Tuesday, August 23, 2016

HAPPINESS IS...

Achieving orgasm happiness is the ultimate goal in life, amiright?  The other day I got to thinking about the little things in life that make me happy.  Here's what I came up with:

Displaying FullSizeRender.jpg
HAPPINESS IS GETTING A PACK OF STARBURSTS AND REALIZING THAT MOST OF THEM ARE PINK.
Sorry for yelling.
HAPPINESS IS...

...seeing that San Francisco is still San Francisco in spite of the chafe-y changes taking place here. 
I'm always reading articles bashing SF in some way: whether people are complaining about the astronomical rent prices, the onslaught of tech douches pervading the city or homeless people relieving themselves in Bart stations - SF seems to be the sand in a lot of people's underwear these days.  Can't we all quit complaining about this otherworldly slice of earth and take a moment to appreciate the wonderful freaks who still inhabit it?  Seeing them around town makes me feel happy and considerably less fucked in the head.


...receiving texts like these from Uber right after I stub my toe and think my week is going to shit:


...relishing in life's little milestones.
I lose things.  It's what I do.  It's who I am.  If this irritates you we will probably never be close. On Sunday I celebrated my 6 month anniversary with my keys.  It makes me happy to have had so much time with them and I hope we don't part for at least another couple months or so.  Thank you so much for all your well wishes, by the way; my heart is bursting and we are thrilled!  We celebrated by cracking open a couple Keystone lights. Commitment is always key. Belated apologies for the dad jokes.

      

...celebrating life's big milestones.  
Speaking of anniversaries, my parents celebrated their 51st wedding anniversary over the weekend. Pretty insane.  


...realizing that just because my parents have been basking in martial bliss for over half a century doesn't make me inferior or any less of a human being for being a 33 year old single girl who gets text messages like this BECAUSE ROMANCE IS STILL ALIVE, DAMMIT.
             

...checking things off my Monday list and gloating about it on instagram.  


...walking through the door after not having been home for 8 months and being greeted by the loves of my life:  Flossie and Coco.

flossie and coco coming at me at 47585 MPH

...finding old childhood photos like this one from 1988, a time when my brother and I went through 8 nannies in 2 years and my parents slowly began to realize that having me solely to keep him company was something of a grave mistake.


...receiving texts like these from your friend and being reminded of why you're friends


...waking up and feeling accomplished for having self control.  My best friend decided to get a serious boyfriend without consulting with me about it first (<3 ya, Gym) so I don't spend 24/7 with her anymore.  So yeah, sometimes I get lonely and crave attention - mainly after a couple cocktails. It's not uncommon for me to reach into my arsenal of ex boyfriends/crushes/whatevers and text them. When I don't do this it makes me very very happy.  No judgments please, this is a safe space.


...a song I've been wanting to hear comes on Pandora.  Incidentally if anyone ever got ahold of my Pandora account I'd move to Bangladesh and change my name to Rhonda.  It's that embarrassing.



...not licking envelopes for a living.  I love my new job and praise Ghandi I don't have to worry about OD'ing on envelope sealing chemicals on the reg.


...finding random stains on the earth, pointing at them and exclaiming "doesn't that look like a dick?!!!!"


...digging up my old cell phones, charging them and noticing how much I haven't changed since 2008, the year of the Crackberry.



...these two handsome corgis spotted on Crissy field.


In all seriousness though:

True contentment is reached when one's desire to be validated or accepted by anyone other than oneself ceases to take up space in one's consciousness.

I may have regressed back into a 12 year old pervert child in a lot of ways (please see majority of this post) but I my above statement becomes truer and truer every day.

Hope you find some happiness today, friendos!

xo, Nige

PMS.  You can follow me on snapchat if you like toe pick and want to see it in video form: owlbunting 





Monday, August 8, 2016

The Beauty of Oversharing

mouthing off, probably, definitely.

My legs life has been an open book since I was a kid.  I've been accused of a lot of things, like playing with my hair too much and being overtly obsessed with the OJ Simpson trial, but no one's ever told me I need to open up more.  I often overshare, and I'm sure there's some Freudian explanation behind this, maybe my mom didn't breast feed me enough or something.  Who the fuck knows.  Who cares.

One summer when I was 12 I gave my childhood crush my virginity a letter I'd written professing my love  explaining how I felt about him.  Said letter was 4 pages long (FRONT AND BACK! - Ross Gellar).  He still has it, or so he says.  I don't regret giving it to him as he is one of my closest friends and probably will be until I expire, and when I'm 85 I'll sigh, grimace smile and be glad I was transparent with my feelings. Because I believe that when you feel something, you  tell the whole world via your blog say it, goddamnit.

That's not to say my big mouth hasn't gotten me into some sticky situations and caused things to blow up in my face without warning.
(That's what she said?)

When I was in Newport last week I ran into a girl I'd forgotten I knew.  "We've met." she said as she greeted me. "You told me my boobs looked great when we ran into each other in a bathroom at Kate's* wedding, then you asked if you could touch them."  We both laughed as I looked down, red-faced.  "Th-th-they are nice, ha..hahaha," I stuttered as I quickly changed the subject to the weather and some offensively off kilter topic like ISIS.

When I was at Ole Miss all the people who worked at the Chevron near my house knew who I was hooking up with, where my siblings lived and what kind of pizza I liked.  Shit, they probably even knew my blood type.  In fact, my dear friend Sarah tried to add my knack for opening up to randoms to my LinkedIn profile along with other stuff that I shall not reveal.  Thanks for the recommendation, Sarah!

Of course I've thought about being less revealing when it comes to sharing personal things about myself.  When Prince died I did some research on him and learned that he was an exceptionally private person.  "Sometimes I wish I was more like Prince," I told my unfazed, flippant friend one day.  Not because he was a fucking enigma/prodigy/tiny little genius but because he was able to keep his fucking mouth shut and live his life under wraps.

"There's no way you could ever be on reality TV, Alex-haaan-dra!" my mom exclaimed the other day. "Your mouth is too big.  You have no inner monologue.  We would all be mortified."

This got me thinking about the pros and cons of not having a filter.  Let's get sharted.

1. PRO: My willingness to be transparent has enabled me to share life experiences that people can to relate to.  Like the time I was trying to stalk my ex boyfriend's girlfriend on facebook and accidentally typed her name into my status, only to be made aware of my blunder the next morning when I woke up to an onslaught of texts + calls from friends urging me to "REMOVE YOUR STATUS IMMEDIATELY, ARE YOU NUTS?!"  We've all done stupid shit like this, and when I shared this horrifically mortifying experience I felt like I opened up a dialogue amongst equally idiotic people and created a safe space for us all to share our fuckups.

<names have been changed>
2. CON:  I've destroyed romantic relationships as a result of my propensity to overshare.
I dated a guy I met on Muni a few years ago and decided to share this absurd story on Toe Pick because I FELT LIKE GOD WAS FUCKING HANDING ME MATERIAL ON A SILVER PLATTER.  IF I DIDN'T SHARE IT I'D BE DOING A DISSERVICE TO THE MAN UPSTAIRS.  Muni boy was not pleased and our relationship swiftly disintegrated after I published our story.

3. PRO: I've been given opportunities to further my nonexistent writing career by letting it all hang out on this blog.  Granted, one of the opportunities that arose was an invitation to write for a website centered around sex toys but GOOD GOD WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE HAPPY FOR ME.  Sorry for yelling again, it's Monday and I'm feeling vulnerable and defensive.

4. CON: My parents and their friends are appalled by read my blog.
The implications of this are just as you'd suspect.  It was wildly mildly embarrassing when Topsy, my mother's wildly conservative friend asked me why I write about my vibrator so much at a formal dinner last week and I nearly choked on my lobster bisque.

5. PRO: It's cathartic to put it all out there.
Of course, sometimes I get anxious when I post something highly personal, but I've learned to suppress those feelings because well, if someone doesn't like what I have to say they can go fuck themselves read my Great Aunt Edna's knitting blog or whatever.  Moreover, sometimes I get lonely, like last night as I lay in bed in the fetal watching the Hills reunion.  I looked over at my computer and decided to start writing this entry and immediately felt less alone.  My computer has become my friend and OH MY GOD I can't believe I just revealed my friendship with an electronic, inanimate object aside from the aforementioned vibrator on toe pick.
Judge not, lest you be judged.

6. CON:  Oversharing has cost me money.
 I can no longer use the elaborate excuses I've worked so hard to come up with to get out of workout classes I've signed up for because I exposed my Rolodex of excuses on toe pick for all the world to see.  So, now when I miss a class I get charged because everyone at BodyRok knows all my excuses are horseshit.  Reaaaal smooth.

7. CON:  Oversharing has bitten me in the ass.
A few months ago I had been thinking about moving back east, mainly to be closer to family.  One morning I woke up and made up my mind: I am going to do it, I thought: pack my shit up and move right along.  My job was driving me nuts, I was (well, am) single so I decided to say fuckit.  Next step: share my momentous news on social media.  Big mistake.  HUGE.  (I have to go shopping now!)  Making rash decisions during a moment of panic and then sharing said decisions on social media is just dumb.  As I result of my hastiness I had to retract my statement and dodge questions about my going away party in addition to a barrage of questions concerning my "move" for several months.

Before.

after.

I'll end with this: growing up I wasn't good at many things.  I did poorly in school, tried to get into riding but got kicked in the face by my pony, ran to third base during a t-ball game instead of first and tried to use a razor as lipstick when I was 5 resulting in an impromptu trip to the ER.  So when I started this blog (piss on that word) I finally felt like I had found my purpose: to expose my imperfections, laugh about them and be honest about life; the good, the bad and the downright fugly.

On a completely unrelated note, the day I've been dreaming of is here: tonight I'm heading to see GNR and am more excited than PeeWee Herman in an adult movie theatre.  Simply ECSTATIC.

Happy Tuesday, friendos!

xo,
Nige

PS. Oversharing can be great, but watch yourself in the work environment.  Don't make the same mistake I did yesterday when I told my coworker I was investing in a blow-up boyfriend.


PMS. Oversharing isn't a word I found out.  So I've got that going for me...which is nice.

Monday, July 18, 2016

Scarred



I have a scar on the top of my left foot.

It's a pretty big scar. One time I slathered it with tinted moisturizer to try and conceal it.  My futile effort fell flat; in fact - it made the scar even more obvious.  My scar is the ghastly remnant of a battle wound, so to speak...one that I've learned to live with, having given up on it ever becoming inconspicuous months ago.

I have a surprisingly vivid recollection of how it all happened.

It was an early Saturday morning last August in San Francisco.  Life hadn't seemed to be going my way that summer and I was struggling to cope with the implications of that by living a life of reckless abandon.  I was leaving a late night party that had turned into an early morning party.  I decided it would be a good idea to walk home instead of Ubering so I could get some air and clear my head.

Disheveled and despondent, I trudged up a steep San Francisco hill toward my apartment.  As I struggled to maintain my composure amid cars whizzing by I fell.  My heel had gotten stuck in a sidewalk crevice causing my foot to hit the uneven pavement hard.  Hard.

I began to cry softly as I looked down and noticed blood gushing from the arch of my foot.

"DAMNIT." I muttered to myself, as I scoured the street to make sure no one had seen me.

I carefully picked myself up, collected the contents of my purse strewn about the sidewalk and continued my walk home alone barefoot, bloodied and mortified.

I got home and cleaned up my wound, drunkenly dabbing it with unnecessary amounts of Neosporin in between helpless wails as I sat on my bathroom floor in my wrinkled dress someone had accidentally spilled red wine on hours before.

That night marked the pinnacle of a low point in my life - you know, the kind of low that becomes lower with each deep breath taken?  It was the kind of low that made me realize my mom was, in fact telling the truth when she told me life wouldn't always be easy...the kind of low that made me wish my 32-year-old self could sit my 15-year-old self down and say "Stop rushing to be an adult.  Seriously, stop it right now, it's not what you think!"

I wore my old, weathered Rainbows and put thick bandages on my foot every day over the next few weeks.  I doused my wound in Mederma every chance I got in desperate hopes of preventing scarring.

My hopes were dashed with each passing day as I dodged questions from friends and coworkers:

"WTF happened to your foot?!" they'd exclaim.

I couldn't wait for it all to go away; but instead of everything going away my foot got swollen, as if to say to me "Haha, you had a horrible night, you got your heart broken, your  job sucks and I'm going to make you acutely aware of all of this every time you look down at me."  Then I reminded myself that my foot can't talk because it's an inanimate object, doesn't have vocal chords and OH MY GOD THAT'S NOT THE POINT.

Now, on this day, I'm left with a scar shaped like New Jersey covering the top center of my left foot.

I see it in the morning when I wake up and walk to the shower.
I see it as I'm putting my pants on.
I see it when I try on shoes.
I see it when I get a pedicure and have to force a smile at the Asian pedicurist who looks up at me inquisitively.
I see it every time I go to cross my legs whenever I'm on the bus or have a meeting with my new boss.
I see it when I put my feet up on the coffee table as I sit down to watch a new Dateline episode.
It's always there and will be until the day I expire.

For a long time I'd look down at my scar and I'd think of the guy who'd hurt me when he asserted "it's 80% there, but it's not 100% there.  I need it to be 100% there.  I wanted it to be there.  You're great.  I'm sorry."
I'd think of how his obligatory, hollow, handle-with-care letdown speech made me feel remarkably less than 100%, even though I know that wasn't his intention.
It just wasn't there.  
Nothing personal, as they say...even though nothing in the world could ever feel more personal than the sting that accompanies unrequited love.

Sometimes I'd look at my scar and remember my unfulfilling job that summer; the one that made me feel irrelevant, careless and dim.  I'd think of how much it sucked and how it made me feel like my brain was turning to mush. 

Sometimes I'd look at it and think of how I hadn't been a good, stand-up friend that summer.

"You have a choice," I can remember my friend telling me one day as I complained to her about things that had happened in the past. "You always have a choice.  Be more careful about how you choose to look at things."
I can't find the words to express how much her words resonated with me.
It was such a simple concept, but one I hadn't explored too much: we all have the freedom to choose to look at things any way we want.

I can look at my scar and choose to think of how on that horrible morning, I picked myself up off the ground, collected myself, found my way home and took care of myself.
No one else cleaned me up, put me to bed and tucked me in.
I did. 

I can think of the guy who made me so sad, acknowledge that pain, realize that he wasn't my person and know that there's someone out there who is.

I can look down at my scar and choose to think about how much better of a friend I have tried to be since last summer.

I can look down at my scar and choose to think of the shit job I had when I fell as a blessing; it got me one step closer to knowing what it is I do want to be doing.

I can look down at my scar and relive the past over and over and wallow in the cesspool of mistakes and terrible choices I made that summer until I lose my fucking mind.

Or I can look at it, realize how destructive negative thoughts can be, know that what's done cannot be undone and choose to be present.

I can look down at my scar and be reminded of how much I felt that summer and as a result how much I wrote...and wrote...and wrote...for months and months until I almost couldn't write anymore.  I can think of how the events of that summer were catalysts; they forced me to look inwardly, and inspired to me to write perhaps the most important thing I've ever written.  They also inspired me to write thisthis and this.  I found unparalleled companionship in writing; and reached new depths as a writer as a direct result of those rough months.

I can look down at my scar every day when I get dressed, ride the bus, try on shoes, walk up the steps to my apartment and choose to see failure, sadness, helplessness and shame.

Or I can look at my scar every day and choose to see resilience, humility, inspiration, hope and life.

Today and always, I choose the latter.

That is my final choice.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

How to Excel at a New Job

En route to kiss kick some corporate ass 
I was twelve years old when I landed my first job at a hot dog stand, a cute little extension of The Black Pearl (home to the most delectable, sumptuous clam chowder this side of the 'sip) in Rhode Island (special thank you to Tom Cullen for hiring me; Tom is, incidentally, a close family friend - and I'm thankful that what I'm about to divulge didn't wreck said friendship). 

It was back in the summer of '69 '94.  The stand was in the center of the wharf, a tourist-infested area crawling with people who say things like "let's pahhhk the cahh and get some chowwwda."  I was forced to wear a purple windbreaker-esque uniform and a ridiculously small newsboy cap that made me look like an uncircumcised penis. I'll never forget the day Tom shitcanned me for giving some obnoxious Masshole a moldy hot dog bun on purpose accident.  I walked home in my Barney uniform and foreskin cap with tears streaming down my face and snot dribbling down my nose.  It was a sad, sad day for me and my astonished, confused parents who couldn't wrap their brain around the fact that their daughter wasn't able to sustain a job at a hot dog stand. 

Little did I know this unfortunate incident foreshadowed a slew of tragic work blunders I'd face as an adult, none of which I'll get into now as I know my parents read this and drudging up the hot dog stand mishap is probably more than they can take for the rest of the century today.

That said, I'm happy to announce I got a brand new job that doesn't involve purchasing the entire feminine aisle of Walgreens, refilling tampon baskets and practically inserting Superplusses into coworkers because they're too helpless and needy to do it themselves and GOOD GOD THAT JUST CONJURED UP THE WORST MENTAL IMAGE IN THE HISTORY OF ALL MENTAL IMAGES.  I'm not sure if it's because this new position is falling on the heels of my old bitch-job, but I've never been more excited to start a job ever. 


But I digress.  Let's talk about the office.  I'd describe the office as an amusing and torturous corporate playground where humans are reduced to robots programmed to exclaim "Happy FridaaAAAY!" in a douchey crescendo at 9am on the dot at the end of every week.  The office is a place characterized by heinous carpeting, defunct water coolers, expired Lean Cuisines, awkward bathroom run-ins with a superior (excuse me boss lady - you're supposed to be a robot who gives me my paycheck, I do not need to know that you have a digestive system), cliched e-mail dialogue (if I had a nickel for every time I used the term "following up" in the subject line of an e-mail then I would be making money in a very strange way), and of course the dreaded Monday morning spent nursing a hangover in your cube whilst feigning interest in your coworker's prolonged story about his nephew's weekend soccer game in Marin.  It's all so contrived, so sterile, so... hilarious.  

I've been preparing myself for my new office environment by jotting down a list of "rules" I need to abide by in order to thrive in my new job.

1. No breastfeeding in the office.

2. No pulling pranks on unassuming coworkers.



3. No leaving vile, childish notes for coworkers.





4. Don't eating rancid smelling fish or any creature that once inhabited the sea for lunch, lest you want to alienate yourself.

5. Don't blog about said job.  Even if the material is better than Nacho Cheesier Doritos and an orgasm.

6.  Don't get too personal with coworkers.. they need not know about your propensity to floss with your hair under dire circumstances.

7. Do ask questions
 Inquire about health benefits.  Ask a fellow woman coworker which gynecologist she uses/recommends at Kaiser.  

8. Do appear to be detail-oriented.
Also ask aforementioned woman coworker which gynecologist at Kaiser provides the most durable stirrups.

9. Do set your new password to your Outlook to: new england clam chowder. (If you do not get this reference then you and I will never be close.)

And, that's all I have.  Happy dry hump day, people! 

xo,
Nige








Thursday, June 23, 2016

6 Reasons why Being Behind in Life is Better Than Okay

"Don't you ever want kids!?  I'm trying to give you some tough love, Al!  You need to stop being so picky.  You need to find someone soon.  Aren't you freaking out!?  You should be."  My sister barked at me on the phone as I struggled to respond, mid dumpling bite.

hey, it's okay to not act your age all the time sometimes. 

If you're a girl (or guy) in your 30s and you're single you've probably gotten this spiel 23376 times before.  And, like me, each time you get it you likely want to gouge your eyes out with a 2 x 4 slathered in wet cement.  It certainly doesn't help that every time you check Facebook or Instagram you're bombarded by a relentless onslaught of wedding photos and engagement/baby announcements. It seems like every other day you find yourself glaring at a photo of a little girl named Bella donning impeccably perfect, golden corkscrew ringlets holding her "binky" as she pouts betwixt her parents named Tipper and Tippa clad in pink Seersuckers and Jack Rogers wedges (respectively) with a Nantucket sunset as a backdrop.

Meanwhile you're sitting betwixt 2 Uberpool passengers, one with rancid halitosis and the other with a perpetual twitch and an inability to grasp the concept of deodorant or personal space.  It's foggy.  It's cold.  Your hair's fucked because you just left fuckboy's basement apartment and didn't have time to fix yourself for work.  While most of your friends are nursing their babies you're nursing a hangover.  Just 15 minutes ago you ran into your "mommy friend" buying Pedialyte for her baby meanwhile you're buying it for yourself in an effort to try and replenish the electrolytes you lost at Balboa the night before. You find yourself thinking...

Is this my life? 
Are people still allowed to have fuckboys in their 30s?  
Did I RSVP to that engagement party yet? 
Do I have to call my mom and ask her to front me a couple hundo so I can pay my goddamn rent on time?
WHY am I not where I'm supposed to be in life, job-wise and love-life-wise?
What is WRONG WITH ME?
AHHHHHH!

Here's my advice to anyone who is like me and feels like they're lagging behind in this weird, tripped out race they call life. 

1.  It's your life.
You have the power to decide if you're behind in it or not.  Your overbearing family, inquisitive, judgy married/coupled up friends do not.  I'm lucky that the majority of my attached friends don't make me feel like a leper for being one of the last single ones standing.  No one tries to shove their ideals down my throat or pawn me off on their one single friend named "Glenn with 2 'n's" who works at a science lab with beakers and test tubes and if they did, I would probably rethink the friendship.  Bottom line: if anyone makes you feel somehow inadequate for not being "up to par" with their life standards then they're probably miserable turds with underlying issues and are trying to make themselves feel better by acting like they're the fucking Dalai Lama.

2.  The majority of what you see out there is fluff.  That's right, fluff. 
Everyone is struggling in one way or another and in an era dominated by social media it's hard to remember that. The CFO at my old company had a mean case of IBS - I know this because I saw him book it to the bathroom nearly thrice a day as he cupped his ass in hysterics.  Meanwhile, on his desk sits a photo of his perfect family "summering" somewhere, he probably takes home 2M a year and can order Chinese food as much as he wants.  My point is, everyone I know has their own version of IBS: meaning everyone gets panicked and everyone has to deal with a lot of shit unexpectedly.  Puns very much intended. 

3.  You don't like something about your life?  Change it.
This goes hand in hand with number 1.  Recently I came to the realization that I need to get new batteries for my vibrator rein it in socially.  I was partying way too hard, smoking too many cigs...staying out way too late and all in all acting like a fucking kid monkey with no regard for any repercussions of my delinquency.  So, I stopped.  I stayed in more.  Exercised more.  Called it a night earlier.  I quit my miserable fucking job and spent more time searching for batteries for my vibrator what will make me happy.  I am in no way perfect and I still have a ways to go, but it took me taking a long, hard look in the mirror to realize that the person looking back at me is the ONLY person who can make me happy.  Not a man, not money, not a dildo, not clothes, not any kind of Asian cuisine, not friends, but ME. 

4. You're just as legit as Winston Churchill.
I was on the phone with my big brother yesterday.  I was nervous about talking to a superior at work.  He told me, "Get outside your head, stand up straight, be direct and confident. People play off you.  Even if you don't feel super together, fake it until you make it."  Truth is, we were all born into this world naked, crying little brats covered in snot and rancid afterbirth or whatever.  The fact that Silly Sally Sitting Sideways on the Seesaw has 2 kids, a white picket fence and a hung husband doesn't make her anymore legit than you.  We're all human. Period.

5. People are too busy worrying about themselves to think about you and your life.
I started this exercise where whenever I find myself worrying about what someone else thinks of me  I will snap myself out of it by exclaiming out loud "STOP!"  I did it in Walgreens yesterday and people stared.  I then wondered what they thought of me and had to tell myself to stop out loud again and oops made it worse. That little voice in our heads that torments us can get real fat if we feed it.  So don't.  People are so wrapped up in their own shit that they don't care about yours.  And if they do really care then that makes them fucking pyscho and you should probably look into getting a restraining order. 

6.  Don't settle.
Every time someone tells me to stop being picky I want to tell them to eat a dick...a whole bag of 'em.  I refuse to not be picky.  Seriously I'd rather spend the rest of my life childless, solo, knee-deep in ramen and nutella than settle down with some unemployed choad named Herbert who I met on FarmersOnly.com who treats me like shit and can't get it up because he's too wasted off of moonshine every night.  I've heard tons of stories of people who've settled and those stories don't end well, folks.

Rant.
Over.

Happy weekend, friends!

xo,
Nige




Wednesday, June 22, 2016

True Life: I Survived a Nightmare Job

I woke up feeling confused refreshed.  I squinted at my clock as I brushed my zit cream distressed hair from my face.  9:27am.  This is going to be so nice... I can sleep in every morning and dick around on my phone for the next 2 hours.  I can only imagine the dark holes I am going to get sucked into on instagram. Ahh, life. 
And so it was on that morning, I laid in bed and found myself knee deep in Fabio's second cousin's dog's owner's brother -in-law's instagram feed.  I flipped on the Price is Right and leisurely readied myself for work.  Part of me felt sad; it was tough to watch the Price is Right sans Bob Barker's skinny microphone. 

My brand new, part-time temp job was about to commence.  I wasn't nervous, surprisingly.  The reason I took the job was because it would allow me to focus more on facebooking and gchatting writing.  It'll be easy like Paris Hilton, I thought.  I threw on my go-to Banana Republic work pantsuit, grabbed a bag of Doritos banana and marched my ass to my uberpool bus.

I walked into the office feeling very much like Hillary Clinton on crack.  I felt professional, poised and like someone who doesn't respond to nearly every question with "bend over and I'll show you".  I'm fucking 33 years old, times are different - I might not have been able to properly place a Costco order for an office 5 years ago, but god damnit motherfuckers - I can do it now.

I was greeted by a peppy, irritatingly perfect girl named Bethanny, likely 7 years my junior.  The part in her hair was straighter than Ron Jeremy.  She explained to me that I would be reporting to her.  I laughed - this girl had a good sense of humor, I thought to myself.  

Bethanny remained serious.
She was serious. 

"You might want to wear flats everyday, you're going to be running around and doing a lot of lifting here." she said as she glanced at my trying-too-hard heels.
I laughed again.

And again, Bethanny remained serious.

I glared over at my chair in my cube.  It looked up at me mockingly as if to say, "YOU CAN'T SIT HERE, EVER.  And you can't do any of the things you thought you were going to be able to do here, SUCKKKKA!"

The next 4 hours consisted of Bethanny showing me around the office, and outlining all the teensy tiny little minute details I was responsible for staying on top of Rose.

I got scared.  Really scared.  I know myself well enough to know what I'm good at (drunk texting and eating Haribo bears), and what I'm not good at (not drunk texting and not eating Haribo bears).  No one has ever accused me of being detail oriented.  Nope, not a one. On my third day I received the following e-mail, and my fate was sealed.  I knew this wasn't going to be the job for me.  


Hi Alexandra,

A few things,

What time are you running the dishwasher when you leave? The past couple days I’ve come in to a bigger pile up of dirty dishes in the sink than usual. Maybe you could run in a little later than you are? Let me know.

Also, the office (especially Daniel) is adamant about the blue Dentyne Ice gum being in every applicable candy dish. I noticed that you didn’t cut any up after I asked you to, and the candy dishes have been low after I refill them in the morning and get back in, which tells me they aren’t getting refilled throughout the day (the interns would help me with this, but they aren’t anymore since you’re here now). Could you please prioritize this and work it into your day?
Please buy more tampons ASAP and whatever else is needed for the ladies room.  We usually get pearl tampons, lots of regular and maybe a few heavy/light days.  Also buy yellow, Always regular with wings.  For wipes, any premium brand please.
I know it’s your first week, so I am totally flexible on you getting up to speed. I just want these items to continue on as they’ve been, since these tickets are big items for reception, as small as they may seem. J
By the way, the production room looks fantastic! Great job!
Happy Friday,
Bethanny

Is this chick fucking kidding me, I thought to myself!?
No, she wasn't.
She wasn't kidding.

The following weeks henceforth (don't know if that word makes sense there, just always with wings wanted to use it in a sentence) consisted of running errands, refilling tampon baskets, tidying the office and completing expense reports.  I felt like I was taking care of adult babies: picking up after them, reminding them of appointments and doing everything short of inserting their tampons for them. 

I've made this all pretty known via social media and have gotten responses ranging anywhere from "wow, you're brave to be so open about the bitchwork you have to do," to "Does your crush follow you on social media?  Hope not," to "Isn't this a little bit beneath you - after all YOU OLD, BITCH!" Okay, I added that last part in. 

You see, I've looked at this experience as funny, helpful and I hate this word, but fuckit...humbling. 

It's funny because you should have seen the looks on people's faces in Walgreens as I stumbled toward the checkout counter struggling to carry 72467842745 feminine products.
It's helpful because it's gotten me one step closer to realizing what it is that I want to do and don't want to do. 

Most importantly it's helpful because it's reminded me to be nice and appreciative to anyone who works behind the scenes and doesn't get much credit for it.  That's always with wings important.  

Lastly, it's taught me that everything in life is always with wings pure COMEDY if you look at it the right way. 

So today, on my last day on the job, it is with a heavy flow heart I plan on visiting the tampon baskets I kept plentiful for the last 2 months and bidding them all a sad farewell. 
I leave feeling thankful for the experience and hopeful that I'll never have to see another superplus again for the future. 
xo,
Nige



Monday, June 13, 2016

Let's Just Be

Be nice.

Be nice to the wobbly Asian man at the corner store with gingivitis who silently judges you for purchasing ZzzQuil, a giant bottle of Stella, pop tarts and Jesus Christ, you're projecting again.

Be nice to the weathered homeless lady sitting on your front steps struggling to tie her shoe amid the relentless, pelting San Francisco rain.

Be nice to the garbage man, you know - the one who smiles broadly as he empties the bins at 7am on Tuesdays.  Or wait, is it Wednesdays?

Be nice to the black guy at work who asks you to complete his expense reports and doesn't understand how you could possibly be so inexperienced with Excel but laughed at your joke about having attended Ole Miss for college, a place where fun was the main priority, not learning stuff.

Be nice to the white woman in your office who talks incessantly about the weather, her border collie and baking banana bread.

Be nice to the IT guy whose name is Kevin because are IT guys ever named anything other than Kevin?  Be nice to him even when he exasperatedly tells you to "get up so I can have a look at the problem".

Be nice to the Asian lady who hovers over you like a helicopter on crack, micromanages you and makes you stock the Ladies room with Super-plus tampons.  She's Type A.  That's who she is.

Be nice to the girl who's dating the guy you always liked - you know, the one who didn't like you back.  She's nice.  It's hard, but be nice back.

Be nice to the waitress, she seems stressed and it looks like patrons are being demanding, especially that lady who won't stop snapping her fingers when she needs more wine.

Be nice to the bus driver.  You know, the one with the high-pitched squeal who sometimes lets you on when you're a quarter short.

Be nice to your gay friend who helped you move into your new apartment and is there for you whenever you need him for advice about anything from guys to work to... anything.

Be nice to your straight friend who took you to the Farmer's Market because you told her you wanted to get dumplings from the dumpling stand.

Be nice to the ignorant fuck who makes fun of you for living in a predominantly gay city.  He was raised that way, he doesn't know any better nor does he care to.  Still, be nice Alexandra, don't call him a fuck.  That's who he is.  

Be nice to your roommate, take out your headphones when you walk in the door and see her.  Ask her about her day and listen to her lament about her parking tickets.  Nod empathetically and offer her a gummi bear to brighten her day.

Be nice to anyone, to any creature, to any living thing:  Black, White, Asian, Mexican, straight, gay, transgender, old, young, short, tall, a cat, a dog, a bird, an anteater...

We don't choose to be born.  We're thrust into the world and we're expected to deal.  We're dealt a hand of cards and we can play them however we choose to.  But there are a lot of things we don't choose.  Our sexual orientation is one of those things.  It's simply part of a series of characteristics that make us who we are.

Those whose hearts are consumed by hate for people who are living their lives as themselves confound me.  Being nice is not a novel concept; it's a wildly easy sentiment to grasp and adopt.  Sometimes my head hurts from trying to understand these kinds of people who don't get it, who aren't nice.  Then I realize they're not worth understanding.
Not even a little bit.
Not even at all.

I'm writing this in honor of those who were killed in Orlando yesterday.
I'm writing this in honor of anyone who has ever gotten the horrific impression that they're wrong for being themselves.
For being exactly how they were made.
I'm writing this for myself, so I can use it as reference whenever I need a reminder to be nice even though I hope I never become a person who needs this kind of reminder.

I'm writing this for you --  just as you are.

Imagine a world where everyone is nice.

Imagine that.

...Imagine.