humans are funny

Category: hmmm

  • Do you think the Stegosaurus ordered special meals on planes?

    In my mere thirty years on this planet, I have had lots of boyfriends. LOTS. Like, hundreds. First one: Pat McGovern, 1st grade. We were in different classrooms, but we each took a casual stroll to the bathrooms at the same time. He leaned his three-foot-two body against the pink tiled wall and waited for me to walk by. Then, just at the perfect moment, he told me I looked smashing (It was picture day, so I was slinging the old A game.). This was the first of many cheesy pick-up lines thrown at me from men leaning against walls, and I ate it up like Haagen-Das.

    Days later we were kissing under the slide at recess. That was my dating heyday, when relationships were easy. First: attraction. Then: coloring. Then: birthday parties, moms getting friendly on field trips, maybe some conversation about how the Stegosaurus was a vegetarian. And then: onto the next.

    Now it goes more like: attraction, fun times and laughter, imagining future together that is bright and perfect, time passes, perfect future slightly mired by his pot smoking and video games, six months pass, finally decide that future together indeed looks horrible, snoring no longer deemed ‘cute,’ ‘break’ requested, awkward friend period, mutual disgust. And repeat. And repeat again. And repeat again until you have had so many relationships that the index card holder you got as a teenager to record all your relationships won’t close anymore. (Yes, I record them all. Big fan of data entry.)

    And what happens to all those men busting out of your relationship box? They’re all still out there. And they’ve moved on. And they have wives and kids and they are much much happier without your constant requests for compromise or time alone to write your blog. (Yes, I’m using the universal ‘you,’ but this is obviously all about my friend.).

    There’s always been some selfish part of me that has wished those exes wouldn’t move on. I have caught myself hoping they would freeze in Ex-land, waiting for me just in case I’d made an awful mistake by ending things. In the past, I’ve heard about an ex getting married or having four kids, and I’ve cringed and perhaps had a snifter of wine, thinking WHAT IF THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME? I could have a house and kids by now. I could be ‘settled’ into a comfortable life right now. WHAT WAS I THINKING? WHAT IF I MADE A MISTAAAAAKE?

    Interesting to note that the act of settling down has the word ‘settle’ in it.

    I recently had my astrological chart read, and the kind astrologer told me I need to “grow up and throw out my idealism.” She also told me I need to dress in a more mature fashion. She acted like it’s not cool to wear stained sweats all the time.

    I get that there isn’t a man out there who is perfect. I GET IT, okay. You guys, seriously. I get it. You can stop reminding me. Mom. I get it. Many people encourage me to settle, and that’s very thoughtful of them. But it’s not like I’m going around saying, “Oh, lord, that guy eats oatmeal with his left hand. The horror! Get him out of here AT ONCE.” It’s more about how he wears his jeans or what brand of knives he uses. No! Not that either. Seriously, it all comes down to his credit score. No, not that either. What’s going on is that I’m learning valuable lessons from each fine lad about what I want in a relationship and how I want to show up in a relationship. Each experience is making me better for the final taker. Based on my box of index cards, I have learned a lot. I am a relationship pro. I could write a relationship book. On index cards.

    The other day I saw (by accident… I swear) a picture of my 2006 live-in boyfriend. We had been on the road to Serious Town not that long ago, and now he’s smiling in a Facebook photo with his mom (who I loved), his wife, and his new baby boy. This time, instead of feeling that well-known anxiety, all I felt was relief. Lots of relief. The relief of one millions sighs, so happy that it wasn’t me in that picture. I learned A LOT in that relationship (mainly that I don’t want my partner to talk on the phone during the entirety of my grandmother’s funeral), and I’m confident that it’s not supposed to be me in that picture.

    So, there’s a moral here… wait for it… It is that people come into our lives to teach us something. People come and people go and people make a difference. And it’s okay that they’re not in our lives anymore. It feels weird to be imagining a future together one year and then well-wishing a few years later, but that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

    Just think how lucky some fella is going to be when we finally do have a relationship. He’ll get to be with someone who has already learned all her relationship lessons and knows everything.

  • Let’s all move to Denmark. And never change our pants.

    I wear the same clothes almost every day. I have a few shirts and three pairs of Forever XXI jeans I got for $9.50 each (Sorry, child laborers. But not that sorry.). I am happy to sport this minimalist wardrobe because this frugal life choice has led me to revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.

    Last week, I cashed in this revenge. It was loud. It was triumphant. It was FREEDOM. It was this:

    A zero balance on the big fat student loan that once hovered over me like a cloud full of lead. This very vocal cloud has told me I couldn’t/shouldn’t travel. It’s reminded me I am actually poorer than all the homeless people who ask me for coins. It’s wrapped me in spending guilt and and laughed every time I thought I had amassed any savings.

    And now it’s gone. Poof.

    This is freedom. This is Shawshank Redemption (without the old guy who kills himself.) And it feels magical. It was worth wearing the same shirt for three days in a row even though it kind of smelled like cheese. It was worth forgoing big spending and tiny pleasures. Because I am no longer indebted to “the man,” who is really a bunch of banks who can’t even be trusted with their own money. Banks may be bad at investing, but they sure are good at mailing out reminders and balance statements.

    It’s been almost ten years since that fateful trip to my grad school’s financial office where the “school employee” who was really a salesman convinced me to take out the loan for the LARGEST AMOUNT POSSIBLE.

    “It’s the smartest idea,” he said. “You’ll just save everything you don’t use and then you’ll have a big chunk of money after you graduate so you can open your own business.”

    Before I could question, he said,“You’ll be hard pressed to get a business loan after you graduate, so taking out THE MOST money now is really the best bet.”

    I didn’t even know if I wanted to start my own business, but this fucker was good. His face was slightly smashed in, so when he grinned and told me about his kids, I had to trust him.

    I signed paper after paper.
    And, just like that, I owed fifty grand.
    FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS.
    To pay for a school that didn’t get me a degree but a certificate.
    A certificate.

    I don’t readily admit that to anyone, but in my financial rage, there you have it. I don’t really have a Master’s degree even though I spent FIFTY GRAND and two years at a ‘grad’ school studying creative advertising. A certificate sounds so cheap. IT WASN’T CHEAP! It cost 50 grand. Did I mention it cost FIFTY GRAND? And all I got was a piece of pink paper that I couldn’t even use to get ‘recent grad’ discounts because it looked fake.

    You can’t tell a twenty-two year old to take out the maximum and save it. Especially if her particular scholastic program sends her to Miami, New York, San Francisco, London, and Sao Paulo. Of course I spent the whole damn fifty grand. And visited ten times the countries they sent me to. I bet I could have done it on much less. I could have learned to be frugal then. BUT I HAD FIFTY GRAND IN THE BANK. An all-inclusive trip to the Dominican Republic? Well… I am in Miami, so I guess I should. A new slutty outfit to wear when I get there? You can’t go to the Dominican Republic without a slutty outfit. A two-week jaunt to Spain? I mean… I have the money in my account…

    Yeah.
    It was fun.
    No regrets.

    But suddenly I graduated and had a job that paid me nothing and I owed $600 a month.
    Shit. Shit. Shit.

    Then I had to wear the same shirt every day out of necessity. I couldn’t afford a car. I felt pinned to life by my loans. And glued to advertising. I didn’t like this new career, but I couldn’t quit because I had to pay up. Yes, I got to travel, but now I was paying for it in my cubicle prison.

    STUCK. Stuck. Stuck.

    Pissed at the man.
    Pissed at America for allowing debt to be the American way.

    Students in Denmark get a government stipend to go to college. They PAY the STUDENTS to go to college. Doesn’t that make more sense? Doesn’t it seem stupid to make it HARD to get smarter? Maybe our global power wouldn’t be slipping away from us if higher education was easily attainable in the U.S.? In China, it costs between $500 – $1000 for higher education. My tuition was $28,000 plus living expenses, which ended up being FIFTY GRAND (not sure if you heard). According to this fascinating article here, some colleges argue that they can’t lower their prices for fear of seeming less prestigious. That’s disgusting. That’s like me saying I’ll stay single if I wear the same thing every day. (Oh.)

    Blasphemous.

    And just rude.

    Loans are just rude.

    So, I decided to get back at the banks and my school and that salesman. And I made it this year’s goal to be cheap with myself and pay off those fucking loans as early as possible. They weren’t getting 5% interest from me for thirty years. Hells to the no.

    Last week, seven years after I graduated, I clicked ‘submit’ and paid off the last of the fifty grand. With all that interest, I have no idea how much I actually paid over the years. I’m too scared to calculate, but it’s surely more than fifty grand. Dammit! They got me a little, but in the end: I WIN! It feels so good I could buy a shirt!

    I encourage all to get back at those interest-sucking banks and expensive educations. Go to school in Denmark. Forgo the new boots once in a while and send in a little extra per month to your loans. Do it. Get revenge! And if you don’t have any loans, fuck you.

  • Funny Human: The Slow Shopper

    Bikini waxes and grocery shopping: Two things I feel obligated to do even though thinking of doing them actually hurts me physically. When the time comes to shop or wax, I usually create some kind of obstacle to prolong my arrival. I’ll feel a sudden urge to download a Rob Base song. I’ll decide the ice trays need a very thorough cleaning. Or I’ll be delighted to see that the lone string hanging from my sweater sleeve would make a perfect leash for the spider on my wall. Anything to keep a stranger from pouring hot wax on my fox hole or finding myself in line surrounded by gossip magazines to pay $80 for a cartful of shit that will go bad in my fridge. Yes, most things go bad in my fridge. It’s because I am single. The grocery experience happily reminds me of that with every 10-for-10 deal on yogurt.

    A sweep through the supermarket is no Supermarket Sweep. The entire grocery experience is horrifying, and as I approach the supermarket doors, my hands tremble, not at all soothed by the hand wipes now provided to clean each cart handle before use. I’m probably one of LA’s premier germaphobes, and I don’t even think the hand wipes are necessary. This is LA. Girls will give blow jobs to strangers in bar bathrooms or drop vaginal fluids onto movie seats because of their mini “dresses.” But they can’t touch a cart that some single mother just touched? Really?

    As I head inside, my nipples furiously protest. I understand that foodstuffs should be cold so as not to spoil, but every supermarket I’ve ever been in is colder than my mother-in-law’s heart. Not really. I don’t have a mother-in-law (as established), but I’ve always wanted to throw in a M-I-L joke so I could get a mainstream laugh. Hey Raymond, everybody loves ME now!

    I weave through the tundra-like produce section, stopping only to grab some bananas and pre-cut carrots. Because who the hell has time to cut their own carrots these days? I’m so thankful some genius came up with prepackaged mini carrots, saving the innocent from ever having to eat a full-size carrot. Seriously. The horror.

    In an attempt to save a few cents, I occasionally get caught up comparing the price-per-ounce of ketchup or the price-per-ply of toilet paper. But once I become aware of my stalling, my nipples insist I pick up the pace. Must get out. Must be free of this stew of unnecessary goods.

    And then it happens. Every time. My cart spins past the twenty types of tortillas for sale on the end of the bean aisle and gets stuck behind a Slow Shopper.

    The Slow Shopper is always in front of you, never behind. She peruses the sauces, reading every last ingredient. Somehow, she always seems to wedge herself between an aisle and a display of pie crusts or fluorescent flexi-straws, depending on the season. She blocks you in and unknowingly bends to inspect the vegetable oil just as you attempt a pass. She never seems to notice that your nipples stand as much chance as a mole in a dermatologist’s office, and this nonchalance is MADDENING. Unfazed by the subzero temperature and the sold-out veggie burgers that had been advertised 2-for-1, she waddles through the aisle and won’t let you through. Her constant indecision over Fuji or Golden Delicious prevents a swift grab at the pre-cut carrots. You’ll never get around her or in front of her. Her cropped cargo pants mock you as you try because they know any attempts to speed up the Slow Shopper are futile.

    Mrs. Slow Shopper, have you nothing else to do with your day? Do you actually enjoy shopping or do you simply enjoy any time spent outside of your house? On behalf of most shoppers, I’d like to tell you: MOVE.

    NOTE: This post did not cover the Bluetooth Shopper or the Couple Shoppers, also funny humans but sold separately.

  • I said lots of stuff in front of lots of people.

    The latest Taboo Tales went off with many a hitch. The projector exploded. A storyteller broke her ankle the night before. The mic made weird and very distracting noises. One performer decided not to read the piece she submitted and rambled on for twelve minutes instead. One storyteller called another one an asshole. Another storyteller called that storyteller a cunt with a retarded kid.

    It was mayhem. And all I wanted was someone to fix it. It sure sucks when you’re the one who is supposed to fix stuff. This is why I’m still on the fence about the whole adulthood thing. I thought all my anxiety about the show was unwarranted, especially because I met a medium a few days before the show who told me that creating Taboo Tales is part of my life’s work and that she heard that from… the other side. If I’d had my preference, I would have rather heard from my dad. Maybe a ‘Sorry. Love you. See you soon.’ Or, if he was busy, maybe a ‘BFF’ from Uncle Edmund. Still, I was happy about the message. I’ll take validation from anywhere. Hi five, deadlies!

    I just wish those on the other side could have warned me about the weird energy in that theater last week. Something was off, making for a strange and almost sad experience.  At first my ego, Lawrence, was upset because he wants everyone to think I’m perfect. This shit show proved to everyone in attendance (all 100, some even sitting on the floor) that perfect I am not. But, more than that, I felt like my security had been breached. Storytellers calling each other names meant that there was a lot of judging going on. I get that people judge. I do it. You do it. You think I shouldn’t be wearing these sweat pants right now. But the very idea of Taboo Tales is to provide an atmosphere free of judgments, where people can feel comfortable getting up in front of all those people and talk about their darkest places. I couldn’t control the breach of contract, but it happened before my eyes. I wanted to fix it, but there’s only so much you can control and fix. I know that now.

    Fortunately, the audience was amazing. They filled the bucket of taboos with their honesty. They knew how to share and do so without judgment. And share they did. Thirty times. The following are the taboos we found in our big box of taboo. It’s kind of like Post Secret, only nobody has to get out the glitter. And somebody (me) has to say all these things. Out loud. In front of an audience. I’m getting used to talking about sticking your fingers in your butt on a stage now. I don’t know where that will get me, but I know it will be far. I can just feel it. (the getting far part. not the fingers part.)


    More taboos at {TabooTalesTheShow.com}

    UPDATE: LA Weekly reviewed the show and didn’t mention any of the bad parts! Score. Check it out HERE.

  • Humans are funny. And bored.

    Living is supposed to be hard. We are supposed to tend the land all day and hunt and gather and make fire by rubbing sticks together. But now there are drive-thrus. And bagel slicers. And canned corn. And Lunchables. Cows and pigs are cut up and packaged. Lemons and apples are picked by some underpaid dude and squeezed conveniently for us. We sometimes “find the time” to grab ingredients at the store, but if we want to cook them into a meal there are five-minute recipes and microwaves and Tupperware. Hunting and gathering has conveniently become unwrapping and nuking.

    Life has become too easy.
    And we’re bored.
    We don’t realize we’re bored because we have calendars and meetings and projects that MUST get done. RIGHT NOW. So many things to do. But compared to how we used to live, we have plenty of time on our hands. Too much. And so, we invent things to do: Hobbies, activities, stuff, priorities that convince us they are of utmost importance. Here are some funny things humans do:

    We go back to school – Why not get another degree? It avoids committing to any career and you get a student discount at art stores and movie theaters.

    We have meetings – We love getting together to talk about procedures and, in corporate spots, there’s nothing greater than having meetings about meetings. Lots of times, meetings happen over lunch and we get to eat pre-packaged sandwiches for free. Those are most people’s favorite meetings.

    We go shopping – Usually the first thing we do on a weekend or a trip to a new city, we buy so many unnecessary things. A 20th pair of shoes. A new coffee table when our old one is just fine. I choose to shop at discount stores. I buy clothes for $3 or $4 and never wear them. But I have a closet full of ugly shirts if anyone needs one.

    We go sky diving – We jump out of planes and occasionally die from this, but it looks fun.

    We watch TV – We spend hours upon hours each night watching other people be fake.

    We play video games – We spend hours upon hours pretending we’re other people and being fake.

    We look in the mirror – We analyze our own bodies, deem them unacceptable, and then either remain unhappy with ourselves, run in place for an hour a day, or pay someone to either cut fat off of our loins or insert bags of silicone into our chests.

    We eat – They say not to eat with our mouths full, but we love to go to dinner with other people and talk. We try not to talk with our mouths full during this time, but it proves difficult, especially if we have a point to get across. If we want to get together just to get together, that doesn’t seem to make sense. Humans MUST get together over food, coffee, or alcoholic beverages.  We also like to eat when we’re not out at dinner. We just grab some popcorn or crackers and eat while we’re watching TV. We’re also fat.

    We go camping – We like to pretend we don’t have all of our conveniences for a while, so we go to the woods and sleep in the wilderness. Usually, though, we bring lots of gourmet cheeses and alcohols so that it’s not really that different from our normal living conditions. Except the bathrooms. We think we’re really roughing it when we have to pee and poo in a hole. During those times, we like to leave little crumpled toilet papers on the ground so everyone can see that we just either peed or pooed in a hole.

    We go dancing – Some of us go to dance clubs. We like to get pumped up with substances that give us bravery and then we wear short skirts and dance seductively until men come up and bump up against us. Sometimes we exchange numbers with these people and then meet them outside of the club to take those same substances and bump against each other in a bed.

    We go hiking – This is just walking but with specialty shoes and cameras and bottled water.

    We go on cruises – We spend a lot of money to take a ship that doesn’t seem like a ship to an island where we are only allowed to disembark for a few short hours because we have to get back on the moving hotel so we can overeat.

    We get angry – We love to let little things bother us. Politics. Coworkers. Ants. The new book return policy at the library. Then, we complain over and over to our family members about how unfair these things are.

    We do drugs – We pay a ton of money to snort a substance and make our minds forget about all the things we have to do and all the things that make us angry.

    We masturbate – We make our own bodies quiver while we scream out “Daddy! I want Orange Julius!”  This one is totally acceptable and actually is of utmost importance.