I assume that I'm not alone in proclaiming that I've never been involved in an international adoption before. In fact, I'm probably not alone in proclaiming that I've never been involved in a domestic adoption before; let's face it, adoption doesn't happen so often that we're all experts. However, on September 29th, my new nephew arrived from Korea and I experienced first hand the lunacy that comes with the arrival of a 13-month old child.
First of all, why the hell would the agency only give the expectant parents notice 48 hours before the baby arrives? I don't know if this is actually the norm for all cases, but giving parents a picture of their child in February, telling them you don't know when their child will be coming home and then giving them two-days notice 9 months later is akin to Wil E. Coyote lighting the fuse on a crate of TNT. You light the fuse. You run behind a rock, plug your ears and think of how delicious flame-broiled Road Runner is going to be. Nothing happens. You sit up inquisitively. You think "How much longer?" You get frustrated. You walk out and stare at the TNT, arms akimbo while impatiently tapping your foot and scowling. And then it explodes in your face.
After the explosion, the immediate aftermath becomes a flurry of activity ranging from baby-proofing, to crib-building, to clothes-buying, the whole time staving off a deadly combination of blind panic and crippling nausea. Family and friends arrive in droves to help, and they are approximately 75% successful, the other 25% of the time offering well-meaning but ill-timed advice on your upcoming blessing.
Once the parents have successfully completed almost a quarter of what they wanted to get done, the day arrives. The agency has said that the baby might need time to adjust, so no one is allowed to visit the new family for a few weeks; instead everyone can go meet him at the airport, since he'll be so overwhelmed by the 15 hour flight that a few dozen more strangers cooing over him won't really cause any more of a meltdown than the one that is already going on. This means that the number of people to greet the baby balloons from two to the low twenties very quickly.
I've only been in a hospital for one birth, and while it wasn't the Waldorf Astoria, there was at least an attempt to make the room comfortable for the family. When greeting an international adoptee, one goes to baggage claim. An anxious group of caucasians eagerly staring at every person exiting customs into the baggage claim area is enough to draw a few odd looks from passengers. Even more scary is what happens when a person exits the plane with a baby that is actually their own; the baby is stared at, measured and dismissed while the mother nervously pushes her child through a group of people that are looking at him like he's made out of ham.
Meanwhile, as more and more people exit the plane, everyone becomes more and more tense (granted, it makes sense that getting a baby through international customs would take a while; it took me an hour to get through customs with a case of wine when I was coming back from Rome). The parents are afraid to go to the bathroom for fear of missing the baby's entrance through the gate. People who have nothing to do with the adoption push through the crowd and try to see gate information. Video cameras run out of batteries after 45 minutes of taping strangers appearing from Korean Air's pseudo-birth canal. Told to expect the appearance of the kid at 3 pm, when 4 pm rolls around everyone's anticipation is at fever pitch.
Finally, at 4:15, a Korean couple appears holding a baby. Who is this Korean couple you wonder? Why, they're a pair of enterprising people who have agreed to ferry the child across the world in exchange for a half-price ticket to New York City. They aren't employees of the agency, they might have no experience with children what-so-ever, but for that 15 hours they're solely responsible for keeping the kid alive so he can get home. They walk up to the parents (clearly having seen a picture of them) and happily hand off their son to them; since they don't speak a word of English, they smile awkwardly and are gone so fast it makes one wonder if they ever really existed at all.
So, standing in the luggage claim at JFK Airport, handicapped passengers shoving their way through the crowd, your family expands by one member, who can't be bothered to wake up from his trans-continental nap. And when he does wake up, he looks around and seems to say "Hey, white people," completely unworried about the fact that he's in a new country. His parents, meanwhile, are so keyed up that his mother decides in the first 13 seconds that he's not breathing (he was) and his father has been suffering a brutal attack of the gout in all four extremities for the past 72 hours. And they're worried about the kid.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Kandi Winters: Bachelorette
If you're anything like me, you might every once in a while wonder about the casting process for reality shows. How do they find these people? Can you imagine what the casting notice for Jersey Shore looked like? Anyway, this niggling question came to a head this past month when my friend Lisa's family made the command decision that she should be the next Bachelorette on ABC's reality hit. Mind you, since the Bachelorette is almost always a popular contestant from The Bachelor, what is really needed is to get Lisa on as a contestant, have America fall in love with her, and then have ABC decide to have her as their next lead. Since Lisa is commonly known as not just a hoot-and-a-half but in fact two full hoots, the family figured once she got on the screen America and ABC would fall in line.
I found out about this little plot a bit later on in the process, but must say that I think it's a genius plan. For one thing, having a friend who's a huge reality star would be fun. Also, while I have never watched a single episode of the show, I'm fairly certain that the leading lady's snarky gay friend would probably get some screen time and I need to beef up my resume.
Lisa was willing to go along with the idea, but (fairly) refused to do all of the work. I volunteered to write her application for her, and hurried over to the ABC website. As I wrote her application, it occurred to me how incredibly generic the questions were...it was like writing a college essay. It also occurred to me how misleading the blandness was; these people didn't want a nice contestant! They wanted someone who would make headlines! Well, I filled out Lisa's application, and I must say that I would cast her on the show (remember: two full hoots!). Then, for fun, I decided to fill out an application for a villain on the show. Someone who could become America's crazy while Lisa became their sweetheart...the Alexis to her Krystle. The Veronica Lodge to her Betty Cooper. The Angelina Jolie to her Jennifer Aniston.
Below, please find the application for Lisa's nemesis on The Bachelor:
Name: Kandi Winters
Do you have a valid passport?: I have 3. Do I need one where I'm pictured?
How did you hear about our search?: Miss Cleo pointed the way. And it only took a minor charge of $226.73 on my last phone bill for her to tell me about it!
You currently work: Hard for the money.
Annual salary: Depends on tips.
What is your highest level of education?: My high school had four floors. I had numerous classes on the top level!
Degree(s)?: Way over 98.6, cause this bitch is hot!!
School(s) attended?: For learning? Lots of teachers are clients!
Are you a legal resident of the United States?: Yes. With dual citizenship in Thailand (CRAZY bachelorette party).
Where did you grow up?: I became a woman in the backseat of my high school boyfriend's car. With my high school boyfriend's best friend.
Have you ever been arrested, charged or convicted of a crime?: Yes, yes and no. Never convicted.
If so, please give details and dates: Let's just say I think the police arrest me just so they have a story to tell at the dinner table.
Have you ever had a temporary restraining order issued against you?: Not temporary.
If so, please give details and dates: Kid Rock's a pussy.
Have you ever filed for bankruptcy or Chapter 11?: No, but my ex did after I was done.
If yes, please explain: I took that bug-fucker for every cent he had and left him with the clap.
Have you ever been a performer, participant or contestant on television, radio or film?: Just direct-to-DVD softcore. And my boobs have radically changed since then.
If yes, please explain: ...I took the low-lights to some high-beams. Duh.
Do you drink alcoholic beverages?: Is a clam's ass water-tight?
Have you ever been married?: See above.
If yes, how many times?: Three times. One man.
If you have been married, why are you no longer together?: First time, domestic abuse (female on male). Second time, adultery (couldn't prove it). Third time, gave him the clap (see above).
How long have such marriage(s) been legally dissolved?: Depends on which state you ask. And I'm not entirely clear on the laws in Thailand.
Are you genuinely looking to get married?: Of course, getting married is great! It's marriage that sucks.
Why would you want to find your spouse on our TV show?: Well, I gave Jake Pavelka a spin a few months ago, and the guy's a total butt-pirate. I figure you owe me one.
How many serious relationships have you been in?: 3 marriages, 2 sponsors and a partridge in a pear tree.
What happened to end those relationships?: See above for the marriages. I realized 12-Step Programs are for people who couldn't hold their liquor or are afraid of a mild STD. And I still have my partridge.
What is the unique talent of which you are most proud?: I'm naturally immune to Rohypnol.
Do you have any tattoos? If yes, what and where?: 4. Lower back, arm, back of the neck and left boob. I used to have 5, but I lost one while I was in Thailand (you seriously would not believe this bachelorette party).
What accomplishment are you most proud of?: The most popular drink in Thailand is named after me: the Twisted Winter. It's like a Long Island Iced Tea, but not so watered down.
Why haven't you found the man of your dreams?: I have. As stated above, Kid Rock's a pussy.
Anything else you would like to say?: I feel like this goes without saying, but I have quite a fan-base in Thailand. Is The Bachelor(ette) shown there? Because I feel like I'm capable of giving you a ratings bump in central Asia.
Obviously, if Kandi actually existed she would have been the subject of a reality show already. Most likely on E!, and scheduled as the follow-up to some train wreck reality show like Denise Richards: It's Complicated, or some Kardashian nonsense. That being said, I would really love for Lisa to have a nemesis like Kandi when she becomes a reality star. No one makes America love someone like uniting in hatred. That, after all, is how Dubya got re-elected.
I found out about this little plot a bit later on in the process, but must say that I think it's a genius plan. For one thing, having a friend who's a huge reality star would be fun. Also, while I have never watched a single episode of the show, I'm fairly certain that the leading lady's snarky gay friend would probably get some screen time and I need to beef up my resume.
Lisa was willing to go along with the idea, but (fairly) refused to do all of the work. I volunteered to write her application for her, and hurried over to the ABC website. As I wrote her application, it occurred to me how incredibly generic the questions were...it was like writing a college essay. It also occurred to me how misleading the blandness was; these people didn't want a nice contestant! They wanted someone who would make headlines! Well, I filled out Lisa's application, and I must say that I would cast her on the show (remember: two full hoots!). Then, for fun, I decided to fill out an application for a villain on the show. Someone who could become America's crazy while Lisa became their sweetheart...the Alexis to her Krystle. The Veronica Lodge to her Betty Cooper. The Angelina Jolie to her Jennifer Aniston.
Below, please find the application for Lisa's nemesis on The Bachelor:
Name: Kandi Winters
Do you have a valid passport?: I have 3. Do I need one where I'm pictured?
How did you hear about our search?: Miss Cleo pointed the way. And it only took a minor charge of $226.73 on my last phone bill for her to tell me about it!
You currently work: Hard for the money.
Annual salary: Depends on tips.
What is your highest level of education?: My high school had four floors. I had numerous classes on the top level!
Degree(s)?: Way over 98.6, cause this bitch is hot!!
School(s) attended?: For learning? Lots of teachers are clients!
Are you a legal resident of the United States?: Yes. With dual citizenship in Thailand (CRAZY bachelorette party).
Where did you grow up?: I became a woman in the backseat of my high school boyfriend's car. With my high school boyfriend's best friend.
Have you ever been arrested, charged or convicted of a crime?: Yes, yes and no. Never convicted.
If so, please give details and dates: Let's just say I think the police arrest me just so they have a story to tell at the dinner table.
Have you ever had a temporary restraining order issued against you?: Not temporary.
If so, please give details and dates: Kid Rock's a pussy.
Have you ever filed for bankruptcy or Chapter 11?: No, but my ex did after I was done.
If yes, please explain: I took that bug-fucker for every cent he had and left him with the clap.
Have you ever been a performer, participant or contestant on television, radio or film?: Just direct-to-DVD softcore. And my boobs have radically changed since then.
If yes, please explain: ...I took the low-lights to some high-beams. Duh.
Do you drink alcoholic beverages?: Is a clam's ass water-tight?
Have you ever been married?: See above.
If yes, how many times?: Three times. One man.
If you have been married, why are you no longer together?: First time, domestic abuse (female on male). Second time, adultery (couldn't prove it). Third time, gave him the clap (see above).
How long have such marriage(s) been legally dissolved?: Depends on which state you ask. And I'm not entirely clear on the laws in Thailand.
Are you genuinely looking to get married?: Of course, getting married is great! It's marriage that sucks.
Why would you want to find your spouse on our TV show?: Well, I gave Jake Pavelka a spin a few months ago, and the guy's a total butt-pirate. I figure you owe me one.
How many serious relationships have you been in?: 3 marriages, 2 sponsors and a partridge in a pear tree.
What happened to end those relationships?: See above for the marriages. I realized 12-Step Programs are for people who couldn't hold their liquor or are afraid of a mild STD. And I still have my partridge.
What is the unique talent of which you are most proud?: I'm naturally immune to Rohypnol.
Do you have any tattoos? If yes, what and where?: 4. Lower back, arm, back of the neck and left boob. I used to have 5, but I lost one while I was in Thailand (you seriously would not believe this bachelorette party).
What accomplishment are you most proud of?: The most popular drink in Thailand is named after me: the Twisted Winter. It's like a Long Island Iced Tea, but not so watered down.
Why haven't you found the man of your dreams?: I have. As stated above, Kid Rock's a pussy.
Anything else you would like to say?: I feel like this goes without saying, but I have quite a fan-base in Thailand. Is The Bachelor(ette) shown there? Because I feel like I'm capable of giving you a ratings bump in central Asia.
Obviously, if Kandi actually existed she would have been the subject of a reality show already. Most likely on E!, and scheduled as the follow-up to some train wreck reality show like Denise Richards: It's Complicated, or some Kardashian nonsense. That being said, I would really love for Lisa to have a nemesis like Kandi when she becomes a reality star. No one makes America love someone like uniting in hatred. That, after all, is how Dubya got re-elected.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
My Boyfriend, His Ambien and Me
"If you close your eyes, it feels like you're in a room of small little porcelain tigers."
"It's like a candy story in here. Right now you're like chocolate pie."
"Let me cuddle with you...are those your balls?"
It's statements like these, proclaimed with the assurance of Dubya with a "Mission Accomplished" sign behind him, that let me know when my boyfriend has popped an Ambien. Vinay warned me early on that sometimes, when he has sampled his favorite sleep-aid, he does things like write an e-mail which tailed off into nonsense, or decide to reorganize his ramekin collection (yes, he has enough ramekins to qualify as a "collection"). However, I wasn't prepared for the speechifying at 1 AM.
I would like to take this opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I'm not complaining. In fact, I find it so amusing that if I'm feeling blue, I might take to crushing up a pill and sprinkling it over Vinay's ice cream before we go to bed just to give myself a good chuckle. I hate going to bed depressed.
In any case, not only do I find it amusing, Vinay only makes it worse when he acts insulted in the face of my glee. As I frantically type direct quotes into my phone, he calls me out for being mean, or tries to tackle me back into the bed. He's usually coherent enough to realize that I'm laughing at him, but not enough to stop the deliciously hazy bon mots from tumbling out of his mouth.
"They're trying to keep me off the team!" he once spouted.
"Who is?" I asked innocently.
"Those BITCHES!" he snarled.
Cue the boneless collapse, face-down into one pillow, while I attempt to smother my hysterics with the other. Please insert the "pillow-biting" joke of your choice here.
My relationship with other people on substances that I'm haven't partaken of is something I first encountered in college. I can remember when people would walk into acting class clutching their morning coffee to them like a frightened mother, and thinking "Man I wish I didn't hate coffee so much. They look so happy together!" I would periodically try coffee, and could never wrap my head around people's love of it. In fact, I've never really understood the idea of an "acquired taste" on a basic level. How does one acquire a taste? I personally think that salmon tastes like unwashed gym socks with a piscine twist...I don't foresee a time in the future where I will magically become enamored of the vile stuff.
As jealous as I was of coffee-lovers, I've still not really developed a relationship with it. Sure, when Starbucks started putting out those delicious blended frappuccinos I acted like a tween at a Justin Bieber concert, but we all know that those things are way more milk shake than coffee. And who doesn't love a milk shake? Particularly when they come with the extra on the side, and just send the calorie count beyond anything even remotely justifiable, becoming a delicious way to completely destroy the benefits of any gym visits you may or may not have made in the preceding days. With a dollop of whip cream on top. But I digress.
Coffee isn't the only substance I see people enjoying that I've never grown to love. In fact, I've never even tried a cigarette. I've never smoked up, or out, or whatever the hell the proper terminology is. In fact, looking back, I've missed a lot of opportunities to make bad decisions with mind-altering substances. I blame the movie Straight Up, which is completely unrelated to the Paula Abdul hit, I was forced to watch in middle-school health class. Starring future homo Chad Allen, the movie depicted a young lad who travels to magical land via something called The Fate Elevator, where he encounters anthropomorphized versions of different drugs like marijuana and cocaine. The Fate Elevator is manned by Louis Gossett Jr., who sings a song whose lyrics I remember to this day ("Take the elevator up...and close the gate! This is the ride that will decide your fate!") while wearing what appears to be a a cast-off costume from a high school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. He gives Chad a magical headband to protect him from all the different drugs, and it's usually at this point when I tell people about this that they start to really think I'm making it up. While I'm flattered that my imagination is given such respect, I promise you that I'm not. If right-wingers ever got a hold of this film, they could mount a credible case that you can actually identify the moment that turns Chad Allen gay: I, personally, think it's when Booze and Miss Pot perform a screeching duet entitled "Give Me That Headband," though I suppose the a case could be made for it being right as Louis Gossett Jr. starts to get him dancing in the elevator. This classic VHS is available for buy at Amazon.com. I just checked.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that after all these years of clean living, I'm truly tempted to take an Ambien and see what hallucinating is like. After all the amusement I've gotten from him, Vinay probably deserves getting to listen to me ramble on for a few minutes about things that make no sense.
"I see a village of houses. They have green roofs, and the normal ones are moving like they're on a train."
"What do you mean 'the normal ones'?"
"We're in a bird apiary!"
"Isn't an apiary for bees?"
"That's why I said it was for BIRDS."
"Ah. Of course."
"PARROTS."
I mean, you can't write this shit.
"It's like a candy story in here. Right now you're like chocolate pie."
"Let me cuddle with you...are those your balls?"
It's statements like these, proclaimed with the assurance of Dubya with a "Mission Accomplished" sign behind him, that let me know when my boyfriend has popped an Ambien. Vinay warned me early on that sometimes, when he has sampled his favorite sleep-aid, he does things like write an e-mail which tailed off into nonsense, or decide to reorganize his ramekin collection (yes, he has enough ramekins to qualify as a "collection"). However, I wasn't prepared for the speechifying at 1 AM.
I would like to take this opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I'm not complaining. In fact, I find it so amusing that if I'm feeling blue, I might take to crushing up a pill and sprinkling it over Vinay's ice cream before we go to bed just to give myself a good chuckle. I hate going to bed depressed.
In any case, not only do I find it amusing, Vinay only makes it worse when he acts insulted in the face of my glee. As I frantically type direct quotes into my phone, he calls me out for being mean, or tries to tackle me back into the bed. He's usually coherent enough to realize that I'm laughing at him, but not enough to stop the deliciously hazy bon mots from tumbling out of his mouth.
"They're trying to keep me off the team!" he once spouted.
"Who is?" I asked innocently.
"Those BITCHES!" he snarled.
Cue the boneless collapse, face-down into one pillow, while I attempt to smother my hysterics with the other. Please insert the "pillow-biting" joke of your choice here.
My relationship with other people on substances that I'm haven't partaken of is something I first encountered in college. I can remember when people would walk into acting class clutching their morning coffee to them like a frightened mother, and thinking "Man I wish I didn't hate coffee so much. They look so happy together!" I would periodically try coffee, and could never wrap my head around people's love of it. In fact, I've never really understood the idea of an "acquired taste" on a basic level. How does one acquire a taste? I personally think that salmon tastes like unwashed gym socks with a piscine twist...I don't foresee a time in the future where I will magically become enamored of the vile stuff.
As jealous as I was of coffee-lovers, I've still not really developed a relationship with it. Sure, when Starbucks started putting out those delicious blended frappuccinos I acted like a tween at a Justin Bieber concert, but we all know that those things are way more milk shake than coffee. And who doesn't love a milk shake? Particularly when they come with the extra on the side, and just send the calorie count beyond anything even remotely justifiable, becoming a delicious way to completely destroy the benefits of any gym visits you may or may not have made in the preceding days. With a dollop of whip cream on top. But I digress.
Coffee isn't the only substance I see people enjoying that I've never grown to love. In fact, I've never even tried a cigarette. I've never smoked up, or out, or whatever the hell the proper terminology is. In fact, looking back, I've missed a lot of opportunities to make bad decisions with mind-altering substances. I blame the movie Straight Up, which is completely unrelated to the Paula Abdul hit, I was forced to watch in middle-school health class. Starring future homo Chad Allen, the movie depicted a young lad who travels to magical land via something called The Fate Elevator, where he encounters anthropomorphized versions of different drugs like marijuana and cocaine. The Fate Elevator is manned by Louis Gossett Jr., who sings a song whose lyrics I remember to this day ("Take the elevator up...and close the gate! This is the ride that will decide your fate!") while wearing what appears to be a a cast-off costume from a high school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. He gives Chad a magical headband to protect him from all the different drugs, and it's usually at this point when I tell people about this that they start to really think I'm making it up. While I'm flattered that my imagination is given such respect, I promise you that I'm not. If right-wingers ever got a hold of this film, they could mount a credible case that you can actually identify the moment that turns Chad Allen gay: I, personally, think it's when Booze and Miss Pot perform a screeching duet entitled "Give Me That Headband," though I suppose the a case could be made for it being right as Louis Gossett Jr. starts to get him dancing in the elevator. This classic VHS is available for buy at Amazon.com. I just checked.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that after all these years of clean living, I'm truly tempted to take an Ambien and see what hallucinating is like. After all the amusement I've gotten from him, Vinay probably deserves getting to listen to me ramble on for a few minutes about things that make no sense.
"I see a village of houses. They have green roofs, and the normal ones are moving like they're on a train."
"What do you mean 'the normal ones'?"
"We're in a bird apiary!"
"Isn't an apiary for bees?"
"That's why I said it was for BIRDS."
"Ah. Of course."
"PARROTS."
I mean, you can't write this shit.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Zen and the Art of (Not) Getting Fired
So I turned 30 this month. That probably means that this post should be all about how my youth is slipping through my fingers, and that I can feel the cold touch of death causing the hairs on my neck stand on end, but frankly, I kind of enjoyed turning the big 3-0. There was a fantastic party, and Adam and Josh flew a total of 6,000 miles between them to be there, which is approximately (on a scale of 1 to 10) how happy I was to see those two California defectors. However, if you weren't there I don't want to make you jealous by describing it in detail; suffice it to say that if I can ever successfully upload it to Facebook, there is a three-and-a-half minute performance of "Proud Mary" that I think would do Tina...well, proud.
Moving on, far more delicious is my continued quest to get canned from the hotel. This is not only my fondest wish, but has now spread to my entire department; we're currently working at approximately 30% efficiency, and regularly leaving our shifts one to two hours early. We're on the carousel of life, and we keep trying to grab that big brass ring called unemployment and missing it by inches. As I'm sure everyone knows, you can't just quit to get unemployment, you need to be fired. And you need to be fired in such a way that your employer can't claim just cause. This leads to a lot of passive resistance when one is looking to get the axe; you can't do something that you would really want to do, like urinate on the germophobic GM's desk after-hours or hauling off and kicking the slutty HR director square in the baby-maker. As satisfying as these things may be, they won't result in a weekly check from the government. Instead, you have to walk the tightrope of irritating everybody to the point of blind fury, but never, ever do anything that could actually be considered a fire-able offense. It reminds me of the way that my father can walk into the kitchen and get my mother to throw him out in about 15 seconds flat by doing almost nothing. The man is an artist.
Luckily, when trying to find an angle to do something like this, we felt we had an advantage: the rampant stupidity of the people we were trying to hose. They provided us with what we felt was a perfect opportunity, the details of which I won't get into here. Let me just say they wanted us to sign something that basically had us relinquish our right to be paid out our vacation time if we resign or were fired with cause. We felt that we shouldn't have to sign it, as our vacation time is earned; they bullied the rest of their employees into signing and we prepared to make a stand. The air in the department was thick with the stench of opportunity; the promise of a summer spent unemployed lounging on the beach was dangling in front of our collective faces like the proverbial carrot, and we were all showing just a touch of drool at the side of our mouths. We could taste victory...and we liked the flavor.
Once, they asked us to sign. We quietly ignored them. Again, they asked. Again, we ignored. They threatened our boss, and told him that he had to get us to sign it. We responded with a letter saying that we wouldn't be signing, and that they should leave our boss out of it. They called a meeting with all of us together. We calmly said that they could do whatever they wanted to us, but we weren't signing the policy. At this point, the executive office was abuzz with frustration. The useless HR Director called us up to her office to plead with us to sign it, frantic that she was going to catch hell for allowing it to get as far as it did. The gnome-like General Manager stalked around the hotel spouted off ridiculous statements like "There's an INSURRECTION in Reservations!!" Gleefully, we celebrated in our department, sure in our knowledge that we had them cornered. They couldn't NOT fire us after forcing the hands of every other employee in the hotel, and we were certain we had poked the sleeping lion enough that the GM wouldn't care if firing us would probably bring the whole operation crashing down; his pride and temper would take care of that. And when our unemployment claims went through, he could spend his time in his office chewing on his own liver.
Alas, we celebrated too soon. Somehow, someway, someone on the executive committee realized that they couldn't make us sign anything...I suspect one of those gibbering idiots finally called an attorney, who said something along the lines of "What are you, a complete fucking moron!?" Ultimately, we received a letter from the HR Director stating that even though we refused to sign the memo, we were still subject to the policy. That was that. There was no going down in a blaze of glory. No final middle finger to throw as we were escorted out of the hotel. The fact that, ultimately, we had won the argument was cold comfort indeed.
As Icarus taught us, when one flies too close to the sun, the fall from grace is tragic. In fact, if given the opportunity, there probably would have been a mass flinging of ourselves into the sea if we could have mustered the strength to get ourselves to the pier. The failure of our grand scheme to elicit a department-wide cleanse has sent us into a downward spiral of ennui, which has (if possible) decreased our production even further. And in the midst of this fog of boredom and soulless monotony, I received the following news:
I'm Employee of the Month.
I'm now going to sign off and repeatedly bang my head on a desk. Scratch that, can't hurt the money-maker. I'm going to sign off and drink heavily. Yes, that sounds better.
Moving on, far more delicious is my continued quest to get canned from the hotel. This is not only my fondest wish, but has now spread to my entire department; we're currently working at approximately 30% efficiency, and regularly leaving our shifts one to two hours early. We're on the carousel of life, and we keep trying to grab that big brass ring called unemployment and missing it by inches. As I'm sure everyone knows, you can't just quit to get unemployment, you need to be fired. And you need to be fired in such a way that your employer can't claim just cause. This leads to a lot of passive resistance when one is looking to get the axe; you can't do something that you would really want to do, like urinate on the germophobic GM's desk after-hours or hauling off and kicking the slutty HR director square in the baby-maker. As satisfying as these things may be, they won't result in a weekly check from the government. Instead, you have to walk the tightrope of irritating everybody to the point of blind fury, but never, ever do anything that could actually be considered a fire-able offense. It reminds me of the way that my father can walk into the kitchen and get my mother to throw him out in about 15 seconds flat by doing almost nothing. The man is an artist.
Luckily, when trying to find an angle to do something like this, we felt we had an advantage: the rampant stupidity of the people we were trying to hose. They provided us with what we felt was a perfect opportunity, the details of which I won't get into here. Let me just say they wanted us to sign something that basically had us relinquish our right to be paid out our vacation time if we resign or were fired with cause. We felt that we shouldn't have to sign it, as our vacation time is earned; they bullied the rest of their employees into signing and we prepared to make a stand. The air in the department was thick with the stench of opportunity; the promise of a summer spent unemployed lounging on the beach was dangling in front of our collective faces like the proverbial carrot, and we were all showing just a touch of drool at the side of our mouths. We could taste victory...and we liked the flavor.
Once, they asked us to sign. We quietly ignored them. Again, they asked. Again, we ignored. They threatened our boss, and told him that he had to get us to sign it. We responded with a letter saying that we wouldn't be signing, and that they should leave our boss out of it. They called a meeting with all of us together. We calmly said that they could do whatever they wanted to us, but we weren't signing the policy. At this point, the executive office was abuzz with frustration. The useless HR Director called us up to her office to plead with us to sign it, frantic that she was going to catch hell for allowing it to get as far as it did. The gnome-like General Manager stalked around the hotel spouted off ridiculous statements like "There's an INSURRECTION in Reservations!!" Gleefully, we celebrated in our department, sure in our knowledge that we had them cornered. They couldn't NOT fire us after forcing the hands of every other employee in the hotel, and we were certain we had poked the sleeping lion enough that the GM wouldn't care if firing us would probably bring the whole operation crashing down; his pride and temper would take care of that. And when our unemployment claims went through, he could spend his time in his office chewing on his own liver.
Alas, we celebrated too soon. Somehow, someway, someone on the executive committee realized that they couldn't make us sign anything...I suspect one of those gibbering idiots finally called an attorney, who said something along the lines of "What are you, a complete fucking moron!?" Ultimately, we received a letter from the HR Director stating that even though we refused to sign the memo, we were still subject to the policy. That was that. There was no going down in a blaze of glory. No final middle finger to throw as we were escorted out of the hotel. The fact that, ultimately, we had won the argument was cold comfort indeed.
As Icarus taught us, when one flies too close to the sun, the fall from grace is tragic. In fact, if given the opportunity, there probably would have been a mass flinging of ourselves into the sea if we could have mustered the strength to get ourselves to the pier. The failure of our grand scheme to elicit a department-wide cleanse has sent us into a downward spiral of ennui, which has (if possible) decreased our production even further. And in the midst of this fog of boredom and soulless monotony, I received the following news:
I'm Employee of the Month.
I'm now going to sign off and repeatedly bang my head on a desk. Scratch that, can't hurt the money-maker. I'm going to sign off and drink heavily. Yes, that sounds better.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Bediquette
There are a lot of rules of behavior floating around that completely baffle me. For instance, I don't understand why an invitation to a wedding obligates me to get a gift for someone if I choose not to go. Isn't the rule that you should buy a wedding gift to make up for the exorbitant amount of money that they've spent on your dinner? Well, they aren't buying me dinner, so I don't see why I should buy them a present. This goes double for any kind of baby or wedding shower, which are (in my somewhat limited experience) black holes for people to just throw money into. However, for all of the rules of etiquette that are useless, there appear to be large areas where there is no established guidelines.
I've been dating Vinay for about three months now. Things are going well, but there is one area where we just can't seem to see eye-to-eye: going to sleep. I first realized that we might be heading for a rocky future when, on one of the first nights we spent together, there was a rainstorm. My reaction was "Hooray!" His reaction was "Ah, crap!" I curled up, happily listening to the rain hit the air conditioner outside...Vinay put in his ear plugs in a vain attempt to drown out same. I routinely hope for rain while I'm trying to sleep...I practically have a Pavlovian response when a thunderstorm hits. "Crack!" goes the thunder, "snore!" goes Paul. Vinay, on the other hand, lives in fear. A drizzle will make him tense. A steady rain is worth a night's sleep. Give him a thunderstorm, and he's speed-dialing the pharmacy in hopes of some Ambien. We've managed to work through this little disparity...though the constant use of noise-deadening ear stoppers has caused some conversations to end with the statement "Take out your ear plugs. TAKEOUTYOUREARPLUGS!!!"
However, while we prefer different levels of white noise while trying to sleep, there are deeper issues that I think Miss Manners might want to weigh in on. For instance, I'm a warm person. I don't mean that I'm friendly to strangers (we all know that's a laugh), I mean that on any given day my body radiates heat at the approximate level of a white dwarf star. This means that a) I have EXTREMELY low tolerance for any kind of added heat around my person, and b) should I be over-heated, it's in all people's best interest to clear the area until I cool off. Hose me down if necessary...get out the hose like I'm going into County, I don't care, just bring an end to the droplets of sweat sliding down my back as fast as possible. Vinay, unfortunately, has a much lower natural temperature. Some people claim that his temperature is more "normal" than mine, but those are probably the people who say inane things like "cold hands, warm heart." More like "cold hands, sub-par circulation, why don't you get some gloves?" But I digress.
Since our internal temperatures don't match we have quite the problem when trying to sleep, which can be boiled down to a simple statement. My boyfriend likes to cuddle and I don't. Vinay would cuddle all night if he could; he's Snuggleupagus. Unfortunately, he had he bad judgment to enter into a relationship with me, and I'm perfectly happy to pretend the person physically closest to me when I'm sleeping is on a separate bed. In Siberia. What are the rules for this dilemma? Surely if someone will tell me that I have a year to send out thank-you notes after a wedding (and, honestly, who came up with that? I call bullshit), someone has thought to address this issue. And yet, I can find no assistance. As for now, Vinay has yielded the fight. Perhaps mainly because he doesn't enjoy going to sleep next to his boyfriend, and waking up next to someone that would probably most closely be described as a nasty, vicious bastard who would shank Mother Teresa for one good blast of air conditioning.
We went to Chicago for a weekend, and our sleeping issues came to a head in the Windy City. Friday night came around, and Vinay had indulged in a bit more wine than I had that night. Hence, when the time came to fall asleep, I was prepared to gently drift off in a red wine-induced haze; Vinay was prepared to pass out in a red wine-induced coma. Cut to about 4 am, when I awoke and needed to use the restroom. However, I had more pressing matters, as I found myself with the top 25% of my body completely off the bed, and my 6-inches-taller-than-me boyfriend sprawled on top of me. I really can't be sure if this was a case of snuggling gone wrong or pure, unadulterated ignorance of my presence, but regardless, it woke me up. When you open your eyes and see nothing but floor in front of your face it's a bit jarring.
I quickly took stock of the situation and realized two things. One, I was completely pinned, and could see no way to free my hands to gain any kind of leverage. And two, when I politely told him to move so I could get back on the bed, he didn't hear me because HE WAS WEARING EAR PLUGS. After letting out a string of curses that probably should have scorched the carpet, I resorted to trying to inch my way back on the bed enough that I could get my hands free and heave my still-dead-asleep beau off of me. I can only imagine that I looked like a turtle flipped onto it's back. A few squirms later, I managed to clear enough mattress to give a good heave, and the sleeping angel flopped over onto his back, giving me enough space to get my full body back on to solid bed. Relieved, I slid backwards and prepared to get up to use the bathroom.
Unfortunately, my slide back was enough to cause a Snuggleupagus attack. Upon contact, his subconscious mind reacted and decided to spoon. One moment I was relieved not be teetering on the edge of a face-plant, the next I was right back where I started, flattened in a precarious position. And I still had to pee. I adjusted my strategy and tried to wiggle forward, out from underneath, and this time had a hand free to keep me from eating floor. Once I got loose, I hoped that Vinay would readjust while I relieved myself. Luckily, when I got back to bed a patch of pillow had opened up and I quickly claimed it, firmly ensconcing myself onto the bed again.
Now, I realize that Vinay is not to blame in this scenario. He was, after all, unconscious. That being said, as anyone who has ever lived with me will tell you, screwing around with my sleep is not the best way to put me into a friendly mood. The following morning, he awoke a bit before I did, and tentatively reached across the de-militarized zone that I requested be kept between us at all costs while asleep. He touched my shoulder and I jerked away from him so violently he probably thought he had electrocuted me. He scooted closer in an attempt to get in a morning snuggle, and I whipped around and faced him in the fetal position. "That's not a good cuddling position..." he offered. "I know!" I snarled back, with all the charm of a rabid wolverine. Understandably a bit bewildered at his reception, he retreated and allowed me to exhaust my morning venom before attempting to speak again.
After I was awake, I explained to him what had happened the night before, all of which was complete news to him. My two valiant struggles for freedom, the cursing, the yelling about earplugs...nothing had registered. Luckily, he has a sense of humor and didn't take my morning impression of a vengeance demon personally. We have a few temporary solutions for our temperature differential, including me sleeping atop the covers while he's underneath, but the basic problem continues. And the question remains...when and where will Snuggleupagus strike again?
I've been dating Vinay for about three months now. Things are going well, but there is one area where we just can't seem to see eye-to-eye: going to sleep. I first realized that we might be heading for a rocky future when, on one of the first nights we spent together, there was a rainstorm. My reaction was "Hooray!" His reaction was "Ah, crap!" I curled up, happily listening to the rain hit the air conditioner outside...Vinay put in his ear plugs in a vain attempt to drown out same. I routinely hope for rain while I'm trying to sleep...I practically have a Pavlovian response when a thunderstorm hits. "Crack!"
However, while we prefer different levels of white noise while trying to sleep, there are deeper issues that I think Miss Manners might want to weigh in on. For instance, I'm a warm person. I don't mean that I'm friendly to strangers (we all know that's a laugh), I mean that on any given day my body radiates heat at the approximate level of a white dwarf star. This means that a) I have EXTREMELY low tolerance for any kind of added heat around my person, and b) should I be over-heated, it's in all people's best interest to clear the area until I cool off. Hose me down if necessary...get out the hose like I'm going into County, I don't care, just bring an end to the droplets of sweat sliding down my back as fast as possible. Vinay, unfortunately, has a much lower natural temperature. Some people claim that his temperature is more "normal" than mine, but those are probably the people who say inane things like "cold hands, warm heart." More like "cold hands, sub-par circulation, why don't you get some gloves?" But I digress.
Since our internal temperatures don't match we have quite the problem when trying to sleep, which can be boiled down to a simple statement. My boyfriend likes to cuddle and I don't. Vinay would cuddle all night if he could; he's Snuggleupagus. Unfortunately, he had he bad judgment to enter into a relationship with me, and I'm perfectly happy to pretend the person physically closest to me when I'm sleeping is on a separate bed. In Siberia. What are the rules for this dilemma? Surely if someone will tell me that I have a year to send out thank-you notes after a wedding (and, honestly, who came up with that? I call bullshit), someone has thought to address this issue. And yet, I can find no assistance. As for now, Vinay has yielded the fight. Perhaps mainly because he doesn't enjoy going to sleep next to his boyfriend, and waking up next to someone that would probably most closely be described as a nasty, vicious bastard who would shank Mother Teresa for one good blast of air conditioning.
We went to Chicago for a weekend, and our sleeping issues came to a head in the Windy City. Friday night came around, and Vinay had indulged in a bit more wine than I had that night. Hence, when the time came to fall asleep, I was prepared to gently drift off in a red wine-induced haze; Vinay was prepared to pass out in a red wine-induced coma. Cut to about 4 am, when I awoke and needed to use the restroom. However, I had more pressing matters, as I found myself with the top 25% of my body completely off the bed, and my 6-inches-taller-than-me boyfriend sprawled on top of me. I really can't be sure if this was a case of snuggling gone wrong or pure, unadulterated ignorance of my presence, but regardless, it woke me up. When you open your eyes and see nothing but floor in front of your face it's a bit jarring.
I quickly took stock of the situation and realized two things. One, I was completely pinned, and could see no way to free my hands to gain any kind of leverage. And two, when I politely told him to move so I could get back on the bed, he didn't hear me because HE WAS WEARING EAR PLUGS. After letting out a string of curses that probably should have scorched the carpet, I resorted to trying to inch my way back on the bed enough that I could get my hands free and heave my still-dead-asleep beau off of me. I can only imagine that I looked like a turtle flipped onto it's back. A few squirms later, I managed to clear enough mattress to give a good heave, and the sleeping angel flopped over onto his back, giving me enough space to get my full body back on to solid bed. Relieved, I slid backwards and prepared to get up to use the bathroom.
Unfortunately, my slide back was enough to cause a Snuggleupagus attack. Upon contact, his subconscious mind reacted and decided to spoon. One moment I was relieved not be teetering on the edge of a face-plant, the next I was right back where I started, flattened in a precarious position. And I still had to pee. I adjusted my strategy and tried to wiggle forward, out from underneath, and this time had a hand free to keep me from eating floor. Once I got loose, I hoped that Vinay would readjust while I relieved myself. Luckily, when I got back to bed a patch of pillow had opened up and I quickly claimed it, firmly ensconcing myself onto the bed again.
Now, I realize that Vinay is not to blame in this scenario. He was, after all, unconscious. That being said, as anyone who has ever lived with me will tell you, screwing around with my sleep is not the best way to put me into a friendly mood. The following morning, he awoke a bit before I did, and tentatively reached across the de-militarized zone that I requested be kept between us at all costs while asleep. He touched my shoulder and I jerked away from him so violently he probably thought he had electrocuted me. He scooted closer in an attempt to get in a morning snuggle, and I whipped around and faced him in the fetal position. "That's not a good cuddling position..." he offered. "I know!" I snarled back, with all the charm of a rabid wolverine. Understandably a bit bewildered at his reception, he retreated and allowed me to exhaust my morning venom before attempting to speak again.
After I was awake, I explained to him what had happened the night before, all of which was complete news to him. My two valiant struggles for freedom, the cursing, the yelling about earplugs...nothing had registered. Luckily, he has a sense of humor and didn't take my morning impression of a vengeance demon personally. We have a few temporary solutions for our temperature differential, including me sleeping atop the covers while he's underneath, but the basic problem continues. And the question remains...when and where will Snuggleupagus strike again?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sharing is Scaring
Many people like to say "sharing is caring." I would like to qualify that statement, because as anyone who's been caught in the middle of a nasty couples' spat can tell you, there is most definitely something as too much sharing. Sharing some things, such as chocolate, wine or money is certainly very caring, while sharing other things such as unsolicited opinions, herpes or religion...not so much. Not every situation is as clear-cut at brownies and STDs, but I for one would really appreciate it if everyone at the work place took a "less is more" stance.
A few weeks ago, it came to my attention that a co-worker had lost her husband. Let's just surge past that uncomfortable moment and get down to specifics: while I have worked in the same hotel as this woman for over three years now, we are in separate departments. Contact is minimal, and the odd conversation usually has a forced congeniality to it, largely because the woman in question is the kind of person who will corner you somewhere to tell you the story of her latest pap smear. So when I heard of her loss, I calmly waited until our path crossed, and expressed my sympathy and hoped against hope that that would be the end of it. Well. It wasn't.
It seems like this poor woman had simply been bursting with the need to unload some gory details about her late spouse on someone, and my innocent offer of condolences was all the permission she needed. A few minutes after we first spoke, I received a phone call, asking if I could help fax some papers for her. I agreed and she appeared in the office in a trice, complaining that the fax machine in her department was malfunctioning. One look at those papers explained the technological issue: they looked like they had been crumpled into a tiny ball and sat on for the last decade. My colleague Melissa helpfully grabbed the papers, and started the extremely long process of trying to make them fax machine workable, which left me to converse with the bereaved.
It took only a moment for the widow to launch into her story. First up was the explanation of what we were faxing: turns out that her stepdaughters had filed an injunction against her two hours after the passing of their father, attempting to keep her from receiving any money. Usually the start of a story like this would be like cat-nip to me, but sitting at work trying to do some very important loafing, it just wasn't striking my fancy. I mumbled some half-interested platitudes, trying to send the loudest "I'm REALLY busy" vibes I could. She was having none of it, and plunged forward. I glanced at Melissa and saw that, at this point, she had only managed to force through the first page of the fax, and was attempting to smooth out another for feeding.
The next little tidbit to be revealed involved the gentleman's ex-wife, who it turns out was a racist who routinely referred to his Jewish second wife as a "k*ke." She decided that after his untimely demise, she wanted his ashes. Racist First Wife offered to take Jewish Second Wife over to the Diamond District and buy her any necklace she wanted with a locket at the end. Then she could put a few of her husband's ashes in that receptacle and Racist First Wife would take the rest. This would be the time for a joke about dangling the Diamond District as the carrot for a Jew, but I think it actually just writes itself. At this point, I could no longer maintain my facade of ennui, and Melissa could no longer act as if nothing of note was going on while she struggled with our ancient fax machine. Hence, we were both fully tuned in for the final act.
It seems that the Evil Stepdaughters swooped in and took over the funeral planning, despite the widow's protestations. Made to feel like a guest at her own husband's funeral, not given the chance to eulogize him, she went home to discover that her stepdaughters had actually claimed that their father wasn't even married to the banks in order to freeze his accounts. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back...despite being the height of awkwardness, I couldn't look away. I fervently wished for a popcorn and a fountain soda (can we all just agree that fountain soda is AWESOME??), because as far as I was concerned this was better than a movie.
Fed up with the treatment she was receiving, our widow decided to play the trump card. Having sat on some information for the past 15 years of marriage, she decided that turnabout was fair play, called up Racist First Wife and calmly informed her that while in his first marriage their mutual husband had maintained a relationship with a black woman, with whom he had produced two sons. A few moments of silence passed. Then pandemonium.
This is the kind of shit that networks save for May sweeps. It's the kind of plot twist that intelligent viewers roll their eyes at, and say "No one actually HAS a second family! That is RIDICULOUS! Jump the shark much?" Only in this case, it's real, and it was happening in front of my face at work. I couldn't even enjoy it anymore, it was just too weird and awkward that I was finding out about it at all. Luckily, Melissa managed to wrestle the final page through the fax machine at that moment, and hurriedly handed over the confirmation. One quick showing of the death certificate later (yes, I've officially seen my first death certificate), and our storyteller was gone as quickly as she arrived, with this final bon mot:
"I've started a Facebook group with his other family, so people can hear! Check it out!"
This is most definitely in the category of sharing too much. It's just a little example, but I think it's safe to say that if your story involves the distribution of a spouse's ashes, the freezing of bank accounts or the revelation of a second family you should probably just keep that to your A-list friends. That way your family secrets won't be splattered all over the internet on a co-worker's blog...unless, of course, you choose to start a Facebook group detailing them.
A few weeks ago, it came to my attention that a co-worker had lost her husband. Let's just surge past that uncomfortable moment and get down to specifics: while I have worked in the same hotel as this woman for over three years now, we are in separate departments. Contact is minimal, and the odd conversation usually has a forced congeniality to it, largely because the woman in question is the kind of person who will corner you somewhere to tell you the story of her latest pap smear. So when I heard of her loss, I calmly waited until our path crossed, and expressed my sympathy and hoped against hope that that would be the end of it. Well. It wasn't.
It seems like this poor woman had simply been bursting with the need to unload some gory details about her late spouse on someone, and my innocent offer of condolences was all the permission she needed. A few minutes after we first spoke, I received a phone call, asking if I could help fax some papers for her. I agreed and she appeared in the office in a trice, complaining that the fax machine in her department was malfunctioning. One look at those papers explained the technological issue: they looked like they had been crumpled into a tiny ball and sat on for the last decade. My colleague Melissa helpfully grabbed the papers, and started the extremely long process of trying to make them fax machine workable, which left me to converse with the bereaved.
It took only a moment for the widow to launch into her story. First up was the explanation of what we were faxing: turns out that her stepdaughters had filed an injunction against her two hours after the passing of their father, attempting to keep her from receiving any money. Usually the start of a story like this would be like cat-nip to me, but sitting at work trying to do some very important loafing, it just wasn't striking my fancy. I mumbled some half-interested platitudes, trying to send the loudest "I'm REALLY busy" vibes I could. She was having none of it, and plunged forward. I glanced at Melissa and saw that, at this point, she had only managed to force through the first page of the fax, and was attempting to smooth out another for feeding.
The next little tidbit to be revealed involved the gentleman's ex-wife, who it turns out was a racist who routinely referred to his Jewish second wife as a "k*ke." She decided that after his untimely demise, she wanted his ashes. Racist First Wife offered to take Jewish Second Wife over to the Diamond District and buy her any necklace she wanted with a locket at the end. Then she could put a few of her husband's ashes in that receptacle and Racist First Wife would take the rest. This would be the time for a joke about dangling the Diamond District as the carrot for a Jew, but I think it actually just writes itself. At this point, I could no longer maintain my facade of ennui, and Melissa could no longer act as if nothing of note was going on while she struggled with our ancient fax machine. Hence, we were both fully tuned in for the final act.
It seems that the Evil Stepdaughters swooped in and took over the funeral planning, despite the widow's protestations. Made to feel like a guest at her own husband's funeral, not given the chance to eulogize him, she went home to discover that her stepdaughters had actually claimed that their father wasn't even married to the banks in order to freeze his accounts. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back...despite being the height of awkwardness, I couldn't look away. I fervently wished for a popcorn and a fountain soda (can we all just agree that fountain soda is AWESOME??), because as far as I was concerned this was better than a movie.
Fed up with the treatment she was receiving, our widow decided to play the trump card. Having sat on some information for the past 15 years of marriage, she decided that turnabout was fair play, called up Racist First Wife and calmly informed her that while in his first marriage their mutual husband had maintained a relationship with a black woman, with whom he had produced two sons. A few moments of silence passed. Then pandemonium.
This is the kind of shit that networks save for May sweeps. It's the kind of plot twist that intelligent viewers roll their eyes at, and say "No one actually HAS a second family! That is RIDICULOUS! Jump the shark much?" Only in this case, it's real, and it was happening in front of my face at work. I couldn't even enjoy it anymore, it was just too weird and awkward that I was finding out about it at all. Luckily, Melissa managed to wrestle the final page through the fax machine at that moment, and hurriedly handed over the confirmation. One quick showing of the death certificate later (yes, I've officially seen my first death certificate), and our storyteller was gone as quickly as she arrived, with this final bon mot:
"I've started a Facebook group with his other family, so people can hear! Check it out!"
This is most definitely in the category of sharing too much. It's just a little example, but I think it's safe to say that if your story involves the distribution of a spouse's ashes, the freezing of bank accounts or the revelation of a second family you should probably just keep that to your A-list friends. That way your family secrets won't be splattered all over the internet on a co-worker's blog...unless, of course, you choose to start a Facebook group detailing them.
Friday, March 26, 2010
La-La Land
There are times where I struggle with what to write about. Then there are the times when the entry for the month really just writes itself...let me begin by saying in March I went to LA.
Now, almost every New York resident has an opinion about LA. The fact that the vast majority of us have never even been there really doesn't concern us; we know in our bones that it's an inferior urban sprawl good for Mexican food, bottle-blondes and little else. My personal opinion has been softened by both the large number of friends I have living there, and the knowledge that, should my "acting career" ever take-off, I would be required to spend a significant amount of time there. So I went to visit Brooke, Adam and company on the west coast and let me tell you, New Yorkers: we can be as arrogant as we like, but you cannot beat the weather. Also, if you fly out on Jet Blue, you might be treated to the amazing flight attendant that I had who sniped at someone in the bitchiest way possible to "Speak up! I can't hear you!" which had me giggling like a Catholic schoolgirl not wearing panties on a windy day. If I could have tipped him for it, I would have.
While in LA, I did many things. Most revolved around a strict schedule of get drunk, sleep, repeat, which is similar to lather, rinse, repeat but is much more expensive and somewhat less hygienic. However, without a doubt the most ridiculous thing I did was go for an overnight stay in a little town called Solvang about two hours north of the city. Thursday we piled into Brooke's car and the two of us set out for our destination, which it just so happens is situated directly in the heart of wine country. Brooke suggested it because a) she understands my sense of humor, b) she shares my sense of humor and c) we both REALLY like wine.
Solvang, as it turns out, is a town that sprang up from a Dutch settlement. Now when I say the term Dutch settlement, please don't confuse this town with, say, New York which sprang up from a Dutch settlement in the 1600's. Solvang was founded in 1911 which means that the Dutch "settled" a piece of land that had been part of the United States for more than 50 years. And let me tell you, I will go to my grave believing that Susan Harris, the creator of The Golden Girls visited Solvang while she was writing the pilot script and that the town inspired Rose Nylund's hometown of St. Olaf, Minnesota. I was half-expecting to be offered Eggs Gerfloofen for breakfast and invited to The Festival of the Dancing Sturgeons. Basically, Solvang looks like a Hans Christian Anderson storybook exploded all over it and no one bothered to clean up. There are windmills. Almost every store has a reference to Copenhagen, vikings or both. I was actually surprised I saw no one in a pair of wooden clogs.
One of the places that Brooke and I visited was a small shop called the Jule Hus (pronounced, if I'm not mistaken, as Yule House). The Jule Hus is a delightful corner store devoted entirely to the sale of Christmas paraphernalia. When we walked in we were greeted by the dulcet sound of Christmas carols...in March. Now, you might be thinking "A whole SHOP dedicated to Christmas ornaments and the like? That's crazy! There aren't enough things to make ornaments out of to make a whole store's inventory for the actual holiday season, let alone year-round!" Which is exactly what I was thinking...and let me tell you, we're all wrong. As it turns out, the owners of the Jule Hus are not fettered by such considerations as having their decorations actually have anything to do with Christmas. Instead, it looks like they basically walked into an episode of Hoarders, picked up as much crap as they could, threw on some glitter and a tree hook and slapped a price tag on it. Among some of the ornaments that we discovered: a zebra dressed as a referee (complete with whistle), a mechanic holding a tire (with extremely red lips, which led us to believe that the mechanic both female and a lesbian), a 3-D rendering of a Norman Rockwell painting with a child preparing to receive an injection (in the butt, which it's worth noting was rendered anatomically correct with a small crack peeking out of the top of his jeans) and a miniature Coke can (just for the taste of it). Needless to say, the adventure was crowned the moment when, while handling a 12-inch tall model of Santa, I caught my first glimpse of an employee: an elderly woman, dressed in traditional Dutch garb. Picture an over-sized, poofy white blouse under a bright blue dress, with colorful stitching to bring some excitement. I dropped Santa, and needed to give myself a time-out.
After our holiday adventures, Brooke and I got dinner; since Solvang is a small town, everything closes at approximately sunset, which left us with nothing to do but retire to our room at The Royal Copenhagen Inn and start into the various and sundry bottles we had purchased. It's important to note that, because of our early dinner we didn't real feel much of the first bottle. However, neither Brooke or I are particularly known for our high alcohol tolerance...once we got through about half of the second, things were looking considerably more hazy. We ended up watching The Marriage Ref on NBC...take it from us, host Tom Papa's laugh is so irritating you can't even pay attention to the completely unqualified celebrities offering questionable advice. We decided to practice a few songs for karaoke the following evening, offering our renditions such classics as "Does He Love You" and "Bad Romance," and yet somehow managed to not garner a noise complaint. We dove into a third bottle with gusto and somewhere around 3/4 of the way through with that drunkenly passed out in our beds at 1 o'clock in the morning.
At approximately 3 AM in the morning, I woke up having to use the bathroom. I can't say exactly what my decision making process was at that point, but suffice it to say that the idea that there was a bathroom in our hotel room did not cross my mind. Wearing pair of gym shorts and nothing else, I blithely walked out of our room into the 45 degree night, onto the second floor balcony. I wandered around for a moment or two, quite frustrated that the inconsiderate architect of the building had not made the public bathroom obvious. I couldn't say how quickly I realized that there was an easier way for me to take care of business...I'm going to be generous and say it took about 15 seconds. Deep down, I'm pretty sure it was closer to a minute. However, even this realization didn't faze me...rather than having a moment of "Oh, hell, what am I doing," I calmly returned to the room and found that by some miracle the door was open. I walked back in, did my business and passed out. The whole event was so common to me that when I woke up I wasn't even 100% sure it had actually happened which led me to a realization: while I enjoy being jaded about most things, I'm not certain that stumbling around drunk and mostly naked is something I would like to be blasé about. I feel like it leads to headlines and sex tapes.
After we returned from Solvang, our adventures continued. I sang karaoke, which is something I only do under the influence of a great deal of liquid courage. I ended up doing "Midnight Train to Georgia," though I sometimes forgot that I was supposed to be Gladys Knight and would slide into the role of a Pip. Brooke and I went to go see Cats, which had been the first musical for both of us many years ago. Turns out that Cats is not only a bad musical (which we knew), but is also chock-full of sexual imagery, including a feline orgy to round out the first act (which we did not). And ultimately, I landed in NYC out $600 as a charge for my own rampant stupidity, since I apparently can't tell the difference between March 21st and April 18th when booking a return flight. And making that reservation is pretty much the only thing in this whole post that I did stone-cold sober. You can draw your own conclusions from that...I'm going to choose to believe that I'm meant to have a delicious bottle of wine with me at all times. Even when not on vacation.
Now, almost every New York resident has an opinion about LA. The fact that the vast majority of us have never even been there really doesn't concern us; we know in our bones that it's an inferior urban sprawl good for Mexican food, bottle-blondes and little else. My personal opinion has been softened by both the large number of friends I have living there, and the knowledge that, should my "acting career" ever take-off, I would be required to spend a significant amount of time there. So I went to visit Brooke, Adam and company on the west coast and let me tell you, New Yorkers: we can be as arrogant as we like, but you cannot beat the weather. Also, if you fly out on Jet Blue, you might be treated to the amazing flight attendant that I had who sniped at someone in the bitchiest way possible to "Speak up! I can't hear you!" which had me giggling like a Catholic schoolgirl not wearing panties on a windy day. If I could have tipped him for it, I would have.
While in LA, I did many things. Most revolved around a strict schedule of get drunk, sleep, repeat, which is similar to lather, rinse, repeat but is much more expensive and somewhat less hygienic. However, without a doubt the most ridiculous thing I did was go for an overnight stay in a little town called Solvang about two hours north of the city. Thursday we piled into Brooke's car and the two of us set out for our destination, which it just so happens is situated directly in the heart of wine country. Brooke suggested it because a) she understands my sense of humor, b) she shares my sense of humor and c) we both REALLY like wine.
Solvang, as it turns out, is a town that sprang up from a Dutch settlement. Now when I say the term Dutch settlement, please don't confuse this town with, say, New York which sprang up from a Dutch settlement in the 1600's. Solvang was founded in 1911 which means that the Dutch "settled" a piece of land that had been part of the United States for more than 50 years. And let me tell you, I will go to my grave believing that Susan Harris, the creator of The Golden Girls visited Solvang while she was writing the pilot script and that the town inspired Rose Nylund's hometown of St. Olaf, Minnesota. I was half-expecting to be offered Eggs Gerfloofen for breakfast and invited to The Festival of the Dancing Sturgeons. Basically, Solvang looks like a Hans Christian Anderson storybook exploded all over it and no one bothered to clean up. There are windmills. Almost every store has a reference to Copenhagen, vikings or both. I was actually surprised I saw no one in a pair of wooden clogs.
One of the places that Brooke and I visited was a small shop called the Jule Hus (pronounced, if I'm not mistaken, as Yule House). The Jule Hus is a delightful corner store devoted entirely to the sale of Christmas paraphernalia. When we walked in we were greeted by the dulcet sound of Christmas carols...in March. Now, you might be thinking "A whole SHOP dedicated to Christmas ornaments and the like? That's crazy! There aren't enough things to make ornaments out of to make a whole store's inventory for the actual holiday season, let alone year-round!" Which is exactly what I was thinking...and let me tell you, we're all wrong. As it turns out, the owners of the Jule Hus are not fettered by such considerations as having their decorations actually have anything to do with Christmas. Instead, it looks like they basically walked into an episode of Hoarders, picked up as much crap as they could, threw on some glitter and a tree hook and slapped a price tag on it. Among some of the ornaments that we discovered: a zebra dressed as a referee (complete with whistle), a mechanic holding a tire (with extremely red lips, which led us to believe that the mechanic both female and a lesbian), a 3-D rendering of a Norman Rockwell painting with a child preparing to receive an injection (in the butt, which it's worth noting was rendered anatomically correct with a small crack peeking out of the top of his jeans) and a miniature Coke can (just for the taste of it). Needless to say, the adventure was crowned the moment when, while handling a 12-inch tall model of Santa, I caught my first glimpse of an employee: an elderly woman, dressed in traditional Dutch garb. Picture an over-sized, poofy white blouse under a bright blue dress, with colorful stitching to bring some excitement. I dropped Santa, and needed to give myself a time-out.
After our holiday adventures, Brooke and I got dinner; since Solvang is a small town, everything closes at approximately sunset, which left us with nothing to do but retire to our room at The Royal Copenhagen Inn and start into the various and sundry bottles we had purchased. It's important to note that, because of our early dinner we didn't real feel much of the first bottle. However, neither Brooke or I are particularly known for our high alcohol tolerance...once we got through about half of the second, things were looking considerably more hazy. We ended up watching The Marriage Ref on NBC...take it from us, host Tom Papa's laugh is so irritating you can't even pay attention to the completely unqualified celebrities offering questionable advice. We decided to practice a few songs for karaoke the following evening, offering our renditions such classics as "Does He Love You" and "Bad Romance," and yet somehow managed to not garner a noise complaint. We dove into a third bottle with gusto and somewhere around 3/4 of the way through with that drunkenly passed out in our beds at 1 o'clock in the morning.
At approximately 3 AM in the morning, I woke up having to use the bathroom. I can't say exactly what my decision making process was at that point, but suffice it to say that the idea that there was a bathroom in our hotel room did not cross my mind. Wearing pair of gym shorts and nothing else, I blithely walked out of our room into the 45 degree night, onto the second floor balcony. I wandered around for a moment or two, quite frustrated that the inconsiderate architect of the building had not made the public bathroom obvious. I couldn't say how quickly I realized that there was an easier way for me to take care of business...I'm going to be generous and say it took about 15 seconds. Deep down, I'm pretty sure it was closer to a minute. However, even this realization didn't faze me...rather than having a moment of "Oh, hell, what am I doing," I calmly returned to the room and found that by some miracle the door was open. I walked back in, did my business and passed out. The whole event was so common to me that when I woke up I wasn't even 100% sure it had actually happened which led me to a realization: while I enjoy being jaded about most things, I'm not certain that stumbling around drunk and mostly naked is something I would like to be blasé about. I feel like it leads to headlines and sex tapes.
After we returned from Solvang, our adventures continued. I sang karaoke, which is something I only do under the influence of a great deal of liquid courage. I ended up doing "Midnight Train to Georgia," though I sometimes forgot that I was supposed to be Gladys Knight and would slide into the role of a Pip. Brooke and I went to go see Cats, which had been the first musical for both of us many years ago. Turns out that Cats is not only a bad musical (which we knew), but is also chock-full of sexual imagery, including a feline orgy to round out the first act (which we did not). And ultimately, I landed in NYC out $600 as a charge for my own rampant stupidity, since I apparently can't tell the difference between March 21st and April 18th when booking a return flight. And making that reservation is pretty much the only thing in this whole post that I did stone-cold sober. You can draw your own conclusions from that...I'm going to choose to believe that I'm meant to have a delicious bottle of wine with me at all times. Even when not on vacation.
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