I'm back, and worse than ever!

Hey world! Did you miss me? By your stunted silence I'll take that as a resounding YES. Although I've had my doubts about you these days...

The universe as a whole seems to be doing a back flip off the ropes and landing squarely on my face. I'm done with school for the summer. And although I have a regular work-a-day full time job, this means I won't be holed up every night doing grad school reading and actually have a social life. It's time to remember those people who regular social beings call friends and family members. It's time to drink!

But no, that crazy thing called life, she keeps messing shit up. I am, however, still making it a point to drink.

First off, I always thought the whiny bridesmaid riff was an overblown cliche. Guess what, it's not. Here is my official apology, Sloan Crosley (I shudder at myself writing this...must..go on). I'm planning a bachelorette party. Enough said.

And then there is my pitiful work-a-day job. It's reached a tsunami warning level of bad (sorry, Japanese and southeast Asian people, and Nate Berkus). There is nothing like looking for a new job to show you how little you are worth in the job market, and just how much frustration and rejection a disgruntled and agitated person can take (which is, by the way, not much).

Did I mention I'm planning a bachelorette party?

OK so this isn't the worst that could happen. It does, however, let me savor the gritty, metallic taste of suckiness in my life on a daily basis.

Stop, I know, you've read this before. But wait a second you big jerk face...I'm having a change of heart. Yes, a CHANGE OF FREAKING HEART.

If I have learned anything from movies, television, Victorian novels, and teen lit., this is how I'm supposed to grow into a better version of me, turn a corner, and show the good for nothing suits and terrible bridesmaids of the world that I can do this. That's right. The farcical comic menagerie of what is supposed to be my adult life has got to yield dividends at some point--at least in comic value alone. And it's no fun for the imagined viewers of the movie I like to pretend is my life if I string myself along moping the whole way.

Truth- I may never be able to own a home near my family, or any home (ever) due to requisite paycheck-to-paycheck living.

Truth- 4 years of life and work experience post-college seem to leave me with a grand future of office assistantship.

Truth- Oh damn I really need to get this dress altered like, yesterday.

But you know what. Fuck it. I'm gonna double down on suckiness. Like the Mormon dude in that play about Mormons that I'll never get tickets to. Like Goldie Hawn in Overboard! I'm gonna wriggle all the sad and ridiculous humor I can out of this. There really is no other way around it that won't lead to deep depression and a growing sympathy for the disturbed miscreants on Hoarders: Overweight Cat Ladies.

So Universe, you wanna mess with me? Go ahead. Try and ruin my 6 weeks of grad school freedom. If romantic comedies have taught me anything, there'll be a lot of laughs, some cake eating, sloppy drunken nights, a few moments of over-emotional sobbing, a shopping/makeover montage, and a trip to Paris and/or wedding to come out of this kind of life fuckery. Because that's what happens to the average girl in NYC all the time right? RIGHT?!

I'm just waiting until I can tell Anna Wintour to suck it (or Meryl Streep, either one will do in this scenario) and throw my phone in a fountain.

I'm waging twitter warefare

against Time Warner Cable.

I'm not sure if anything will come of it, but it's fun having a direct target for ranting purposes--a company that causes general misery across New York. Plebs unite!

Within minutes of my initial onslaught yesterday afternoon, I received a very polite response from the TW cable twitter help team, offering to contact someone to schedule yet another appointment (this would be number 3 in 3 weeks!). I'm continuing onward today, polite TW communication manual responses be damned.

If there is any monetary kick-back from pithy twitter rage, I'll know that the internet universe really does have a karmic energy of its own, and will commence in idol worship thusly.

Vengeance may or may not be mine! witness the drudgery at @calliejayevigg

my sister is writing a very funny blog

...check it out.

I'd also like to add that it's incredible to see how my sense of humor is so obviously leeched off of this woman.

My brothers are also hilarious, but in their own inimitable way. Don't worry, I wouldn't even think about it.

Thanks guys!

Glee is toxic sludge television

I saw a preview today of another Gwenneth Paltrow stint on Glee. Then it hit me like a hangover on Sunday morning. I already knew I had grown to loathe what is now a hodgepodge clip reel of a show that alternates as a steaming pile of studio cash, but now I knew why.

When the show premiered, I loved it (I'm an a cappella nerd, it totally made sense!). It went wrong after the first half of season one, just when the show reached the height of it's creativity and uniqueness. Then it went TANG.

Yes, Tang. We went from fresh squeezed OJ to an instant, saccharine, mass-marketed lesser copy of something great. The difference being that Glee is now produced for instant gratification only.

People like Gwenneth? Let's create a story line that barely makes sense and include popular songs that have no coherent connectivity to a developed narrative and shove the gal in somewhere. Toot sweet!

People like Christmas songs? Quick, get those kids in a recording booth and stuff jungle bells down their pants.

It's all too cash and carry, even for a musical program, which can and probably needs to divert from total seamlessness in a story line for the sake of a catchy tune every so often. Now people congratulate the show and heave a sigh of relief when an episode seems to have a true narrative arc. It's like giving your babysitter a tip for not setting your infant on fire. Stupid.

I never liked Tang, not even 5 Alive. I will not like you Glee, never more and always.

Everyone loves a charade.

I am an unequivocal fan of live television. From a baseball game to a presidential address, there is always the potential for something to happen in an instant that no one quite expected. I feel the enticing variable of the unknown flicker in my brain when I see LIVE on the screen.

Nowhere is the thrill of the immediate image event more exciting than television. Unlike the internet, which regurgitates content for the masses to view ad nauseam, TV allows simultaneous access to a unique event. And unlike simply attending an event, millions more can share in the experience to make it a collective one on televsion. It is in a single moment of surprise, horror, humor, or joy that every reaction is culled and every reproducible moment codified into popular culture and social consciousness.

Yet it seems that it is typically when the players in the live TV game fall hardest that our remembrance echos as vividly through the clip wheels. I'll have to think back, wayyyy back to let's see...well, Sunday to see this dynamic play out.

The Flopscars



The Oscars are like a big bubble of movie star fanfare. A lot of hot air, with a very thin superficial lining. In such a defining and self-congratulating span of a few hours, those would care to witness it at home are given free reign to admire, critique, or pop this celebrity bubble as they see fit. But above all, there is a characteristic and unifying satisfaction in building up the Oscars, or any live event like it, just to tear it down.

If the A list is so exclusive that the majority of us recognize we will never be on it, there is a definite kind of gratification to see the foibles and public missteps of the chosen few. However, due to recent events, I'm wondering how far this guilty pleasure, this jubilant schadenfreude, takes us down the rabbit hole.

It's one thing to suggest that Anne Hathaway and James Franco hate each other, now covered in the rubble of what is being panned as an Oscar hosting disaster. In the end, it won't really matter if one had the slightest twinge of feeling for the other. But along with the "Oscar curse" of Halle Barry's and Sandra Bullock's past are people who are having periods of person darkness amidst fame, with more critics than one could imagine watching and almost waiting for things burn up in flames. This kind of vulturizing is unfortunate, but not new or unexpected in our culture of celebrity. It is what some will call the price of fame.

"Unemployed Winner"

Now I hate to draw more attention to the Charlie Sheen funhouse of current lore, but I'm going to do it anyway.

I have to wonder what we as an adoring yet often cannibalistic audience are supposed to make of a person embracing their downfall, and creating a unfiltered television spectacle or event out of it. In a matter of days Sheen has gotten more press than we know what to do with. In a matter of hours he garnered more twitter followers without a single utterance than Justin Bieber did with plentiful hair shakes.

I guess what I'm wondering is, when does the LIVE event end and real life begin? Yes, they are supposed to be the same, but we all know that they're different. Real life doesn't come with boom mics and a lighting crew. It doesn't involve choreographed dance numbers and designer dresses. So if I'm not watching a charade anymore (and I think we can classify most "reality tv" as a charade at this point) then what I am watching? Should I be watching? And if I shouldn't be watching, why can't I turn it off? Is this still entertainment?

Whether in movie land or not, we as a society tend to cling to the mythology of second chances and happy endings. We champion those who make it through and support them, but we also neglect those that fall too far out of focus, or disappear entirely. It's a 50-50 game--which is sometimes more like Russian roulette--that we don't control, but we do perpetuate it as a media driven culture.

I'm following Sheen on twitter at the moment, but I fear his battery life may be shorter that a camera's. And when his runs out, and we're still watching, I'll probably have to ask myself how much I really love a charade.

when to say when

It’s about that time again. Something is firing between the synapses in my brain telling me that things have gone awry, and I know just what it is. Well, it also hit me blankly in the face today after two devastating meetings with two oracles of my non-existent future.

Let me explain. Like many aimless contemporary youths, I decided to live abroad for a year after graduation. Employers love that shit, right? Well, sorry to say it kids, but unless you saved a small village from a cholera epidemic, it doesn’t mean much. It does, however, give you something to talk about while avoiding the woeful topic of your lack of experience (always a sore subject). Anywho, I took the first job that was offered to me after I got back. It was at a great company, but doing a job I had no real interest in. Above all, it wasn’t the idealistic nonsense job that squanders the lives of so many female English majors like myself that I REALLY wanted. I longed for the hard, scrappy life of a toiling editorial assistant at a major publishing house, reading manuscripts by dim lamplight until I saw double. Give me your puny wages, your thankless office duties, your coffee orders! I wanted to (eventually) edit books.

Publishing is the soul sucking hellscape of undergraduate dreams gone terribly wrong. But I thought, hey I’ll make it there, oh yes, I will. Over 2 years later I find myself in the same first job that doesn’t lend it's skills to any other profession, and still doesn’t interest me as a long-term gig. I told myself in the beginning that it was just a starting-off point. I would network, make inroads, and SCHMOOZE! But in reality, I never broke out of my sad, windowless office with the random microwave in the corner. In my line of work, I tell a lot of people what they’re not supposed to do on television, so I’ll just say that there's no one waiting in line to be best friends.

So that brings me to today. In the same unimaginably brain-liquefying day, I met with an HR person from a major publisher AND had a talk with my current boss about my (lack of a) future in our department. In my defense, this was not my plan. It was some ill-fated cosmic alignment of existential horror. HR lady confirmed what I already knew; my chances to ever get a job in publishing, doing what I’m really interested in and (presumably) good at, are slim, very slim. And even if I hit that lottery, I’ll be starting at square one, and moving back home for lack of funds paid. A few hours later, my boss squarely, but compassionately, told me if no one leaves, no one (me) gets promoted. It’s sit and wait or get out of dodge. I’m free to walk to plank…back to entry level.

I’ll make it clear right now that I’m well aware how lucky I am to even have a job right now. I’ll be the first to admit I have no one to blame but myself for this haunted house of careerdom I’ve created. I chose this bum ride, and I’m taking it until I tuck-and-roll out the passenger side door. I just have to decide what I’m bailing out for.

Look for a job I don’t want to earn more money, scratch and claw for a job I want that sets me back 2 years, many dollars, and my independence, or suck it up and deal with what I’ve got. What’s a girl to do?

I guess what I’m really asking myself is, how do I know when to say when? I’ve got a lot of things I’m trying to accomplish at once, and at some point my withering New York soul is going to need a reprieve from this tension. My father, an incredibly smart and successful businessman (when I declared my major I heard his heart break), always said that he never knew if he was making the right choices with his career, he just took chances and it happened to pan out. While I’m sure that is supposed to be reassuring, I find it just plain terrifying. It’s times like this when I wonder if everything I thought I’d figured out about what I want to do with my life was just BS to make it through family dinners.

The truth is I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. What I do know is that I’ll have to sacrifice something to make a change in my current situation, and every possibility seems agonizing. It’s real adult decisions like these that make me feel like I need a security blanket and a bottle of grape Dimetapp. Can I push myself to make decisions for my future when said future is so unavoidably uncertain? When there are no guarantees, how can you ever know when? When to give up a vain, idealistic hope in the name of practicality, when to fight for something that may never pay off (literally), and when to shut the hell up and take what you’ve got because it’s better than nothing.

Maybe it’s all not so cut and dry. Perhaps there is a compromise somewhere in here. And of all these paths in the woods, each one seems to be well traveled by those that came before me. I know that I’m not alone on this island. But I haven’t found a compromise yet, and sometimes, it’s hard not to get flustered when I can’t say where I’m going, let alone how I’ll get there.

let's hear a toast...

I've always been a lady of many opinions. Never one to shy away from telling just about anyone who would bother to listen how I felt about a given topic--a movie, book, album, TV show...what have you--it's clear to me that sometimes I can be kind of a D-bag. I would venture to say that I have in no way reached Kanye levels, but I'm the person who pushes it just a bit too far on occasion. Far enough that I can't escape having others take notice.

There are times when I use the justification that I tell it like I see it. Good old honestly, it never (almost always) fails. There's also that itch to call people out on their bs with a well-placed eye roll. Then there are moments when I think I'm just plain right (there, I said it). You know, sometimes I just can't help it. It's like I have no filter of decorum to mediate how people are perceiving me. Or maybe it's just that in a fleeting instant I don't have the will to care. Certainly, I've made some enemies and hurt some feelings along the way, all of which is hopefully outweighed by the redemptive efforts I've made to be an acceptable, decent person in this life. Somebody you could even like from time to time. But there's nothing mistaking the sideways gut-punch feeling of recognizing your own douchiness staring right at you, telling you what an asshole you can be.

It happened while I was reading I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley on the train the other week. Anticipating big things after a number of girlfriends chalked her up to being the female David Sedaris (no small feat), I eagerly set out to enjoy a dose of wit and happenings gone awry. To my astonishment, I found myself hating it. Loathing it. HATE LOATHING it. I couldn't stop getting pissed at her hackneyed single girl, big city, awkward situations surrounding dating and marriage backdrop. Her disastrous publishing job and run-ins with psycho brides-to-be. Didn't she know that hoards of people already sang that song? Did she not see "Bridget Jones' Diary"? [see also "Bridget Jones 2: Hugh Grant's Revenge]

Then I knew what had transpired. Amidst the dry humor and lady-situated comedic incidents, I hated her for writing things that I would probably have written about myself. My brain instantly started to disassemble her quips and tear them to tiny, insignificant fragments because, in my vainglorious and twisted mind, I wished I had beat her to it. Honestly, I was being a dick.

What does this say about me? Am I a jealous person? I'd like to think not, and that, overall, I can appreciate the fine work of other writers, especially young lady ones. It just so happens that every so often, I'd like to supplant my plot with that of another, and the chasm between me and them makes me want to lash out irrationally. It's part of who I am. It's part of who you are too. It's why we gossip about celebrities, and that skank-bot at the party getting all of the attention from a certain someone. I guess that's what happens when I'm being a jerk, I put my own desire to assert my opinion before checking it with sanity and an occasional dash of sobering humility.

Will I stop being opinionated? That's an emphatic no. Even though some people would like to have it outlawed. I will, however, own up to the fact that I let my douchiness run away with me from time to time. If you can accept that about me, then hey, I'll accept that about you. Because as Professor of Life Kanye so aptly tells us (and shows us), there are D-bags everywhere. It would be silly to deny it, so maybe we should just acknowledge it and I'll try to keep it in check. And to that, I raise my glass to all of you...assholes.