Wednesday, October 10, 2012

It's not ME, it's YOU: featuring insomnia and Muni debacles

"The only time you girls call me is to COMPLAIN!" My mom shouted at me through the phone. (She was referring to me and my sister, Elizabreast: AKA the chairwoman of complaining.  Love you Biz.)

"But, mom - you don't understand.  I am so fucking tired.  I think I'm an insomniac.  I can't SLEEP ever!  I'm so stressed."  I tried to make her feel bad for me as I waited outside for a cab this morning at 7am. 

"Pull yourself together!"  This is my mom's chief retort to most things I whine and complain about.  
"When I was your age I had THREE screaming children, 4 horses, 3 dogs and a cat.  Oh and your father."  

"Wait, you and dad had a cat?"  I said as I climbed into a cab.  

"Post and Sutter."  I told the cab driver.

"Those streets are parallel, miss."  He responded.

"Oh FUCK! Hang on.  Let me look up the address again."

"ALEXANDRA!" my mom screamed at me.  "Why are you taking a cab to work!?  Don't you have any concept of money?  And why don't you know the address of your new job!?  And why do you curse so much!?"

"Mom.  Please.  I have to go.  LoveYouBye."

"Have you dealt with your hair?"  she continued, completely disregarding me.  "I don't want that to be all you talk about while you're here over Thanksgiving."

"No.  I haven't dealt with it.  I'll get it done in DC."

"No - you will not!  Get it done there - I don't want to hear a word about it.  Oh and get a manicure before you come too."

"I just got one."

"That won't last you until you get here, silly girl!"

And with that, my phone died.  

As I sat in the smelly cab laden with random patches of duct tape I felt an itch on my finger.  Then I felt some others on my arm.  They were mosquito bites from the lone mosquito who has set up shop in my room and is partially responsible for my past 2 sleepless nights.  I've named him Jim.  Jim is fucking annoying.  Jim is a varsity buzzer.  Jim is also the only guy I've had in my bedroom in like 1,000 years.
this is me trying to drown out the sound of Jim's buzzing
 I've also been indescribably anxious about my new job which has also contributed to my insomnia.  Turns out I really like it though - so as I lie (ugh. or is it lay? i can never remember) in bed writing this I am at peace because I know that thanks to 2Tylenol PMs I will finally get more than 5 hours of sleep tonight.  But before I fall asleep with Jim I thought I'd feature some good ol' snapshots I've taken on the Muni (and some other random shiz that's been happening in my world).  Cuz it's been awhile.
This fellow looked like the late Freddie Mercury (lead singer of Queen in case you're missing a brain chip).  I even managed to get an almost-profile shot of him just for you guys.

Thunderbolt and lightning-very very frightening me- Galileo,Galileo, Galileo Galileo Galileo figaro-Magnifico- I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me- ...
the real FM.
2. MUNI FASHION: Can you not?

The above woman decided to wear her younger brother's Salisbury uniform onto the muni.  Either that or she raided Diane Keaton's closet.  Way to represent.
This dude should've swapped outfits with Keaton.  I didn't even know girls still wore Seven jeans let alone boyz.
This woman's outfit reminded me of some lettuce bagels I spotted yesterday.  Yes - lettuce bagels.  What the fuck else would you call these?
Look ma, there's lettuce stuck to the bagels!

3. My next segment will feature letters I've written to random articles of food.  
Dear egg, I am eggcited to eat you but you are harder to get into than a Pearl Jam concert.  I normally just eat egg rolls but I'm trying to be healthy so I'm going to eat you.  Why do you make yourself so ineggcessible? Was it something I said?  Please, I am egging you - don't make your shell coating so fickle and hard to get past. i'm not yoking. thanks.  xo, Nige
Dear Chex Mix, mind if I just call ya Chex? No offense to the pretzels and chex and all of the other shit that makes you up, but the seasoned brown things are really the only things I eat from your bag.  Can you tell me what they're called and if so, can you make a bag solely with the seasoned brown things?  Kind of like how Mento's makes packs of strawberry-flavored-only Mento's so I don't have to eat the orange and yellow ones?   Thanks, Chex.  xo, Nige

Dear Random Grape on the Sidewalk, you have no idea what a doofus i look like taking a photo of you in the middle of a busy street.  I think I almost just got clipped by a scooter. I am sorry you didn't make it to the winery.  I am sure the rest of your batch went on to make shitty wine - like Yellow Tail.  That should make you feel a lil better.  Oh and at least you were dropped in a comfy sidewalk crevice.  Much lurve xo, Nige

dear lady on the muni, I am not sure what you're eating but can you stop smacking so loudly?  I am trying to concentrate on instagram and facebook to distract me from the fact that some guy's satchel is digging into my hip.  Thanks.  xo, Nige 
Dear guy standing next to me with the satchel,  
your satchel keeps poking me in my hip every time the bus makes a sharp turn.  It's making me uncomfortable and it's getting close to touching my ass.  This is yet another reason why you shouldn't be carrying a satchel.  Thanks - xo, Nige.
And that's that.  
Ok - I am going to sleep.  Good night freakazoids.

xo, Nige
PS. I almost forgot to tell you all the TPSF quote of the week!  
"Hi.  I read Toe Pick and I just wanted to tell you I think you made the right choice when you decided to not use the word "shart" in your entries.  Have a good night!" - A random girl who came up to me outside of Balboa.  Yeah.  That happened.

PMS.  Do you think it's weird that all of my siblings have yet to confirm my "you're my sister/brother" requests on facebook?  I am concerned and hurt.  At least my mom confirmed that I am, in fact her daughter.  So I've got that going for me... which is nice.

Monday, October 8, 2012

you said it.

<the following was written from my iphone so please excuse brevity/typos>

Happy Monday!

There sure was a lot going on over the weekend in SF - hope everyone enjoyed watching the Blue Angels and/or bands in town for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. Oh, and the Red Sox, I mean Giants games.  I purposely agreed to babysit all weekend so as to avoid the festivities.  Why?  Because I shart my new job tomorrow and I've been getting crackin' on this pilot.  I certainly can't do these things hungover. I was so tired yesterday afternoon from babysitting that I began to resent the Blue Angels as they interrupted my nap like 6 times. wordplay: the Soaring kept me from Snoring. That was weak. Sorry.

And the above failed joke is an example of what happens when I have to write under presh-ahh.  Which is exactly what I must do as I begin to really consider and submit pilot ideas for toe pick. I've got a few scenarios in mind but actually putting them down on paper and connecting them to each other to form a storyline in a script form is fucking hard. Luckily I've got expert guidance but that almost makes this whole thing more challenging for me because I know my work is being scrutinized. So - I've decided I'm going to submit like 56 ideas and hope he'll like at least 2 of them.

Perhaps the most fun aspect of this project is creating the characters.  I can do whatever I want with them: make 'em crazy, deaf, awkward, obnoxious, impotent, celibate - whatever. As I've mentioned before - these characters will be loosely (uh, I mean tightly) based on people in my life.  Since I don't have a boyfriend and I definitely need a guy in my script I'm going to create a character who is basically a meld of all of the guys I've had crushes on (and there have been like 104 of them).

...And I was going to give you all a list of characters I have in mind but my friend sitting next to me just told me to keep it confidential.  She just gave me such a hard time about it that I will definitely make her the deaf, crazy and obnoxious character.

Do you ever get scared when things are going really well in life?  I feel like something bad is bound to happen soon and it did: I did a huge load of laundry and didn't realize I'd tossed in a bright pair of coral pants.  Now everything I own is faded coral.  Awkward.  Just like my 2nd grade school picture.

no caption needed.


xo, Nige
ps.  this post is so fucking lame that I am hoping the above picture alone will carry it.
pms.  i am so nervous to start my job tomorrow that i turned down an egg roll tonight.  wish me luck.

Monday, October 1, 2012

As Long as they Have wifi and ice cubes penguins are pretty agreeable roommates

time to wave my toe pick freak flag!

"So, Alexandra, what do you like to do in your spare time?"

"Oh. Uhh, I like to write. Yeah. I'm a writer."  I responded nervously.

"That's wonderful.  What do you like to write about?"  Mr Gibson* asked me during our hour long phone interview.  (I was interviewing for a full time babysitting position about 3 weeks ago and was being screened by Mr. Gibson, one of the two creators of the 3 little ones in need of being sat. <that made no sense.  I've played around with that sentence for the last 20 mins.  It will never make sense.  Lay off me.>)

"Oh - um, I like to write creative stuff, like… um, you know, about San Francisco and stuff."

I could hear my mom's voice echoing in my head "EXPRESS YOURSELF!  Stop mumbling!"

"Great," Mr. Gibson said.  "Have you ever published anything?  Who do you write for?" 

I could feel my anxiety beginning to boil.  How do I answer this?  There was a short pause.  <Say something.  Anything.  Just say something.> Finally, my anxiety began to bubble over and I blurted out "Well - actually, I have a blog.  I, like, started it like over a year ago or whatever.  And I like to write in it a lot so like that's what I do in terms of writing.  I'm hoping to like, get advertisers - you know, like, legit ones.  Or whatever."  As I rambled on I could hear the pitch of my voice getting progressively higher.  I sounded like a prepubescent boy whose voice was changing retroactively.  In the midst of my incoherent babbling it occurred to me:  What is Toe Pick about?  

"Well I just so happen to be at my computer!  You're in luck.  What's the name of your blog?!  I'd love to check it out."  Mr. Gibson interrupted me.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.  I was helpless.

"Oh - well you don't need to check it out now.  It's not very interesting.  Just a silly little thing I sometimes do.  Really - it's not important.  So tell me more about little Tommy.  Does he play any sports?"

"Just tell me.  It sounds great!  C'mon - tell me."  
Mr. Gibson sure was aggressive (That's what Mrs. Gibson said). 

"Um.  It's called Toe Pick?"  I said hesitatingly.  

Mr. Gibson paused.  I began to pace back and forth. 

"Ha. What does that mean?"

"Oh.  Um.  It's a quote from my favorite 90's movie about a figure skater and like, an NFL… I mean NBA… I mean NHL hockey player.  It's like, the signature line from the movie or whatever.  Have you seen it?"

<SHUT THE FUCK UP Alexandra.>

"No,"  Mr. Gibson replied.  "Let's have a look."  I could hear the faint pitter patter of his keyboard as he typed in "Toe Pick".  

<DAMNIT.  The interview was going so well.  Now I'm screwed.  I need this job, like really badly.  Time for some damage control.>

"Hmmm…" Mr. G sounded confused, shocked and slightly disappointed.  There was a long pause as he continued to read.  

I decided to take the lamb by its wool and confront the situation head on.

"Listen - Mr. Gibson, this blog - it's comedic.  It's silly - It is in no way representative of how I am with kids.  I love them - I am good with them.  In fact, I act like a kid most of the time."

<YOU'RE MAKING IT WORSE, ALEXANDRA.  SHUT UP.  Now not only does he now know that your favorite word is shart but you just admitted to him that you are on the same level as his 7 year old.  Stop speaking.> 

My anxiety level hit outer space when it occurred to me that my most recent post (the post he'd opened up and was in the midst of reading) started off with the line... 

"From the moment I entered Office Depot to fetch my boxes amid the chaos that is Back to School week I knew it was going to be a long couple of days.  I was almost knocked over about 3 times by little worms adorable kids running around trying to find the newest, coolest trapper keeper binder."

Should i assure him that "worm" is a term of endearment???

"So, Mr. Gibson - would you like to meet in person?  I am free all the time, any time.  I can come by.  You mentioned your family lives in Cole Valley? I hear there are great restaurants there... isn't there one with famous mushroom dumplings?  I love dumplings.  I also like egg rolls.  A lot."  At this point in the conversation there'd been a minute long lull and I was desperately trying to distract him.  All I could picture was Mr. Gibson sitting in front of his computer screen, wide-eyed, open mouthed (like Mrs. Gibson?) and shocked to the core as he surveyed the contents of Toe Pick.  
MY BACKGROUND PICTURE AT THE TIME GIBSON DISCOVERED HE DIDN'T WANT ME TO BABYSIT.  You'd think someone with 3 little kids would be familiar with this term?
"Well.  Alexandra.  Great to chat with you.  I'll be in touch!  Take care now.  Bye Bye then."  Click.

I collapsed onto the sofa dramatically and muttered the F word.  At that point I vowed to clean up my mouth and to not talk as extensively about toe pick as I do to strangers.  I also vowed to not use the word "shart" ever again.  My faith in other peoples' senses of humor was sharting to dwindle.  My candor was sharting to cost me perspective jobs.  Not good.  I decided in that moment that it would be breast (for now) to stay in the TPSF closet.  

This vow was short-lived and became stale after about 3 weeks.  I'd left my temp gig last Thursday for about 45 minutes to chat on the phone with my new "partner" about creating a pilot for Toe Pick.  I was stiff, composed, polite and understated when I left.  When I returned to the office after our conversation I was so pumped up that I spun around in circles like an ADD 12 year old who hadn't taken her ritalin.  My face was glowing like a light bulb and my hair was touseled.  I'd called my mom, my sister, my brothers, my dad and my best bud to tell them the news but that wasn't enough.  I needed to tell the whole office.  So I did.  I told the head of HR.  I told the office manager.  I screamed it from the roof tops.  I didn't realize what I was doing.  Never had I ever even dared to tell work people about toe pick for fear that they would discover who I actually am: an immature, anxious, slightly perverted girl with an awkwardly skewed view of the world around her and an unhealthy, unnatural obsession with gummy bears and egg rolls.  

Fast forward to the next day.
Things were awkward in the office.  I got some weird looks.
They'd clearly checked out TPSF.
Thankfully it was my last day.
(was that a haiku?)

My point is - my goal has always been to take Toe Pick to new heights - heights beyond the blogosphere.  Now that I have the opportunity to do so I am much less hesitant to tell everyone and anyone about it.

Today when I walked into the corner store near my place to fetch some whip cream I noticed something strange about the organization of the food in the deli section.  There was a burrito next to a corndog.  What the...?  This is Toe Pick material, I thought to myself.  I immediately pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of it.  Because that's normal.

one of deez tings is not like the otha

 "What are you doing?"  A young Mexican (I'm not generalizing - I know he was from Mexico because I saw a sombrero on the floor next to him) gentleman emerged from behind the counter and confronted me.  "Why you taking picture?"

"It's for my blog."  I assured him.  "It's for Toe Pick."  For the first time I felt confident about telling a stranger about Toe Pick.  I owned it.

"25$." He replied.

"25 bucks for a picture of a corndog?"

"OK - date with me. 6pm.  I pick you up.  Otherwise you erase picture."

Going on a date with the 16 year old Mexican corner store attendant whose hair looked like it had been a victim of the '09 oil spill?  Am I that desperate for a date?  or a Toe Pick picture?  

I winked at him and took flight.  "See you later!"  I bid him farewell as I sped out the door.

It's taken like 1.5 years but I have finally come out of the Toe Pick closet. And it feels PDA.  Pretty Damn Awkward.  But in a good way.

Have a stupendous Monday.
I love you.

xo, Nige

ps.  The format/ font is different for this post because it just is. Don't shart with me.
pms.  I am 80% sure I am going back to my natural hair color this week.  It's a big deal for me.  I've been dying my hair for like 15 years.  You won't believe how dark it really is.  Of course - I am assuming that you care.
this is me in grade skewl.  my lips look exceptionally large because underneath them I am hiding my extremely off-white clear braces.