You know what I’ve realized in reading the hate mail written to a xenophobic, anti-immigration, alarmist nut?

People could sure use more punctuation.

Commas – they’re a good thing. Don’t be afraid of them!

I know it can be difficult when they’re unfamiliar. They look strange; they have unfamiliar shapes, and frequent unfamiliar locales. You’re not sure what to do with them, or whether their intentions are good. You know that they are an important part of the world around you, and yet you are afraid to welcome them into your life. Well folks, it’s too late to blame ignorance. Pick up a grammar book.

Or just go trotting down to Tombstone, Ariz. to patrol the U.S. border this Friday with about a thousand other vigilantes who will be on the lookout for illegal immigrants from Mexico.

In the name of terrorism.

Will every sinister freak on the planet continue to invoke the spectre of terrorism until the word is bled of any tie to people who actually are terrorists?

Did you know that according to the U.S. government, earthquakes are terrorists (or, perhaps, “terrists”)? It was news to me too. According to Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Richard Myers, who spoke yesterday at Thunderbird International Business School, terrorists are people who cause fear and cause other people to act in an irrational fashion. Which means most of the drivers in Arizona are terrorists, too.

Although I should probably mention, in the name of journalistic integrity, that I wasn’t actually there when he said it. I’m not a student, ok? But it was faithfully and factually and I’m sure flawlessly reported to me by my fellow left-leaning Amiable Roommie.

But seriously, is it just me, or are there a lot of really freakin’ scary people out there?

See, this is what happens the moment I come back to this ghetto state. What happened to all the great foofy topics I thought of in California?

Like:

Only in Corona Del Mar, Calif. do you wonder, “Am I dressed ok?” when you walk into Starbucks.

And then think, “Definitely not.”

I’ve decided that the best thing about Arizona is that it makes you appreciate California. All the things I used to bemoan now seem like charming quirks! The shallow and materialistic culture? The overabundance of gleaming Mercedes? The fact that everyone looks fabulous and I feel like Dowdy Woman? Charming, charming, charming...

Ah, I feel better already. Just thinking about California is cleansing! It’s so nice to be in a place where people are too wealthy to worry about anything important.

Uh, for a little while.

The message being sent by the United States and other nations, he said, was that “violence is not an acceptable means for resolving differences.”

—State Department spokesman Adam Ereli on recent social unrest in Kyrgyzstan, in the New York Times.

Ohhh, the irony.

Do you ever have the urge to store away compliments? Because sometimes when you get one you don’t have the leisure to fully appreciate it, to take it out, turn it over, see how it looks from this angle and that, to really savor it? Wouldn’t it be great to just have a place where every nice thing that has ever been said about you is kept, so you can page through them when you’re feeling glum, or remember precisely the wording of that particularly satisfying and well-deserved praise?

I know, seriously. Who would ever think of that? Only a freak, that’s who.

…

Yes, I am a compliment gollum.

But so what. It’s allowed! It’s a free country! I should be able to thoroughly drench myself in narcissism every once in a while, alright?

The only problem with compliments is that they are so fleeting. It’s hard to imagine a situation in which you would really have the opportunity to fully gloat over a compliment like you ought to be able to. It’s like it’s a chocolate truffle poised inches from your lips, but you only have a moment to inhale its delicate scent before it’s gone.

But maybe it’s just not possible to have that ultimate praise—the praise that means more than anything else, the moment when you say to yourself, I have done it—excellently. If I could just experience all the compliments I have received simultaneously, in their entirety, perhaps I would feel the satisfaction that seems all too fleeting, instead of each one being an isolated moment that too soon falls prey to my incipient Alzheimer’s.

So now my debate is over whether getting something published in The New Yorker would count as My Ultimate Praise, or if it would have to be a personal letter from their editor-in-chief extolling my invaluable contribution to the magazine. What do you think? It’s kind of a toss-up for me so….

Anyway.

The other problem with compliments is that they never come out of nowhere. They never sneak up and surprise you. So by the time you get a compliment for one thing, you’re already at the point where it feels in keeping with your accomplishments. I, for one, would like to have my compliments served prematurely, and with a doggy bag for extra helpings. I don’t want to hear that my novel is great after I’ve already had the good fortune to get a novel published! It won’t be as shocking! How about someone from W. W. Norton calling me up and telling me what a great writer I am Right Now! Now that would have impact! That would be a compliment that would get my heart rate up! That is what I’m looking for. An unsolicited, out-of-the-blue, over-the-top Thumbs Up, Good Job R., A+ given by an extravagantly prestigious source.

Now why is it that they have to be entirely undeserved to be entirely satisfying?

Man, I miss school, where every term you had a chance to receive four A-shaped compliments and grade inflation was rampant.

Life just doesn’t offer enough opportunities to be publicly recognized for your brilliance, does it? That’s it, I’m going back to school.

In Mexico. Or some other fabulous location.

Let the undue praise begin.

To whoever tried to jack my roommate’s car last night—You got ratted out by a deaf dog.

Hahahahaha.

No, seriously. You suck. Why is this whole damn state so ghetto?

I am twenty four years old, and I’m not fat.

I think that’s quite an accomplishment, don’t you? I mean, two thirds of Americans are overweight. Almost a third are obese! That means I have narrowly escaped a common but unfortunate fate, something only a select percentage of Americans can claim to have achieved! I am among the elite!

Isn’t it amazing to live in a culture that worships thinness at the same time as it relentlessly markets foods that are filled with every ungodly health menace on the planet in portion sizes meant for beluga whales?

Anyway, I may yet waste all the resources put into my ridiculously pricey education by becoming a surf bum, or become an ethically challenged journalist by writing about whoever pays to take me on a press trip (hotels in fabulous locations, do take note), or I might never sign up for frequent flyer miles, which I consider to be one of the great failures of my adult life thus far—but I am not fat! And that is something to be proud of.

Although when you look at the states, California is actually one of the chubby ones. Twenty to 24 percent of them are overweight, the fatties. Good thing I live in Arizona. The land that gives hope to the elderly, seems to have perfected boob jobs, and provides a safe haven for Californians fleeing unaffordable housing and overcrowded cities by driving up housing prices and overcrowding cities in Arizona—and a land of which 15 to 19 percent of its population is overweight. …I knew the skinny Californians were following me!

That’s it, I’m moving to Alabama.

Ha, ha. Riiiiight. Only fabulous locations like Playa Carrizalillo, in a little place called Mexico—remember?

You know what, I need something dramatic to happen in my life. Something revelatory, and unique (besides not being fat), and Important! Then I’ll be able to write a book about my fabulous life! But as it is, I have no ending. Just a series of middles. No great revelations. No incomparable experiences. No lessons learned that all of humanity can benefit from when recounted in my witty yet complex narrative voice.

Ok, world. I am ready.

I. Need. Something. To. Happen!

Happen!

…

Ok, you’re not helping my publishing career. Also, let it not be breaking up with my boyfriend, because that is über cliché. And I am anything but cliché! I am unique and not fat. Let it be something cool, something that I can gloat about in a self-reflective and, really, enlightening kind of way. Like moving to Mexico and being a successful freelance writer while finding time to surf every day and making a ridiculous amount of money not that I care about such things because I’m spiritually advanced!

…

Actually, after reading the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, I think I want to be a model. Travel around the world with nothing more to do than pose for a camera? Yes please.

Dear California:

I’ve spent approximately two and a half years of my life on your freeways. You were always doing construction on the 405 between Warner and my exit. You always advised of sewage plumes too late. You charged a hundred and twenty-five bucks for a pass to Bolsa Chica State Park, where you advised of sewage plumes too late. Your waves were always best during work hours. Your Junes were gloomy, and sometimes July too. Your people are vapid and materialistic and irritatingly skinny. Everyone drives ridiculously expensive and ridiculously clean cars. You eat up wild land and spit out a hundred identical homes that cost over a million bucks. Your cultural mecca is L.A., California! Your governor almost makes Jesse Ventura look respectable. Your malls are too crowded, and your land is unaffordable. Half your people walk around with their ass-cracks hanging out of their boardshorts. You built a toll-road through one of the last swaths of untouched wilderness in the OC. The toll-road was extremely convenient. You invented ecoterrorism. And smog. And if you didn’t invent them, you certainly excel in boob jobs. You’re almost uninhabitable, California. It’s a wonder there are enough under-nourished, overly fit people to clog up your freeways.

Oh California. I miss you like hell, and I’m coming back soon.

XOXO,
R.

P.S. - My bangs look horrid. I think they may have belonged to Andy Warhol in a previous life. Will they even let me into California? Will they make me live in Chino?

I just want Condi’s visit to China to be successful so someone can write the headline, “Rice Popular in China.”

Hahaha.

I would never resort to such stereotypical references in my own copywriting, needless to say.

You know that moment at the hairdresser’s where you’re like: Oh. My. God. Omigod omigod omigod. You start hyperventilating as you envision the various types of hats and scarves that will be your daily accessory for the next three months while you try to calm your breathing so your hairdresser won’t notice the signs of panic as your eyes dart to the six-inch strands lying in copious profusion on the floor. It’s ok, you tell yourself. It’ll be fine, you say as she takes a round brush to your newly created bangs. It’s not as bad you think. Yeah, it’s a really hip haircut.

For a 45-year-old. Who lives in a trailer park.

…Breathe. Breathe.

You think desperately of the stylish, piecey bangs you had in mind—perhaps you didn’t articulate that idea well enough? It’ll still look like that when she’s done, right? Right? You tell yourself that it’s ridiculous to get this worked up over a haircut, not when people are dying from genocidal government policies in Sudan, not when people praying at mosques in Iraq are getting blown into bits daily, not when Russia is selling guns to Chechens whom it later condemns as terrorists in the same breath that it claims the right to make preemptive strikes against terrorism—ridiculous! I mean, who even worries about this stuff? What intelligent person honestly worries that their hair is on the vanguard of the retro-eighties look? Seriously, I have more important things to think about. Like how I’m going to look at myself in the mirror for the next three months. (It’ll only take three months for the bangs to catch up with the rest of my hair, right?)

Hats, hats.

There has to be a point where you ask yourself: Bangs. Why? They didn’t work in second grade, and they ain’t gonna work now. And yet they have this strange, Siren-like allure that you never give in to until the moment you’re sitting in the chair and there’s all those neat products around you and copies of Glamour and Elle and People and Cosmo and you get these irrational urges to go for those haircuts. Just go for it! It’ll look awesome! It looks great on Uma and it’ll look great on you! Nevermind the team of five stylists and a makeup artist that make it look that good! And even though you usually get up about seven and a half minutes before you actually have to leave you somehow convince yourself that you’ll give yourself the extra half hour to do your hair even though you regularly snooze your alarm every two minutes for an hour while blearily thinking how unfair it is that women have to look good while men can just roll out of bed and thanking god for the metrosexual trend because we shouldn’t be the only ones to have to deal with this bullshit—and you’re like, yeah, let’s try bangs!

When I’m rich and fabulous, I’m going to hire a live-in stylist.

Event planning should not be political.

And yet, it seems that it can be.

Finally! The opportunity to wield my true editorial might! (In the name of journalistic impartiality, of course.)

“The Secret Service performed their necessary tasks, with a singular mission….to protect the leader of the free world.” Ok, “leader of the free world”? Clearly, this has no place in an event planning magazine (or any publication that is not funded by the GOP for that matter)! DELETE!

How about this? “The event planning company execs implemented their ideas using the expertise and dedication of every member, not only of their own teams, but of every team that brought success to a brand new way of bringing the message from the White House to the people.” Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to offend any readers who don’t slaver over all things Bush by interjecting subtle political commentary suggesting that the White House’s highest purpose is to serve the masses. (Is it my bias that makes this seem biased? ...nah.) I’ll just take out that whole paragraph.

Ah: Power. Feels almost as good as striking a blow for nonpartisan journalists everywhere.

*

By the way, I promise not to allow my subscription lists to be harvested by porno spammers. As happened with my company’s website.

Hee!

Me, when I am a fabulous, well-known figure in political, literary and generally important circles (although probably not as cute):

Sometimes, just doing nothing feels like accomplishing a lot.

And boy, did I accomplish a lot this weekend. Among my feats of perseverance and single-minded dedication to self-betterment:

- A suntan.
- Chocolate chip banana bread.
- Learned that the word cynic is derived from the Greek word for ‘dog,’ kyōn.
- Decided to take the summer off to chill out in Mexico.

Fuck this whole career business, already.

I’ve discovered that a penchant for surfing severely limits your career options. New York (center of publishing universe)? Nope. Topeka, where there is a cool, karma enhancing associate editor job at Mother Earth News? Not to diss on Kansas, but: No. Western Massachusetts, where I could be a passionate, conscientious, informed, and sensitive editor (where I could work for a magazine that cares that their editor is passionate, conscientious, informed, and sensitive!) for a magazine where I would surely get to rub elbows with fabulous writer-types (my kind, clearly)—? Nah.

What’s with these people? I mean, Topeka? Can’t any self-respecting, politically conscious, creative, prestigious magazine with a great work environment and sensitivity to employees’ work-life balance that is looking for an associate editor set up shop in, oh, say…Huntington Beach? Is that too much to ask?

I mean, seriously. Getting all the factors that matter to you in line—family, significant others that call you poopie, inexplicable yearning for sport you barely like (surfing), challenging and rewarding job—are like the Rubix cube of existence. As soon as you get one in place, it fucks up all the other ones. Want to be near family? Sure! Move to Albuquerque. But then you’ll have to work at Target! And forget that whole ‘water’ thing. Want to surf? Fine! But then you will have to forgo any serious journalistic aspirations (at least ones they might pay you for) while you soak in the sun on the patio of your overpriced teeny-weenie apartment in Irvine. But maybe you’ll have time to fly out to Albuquerque! Want a challenging and rewarding job? Then move to D.C. or New York or…Topeka! But you can forget the whole family, boyfriend, surfing (or any other form of exercise) thing.

My god, by the time I get to be a fabulous, well-known figure in political, literary and generally important circles, I’m going to have more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei! And they’ll compare me to a hippopotamus too!

Enough of this tradeoffs BS. I want the whole thing—all of it, where I want it, when I want it, to the extent I want it, and with a salary that will let me buy bikini waxes again. Give it to me!—I want the all-you-can-eat option! Family! Great location that is also impossibly convenient for my boyfriend or any future significant other! Envy-inspiring job! Home on previously undiscovered surf break! Dish! It! Up!

I’m thinking of making that the objective on my resume.

I would very much like to write the following e-mail:

To: everyone I work with
From: R.
Subject: I apologize for any furture spelling smistakes in my emails

Dear All: It has reacently come to my attention that I spend fart oo much time editing emails. Even though I am the ASSistant editor with our company and my job is to meticulously edit our materials, and I do in fact pride myself in my ability to cath the tiniest of erors lilke an extra superscripted space or a period in the wrong font, i feel that in order too do my job as efficiently as possible, I need to eliminate this unnecessary and incredibly time-consuming elemnet of my work fprocess. From her eon out, please disregard any speling mistakes in any emails I send -knowing that i am fully aware of every aparently neglected homophone or unhyphenated prefix or any other misktae myou might concieve ably find in any of my further commmunications.

Thanks .r



We editors dream of such things.

It’s tough being an editor, let me tell you. It’s like being a vegetarian. Everybody feels subconsciously threatened by a presumed superiority on your part and tries to find any possible way to cut you down to size. Can you believe all the mean, little people out there!?!?

By the way, I saw Spiderman 2 the other day and I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised and even perhaps a wee bit inspired. Spiderman, in this movie, faces a choice that every citizen must make—whether to participate actively in the betterment of one’s community, or to say, “It’s not my problem.” Endowed with superhuman capabilities—and really, when we truly look in our heart of hearts, haven’t we all more than we think is humanly possible—Spiderman embraces his civic duty with idealistic fervor, only to cast it aside in favor of selfish pursuits. But then! He realizes that being a hero is in and of itself worthy and necessary, and that it requires a sacrifice that must be taken at all costs despite the fact that every other twit on the face of the planet seems free to wallow in self-absorption without consequences. And then he beats Doctor Octopus and gets the girl!!!

If we could all have just a little bit of Spidey in us, the world would be a better place. (Cue weepy, melodramatic score as overwrought and formulaic movie comes to a close, closeup of hero kissing heroine, kissy noises, and groans from the roommies. “Now why do they have to ruin a good action movie with this crap?” asks my boyfriend, who wouldn’t know a romantic moment from a laundry hamper (he is equally ignorant of both) even if I labeled them clearly and placed them in PLAIN VIEW.)

But that’s ok, we all have our strong points! Just like Spiderman 2.

In other news, I had to fight off the urge today to write in a nice little note to Barnes & Noble about how much I enjoyed my experience in their store. Being an active, involved consumer is so addictive! Maybe it's because it’s easier to get Target to listen to you than the government because they have an incentive to cater to you, thereby reinforcing our I me me my economy and more importantly my sense of accomplishment.

But their armchairs are seriously cushy. And the classical music they play makes me feel like I’m performing some kind of intellectual endeavor just by being there! It almost made me want to buy some Godiva. Almost. But I’m not going to fall for any of that cross-promotional, co-branding bullsh*t. I’m much too cynical for that. And besides, I heard on ♥NPR♥ that Godiva’s not even that good.

But I may write them yet.

Yes, I am now in the ranks of The New Yorker, HBO, and TiVo.

You may now subscribe.

Ladies and gentlemen, can we all just keep in mind that TERRORIST has THREE SYLLABLES. Three! Count ‘em: TERR-OR-IST. Not “terrist.” No.

No, no.

Despite what you may have heard on TV or the radio, there is no such thing as a “terrist.”

Even if you’re from Texas—there’s no such thing as a terrist! No! Such! Thing!

Have we got that straight? Now I don’t ever want to turn on the radio and hear anyone talking about terrists. Especially if they’re from Boston! Just because you work for the government, doesn’t mean you need to adopt a Southern drawl!

Also, while I’m complaining about semi-pointless things, NO. Since you asked. I do not want to check out my own groceries at the supermarket. I do not aspire to be a cashier! I haven’t spent months learning the codes for broccoli and organic pears or how to strategically place two items in each bag or where the bar code on a bag of Lays is! I have no desire to know these things! Why are you making me do your job and saying it’s a service to me? WHY? It’s quicker my ass! Do you know how long it takes the average consumer to find the goddamn code for chives? Oh, right, right—they’ll get faster. Why? Because people are learning to do a job you used to pay people to do! And now we have to do it ourselves! It’s not a goddamn service, ok? I’m tired. I worked all day. I go to the supermarket to get the over-caffeinated, too sweet and too salty products that give me that extra blood sugar spike I need to get through the day because I don’t get enough sleep because I’m too busy—checking out my own goddamn groceries! I don’t want to scan my own cheetos, ok? And I certainly don’t want the person in front of me to do it. Why why why are you making me do your job?

That’s not the only place it’s happening, either. Think about making travel arrangements. Used to be, you call up a travel agent, tell ‘em what you want, and they come back with a bunch of options. They knew the best airports, the best hotels, the best flights, and were there to help you book a different one when you got bumped. But now all these online companies offer us the great, liberating, cost-saving service of being our own travel agents. Yes, we get lower prices. But if you think you’re getting a lower price, all you’re really telling me is that your time is worth nothing.

This is why I’m so goddamn busy! If I’m not battling through two hours of moronic drivers to or from work, I’m checking out my own groceries, researching the best tickets, and eating cheetos! What ever happened to division of labor? Give me a husband who does the work and I’ll do the shopping. Why is it that everyone has to do both now? Why do I have to do my taxes? Why do I have to take out the trash? Why do I have to work for a living? Why do I have to have a career? Why? Why? Why?

Excuse me for a moment. I have to go get my cup of coffee.

Ok, back. Ah, nothing like a good shot of caffeine at 10 o’clock at night.

So I wrote an e-mail to Target yesterday. I said:

Dear Target, let me help you help me. I understand that you’re trying to offer everything I could possibly need or not need under one roof, Target—and I appreciate that. I like to be able to buy my milk where I buy my dress socks. It’s convenient. But seriously, Target, I do not have time to tramp all over your goddamn store in search of the cleaning agents section. Will it be next to sporting goods? Photography? Home furnishings? Who knows, Target, who knows. Certainly not I. But what I do know is that either you start handing out free pairs of walking shoes at the door, or you warn all the little old ladies in automatic wheelchair-shopping carts to watch the f*ck out. Because I am done, Target—done!—with wandering around your store for half an hour while all your employees hide behind L’il Miss thong underwear displays. YOU GOT THAT?

Then I told them they should put little maps at the end of every couple aisles. How genius is that! They are lucky they have a concerned consumer like me to help them get their heads out of their asses. I swear, one of these days I’m going to start shopping at locally owned, non-chain businesses.

But back to me being busy. Being busy makes me a bitch. And I really hate being a bitch except when it’s satisfying, so… Just kidding already! It’s never satisfying, ok? Don’t you remember that I’m chronically nice?

I have to say though: the honeymoon period with my job is over. Sure, I was enamored of it for a little while. “Infatuated” one might say. But after the initial glow wears off, there has to be something left to sustain the relationship. And I think our relationship may have lost its magic. It’s just not doing it for me anymore, ok? I’m not as attracted to it as I once was. Not that I’m superficial—but it hasn’t aged so well. In the month that I’ve known it.

Ah hell, am I just destined to be a job hopper? By the way. Megan? If you still read this? Can you please e-mail me your blog’s address? Because I am senile and forgot the name and you disabled your profile? Thanks.

I’m just not sure what it is that dulled the lustre of the former object of my affections. Maybe it began when I started calling it “the sure thing,” I dunno. Goddamnit, will I ever be happy?

Or maybe it’s the voluminous piles of crap they have laying around the office. Ok, no one ever accused me of being a neat freak, but it’s hard to concentrate when a pile of old mail is in danger of toppling over on your head. Everywhere I look—piles! Boxes! Random papers! Old magazines! Old competitors’ magazines! Muffins from last week! Desktop rock gardens! Layout sheets from 1997! There is no need for this magnitude of crap! Sometimes I have fantasies about coming in on a weekend and cleaning it all out. That’s how bad it is.

Speaking of crap—boy did I get the dirt on everyone in the office today! You always have to find the right person.

Ooh-ee. Did I hit the jackpot.

It seems I’m not the only person to notice the Irritated Gay Parachutist’s excessively irritated/-ing manner. Also, it’s been confirmed that the f*ck-me boot-wearing secretary (a.k.a. Vice President and boss’s wife) is an incurable chatterer, somewhat silly, and incredibly sweet. What do you do with a person like that? Do what they say, I guess. (She is the boss’s wife. And yeah, that’s the jackpot. I only work with 10 people, ok?)

Anyway, she’s on my good list because she lauded me the other day. Oh how I enjoy being lauded. Please, feel free to post laudatory comments at any time.

I feel so much better now. Perhaps the source of my doldrums was that I wasn’t complaining about it enough! Man, I am just too nice.

I bet you’re all wondering why I hate cactuses.

Or cacti.

Is it cacti? MS Word is giving me the green squiggly.

Ok, according to Merriam-Webster, it’s cacti – or cactuses.

See? It’s always a problem when there’s more than one of ‘em.

I went for a hike this weekend. It was a glorious, glorious day (see picture, previous post). The kind you can only appreciate in a state where rain is a constant companion, like Arizona. The sun was gentle and warm, the breeze just soft enough. The gravel crunched under my feet. Birds chirped. Sweaty kids road by on mountain bikes. It was one of those days where you just feel like all the good energy of the growing plants and a sun that rises and sets no matter what is just flowing into your veins, and you look up at the pale blue sky, out at the cool water trickling like lifeblood through the mountains to thirsty plants, and down at your feet, and realize there’s a cactus stuck to your ankle.

Ah, you think, the endlessly ingenious variations that Mother Nature has bestowed upon her children, as you gently grasp at the cactus spines.

But as tolerant of the cactus as you are, the cactus is not tolerant of you, the little fucker.

Deciding that it’s time to get serious with this plant, you pull at it harder, only to watch in horror as your skin stretches from your body and the cactus shows no signs of relinquishing your skin. And then a spine sticks you under your thumbnail. Mo$*(7@th34rFU&*ck#R!, you think.

And then your dog jumps into a cactus.

He is instantly coated in a layer of spines from the underside of his chin to in between his toes.

...And then he bites you while you brace him between your knees and try to get them off with a rock!

...And then people coming down the road laugh because they see a girl apparently riding an albino great dane!

...And then they get closer and see that she is hysterical!

...And then you still have that goddamn motherfucking cactus stuck to your ankle, and now there’s one stuck to your shin as well! F&#KERS!

That, my friends, is why I hate cacti.