My office sits in the center of 3rd St. Promenade, the tourist haven of Santa Monica. It’s a smattering of Western discretionary income, sunburned shoulders, and overpriced ‘American Food.’ It’s a beehive of buzzing consumers all vying for the best sale item at the Gap on their way down to the polluted beach. There are so many tourists here, all clad in summer dresses and sandals, that I am amazed the Taliban targeted this place. If you want to hit Westerners where it counts, I say go for the always crowded outdoor strip mall. But whatevs. Osama has not returned my calls, so F that guy.*
My office is nestled between Johnny Rockets and Benetton, and I have to pass Forever XXI, H&M, Zara, and Mango just to walk in. This is creating unnecessary cravings for leggings and holey jeans. No! Stay away, appetite for clothes. I’m barely staying within my budget now. Plus, I pride myself on wearing the same thing every day. I’m cultivating quite a unique odor.
When I eventually walk into my building, I often share the elevator with a pair of teens, either nervous and giddy or terrified and crying. This is because my cubicle is directly above the Santa Monica Planned Parenthood. Directly above. This means that there are screaming teens getting abortions right below me as I write this. And when I go get a coffee, I’ll ride the elevator once again with a girl whose feet were in stirrups just moments before. She doesn’t know that I know that her little paper bag is filled with the NuvaRing and condoms. But I know.
Working here has taught me many a lesson in such a short time:
1. The recession was either a lie or it’s over. Everywhere I look I see people spending money.
2. My gag reflexes are in ship shape condition. I can’t walk within a mile radius of Abercrombie & Fitch without gagging. Frat boy smell. Gross.
3. Teenagers have more sex than I do.
4. Oh yeah, and I hate teenagers.
I’m sorry.
I see them every day because where there are clothing stores and free birth control, there are teenagers. They are skateboarding suddenly out in front of my car, pushing each other, littering, laughing about balls, flirting with girls by way of flashing braces and squeezing butts. Their oily skin mocks mine: ‘I’m supposed to be oily and zitty because I’m teenage skin. What’s your story?’
Their entitlement disgusts me. Their know-it-all-ism angers me. I know they feel entitled. Because it wasn’t that long ago that I was one of those dickweeds. I too squeezed butts and flashed braces and padded my bras in a pathetic attempt to hide my insecurity. So maybe these guys are just reminding me of the annoying person I used to be; hence my hatred.
Maybe.
But I can’t help but worry about when and if I have kids. I’m sure I’ll love them. I’m sure they’ll be cute at first. But what happens when they become teenagers? What happens when they get all awkward and act as if I know nothing? Am I going to be that mom who rolls her eyes and gets a bumper sticker that says, ‘You can’t scare me. I have teenagers?’ Or will I be the mom who locks her kids in a closet and only slides meals through a hole? Probably the latter. Either way, I will never bring them to the 3rd St. Promenade for a pair of leggings or an abortion. But I know they’ll come anyway. Because they’ll be teenagers. And they won’t listen to anything I say.**
* Please relax. I don’t call Osama. I text him.
** Fuck. I’m a kurmudgeon. Please alert me if I begin starting sentences with ‘The kids these days…’
{ 18 comments }
I am afraid of teenagers. I actually go out of my way to cross the street when I'm walking home.
Mainly because I'm wearing a fanny pack and rainbow back pack. I can't handle the snide remarks.
What? It's reliable. Now you've turned into one of them.
You're not a kurmudgeon – you're freaking brills. The Chef and I discuss it constantly.
Bad attitudes, think they run the world, chock full of stupidassness but thinking they're somehow here to "show us the way". We always worry about the future of the country and the world b/c when we're wheelin around trying not to drive through the Farmer's Market (you know what this means I lived off Arizona) one of these little buttholes will be running the country.
I can only hope that what is on 3rd Street Promenade is not all there is, but I fear. I do.
And I can also temper this with I was a version of this myself and now look at what a stand up human being I am. Or something.
It's true you know. We turn into our mothers. Or people that age. A little.
But hey, back to you.
Holy hell and a half on the screaming abortion clinic. Girlfriend you see an eye full working down there. Perhaps are hearing an earful too. Sad.
Gah I love your blog.
xoxo,
Carrie
this blog post is the business. i think you're my mind twin.
if my kid wants an abortion or leggings, she is damn well going to pay for it herself.
I don't know if I hate teens or not. I don't think I've had much interaction in a long time. I don't like kids much so I'd guess I also don't like teens.
I did buy booze for some kids a couple of years ago. I felt it was my duty since I had people buy booze for me when I was young.
Life comes full circle. For realz, yo.
First, I love your blog's new make-up. Second, it would be hard to deal with your work location. The clothes, the frat boy smell…and that abortion clinic. Ugh! I couldn't stand it! I'd probably have to go to work with a blindfold over my eyes and a clothespin pinching my nose. Since I would have gone through all of that trouble, I'd probably decide it was easier to just stand on the street corner & beg for money rather than taking the elevator up to my real job. You're a better person than me.
what? you mean you don't have osama on twitter yet? come on!
I love teenagers. I really do. But I guess it helps if you spend a lot of time with them as I do in my classroom. They are so funny because they are so fucked up, so much buzzing around their brains that they don't know what to do with it. But most of them are incredibly insightful – you can learn more about yourself from a one minute conversation with a teenager than an adult any day – they still have that carefree lack of inhibition that most of us would still love to have. The best thing to do is just to smile and thank your lucky stars that you're way to old to be a teenager any more!
Rahul! You again, my darling. I am picturing you in a fanny pack. It's hot.
Carrie! I love that you LOVE my blog. Maybe because I'm a narcissist. More probably because I know you have impeccable taste. You lived on Arizona!? Come back.
Angry Black Lady – agreed. That ho will buy her own damn leggings and baby suckage.
Jimmy – you don't like kids so much either? Ok, fine. I will marry you then.
Kelley – I guess I should have been more specific. I come to this busy tourist place to stand on the corner and beg for money.
GirlUntitled – Osama's Twitter account has been on and off. Caves aren't optimal for DSL.
Youcancallmesir – You are a better man than I. Maybe that's why you are a sir.
You are a fantastic writer.
Yet another great entry.
Love the new illustrations.
Are you coming to the burn or what?
dude, you are so freakin awesome. please don't ever stop blogging.
Vodka, boxed wine and xanax. That is how I survive being a mother to a teen. I recommend it.
This is seriously hilarious.
I hate teenagers too, damn them and their skinny jeans.
Since I have recently left my 20's and desperately try to be a young hip mom I often find myself wearing leggings and jeans with holes. But I hate teenagers too so can we still be friends.
I'm so excited to have children.
I'm terrified of having teenagers, because I?
Was a holy terror.
I feel this way every time I take a later train into work – all of them on their way to "the beach" – ugh – I wanna bitch slap them all.
But you won't hate all teenagers – I love my niece, she's not a bra padder or brace flasher because well, she takes after me – which naturally means she's awesome.
I would like to exchange links with your site http://www.blogger.com
Is this possible?
I don't think there is anything more depressing than when I teach teenagers and realize that they are having more sex than me.