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.















Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The Art of Being a Flake

I'm a flake.  A big one.

It's one of those things I've accepted about myself along with my unruly cowlick, drunk texting tendencies and Restless Leg Syndrome.  I don't flake when it comes to the important stuff, like fetching an indisposed friend a bottle of cranberry juice when she's suffering from a Urinary Tract Infection on account of too much fornicating with her d-bag ex, Shane who she met on bumble. But when it comes to sticking to plans, I'm flakier than a Pillsbury biscuit.

RAIN IS A FLAKE'S BEST FRIEND;
RAIN IS THE GODFATHER OF SCAPEGOATS.
Recently, my flakiness has become more apparent than Donald Trump's spray tan.  For the last couple months or so I've really been trying to workout more, mainly for the mental benefits.  I've got an addictive personality and I'm slowly becoming addicted to the happy high I get from endorphins.  I won't elaborate too much on this, nothing chafes me more than people who showcase their workouts on social media.  Sorry, Tiffany - no one wants to see photos of you getting wetter than Hillary Clinton at a Talbot's pantsuit sale as you hump your SoulCycle bike. The only time we'd be interested in hearing about your SoulCycle workout is if you accidentally fall forward and bury your face in the ass of the person in front of you.  That would be funny.  Otherwise, welcome to WhoGivesAFuckVille.

That said, getting up to work out is harder than long division.  This combined with my aforementioned propensity to flake, has resulted in multiple attempts to get out of being charged for missing class at BodyRok - the best workout place in San Francisco and OH MY GOD if you're reading this BodyRok people, please don't charge me for missing class twice last week, OK thanks I love you bye.

I thought it would be amusing to compile a list of emails I've sent to the people of BodyRok containing futile excuses I've come up with to avoid getting charged.  These e-mails date back to 2013, and this makes me feel accomplished in a weird way.

Without further ado, let's get it sharted in here:

The "I was unaware" excuse.
This excuse is one of my favorites.  I spend a huge chunk of my life staring at a computer screen or my phone.  The odds of me missing this e-mail are slimmer than John Popper post gastric bypass surgery.


The long, drawn out excuse.
If there's anything I've learned in my years of being a Flakoid it's that it's important to keep excuses vague and to the point.  If you add too much detail it immediately makes you look deceptive.  That said, I am baffled as to why I pulled such a rookie move in this e-mail.



The Place the Blame on Someone Else e-mail
When in doubt, blame it out people.


The "I'm Stupid and Don't Know my Ass from my Elbow" Excuse
I'm pretty sure an ape on Nitrous would be able to properly swipe a card on a scanner, so this excuse makes me look like a liar or dumber than an ape on Nitrous. The fact that they bought it makes me question myself as a human being.

                               


 The "I'm so poor, have Mercy, I can't even afford warm milk and shelter" excuse.


The "I was there" excuse. 
Also, this was 3 years ago and I'm pretty sure I pulled the waiver card out of my ass.  No one signs waivers anymore, right?  This is like, the digital era or whatever.



The "Work is Really Stressful" excuse
The only time I've had to "travel" for work is when I ran across Market street to get a salad for my dickhead boss. Mmmyeah, this one is real far-fetched.


The likelihood of me ever going into work early is lower than Kim K's IQ.

The "I'm sick and Dying" excuse
I'm pretty sure being hungover and having the flu are not interchangeable.  Chances are when I sent this I was curled up in the fetal position, knee deep in Chinese food, drowning in Pedialyte watching My Stepson, My Lover as I insta-stalked my ex's girlfriend during commercial breaks.


The "Family Emergency" excuse.




I'm sharing Katie's response because she's funny and tolerant. 

The "placing the blame on the website excuse"
That ape on Nitrous could navigate this website.  Very poor excuse, Alejandra.


I did tell Bodyrok I would plug them since they've been so cool about me missing classes.  So if you're in SF definitely check it out. The people are nice, the music is fun, they have cold, fresh water and it's cheaper than SoulCycle and more obscure - obscure is always cooler than mainstream/basic.

happy tuesday!
xo,
Nige