Guest-Blogger: Amy on Old People

Every day I come across a butt-load of things that piss me off- but this one reeeeally gets me roaring with hatred.

Old People.


Now I understand that's an unfair generalization. Believe me; I know plenty of sweet elderly lasses that I would utterly enjoy spending an afternoon with, baking cookies and working on my cross-stitching. BUT there are so many geriatrics running amok these days!


I work in a veterinary clinic on the outskirts of Portland, and that means 60-70% of our clientele are 1) old 2) have either a dozen cats or 3) own a Lhasa Apso.


(This was the first image that came up on Google Search for "old lady and small dog.")

This means I am subjected to a barrage of asinine questions day in and day out, and just because they're 105 years old they think it's an excuse to be rude OR that I should know exactly who they are and what they want when they walk in the door. "Look, I know YOU'VE been coming here for 35 years, but I have worked here only 2."
It's as if they expect me to be a fucking reader of dementia-inflicted minds.

Here's a conversation I have with these dinosaurs on a weekly basis:

Amy: "Hi there, what can I do for you?!!" (and yes, I do have to shout because they won't hear me otherwise)
Old Person: "Oh, uhh, oh yes. I'd like to refill my medication for Teddy." (for some reason all old people name their pets this- - a likely throwback to Roosevelt)
Amy: "Okay, I can do that. Which one do you need?!!" (I have to ask this because most of the time the dog is on more meds than Lindsey Lohan)
Old Person: "Oh, well I can't remember the name! It's the blue one... I think. I don't remember what it's for."

And that, ladies and gentleman, is when I have to go through the Bible-sized chart this animal has and decipher which is the "blue one".

I always WANT to say to them, "Here's an idea. Why don't you write this shit down before you get into the ole Buick and drive down here?" But I CAN'T say that because they will likely storm off and complain to my almost-geriatric boss.

It's not even work-specific issues I have with them. They can't drive, they're so damn frail, they always smell like a closet (or like cat food), they're cheapskates. The list goes on and on.


I will say this though: they are a goddamn fountain of (mostly useless) information! I've had a lot of great conversations with the elderly, but it's when they talk about "that time in the war" for the eighteenth time I have to declare enough is enough. Another downside of said conversations is that they spit a lot whilst talking- usually with food in their mouth. Gross.

I guess that's just the way it is. And I completely understand that one day I WILL be one of them (if liver disease doesn't take me before my time) And I am TOTALLY going to be one of those asshole old folks who pretends to have no idea she's cutting the line at the grocery store, or taking up 3 lanes of traffic, or stealing things she thinks should be free. But for now, I am youthful, attractive, and can control my bowels. SO HAW! SUCK IT, OLD PEOPLE!


p.s. I love you Grandma!

Installment Numero Uno in a Vast Montage of Annoyance

Every day in my job I encounter people who amaze me- -not in their abilities, intelligence or achievement, but in how they were able to get a driver’s license, or get by without wearing Velcro/slip-on shoes. These people are the silent con-artists of society. It’s almost like a ventriloquist act that they play with themselves, to hilariously fool us into thinking they are intelligent, capable and worthy of gainful employment. Sadder still, the joke is on us, People, because some of said people earn significantly better livings than we do…cue the “better luck next time, Loser” brass horn sound à la “The Price is Right.”





One of said people is someone I work quite closely with, but please recognize that there are hierarchical discrepancies in our jobs. Occasionally, he will go through the motions of trying to understand something remedial about our collective jobs…and, from time to time, I will humor myself and try to educate him on the various “wow-a-chimpanzee-could-do-this!” aspects of our job. Today was one of those days where he stood at my desk and made a spectacularly precious face while I explained one of our computer systems. Now, I’m not Steve Jobs, so this was an extremely high-level overview of something very basic. Even still as I explained, he furnished a false expression of understanding accompanied by the frequent blinking and blank stares typically reserved for people wearing helmets. After a valiant attempt, I gave up and told him a story about the computer fairies that live in the computer and make things work….that seemed a little more palatable. I mean, I’m not going to be the one to tell the little fella that there’s no Santa Clause.

If I Started Stripping

Wowee, I hate my job today. To make up for some disappointing mid-year results, the Higher Ups in my company decided to have a little contest in an effort to boost our numbers. Long story short, the despicable fake salesy alternate personalities that some "higher members of staff" employ to talk to the rest of us wee folks is on overload. It’s borderline slutty. It’s like how strippers pretend they give a shit about your life so that you’ll pay for their rent or their nails or “school.”

One of said "higher members of staff" in particular is usually a hideous breed of soul-less asshole. In the several years he’s worked here, no one is really sure who he is in terms of personality, values, friends- -not that we all need to be best friends (or care), but there’s a general level of knowledge you gain about people just by the inevitable diffusion of working 9 hours a day in the wholly non-private discomfort of adjacent cubicles.

Anyway, this one is really an artist in the way he is able to manipulate perceived kindness for self-serving purposes. I mean, I’ve never heard a person consistently ask “how are you today?” in a way that is quintessentially rhetorical (and you are reassured of this fact when he interrupts your response with a new line of discussion that is of more interest)...so, you can imagine the confusion of all of us now that he’s Mary Fucking Poppins today- -skipping around the office, buying lunch and smiling. We’re all speculating why his mood has taken a bi-polar 180, and so far, “kicked a child” is the most convincing theory.

At the height of my disgust, I started entertaining (*cough* fantasizing) about events transpiring and me subsequently collecting unemployment. Sure, waving my middle fingers and smiling like a newly crowned Miss America as I was escorted out of the office would be great, but it’s the unceremonious $400/week aftermath that’s a bit desolate and uninviting.
My co-worker, "Jesse" suggested moonlighting at a local strip club to supplement the $400/week unemployment check (oh, dare to dream)- -to which I reminded him how I’m not really in “get naked in front of strangers for money” shape. Something about sitting on my ass 10 hours a day for the last 3 years that just hasn’t yielded any constructive physical improvements.





Then we started musing about what that would be like, in the event that a strip club owner had enough zest for humor that he would actually employ me, and we think it would go something like this: “Ladies and gentlemen, get your dollars ready for Emily….she is…..really nice. She’s also quite funny….Did I say “good personality” yet?” Maybe once, "assail your eyes" would accidentally slip out.

To help me with my janky nail middle finger salute, I've enlisted the help of Ms. Spears. She'll do just fine.

“You know you might be PMSing when you start playing head games with your dogs”

It is in my opinion that women have a subconscious affinity for head games. We can’t help it. There is something in our genetic make up (okay, we know what it is; it’s estrogen) that makes us ask open-ended questions, even though there is only one right answer and, in all honesty, we most definitely know this answer when we pose the question. It’s a pass/fail test that is designed to set the taker up for failure nearly every time. Poor men. I mean, at least lesbians have a fighting chance because they are wired similarly- -but men don’t even see this psycho/psychological onslaught coming. I once heard a married man say, “I can be right or I can be happy” which I thought was hilarious and true, but also sort of sad…...have I said “true” yet? I have to say, I appreciate the simplicity of men, and I commend lesbians. I couldn’t deal with me as a partner, this I’m sure of.

Anyway, my natural headgameyness (I’m insisting that’s a word) paired with PMS yielded some really singular results yesterday. I decided to be a good ‘dog mom’ and take my two dogs for a ride as I ran a few errands. Now, to paint a picture- -I have two very different dogs. I have Xavier, who is 8 years old and wise and sweet and obedient with a soul a mile wide. Then I have X.E. who is 3 and……well, let’s just say she’s “special.” Towards the end of my errand trip yesterday, X.E. opted to shit in the back seat of the car. For those of you who haven’t ever had the privilege of being in a small enclosed space, in city traffic, with a steaming pile of shit, let me just say that I make no apologies for my grievance- -even fucking Jesus wouldn’t have been immune to the likes of this kind of agitation, so I make no apologies.
I like to think that X.E. knows better, but this is a dog who licks windows and thinks her reflection in my foyer mirror is another dog. It’s an added thorn to have proverbial egg on your face for overestimating that your housebroken, 3 year old dog won’t shit in the car. Silly me. So, I pulled over as soon as I was able (into a Mexican Restaurant parking lot) and broke out the poop bags that are kept in the trunk and usually designated for outdoor shitting. So then for about five minutes, the people with the fine pleasure of dining window side of Muchas Gracias Mexican Grill & Cantina (I'm not kidding; I can't even make up stuff that good) had the rare privilege of watching me clean feces out of my car while I swore and carried on like a crazy person. I know it made my night better knowing that Darwin’s forgotten creatures eating their $6 entrées pitifully mused, “Wow, it sucks to be her.”

I drove home, still not excited about the events that had just transpired. Plus, even though I had gotten rid of the poo with expert timeliness, the whole car was still ripe with X.E.’s unholy wrongdoing. I felt the need to remind X.E. what a bad girl she was for the entire ride home; meanwhile she greeted my reprimand with a dead stare and some sporadic window-licking. I felt really frustrated that she didn’t seem to be understanding the scope of my anger and aggravation, so when we arrived back at the house, I hysterically blurted out, “Well, X.E., you get to go in your crate while Xavier and I watch a movie!” Sadder still, I felt vindicated for about ten minutes until I realized that I was laying in a bed with a stinky 8 year old dog watching a movie- -like that should be some sort of triumph. “I showed her.”

PMS Chronicle 4 29 2010

Despite having not one, not two, but THREE heaving closets of gorgeous clothing, today I opted to sift through the “transitional laundry” pile on the floor of my bedroom, and select the very black loose pants that I wore to work yesterday. They’re the kind of pants that encompass all ends of the dressiness spectrum depending on what you pair them with. They can either be yoga pants or youthful, funky dress pants…or somewhere in between. Despite this versatility, yesterday I paired them with a hooded sweatshirt- -thus making them yoga pants (The clashing 1” heeled open-toed sandals I added to that outfit were a hideously offensive and apathetic attempt at “business casual,” at best). Immediately after that I nixed wearing a bra, so I paired my black snug/loose pants with a similar caliber of shirt- -and then added a poncho. Because nothing says, “I’ve given up on myself” quite like a poncho (plus it hides that my too-big-to-be-braless breasts are delightfully un-tethered). I’m basically a Snuggie infomercial, minus the smiling faces, make up, and couch.

“With Emily being so comfortable, how is it possible for her to be disgruntled?” Good question. Today’s disgruntled demeanor is brought to you by “Home Office Incompetence”…and the letter ‘C.’

I work in a field office, and sometimes that makes me feel like I’ve had to earn my job- -either through my own aptitude, demonstration of intellectual capacity, work ethic….or because my uncle is one of the most successful sales reps in the company and his niece needed a job. *Cough* Tomato-Tomato. Point being, sometimes I feel like the small pool of individuals in this office makes individual failure a bright neon sign of apparentness. Your peers keep you in check. Your manager keeps you in check. You understand that your own shortcomings will be recognized.
Our Home Office employs several thousand people, and there are days…lots of days….where I feel like there was some contest at a local 7-11 where you were the 50th customer of the day and you won a position in my company’s Home Office. Yay- -tell the kids that Mom doesn’t have to stay home and watch 17 hours of soap operas anymore! Now, she has a “purpose”…and that purpose is to make my 9-5 life HELL. Instead of passing her days how she’s accustomed…by eating processed foods and vacantly staring at this month’s featured doll collection on QVC, now she gets to play corporate “hot potato” with any legitimate request that comes from her co-workers and partners in the field offices. The extent to this “game” makes it very difficult to believe that there isn’t some kind of home office incentive, unbeknownst to the field, where the individual Home Office employees who accomplish the least amount of work are awarded on a quarterly basis.

One particular Home Office partner is the focus of my current ass-chappery. For the purposes of venting frustration to prevent sending very tonal and unprofessional emails to this person, I drafted a fake suggestion to an imaginary company suggestion box today. Here is how it reads:

“_______________ may be better suited as a relatively stagnant cog in another company’s mailroom or one of the unhappy Wal-Mart greeters that’s afforded the ability to sit at the entrance of said establishments and apathetically force a word and/or facial expression at approaching shoppers. Clearly she doesn’t like to work, she doesn’t like to answer the phone, and she is less resourceful than some humans are prenatally. Maybe she could gain 400 lbs and be relegated to a bed somewhere, and make a living off disability payments and money that tabloids would pay to photograph the “giant slothy slug woman.”

This is probably why I’m not God, despite our similar slapstick senses of humor. This has me thinking…maybe it’s socially irresponsible of me to keep this blog going(?). I can see conservative males citing my blog as the reason why we should never have a female president. PMS is a pretty powerful force. Now I’m imagining that I’m the president…right now….in my semi-clean black stretch pants and poncho with my disdain for the human race. Nahh, I’d never make it into office with the forceful and inspired campaign slogan of “Emily Lariviere: Heyyyy.”

PMS Chronicle 10.20.09

All of the various devices, systems, servers, and equipment that I need to do my job today are fucking broken. By definition, my job is not great, and it is certainly not difficult- -but do you ever just feel like all of technology has teamed up to play a cruel joke on you? I may not derive particular satisfaction from assessing the risk of various companies, BUT I like it even less……WHEN I CAN’T FUCKING DO IT!!!!!

This is my day today.

I have been having problems with the printer near my desk. In an effort to seek revenge on the inanimate printer (post screaming various “Corporate-unfriendly” words at it to such an extent that people have been closing their office doors and avoiding eye contact with me*), I sent out a note to the office informing them that one of printers was not working and to avoid sending anything to that printer until further notice. Emily-1, Printer-1. Ha! To add insult to injury, the whitest white collar in the office, who undoubtedly has made it this far in life without owning a single tool, succeeded in resolving the imaginary jam after haphazardly trying his unskilled hand at it for two minutes.

My festering bitterness and gripes with all-things-life-and-work have been momentarily interrupted by the fact that, “Janie’s Got a Gun” just came on the radio, and just in time to punctuate my last irrational thought! Either the universe is encouraging me to laugh at myself for a minute, of the universe is telling me… (insert unsettling maniacal laughter).




* I discovered that the “jam” the printer was claiming was, in fact, imaginary or otherwise invented…..by the printer.

PMS Chronicles: April 17, 2009

Ironically enough, I’m having difficulty starting this narrative in a way I find satisfactory, which I’m sure will only enhance the sentiments and splendor of my usual PMS accounts.

Ever since I was a young girl, I recall my father mandating at meal times that I chew with my mouth closed. It used to drive me insane, and also make me very self-conscious about my eating habits, but not in a way that actually made me consciously periodically evaluate if I was consuming my food in an acceptable way. Like most lessons annoyingly bestowed on us by our elders, I vowed to never enforce that same silly lesson on my future generations, in a gesture of absurd rebelliousness.
At twenty-five, I’m far less surly than my father, but I’ve found I’ve grown into a rather comfortable disdain for mouth noises myself. And so, it seems only natural that as the cruel universe would have it- -I sit in a cubicle adjacent to what one might assume (from an auditory perspective) was a close cousin of Mr. Ed. “Mr. Ed,” like many corporate office gals is slightly older and has taken a faux interest in eating healthy, so to the delight of reverse peristalsis everywhere, I get to listen to Mr. Ed gnaw on carrots, celery and all of the other boys in the “loudest food in existence” band.

The PMS is brutally debilitating today, and each interaction is more intolerable than the next. I’m even having great trepidation to respond to broker emails, for the fear of how they might interpret what I’m deeming a convincingly sincere response marked by forced pleasantries.

I’m now wearing large headphones at my desk. I attempted to listen to music, but I was fearful of what I might say to any co-worker who requested I turn down the volume. I thought an easy solution would be to listen to the classical music station on the radio- -except I forgot how unbearably annoying the DJ’s are, with their frequent and very sedated James Lipton-esque commentary. Then from time-to-time, as a glaringly paradoxical shift from the otherwise peaceful classical music, there is a news interruption that broadcasts the latest and most horrific war atrocities from the Middle East. The news reporter never fails to be British, and completely unaffected by the subject matter being reported on, no matter how awful. “Literally, infant limbs and entrails line the streets today in Baghdad as a bus carrying newborn children, puppies, and beloved Disney characters was destroyed by a…..” It’s ridiculous. So, needless to say, the classical music was promptly turned off, and now I’m just sitting at my desk like a psycho with very large, conspicuous headphones on that are plugged into nothing. It muffles the office sounds just enough to hear my own irrational thoughts clearly, although it makes everyone else sound like the voice the adults produce in the Charlie Brown cartoons; that sort of “womp womp womp.” It’s pretty glorious; I’m not going to lie. It could only be trumped by having a hyperbaric chamber in my cubicle. Man, where is one of those when you need it?

PMS Chronicle: Aug. 4, 2009

I really should have written about my fragile hormonal state earlier when I was teetering on "clinically insane." For some reason, old, slow whimsical tunes listened to via YouTube at my desk (with headphones, mind you….obviously) have really helped to remedy my disdain for the entire world. Now I’m only your average, run-of-the-mill "bitchy." There is great comfort that comes with the power of being able to select your own songs, sans commercials and offensive station-genre-conforming deejays.
Let me paint a picture for you of my surroundings, and maybe you can formulate your own deductions about why I think my uterus and God have teamed up today to have a good chuckle at my expense. Don’t confuse these sentiments with self-pity, but rather recognize that there is a symphony of annoying being orchestrated around me- -and "self-pity" is the only sentiment that’s really unaccounted for here, as I sit overwhelmed with a whirlwind of hormone-induced psychological distress. It’s like a beautiful symbiotic dance between wanting to wave a white flag of surrender and peace offering, and wanting to detonate an atom bomb.
First of all, it should be noted that the kind people in our building thought that the regular 9-5 business day would be the best time to reconstruct our whole office. So, as I sit at my desk and focus with the greatest of dedication on not hating my job, I have 5-10 construction workers, electricians, handy men, and other random clowns hammering and all in the ceiling tiles and basically every time I look up, the office has given birth to more cubicles. Please, pray tell, where is the redeeming charm in this segment of my story. (I’m now listening to "Islands in the Stream" by Mr. Kenny Rogers and Ms. Dolly Parton, in case you were wondering. It’s not helping, also in case you were wondering.) Not that I think my uterus would react positively to anything right now, but on the assumption that I would be pleased to see a handsome construction worker right now…..yeah, none of them are cute. The tool belts and Old Spice aren’t doing anything.
Oh right, because you aren’t here and can’t see the "I bet you won’t do that" new décor in the office….it has been said (by another PMSing co-worker), that "the carpet is so hideously patterned" that it "makes her nauseous." I loathe her complaining…..but I’m inclined to agree. I imagine her PMS chronicles would be something of horror fiction novels. I employ a great deal of restraint and isolation to remove myself from the potential of making a spectacle or ruining the good nature of some of my co-workers- -so, I hope that with this effort, people are only fragmentally aware that I’m pre-menstrual (and are thus tacitly encouraged to let the proverbial sleeping dog lie). For what previously-mentioned- coworker reveals- -she must be experiencing crazy on an unprecedented level. (Ahh, good…..more hammering.)
I just got out of a meeting where it became quickly evident that I’m not alone in my PMSing. It’s like an epidemic spreading through the office, and even being so kind as to include a few of the males as well. Why is a corporate complain-a-thon always presented under the guise of a "meeting?" A legitimate meeting of the minds I can handle- -but a round-table discussion of gripes only perpetuates my own ill-feelings- -AND I don’t have Kenny Rogers to drown them out. I literally just lost an hour of my work day (and life) to discuss the office construction. Very little was mentioned of the disruption, but rather- -the entire focus was on the fact that the hideous carpets aren’t padded. At which time, individual carpet pads were requested for the comfort of certain people. Other certain people (who weren’t present at the meeting, but whose sentiments were assumed and represented by third party estrogen-laden succubuses), were displeased with the view their newly constructed offices offer. C’MON PEOPLE!!!!
Again, I’m terrified to answer the phone for fear of what words or tone may erupt from my mouth. I just returned a phone call to one of our Idaho brokers where I had to stop myself from inquiring, "Did you just wake up one day and decide to work in an insurance brokers’ office?"
I’m having a rough time with spell check right now. Even the subtle annoyance of having to backspace to correct my own spelling as I type is almost debilitating. Oh, I said it- -debilitating. I’m listening to David Gray, because if that doesn’t induce some sort of coma to dull the frustrated screaming in my head, I don’t know what will. Even Lionel Richie circa 1980 failed in this task.

The PMS Chronicles: Thoughts on the "maybe you're pregnant" phenomenon

What I'm about to rant on about [mostly] meaninglessly for paragraph after paragraph is something that guys probably won't understand, but who am I to tell you to stop reading- -infact, read on. Internalize the message. Pass it on.
I am not saying that I'm speaking for ALL girls (but I probably am). I'm just going to speak for myself and my own experiences. Ever since I've reached "sexual maturity"....no, strike that....ever since I've had breasts large enough to render me physically capable of reproducing to outside eyes, there has been a drastic and cruel misinterpretation of any ailment I could possibly be afflicted with that seems to default to "pregnant."
I haven't had the flu or a cold for a while, but currently I have a case of the stomach flu which is pretty much going around and also ruining my day. Two nights ago I awoke and vomited for a while and felt generally nauseous for the entirety of the following day. When I voice that I'm not feeling well at work, IMMEDIATELY the first thing people want to throw out there is, "Maybe you're pregnant."....Really? Well maybe you should be sterilized to prevent you from polluting the global gene pool with your ignorant genes.
Even my nerdy boss asked me if I was pregnant yesterday when I told him I was going home early. Of course he said it with a managerial grin that alleviated him from the repercussions of me taking him seriously...but still. It was bad enough that I had to make my way through the cubicle gauntlet of "Maybe you're pregnant" on my way to his office. The only injustice greater than me working my shitty job, is me getting pregnant.
So, because I am throwing up and nauseous, I can't possibly have a stomach flu....or food poisoning?!?! Immediately it becomes an issue of me having a proverbial bun in the oven. For the record, and if you haven't all ready gotten a general sense of my feelings....I resent this to no end. It’s a problem.
In high school, I could be throwing up, have missed my period, have a fever and be gaining weight....and they school nurse would optimistically suggest, "you're just stressed out." Yay, love it (although it did always surprise me, given my high school's staggering teen pregnancy statistic). What happened to those days? Once I went to college I could walk into Health Services congested and coughing give-or-take chicken pox, (give-or-take, bleeding through my pants) and the nurses would just stare blankly with that dead-behind-the-eyes look before asking, "Um....when was your last period?.....we better give you a pregnancy test just to rule that out." Or, I'd go into Health Services with a headache and request Tylenol and they ask for a urine sample. C'MON!!!! I'm pretty sure those crafty UNH nurses could sneak a pregnancy test in there without you even noticing...it's only revealed later as you're checking over your bill statement and there is a microscopic footnote on the bottom indicating you're not pregnant.
By now you're thinking, Oh, silly Emily and her crass exaggerations, but nay....this shit happens ALL THE TIME. I don't know what I resent more....having to endure all the unpleasantries of being sick....or having to endure all of the cliché halfwits inquiring as to whether I'm possibly expecting WHEN I'm sick. Let me make this clear- -you'll know when I'm pregnant, folks....It will be like a one-man enactment of "hormonal apocalypse" starring me (probably not super well-received on the Indie circuit). Also the pissed off look and the constant screaming, "Why God? Why?" Then and only then can you ask me if I'm pregnant, but by that point I'm bound to cause you bodily harm.

The ORIGINAL PMS Chronicle

Normally, my boobs get tender and I have a slightly lower threshold to deal with things that are annoying. This time (and this is an actual idea that I worked out in my head and determined to be plausible, under the influence of spiked estrogen levels), I was thinking about carrying a paintbull gun, both in my car and in my purse. In my vision, the one in my purse looked like a glock that pegged very-deserving people with multi-colored hard balls of paint. It would be so absurd that they could hardly be mad at me for causing them the pain and bruising…..and I’m sure the look on my face would be way too “unstable” for any sort of retaliation.
The one in my car would be used solely for cyclists. “Thank you for saving the earth, but stop pretending you’re a car…..or a pedestrian. Or worse, both….you greedy shits. Pick a set of rules and abide by them. If you’re going to be a car, go the speed limit….stop at red lights……BE a car. If you’re going to be a pedestrian….no, I take that back….don’t ride on the fucking side walk!!!! There’s all ready too many of you and pedestrians are becoming the extinct transportation dinosaur.” So, yes…the paintball gun in my glove box would be for cyclists.
Today at work, my co-worker Jen was trying to defend that girls aren’t crazy. (The irony is that while she’s soap-boxing on the topic, I’m battling in my own head with different levels of female hormones who have begun to take on a sort of population of schizophrenic, multiple personalities. My distraction shifts back and forth between the unstable inner monologue(s) and Jen’s dissertation.) Finally, I just tell her- - “Jen, we’re all crazy. We’re sisters in craziness. We just all have to silence ourselves when we know that our thought process is being dictated by our ovaries and associated bodily processes and that, to the outside world, our thoughts and opinions may be temporarily off kilter and ill-received…..so we “get quiet” (well, that’s what I do when I “get quiet” anyway).” which I followed up with (I probably should have quit while I was “ahead“….Oh, there you are 20/20 hindsight. You certainly are a jester with critical timing.) “Like sometime Drew will leave his clothes in a pile on the floor…and some days when I see them I’m thinking, Grrrrr, that’s SO annoying! Why does that he do that?! and then other days, something in the back of my head chimes in, Burn down the fucking house!….and I’m like, Wait…..what?!?! Shhhhh. Jesus, don’t say that.” Everyone laughed hard, which dissipated into awkward laughter…..which gave way to cautious stares that begged of one another, “Is Emily going to kill us?” Whenever I say something of this nature, I like to deliver the punch line….and then walk away. Then I like to come back and hand out Kool-Aid or partially-opened candy…..just to fuck with them. I don’t really….I actually just thought of that and the more I roll it over in my mouth, the more it sounds like a hilarious idea….only my timing is never that good. Not even in what-should-be a flawless theoretical model in my head.
Another thing. Drew and I recently got cable again. At first, I rejoiced because I was tired of expending brain cells trying to figure out which DVDs to re-watch every night. But now that we have it, I’ve gotten reacquainted with being wholly un-entertained by what television offers. My taste in TV shows has evolved to the point where nothing is interesting, and nothing is worthy of my attention……except the most horrifically inane of shows. Reality shows, Fuel TV (where people skateboard and surf all day…..which is also bizarre, because I have a general distaste for skateboarders. I like them theoretically, but I encounter few that I’m pleased to meet.), Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, The Hills…..I mean, crucify me, but these shows are the only thing that even evoke a second glance, or the channel-changing equivalent of a double-take.
I mean, I understand someone who hates their job, comes home and turns on the shows that are the most epitomizing of schadenfreud….just to relish in other peoples’ misery and smile at the horrific genetic hand that life dealt them….and feel better about their own day, even for an hour (because, hey…someone has it worse than they do)….However, I’m not employing that method at all.
I’m doing something completely different that defeats everything that the first method strives for. I’m coming home from a shitty, miserable day at an unfulfilling job….and instead of watching Jerry Springer (wow, that’s become a cliché entity unto itself) I’m watching shows about people who have it so much better and easier than me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Either jealousy has become a welcome part of our female culture and lives that we’ve just embraced it as normal- -or I’m a fucking glutton for punishment. Or I hate myself. Or the estrogen is involved in high-stake bets with both my brain AND progesterone that estrogen can make me bulimic by the season finale of The Hills. (God, let’s hope.)
Either way, this television schadenfreud made me think about the American culture NOW, and how that is a direct product of our culture and society NOW…..and then I contemplated what people used to do about feeling better after a long, shitty 9-5 when America was in different times. (Walk with me, if you will….) The days of keeping yourself entertained in “wholesome, fun ways”….the days where Americans weren’t fearful of exercise…..or leaving the comforts of their car to get dinner…..the days where people read books. Ahhh (sigh). There it is. The days when our country wasn’t the intellectual butt of every joke amongst our global peers. I thought about “literary schadenfreud”…because when I came home today from work (still swearing under my breath……maybe even twitching) the thought of watching TV annoyed me without even attempting to turn the damn thing on (also, I scoured the TV Guide last night, and I feel mostly confident that there’s nothing that I would deem “worth watching” on right now….but that’s neither here nor there). The book I’ve been reading is staring at me from the countertop and as I glanced at it I thought, “my book is about twins, and one is schizophrenic and is ruining his twin’s brother’s life….Gosh(!), that will make me feel better!” So, I guess in lieu of the self-loathing…I’m going to read about the fictional folly of Dominick and Thomas and feel better about everything in my life, because even though I’m probably an honorary member of the Schizophrenic community…..I’m not a diagnosable defective……which makes me feel that much better. (Sigh). Then maybe after I finish this, I’ll pick up Angela’s Ashes…..