Ok, I have come to the final realization that playing "grown up" sucks. When I was little, all I wanted was to work. I was dying to take the place of my mom's secretary Paula, answering phones, booking appointments and offering financial organization to the world and its dental files.
Fast forward to today. When you play house, you do the fun stuff, you cook for the kids, but you never have to clean the dishes. And you don't deal with a broken garbage disposal. Mind you, being an adult with a juvenile mentality, I should note that I've functioned sans disposal for about 2 months now. No joke. It stopped whirring one day and I mourned it for about 24 hours and forgot about it.
As a kid, you play house with whoever's around. If need be, you convert an elementary school classmate into Mike Brady. Hell, I did. As an adult, the quest to find someone to put into Mike Brady's shoes becomes more difficult. And you find out Mike Brady was a homosexual, which just confuses you that little bit more.
Today I'm faced with finding a partner (if not for love then for the tax deduction, because I was nearly brought to tears when I filed my taxes this year), making enough money to keep a roof over my head, perhaps even fixing the appliances therein. And yesterday a friend mentioned that perhaps I should create a savings account for "fun" or travel. What happened to mom and dad just springing a Hawaii trip on us? Nowadays I consider it a getaway if I drive as far as La Jolla. And as a kid you prized your possessions and knew where they were at all times. This weekend, concerned with worldly things like paying a month's worth of bills (ok, and maybe watching the Hulk Hogan reality show at the gym) I lost my iPod. Again. And I'm too tired to care. I'm not sure which is sadder.
What happened when the biggest task in your day was a sheet of foreign verb conjugation or finding a ride to the mall to get that new cassette you were dying for? Youth is so wasted on the young. I'm just gonna pray that my youthful looks help me stretch it out a bit more. Let the regression begin.
You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine
I went out of town to New York and returned. Apparently the sunshine and 70 degree weather I took with me to the Big Apple didn't return with me. It's day 2424635 of cloudy greyness and I've had enough of it.
Alot of people say that if you didn't grow up in California you don't have a right to complain about the weather here. To them I say, well, whatever word goes with wiggly moose-head signs and sticking my tongue out. Screw that. I pay a premium for sunshine and so I want some fucking sunshine.
See how mad I am? I just f-bombed. And my mom reads my blog!
When I left the midwest, I left a land where crappy weather was a certainty. There is something to be said for the reassuring nature of knowing that when you get up, it's going to be crappy out. Here, I get up expecting California Dreamin' and I look out the window and don't know where I am for a moment. In Chicago, you knew it was going to be freezing-slip-on-your-ass-icy in winter, spring and part of fall. In summer it was unGodly hot where your lungs would need a moment to adjust from the cool air conditioned house when you stepped outside, beads of sweat forming almost immediately. It was never perfect, so you didn't bother worrying. But here, my own (very reasonable) expectations aside, I have a reputation to keep up! When people -- clients, friends, telemarketers -- call and want to know what the weather is like, I am under a certain amount of pressure to perform. I want to say "you don't want me to tell you - heh heh", but instead I say "Sorry, tell me again. What is the survey about?"
In Chicago my parents realized that the lack of sunshine was affecting their children. It was first noted shortly after my growth spurt halted right around 4 feet (yes, short, even for my family) for a while there. Immediately my mom sought out what became nicknamed "happy lights" -- indoor lighting meant to mimic the sun's rays and give you some of whatever that drug is that the sun shoots down on my solar panel. Our moods lightened, or in any case the placebo effect was in full force.
But these days, I don't know where to buy a happy light. I'm in freaking San Diego. They don't sell them here. I keep turning around (I've turned my desk because facing out the window was getting to me after a week) to see if maybe the sun has burned the clouds away while I"m hammering away at my keyboard. Nope. At this rate, I will continue to be the Whitest Iranian Girl That Ever Did Live. It's not a title I'm looking to champion for much longer. I keep eyeing a reserve bottle of self-tanner in my medicine cabinet. Middle eastern people shouldn't even HAVE to buy that stuff. See what I mean?
If there was a sun dance, I'd do it. But that would require energy I don't have. Send help.
Alot of people say that if you didn't grow up in California you don't have a right to complain about the weather here. To them I say, well, whatever word goes with wiggly moose-head signs and sticking my tongue out. Screw that. I pay a premium for sunshine and so I want some fucking sunshine.
See how mad I am? I just f-bombed. And my mom reads my blog!
When I left the midwest, I left a land where crappy weather was a certainty. There is something to be said for the reassuring nature of knowing that when you get up, it's going to be crappy out. Here, I get up expecting California Dreamin' and I look out the window and don't know where I am for a moment. In Chicago, you knew it was going to be freezing-slip-on-your-ass-icy in winter, spring and part of fall. In summer it was unGodly hot where your lungs would need a moment to adjust from the cool air conditioned house when you stepped outside, beads of sweat forming almost immediately. It was never perfect, so you didn't bother worrying. But here, my own (very reasonable) expectations aside, I have a reputation to keep up! When people -- clients, friends, telemarketers -- call and want to know what the weather is like, I am under a certain amount of pressure to perform. I want to say "you don't want me to tell you - heh heh", but instead I say "Sorry, tell me again. What is the survey about?"
In Chicago my parents realized that the lack of sunshine was affecting their children. It was first noted shortly after my growth spurt halted right around 4 feet (yes, short, even for my family) for a while there. Immediately my mom sought out what became nicknamed "happy lights" -- indoor lighting meant to mimic the sun's rays and give you some of whatever that drug is that the sun shoots down on my solar panel. Our moods lightened, or in any case the placebo effect was in full force.
But these days, I don't know where to buy a happy light. I'm in freaking San Diego. They don't sell them here. I keep turning around (I've turned my desk because facing out the window was getting to me after a week) to see if maybe the sun has burned the clouds away while I"m hammering away at my keyboard. Nope. At this rate, I will continue to be the Whitest Iranian Girl That Ever Did Live. It's not a title I'm looking to champion for much longer. I keep eyeing a reserve bottle of self-tanner in my medicine cabinet. Middle eastern people shouldn't even HAVE to buy that stuff. See what I mean?
If there was a sun dance, I'd do it. But that would require energy I don't have. Send help.
guilty pleasures in no particular order.
1. Jordan Knight covering New Kids on the Block. Double disc album. Owned by me. For those of you who thought it couldn't get worse than my ownership of the London Symphony Orchestra covering Madonna's greatest hits. (Apparently one of you out there didn't think it was so bad b/c you borrowed it and didn't return it.)
2. Seeing famous people look fat in pictures. Thank you US Weekly.
3. Astrologyzone.com. I stay up late the last night of the month so I can sneak a peek at what Susan is predicting for the next month. True. Not that I should feel guilty about being emotionally attached to my horoscope. I am a Scorpio and we're just obsessed like that...
4. Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Sodium plus starch, period. I could live on this stuff.
5. Singing in the car. I know, not a guilty pleasure until I tell you that sometimes I rewind so I can sing a different part of the harmony. Gotta cover it all. Albums like Brandy offer maximum harmonizing potential, fyi.
I have no idea why I just cyberdumped these private facts. I'm a stone's throw from a reality show audition. Actually, I think I'd like my own show. It could be called So Lillious. Don't worry, Tori could have a supporting role. I don't want to totally steal the limelight. It would be about my life, my times, and importantly, my rise as a pre-eminent literary agent to the stars (see www.hyperwest.net/anachronic for more details on cast member Jon Yang).
So basically it would show me reading for the first 5 minutes. Then for the next 25 minutes the camera would watch me watching my screen, emailing everyone I know - clients, friends, randoms and laughing at my own wit. Insert more featuring my various friends. I'd definitely give special attention to my lawyer friends, contrasting their days with mine (them in suits, me in cute sweats. them clocking in and out, me reading manuscripts in the sun). Maybe I'll take a note from Hasselhoff and do a slo-mo montage of that bit. I'd let my parents be on the show, but my dad couldn't make jokes about me being an old maid. Come to think of it, I'd probably have to make him sign something about that.
I still feel like I'm jetlagged from my awesome trip to NYC. This week's lesson on "So Lillious" is that you can take a wicked nap if you bunch up an airplane blanket for a pillow to rest your head on on your traytable. Plus you look so weird that the air waitresses (as I like to call them) leave you alone.
Like a Von Trapp, I bid you adieu (always wanted to do that. To you, and you, and you and you and you). Nitey nite.
2. Seeing famous people look fat in pictures. Thank you US Weekly.
3. Astrologyzone.com. I stay up late the last night of the month so I can sneak a peek at what Susan is predicting for the next month. True. Not that I should feel guilty about being emotionally attached to my horoscope. I am a Scorpio and we're just obsessed like that...
4. Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Sodium plus starch, period. I could live on this stuff.
5. Singing in the car. I know, not a guilty pleasure until I tell you that sometimes I rewind so I can sing a different part of the harmony. Gotta cover it all. Albums like Brandy offer maximum harmonizing potential, fyi.
I have no idea why I just cyberdumped these private facts. I'm a stone's throw from a reality show audition. Actually, I think I'd like my own show. It could be called So Lillious. Don't worry, Tori could have a supporting role. I don't want to totally steal the limelight. It would be about my life, my times, and importantly, my rise as a pre-eminent literary agent to the stars (see www.hyperwest.net/anachronic for more details on cast member Jon Yang).
So basically it would show me reading for the first 5 minutes. Then for the next 25 minutes the camera would watch me watching my screen, emailing everyone I know - clients, friends, randoms and laughing at my own wit. Insert more featuring my various friends. I'd definitely give special attention to my lawyer friends, contrasting their days with mine (them in suits, me in cute sweats. them clocking in and out, me reading manuscripts in the sun). Maybe I'll take a note from Hasselhoff and do a slo-mo montage of that bit. I'd let my parents be on the show, but my dad couldn't make jokes about me being an old maid. Come to think of it, I'd probably have to make him sign something about that.
I still feel like I'm jetlagged from my awesome trip to NYC. This week's lesson on "So Lillious" is that you can take a wicked nap if you bunch up an airplane blanket for a pillow to rest your head on on your traytable. Plus you look so weird that the air waitresses (as I like to call them) leave you alone.
Like a Von Trapp, I bid you adieu (always wanted to do that. To you, and you, and you and you and you). Nitey nite.
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