A Day in the Life

Kids,

I moved to California this past Saturday. The last day I worked was exactly one week ago, on Wednesday, September 7, 2011. A full week without work? I never thought it possible, but in fact, it is.

Everybody seems extremely concerned about this. I am not excluding myself here. So far, I've received two questions about my move to Monterey.

Q1: Are you near the beach?

A1: Yes. I'm one block away. But it's only 62 degrees outside right now and kind of misty. So while I can go hang out on the beach (and might later) I will not be swimming.

Q2: What are you doing for work?

A2: Uhh, I don't know.

This answer seems to be freaking people the frick out. And I get it. I'm not working 60+ hours a week in a bar or restaurant? Do I even have an identity?!

I do, actually. And it's kind of nice not to be working. Though you need not worry, I am looking. I am also enjoying a vacation-like period of time while I search.

I'm also a house sister.

House sister? What's that. It's a house wife with a sister instead of a husband. Basically I hang around the house most of the day and do chores and drink diet shakes. No, really. Want to know what a day in the life of a house sister looks like? Great! You're in for a treat.

3:30 a.m. Wake up from where I fell asleep reading on the couch to hear my sister on the phone talking about going into work early.

4 a.m. At the prompting of sister, move my sleeping ass up to the bed so she can get ready for work.

4-7:15 a.m. Have nightmares about work. This is not a lie. I had dreams about Marathon and Cantina in these fitful hours of sleep.

7:15 a.m. Wake up. Pace around the house. Decide not to go for a run because it's ass cold outside.

7:15-8:15 a.m. Watch "Keeping up with the Kardashians", drink a Slim Fast shake (it's delicious) and chat on Facebook with people who are on the East Coast... aka most everybody I know

8:15-10:15 a.m. Clean. Do the dishes from last night's dinner (noodles with butter? this house sister can cook!). Organize my entire life into a tiny collapsable closet with a tiny collapsable shoe stand.

Lots of clothes. Litttttttle tiny bit of space.

10:15 a.m. Make some tea. It's delicious.

10:30-11:45 a.m. Watch some more of those damn Kardashians (Bruce pierced his ears and cut his hair, whaaaaaaat?). Work hard on getting the cheetah print Sally Hanson nail jawn off of my fingernails. Yes, it took me over an hour. No, it is not all off.

(fricking nail jawn.)

11:45 a.m. Make some more tea. As I'm pouring tea, sister calls to say she is on the way home. Spill hot water all over the place while trying to multi-task. Make a mad dash around the house to put on clothing and NOT look like I'm still in my pajamas (which is not really that embarrassing because I've been cleaning all day). Right as I get ready to go to the bathroom, sister arrives, tell me car is still running, and let's go.

12 p.m. Get in car. Have to pee. Cross legs.

12:15 p.m. Arrive at McDonalds where my vegetarian options are slim. Opt for french fries and apple dippers. Don't get the caramel for apple dippers. Eat apples naked. Wish I had just gotten a fresh apple from Trader Joe's.

12:45 p.m. After dropping sister off at school, go to Trader Joe's. Get all sorts of vegetarian shit that will make sister protest and maybe yell. Chuckle under breath at all of my house sister power. You shall eat arugula!!

1:15 p.m. Arrive home. Rush to bathroom.

1:15 p.m. Neglect to put fresh groceries away. Instead start to blog and watch HGTV. Think about going for a jog. Decide against it. Think about getting motivated for yoga. Decide against it. Wonder how long it will take before groceries spoil. Panic slightly, then get over it.

(Did I mention that our "refrigerator" is actually a wine cooler?

The rest of my day? I'll put the groceries away. I'll try to get the rest of this g-damned nail polish off. I'll consider going to the post office (and I'll probably decide against it). I'll sweep the floor. Maybe I'll take a shower, but again, I'll probably decide against it. I'll go get the sister from school. The sister will go to physical therapy. I will probably drink more tea. We'll get Indian food for dinner. I'll read more about cancer.

Caroline seems especially worried that I'm sitting around the house bored all day and I will quickly go stir-crazy and hate my life here.

Kids, I'm not bored. Being a house sister is a full-time job.

Ace of Spades

Kids,

When I was in high school, I fancied myself a real sophisticate. In my own defense, I'll say that it's not hard to fancy yourself this way when you're living in a beautiful city on your parents dime, and working for fun.

Working for fun. The concept now is almost laughable in a weird bitter half-laugh, half-choking kind of way. But in high school, that's what I did. I worked so I would have money to go on school trips to Europe, so I would have money to buy swanky homecoming dresses, so I would have money to spend at the Lilley Pulitzer store.

But my most prized possession from those years of work was my Kate Spade wallet.

Can I even begin to outline the wonders of Kate Spade? So clean and classic and beautiful. I don't know that I've ever looked at a Kate Spade wallet or handbag and NOT wanted to run my fingertips over it, open the snaps, unzip the zippers, and take in every detail.

Back when I thought I was a sophisticate, the first thing I wanted to do with my cash was to buy a Kate Spade wallet in which I could store those babysitting bucks in style.

So I went for the classic pink nylon wallet. Not overly pretentious for a nerdy highschooler driving her parents old mini-van. But it matched my ambition: I wasn't gonna be a nerdy highschooler forever, after all...

(The original gangster looked a lot like this when I bought it.)

Fast forward eight years. I have gone from a nerdy teen to a nerdy adult. But I've traded in my polos and pearls for a more relaxed lifestyle. I haven't lost my ambition, but I think it's fair to say I've lost my delusions of grandeur.

And I am a-okay with that. I still love nice things. Oh baby, do I love nice things. But I work to live these days. I work because it pays my rent and keeps my electricity on and feeds my caffeine habit. I work because I am 24 years old and making it on my own, dammit! (Cue some cheesy life-affirming theme song here a la Mary Tyler Moore.)

But back to my Kate Spade wallet. I loved it. And I kept it. And it was dirty. So dirty and so dingy and I kept thinking, "Oh, I need a new wallet!"

But I never got one. Because I loved my original.

(My darling Kate toward the end of her life.)

Then came last Friday when my wallet was unceremoniously forced to part from its loving owner. To the lady who took it, I am not above throwing punches if I ever see you again... But I think I can rely on karma for now.

Just last night, I got a new credit card in the mail. Oh, the empowerment! I could order a new driver's license. I could access the funds collecting dust in my bank (that's what money does when you don't spend it, right?). I could buy a new wallet.

I think we all know where this is going. How could I not get a Kate Spade again? The last one was a part of me. I don't expect to spend eight years with my new wallet, but I wouldn't mind it.

To theft do us part, Kate the First. Thanks for being there through everything. I will miss you. But I trust your replacement will care for my cards and cash in a way befitting your shared name.

Let us usher in the reign of Kate II with much joy and merrymaking.

But Where's My Phone

Kids,

Maybe by the time you read this, we'll all realize that Apple was actually a cover for some Commie bastards and we were being tracked and followed the whole time. Or, more frighteningly, Apple was a cover for some Capitalist assholes and they just wanted to watch us spend our money over and over on shit that kept us all in line (this... is actually kind of scary).

WHATEVER.

What I'm here to say, kids, is that I've lost my phone. But I kind of haven't.

A few months ago, I lost my phone in the way that I couldn't find it for real. It happened to be hiding right between my bed and my wall on the floor.

As I freaked out about my phone's whereabouts, a simple (and most awful) trick was played on me.

I sat in the office flipping out and miraculously Radam pulled my phone out and said, "It's right here."

It wasn't my phone. It was his phone. We have the same phone. He chuckled. I cursed the heavens. But... he did tell me about the app that I was supposed to have. The one that would track your phone and tell you where it was.

Okay, I get it, guys, big brother is watching. Ummmmm, okay! Big brother can tell me where my frickin' phone is, if he's gonna be all up in my shit.

I signed up for big brother. I tested it out in the safety of my own apartment. Yes, it would actually play that noise for two minutes. Yes, it would actually displays texts to whomever had it. Cool.

Useless. Until today. Today I am watching my phone as it travels across the city.

This is karma. I have done something wrong.

It is now 5 in the morning and my phone is two blocks away from my house.

Thanks to Dave Ryan, I have the cabbie's number and he said to call him tomorrow. But really, dude? You're TWO BLOCKS AWAY!!!!

May I please have it? Now? Not tomorrow? Too much to ask? Okay. I'm gonna have to pay a fortune to get this shit back? Okay.

So sad.

The Gift of the Maxi

Kids,

This post is not an ode to feminine sanitary products. Sick.

This post is about the maxi dress. Maxi dresses are this girl's savior during warm summer months. And I appreciate them so much that I'm going to dedicate an entire blog to it.

First of all, what is the maxi dress? According to Wikipedia, the maxi dress is a woman's dress that is lengthy and can be formal or informal. That's essentially how I'd sum it up, too. A long dress that is kinda loose and fun and free and usually made of some swishy fabric.

The maxi dress made a big splash on the summer fashion scene a few years ago. And I resisted it. Oh, how did I resist it! I mean, it does kind of look like you're wearing a g.d. nightgown around town all the time.

This is a maxi dress you can find at Anthropologie this season. It's called the Summer Ballad Maxi should you want to go back in time and buy it...

But do you know what I've come to recognize about the maxi dress? It makes summer accessible to the rest of us! And by the rest of us, I mean the big girls. I mean, I'm not exactly going in for lap band surgery, but girlfriend ain't a size 0. And do you know what exacerbates a fat girl's dilemma more than anything else? Summertime fashion.

First of all, you have to listen to the skinny minnies bitch. Yes, I understand skinny girls, it's so hard to be you. As a child people called you chicken legs! That must have stuuuuuuung. (Sorry, I'm really not trying to attack you, here. Good for you, I mean that.)

But really. Listening to somebody talk about how they usually wear a size 0, but their bathing suit is a size 2 and can you see their love handles? And do they need to get a tan before even going out in the sun?

A chubby girl with lily white skin has trouble listening to that.

Add to that the fact that shorts are actually supposed to be an acceptable form of fashionwear for women. Can somebody tell me why this happened? Why am I supposed to put my thighs in display, and not even in a skirt, but in something that chokes each individual leg so tightly you'd think the shorts were parasitic and couldn't survive without the substantial girth and warmth of my thigh. I went shopping with my sister two days ago and came across a pair of shorts I found adorable. I picked them up, saw that they were my size (I always opt for a size larger than pants in shorts), and then put them back on the rack saying with disgust, "Ugh, I can't wear shorts!"

My sister looked over at me and said, "You sure talked yourself out of that pretty quickly."

Hell yes, sister. I suuuuuure did. Because shorts are evil. They are just another way to make us feel unpretty during the summer. Skinny girls wearing shorts is like a dagger through my ice cold heart.

But I've digressed so badly! I meant not to gripe but to glorify in this post. I meant to exalt the beautiful maxi, not to denigrate the already degenerate shorts. And of course, I really didn't mean to be mean about skinny people... It's not their fault that I don't live a healthy and active lifestyle.

Anyway. On to maxi dresses...

Here's why they rock.

They're long. They allow you to keep those pale, over-worked, bike-crashed, mosquito-bitten legs hidden from the rest of the world.

They're comfortable. I've taken to wearing the maxi dress to work a lot lately and I keep getting the same remark. "You looks so comfortable in your long, flowy dress." You know what, fellow co-workers? I am so comfortable in my long, flowy dress.

They breathe. This is why the maxi dress really is magical. Because it affords a certain amount of modesty while not drowning you in a blanket of sweat and self-loathing, because who feels pretty when their face is falling off? You can get a nice breeze and you can always pull it up just a little bit (just a little, mind you, I'm no strumpet).

They're cute. Wait, hold on. They're "cute". I still have to get used to the idea of the maxi dress as a fashionable thing. I mean, come on, guys. It's like a beach cover up and a nighty had an illicit affair and are trying to pawn their bastard child off as the fashion savior of the summer. Yeah, the illegitimate little bastard sure is lovely, but is it really fashionable? I'll give it "cute" and functional and leave it at that.

Oh maxi dress, I offer the heartiest thanks and praise to you. I shall put you on a pedestal and wear you day in and day out. I shall blog of your greatness and brag of your wearability. Oh maxi, my maxi, how well you have served me.

Oh! Here are some things I've learned about the maxi, by the by...

1) A lot of maxis are super low-cut either because the women wearing them are perceived to be as loose as their flowing hemlines or because they're just "cuter" that way. One of those awesome bandeau bras from American Apparel (or a cheaper one from H&M) is your best friend here. I mean, sure, a little cleavage is great, but if your breasts are literally falling out, just give them a little help.

2) The idea of the maxi being "lengthy" is sometimes taken to extremes by designers. This is especially true if you're of the "petite" variety, as am I. Belts, ladies. Get a belt. Make a belt. Use a rope as a belt, a la Little Mermaid. Cinch that bad boy around your waist, pull the fabric through a bit, and you've created an almost Grecian look (almost...) and saved yourself from tripping all the time.

3) Don't get something that's completely sheer unless you plan on wearing it to the beach or to the Barbary. The maxi dress is frequently made of light, loose fabric. This can mean maxi-mum exposure to your goody bits if you're not careful. And if you're using the maxi as a big girl summer savior, the point is to not put everything on display. Use a slip or skip the dress all together. Trust me on this one.

4) Rotate the maxi. I've literally taken to wearing a maxi every day. How boring of me. Rotate the style and maybe nobody will catch on. They probably will, but at least put some effort into it. Wear different cuts, different styles, different colors. Use your different accessories with different dresses. Mix and match, bitches! It's fun.

Is anybody else almost completely disgusted by the fact that I've said such things as "Oh maxi, my maxi" and "Rotate the maxi" in this post? It's a dress. Just a dress.

A Like-Minded Individual

Kids,

The guy who wrote this missed connection is near and dear to my heart (though I have no idea who he is). Mostly because I know a lot of people who get drunk and act like jackasses to those they love the most. I can be that person. One day you'll have a father who can see through it. Until then, I'll rely on dudes like this to make Craigslist posts with mass appeal.

http://philadelphia.craigslist.org/mis/2354317425.html

Shenanigans

Kids,

Not every post has to be about how I'm questioning my life and where I'm going. While I devote a lot of my blog to that purpose, a very marginal amount of my life is spent tossing and turning over things.

When I'm not having quarter-life-crises, I'm really enjoying being 24 and single and in Philadelphia.

Yesterday we did a lovely event called "Flavors of the Avenue". All you need to know is that I spent two hours setting up, one hour cleaning up, and five hours in between slinging margaritas. And I mean slinging. My hands got so sticky from the copious amounts of sugary-sweet mix and guava puree that they were getting stuck to the pitchers and every time I took my hand off to pop in a lime or give a straw, a little piece of my skin stayed on the pitcher. I had raw hands by the end, but it was frickin' fun.

Afterward, we got wind of another event. Broad Street was completely shut down for a festival and it was free and, oh yeah, Sharon Jones was performing. And boy, was Sharon Jones performing. Bitch is bad ass. Don't know how else to say it.

Look at all of those people!

We shoved a dozen Tecates in our purses and slammed them on the street while enjoying the gorgeous weather and the company of friends.

Ash and Mike are beautiful, no?

What to do?

Kids,

Do you know what you want to do with your life?

I decidedly do not.

I mean, I really do not know what I want to do with my life. Or rather, what I should do with my life. There are a ton of things I want to do, actually. But which is right?

I'm a waffler.

This goes for small decisions as well as large ones. Ask anybody I know. Oftentimes, I know I want to go to dinner, but I don't know where. I rely on whomever I've roped into dining with me to make a decision. I think that the only reason I may actually have friendships is because I need people to make decisions for me.

But not the big ones, kids. The big ones I insist on making (or not making, as the case may be) for myself. And I do not take advice. Ask any of my oldest friends. I have a new life plan every week. And it's not because I'm flaky, it's because I am undecided and confused and mostly really scared.

I know a lot of people who seem to know what they want to do with their lives. I use the word "seem" here because I think they're full of donkey piss. Really? At the age of 21-28, you know what you want to do forever? Do you? Some of you I believe. Some of you have this outrageous talent and/or passion and/or drive.

I'm not an unintelligent person. But I think my waffling and inability to decide what I want to do with my life makes me out to be one. I know how it sounds when I have a new life plan every week for my friends. I'm at lunch with Krystina and I tell her my latest plans and she nods like a good friend and offers advice like a good friend, but I can also tell that she's taking that extra sip of wine to wash down the grain of salt with which she is listening to my rantings and ravings.

Rantings and ravings may be a bit of an understatement.

In fact, my plans are usually pretty well thought out. For the librarian gig that I decided most recently I wanted to accomplish, I made a five year plan. It included saving money, doing research, possibly moving, going back to school, and finally finding a job.

The very end of my plan, in five years, was "be happy" with a smiley face drawn next to it. I don't even like smiley faces. But lately I've found that the bit of optimism expressed by that tiny little creepy drawing eclipses the waning optimism I have in my own life.

And this is not to say that my life is bad or even that I dislike my current job. As a matter of fact, I really like my current job. I like the company I work for, the people I work with, and the things I get to do. I like that I get to spend some time running around the floor like a crazy person, some time doing paperwork (I LOVE working with money), some time updating facebook, some time buying things, some time working on events.

Mostly, what I love about my job is the fact that it doesn't tie me down to any one thing. I get to put on a lot of hats and do a lot of different things. I get to be a jack (jackie?) of all trades while learning to master them all. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, I really do love the company I work for and the people I work with. It's refreshing to work with professionals (yes, there is such thing as a professional in the restaurant industry, though it is frequently likened to a mermaid or other mythological creature).

But what will I do forever? Forever is such an extremely long time. I guess I should say, what will I do for a long, long time? What will be my "vocation"?

Okay. I am ranting now. I hate ranting.

Kids, there is a long list of career possibilities I'm considering right this moment. If you should meet me down the road and I've settled on one of these, give me a big hug and congratulations. It has come only through much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I'm sure. If I've settled on something else, I still want a frickin' cookie or a gold star or something. Because dammit, if at some point in my life I've made it past aging and into adulthood, I want you to know that it has been with a LOT of work. And if you should ever find yourself a confused 20-something not quite sure where to go from here... Know that I was there, too. And if future me acts like a smug asshole because I've figured my life out and you haven't, then feel free to remind me about my closet-sized apartment that I paid way too much for and that one time I fell and knocked my teeth out of my skull. It'll shut me up, I promise.

(For your convenience, photographic proof of "that one time I fell and knocked my teeth out of my skull". You're welcome, you spoiled brats.)

Look, I'm just gonna stream them all along in one paragraph so you can really get the sense of confusion and stream-of-consciousness that goes into my future planning at the moment.

Restaurant Manager. PR Person. Events Coordinator. HR/Payroll Person. Librarian. Lawyer. Wedding Planner. Florist. Bookstore Owner. Journalist. Children's Book Author. Adult Novel Author. Screenplay writer. Kindergarten Teacher. Special Education Teacher. Professor of Literature. Mormon Mommy Blogger (SERIOUSLY!). Food Writer. Baker. Crafter. Retail Buyer. Editor. Critic. Museum curator. Social worker. Person who works with children with disabilities/adults with disabilities/basically any sort of bleeding-heart-non-profit job that will make me cry every night but will leave me feeling really fulfilled. Assistant to some rich dude. Person who asks for money for museums or performing arts centers or galleries or the like. Gardener. Stationery maker. Really on-the-ball housewife. Stylist. Caregiver to my grandparents as they age.

There's more. There's always more. To my kids, we'll see where it ends up. To my peers in the here and now, am I the only one?

Also, special thanks to Cathy and my dad and my sisters and my friends. But mostly my dad and Cathy, because they do have their lives figured out (as far as I can tell) and instead of being smug assholes, they're being really supportive. Possibly very concerned, but still really supportive.