styles of hair dryer. I ended up landing on a package deal. Dryer, flat iron, and curling iron all for the very low price of… fuck if I know. Pesos are confusing. She even brought the thing out of its box, and then demonstrated its three temperatures as well as its ability to blow “ions” and its two-year guarantee. Did I need all this information? No. Will I ever use the ion function on the hair dryer? Probably not. But I sure as shit got a kick out of the thing. Too bad I probably got raped by my credit card company in exchange fees. But I’ll look pretty in the rain!

USCV: 5

2) This evening I went to my fist Chilean Gym. Don’t get too excited, it’s almost exactly like our gyms. Same equipment and everything. Lucky for me, I found a spin class and was able to stroll right in. A very friendly instructor-man came and asked me a few questions I barely understood. I primitively communicated to him that I knew what the fuck I was doing, and he pleasantly began class moments later. As he began to give the class instructions, his mannerisms began becoming more and more hilarious. Imagine, if you will, the Latino Lance Armstrong. A very tall, very fit man wearing completely spandex cycling outfit. Now imagine him wearing something resembling a neckerchief. Funny, right? This I could deal with, being that I’m a foreigner in a foreign place. Maybe neckerchiefs are just par for the course in Chilean spin classes. But then the extremely flashy hand signals began. As we were instructed to ascend an invisible hill, he’d shout enthusiastically “Dos minutos!” and jovially throw up a peace sign high above his head. “Cinco minutos!” and a big high-five went up. And as if this didn’t happen often enough, every 15-20 seconds, he made a very distinctive hang loose “shaka” sign. Sometimes he’d shaka with one hand, and then promptly shaka with the other. And then a big high-five. And then a peace sign. And then a thumbs up – I almost forgot. New song, thumbs up. Someone leaves, thumbs up. I wanted so badly to gesticulate in return, but instead remained focused, and tried not to laugh out loud between gasps of air.

USCV: 9.5

So in all, a very good day to compare to my average day in El Dorado Hills. And with all that has happened, I am on my way to being a very fit, straight-haired, wildly gesticulating Chilena.

Muy Buena.

***This is a new rating system I have just created and will probably soon forget about.

**Also Muy Buena: still no assplosions.

I Made It To Chile But It Took Me Effing Forever, or “The Path of Most Resistance”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"So, I've Had A Few Beers," or When Will America Stop Sucking?

I hope you like reading my blog. I'm pretty sure if you're reading this now that you do, but there's always a chance that any blog entry could be the first blog entry and I'd hate for it to be a crumby one, and I want so badly for it to be a good one, so I hope I can perform. 

You see, I've been drinking.

I've even had the idea before to have a blog that is written exclusively in the drunk condition. What fun that would be! But so easy to fake, and you should know by now that authenticity is my number one goal.

Wow. I had to edit that so many times.

Ok, so anyway. The economy sucks. Such fucking bullshit. 

If you have a job, you're lucky. Don't try subbing, it sucks. 

Bye

Wal-Mart: Rolling Back Prices, Splattering Heads, or The Hazards of Bargain Hunting

Ok, you need to read this:

• "(CBS/AP) A worker died after being trampled by a throng of unruly shoppers when a suburban Wal-Mart opened for the holiday sales rush Friday, authorities said. Nassau County polie said the 34- year-old worker was taken to a hospital where he was pronounced dead at about 6 a.m., an hour after the store opened. The cause of death was not immediately known."

This is a report from November 28th, 2008. And my friends, this is fucked up.

I love the holidays. I mean, I guess I do. They are great in a lot of ways. Time to reconnect with friends and family. Time to eat cookies in excessive quantities. Lots of time to lament having gotten suddenly and inexplicably fat.* Oh yeah, and people give presents.

I like getting presents. Like, who doesn't? The Great American Gift Exchange is an expensive tradition that allows us to show the people who mean the most to us just how little we actually know them. Sure I love my Aunt, but I don't want another jar of Vermont maple syrup. If it's the thought that's supposed to count, Hey relatives, start using your effing brains.

Despite the more enjoyable aspects of the season, "the most wonderful time of the year" has its drawbacks (e.g. Holiday Muffin Top, or Family Reunions). And one of the biggest bummers of the holidays is shopping for gifts. Stop in at any store between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, and odds are good that the lines will be out the friggin door. Even major retailers seem to always run out of the one awesome thing you wanted to buy your dad, leaving the poor guy to settle with another shitty tie. There are only so many great gift ideas to go around. I wonder if my dad would like a Bidet...

Now that we're all just coming off the whole post-Thanksgiving "Black Friday" thing, let's pause to think about that news story I showed you. Sure the holiday shopping rush is stressful and not all that fun, but just think: it could be your last.

Guys, a dude died at Wal-Mart. He DIED, because people are fucking nuts about getting a deal. I just... I just can't wrap my mind around wanting ANYTHING at Wal-Mart so badly that I'd:

1. Line up outside Wal-Mart at 9 p.m. the night before the store opened. Yes, people did that.
2. Stampede through the doors when they opened at 5 in the g-damned morning.
   
3. See a worker in my path and actually physically push him to the floor in a selfish, mob-induced frenzy for blocking the cheap-o DVD rack.
4. Proceed to step on his head/stomach/wiener/etc., so as to effect his death.

Talk about bargain hunting! They're rolling back prices, and the people are out for blood.

Thanks Wal-Mart for opening all those extra check-out lanes so my food-stamp-munching, death-trample friends and I can more easily waste our hard-earned factory wages on toys no longer made within the borders of the great nation we claim to love with magnetic ribbon-shaped bumper stickers. So much tacky shit to buy, (apparently) so little time. I like America, but I fuckin' LOVE a deal, man! And I'll kill you to get it.

In fact, according to that article, the Wal-Mart bum-rush wouldn't even stop to allow paramedics to resuscitate the poor, dying man. And in the midst of the unimaginable, hellish chaos, at least three other people were injured.

Seriously. What is wrong with these people. Would Mary and Joseph have tried to kill the Wal-Mart staff on Jesus' 1st birthday to get a better price on swaddling cloth? Me thinketh not.

Everyone, the moral of this story is simple: Let's keep holiday manslaughter to a minimum. Let re-gifting tube socks be the extent of your yuletide misdemeanors. Deals are great, but killing other human beings at Wal-Mart to get them is unforgivable.


*It was those damn delicious cookies.

My Two-Day Vacation From Facebook, or "Let's Cut The Small Talk"

I know more about you than you think.

Creepy, huh? I know, it is. It's creepy that I know you got married three months ago. It's creepy that I've never in fact met your baby, but if I wanted to kidnap her I'd know exactly who to look for. I also know what your apartment looks like, and your beer of choice. I know who's potentially got a crush on you, the names of all your favorite books, and where you're going on vacation. It's fucking creepy, but I know.

I know, because Facebook told me.


Four years ago when Facebook launched, I was staunchly opposed. Why do I need a website to keep in touch with my friends? How does this change any thing. What a dumb idea... A dumb I idea I wish I had thought of.

Of course, back then there wasn't much to do on Facebook. At the beginning, there was no real reason to spend countless hours browsing friends profiles. No deep, insightful, emotional status updates. In fact, when Facebook started friends from high school who wanted to keep in touch did it the old fashioned way: through e-mail. Wasn't that impersonal enough? Sending messages to people on the internets? Anything less than hand-written mail, or a face-to-face encounter seemed entirely too newfangled to me. But, I guess I was wrong. Again. Seems to be a pattern.

Anyway. In light of all the time-sucking Facebook can do, I took a break. Having had quite literally nothing to do for the last few weeks besides walk my dog, go to spin class, and tutor Geometry (oh, the thrilling life I lead!), I found myself spending far too much time on the 'book. Like a drug, or better yet, a cancer, Facebook had encroached on my time, and was eating away at the very embers of my being. I was losing my life to Facebook. When checking an empty email inbox and a pathetically short-changed checking account trickles into 'The Mundane,' Facebook seemed to offer a sort of voeuyristic repreive. A chance to see how my life stacked up to those of my friends. A chance to feel... normal.

Yeah, it didn't work.

Every damn day, someone new got engaged. And then someone else was having another kid. And someone started learning a lot in grad school, or was travelling Europe. And then someone else was working at some super-sweet job, or just bought a house, or worse... was getting married! Good God, was no one sane anymore? Had no one else moved home out of boredom or financial need? AM I THE ONLY ONE ON THIS GODDAMNED JOURNEY TOWARD HAPPINESS?

According to Facebook, I was. So I quit. But as you can see, it didn't last.

Yes, I'm a little disappointed with myself. I thought I was stronger. I thought I had what it took to say NO to Facebook. But my will to take a stand has waned, and my desire to poke people and write wall comments expressing my sheer delight at seeing them last night in Folsom took over. Guys, if you thought Lisa Zine was a strong woman, you thought wrong. I may not really keep in touch with you that well, but dammit, I know whats going on in your life. That party you went to last weekend looked like a lot of fun, but you should lay off the booze for awhile. And your baby is growing up so fast! Also, you looked awesome in your wedding dress. Thanks for the invitation. (Bitch). Omg! Just kidding.... Poke!

Granted, I may love poking, but I don't necessarily love Facebook. Some days it makes me feel like I'm on the wrong path, or that my life is a giant bore, or that I should be going to Vegas more often. Other days I'm just glad to know my friends are still alive. But if there's anything to actually love about Facebook is that it really cuts down on the need for small talk at bars.

Let's take last night, for example. We're out at a local bar. We're "catching up," as they used to say in the olden days. The beer's flowing, the chicks are pretty fugly. Life is good. And best of all, as stated above, I already know what's going on with you. Chances are either one of us could spout off a few unimportant details about where we are and what we're doing, and it wouldn't be news to either of us. And isn't that awesome? In so many instances I was able to cut through the bullshit and right to the good stuff: "So ___ has gained weight, huh? Awesome."

So if Facebook has done this for me, the least I can do is stay loyal to it. It kills me a little bit to know that my sobatical didn't last longer than a few hours (about 48-ish). I'm merely human. And frankly I'm a bored human. But it's Thanksgiving, and the holidays always make me feel warm inside. And so does Facebook, with or without all its demons.

So get ready. Next time I see you, I'll know exactly what you've been up to. And I won't even ask.

Happy Thanksgiving, Facebook Friends.

Poke!

How I Lost Myself to LOST, or Forgive the Trite Analogy But This Show is Like Crack

I did it. I finally caved.

When the gardening is done, the dishes are clean, and the town you're living in is a virtual no-man's land in terms of stimulating activity, one must get creative in the way of entertainment. Well folks, my creativity is waning, and the best I can seem to come up with is God's gift to modern man: TV on DVD.

I started watching LOST.
Ok, I know what you're thinking, because I've thought it myself. WHY? WHY, LISA, DID YOU START WATCHING LOST? Are you really that bored? Has your mind rotted due to over sleeping? Are you actually that interested in joining a cult?

And you know, I can't really answer those questions, because I don't know why I started an innocent experiment that has now become an addiction. It's not that I found LOST, but more like LOST... found me. But at least I'm not totally bummed out about the Olympics being over. I swear, it's like crack with a disc menu.

LOST is more addictive than Pinkberry, and more entertaining than watching lions mate at the zoo. A thousand times more entertaining! I'm hesitant to admit this, but I guess for the sake of how pathetic is, I'll have you know I've spent somewhere around 23 hours over the last four days devouring the entire first season. Now there's no way I could watch lions do anything for 23 hours, much less crave it more and more on a (pretty much) hourly basis.

To my fellow LOST-is-a-ridiculous-trend resistors, I only have this to say: Please, do yourself a favor and swallow your pride. Start drinking the Kool-Aid. I held back for so long that my staunch opposition just, wore away like the sands of time. And perhaps that's why now I'm able to enjoy LOST without guilt, shame, or reservation. The way it was meant to be enjoyed... while you're unemployed.

You wanna know the best thing about watching the show? It's not how dramatic it is, or how badly it makes you want to visit Hawaii. It's not how you feel empowered, nay convinced, at the end of each episode that you'd totally be able to sustain your own life and the lives of 40 other people if stranded on an island and given only a smattering of random supplies. The best thing about LOST is not how it makes you wonder how many strangers you could potentially call friends, nor is it how scared you are to go outside in your backyard at night. No, the best thing about watching LOST is telling other people about how you started watching LOST.

I mean it. And I know this because I experienced the phenomenon last weekend.

Whilst visiting some long LOST friends* in LA (which, let's face it, often feels like an island you can't escape), I was asked frequently by my inquisitive companions just what it is I'm doing with myself now that I've moved home. And instead of getting into the humdrum details of the nothingness that has consumed my every day, I was able to sound delightfully occupied and productive when I mentioned that I had started watching season one of LOST. The show's role in my life, as a stand-in for friends and career advancement, spared me the embarrassment that the truth would have surely forced me to suffer.

By mentioning that I have started watching LOST it is evident to anyone listening that my inner strength has indeed weakened, but said message can be read between the lines. I can save face, while maintaining an air of serenity. Yes, my life is like a party you never want to leave, is what my audience hears. Don't worry about me, friend, I have plenty to do and have learned much about hunting boars in the wild. I'm very well adjusted, and want for nothing. You needn't worry about me. Now go in peace.

Trust me, it's pretty much the best thing ever.

So if you're on the fence about hopping on the bandwagon of the most underrated-overrated show ever, I'd encourage you to just go ahead and bite the bullet. Get in there and get all messy in it. Start from the beginning, and succumb to the obsession. Just because you have stupid friends who like it, it doesn't make you stupid too.

And besides, the worst thing that could happen is you have a few pseudo-thrills and something kind of lame to talk about.


*Get it? Get it?

Moving Home Has Revealed Dark Truths About My Taste or, True Confessions of a Closet Country Fan

Moving home is an emotional experience.

It's an ambiguous mix of sadness, relief, hope, and disbelief. For me it's only been about 8 weeks, but I find myself asking with unnerving regularity questions like, "Did I really move back here?" and, "How long is this going to last?" and, "If I'm not paying rent, where did all my money go?"*

For those of you who haven't moved home or aren't quite sure what I'm talking about, I'd encourage you to stop grinning smugly at your financial independence. Just wait. Your time will come.

But it's not a bad thing. I mean, the temporary retreat from mainstream society has its perks. Not long after making the trek back up north, I realized just how much of my time had been needlessly eaten up by work. Unemployment, under the right circumstances,** can be pretty sweet. It's freed up a lot of my time to do important things like plant a vegetable garden, watch the summer Olympics, and run errands. Boredom can always be remedied with a trip to Target, or an afternoon spent baking, slash, berating myself for being way too young to be acting like a suburban housewife.

All of that's fine, really. But, every silver lining has a cloud blocking it. So if trips to Target is my silver lining, then my cloud is that while I'm driving there, I've started to listen to the radio.

I know! I know! It's terrible, and I'm sorry but I have very few alternatives! I've listen to my CD collection probably twelve times in the last month, and I lack sufficient funds to update it with deep, creative, substantive music. I own zero books on tape, and whether I like it or not (which I don't) there are moments where I just can't stand the silence.

But the really sucky thing is that Sacramento radio stations are worse than stepping on a rusty nail. Sure it sounds dramatic, but I can't think of anything else that gets the point across. Sac radio is worse than... Paying off your credit cards? Drinking flat generic cola? Sitting next to a crying baby on a plane? Losing your little toe at a cock fight?

Scratch that. I'd rather listen to the radio if it meant I'd never have to hear the death-cries of a baby on a plane. Crying babies are the worst.

But I think you get my point. The radio around these here parts eats shit, so it's no small wonder I've been forced to seek creative solutions to this frequency deficiency problem.

Solutions like... listening to Country.

(Oh God, I may have just lost half my readers.)

Whatever. I'm admitting it right here, right now, out loud.

Throughout my formative years, like any kid I went in and out of various musical phases. One phase lasted for several months in which I just about worshiped Sarah McLachlan (I was eleven, sue me). Then there was another phase where I "discovered" punk and started wearing All Stars. Luckily, I survived both.

Following the McLachlan phase, I became a slave to peer acceptance, and shackled with the chains of conformity I was unable to indulge in my appreciation for country music. Unless I wanted to face inevitable public shaming and ostracizing from my already chilly classmates, I was wise to ignore the tender place in my heart for songs revering Chevy Pick-ups or those reproaching abusive boyfriends. Maybe it's all the Crystal Light I've been drinking, or the excessive lounging around that has led to the regrettable demise of my good taste, but I can't help it. I wish I could stop, but I keep finding myself tuning into the country radio station, singing along to songs like "Jesus Take The Wheel," aloud in my kitchen while I bake cobbler. I may be damn near unrecognizable to my friends, to hell with it, I live at home now and that opens the door to real life honesty even I can't fully understand. So I don't give a crap anymore.

Judge me not, friends. Moving home is a big change, and a difficult one at that. So a person is forced to find comfort in even the darkest of places. And for me, 101.9 FM "The Wolf" is that dark place. But you know what? It feels good. It's unabashedly cheesy, and it makes me proud to be an American. I actually kind of like country music, and if that bothers you I couldn't possibly care less.

So feel free to join me in my kitchen anytime.

Sing loudly enough and I might give you half of my next cobbler.


*I think it has mostly gone towards gas and frozen yogurt runs.

**Thanks Mom and Dad, for not considering me a complete failure.

Loving the Olympics Makes Me Hate Myself, or I Get the Gold Medal for Mid-20s Angst

Despite what my box of Cheerios tells me, I am not an Olympic Champion.

Neither is this guy.

When I was 9 years old I took gymnastics lessons. For six months I tumbled. I cart-wheeled. I jumped on a trampoline. And while the other girls in my level (they called it Basic A), all quickly mastered the fundamentals, I was left behind in the proverbial dust, unable to complete a back walkover.

I quit gymnastics before ever moving up to Level 1.

Sure, at the time it was disappointing, but at that point in my life, the future was full of possibility. When my dream of Gymnastic Gold died on the balance beam (scariest shit ever) alongside my confidence, I was still just a young woman of 9 years. Although at that age I could have competed for China, I chalked my failure up to experience and moved on to my next endeavor. It was probably swim team, or dance or something else I was terrible at.

Which I guess brings me to my next point:

I like watching the Olympics, but I know not why.

It's likely that my Olympic fascination centers around the abundance of shirtless men, all at the peak of their physical fitness.* I mean, at the end of the day (and even at the beginning) I am a girl, after all. Perhaps the Olympic games are really just about satiating my carnal appetite without watching porn...

But I doubt that.

I like the national pride that comes with winning medals. I like the cheesy national anthem playing as my new favorite competitor takes the podium (kind of, I also think the medals ceremonies are a bit long and uncomfortable/unfun to watch). And I like that events are featured that I'd normally never ever think to watch on ESPN because I loathe ESPN and wouldn't watch anything on that channel anyway.

Swimming, for example, is really only fun to watch when it's Olympic swimming. Hurdling is only fun to watch when it's Olympic hurdling. Same goes for water polo, fencing, gymnastics, and a barrage of other sports that are only entertaining when the competition is for "The Gold."

I like that the Olympics count for something. Like Pride. Glory. And Kicking the rest of the world's ass on a global stage without using guns or bombs or WMDs. The world remembers for years what you did as an Olympic athlete. Your accomplishments are called "historic," and "unbelievable," and you set records and stuff. It means something. Unlike the NBA, or the NFL or any number of professional sports leagues, the Olympics has an air about it that makes it feel more legit. You could pay me $10 million dollars to play professional basketball, and sure I'll work hard because I'm being paid $10 million dollars. But it's the Olympians** who have the real heart, the real balls to get up every morning and train. When the game is over and a team has that look of profound joy and relief and disbelief on their faces, it's just really cool to watch. It sounds goofy, but I love that shit.

But, in spite of all the rock hard abs and national pride and feel-good crap, I can't help but find the Olympics more than a little depressing.

Recall the pathetic story I told you about me as an incapable 9 year old. Take that same girl and fast forward 13 years, and sure you've got a modest list of accomplishments, but not one of them comes close to achieving an "Olympic Dream." Not one of them even comes close to qualifying for the Olympic qualifiers.

Those gymnasts are freaking young! I mean, at 16 I was proud of myself for things like getting an A on an Algebra II test, or not getting into a car accident during my first year of being a licensed driver. If I didn't feel bad about my thighs, or my hair looked good for more than 6 hours, that was a good day! My mind at that point could barely wrap itself around surviving high school, much less concept of Olympic destiny, or anything even remotely like it for that matter.

So when I say it's depressing to watch the Olympics I don't really mean that I get thoughts of loneliness or hopelessness while watching. I don't want to stay in my pajamas and mope around the house in the dark all day long. I wouldn't rather be watching soap operas. I just wish I had a little more to show for my 23 years. If those little non-menstruating girls can go home Olympic champions, and if Michael Phelps can win 100 Gold Medals before the age of 24, I'd just like to be able to sit in the same room with those kids and not feel totally inadequate.

And I'd be remiss to say I wasn't totally jealous of all the attention. Damn straight I'm jealous. The glitz and glamour of being a world-class athlete would be totally awesome and intoxicating. I'd deal with the stress just fine if I knew I could give a shout out to my mom on international television at the end when I raked in another win.

The Olympics are cool. But they lure me into the danger of thinking that I should have peaked by now. I'm 23 and I just moved home to the most boring place on earth to coach junior high volleyball and substitute teach in order to work myself out of debt. I have maybe 4 friends within 10 miles, and I planted a failing vegetable garden to keep myself busy.

If this is the top of my game, there's not a whole lot of room to fall.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Hi, Mom.



*This was Tommy's observation. But I mean, really. Even I'll jump on the Michael Phelps bandwagon despite its being totally overplayed in the media.





** Obviously I'm completely dismissing Olympic sports that allow pro-athletes to play. Kobe Bryant shouldn't be an Olympian. I kind of think it's bullshit.

Too Many Chicks In One Room Is Not A Good Idea, or "Sex and the City," Yikes.

Women, in mass quantities, could feasibly end the world.

I say this, because I had the supremely disturbing experience of going to see "Sex and the City" on opening night last weekend. It was pink. It was loud. It smelled like a perfume counter.

And it renewed my faith in Men.

Like most women between the ages of 18 and 40 (maybe 1 and 100?), I enjoy the HBO series "Sex and the City." It took me and my dear friend Kristin 6 months to watch all bajillion episodes last year, and now that I've had the oddly pleasurable experience of watching the last two-and-a-half hour episode, er, movie, I can say I've seen it all. And I can add to that that in all honesty, despite the ration of shit I have gotten from my male associates, it was enjoyable.

For the most part.

Maybe it's because it was opening night (worst idea ever), or maybe because it's the only movie of the summer targeted specifically at women ("Iron Man" could count, because Robert Downey, Jr. is very much back on his game, but not for purposes of my argument), or maybe because I'll always be skeptical of Other Women who aren't my proven, trusted friends, but going to see this movie can only be described as an utterly bizarre, rude awakening as to how women across the country behave and what they must be thinking.

I'll break it down into several phases:

Phase I: Standing In Line

Naturally, on opening night of virtually any anticipated film there will be a line. But the line for "Sex and the City" stands in a category all by itself. I got there almost an hour early, and waited and watched as hundreds (literally hundreds, it was so scary!) of women lined up behind me, all giddy and eager, all with the same look of hopeful desperation on their faces, as if they'd all been waiting three years for an orgasm that never...quite...came. In groups of four, sometimes five or six (any more than four is sooo passe), they chatted, and giggled, and often full-on squawked. Many tried way too hard to look "the part" with fancy heels and flashy couture. Others had horrifically large collagen-filled lips and Botox-deadened eyebrows. And there was more pink in that line than I've ever seen in one place. The group of chicks in front of us had even fashioned these horrendous shirts earlier that day.

An explosion at a nearby Amoxicillin factory would have made more sense. As it was, the sickening pink obsession happening in that line was more than this girl could handle.

Phase II: Being Herded Into The Theater Like Cows to the Slaughter

Eating beef on occasion does not imply that I would ever enjoy being part of a cattle drive, but as the doors opened to the theater, I had no say in the matter and was reduced just another piece of dress-wearing meat. Luckily my friends and I were at the front of the line and thus able to avoid the absurdity of cat-fighting our way into a row of seats next to each other. Equally lucky was I to witness said absurdity. As the bitches flooded in, it was nothing short of a shit-show battle for chairs. It's baffling how inclined to fight "the fairer sex" can be. Sure, women are generally more inclined to share (it's a quality we have a natural tendency to adopt as children), but for some reason all efforts to "be nice" disappear when really important stuff is on the line. Really important stuff like a perfectly unobstructed view of all the totally awesome outfits Carrie Bradshaw wears in the most totally awesome city in alllll the land, New York.* Look out ladies, there are other, more vicious women around, and they will verbally smack you down if you insist on saving seats.

Phase III: The Crazy-ass Fucking Screaming During The Opening Credits

Yeah. So the theme song came on, and it was mayhem. So much screaming.


Phase IV: Watching The Movie and Feeling Like A Soulless Vacuum For Not Crying

So much dramatic stuff happened, it was almost laughable (to me). For everyone else it was apparently quite cryable. I mean, I see how trying to wrap up a nearly 10-year series with a loyal (almost overly-so) audience in less than 2 hours could be difficult, so I applaud the writers' efforts to cram in a plausible narrative storyline in with years and years of background. But some of the emotional stunts they pull are just silly. They're designed to get you to cry, and then to laugh, and then to cry again... those bastards. I see right through their dirty tricks! Dammit if I'll be turning on the waterworks when those fab-four shove their ludicrously expensive wardrobes and their enviable luxury lifestyles in my face while I get ready to leave my pointless job and move home.

All in all, the movie itself was...well, fun I guess. It was mostly predictable, but Carrie changes her hair color at one point, so I guess it was a little unpredictable, too. I enjoyed seeing the characters for one last hurrah, and I'm not "unglad" that I went. There are things in life I'm not proud of, but that's no reason to hide them in a shoe box on a shelf in my retardedly huge, custom designed closet.** But similar to radiation from an atom bomb, the estrogen fall-out from that movie theater will probably be enough to give me PMS for a month.

...and it might even destroy the world.


*What? Don't act like you didn't know.
**That's a loose reference to the movie, if you haven't, or don't plan to see it.

The Apparent Nightmare of Working Motherhood, or, "I Can Teach My Kids Spanish By Myself, Thank you Very Much"

This entry is all about advice I'm not qualified to give.

First piece of advice: Avoid Credit Card Debt.

Second piece of advice: Don't Bitch To Me About Your Nanny.

If you count a degree in Communications something real and/or of value, then you can call me a college educated, reasonably intelligent person. I realize that there are issues out there in the world on which people have varying opinions. Some opinions are stronger, some are weaker, and although I am a woman, I too have a point of view that some egalitarian societies would consider valid. While I generally tend to veer away from divisive issues because I want everyone to like me, this is a safe place where women are free, so I think it's OK for me to blog my mind. I'm a grown up now (not really), and after seeing the poster enough times I realize that being right is not always popular, and being popular is not always right. Or whatever.*


Don't worry, I'm not going to write about abortion or the death penalty or gay marriage or states' rights. Let's be honest, I have reached a certain level of cyber-popularity,** and now that I have an online reputation to maintain I'd rather not stir up any shit in my posted comments section lest I risk losing any one of my 4-7 readers.

Plus you already figured out that this entry is about Nannies, so you know it's not going to be that outrageous. This isn't Berkeley. And I'm not some fanatic (Berkeley is the only place you can find fanatics these days). So let's get started...

Face the facts, reader: Nannies are the new Mommies.

It's true. The times they are a'changin', and what was once commonplace, over time becomes passe.

Green Tea is the new Coffee.
Quitting Jobs and Moving Home is the new Hard Work.
Hooking up is the new Going Steady.

Nannies are the new Mommies.

Granted, the notion of "A Village" raising "A Child" is not an entirely new thing. Maternal Expert and Presidential Hopeful, Hilary Rodham Clinton, even went so far as to write a book on this very subject! One I don't plan on reading. But even before Hilary, it was supposedly an African proverb (however, the truth of that statement has not yet been verified by Wikipedia, but I trust 90% of what they say 90% of the time).

Apparently we have a lot to learn from Africa. And from Hilary Clinton.


Or do they have a lot to learn from me? Because I'm pretty sure that regardless of the truth in the idea that a child's community and society are very much influential components of that child's upbringing, I'm also pretty sure that Parents raise Children. Call me old fashioned, but I'm almost positive I'm right.

The way I learned it was: Parents get drunk... Parents conceive child... Parents give birth to child... Parents raise child. It makes sense to me, but my un-hipness is more apparent by the minute, because from what I can see, even this simple formula has become passe.

Why? You ask.

Because I hear a lot about Nannies. Specifically bitching about Nannies.

A woman I work with recently had twins and until she hired a new one, she was always bitching about her nanny. Ok, so twins have got to be a massive handful for a new mom. Zero to sixty in nine months. I get it. Taking care of one baby is enough of a handful, so naturally two babies would be very overwhelming for anyone... including a Nanny, right?

Maybe I'm really anti-nanny because I don't make enough money at present to justify getting one. If I had a kid, it'd be just as expensive for me to employ someone to raise it while I went to work as it would be to not work at all. Perhaps if I was actually realizing my earning potential, I'd be more inclined to hire a Spanish-speaking mother for my children. But likely not.

Lady, if you want your babies to be held a certain way, or fed at a certain time, or to acknowledge you as their primary caretaker, you should stop bitching all day about your nanny and either train her to be JUST LIKE YOU, or quit your job and RAISE YOUR CHILDREN.

I didn't hire anyone to do my homework for me in high school. I didn't hire anyone to do my job for me at work. And I don't plan on hiring a pinch-runner-nanny to raise my kids for me.


Mostly because I hate working.



*Note that I am actually too lazy to re-arrange the verbiage of that phrase, and would rather just insert a footnote.

**Also, it is un-confirmable.

"Misery Loves (working for a) Company, or "I Quit My Job Again, Please Don't Be Shocked."

I quit my job again.

Surprise, surprise.

I didn't last too long at this one, either. Last fall I quit my first job. Here we are, in the dead of Springtime, and already I've quit my second job. They say (and They are always right) that the average person makes an average of seven career changes over the course of their average lifetime. Well, I guess if I was Average I'd have five more chances to get my shit together and amass my fortune.

But I'm not average. Am I.

Nope. I consider myself to be quite un-average, and in some cases even above average. It was true when it came to my BMI as a 9 year old. It was true when I took the SAT II Writing Exam (I am brilliant, clearly), and it is especially true now as I explore the very awful, unfriendly, and disconcerting world of Work. You don't believe me, perhaps, but I am something of a phenom when it comes to Working. Allow me to explain...

Regarding my experience in the workforce, my contributions are nothing short of astounding, and my potential to be an Outstanding Employee has only been overshadowed by my potential to be a Disgruntled Employee. In the last year, I have discovered that I have what some people might call "Extraordinary Abilities."

For example, I have the extraordinary ability to start showing up late once I have decided I am going to quit. And in fact today, having quit early last week and sensing the end of my tenure nearing, I left for two hours at lunch without remorse, nor regret. No one seemed to notice or care and I received all of ONE email over that span of time. So now that I have established this precedent, I will most likely not rush back to the office on my next much anticipated lunchtime voyage to the Northridge Trader Joe's.

Another example: I also have the extraordinary ability to take simple tasks that would take an "average" worker a few hours and stretch them out over the course of a workweek, thus achieving the two-fold goal of appearing excessively busy throughout the day while successfully using most of my time to chat online, draw nonsense pictures on MS Paint, and click on randomly selected links to Youtube videos that I am sent by people I love and trust - who are also extraordinarily talented workers.*

A third notable sample of my unparalleled, uninspiring on-the-job talent is my ability to manufacture water-tight, non-negotiable excuses to leave. Among those excuses have been: "I'm sorry, but I hate this job, and actually I'm not sorry," and "This is more inconvenient for you than it is for me, but I'm moving, and I won't be taking this job with me." Such exemplary reasons for quitting my job(s) have only come about as a result of my OTHER extraordinary ability to complain about my place of work and the duties I am forced to perform there. Chances are, if you have ever actually talked to me (and the chances are good), you will know just how overly-achieved I am at this (I guess some things never change). I like to list it on my resume under Special Skills. Yes, Future Employer, not only am I bilingual - for someone who looks Mexican I speak some damn good broken Spanish - I will also think of and vocalize to my friends and family a thousand reasons your company sucks, and how upon hiring me the work you'll make me do will drain my soul of its ability to feel.

My list of extraordinary qualifications goes on and on...

But the gist of it is, I quit jobs...like it's my job.

Which makes me think a few things.** The first being, is it possible to be a Serial Employee? We've all heard of Serial Killers and hip, trendy 21st century catch phrases like "Serial Monogamist," so why not Serial Employee? I could make my living by going from job to job, nailing interviews, breezing through training, getting promptly into the swing of things and then lowering the axe - BOOM! BAM! TWO WEEKS BITCHES I QUIT!

If there is a job out there for someone who quit jobs, then I'm definitely a qualified candidate.

"Tell us, Ms. Zine, what was it you did at your last job?"

"Oh, well, I quit my last job. And the job before it."

"Fantastic! You appear to be just what we're looking for. We'd love to hire you, but we hope you'll leave soon."

Only in a perfect world...

Let the blog-record show that I have indeed quit my job and will be moving to Northern California sometime this summer. Instead of two weeks, I gave them two months. And while I have never used the excuse, "I hate this job," I really do hate working.



*We should form a League, and call it The League of Extraordinary Workers. Who's with me?!

** I have a very active mind, despite its being numbed by hours of mundane, drawn-out tasks.