Monday, January 25, 2016

Things to never click

You know, tbh, I wonder what the "one weird old tip" is that will "reduce belly fat." This stupid malware-gateway sidebar I've seen for like the last ten years, goddamn.


Wednesday, January 20, 2016

No dorm, no roommates -- my own place.

So I'm talking on the phone with my younger sister (which we both have to schedule, because I HATE THE PHONE and it's really hard to make myself call someone), and she's telling me about the new place she lives, which is sort of a dorm-like building for grown-ups, subsidized by her job teaching a foreign language at a small private high school -- it's a great setup for her because although there are no private bathrooms or kitchens (all facilities are shared), she's single and doesn't need much space, plus it's waaaaaay below market rent in NYC, and an easy commute to her job, and her BFF lives in the same complex.

And then she tells me that one thing she loves about it is that "you never get lonely -- there are always people around, you can always find someone to hang out with any time of day or night."

The hem on my brain fell out, y'all. "There are always people around" is one of the pillars of the room in hell in which I will end up spending eternity. It's why I hated dorm life by the end (as exciting as I found it in the beginning), and why if I were a single person, there is almost literally nothing I wouldn't do to have MY. OWN. PLACE. all to myself. I believe Mr. Gleemonex feels the same way, which is one of the many reasons we are sofa king awesome together.

But like I remember that my sister used to dread summers and look forward to going back to school in the fall -- she wanted her friends around her! Every day! On the regular! Me, I was so glad to be alone (in between shrieking excursions to the mall or the movies or swimming with mine). I love my extended family, I love my friends -- I just ... I can't have them in my LIVING SPACE, you dig?

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Tuesday, January 05, 2016

I'm only happy when it rains

New Year's Potpourri

Girl in a Band, by Kim Gordon
This book, an xmas gift from the marvelous Mr. Gleemonex, is making me feel a whole bunch of feelings -- mostly in a good way, but not always. Nostalgia for old New York mixes with annoyance at all the talk about art shit (I have less tolerance for art talk than I do for podcasts, which if you'll recall, is really saying something), and I'm kind of skimming the deep dives into Sonic Youth's songs (I was never really a fan of theirs, musically -- I just kind of admired their whole deal in general, and the person Kim Gordon in specific). But then Kim will hit me with something like this, and it's devastating:
Writing about New York is hard. Not because memories intersect and overlap, because of course they do. Not because incidents and times mix with others, because that happens too. Not because I didn't fall in love with New York, because even though I was lonely and poor, no place had ever made me feel more at home. It is because knowing what I know now, it's hard to write about a love story with a broken heart. 

Fur Elise
So we were watching the excellent, troubling, tense and strange show The Man in the High Castle, and Fur Elise was playing in the background of this one scene, and I could. not. stop myself. from singing the lyrics, to Mr. Gleemonex's mild annoyance. It has lyrics, and you know them: "Oh I wish I were already there / instead of here / playing this song / oh I would have a big chocolate shake / a cheeseburger / and also  -- whoops -- and also fries / and I would eat / my fries myself / and not give any / to my dumb brother / hands off, they're mine all mine" (etc.). Come on now.

My SHATNER, how wonderful this rain is! Four blaring sun-baked years entirely without it, and it's all we Californians can talk about -- my brain is a jumble of rain lyrics, which sometimes get released out loud (e.g. I'm bopping across the blacktop to pick up the kid, muttering "and this rain it will continue / through the morning as I'm listening / to the bells of the cathedral ... I am thinking of your voice") and I'm pissed whenever the sun manages to break through -- FUCK OFF, SUN! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, YOU BIG SHINY ASSHOLE!

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Tuesday, December 08, 2015

"Oh, the Danburrys! Big alums!"

In my current lifestyle, I not infrequently come into contact with people who are at that next level of wealth and connection -- the one where it goes beyond just having a comfortable income and having what you need in terms of consumer goods and the like: the level where they're not the ones going to the gala charity functions, and not organizing them, but being the whales that support them or the name that gets it done in the first place. But I think this is maybe where I, personally, top out -- me with my small-town Methodist pridefully-poor background, my scholarship-supported Ivy League education, etc.; I get glimpses of what happens behind those doors, and occasionally get vaguely invited into the lobby ... but I don't know how to walk through, nor, honestly, what I would want that for. Case in point: a family party Mr. Gleemonex and the kids and I went to on Saturday night. Fun party, love the hostess, but the place was chock full of the kind of people who are on the boards of stuff (i.e., a person more adept at and desirous of making that type of connection could've had a very productive evening), and I spent fully half of my time talking to two 20-something German au pairs. Oh well! They were funny and interesting -- who cares if they can't get me on some bullshit board.

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Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Sometimes I included my great-grandboss, for a total of 54 dicks.

Here is a fantasy I used to run in my head at least twice a day for the last -- oh, probably the last 15 months of my eight-year tenure at the HQ of the San Francisco-based global apparel retailer: I'd be in a meeting with my boss, my grandboss, and some other people. Boss and grandboss would be their usual awful garbage person selves, undermining me, backhand-complimenting me, praising other "team" members, etc., and I'd finally at long last have had Enough of This Shit.

They'd address me directly on some bullshit matter or other, and as all eyes turned to me, I'd sit there with a clip-art "serious contemplative businessperson face" on, nodding agreeably before I replied, calmly and thoughtfully, "You know, I tell you what -- I would like to invite you both" -- indicating boss and grandboss with ironic finger-guns -- "to eat eighteen dicks." I'd give a businessperson half-smile (the kind you see in commercials for financial advice services), with a nod + sincere eye contact, to each of the two of them individually. I'd close the notebook I'd been doodling in, and in the shocked silence that ensued, I'd stand up, give a little half-wave to the room in general, and exit as if I'd just said I was going to Starbucks to get us all some lattes.

I'd walk a few yards down the hallway, then act like "Ooops, forgot my best pen in there," and turn around and go back. They'd all have just started sputtering and blarfgling and there'd be mutters of "calling security right now" and "what kind of a ..." and "think this is an HR matter" and that, and I'd poke my head in with another serious businessperson smile and say, "Sorry, guys, sorry, hate to interrupt, but I realized I might have made a mistake just now, and wanted to be completely clear: I meant that you guys should each eat eighteen dicks, for a total of thirty-six dicks -- not split it up and eat nine each. Sorry if there was any confusion on that!" And I'd wave bye-bye, duck back out, pick up my pre-packed duffel of personal items, and stroll unconcernedly away from the building, buoyed on waves of righteous justice and sweet self-satisfaction, the scent of a rotting bridge well burnt the only perfume I need wear forevermore.

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Friday, November 06, 2015

Racist bullshit in action: Auto finance division

If there's a way to feel like a bigger asshole than one does when watching one's housekeeper clean around your new $2500 TV right after she's just told you that her car is about to be repossessed -- the one her deceased husband bought, and which she's been making payments on (at an already abusive 10% interest) since his death at age 36 two years ago, but which she's not on the title of, which fact the bank just found out and thus the repo unless she's able to pay off the remaining $10K immediately or refinance at fucking 19% -- well, I'm not sure I'd care to find out what that level of assholery feels like. I think this is pretty much Olympic-level to begin with.

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Thursday, November 05, 2015

You can take your daylight and go right to hell with it

Everybody keeps bitching about Daylight Saving Time ending, but I LOVE it. I'm sick to death of this blaring fucking sun (it's really my main beef with California -- this neverending goddamn sunshine -- and I'm fucking serious) and so the getting-dark-at-like-4:00 is fine by me, plus! I can put the kids to bed earlier without them calling BS on account of it's only 6:30. Also the day it happened, and the kids woke me up at bullshit-o'clock, my idea of going out to breakfast was a good one (that didn't end up working out all that well, but that was for logistical and interpersonal reasons, not lack of validity). Thanksgiving -- the best holiday -- is coming, I'm already ordering Christmas presents, and the season of baking has begun. November: The Awesomest Month!

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