humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • When I was a teenager, I hated myself too.

    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…’

  • Sex at the Salad Bar


    Thanks, friends, for your concerned emails and for looking at me with that signature head tilt as if I’m a Haitian orphan. It’s sweet. I get it. I sound lonely and pathetic. Two weeks ago I admitted to trolling the Craigslist Missed Connections and last week I wanted someone to hold my hand while I fell asleep. If I’d read this blog, I would have been barfing all over the place and then weeping for pathetic old me.

    Sigh.

    It’s true that I want to be in love. I said it last week, and I can’t take it back.
    But you know what’s worse than NOT being in love?
    Dating.
    It’s much, much worse.

    Dating has so much potential to be amazing– the excitement of this new person who could possibly end up playing a huge role in your life. But then there are the smiles that melt into pained grins. And the guys who arrive an hour late. And the same conversations about siblings and birthplaces and parents. And the fake offering to pay the check. And the men who let me. And the texting afterward.

    It’s all so gross.
    And although I do want to be in love, I don’t want to be a dater. In fact, I’d like to announce that I’m done dating. I’m out-dated. I’m a Dater Hater. I hereby declare that I am retiring from the dating scene until 2011. No more no more no more.

    This means, of course, that I should probably stop shopping at Whole Foods.

    Shopping at the Whole Foods in Venice beach is no ordinary grocery experience. This particular Whole Foods is a meat market. And it also sells meat.

    There are more single people in this place than produce. And the cornucopia of promiscuity is obvious with every squeeze of a cantaloupe. There are skinny girls in daisy dukes, tan yogi men in scarves, salty surfer boys, and hipsters in V-necks. They’re all dripping with sexual tension as they measure out the bulk flax seed. Scooping peas from the salad bar is the new porn. You can’t pick out a bok choy without someone complimenting your pink aura or saying, ‘You must be tired because you’ve been doing downward dog in my mind all night.’

    It’s just disgusting.

    And also really fucking exciting. Because there’s nothing like the hope that fills your whole being when you spot that man with the smoldering eyes in the freezer section.

    THAT is the best part of being single– the hope, the anticipation, the numbness, the excitement of walking into the cookie aisle and knowing that any one of the men eyeing the gluten-free chocolate chips could be the man you wake up to for the rest of your life (And the fact that you can eat two PBJs for dinner in complete silence while naked.).

    Was someone saying something about love? Maybe I prefer a lifetime of titillation at the salad bar. Now that I’m rethinking it, I can’t give it all up– the hope, the men, or the Kashi cereal. I think it’s about time I come out of retirement.

    Who wants to take me out to dinner? I promise to offer to pay and not really mean it.

  • I’ll take three cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a large love


    I’ve spent my career convincing people to buy things they don’t need. And in order to do this, I’ve lied. I’ve made teenagers think they had to have video games. And when I wasn’t sure if my lies would really ring true to them, I surveyed their peers and conned them into telling me what tricks I could use. Before that, I made men and women ages 18-45 believe that they could really benefit from eating tacos and ice cream from Jack-in-the-Box. And when I wasn’t sure that they’d fall for it, I spent days making those tacos and ice cream look so absurdly delicious that they had to say it: I want that.

    Many advertisers will tell you that they’re simply helping their clients get the word out about their products. Or that they’re creating art that people want to see and pass to their friends. But I think those people also believe that you can’t get a girl pregnant if you hold your breath while ejaculating. Because the amount of inventing and manipulating that goes on before a campaign hits popular culture is pretty ridiculous. And the amount of money spent on getting these campaigns to market is even more so. We could probably end world poverty for the price of two Nike spots.

    We spend months at our stale desks deciding what a brand’s stance should be. Most of the time, we make up everything or we make a huge deal about the tiniest bit of info. Volvos aren’t really safer. Proactiv doesn’t really work. And McDonald’s surely isn’t healthy all of a sudden just because it added salads to the menu.

    I’ve always felt uneasy about making this my career. Ok, more than uneasy– more like a douche bag full of puss, which is way grosser than a regular old douche bag. The yucky feeling crescendoed until I popped and left town for most of 2009. I took off and didn’t watch one commercial or even TV (except when I was lonely in Vietnam and saw Dreamgirls and an American Idol from 2005).

    But now I’m back and things are askew. This time advertising has manipulated me.

    I’m working on an account that shall remain nameless. This mysterious account won’t allow lies in its advertising. And it holds tight to the rule that every couple featured in its ads must be deeply in love. At first I scoffed. Then I laughed. Then I paced around in circles. What? This goes against everything. I was ready to jump back in and invent more lies like the one about how cows in California produce better cheese.

    But no! Instead, this client spent its ad money to fly real couples to LA for the shoot. They put them all up in hotels and even gave them care packages! These couples got the royal wardrobe treatment and took to the sets like movie stars. But they were REAL. And in LOVE. And I was shocked.

    We filmed for eight days. Eight extra long days of watching pairs and pairs of happy soul mates traipse around Los Angeles. Normally, when happy soul mates vacation in front of you, it’s maddening. I take comfort in my single bitterness. I’m just fine alone in my endeavor to spend my life with the option to rub my naked ass on the couch whenever I want and never ever clean my shower if I don’t feel like it. Single! Independent. Don’t need me no nobody.

    But that’s before I was surrounded by 52 couples who can’t live without each other. That’s 104 hearts filled with emotion and love and compassion for that perfect person who isn’t a dream but a real match who feels the same way back.

    And so I realized: I want that.

    I knew I wanted that before, of course. But now I really want it. Because I’ve seen the commercials. And because it might be nice if there was somebody to pull my socks off when I’m too tired or tell me the funny things about his day or help me cheat at Skee-ball or hold my hand until we fall asleep.

    The karma bell has rung. Making these ads has manipulated me into wanting something I don’t have. And this is much worse than all the manipulation I’ve ever created. Because you can’t buy love at a drive-thru.

    I’ve spent my career convincing people to buy into advertising. And now advertising has convinced me to buy into love.

    I hate you, Advertising. I always have.

  • Campeones del MUNDO. El MUNDO! That’s huge.


    I never get to brag about my ethnicity because I’m always unsure of it. I know I’m American, born in a sterile American hospital like the majority of us. But my father’s side is Spanish! I am half Spanish! And I really love that half. Because it drinks wine and eats tortillas and dances flamenco and takes cafes-con-leche at all hours and tried Marlboros at an early age and calls juice ‘zumo’ and eats grapes at midnight and loves tapas and stands at the bar to eat churros y chocolate and shares bocadillos in the park and takes strolls through plazas and rests in the day and occasionally reads El Pais and La Guia del Ocio and is in love with Javier Bardem and wants to be like Almodovar and expects olives and nuts with every bar order and calls underwear ‘bragas’ and glasses ‘gafas’ and hates gilipollas.

    Maybe these things are too stereotypical. Because I’m HALF Spanish, I always feel on the fringe, like a Spanish faker.
    But today, I abolish this ethnic insecurity. Today is the day that I reclaim my Spanish roots. Because I’m fucking Spanish. And we’re champions of the world! EL MUNDO! And I’ve always wanted to be a champion of something! So now I am. Gracias, Epaña, por darme los bragging rights. I love you and your men and your passion for soccer and emotion and tight pants and food.

    Campeones del Mundo!


    Even after all the hullabaloo of the Spanish victory, though, I have to say that [this] is my favorite part of the World Cup hysteria. Who knew that one day Fozzie’s words would grab a global audience? Wocka Wocka.

  • Let’s lighten up the mood in this bitch.

    If you saw me in the street these past two weeks, you would never have guessed that I had just been reliving that whole father situation over here. Because, while it was emotional to write, I felt so relieved about getting it all out there. So, thanks for reading and commenting and emailing and supporting me even though I veered off the humorous observation path. I appreciate that I have this world of strangers encouraging me. Even if there are only five of you.

    The ironic part is that all this dad stuff emerged because of my stand-up comedy class. I am trying to learn how to be funnier (which is funny in itself), and the openness I’m learning there moved me to write about dead dads for two whole weeks! Hilarious. In an aside here, I’d like to tell America that this is irony. Taking a comedy class that makes you more depressing is ironic. T-shirts, however, are not ironic. Stop using that word wrong. A T-shirt is only ironic if you sell your hair to buy one for your husband who has sold his torso to buy you a comb for your hair.

    But something amazing happened as I left those dad articles up for a week each. They were like statements nailed to my door if I had a door and lived back in the day when people nailed stuff to doors. All of a sudden, everybody knew. And that felt fucking awesome. Because for my whole life I’ve been shoving this stuff deep inside me. I felt it was something I shouldn’t talk about, something that made me abnormal and scarred and not good enough. I didn’t come from a perfect family and my dad story was a big black stain on my memory. My therapist (what, are you surprised?) told me not to talk about such private history until date six. And usually when I did, there’d be a blank look and an oh-I-feel-so-bad-for-you conversation.

    Barf. It’s just life. Gimme a break.

    But now it’s out there! And all five of you know about it. And it’s no secret. And telling everybody is so freeing. I’m on the offense instead of the defense. Now it feels more ‘this is me, so suck it’ rather than ‘oh, well, I guess I should tell you this because it’s time for us to be closer. Hope you still accept me.’

    So, my point is: Let’s tell our secrets. Let’s make secrets obsolete. I fucking hate secrets. I am so racist against secrets, it’s disgusting. I want to throw all secrets into a gas chamber. I’ve always loved Post Secret, and now I finally understand why all those crazy people send in their secrets. Because it feels fucking good. To let it out and let it go.

    So, you know, feel free to share some secrets here. Or not. You can always email them to me (salasala@gmail.com), and I will write about them.

    In turn, I will tell you a secret. Another one. A less depressing one. Ready? Here goes:

    I religiously read ‘Missed Connections’ on Craigslist. I do! I’m embarrassed each time I click on the link, but just what if? What if the guy I’m sitting next to at this here coffee shop with the scarf on is really not gay but European and happens to have made eye contact with me purposely instead of just because his friend was standing behind me? And maybe he would have totally asked for my number but looked at the clock and realized he was late to pick his grandmother up for their weekly tea. Oh, and I guess my other secret is that I am a hopeless romantic and am positive my movie ending will happen (much like it did in my friend’s book, which you should most definitely read. Uh, I spent Fourth of July in bed reading. Another secret: I’m lame.).

    Wait, maybe this is a depressing secret. Sigh.

    At least it’s all out there. I’m so in control now. I feel like a little bird.

    Now… let’s have some fun in this bitch.