Thursday, April 30, 2015

True Life: I almost Set my Office on Fire

It was a foggy tuesday morning in San Francisco.  Lululemon-clad Marina girls were spilling out of their sports bras early morning yoga classes, a thick layer of fog softly blanketed the bay and somewhere in the Tenderloin a homeless man was blowing a snot rocket in vain. Our receptionist was out with a UTI common cold so naturally, I was put in charge of doing bitchwork running errands for my boss. Said errands included grabbing her coffee and organizing/executing a surprise birthday party for our VP.  This meant picking up candles and a cake.

"D-d-did you want milk and sugar in your latte?"  I stuttered into the phone as I surveyed the mind puzzle that is the Starbucks condiment table.  I felt like a small child learning to use the toilet, or myself a skewlgirl trying to decipher the meaning behind an ambiguous text from a guy.

"Alexandraaaah," my boss cooed.  "Lattes already have milk and sugar in them.  Are you serious?"

"Oh!  Haha.  I'm not a coffee drinker.  Maybe I should become one now, I obviously need to wake up. Ha. Hahaha."

My boss, clearly unfamiliar with the concept of human decency the Courtesy Laugh, remained dead silent.

After fucking up picking up her coffee order, I ran to Walgreens (AKA my mecca) to snag up some candles.  I love any and all pranks so naturally I gravitated toward the trick candles.  In this case, quantity was important so I grabbed 4 packs of them (20 in each pack).  I smiled to myself like the evil Cheshire cat as I imagined the determination on my VP's face as he repeatedly huffed and puffed at the candles to no avail.

Incidentally, I was no stranger to goofing off in the office - for Halloween I dressed up like a horny devil.  I turned my tail into a red rocket and proceeded to poke everyone from our HR lady to the building engineer with it until I was wildly reprimanded - which again, made me feel like a small child.



After my Walgreens stop I spilled the coffee all over my pantsuit I rushed to pick up the cake so I could make it back to the office, put the fucking candles in it, present it to the VP, sit back and enjoy the show.  The cake itself was pretty small, and could have probably only used like 15 candles.  I am a firm believer in the old adage "everything in excess" so I began piercing the cake with upwards of 40 candles.  As I lit the dynamite candles, I noticed a couple of them started to crackle much like sparklers with rabies.  It was as if they were warning me to take a step back and assess the doomed situation, which is an absurd notion because candles are inanimate objects that cannot communicate with people who lack common sense much less warn them.

I was instructed to bring the cake into my VP's office where everyone would be gathered for a "meeting."  I ambled in, carrying the cake which at this point was practically on fire.  I began to sing happy birthday and everyone chimed in with me as VP smiled and began his attempt at furiously blowing out the torches candles.  I was slightly concerned that Homeboy would pop some kind of vessel in his face, that's how hard he was blowing (she said).  At this point the wicks on the candles had practically desintergrated and the respective flames had conjoined, forming one big inferno.

Panic ensued.

My coworkers and I grabbed the cake, ran into the kitchen, held it over the sink and collectively blew until the flame went out.   At this point the fire alarm had gone off and people were practically convulsing in fear. I cowered in the corner of the kitchen, my proud Cheshire Cat smile had faded into a frown, drenched in defeat.  1 minute later we hear sirens blaring as firetrucks charged through the streets of the Financial District.  I felt as though I was on the Truman Show, like I often do in life, and all the people around me were actually actors in on this big joke that I'd been excluded from.



I figured Ashton would pop out from behind a cubicle and embrace me as I cried tears of laughter into his arms.  I then realized that as much as I want to be, I'm no celebrity.

I was just a girl whose seemingly harmless birthday prank had gone horribly awry.  Luckily, my coworkers and boss had a sense of humor about the whole thing and we all laughed as the firefighters stormed through the office.  "It---it's my fault," I stammered as I explained the situation to the perplexed firewoman.  "I got these trick candles, and..."  Long story shart, the firefighters were mildly frustrated but cordial.  I fetched the scorched cake and presented it to them as a sort of peace offering.  Both declined.


This is further proof that I DO NOT BELONG IN AN OFFICE.  (read here for more proof if you don't believe me)

On notice today:

Slow walkers -



...and blind dates (I have one tonight).  BLARF.

xo,
Nige








Wednesday, April 22, 2015

INSTA-SCAM: featuring Instagram VS Reality

One of my favorite writers featured a piece on the Bold Italic (RIP) about Instagram and how deceptive it can be. Since I spend 2156241 hours a day scrolling through people's grams (thanks to my anticlimactic desk job) I thought I would throw in my 2 cents on the subject and share some of my grams with you that were completely misleading.  (Thanks for the inspiration, Drew!)

The Puppy Shot.
         

You're thinking:
She has a puppy.  He's fluffy and cute and loves her.  She has a lovely time frolicking with him through fields of ambrosia and Haribo gummi bears.  He willingly poses with her and cherishes being held.  You know how they say:  dogs resemble their owners - it's kind of true.  So adorable and care-free.

Reality:
I am not this dog's owner.  He belongs to a family I babysit for when I need extra money because San Francisco is expensive, I work on straight commission and spend all my money on Plan B wine and Chinese Food.  That's right - I am an adult babysitter.  After multiple raids of the family snack cabinet, I forced this little guy to pose with me against his will.  He subsequently grazed my brand new Vince sweater with his red rocket. I almost cried.

The 'Im super outdoorsy and Active' Shot.

You're thinking:
She went hiking with a couple of friends.  She inhaled the fresh, dewy breeze as she effortlessly trudged up the smooth terrain.  She lives in beautiful California, and is an avid hiker/completely content with life.

Reality:
I was forced to go on a group hike against my will by a friend who criticizes me for always flaking.  I struggled to keep my balance on the uneven, rocky terrain as I trailed behind my friends like an atrophied noodle. As a result, I inhaled their farts.  The only hikes I take are to my corner store to buy Parliaments and Doritos. This photo is filtered to the umpteenth degree.

The Vacation Shot.
                                           

You're thinking:
She's in Newport and has had the best vacation ever.

Reality:
This was taken 2 hours before my mom drove me to the airport and lectured me for an hour and a half about partying less and finding a husband/better job/life.  After a week of boozing, headbanging and smoking cigs I am so tired I could cry.  My hangover anxiety coupled with my fear of flying is almost too much for me to bear and I feel like I am going to have a nervous breakdown.  I am heartbroken about leaving my friends and family because I know I won't see them again until Christmas BECAUSE AIRFARE.

The Throwback Shot.

                                     

You're thinking:
Aw, what a cute family picture.

Reality:
I'm self-conscious because I can't stop wetting the bed or breastfeeding (hence boob-grab). And sucking my thumb.

The Cool Urban shot.

                               

You're thinking:
She got up early to take a brisk walk around the city.  She's so together and independent.

Reality:
I met a recent college grad guy at Balboa last night and am walk-of-shaming from his parent's house apartment, there is a twig in my hair and I think I left my spanks under said guy's bed.  The heel on my shoe is broken, my mascara has run all the way down to my chin and I think I just saw my coworker drive by.  I also just mistook a random person's car as my uber and tried to get into the back seat, scaring the ever living shit out of her.  I feel confused.

The "I have a Valentine and can Prove it to You" shot.

                                      

You're thinking:
She has a hot Valentine who was creative enough to send her 80 bags of her favorite candy because ROMANCE AND THOUGHTFULNESS.

Reality:
My receptionist bought and put these into a heart formation for me as a surprise.  I am perpetually single because I always go for unavailable players and oh my fucking god, I am a therapist's wet dream.

The "I went to a Snoop Dogg concert on 4/20 at the Fillmore, My life is Filled with Activities' Shot.
                                   
   


You're thinking:
She went to a cool concert at one of San Francisco's oldest venues with her older brother. Family time is so valuable and they sure know how to have fun!  

Reality:
I am stoned/paranoid out of my mind, and just got whipped in the face by some guy's dread. I'm clinging to my brother so I won't lose him in this massive crowd of concert-goers that are terrifying the fucking shit out of me.  I have already drunk texted 4 exes and the night is young.  Also, I can't feel my face.  

The 'I have a Job' shot


You're thinking:
Oh, she has fun at her pretty decent job and is able to laugh with her coworkers.

Reality:
My boss ripped me a new asshole after I had the maintenance guy snap this photo while she was in the shitter.  She threatened to fire me if I didn't pull it together - and I cried hysterically.  Then I ate a cup o' noodles for lunch because INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

The "I'm Cleansing and Am Super Healthy" Post

You're thinking:
She's super healthy and has bought into the whole San Francisco juice cleanse craze.  Hip.  

Reality:
These bottles belonged to my coworker, Darryl.  

And, that's all I got.  My point: life isn't always as it seems, especially on social media. But you knew that - this was just a friendly reminder. 

xo,
Nige







Thursday, April 16, 2015

My Answers to James Lipton's 10 Questions; featuring Mitch Hedberg

cube life. 

Sometimes I look at my life and think: is this it?  Not to be a downer, but now that I am a full-fledged adult and have adapted to a somewhat mediocre weekly routine I can’t help but think about what’s next for me – assuming there is something next.  I sincerely hope that I won’t be sitting in a cubicle for the next 30 years dicking around on the interwebs and painting my nails as I listen to Matchbox 20 Pandora.   Seriously, I could tell you where almost all of the real world cast members from seasons 2 to 9 are now.  Not to mention the casts of Laguna Beach and The Hills. 

woof. 
My point?  I am bored.  For the most part.  

This is where James Lipton comes in (that’s what she said?  Blarf.)

I decided to take a break from scouring Lisa Turtle's twitter feed this morning to  answer the 10 questions posed by good ol’ J. Lipt on Inside the Actor’s Studio.  As if having a blog wasn’t self-indulgent enough. I suggest you do this too if you ever find yourself slumped over in your cube, balls deep in your ex's cousin's boyfriend's gynecologist's facebook page.   

1.Favorite word (s): 
Fuck, sizzle, magnolia, effervescent, ambiance, illuminate and numbnuts.

2. Least Favorite word (s) *aside from moist and panties:
pubic, puberty, puss, “you’re fired,” pulsate, naughty, throb, mangled and deepthroat

3.What turns you on?
non-sculpted facial hair, humility, sense of humor, head kisses (nerdchills), non-feminine hands (on a non-female) and a love of animals (dogs in particular).

4.What turns you off?
overuse of emoticons, turbulence, V-necks, foie gras, tongues, completely hairless body (on a man), lack of empathy or courtesy laughs, labelers, hair in my food and snot rockets

5.What sound do love? 
the sound of a can of tennis balls being opened, fog horns, heavy rain, my mom’s voice, my dad’s voice, awkward silences and I cannot sleep without my fan on.

6.What sound do you hate?
 gum smacking, ticking, clapping, snapping, a guy jacking off and construction.

7.What is your favorite curse word?
motherfucker

8.What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? 
I always wanted to be a forensic psychologist, primatologist or a tree house architect.

9. What profession would you not like to do? 
It would really suck to be a roadkill picker-upper, asshole bleacher or an undertaker 

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? 
Follow me, I'd like to introduce you to Mitch Hedberg and your grandfather. 

Happy Thursday, y'all.

xo,
Nige

PS. In honor of H. Clint running for prez, I'd like to share with you a special photo taken 20 years ago.  (holyfuckshitballs.)  It's of me at my Halloween party dressed as Hillary and flanked by my best friend who happened to be a toddler.  On the back of the photo I'd written JC Penny's slogan - words to live by.  The only thing that could make this picture better is the word DEATH scrawled in blood-red spray paint on the wall behind me.  Oh wait... 





Monday, April 13, 2015

True Life: I tried to Sell My Bed on Craigslist and Failed Miserably

DIIING-DONG!  

I set my duct tape down and waded through boxes filled to the brim with old, over-sized flannel shirts I'd stolen from my brother, my tennis uniforms from high school I refuse to part with, little empty boxes of Plan B crayons, and broken hair straighteners I'd convinced myself would miraculously start working again.

CHI-sus Christ, another broken straightener?

 I stumbled to the front door and took an abrupt step back as I opened it.

Before me stood a tall, burly woman - most likely 10 years my senior.  "I'm Karen."  she said in a German accent as she stuck her hand out.  I followed suit, somewhat taken aback by her forthrightness. 

"Hi there, you wanna follow me?"  I silently prayed we wouldn't have to do the whole small talk thing as I was suffering from a tremendous hangover and quite frankly didn't care where she was from, how long she'd been in the Bay Area or whether or not she was "enjoying this beautiful weather."  All I cared about was selling my bed.

"Karen's here!"  I yelled to my roommate -  you know, just in case I needed someone to rescue me from a big burly woman from Craig's List who I was about to be alone in my bedroom with.  (I'd recently watched a Lifetime documentary entitled "The Craig's List" killer - lest you think I'm some little paranoid bitch.) 

"And, here it is."  I felt like one of those chicks from the Price is Right showcasing a new car or motorboat or stove or whatever.  I grazed my hand along the headboard and smiled at her.  Suddenly I began to feel like a pervert so I quickly became serious and began to discuss the bed's history.

"I love this bed," I declared.  "The only reason I'm getting rid of it is because I'm moving into a new apartment and my room is too small for it. It's really comfortable.  Look!"  I exclaimed as I plopped down on it and tried to create some semblance of a graceful bounce.

"And, I'm pretty much like, asexual so you don't have to worry about any random DNA on it or whatever.  I'm single.  Seriously - it's totally clean and in great shape." 

I laughed nervously and my heart began to race as it always does when I divulge too much information to a complete stranger.  My desire to sell combined with a marked lack of restraint and inner monologue was working against me. I could tell from Karen's eyebrows that she was skeptical and misinterpreted my candor. Just before she could say "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," I attempted to do some damage control.

"Ha - that was a joke.  Not the DNA part, but the asexual part.  I'm not asexual, I just don't have a boyfriend at the moment --"

"How old is the bed?" Karen interrupted me. 

"She's 2.  I mean, it's 2."

"I didn't realize it was a California King," Karen explained. "Let me measure it quickly to see if it would fit in my room.  Then, once I get home I'll measure my bed and let you know if I still want it."

She slowly began ambling next to the foot of the bed, brusquely counting each step she took.  The whole thing felt mildly creepy - like the beginning of some weird S&M German/lesbian porn video. Long story short: I haven't heard from Karen since our heated exchange in my bedroom.  (That's what he said?)


I've had a pretty fucking tough time trying to sell my bed on Craigslist. I'm not really sure why - it's a California King I bought less than two years ago and it has been well cared for.  I guess that's not entirely true.  

This morning I started to think about how my bed was kind of a metaphor for life and social media.  Social media allows us to present ourselves under a thick veil of false pretenses and Craigslist has allowed me to do the same with my bed.  I thought about what would happen if I was completely honest about the bed and it's history.  Then - I decided to come clean (pun mildly intended).  I made some edits on my original post and the results are astounding. Actually, the results really aren't any different.  Let's face the facts: no one wants to buy a used bed from a perfect stranger and if they do they're probably a weirdo.  1-800-GOT-JUNK will be arriving at my old house tomorrow at 4pm to pick up my beloved, imperfect bed.  Hey, I didn't get $300 bucks but I do feel kind of better about myself for being honest as opposed to living a lie. Check out my before and after ads.  And don't judge me.  This is a safe space.

BEFORE:
   
 
Posted: 
print

 AMAZING NEW BED FOR SALE - $300 (sunset / parkside)

image 1image 2
© craigslist - Map data © OpenStreetMap
condition: excellent
I am getting rid of my CALIFORNIA KING sized bed I have only had for a year. It is huge, comfortable and in pristine shape!!! The mattress brand is awesome and is actually the cousin of the Temper-Pedic.  I've never had a pet nor do I have a boyfriend or bring random people home so it's clean. I am so sad to be getting rid of it but I don't have enough room for it in my new apartment. It's new owner is super lucky - and at $300 this is a total steal! 
  • do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers

AFTER (REALITY):
 
   
Posted: 
print

 MEDIOCRE, ONCE AMAZING BED FOR SALE - $300 (sunset / parkside)

image 1image 2
© craigslist - Map data © OpenStreetMap

I am begging someone to buy my CALIFORNIA KING sized bed I bought 2 years ago from my "worldly" friend who averaged 3 one-night stands a week.  My mom initially questioned my purchase and asked me "Why are you buying such a huge bed?  It's not like you have anyone to share it with."  Please buy this tank of a bed and take it off my hands so I don't have to schedule and pay for 1-800-GOT JUNK to come haul it out because that would be a gigantic pain in my ass. Plus I could use the $300 to pay for a new hair straightener.  The mattress is not that nice, and the brand is likely the bastard step child of the Temper-Pedic.  One morning last year, my roommate's huge dog got into the bed with a guy I was seeing while I was getting ready for work.  Said dog proceeded to pee all over said guy and said bed.  I spent almost an entire day washing my sheets and scrubbing the mattress.  Please let me know if you are interested.
  • do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers
Moral of the story?  Don't try and sell your bed on Craigslist.  Oh, and make sure your roommate's dog isn't the canine version of R. Kelly.  

Happy Monday.  

xo,
Nige