Being a Real Person

I don't know why no one ever tells you this, but being a real person sucks balls sometimes.

They tell you high school is the best time of your life, which is a total lie, because high school is horrifying. You couldn't pay me to go back in time and feel like everyone's staring at my zits, wondering if there's food in my braces, and getting pit stains whenever I saw a hot guy. No. Thanks.

Then they tell you college is the best time of your life and, boy, are they right.

But, they never tell you anything about being a real person. Damn, I feel so disillusioned.

When you're a real person you have bills. And lots of them. You have to get up early, every day. You have to cook for yourself. You have to buy your own clothes, pay for your own heat, and lock your doors at night. But the biggest bummer of all, especially in a city like Seattle, is rent. Yay, paycheck! Oh, wait, that's right, my whole paycheck is going to pay for that measley roof over my head. nbd. I'll buy a new bra next paycheck. Alas...

I've been a real person for about four months now and, though I certainly resent it and everything it stands for, I'm starting to come to terms with my real personhood. I mean, there are some perks. I get to burn all the candles I want and drink all the wine I want and decorate however I want. BUT, there's still that scary thing 20 years down the road that my mom's been going through for about, oh, 12 years now.

And that is the mid-life crisis.

She came to see me a few weeks ago, my mom. While I totally dig the whole "I'm a working woman, I make my own cash, and my own decisions!" shtick, she met me at Nordstrom with a new addition--HAIR EXTENTIONS. Now, it's not like my mom's never done this before, but this time they were halfway down her back and coupled with clothes tighter than mine and skin as dark as a Jamaican's. I. was. mortified.

Here I am, the dowdy-looking SAT-teacher and part-time magazine intern who can't afford a new pair of boots to save her life, and up walks my 52-year-old mother in a HOT PINK, cleavage-bearing t-shirt and hair extentions. I mean, come on. Shouldn't I be the hot one at this point? And, yet, I am not surprised. The hair extentions and gnarly tan can't even compete with the year she got a boob job, a face-lift, two tattoos, and her belly-button pierced. I wish I were kidding. I mean, I love her and everything, and she can do what she wants, but at this point, I'm only slightly embarrassed because of her. When it comes down to it, what I'm more afraid of is my future. If my mom can't seem to come to terms with getting older, rebelling against this crazy real-personhood to such an extreme, what does that say for my genetics? I'm surely predisposed to crazy, but I'd like to know the likelihood of inheritance.

But that's years and years away. For now, it's time to scamper off to work so I can hand my paycheck to the landlord. Is this all it's about?

Get Off My Dock

How many times have we shared something and resented it? Sometimes, we're cool, we go with the flow, but other times we just want to yell, "Hey Mister, yeah you, in the amphibious shoes? GET OFF MY DOCK!"

It all started over my birthday weekend while the soleil was moving across me with the propellance of a nice breeze. For the first time in what felt like an eternity (ok, month, but still--starting a new life as a real person takes a lot more out of you than you initially anticipate), I had a chance to snatch up some open-country solitude.

I coped with the cousins and the whole fam running and screaming around me, I put up with obnoxious screaming kids next door (why do kids always INSIST on screaming when they're near water?), and I even let it slide that my Grandpa and uncle wanted to harass me about my "leftist" (read: down goes American and all that it stands for) ideals.

But, even though I'm all about being green and supporting our motha twirling us around the sun, when you stand on my dock, play with OUR water toys, wearing spandex and CROCS, I will call you a douche bag. Cool that you eat granola and got up at 5 am on your vacation to mountain bike from Chelan to Manson, but do you have to discuss it AT LENGTH on MY dock?

Let's be honest here, Douchey McDoucherson probably works for Microsoft, drives a subaru with a bike rack, and pretends he's conscious of his carbon footprint on the world. In all reality, he's elitist about his eco-friendliness and needs to take his granola OFF MY DOCK.

My Reality

Have you ever wondered what song would be playing during a certain scene of your personal reality show?

Lord knows I have. Sometimes I see myself on the water, the stars shining and the moon glowing against the dark sky. Pensively, I sigh and inhale through my nose, eyes closed. Journey's "Lights" plays softly. Maybe this scene was right after a particularly hard week--a week full of smelly people on the Seattle Metro, a few reprimands at work, and a spat with the roommates over how, no, really, paper towels go in the yard waste can--NOT THE GARBAGE.

Other times, perhaps I'm sitting alone at Leny's, the dive bar a couple blocks up from our house. Overweight men with exposed butt-cracks are playing darts and pool around me; I sip some sort of cheap beer--Natty, PBR, Busch--from a mason jar. The air is hazy. The jukebox plays Toby Keith's "I Love this Bar" and I discuss with my new friend, Cledus, how much I miss keg beer and fraternity parties in the woods.

Then an opportunity to get me out of town and out of my funk takes me to Germany. The camera flashes to me fist-pumping on the floor of a discotheque. A strobe light allows only glimpses of me surrounded by a slew of toe-headed Europeans, one of which, is actually my American friend, Shelby--the friend who went on exchange, found a European boyfriend, and never came back. "Numa Numa" can be heard over the loud speakers. I grin and twirl.

Then it's back to the city and back to the grind. Flashes of me on the bus, crossing sidewalks, maneuvering (Matrix style) around all the tourists in Pike Place Market. Some sort of Tony Bennet plays giving the tourists exactly what they want.

Finally, I'm driving. The sun roof is open. The windows are down. My hair is blowing in the wind. I remove it from my lipgloss. It proceeds to stick to my face. But I must remember that this is all in the spirit of good TV. I watch in front of me as fields of onions and apple orchards flash by. And what's playing this time? "Mama, I'm comin' home" -- Ozzy Osbourne.

Sometimes it's more exciting, soon I'm sure it will be. For now, it is what it is.

Heavy Petting

Have you ever thought, Why are you wearing that t-shirt when you're so fat?

I know it sounds callous, but what if that shirt was inmate orange and said, "Life's short. Pet hard"? Then, do you think you'd reevaluate your judgement of me and my black heart? That's what I thought. There are certain things in life that just shouldn't be advertised, especially on clothing: how much you like to drink, whether or not you're disease free, how "hott" you are (news flash: this is like an extension of the whole "Wow, I never even knew he was that rich" phenomenon--when you've got it, you don't have to constantly tell people you do), your political affiliation, the whole Joe's Crabshack "Got Crabs?" campaign, how hard you think people should pet others, and if you're Macy Gray, the release date of your upcoming album (on a stone-washed denim jumpsuit, nonetheless--really, Macy? REALLY?!).

I don't even know where you could purchase a t-shirt like that. Maybe I'm too quick to jump to conclusions. Maybe that t-shirt wearing petter got it as a hand-me-down from a drunk uncle. Maybe it was a cruel joke. All I know is if I saw my friend/child/brother/sister/family member of any kind wearing something like that, I would do the world a favor and sneak into their closet while they're sleeping, or, you know, off petting something/someone and burn the thing.