Dear Poop:
I am so sorry! I had no idea you were up there buddy. I feel horrible. Why didn’t you say something? Oh my God poop, I am so embarrassed. There was so much of you. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. Cramped, uncomfortable, no room to breath; how did I not know? This is my fault poop. I haven’t been paying enough attention to you. I got busy and I forgot about you. This is a relationship and I recognize that sometimes I need to put you first but today I just got distracted. I thought I noticed you after dinner but I was busy talking and then I had to rush to the gym and I didn’t think to get back to you until now. Poop, will you ever forgive me? It wasn’t my intention to keep you locked away like a slave. I cherish you and all you do for me. I would literally die without you and I want you to know that I will never treat you this way again. You deserve better than that poop. I want to start over. I want to work you into my schedule in a way that makes you feel important. I want you to feel that you can be yourself. You don’t have to be afraid to speak up. We are in this together poop. I love you.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Things That Bother Me #547
Security
I work in the US Bank Building. It strikes me as a fairly non-threatening commercial building, however, each day I attempt to enter this Goliath, I am put through aggressive security procedures. It strikes me as fairly unreasonable to have to scan my badge literally every 5 feet. Recently I forgot my badge at home (consider it the downfall of switching purses which I will never do again). The members of the security team in my building, treated me like a terrorist that day. Somehow, they managed to conveniently forget that they see me EVERY DAY. I had to do everything short of giving blood, merely to attend a job that I don’t like. It was oppressing.
And let me just tell you, when I say I see these tyrants EVERY DAY, I mean it. Believe me, I would love to move through my day without 50 strangers greeting me repeatedly throughout the process. The worst part here is that I smoke, so I’m apt to be walking in and out of this death spiral several times each day. Let’s face it, being a security guard has got to be the most boring job in America. Your job is to stand there like an asshole while the rest of us ignore you. I recognize that there are people out there who want to befriend these security people, I am not one of them. I like to pretend they’re statues. It’s fairly hard to do this when they keep talking to me! What’s more, they make outlandish assumptions about where I may be heading which makes it increasingly awkward when I come back 3 minutes later. Also, I’ve worked here for 2 years and you’d think these imbeciles could figure out that I’m in and out a lot, kind of like The Terminator. OH MY GOD I NAILED IT!
Sorry, moving on. Let me give you an example. I typically go for a cig at 4:30pm. I leave work at 5:30pm. Yesterday, I walked downstairs and some know-it-all security man said this to me, “Have a great night!” You can imagine the pain that I felt, knowing that I had another hour to complete at my wretched day job before I could be released into the wild. He then added insult to injury, after I scowled at him, by saying, “Smile!” If you want to be murdered by me, you should ask me to smile. If you want to be murdered by me and shipped to your parents, you should tell me that smoking is bad for me. Needless to say, that particular security guard is dead.
I work in the US Bank Building. It strikes me as a fairly non-threatening commercial building, however, each day I attempt to enter this Goliath, I am put through aggressive security procedures. It strikes me as fairly unreasonable to have to scan my badge literally every 5 feet. Recently I forgot my badge at home (consider it the downfall of switching purses which I will never do again). The members of the security team in my building, treated me like a terrorist that day. Somehow, they managed to conveniently forget that they see me EVERY DAY. I had to do everything short of giving blood, merely to attend a job that I don’t like. It was oppressing.
And let me just tell you, when I say I see these tyrants EVERY DAY, I mean it. Believe me, I would love to move through my day without 50 strangers greeting me repeatedly throughout the process. The worst part here is that I smoke, so I’m apt to be walking in and out of this death spiral several times each day. Let’s face it, being a security guard has got to be the most boring job in America. Your job is to stand there like an asshole while the rest of us ignore you. I recognize that there are people out there who want to befriend these security people, I am not one of them. I like to pretend they’re statues. It’s fairly hard to do this when they keep talking to me! What’s more, they make outlandish assumptions about where I may be heading which makes it increasingly awkward when I come back 3 minutes later. Also, I’ve worked here for 2 years and you’d think these imbeciles could figure out that I’m in and out a lot, kind of like The Terminator. OH MY GOD I NAILED IT!
Sorry, moving on. Let me give you an example. I typically go for a cig at 4:30pm. I leave work at 5:30pm. Yesterday, I walked downstairs and some know-it-all security man said this to me, “Have a great night!” You can imagine the pain that I felt, knowing that I had another hour to complete at my wretched day job before I could be released into the wild. He then added insult to injury, after I scowled at him, by saying, “Smile!” If you want to be murdered by me, you should ask me to smile. If you want to be murdered by me and shipped to your parents, you should tell me that smoking is bad for me. Needless to say, that particular security guard is dead.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Things That Bother Me #847
Other people’s voicemails
For starters, I find it to be highly unreasonable when people claim they could only be doing one of two things which is why they’re not answering their phone.
“Hi! This is Claire, I’m either on the other line or I’m in a meeting.”
I doubt that Claire. Are you suggesting that you never poop? What if you just ate lunch and now you’re pooping. You failed to mention that, didn’t you Claire? Our relationship is built on a lie Claire. I can think of 4 zillion things that would keep me from answering my phone yet you’ve only listed 2. You’re a liar Claire. I will never call you again.
I also dislike when people tell me what to do in their voicemail.
“Hi, this is Mimi. Please leave your name and your number and I’ll call you back.”
Mimi, I’m your daughter. I’m fairly certain that you have my number. Also, I’m your only daughter so you should be able to decipher who’s calling sans the mentioning of my name. Mimi’s not the only one who demands I offer up my first and last name, time I called, and what my call is regarding. How about this everyone? I’ll leave whatever information I god damn well please and you can either call me back or go fuck yourself. I promise you, if I really have something to tell you, I will find you and scream it in your face. I will then tattoo my phone number onto your arm to be sure you have it.
Finally, automated voicemails that leave me a slew of unreasonable options that no one, anywhere would ever use, enrage me.
“After the beep, please leave a message. When you are finished recording, please press pound. If you’d like to send a fax, please press 3. If this is an emergency, hang up an call 911.”
What asshole tries to send a fax to a cell phone? That can’t possibly be a thing. Furthermore, does anyone even send faxes anymore? I doubt it. And this might come as a shock to you, wretched automated message, but if this was actually an emergency, I’d likely be dead by the time I got through all your options. 911 you say? Ah, brilliant. See, I thought it was the 9 digit number that I had at my disposal. Thank god I waited for 30 minutes to hear of this 911 you speak of. I hate you.
For starters, I find it to be highly unreasonable when people claim they could only be doing one of two things which is why they’re not answering their phone.
“Hi! This is Claire, I’m either on the other line or I’m in a meeting.”
I doubt that Claire. Are you suggesting that you never poop? What if you just ate lunch and now you’re pooping. You failed to mention that, didn’t you Claire? Our relationship is built on a lie Claire. I can think of 4 zillion things that would keep me from answering my phone yet you’ve only listed 2. You’re a liar Claire. I will never call you again.
I also dislike when people tell me what to do in their voicemail.
“Hi, this is Mimi. Please leave your name and your number and I’ll call you back.”
Mimi, I’m your daughter. I’m fairly certain that you have my number. Also, I’m your only daughter so you should be able to decipher who’s calling sans the mentioning of my name. Mimi’s not the only one who demands I offer up my first and last name, time I called, and what my call is regarding. How about this everyone? I’ll leave whatever information I god damn well please and you can either call me back or go fuck yourself. I promise you, if I really have something to tell you, I will find you and scream it in your face. I will then tattoo my phone number onto your arm to be sure you have it.
Finally, automated voicemails that leave me a slew of unreasonable options that no one, anywhere would ever use, enrage me.
“After the beep, please leave a message. When you are finished recording, please press pound. If you’d like to send a fax, please press 3. If this is an emergency, hang up an call 911.”
What asshole tries to send a fax to a cell phone? That can’t possibly be a thing. Furthermore, does anyone even send faxes anymore? I doubt it. And this might come as a shock to you, wretched automated message, but if this was actually an emergency, I’d likely be dead by the time I got through all your options. 911 you say? Ah, brilliant. See, I thought it was the 9 digit number that I had at my disposal. Thank god I waited for 30 minutes to hear of this 911 you speak of. I hate you.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Rules
I want to start by preemptively congratulating myself on uploading a picture. I write this without the knowledge as to whether or not I’ve succeeded but nonetheless, hooray for me. If my picture didn’t actually upload, I’ll need to tell you that there is a book entitled The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right and it is utterly bewildering. It seems cliché that a single woman would be annoyed by a self help book about getting a husband but I should tell you, I have tried The Rules and instead of capturing the heart of Mr. Right I captured the heart of Mr. STD and Mr. Accidentally Pregnant. I want my money back. In order to save other women from capturing the heart of Mr. Oops, I’m Already Married and Mr. I Think I Might Be Gay, I’m taking an opportunity to clarify a few of the rules that struck me as confusing.
Rule #1: Be a “Creature” Unlike Any Other
See now, I read “creature” as “slut” and I got into a little bit of trouble. Had I finished reading the rules, I would have gotten to Rule #15: Don't Rush into Sex, Wait at Least Three Dates. I believe Rule #1 should be-Read All the Rules. God damn prudish girls are always out to get me.
Rule # 20: Be Honest but Mysterious
I botched this one as well. I think what they meant to say was lie. I took it to mean go ahead and mention you’ve been arrested but don’t reveal why. Or admit that you’ve had sex with someone else in the last 24 hours but refuse to divulge who that person is. Had I fully omitted these initial facts, I feel I would have been far better off. So I believe Rule #20 should read: Don’t Say Words. To be fair, Rule #3 is Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much but I’m pretty sure that in my case the no speaking rule is the only way to go.
Rule #13: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week
I totally nailed this Rule and was so proud of myself until I realized that I was more than nailing it. I was seeing him zero times a week which means that in 10 out of 10 cases I just never spoke to any men ever again. I can’t imagine that this is what this rule was intended to do. Rule #13 should be: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week and If You See Him Zero You’re Doing a Bad Job.
Rule #16: Don't Tell Him What to Do
What am I? Wonderwoman!? Don’t tell him what to do? What if he’s doing everything poorly? I can’t stomach playing lap dog to a guy who refuses to take side streets when traffic is bad. Or what if he takes me to a movie but doesn’t get popcorn?! I almost had a meltdown once when I was with a guy at a party and he mixed Maker’s Mark with coke. YOU DON’T MIX MAKER’S MARK YOU ANIMAL!!! IT IS A DELICIOUS WHISKEY THAT STANDS ALONE AND PUTTING ANY OTHER SUBSTANCE ANYWHERE NEAR IT IS OFFENSIVE. STOP DRINKING LIKE A WOMAN!!!
I digress. Needless to say, The Rules and I did not get along. Come to think of it, it’s been virtually impossible for me to follow any Rules over the years. Examples include, “don’t jump out of a moving vehicle” and “stop when your nose is bleeding”. My new Rule is going to be Don’t Follow Anyone’s Bullshit Rules. To The Rules, this means I’ll be single and alone. To me, it means I’ll be leaving the refrigerator door open, wearing a tutu to work, and keeping the assholes of the world from destroying a delicious Kentucky whiskey.
Rule #1: Be a “Creature” Unlike Any Other
See now, I read “creature” as “slut” and I got into a little bit of trouble. Had I finished reading the rules, I would have gotten to Rule #15: Don't Rush into Sex, Wait at Least Three Dates. I believe Rule #1 should be-Read All the Rules. God damn prudish girls are always out to get me.
Rule # 20: Be Honest but Mysterious
I botched this one as well. I think what they meant to say was lie. I took it to mean go ahead and mention you’ve been arrested but don’t reveal why. Or admit that you’ve had sex with someone else in the last 24 hours but refuse to divulge who that person is. Had I fully omitted these initial facts, I feel I would have been far better off. So I believe Rule #20 should read: Don’t Say Words. To be fair, Rule #3 is Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much but I’m pretty sure that in my case the no speaking rule is the only way to go.
Rule #13: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week
I totally nailed this Rule and was so proud of myself until I realized that I was more than nailing it. I was seeing him zero times a week which means that in 10 out of 10 cases I just never spoke to any men ever again. I can’t imagine that this is what this rule was intended to do. Rule #13 should be: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week and If You See Him Zero You’re Doing a Bad Job.
Rule #16: Don't Tell Him What to Do
What am I? Wonderwoman!? Don’t tell him what to do? What if he’s doing everything poorly? I can’t stomach playing lap dog to a guy who refuses to take side streets when traffic is bad. Or what if he takes me to a movie but doesn’t get popcorn?! I almost had a meltdown once when I was with a guy at a party and he mixed Maker’s Mark with coke. YOU DON’T MIX MAKER’S MARK YOU ANIMAL!!! IT IS A DELICIOUS WHISKEY THAT STANDS ALONE AND PUTTING ANY OTHER SUBSTANCE ANYWHERE NEAR IT IS OFFENSIVE. STOP DRINKING LIKE A WOMAN!!!
I digress. Needless to say, The Rules and I did not get along. Come to think of it, it’s been virtually impossible for me to follow any Rules over the years. Examples include, “don’t jump out of a moving vehicle” and “stop when your nose is bleeding”. My new Rule is going to be Don’t Follow Anyone’s Bullshit Rules. To The Rules, this means I’ll be single and alone. To me, it means I’ll be leaving the refrigerator door open, wearing a tutu to work, and keeping the assholes of the world from destroying a delicious Kentucky whiskey.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Solutions
Today, I was unable to get out bed in order to go to my job. Some people would call this depression, I call it Tuesday. I had one of those days when I come to the horrifying realization that everything’s wrong. Nothing is making me happy and I am determined to sift through my bag of tricks in order to come up with a solution. Solution #1: call my mother.
Me: Hi, mom, it’s me. I’m dead inside and have lost the willingness to participate in life.
Mimi: What do you do for fun?
Me: Laundry?
Mimi: Well are you dating anyone?
Me: *muffled sobs*
Mimi: Honey, you need to get a social life.
That bitch. How dare she question my social activities. I was furious so I decided to take a nice relaxing bath to calm my nerves. Two weeks later, I still have an ear infection from this process. I don’t know what kind of asshole it takes to harm themselves in a bathtub but these are the sorts of instances that haunt my existence. The next morning, when I noticed water in my ear, it should have been a clue that my ideas never work. I was furious, unable to hear and late for a haircut so I jumped in my Daewoo and furiously drove to meet my big, gay hairdresser who I knew would make me feel better. After he kissed me on the lips upon arrival (West Hollywood, classic), we discussed my new haircut.
Big Gay Hairdresser: What do you want to do?
Me: I don’t care.
BGH: Shorter?
Me: There is no God.
BGH: Color?
Me: Can I smoke in here?
BGH: Don’t worry, we’ll do something fun.
Apparently fun to a Big Gay Hairdresser translates to Mark Twain characters because now I look like Tom Sawyer. What’s worse is that I look like a breed of Tom Sawyer who never saw the sun and let me just tell you this haircut did nothing to boost my self-esteem, despite the swarm of gay men who hit on me the rest of the day.
In order to offset the horrifying, cry-for-help haircut I had just received, I swung by the tanning beds. I hadn’t been in a tanning bed since I was in high school and the prospect of looking young again thrilled me. After about an hour of lathering up with some horrid lotion and then laying on plastic for 10 minutes, I came out looking like an orange checker board. I’m not even sure how this is possible. Streaking is typically something that happens when you spray tan but as my life goes, I was the one in a million who suffered these consequences in a legit tanning bed. I suppose this is what I get for requesting the full dose of cancer.
Seeing as none of my wretched solutions were working, I attempted to take my mother’s advice and get a social life. On Friday, as I began to execute this plan, I suffered a minor set back by accidentally taking a nap. I awoke around 8pm, desperate to create my social life. I started by calling my friend Julie.
Julie: What’s up?
Me: My mom says I need a social life.
Julie: I’m babysitting. Wanna hang out on Sunday?
Me: That seems aggressive. The problem with making plans is that then the day finally comes along and I’m forced to do something.
Julie: You’re a terrible person. *click*
After my call with Julie, I realized that in order to have a social life I would have to a) leave my house, b) drive somewhere or c) hang out with people. I’m good at none of those things so instead I ate ice cream, which I am excellent at.
I’m not sure what the cure for depression is, but I’m like 90% sure it’s not calling your mother, tanning or getting a haircut. Every time I try to fix something, I end up breaking it even more. Perhaps, in my case, the best action is to take no action at all. This thought brought me so much peace that I was finally able to let it all go. That night, I slept like I baby. I laid my head on my pillow, forgot about the days’ events and thought for a minute that I could actually hear the ocean. And then I remembered, it wasn’t the ocean at all, it was a god damn ear infection.
Me: Hi, mom, it’s me. I’m dead inside and have lost the willingness to participate in life.
Mimi: What do you do for fun?
Me: Laundry?
Mimi: Well are you dating anyone?
Me: *muffled sobs*
Mimi: Honey, you need to get a social life.
That bitch. How dare she question my social activities. I was furious so I decided to take a nice relaxing bath to calm my nerves. Two weeks later, I still have an ear infection from this process. I don’t know what kind of asshole it takes to harm themselves in a bathtub but these are the sorts of instances that haunt my existence. The next morning, when I noticed water in my ear, it should have been a clue that my ideas never work. I was furious, unable to hear and late for a haircut so I jumped in my Daewoo and furiously drove to meet my big, gay hairdresser who I knew would make me feel better. After he kissed me on the lips upon arrival (West Hollywood, classic), we discussed my new haircut.
Big Gay Hairdresser: What do you want to do?
Me: I don’t care.
BGH: Shorter?
Me: There is no God.
BGH: Color?
Me: Can I smoke in here?
BGH: Don’t worry, we’ll do something fun.
Apparently fun to a Big Gay Hairdresser translates to Mark Twain characters because now I look like Tom Sawyer. What’s worse is that I look like a breed of Tom Sawyer who never saw the sun and let me just tell you this haircut did nothing to boost my self-esteem, despite the swarm of gay men who hit on me the rest of the day.
In order to offset the horrifying, cry-for-help haircut I had just received, I swung by the tanning beds. I hadn’t been in a tanning bed since I was in high school and the prospect of looking young again thrilled me. After about an hour of lathering up with some horrid lotion and then laying on plastic for 10 minutes, I came out looking like an orange checker board. I’m not even sure how this is possible. Streaking is typically something that happens when you spray tan but as my life goes, I was the one in a million who suffered these consequences in a legit tanning bed. I suppose this is what I get for requesting the full dose of cancer.
Seeing as none of my wretched solutions were working, I attempted to take my mother’s advice and get a social life. On Friday, as I began to execute this plan, I suffered a minor set back by accidentally taking a nap. I awoke around 8pm, desperate to create my social life. I started by calling my friend Julie.
Julie: What’s up?
Me: My mom says I need a social life.
Julie: I’m babysitting. Wanna hang out on Sunday?
Me: That seems aggressive. The problem with making plans is that then the day finally comes along and I’m forced to do something.
Julie: You’re a terrible person. *click*
After my call with Julie, I realized that in order to have a social life I would have to a) leave my house, b) drive somewhere or c) hang out with people. I’m good at none of those things so instead I ate ice cream, which I am excellent at.
I’m not sure what the cure for depression is, but I’m like 90% sure it’s not calling your mother, tanning or getting a haircut. Every time I try to fix something, I end up breaking it even more. Perhaps, in my case, the best action is to take no action at all. This thought brought me so much peace that I was finally able to let it all go. That night, I slept like I baby. I laid my head on my pillow, forgot about the days’ events and thought for a minute that I could actually hear the ocean. And then I remembered, it wasn’t the ocean at all, it was a god damn ear infection.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Eat Pie Instead
Exercise. What a heaping pile of shit this idea turned out to be. Certainly I have the wherewithal to recognize that any sort of physical activity is good for me. If nothing else, it's my attempt to counteract the heap of cigs I scarf down each day. What really bothers me are the cretins that pretend they're having the time of their lives, merely by exercising. When did we all start pretending that grueling exercise is a super fun time for all involved? In addition, each of these creeps have glommed on to their favorite exercise and they then spend the rest of their free time telling fatties like me how great it is.
RUNNING
"Have you heard about running? Oh ya, it's so freeing. I played running in college but I'm into this new thing where I don't wear shoes when I run and it's really changed my life."
Hey running enthusiast, you're an asshole. I get that there's an entire magazine dedicated to you and everything but stop trying to pretend that this is a new religion that we're all missing out on. You're simply going nowhere at an accelerated pace. That doesn't strike me as all that profound. Did you know that running was essentially invented in the process of hunting animals? Yet you continue to come back from your runs empty handed. You're doing a bad job runner. It's just exercise. Take it easy.
YOGA
"I'm not religious, I'm spiritual. You know, like yoga."
Um....what? Just because you can suck your own dick, doesn't mean you're now a spiritual guru. While I do appreciate that yoga classes usually end with "Shavasana" also known as "Sleeping," I find the majority of their so-called "poses" to be a real slap in the face. I also don't appreciate how calm everybody seems to be while suggesting that I rest my entire body on my forearms and then touch my toes to my ears. What kind of freak show is this? And why are we all chanting? I get that we're in West Hollywood but not every activity has to incorporate a song and dance. So take your little sleeping bag or magic carpet or whatever you call it and calm the fuck down. I get it, you're enlightened AND you've been to India. I didn't come here for a pep talk. I just want my ass to be smaller.
SPINNING
"Oh you HAVE to come to my spin class. You burn SO many calories."
I mean...probably but you're also forced to torture your nuts or vagina for 50 minutes while someone screams at you, to the tune of Lady Gaga. Has anyone realized yet that spinning is riding a one-wheeled bike? You basically took a totally functional piece of machinery, made it immobile, and called it exercise. It's actually worse than running because at the end of the class you unicycled in place for an hour and probably gave yourself a Urinary Tract Infection in the process.
Its fine everyone! Exercise is a thing that helps people, hooray! But ya know what else helps people? Root canals, insulin and chemotherapy. But when was the last time you heard a diabetic talking about the awesome new syringe he got? Never. Because sometimes things that are good for you are actually terrible. You are living a lie exercise aficionados. Exercise is horrible. It hurts, it's time-consuming and sometimes it threatens to rip away at your private parts. Pretending to like exercise is like pretending that the man who beats you is misunderstood. Well he's not. He's a horrible person and exercise is a terrible torture chamber that we all participate in begrudgingly. I just wish we could be honest about it. I'd rather be doing anything other than using any of my muscles at any time. If I could spend the rest of my life eating buckets of chicken in bed, I would. And I am no longer going to sit idly by while the rest of you feign excitement each time you approach the treadmill. So the next time you ask me how my workout was I will answer honestly, "It was God damn terrible. I hated everything about it and all the people there. Save yourself and never participate in soul-crushing exercise. Eat pie instead."
RUNNING
"Have you heard about running? Oh ya, it's so freeing. I played running in college but I'm into this new thing where I don't wear shoes when I run and it's really changed my life."
Hey running enthusiast, you're an asshole. I get that there's an entire magazine dedicated to you and everything but stop trying to pretend that this is a new religion that we're all missing out on. You're simply going nowhere at an accelerated pace. That doesn't strike me as all that profound. Did you know that running was essentially invented in the process of hunting animals? Yet you continue to come back from your runs empty handed. You're doing a bad job runner. It's just exercise. Take it easy.
YOGA
"I'm not religious, I'm spiritual. You know, like yoga."
Um....what? Just because you can suck your own dick, doesn't mean you're now a spiritual guru. While I do appreciate that yoga classes usually end with "Shavasana" also known as "Sleeping," I find the majority of their so-called "poses" to be a real slap in the face. I also don't appreciate how calm everybody seems to be while suggesting that I rest my entire body on my forearms and then touch my toes to my ears. What kind of freak show is this? And why are we all chanting? I get that we're in West Hollywood but not every activity has to incorporate a song and dance. So take your little sleeping bag or magic carpet or whatever you call it and calm the fuck down. I get it, you're enlightened AND you've been to India. I didn't come here for a pep talk. I just want my ass to be smaller.
SPINNING
"Oh you HAVE to come to my spin class. You burn SO many calories."
I mean...probably but you're also forced to torture your nuts or vagina for 50 minutes while someone screams at you, to the tune of Lady Gaga. Has anyone realized yet that spinning is riding a one-wheeled bike? You basically took a totally functional piece of machinery, made it immobile, and called it exercise. It's actually worse than running because at the end of the class you unicycled in place for an hour and probably gave yourself a Urinary Tract Infection in the process.
Its fine everyone! Exercise is a thing that helps people, hooray! But ya know what else helps people? Root canals, insulin and chemotherapy. But when was the last time you heard a diabetic talking about the awesome new syringe he got? Never. Because sometimes things that are good for you are actually terrible. You are living a lie exercise aficionados. Exercise is horrible. It hurts, it's time-consuming and sometimes it threatens to rip away at your private parts. Pretending to like exercise is like pretending that the man who beats you is misunderstood. Well he's not. He's a horrible person and exercise is a terrible torture chamber that we all participate in begrudgingly. I just wish we could be honest about it. I'd rather be doing anything other than using any of my muscles at any time. If I could spend the rest of my life eating buckets of chicken in bed, I would. And I am no longer going to sit idly by while the rest of you feign excitement each time you approach the treadmill. So the next time you ask me how my workout was I will answer honestly, "It was God damn terrible. I hated everything about it and all the people there. Save yourself and never participate in soul-crushing exercise. Eat pie instead."
Thursday, April 7, 2011
HollywoodLand
I'll do just about anything to fit in. As a result, upon arriving in sunny California, I became obsessed with the idea of seeking therapy. I didn't necessarily believe that I needed therapy, but every man that I've ever dated felt differently. Regardless, I knew that having a therapist was a super cool thing to do in LA, just like being a Scientologist or battling a drug addiction. I had a feeling that the mere addition of a therapist to my life would rocket me into the inner-world of Hollywood. I was sure it would be a direct connection to celebrities but I could not have anticipated how true this theory would turn out to be.
After a few weeks of aggressively seeking a therapist, I began to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that this process would be at all challenging. I hit immediate roadblocks, all of which I was determined to overcome. For starters, everyone I called asked the same stupid question, "What problems would you like to discuss with the doctor?" First of all, Doctor? Take it easy. That's a bit bold, don't you think? I get that you went to therapy school or whatever but let's try to scale back the doctor claims, shall we? Second of all, I was only calling the doctor so that I could advance my acting career, but I had an innate sense that this was not a good enough reason. Instead I chose to tap into any real problems that I found to be lingering. It went a little something like this:
Me: Hi, I'd like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.
Dr.: Ok, what's wrong with you?
Me: *hysterical crying*
Dr.: We're booked. *click*
Can you believe it?! Every single one of those clowns claimed to be booked! Listen, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, "supposed doctors", but perhaps you should reveal your scheduling issues prior to opening the vault which is my inner-child. I was getting fed up with the entire process and it was becoming clear that literally everyone in L.A. had gotten on the therapy bandwagon long before I had arrived. I was upset and outraged. I needed therapy just to help me work through the fact that I couldn't find a therapist. I had never felt so alone and I began to do what I often do when the world becomes overwhelming, I pretended that I was Brenda Walsh from the critically acclaimed 90's classic television show, Beverly Hills 90210.
Man, that bitch had it so good. Perfect parents, bomb house, incredible bangs. Not a Wednesday at 7pm went by, during my adolescence, when I wasn't saddled up to the television, carefully following the trials and tribulations of that chunky Midwestern girl from Minnesota who found herself in the throes of Beverly Hills. I bet Brenda Walsh never had a problem finding a therapist. She didn't even need one! She had supportive parents, a hot brother, and slew of available, rich, potential boyfriends. As I settled into my Brenda Walsh fantasy, the phone rang. FINALLY!!!! There was one, lone therapist who was covered by my insurance and could meet on a Saturday. I didn't remember calling her, I didn't recognize her name, I knew zero about her but I could tell she was the one.
On the day of our first appointment, I was elated. I had finally arrived. I had moved to Los Angeles to be an actor and had officially employed a therapist. Things were looking up. When my new therapist/life coach entered the room I was overwhelmed. I KNEW this broad. I couldn't place her but I was certain we had met before.
Me: God you look so familiar.
Life Coach: Oh, you probably saw my picture on the website.
Me: No, but I mean, I feel like I know you.
LC: Well....have you ever watched the show Beverly Hills 90210?
Me: *astonished* You shut the fuck up lady.
LC: I played Brenda's mom, Cindy Walsh.
Dear God. I should have known that my answer would come in the form of the matriarchal figure from my favorite T.V. show. I all but attacked my newly found therapist after that. As it turns out, her name is Carol Potter and she got into therapy after working with the quacks on Beverly Hills. I suppose she had incredible practice. Clearly I continue to meet with her every week. How could I not? While she remains extremely professional, I can't help but hope that someday I'll walk in and have to fill out a sheet describing which Beverly Hills character I most identify with as an exercise for her to determine my general mood. I long to inquire about Dylan’s whereabouts, but I don't want to come off as desperate (seriously, where is he?). For now, I find solace in the fact that I grew up with my therapist. She already knows everything about me. She is the mom I've always wanted, the best friend I've never had. We even have the same agent! Therapy is working in ways I could never have imagined. The simple knowledge that I have a therapist makes me feel better. It solidifies a belief I had in high school, "No matter where you are or what you're going through, Cindy Walsh will always be there and she will always understand." Da na na na, Da na na na *clap* *clap*
After a few weeks of aggressively seeking a therapist, I began to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that this process would be at all challenging. I hit immediate roadblocks, all of which I was determined to overcome. For starters, everyone I called asked the same stupid question, "What problems would you like to discuss with the doctor?" First of all, Doctor? Take it easy. That's a bit bold, don't you think? I get that you went to therapy school or whatever but let's try to scale back the doctor claims, shall we? Second of all, I was only calling the doctor so that I could advance my acting career, but I had an innate sense that this was not a good enough reason. Instead I chose to tap into any real problems that I found to be lingering. It went a little something like this:
Me: Hi, I'd like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.
Dr.: Ok, what's wrong with you?
Me: *hysterical crying*
Dr.: We're booked. *click*
Can you believe it?! Every single one of those clowns claimed to be booked! Listen, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, "supposed doctors", but perhaps you should reveal your scheduling issues prior to opening the vault which is my inner-child. I was getting fed up with the entire process and it was becoming clear that literally everyone in L.A. had gotten on the therapy bandwagon long before I had arrived. I was upset and outraged. I needed therapy just to help me work through the fact that I couldn't find a therapist. I had never felt so alone and I began to do what I often do when the world becomes overwhelming, I pretended that I was Brenda Walsh from the critically acclaimed 90's classic television show, Beverly Hills 90210.
Man, that bitch had it so good. Perfect parents, bomb house, incredible bangs. Not a Wednesday at 7pm went by, during my adolescence, when I wasn't saddled up to the television, carefully following the trials and tribulations of that chunky Midwestern girl from Minnesota who found herself in the throes of Beverly Hills. I bet Brenda Walsh never had a problem finding a therapist. She didn't even need one! She had supportive parents, a hot brother, and slew of available, rich, potential boyfriends. As I settled into my Brenda Walsh fantasy, the phone rang. FINALLY!!!! There was one, lone therapist who was covered by my insurance and could meet on a Saturday. I didn't remember calling her, I didn't recognize her name, I knew zero about her but I could tell she was the one.
On the day of our first appointment, I was elated. I had finally arrived. I had moved to Los Angeles to be an actor and had officially employed a therapist. Things were looking up. When my new therapist/life coach entered the room I was overwhelmed. I KNEW this broad. I couldn't place her but I was certain we had met before.
Me: God you look so familiar.
Life Coach: Oh, you probably saw my picture on the website.
Me: No, but I mean, I feel like I know you.
LC: Well....have you ever watched the show Beverly Hills 90210?
Me: *astonished* You shut the fuck up lady.
LC: I played Brenda's mom, Cindy Walsh.
Dear God. I should have known that my answer would come in the form of the matriarchal figure from my favorite T.V. show. I all but attacked my newly found therapist after that. As it turns out, her name is Carol Potter and she got into therapy after working with the quacks on Beverly Hills. I suppose she had incredible practice. Clearly I continue to meet with her every week. How could I not? While she remains extremely professional, I can't help but hope that someday I'll walk in and have to fill out a sheet describing which Beverly Hills character I most identify with as an exercise for her to determine my general mood. I long to inquire about Dylan’s whereabouts, but I don't want to come off as desperate (seriously, where is he?). For now, I find solace in the fact that I grew up with my therapist. She already knows everything about me. She is the mom I've always wanted, the best friend I've never had. We even have the same agent! Therapy is working in ways I could never have imagined. The simple knowledge that I have a therapist makes me feel better. It solidifies a belief I had in high school, "No matter where you are or what you're going through, Cindy Walsh will always be there and she will always understand." Da na na na, Da na na na *clap* *clap*
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