You wake up, referring your next shift at work as ‘tomorrow’ when in fact it is in 2 hours, and while in the shower you blind yourself because you mistakenly believe it to be a good idea to wash your face with shampoo. And not the ‘no tears’ baby kind. Because there were tears. Lots of them.
Archive for July, 2006
Last night, Carla and I went to see Lady In The Water, against the better judgment of many movie critics out there. I have to say, though, it was one of the better movies I’ve seen recently. Good job, M.
Him and I are on a first name basis.
Anyways, there was one disturbing thing about the night [besides the enormous bug with 700 legs I found in the bathroom hanging out by the sink. When I turned my back to get some toilet paper to kill it, the soldier of disgust ran away. I doused the crevices with hair spray. I don’t know if that will do anything]. One of the movie previews [click here to view] was for a film, World Trade Center.
Am I the only one who thinks this is too soon? The images I saw were very shocking. The plane crashing into the side of the WTC. Firemen and civilians running through a crumbling lobby. And two policemen, trapped beneath rubble, writing notes on pieces of paper that say ‘I love you’ on them.
Do any of us NEED this? What about the families of the victims from this tragedy? Do they need to have a movie out in every screen in America depicting what may [or may not] have happened to their loved ones in the last moments of their life?
Another issue I have is this, and I fear I may be viewed as unpatriotic for thinking it. What benefit do we gain from thinking of this tragedy as a source of inspiration and courage? Is it easier for us to think that those who were in there somehow, in their last moments, did something heroic or brave? I think of those who lost their lives in other well known tragedies, and the stories I’ve heard of them. Such as people being trampled in the gas chambers as they tried to escape the grasp of the poison surrounding them.
In no way am I saying that this is what happened in the WTC events. What I am saying is isn’t it dangerous to create these stories and ideas about what had happened in there? And isn’t it a bit disconcerting that this movie is coming out at the time it is, what with Bush having super low approval ratings and the war on terror becoming a seemingly endless one?
We’re almost 5 years removed from this horrendous event. People are still grieving. Our nation is still trying to recover. But to me, this seems like picking at a scab. This will aggravate emotions, insinuate occurrences and perpetuate ideas about the whole ordeal.
My views on this issue are very sorted. I feel that, as a majority, Americans ignore what we do to other countries and how we treat our neighbors. We feel like we’re the strongest nation ever, so we can decide what’s best for all. I am in NO WAY saying we deserved this attack. I would be a soulless creature if I ever touched upon that idea. But I do think we should have known something was coming. We can only bully people for so long until they start to bully back.
I’m worried this movie will incite more hatred towards the Middle East. I’m worried this movie will make us nostalgic for the days when any person who didn’t look ‘American’ could be harassed for ‘attacking us’. I’m worried that this will renew our blood lust and war hunger.
And I’m worried that this will just tear open the wounds of the survivors, reminding them of what they lost and who they mourn. Is all this really necessary?
While at a cook out with some friends, we all came to the conclusion that we may have gotten our friend’s 17 year old brother a little drunk. Not sloppy, throw uppy or any type of disgusting by product of drinking too much. Just a little drunk.
We figured it was better he do it with us, while both my friend and I kept a strong, watchful, ever so judgmental eye on him.
In order to test the theory of his drunkenness, we came up with the age old test. Stand on one leg, close your eyes, and touch your fingers to your nose.
What followed was 5 people standing up from the patio table and falling over in different directions while groping their face. 17 year old included.
The only person able to score a 100 on the test was Carla. She was like a professional ballet dancer surrounded by two legged dogs. It just wasn’t a contest.
Our kind, drunken host stood completely still, eyes wide with amazement and wonder. When Carla finished what appeared to him be the dance of gods, he said to her in the same way one might propose love and marriage, Carla…You are like…a wonderful swan…
She then took a bow, sat down, and finished her hot dog.
During my 12 hour shift at the Eagle the other day, nothing seemed to be going very smoothly. Wall designs were positioned incorrectly. We were drastically low on different types of shirts and what not. Hangers just kept APPEARING in the middle of the floor, and no one knew how.
I blamed it on the Irish girls that we recently hired, Rose and Kate. My theory is that leprechauns followed them over here from the Emerald Isle, and are now wreaking havoc of small people proportions. To be completely honest, there is really no other explanation as to why so many tiny, annoying things consistently kept occurring. It was the leprechauns.
When I finally lost it around midnight, I yelled at Rose and Kate, telling them that their damned mystical heritage is screwing us all over and that they should just take the rainbow and the pot of gold and shove it up their ‘arse’. Kate flew back at me with a flurry of words I didn’t understand, because seriously, why can’t you Irish people just speak English? So in response, I called her a Banshee.
She stopped folding clothes, looked up at me, and did something that made me regret all the things I said in my sleep deprived tirade.
She Banshee Cursed me.
At first, I laughed it off. But now? I’m not so sure. With the string of bad luck I’ve been having, I need to find a way to break this curse before this weekend, the celebration of my 22nd birthday.
Yesterday, while driving to work [LATE, I might add], I pulled around the corner from my house and BAM! got pulled over by a cop. The first time in my life that a cop has ever had to stop me for anything. I felt even more lame knowing that he wasn’t in a car when he pulled me over. He was running down the street. On foot.
He said my ticket would have been over $200. Half of it would be because I ran a stop sign [it’s called a Massachusetts stop for a REASON. Who does full 3 second stops?!], and the other half would have been for speeding. Since I had never been pulled over or been into an accident in my life, I only got a written warning. He marked on the sheet that he had ‘estimated’ my speed. I estimated him to be a douche.
Some people may say I should never have done a running stop, or that I shouldn’t be speeding. If I had been obeying the rules of the road, none of this would have happen. I say to those people two words:
After I got out of work yesterday, I began to pull out of my spot to head for the garage toll booth. Forgetting I had placed a bottle of soda on the roof of my car, I jumped a bit when it fell off and hit my window. This resulted in me scraping the side of the car against a pole, resulting in the slight disfigurement of the front left bumper of the car. While it’s only a plastic bumper and can easily [and hopefully cheaply] be repaired, I’m a bit nervous about this happenstance.
Sure, you may say I should have been thinking more clearly and remembered my bottle of coke. Or that I should have not parked next to that pole. If I had been a more aware driver, I would have been able to prevent this minor accident from occurring. I say to you people two words:
I’ve decided I’m not going to drive for a solid week. I can’t risk the Curse of the Banshee on me or the car until I can talk to Kate and have her lift this vile voodoo from my life. If she doesn’t do it soon, there is no TELLING what may happen to me.
Damn those drunken hooligans and their evil green magic. Damn them to hell.
Don’t tell them I said that.
In order to prepare for a visit from one of the Eagle corporate heads, we cleaned the store.
When I say clean the store, I don’t mean walk around with some Febreeze and a vacuum cleaner and say ‘okie dokie, we’re all done’. No.
We swiffered the floors, the walls, the ceilings and the lamps. We vacuumed the hardwood floors, the cement floors, the fitting rooms and the storage rooms. We changed entire walls and how they looked, refolded every single polo and t-shirt within the whole store, and arranged all the women’s underwear in the proper order.
Every. Single. Article of clothing. Is now sensored, stickered, size labeled and put in size order.
We followed a series of visual plans that told us how everything needed to be, down to how the shirt is tucked on the mannequin to how a sleeve is folded on a polo.
From 1 pm till past 1 am, I worked. For over 12 hours, I folded, stuffed, sized, sold, rang up, returned, endured and put up with customers who walked into the store. The person who worked there the longest was Teddy, who slaved for almost 15 hours. He had reached a point of consciousness that made it possible to make him laugh if you rhymed words with the letter B.
As we all stood by the door, waiting for the security code to be punched in so that we could leave, no one spoke. Everyone was too tired to even open their jaw, nevermind form coherent sounds.
After about 5 minutes of this, Teddy looked down at the floor and said with a shake of the head, a matter of factly voice and more to himself than anyone else,
When I get home, my girlfriend is gonnuh tell me to take a showah, and I’m gonnuh have to tell ‘er to go fuck ‘erself.
We all just stood there with a frown and nodded.
As a new member of Bally’s Total Fitness, I’m entitled to one free session with a personal trainer. A woman named Erin had given me a few calls asking if I wanted to work out with her, so this morning I finally gave in and headed for the gym.
Erin was a nice woman who looked to be in her late 20’s or early 30’s. She was small as hell and could probably have used my sneakers as a two car garage for her house. I still got the impression that she could bend me in half, though, if she had the slightest whim to.
When I arrived, she started me off with a few ball exercises as a warm up. After a few minutes of that, she got me started on cardio, which I can only assume is personal trainer language for ‘humiliation’.
It started with a two square game of hopscotch. I stood in the middle of the gym, right between the work out floor and the weight machines, and hopped. From one square. To another. And WHOA back to the first square. This was done for a solid minute.
After that, we jogged to the other side of the track. The side secluded from the rest of the gym. What I did here can only be compared to that freshmen boy with his pants down, waiting to be smacked in the ass by a frat boy with a paddle.
First she had me crab run. As I stood facing the wall in a squatting position, I raced all the way down the track and back, taking care not to trip and go flying down the lanes. After this, I ran backwards. This was only to prepare me for what she called the ‘butt kicks’, a run where my heels are to hit my ass in every single stride.
When I thought she could embarrass me no more, she began to pull out all the stops. Remember in the 70’s [I think…] there was a popular dance moved called ‘the grapevine’? Do you ever wonder why you don’t see it used as much anymore? I don’t. Because I found out personal trainers across the globe have incorporated it into their training sessions in the highly likely situation their client will trip over their own two feet and dislocate their face after it’s planted in the track.
Thank the Baby Jesus that I didn’t kill myself while running up and down the track while dancing the grapevine.
After I had gotten back to start, I picked up my water and waited for her to tell me we could leave the track and continue the work out in the hot tub, perhaps maybe with some cheese and crackers and a mojito. This is when little, tiny, super in shape Erin became the visage of death and hatred.
Okay, one more exercise and then we’re done here!
…Okay…God, I’m tired…
That’s great! Okay, now this one’s called ‘The Hitler’.
Kick your right leg out, keeping it as straight as possible, while holding out the opposite arm. Try to reach your leg to your hand. Then switch to the other arm and leg. And let’s see you go all the way down the track and back.
…You want me to goose step down the track?
C’mon, and we’re almost done!
And so for a tenth of a mile, I hate marched down the lane and back. Keeping my feet as straight as possible and my morals as loose as Paris Hilton.
For the next 30 minutes, we then did a variety of exercises that focused on resistance [obviously not along the lines of freedom and acceptance], then ended with some stretching. A word of advice to all of you out there planning on using a personal trainer. Go poo poo before the class. That way you’ll save yourself the embarrassment of farting as the trainer lifts your leg, and you’ll save her the cost of plastic surgery to replace the face that got burned off my the noxious gases that escaped your rectum.
After the stretching, she brought me into an office to discuss personal training packages. It was at this moment I realized how poor I really was. Either that, or how much I need to live in a socialist community in order to keep my sanity. 24 training sessions? Oh, just $1400.
Right now, I have 10 times LESS than that in my account. For that type of money, I could probably afford to have Erin spill hot coffee on me while I try to fit an entire workout into a 41 second session.
I haven’t had a work out that intense in a very long time. By the end of the hour, I was sweating, tired, nauseous and a newly inducted soldier of hate.
So to reward myself for a job well done, I stopped by McDonald’s on the way home and got their new Snack Wrap [a chicken tender with cheese, lettuce and ranch wrapped in a soft shell tortilla], a medium fry and a medium Hi-C. And dammit if it wasn’t the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks.
I want you all to look off into the distance. Stare off into space with that look in your eye that you always see people at the end of bad Life Time movies with. The look that says You know what?! Things MIGHT just get better, and I MIGHT just walk again, and Jimmy may SOMEDAY come home and help me raise Betsy and Skip Skip up right. Now hold that look. And think about the future, and this promise I’m about to make to you.
Someday, when we are all older, with new worries, old memories, fresh experiences and long learned lessons, you will all be able to look back and say You know? I knew that John fellow back when he wasn’t famous. Back when he was just a lowly blogger who didn’t have the world in the palm of his hand. I knew John when he was just another face in the crowd, and not the paparazzi pursued ADONIS he is today.
I walked up on stage in that full body, mobile casket. I Posed. I Danced. I even flashed gang signs [or the closest I could get to them while wearing those hooves]. All while sweating more than a whore in church. And then I had to be photographed with every single child within a 5 city block radius.
I tell ya. Being famous is NOT easy.
Also, to be even more honest…this was several years ago. I’m still waiting for that fame to kick in. But any day now and KA-POW, my face will be on every TV Guide in the country. Just you wait and see.
With the job hunt picking up steam, I’ve started to open myself up to a lot more avenues than I had previously allowed myself. For example, I’ve been applying to jobs in Boston. The reason why this is a big step is simple.
Too much exposure to my family, and I may pull a Lizzie Borden and put an end to all the suffering.
Ax murdering jokes aside, I’ve begun to notice how much is actually out there in terms of jobs, and as a result, how much I’m actually qualified for. Which is very exciting, especially for a recent graduate. Whole world at my feet and all that jazz.
The best job I’ve come across so far was posted on craigslist. The REASON I call it the best job ever is only because of the laugh factor I got out of it. As the assistant to the CEO…
Responsibilities include, but are not limited to…
*Accompany CEO on trips to Boston, New York City and Miami offices.
*Keep a schedule of meetings and deadlines in Blackberry.
*Be able to go over that morning’s financial headlines while at the gym with CEO at 7 am.
*Be able to work on little sleep.
*Maintain contacts and schedule meetings, also think of creative bar/bat mitzvah gifts and gifts for others (media, contacts, cops) to send.
*Write small press releases, possibly at 3 am.
*Be the contact between the CEO and the media.
*Basically, be CEOs bitch.*
The benefits, though, were the best part…
*24/7 car service.
*24/7 body guard service
*Keys to the company house in the Hamptons
*Free gym/LA membership
All I needed to do to apply was send in a pitch and a picture. Yes, that’s right. A photograph was one of the deciding factors as to whether or not I landed the job of biggest paid boot licker on the East Coast.
Knowing full well I wouldn’t get the job, I decided to have fun with the application. In the first part of my pitch, I explained a little about myself. Blah blah blah. The last part, though, is where I really shined.
In writing this, I realize you are probably going to receive dozens, if not hundreds, of pitches for this position, and that there is very little I can say in order to surpass the others. More than likely, this will be just another read in several during a coffee break or between meetings. The only thing I ask is that you take a chance and give me a call. The worst that can happen is that you choose someone else. The best is that you get a great new assistant. I’d also like to point out this is the first time I’ve ever used a ‘Why Not?’ strategy in a job application. It is the best course of action I believe you can take when interviewing potential candidates. Should you call me in for an interview? Sure, why not?
If the What the hell, sure! strategy didn’t clinch it for me, I sent in these to pictures to seal the deal.
How can you NOT resist that face?! Don’t you want this guy to be at YOUR beckoned call? Come on, now. Sure, the second picture may be of me about to do a shotgun [aka sucking down a whole beer out of a hole in a beer can] but isn’t that the type of DRIVE and DETERMINATION you need in a high profile advertising company?!
If your employees aren’t able to do even that, then I don’t think I want to associate myself with such a place.
And, um, apparently they’re fine not associating with me. I’m gonna miss those bodyguards and that hefty salary that could support me and my lifestyle choices [i.e. helper monkeys and unicorns].
Back to the hunt.
*I added that last one in there, in case you couldn’t tell.
**Also, I’m blonde again. The redhead phase lasted just for second semester.
Teen Girl #1: Ohmigod, Chelsea. I. LOOOVE. Thosejeansonyou. UGH! You have the best body, I am just SO jealous of you!
Teen Girl #2: Like, totally.
Teen Girl #3: Really? Are you sure you like, like the wash on me?
Teen Girl #1 Chelse. Sweetie? The wash?…FABULOUS! It matches your eyes! And like, when you get your hair highlighted tomorrow, and we go to the beach this weekend and work on our tans, the jeans will look, like, a million times better than they already do!
Teen Girl #2: Like, totally.
Teen Girl #3: Okay good. Cuz, I was like, worried. But what about the butt? Isn’t it like, too low? I feel like by entire BUTT is just like…out there! Isn’t that like, gross?
Teen Girl #1: Too LOW?! Chelse, come on! Are you for real?! Butt crack is like, SO the new cleavage now! It’s HOT!
Teen Girl #2: Like, totally.