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Science…kind of

You’re only as inspirational as your last five dollar footlong

March 30, 2011

I have 790 unread items on my Google Reader. That number only diminishes when I read my own posts and, if I can manage to stop laughing from the sadness, when I see something new from Merlin Mann.

Despite having a name that most LARPers dream of, Merlin is also responsible for 43 Folders, a productivity blog that actually isn’t weighed down by copies of Benjamin Franklin’s daily schedule and photos of sunsets. So, it’s not really a productivity blog at all.

He recently gave a talk at Webstock that deals exclusively with being “scared shitless.” He was forthright about the hasty creation of his presentation, in part because he was so scared shitless about presenting. It felt that way. Many of his jokes went over about as well as a 12-pack of Busch at a Mormon potluck. Which he admitted to drinking on a daily basis following his divorce – one of the mentioned stops on his scared shitless tour. Other topics included his first marriage, his father’s illness, and his daughter. Overall it was a good talk and I get that it’s not a group therapy session, but I still wanted more.

So I started thinking about the things that I’m scared of. All of the things that I’m too ashamed to admit because I’ll come off as petty, ugly and irrational. Short answer – I’m scared of nearly everything. Long answer – I’m scared that no one will ever take me seriously, that I’ll never get married, that I will get married. I’m scared of losing the few people closest to me, that I’ll get two scoops of ice cream that don’t go well together, that I’ll look ugly in photos, or that I’ll never be proud of myself. I’m also scared of whales.

Most of all, I’m scared of wasting time by being scared. But the great thing about being fearful of most things is that I control whether or not most of it happens. Last time I checked, having a double chin in photos isn’t a cosmological constant. And even if it is, I was able to pick up a fresh perspective from Merlin’s talk.

He closes with a quote from Go Daddy CEO and founder, Bob Parsons. With the words projected on the screen behind him, he says, “They can’t eat you.”

And so far, I can say with certainty that this is 100% true.

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Mold is just a state of mind

October 8, 2010

There’s a giant hole above my sink. It’s been there for about two weeks and I hate it. Anyone can see into my kitchen and unfortunately, I think my neighbors now know that I drink moon cycle tea. Before the hole, everything was fine. I mean, there was mold growing beneath it but there were blinds, drywall and my general ability to practice avoidance covering it up.

Then the contractor came. He tore everything down with his little rodent teeth, pointed his sharp claws at me and laughed because he knew that he wouldn’t be back for at least 12 more days. Then he stole all of my walnuts. That’s actually just speculation. I wasn’t present when the work was done because having a bra on while he was here would’ve been more work than not wearing one to Whole Foods, where I’m not lazy – just bohemian.

If it were up to me, I’d put tin foil over everything and call it a solar panel. Then maybe install a swimming pool.

He’s going to be here to make less fun repairs at 9:30 am on Saturday. At best, he won’t show up. At worst, he’ll show up to designate a pee corner and promptly leave.

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This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me

September 27, 2010

I participated in No Make-Up Week. Which for me is a lot like asking a fat guy to participate in “Breathe Heavily Week.” This is what I look like most days, give or take a bowl of macaroni and cheese. I sit in front of a computer and write. Then I eat. Then I think about how awesome it would be to have a Golden Retriever show up at my door step, give me a wallet with infinite cash and maybe even convince me to stop listening to Jewel. Then we’d share a cake Sixteen Candles style and playfully fight over who gets to be Jake Ryan.

LOOK AT IT

I admittedly don’t have many positive experiences with makeup. Mostly because I don’t know how to use it. I bought my first tube of mascara at around age 11, after being urged by my friend, Erica, who said that I needed it. Spoiler alert: she ended up being a giant asshole. The next day, I proudly showed up with slightly irritated eyes and lashes that looked like they had been in an oil spill. She took one look at me and said, “Why didn’t you do your bottom lashes? It doesn’t even look like you have any.”

I thought, “Bottom…lashes?” Trying to hide my ignorance and disappointment with myself for somehow being able to cause irreparable damage to my corneas while entirely missing my whole row of bottom lashes, I said something along the lines of, “Oh, guess I forgot.” I tried to be as blasé as possible, you know, like those lashes were so insignificant to me that I didn’t even care. But the look she gave me before turning away seemed to imply, “You are so hopeless you won’t have a boyfriend for at least eight more years.”

And if she had actually said that, she would’ve been right. I had the kind of parents who, outside of letting me buy a Snoop Dogg album because it was “degrading to women,” set me free to make my own choices. Since my choices usually revolved around collecting basketball cards and wearing jean shorts that went past my knees, I wasn’t socially accepted as having a vagina until around 17.

Even though I was able to make significant gains with having definable genitalia, I still struggled through many days of looking too much like citrus or too little like someone with the motor skills necessary to sketch an oval. I’ve just recently gotten into a groove where, on any given day, you’ll catch me looking almost presentable.

But not always. A few months ago, I was in LA. In my haste, I forgot to pack face wash. After settling in my hotel and eating my weight in kebabs, I scurried to a Sephora nearby and picked up my old stand-by, Purity. I didn’t stay long because I just knew I was being judged for not having an entire Sherwin-Williams store on my eyelids, which made the exchange at the register even better.

The cashier swipes my card and notices that I’m a V.I.B.. This means nothing other than the fact that I’ve wasted over $500 at Sephora and that apparently, instead of a very important person, I’m a very important beauty. Big difference in that one is totally fake. The term makes me want to choke myself, honestly. And not in a good way.

She’s then obligated to offer me a free gift, all while maintaining a look not unlike the one I received 12 years prior. This time there was just more confusion as she attempted to travel through the mental maze of how this person in front of her, looking like a plate of eggs with eyes, could spend so much and seemingly do nothing with it. I’m fairly certain she landed on assuming that I probably confuse most of their products for candy. Which is half true.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t as gullible as Erica was when I tried to convince her that my over-used concealer was actually beige lipstick and that it was totally cool how it blended perfectly with her skin tone, making it look like she had no lips at all.

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I like cats and porn but not necessarily at the same time

September 9, 2010

I watched the first two-thirds of this video in horror.

The thoughts that went through my head ranged from I guess cat feces really do make people schizophrenic to These cats have probably taken enough baths with their owners to understand how to snake the drain. And despite my “I’ve only had two beers, officer” brand of math, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy about my suspicion that the presence of 100 cats and ten humans wasn’t a coincidence.

But, as usual, I judged too quickly. Because as I approached the last minute of the video, I realized that there was more to it than a cold open into animal hoarding. It has the same stunning aesthetic of an In-N-Out burger. Not surprisingly, both bring tears to my eyes. And if that makes me one of them, then I’m more than okay with that.

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Yes I know E.T. is not technically a horror film

January 11, 2010

E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. The reason for this is because when that fucking desiccated tootsie roll RUSHED out of those corn fields like they were on fire, my four-year-old heart couldn’t take it and from that point on, I would only watch movies that guaranteed carbon based characters or ideally, plots entirely absent of science. For years, E.T. haunted me. Every dark hallway or stairwell was an invitation for him to come hurdling toward me. To do what, I’m not sure. The most diabolical thing he ever did in the movie was befriend a 10-year-old boy and dress in women’s clothes. And while that’s unsettling for some, it’s not necessarily scary.

Still, I was petrified of him. A few years later, however, I saw a behind the scenes special that revealed the means of locomotion for E.T. – wheels. Even at eight years old, where my world allowed a reality in which The Muppets were living beings, I knew what wheels were. I knew they weren’t scary and even though there was a screeching uterus with a nose attached to them, I was able to watch the movie and meet E.T.’s beady eyes without turning away until the Reese’s Pieces showed up.

Despite my victory over E.T., I was ruined for any future interest in the horror genre. Movies that depend almost entirely on the inevitability that something is going to be forcibly removed by a sharp object or vagina dentata are not something my anxiety has the aptitude to deal with. The only horror movies I watch, understandably, are ones so bad that they reveal their parlor tricks as they go along. Films starring wrestlers or Gary Busey, usually. From the beginning, they admit to the fact that they’re full of shit, instead of attempting to peddle the idea that corn syrup and red food coloring are worthy of soiling yourself or more importantly, real.

I’m not a fan of severity, which is why I’m struggling with the fact that in less than two weeks, I’ll be moving. Again. A little over six months ago, I moved from Florida to Oregon. It was my ‘fuck you Southeast I’m going to live in the Pacific Northwest and eat fresh sustainable fish not because I like fish since I really don’t but just because I can‘ tour. It’s been successful so far, but I’m realizing that more than anything, I was simply proving to myself that I could escape from the straight jacket that manifested itself from the familiarity of my former surroundings. Somehow, I did it. But the point is, I’ve done it and I need to move on.

It’s uncomfortable to stare into a future so fertile with doubt and the unavoidable truth that I will ingest Nyquil at least once to comfortably fall asleep before 9pm. But since I have a poor sense of impulse control and an insatiable need to challenge the limits of a rapidly dwindling savings account, I will be Danny Tanner-ing it into San Francisco before January ends.

The way I see it, if I can overcome that creep E.T., I can do just about anything. All I need is for the situation to reveal its wheels.

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