Funemployment Cards

The saying goes: "laughter is the best medicine." It's a life philosophy I ascribe to. And one of the few. So during these rough times of cutbacks, surmounting debt and joblessness, I've decided to start a recession greeting card company with two other friends. The current options for names are: Funemployment Cards, Recession Professions, Broke Jokes, Steal This Card, Sadutations or simply Reality Cards. However, we're more than open to suggestions. Just don't expect your cut of the profit. If you think we're making fun of our country's lackluster economic performance, well, we are. But it comes from experience, including the past year spent trying to come up for air beneath suffocating medical debt. This particular business idea came, though, not from hard times in particular but from a birthday card one of my jobless friends (and company co-creator) received from a close relative that read: "Here's wishing you a Happy Birthday and gainful employment." Passive aggressive literary genius. So here goes our first batch of similarly minded greetings:

The only thing scary this Halloween is your debt.

Happy Holidays, team! [Flip card] There will be no bonus.

This is my last greeting card at Recession Professions. I'm getting downsized. Hope you have better luck.

Happy Birthday/Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Years.

Follow the directions to fold this card into a bowl for stew.

Happy St. Patrick's Day. Pot o' gold not included.

Merry Christmas. Don't forget, Jesus was homeless too.

Happy Labor Day. NOT!  

Follow the directions to fold this card into a trap for rats. To eat.

I know it's your birthday. But you're the one with the job. Get your own friggin' present.

Merry Christmas. That manger is looking pretty good about now, ain't it?

Happy New Year! That's the only thing new you'll be getting this year.

Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart. I "got" you some diamonds. Now pack a bag quick, we're headed for Mexico.

I'm dreaming of a White Christmas. Because my heat is turned off, and I'm succumbing to hypothermia. 

Happy Easter. Now shoot that rabbit cause we got to eat. 

Christmas is a time of sharing. So can I borrow like 40 bucks?

Happy Easter, kids! Now go find the eggs I hid in our neighbor's chicken coop.

Happy Administrative Assistant Day! Oh wait, you watched them walk me out and then took my job. Traitor. 

Happy Halloween! Yeah, this is a robber "costume."

Happy Halloween! Now go out and get all the candy you can to resell at the flea market.

Happy Boxing Day. If we celebrate this shit, does that mean we can get free health care?

Happy Election Day. Either way, you're still out of a job. 

Happy Thanksgiving! Without the thanks. Or the giving.

Happy Hanukkah! Well, at least we have jobs. [Note: This one  penned by my Jewish friend.]

Happy Mother's Day, mom! You've always had a big space in your heart for me. Is there the same amount of space for me in the basement? 

Happy Father's Day, dad! Thanks for all the advice and love. Like telling me my degree was worthless. You nailed it. So do you still have that friend at Goldman Sachs that might be able to hook me up in the mail room? 

Happy Thanksgiving! This year I'm especially grateful that, while my friends went into student loan debt, I started growing weed. I'm doing GREAT! 
  
I know it's the 4th of July.
I should be having fun eating pie.
But instead I'm so broke,
I'm afraid it's no joke 
That I'd sooner just curl up and die. 

Happy 40th Wedding Anniversary. Your love is like my job search - endless.

Roses are red, violets are blue, we've shut off your gas, your bill is past due. Cordially, Pacific Gas and Electric. 

Happy Valentines Day, my love. Edible panties count as a romantic meal, right? 

Happy 4th of July! Although, if we'd stuck with the Brits, mom's diabetes medication would be covered. 

Happy 30th Wedding Anniversary! You're love is like my student loans - bottomless.
Happy Grandparents' Day! Um, now how much did you say you were leaving me in the will? Just curious. 

Happy retirement! Oh, and Happy 90th Birthday! 

Happy Easter. Now is a time for renewal, rebirth, and for me to start using a different last name because the IRS is looking for me. P.S. Burn this card. 

Congratulations on Graduation, kiddo! Now if you're thinking of getting your Masters... Don't.

Play Me An Upbeat Song, Mr. Pianoman

My Husband & I newly married.

I have always used music to soothe a broken heart.  There was a guy I was mad for back in college who only had an eye for my friend and to him I brutally sang a lot of Fiona Apple in the shower.  Or the first boy I ever kissed who decided his senior year he'd rather "be free like a bird" (a rare breed called the Horned Raven I believe), and for him Deep Blue Something's "Breakfast At Tiffany's" was the lyrical razor blade of choice.  For the breakup with my first love I listened to Dave Matthew's "Two Step" nearly two million times.  Then along my 1000-mile Camino hike this summer, Adele's latest angst-y offerings set fire to my 'leave love's past behind' heels.

Music is a wonderful retreat.  It can allow you to wallow if you like to muck around in the pain a bit.  Or it can help you get over someone - there's not a one of us who hasn't sung out loud the ultimate Clarkson anthem "Since You've Been Gone" to an imaginary Mr. or Ms. D-Bag.  Since the dawn of music, we've been rhythmically lamenting love as a species. 

But this begs the question: What do you do when you're happy in love?  After 30 years of the ups and downs of romance I have found my soulmate.  I simply can't relish in Lana Del Ray's new bittersweet album like I should be.  You'd think missing my Belgian husband during this green card process would spark it in me, but I really just need a damn pick-me-up!  Where are the non sullen love songs?  Do they even exist?  Maybe I just need to start thumbing through my grandma's old records to the crooners and Motowners of old.  Even when Bobby Darin sung about killing his love by holding her under water, he did it with such a cheerful, aw-shucks spirit you couldn't help but feel elated for the guy.  There was such an upbeat spin on depressing lyrics back then... Sigh.

Really, though, I'm not looking for love lyrics necessarily.  Just some suggestions of happy-go-lucky music ("The Dog Days Are Over" can't be it, can it?) that will let me revel in my new found true love.  I'm all ears... but only if it'll put a smile on my face.

Within My Means

My birthday weekend gluttony.

What's exactly does 'living within one's means' entail?  This is a concept I surely must learn, as money seems to be flying out of my bank account like expletives from Roseanne's mouth (if you haven't watched her new reality show "Roseanne's Nuts", set on a nut farm in Hawaii, you are truly missing a fine piece of mind-numbing television.)  I suppose in simplest terms it means you must only spend what you can afford with your mind always toward savings and the future.  I'm sure Suzy Orman has the phrase tattooed in a tramp-stamp. 

How is it that I can be 30 and still living above my means?  Who do I think I am?  Do I really need a closet of clothes I've only worn a handful of times a piece?  Do I really to pay for a month of tanning to get this terrible farmers tan off my back in time for my beach vacation?  Do I really need a beach vacation after being gone for three months on the Camino?  Do I really need to pay $2300 to fix the dent in my car I got pulling out of the parking lot after watching "Harry Potter" (isn't a dent like a cool scar but for your car)?  Did I really need a birthday facial and pedicure on top of my hotel weekend with the girls?  Do I really need to spend a bit more on the studio apartment in the towers when I can get a one bedroom for less in the villas?  Did I really need that sushi last week?  Or the Jamba Juice today?  Do I really need to buy new trail runners (aren't there people somewhere who just run barefoot)?  Do I really need to fill my life with fun experiences and beautiful things I can't afford? 

The answer is quite frankly, ye--- NO!  I don't need them.  But I really really really really want them!!!

I Deem Thee The Decade of the Bizarro!

Your author in her 'yute'.

Thursday, July 14th, 2011.  The day that will stand in infamy as the day Blackheart turned 10 x 3.  (If you're intoxicated reading this, that's 30.)  As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Amen, brother.  Why should it be that when we women (and I say "women" because studies show that men don't consider themselves old until 58, while woman consider themselves old at 30... gross) are supposed to suddenly feel that our youth is past us when we click over to this fine decade?  Youth is relative.  Working in elderly facilities, I have overheard 90-year-olds call 60-year-olds "kids."  If I live to be 109 like my great grandmother, that means I will be a kid until I turn 80! 

Now, I'm not saying to hell with maturity.  Maturity is a fine institution.  I'm simply expressing a simple truth - that turning 30 is not, and never will be, "old."  "Old" is wearing adult diapers and watching "Wheel of Fortune" with the volume turned to full blast, while your dinner gets fed to you with a straw.  30 is simply a bench marker.  It says, "I can now afford to have fun"... and "I am good in bed" (practice makes perfect)... and "I can discuss books and theater and politics without sounding like a naive, pretentious ass."  30 is a badge of honor, not a cry for help.  My uterus isn't going to suddenly shrivel up and die nor will crows feet attack my face as I lay sleeping, having nightmares about not having yet set up an IRA.

So, what will the 30s hold for Blackheart?  Well, I've decided to deem this "The Decade of the Bizarro."  By that, I mean, I want things to get weird.  Really weird.  I want to try new and wild stuff.  Stuff that seems like a really bad idea at first.  I want to befriend people on the fringe with names like Ursula and Blaze and Dirty Mike.  I want to taste food that freaks me out.  I want to travel to places where crazy sh** goes down.  I want to watch movies that make my eyes pop and my mouth gape open (starting with Trash Film Orgy's midnight film "Humanoids of the Deep".)  I want to say out loud all the weird stuff that pops into my head.  I want to write without censorship.  I want my mind to be blown over and over and over again.  I want magic and fireworks and whimsy.  Your 30s shouldn't be a "slowing down period" or "a time to grow up."  They should be a circus with you in the spotlight wearing a glorious sateen top hat while gripping a lion tamer's whip.

On that note, anyone know where I can by a sateen top hat?

I Birthed A New Blog!

Wanna see the spanking new baby blog grow up?  Then follow The Camino Gypsy Chronicles, which will take over for The Blackheart Chronicles from April 9th until July 4th, give or take a week or two.  I promise, you won't be disappointed.  Golden-hearted Momma K and a snarky Blackheart walking 1000 miles through France and Spain with only three changes of clothes?  I mean, honestly, can you think of anything more entertaining?  Well, other than the this blog, of course...

Alpha Male

From Wikipedia: "The term "alpha male" is sometimes applied to humans to refer to a man who is powerful through his courage and a competitive, goal-driven, "take charge" attitude.  With their bold approach and confidence "alpha males" are often described as charismatic.  While "alpha males" are often overachievers and recognized for their leadership qualities, their aggressive tactics and competitiveness can also lead to resentment by others."

I took this picture today while on a sunny Sacramento walk.  The framing is a bit off, as the taking of said snapshot was a hurried endeavor.  I was afraid the Alpha Male in question might come running out of the house in his boxer shorts, gold chain and trucker hat and demand to have my phone.  Sure "alpha male" might describe someone with a take charge attitude - a leader with charisma - but for some reason, I can't picture him running out in his Calvin Klein briefs, Ferragamo tie and cappuccino. 

Now I've known a lot of alpha males in my life; however, none with the audacity to refer to themselves as such, none the less, engrave it on a car window for all to see.  I mean, it truly takes some nerve, of which, rather than criticize, I tip my hat.  In fact, I had a discussion the other day with some lady friends of mine about our own alpha female status.  We're all the courageous, powerful, feral types, priding ourselves in our ability to grab life by the balls.  However, never would I have 'Alpha Female' screened onto an American Apparel t-shirt or have it tattooed above my butt crack.  So to you, proud Alpha Male, I say 'bravo'.  Why leave people guessing when you can just put it out there.  In fact, it would be nice if all guys did this with window decals.  Some possible examples:

• Gentleman
• Protector
• Bread Earner
• Shower Farter
• Player
• Player Hater (a man who wants to settle down)
• Stoner
• Outdoor Enthusiast (would certainly turn my head)
• Amateur Chef 
• Perpetual Student
• Gym Rat
• Momma's Boy
• Sport's Junkie
• Metro Sexual
• Risk Taker
• Thug
• Sensitive
• Recent Divorcee
• Bar Tender (avoid!)
• Smart Ass
• World Traveler
• And my personal favorite... Dinner Bill Payer

The Scent of Love

As I completed a training walk this morning I couldn't help but notice the abundant display of red hearts and cupids spewing forth from store windows.  Uh-huh, it's that time of year again - Valentine's Month.  My favorite Valentine's memory?  Watching "My Bloody Valentine" in 3D and making a mix CD for girlfriends entitled "Valentine's Day Massacre."  In case you're wondering, yes, Track 1 was Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It."  Funny part is that on both of these aforementioned V-Day's I was in a relationship... (someone's got issues, no?)

So in celebration of this chocolate-y, sparkly, ooey-gooey love fest, I thought I'd share with you a recent CNN Health article entitled "The power of smell in picking sex partners" sent to me by a friend well-versed in the art of love.  Not only are sexual scent preferences dependent on gender, but also on region... and to hilarious degrees.  According to findings here's what women are most attracted to in the following cities:

1.      New York – coffee 
2.      Los Angeles – lavender (f'in hippies)
3.      Chicago – vanilla
4.      Houston – barbeque
5.      Atlanta – cherry
6.      Phoenix – eucalyptus
7.      Philadelphia – clean laundry
8.      Dallas – smoke/fireplace
9.      San Diego – suntan lotion/ocean
10.    Minneapolis-St. Paul – cut grass

The proof that men are led by scent is a bit less concrete, although the following smells are known to cause... ahem... some very specific physical changes in the male body:  lavender, pumpkin pie, donuts, and black licorice.  So, in an effort to make myself more alluring for the upcoming V-Day holiday I've decided to: 1.) Start wearing a sprig of lavender behind my ear; 2.) Burn a pumpkin pie candle in my boudoir; 3.) Dust my bosom with powdered sugar; and 4.) Drink Anisette cocktails.  Lock up your fellas, ladies, Blackheart is armed, dangerous and reeking of love.

My Future BF

Perhaps one of the hardest parts of getting used to singledom (once again) is sleeping alone at night.  Sure, at first it's nice to spread your wings or slowly spin clockwise over the course of eight hours or roll from side to side like a steam roller without fear of knocking someone off the bed or getting an elbow to the eye.  And, sure, it's nice not to be awakened by snoring or the sharp grinding of teeth or farting.  However, a few months down the line you begin to realize that, hey, you really only sleep on one side of the bed anyway and, hey, the teeth grinding was like white noise lulling you to sleep at night and, hey, you miss that manly arm snuggled around you as you sleep, hugging you safe and sound.  So what's a newly single girl to do?  Live with it?  Cry about it?  Pay her gay male friends to cuddle up?  Place an add in the Penny Saver?  Craigslist?  Heavens no.  None of those things.

Japan, the country that first brought the world used schoolgirl panty vending machines, now introduces THE MAN PILLOW.  Why I didn't come up with this in between my last two boyfriends god only knows.  It's sheer brilliance stuffed between a faux work shirt.  A woman named Suzuki in USA Today sums up its appeal ever so eloquently: "It doesn't squirm or thrash in the night, and you know it'll be there in the morning." If that isn't worth $80, I don't know what is.  Not to mention it comes in three colors and its manufacturer, Kameo, will soon offer both muscular pillows for women who prefer their pillow well-built and slender models for those who desire a "more sensitive, vulnerable partner."

Miss Manners

I may not be the most well mannered girl in the world (yes, my burps have been known to shake a house or two), but in public I try to be as polite and well behaved as possible.  Yet, lately I've been hit with a barrage of rude, ill mannered Americans, leaving me scratching my head as to what in the world has happened to our society.  And I'm not just talking about our behavior but our appearance, as well.  When did it become okay to wear leggings as pants, for example?  I understand the necessity for them in the winter under dresses or over-sized sweaters (although I thought we'd left that particular craze back in the 80s) but with a waist length t-shirt?  Come on!  My face literally crinkles up like I've bitten into a bitter lemon every time I see a girl trying to pull this off like it's some hot new trend.  Just because Sienna Miller did it back in the early 2000s doesn't make it okay.  Camel toes simply aren't proper, and I certainly don't want to see every lump and bump of your lower half as contoured by a thin sheath of spandex.  The airport this holiday was full of them, as were shopping malls, Starbucks and even (gulp) restaurants.  I've got my own lumps and bumps to think about without the lasting image of yours engraved in my mind for heaven's sake!  I put it right there with wearing Crocs outside the house if you're neither gardening, camping or going for a walk in the woods.  I watch old movies or look through photographs of my grandparents and long for a time when nearly all Americans actually cared about their appearance.  Didn't matter if you were poor or rich, hot or busted; you put your best self forward, and in doing so, made the world a little more beautiful.  I used to be one to go straight from the gym to run errands, sweaty shirt and all, but no longer.  So, yes, I practice what I preach.

Then there's the general rude factor, as best exemplified in two recent movie theater experiences.   The first was at the Crest Theater during a screening of "A Christmas Story," which two tween girls talked through the entire time.  "Like, what is that thing?  A leg?  Why is it glowing?  Dumb."... "Oh my god, what does that ginger head keep laughing like that?  So annoying.  Dumb.  And he's ugly."... "Are those robbers real?  Why are they moving so fast?  Stupid.  Hehehehe.  He put a cap in his a**.  Sweet."  These are direct quotes.  My mother, who has even less patience for bad manners than I do, actually moved seats, leaving me to suffer alone.  Then during "The King's Speech" at the Tower Theater there were two ladies having a heated argument through the first quarter of the movie.  On and on and on they went after numerous 'shushes' and an employee intervening twice.  The King may have been struggling to find his voice, but they sure the hell weren't.  And then amongst this vocal squabble the woman two seats in front of me got a phone call and actually had the gall to answer it and start a conversation!  Five minutes later someone finally walked over to her and told her to cut it out (only the rated R version of this line.)  Meanwhile, the argument between the two women got to the point where I couldn't even focus on dialogue, whole scenes flying by like a silent film.  Finally, the employee came back and asked them to leave.  And as they began to file down the stairs, you know what I did?  I said 'to hell with manners' and began a slow clap.  Yes, just like the dramatic slow clap found in countless movies.  My mom picked up my trail and in a matter of seconds I had gotten the entire theater to clap them off stage and out the door.  Does this make me ill mannered, myself?  No.  Sometimes, my friends, you simply have to fight fire with fire.  (But never, please never, spandex with spandex.)

Walk This Way: Dabbling in Mall Walking

Although I'm a mere 29-years-old, yesterday I joined the ranks of senior citizens everywhere by undertaking my first Mall Walking session.  Yes, you heard me right.  Mall Walking.  Mall Walking is a physical activity where people walk back and forth through the long corridors of shopping malls to get exercise.  Malls actually open earlier than the stores within them just to welcome mall walkers into their confines.  I honestly always thought this was some kind of a joke.  Do people really do that?  And who the hell are these people?  Well, apparently, I'm one of 'these people', if one mall walk does a mall walker make.

To train for our 1,000 mile hike along the Camino de Santiago, mom and I have been adding long walks into our workout repertoire.  They range from about 10 to 13 miles and take us to the far corner of Sacramento - along railroad tracks, over levees, across bridges, through parks, down the cobblestone streets of Old Sac and past endless streets of houses, from cozy craftsman cottages to artsy urban lofts to regal Victorians.  However, now that the rains have come, our schedule has been a bit thrown off.  Now before you judge, it's not that mom and I haven't walked in the rain before.  I spent a great deal of the Coast-to-Coast hike across England eating rain-soaked sandwiches in the moors with muddy gators strapped around my ankles.  I know rain.  We have met.  Yet, that doesn't mean I would volunteer to walk through it if I didn't have to.  Which is why yesterday, when mom suggested we try mall walking for the first time, I thought, 'Why the heck not?  Count me in.'  

When we arrived at Arden Fair at 7am, the mall had already been open to mall walkers for an hour.  Yup, 6am!  Guess those must be the Extreme Walkers.  Just opening the doors to the mall when all the stores, themselves, were closed sent a thrill of excitement through me... like the time a group of friends and I spent the night in the Psychology Building of Sac State after breaking into the swimming pool... but that's another story.

When we got inside, I expected to see a flurry of canes and metal walkers with halved tennis balls on the bottom of the legs, but actually, these blue hairs are pretty spritely and swift.  One woman had this whole zigzag technique, weaving in and out of the kiosks that dot the aisles of the mall.  She looked like a human pin ball, only one wearing an extremely tacky Christmas sweater.  I will say, however, that mom and I were definitely walking the fastest.  If the other walkers were vehicles on a highway, we were race cars at the Indy 500.  The best part of the whole deal is the window shopping.  Man, there is this jacket at Forever 21 that would look great with my NYE dress...  Once the stores actually opened, we couldn't help but pop inside to check out sales.  There's nothing like shopping when the clothes are still organized and folded, the employees are still cheerful and there's no one else around.  It's what I imagine heaven to look like should it exist - my experience at the same mall only days ago as I struggled for half an hour to get out of a parking lot filled with crazed holiday shoppers being my image of the fiery depths of hell... should it exist.

The only downfall to mall walking - the Food Court.  Cinnabon and its magical cinnamon/sugar aroma nearly undid my entire 5-mile walk.  I resisted though.  Mom almost got sucked into the Pretzel Shop, herself, until we saw the employee sneeze, covering her mouth but not her nose, which hovered over a vat of bubbling butter.  Starbucks did get us, though, but when you're mall walking like a bat out of hell, you need some fuel, dang it!  All-in-all, a good rain-free time.  Think I'll wait until after the holidays though to go back and get that jacket...  I'll leave you with my favorite quotes from Wikipedia's 'Mall Walking' entry...

1. "Mall walking in the United States is especially popular amongst senior citizens."
2. "Mall walkers tend to be a crowd requiring little supervision."
3. "After walking, mall walkers may well stay on and shop the stores or patronize the mall's food court."

Camino Mission Statement

It took me far too long, but finally, a few weeks ago I finished my pitch for the Camino Gypsy Chronicles.  Whether my travel blog gets picked up by the big leagues, or I end up hashing it out on this very site, it feels good to have some focus in my journey.  Granted, most things in life refuse to be put in boxes, but I've always found that good writing requires good editing.  A box isn't always a bad thing.  I mean, who wants to read stream of consciousness literature?  Or listen to a friend's insanely long, nonsensical dream from last night?  So in an attempt to not make my future blog of my Camino adventure a daily log of verbal diarrhea, I've crafted a mission statement as a self editor.  Here goes...

_________________________________________________________

On April 8^th, 2011, my mother and I will set off on a three-month adventure that could kill us.  An adventure we will undertake by foot, hiking 963 miles on the thousand-year-old Camino de Santiago (or Way of St. James) from Arles, France to Santiago de Compostela, Spain.  Scarier than any of the obvious perils of the journey - plummeting down the Pyrenees, bands of roving thieves, starving to death because of an ill-timed Spanish "siesta", refugio Staph infections, a misspoken word of French, my mom or I suffocating the other with a pillow in the night - is the fear of the unknown.  The blog I'm proposing, Camino Gypsy Chronicles, will be a story about that fear: facing up to it, battling it, kicking it with the heel of your hiking boot and hopefully, in the end, conquering it.

Facing the unknown each and every morning is one of life's most frightening truths.  When you exist mile-by-mile, footstep-by-footstep in a place far from home this fear becomes more acute and the question marks more defined. Is my body physically prepared?  Will I get blisters and be unable to walk?  Will we be able to find food each night?  A place to sleep?  Will we get sick on the trail?  Lost?  Do I have enough courage?  An open mind?  A strong stomach?  Will my 63-year-old mother and my 29-year old self be able to get along for an unadulterated 88 days?  Will we fight over directions, time schedules, religion, who gets the first shower after a hard day's hike, the last bar of dark chocolate?  Will the language barrier be too great even with my mother's knowledge of French and Spanish?  Removed from normal routine and alone with my thoughts through vast springtime landscapes, will what I discover about myself scare me to death?  Will I be able to get by without the comforts of home - my bed, TV, friends, cat, beauty products, car, Trader Joes?  Will the life I know be waiting for me when I return? Can I, should I and will I do this?!

Just as in everyday life, I don't have the answers.  I can read as many books and peruse as many websites on the Camino as humanly possible, stock up on all the essentials at REI, put umpteenth miles under my belt in training, make all the reservations I can in advance and recite positive affirmations until I'm blue in the face, but what makes a vacation a true adventure will always be the mysterious, frightful and magnificant element of the unknown.  The Camino Gypsy Chronicles will be a blog for anyone living in fear.  For those who let it hold them back from walking into the great unknown.  I wish to share this crazy journey of mine because maybe, just maybe, my quest to conquer my fears will inspire others to conquer their own.

December's Television Challenge

I have always had a love affair with television.  When I was young, my parents allotted me a fixed number of viewing hours a week.  Usually, I'd try to save up my time for Saturday morning cartoons or Mousercise (if you've never Mousercised, you've never lived), but the trick was learning to love what my parents watched.  Parent shows meant extra hours of tube.  What were they going to do... force me to stay in my room every time they turned on the TV?  So began my friendship with Crockett & Tubs and Captain Jean-Luc Picard.  Not only did I have "Star Trek" trading cards (I may never get a date again after writing this...) but I had "I Love Lucy" ones, as well.  She was my queen.  My idol.  If I could grow up to be Lucille Ball, I would have won the life lottery.  I dreamt of making audiences laugh by stuffing too many chocolates in my mouth or drinking copious amounts of Vita-Meta-Vegamin.  I even named my first cat Lucy.

Today, I cringe when I hear people say "Oh, I don't watch TV" with their noses turned up as if simply saying those two letters is beneath them.  Even worse are the "I don't even own a TV"ers.  If you can't afford a set, that's one thing, but normally that line gets tossed around at hipster dinner parties as people try to impress one another with their non-conformity.  In my opinion, television writing has hit its peak.  "Mad Men," "Justified," "30 Rock," "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia," "Modern Family," "The Walking Dead," "Boardwalk Empire," "The League," "Eastbound & Down"... the list of incredible writing, acting and directing seems endless.  Sure, there's a load of crap out there, as well, but there's a load of crap in any art form.  Even I have been known to watch a reality show or two (ahem, "Top Chef"), so I try to withhold judgment.

But while I love the medium... and my new Sony Bravia... I have to admit it's become a bit of a crutch.  When you write for a living sixteen hours a day, nearly every day, the last thing you want to do is tackle your own writing when you have an hour or two off or, heaven forbid, pick up a book and ingest more words.  What I want is a stiff drink and back-to-back episodes of "Psych."  Yet, I need to enrich my own body of work.  I need to read the lonely unread books staring sadly from my shelf.  I have music I haven't listened to.  Letters I haven't written.  People I should make plans with.  Movies I should go see (at the theater, not on On Demand!)  Blog entries and scripts and short stories that are calling my name in the night, wondering why I've deserted them... why I've abandoned the characters I love so much.  This doesn't make me lazy.  It doesn't make me a bad person.  What it does is make me numb.  My love affair has turned into a drug... a very delicious drug... but a habit none-the-less.

I'm not going to do anything drastic.  You won't find me selling my Bravia on Craigslist anytime soon or giving up TV all together, like the friend who inspired this challenge in the first place.  What I will be doing for the entire month of December, and would like to challenge my fellow TV addicts to do, is to limit myself to two hours of TV a day, including movies both at home and in the theater.  To many of you that may seem like more than enough time, but when you add up the "Today Show" I flip on while answering emails and making my breakfast in the morning, the hour I watch at lunch so I can totally shut down my brain, the fifteen minutes breaks I take in between drafts to clear my head and the couple of hours I watch at night to relax before bed, its adds up faster than you can say 'dependency.'  And I know I'm not the only one.

Tomorrow morning it begins.  If there's anything I love in life it's a challenge, no matter how small.  And damn it, if I can climb Mt. Whitney in a day (self promoting plug), then I can control my TV watching.  If you decide to take this challenge with me, write a comment.  That way, we can feel like we're in this together.  Strength in numbers, friend.  Strength in numbers.  Come January 1st we can celebrate over tea and Tolstoy... or we can watch a "Gossip Girl" marathon instead.

Oh The Possibility...

I was watching some god-awful romantic comedy the other day (really none can compare to "When Harry Met Sally") and started thinking about possibility.  You know 'possibility'... that overwhelming feeling you get when you meet someone new and begin to image all the wonderful things they might be.  Sure, we make assumptions on them based on the way they look or what they do for a living, but there is still this fantastic, vast abyss of mystery we can't wait to plunge into.  Once you become better acquainted, however, 'possibility', that ephemeral little minx, begins to fade away.  It's inevitable.  A part of nature.  Unless the person you're seeing keeps their cards close to their chest the rest of their life, you can pretty much bet what flavor of ice cream they'll pick or that they volunteer at a homeless shelter every Thanksgiving or that camping isn't an option for a vacation or that they prefer vinyl over CDs.  Possibility is replaced by actuality. 

Sometimes this actuality is better than you could have imagined.  I believe some call this "true love."  Other times, actuality is just good enough... hell, no one is perfect, right?  And most of the time it sends you packing for the hills.  As in my experience, you learn that Mr. Possibility sitting across from you at the restaurant table is an aspiring actor, a psychopath, a name-dropper, definitely batting for the other team (this has happened to me twice.  One of the guys came out, eventually.  The other I ran into at the West Hollywood 24 Hour Fitness... enough said), is a Republican, smokes two packs a day, doesn't like movies, kisses like he's trying to eat your face, is a complete stoner, a cheapskate, a stalker who throws rocks at your dorm windows while screaming your name, lazy, waaaay too young, a former professional juggler, drinks too much, snores or even worse sleep walks, never learned that you have to wash your sheets (yup, I'm serious), has a kid and an ex-wife named Candy, or a girlfriend he decided not to tell you about, has a Tweety Bird tattoo, hates cats, lives in a pigsty, thinks reading books is too much of an intellectual endeavor, has a gambling problem, and so on and so on and so on.  But even with our long list of terrible past actualities, we keep coming back for one more hit of that possibility drug.  Why?  Because maybe, just maybe, this time truth will triumph over mystery.

8 Months And Counting...

Eight months from now I will have ventured into a new realm of life.  My thirties.  Duh-duh-duh...  But this is not a rant about fearing the future.  It's a rhapsody about enjoying my twenties until July 14 2011.  And how will I enjoy this fountain of youth to the thirst-quenching, pore-plumping, metabolism-boosting, delicious last drop?  What it really boils down to is reminding people, and myself for that matter, over and over and over again that I'm not thirty. 

Lately I have taken it upon myself to drop the terms "20 something," "twenties," "29" and the not quite as cheerful "late twenties" into casual speech.  For example, to the woman who carded me at the wine bar, "My i.d.?  Yes, I have it, one second...  Here it is, 29."  I grinned, showing off my lack of crows feet and smile lines.  Then to the guy hitting on me at the car wash who asked what college I was attending (bless his poorly mistaken heart) to which I answered, "Already graduated."  "Oh?" he asked.  "But you look so young!"  "Still in my twenties," I reply confidently.  To the producer on the conference call who wonders, "Do you have kids?"  "No.  I'm only in my late twenties," as if I don't know a soul in their late twenties who has kids.  Of course, one look at my Facebook friends list with nearly every profile picture now featuring babies and toddlers, and you'd call my bluff.  Then there's the article in Elle Magazine with wardrobe tips for women in their 20s, 30s and 40s, that asked, "What age do you fall under?" to which I responded giddily, "20 somethings!" even though the skirts were too short and the tops too tiny and the girls looked like they could be my little sisters.

Now these answers all had some kind of merit.  They weren't out of left field entirely.  But as the big day draws nearer I think it's time to get a bit more brazen.  I may, for instance, start saying my age along with my name when introduced to people: "Theresa.  29.  Nice to meet you."  Or in restaurants when the waiter asks if I want a second glass of wine, I'll say, "Of course!  I'm in my twenties!  I don't go to bed until the sun rises!"  So what if I end up crashing at 10pm and have a hangover the next day from only two glasses of Pinot... it's the declaration that counts.  To the creepy guys who ogle me when I'm out walking I'll cry, "Go ahead!  Take a good long look at the 20-something ass!"  Or to the person at the movie theater box office, "One senior ticket for my mom and, well, I'm only in my late twenties, so the standard  adult ticket for me, thanks."

Yes, I'm really going to enjoy those beautiful, youthful syllables while I can.  "Twen-ty"...  How they roll off the tongue so sweetly, speaking to me of late nights and dive bars and cheap liquor and empty bank accounts and bad dates and failed relationships and entry level jobs and vulnerability and low self-esteem and crowded apartments and... hmm, hold that thought... all off a sudden "Twen-ty" isn't sounding like such a great moniker.  Maybe I shouldn't throw it around town like confetti, after all.  Maybe, just maybe, I should start to say, when introduced to new people, "Theresa.  Almost 30.  Nice to meet you."

Bartering 2.0

As I get busier and busier with work and there are fewer and fewer hours in the day to check off my to-do list, it's nice to know there's someone there ready to lend me a helping hand.  Yes, that's right, I have finally gotten myself a personal assistant.  I'm sure you're wondering how I can afford such an extravagance.  After all, I'm no Hollywood celebrity or superstar athlete or corporate hotshot.  I'm just a simple writer making a modest living.  So how do I pay for my newly acquired personal assistance?  In frozen yogurt, of course.  To be exact, a Eurotart frozen yogurt with blackberries (and on occasion mochi) from Yogurtagogo in Sacramento.

Now, the next obvious question is, 'where in the world did I find such a gem of a PA?'  It was quite easy, really.  All I had to do was look no further than the gene pool from which I crawled.  Yes, that's right, I'm speaking of my mother.  For a trip to CVS to pick up contact solution or a dry cleaning delivery or a deposit of paychecks at my bank, she collects one heaping cup of froyo.  Pretty fair trade really for any of us who live and die for the frozen dessert.  I get the hummus I forgot to grab at the Safeway, and she gets a pint of Eurotart.  This whole fantastic transaction has got me thinking about the days when people used to barter for goods and services.  A fur coat for perfume.  Eggs for milk.  Yard work for construction.  Two virgins for six goats.  And on and on and on.

With the economy the way it is (aren't you just sick of hearing that line?), it might be a good time for a bartering resurgence.  In fact, I'm publicly offering my writing services to anyone who cuts hair, does nails, drives a cab, leads a boot camp class, cooks, massages (not that kind, sicko), has theater or concert tickets or teaches banjo.  What can I do for you in the way of writing?  Well, I can write letters of complaint, church bulletins, party fliers, threatening stalker letters, marketing materials, pitches and love poems (although the latter will cost extra as it goes against my nature.)  But we need not limit the movement to services.  I can see people trading books, clothes, music, shoes, pets, apartments (anyone live in Bali?  I have a terrific flat in Sacramento you might be interested in trading for a week), cars, electronics...  Hell, boyfriend swapping is perfectly reasonable if, say, your friend's bf is a lawyer and you need someone to impress the folks at Thanksgiving dinner this year.  In return she can have your hot out-of-work musician boyfriend to make her look cooler at her high school reunion.  It's win-win.

As a way to get this system started I encourage anyone with LEGAL good and services they're willing to barter to please list them in the comments section on this post.  If there can be a reality show about swapping wives, then we can certainly start swapping DVDs, no?

Top Seven Worst Dates

"Whenever I date a guy, I think, is this the man that I want my children to spend their weekends with?" - Rita Rudner

Recently a friend suggested she set me up on a blind date.  The sentiment doesn't really scare me as it does most people.  Not because I'm brave.  Not because I'm especially open minded or a risk taker.  And certainly not because the prospect actually sounds fun.  No, blind dates don't scare me because I've already had so many laughable, cringe-worthy, 'did that really happen?!' dates in my life that nothing seems to phase me anymore.  In fact, if a date is going to be bad, it better be extremely bad so that I can at lest get a good anecdote out of it to amuse my friends.  So in honor of being back out on the market (I love this expression... makes me feel like a prize-winning pig), I thought I would air out my dirty dating laundry and share the top seven (I like an odd number) worst romantic rendezvous I've had the exquisitely painful pleasure to partake in.

1. During a dinner date with a basketball player I met at a nightclub in Sacramento (this should have been a warning sign, no?) the guy... and I kid you not... actually fell asleep at the table as I was talking.  I mean, he literally dropped his head beside his brick oven personal pizza and slipped into REM.  This same guy then attempted to call me every other night for the next two weeks wondering why I wouldn't go out with him again.  Must have hit his head quite hard on that table.
2. Here's the next scenario broken down into scenes, which is appropriate seeing as though it was a movie date.  Act I: Guy takes his retainer out at the dinner table and sets it in the middle of said table on a napkin.  My eyes remain fixated on the trail of saliva running from his mouth to the retainer as he tries to engage me in conversation.  Act II: In the middle of the movie guy realizes he left retainer on table and runs out, leaving me by myself at a particularly gruesome horror film.  Act III: Guy comes back upset, sweaty and smelling of garbage after having searched for retainer in the restaurant dumpster without luck.  He mumbles about the $500 he'll need to scrounge up to get a new one during the rest of the movie.  Needless to say, there was no Act IV.
3. My first date in LA was with a photographer I met on the plane ride over there.  He was quite a bit older but looked like Sting so I thought I'd take my chances.  Unfortunately, the entire date consisted of him ranting about his ex.  What sparked this diatribe?  I had asked him how he got the bloody cut across his face.  Turns out she went to town on his cheek with her car key.  I spent the rest of the night looking over my shoulder waiting for her to seize me by the hair and smash my face into my vegan meatloaf.
4. One guy actually had the nerve to call me an hour before our date and ask if his buddy who lived near me could pick me up and take me to my date's house.  This way, he wouldn't have to drive across town to get me himself.  His buddy who I'd never met.  His buddy who drove a pick-up.  I told him "sure", hung up and then called him back five minutes later complaining of a terrible stomach flu.  A stomach flue that lasted the three weeks it took for him to stop calling.
5. I made the mistake of inviting a new guy to my office Christmas party.  He showed up wasted (to calm him nerves, he said) and then proceeded to brag to my boss during a smoke break on the restaurant balcony the very intimate details of our first date.  Thankfully, my boss was a woman with a bad date list of her own.
6. A guy bit me.  I believe he thought it would be sexy.  Perhaps on some occasions.  But in the middle of a Mexican restaurant over a plate of enchiladas?  Not so much.
7. I was taken on a date to a very chichi restaurant.  The guy I was with insisted that we order the sweetbreads, promising me it was a vegetarian dish.  I ate them, of course, trying to look the part of 'classy lady'.  He said, and I quote, "those are just mushrooms inside."  Later I learned the guy had forced me to eat cow thymus and pancreas.  I still haven't forgiven that one.

So there you have it.  The worst of it.  Funny how the running theme seems to be dinner dates.  Perhaps I need to cut eating out of the dating equation entirely.  Nah.  Without the bad, how can you know what's good?  And without the horrendous dates I'm infamous for, who would my friends turn to to make their own horror dating stories seem timid by comparison?  So I guess it's fingers crossed for a terrible blind date in my near future... 

Honking And Yelling

There are two ways Americans love to express joy.  Perhaps above all other options.  And those two things are honking car horns and yelling.  The heroine of joyful articulations.  Last night, after the San Francisco Giants won the World Series, the streets of Midtown Sacramento came alive with a cacophonous mixture of piercing car horns and blissful, unhindered outcries.  A mixture that wasn't at all unpleasant.  In fact, it put a smile on my face.  Sent my heart racing like on Halloween night when kilos of sugar surged through my veins robbing me of sleep.  The way the horns sliced the air like knives and drunken men of all ages sent expletives flying into the night sky like confetti had a thrilling, almost punk rock quality to it.  We're not just celebrating... we're making some f'in noise!

It's not just the sports crowd that get into this.  We dress up bridal vehicles just for the sake of making complete strangers honk and holler in celebration of matrimony.  Sometimes I'm even tempted to do it when a funeral procession passes just as a way to cheer everyone up.  Can you just picture a row of car following a hearse with everyone honking horns and whooping it up out the windows?  Would be one hell of a send out.  (That may actually have to go into my will.)  We stand at street corners holding up signs that sum up our political beliefs in catchy slogans in hope that others will agree and unleash a litany of honking.  We do it as parades pass.  Or when we arrive at a friends house to pick them up for a night of debauchery, "HONK! HONK! HONK!  Get your butt down here!  And bring the flask!  HONK! HONK!  Woohoo!"   

My first introduction to this celebratory audial expression of delight was in 5th grade when the 6th grade teacher led his class and our own out onto the sidewalk to demonstrate against the war in Iraq.  The first one, that is.  Bush Senior.  We held up handmade signs in our little Catholic school uniforms and screamed at oncoming traffic "Honk for peace in the Middle East!" like pint-sized UN cheerleaders.  With each pounding of a horn or holler out a car window, my excitement grew and grew.  To a near feverish state.  I'll never forget this one guy in a white convertible with a matching white suit and tight Jheri curls literally driving around the block in circles to up the ante on his fantastic rave of honks.  At one point (while stopped at a light) he jumped up onto his seat and started honking with his foot.  I kid you not; I couldn't make this stuff up.  I had no idea what the war was about, but if raging against it caused a grown man to stomp on the steering wheel of his Chrysler Sebring, then I was a peace crusader.

It was this man I thought about last night as the honking and yelling lingered well past midnight.  That if I had planned better I would be an hour and a half away in San Francisco with my head out the moon roof of my Rav4 tapping out "We Are the Champions" on my steering wheel with my boot heel.  Well... there's always next year.

Why Have Kids?

A friend recently revealed to me their reason for wanting to one day have a kid - to have someone to take care of them when they get old.  A sound argument, but not convincing enough.  I mean, isn't that what hospice workers are for?   I, for one, have never imagined having kids.  Ask anyone in my life with babies, and they'll tell you I DO NOT HOLD THEM.  It's not because I'm afraid I'll break them... a rather cliche excuse if you ask me.  It's because I hate having to put on the 'look at me, I have motherly instincts after all!' song and dance by cooing at them and saying gooey things in a whiny baby voice.  I just don't have it in me.  When I hold a baby it's more like Jeremy Renner in the "Hurt Locker" carrying a bomb he's trying to diffuse.  I know it's gonna go off... but when?  So I grasp it rigidly in my arms with a look of terror on my face and try not to make any sudden moves. 

Yet despite my inherent fear of motherhood and pudgy, diaper-sporting mini people, there is one reason and one reason only I would want one of my own - to have someone to dress up for Halloween.  Yes, that's right.  Just as my mom dressed me in fabulous homemade bumblebee and Snow White costumes, I too want to take my little person and slap a pirate hook on their hand... a tiara on their head... a wart on their nose... wings on their back... a stinger on their butt... 

Perhaps more importantly, I want to raid their candy loot.  When I was little I informed my mother that the only candy off limits in my stash was the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.  And every year, without fail, I'd catch her in the act.  Once she just breathed on me and, smelling the unmistakable mix of chocolate and peanut butter, I called her out with tears streaming down my face.  'How could you?!  I told you you could have all the Almond Joys and 3 Musketeers!'  Another time I found the orange and black wrappers in her bed, crinkled up and stowed away under the sheets after I caught her by surprise.  Me: 'Mom, are you eating something in bed?'  Mom: (With mouth full)  'Hmm?  No.  (Swallow)  Not me.  (Another swallow)  Why do you ask?'  Of course, as a mom I'll learn from such errors.  I will only eat my child's Halloween Reese's when they're at school and will promptly burn the wrapper in the fireplace.  Or is down the garbage disposal better?  The shredder?  Should I just eat the wrapper too? 

So there you have it.  Blackheart's reasoning for having kids.  A selfish reason?  Maybe.  But as I was getting dinner at the Subway in Flagstaff, Arizona tonight and a short, chubby Mexican boy wearing a muscle-bound Batman costume came swaggering in (after I just finished reading "Little Bee" none-the-less!) I thought to myself, 'Who cares?  Kids in masks and capes are freakin' cute.'  The best part is, when I told him, "Nice costume," and he turned to me and confessed, "This is my favorite," I saw his mom's proud grin in the corner of my eye.