Mom wins.

Sometimes my mom and I will call each other to let each other know how shitty our days are going. I think it helps the other one feel better about their relatively less-shitty day. This started when I went to college and I'd call home and complain about school work and how there was never anything at the dining halls I liked. Once I called home and had to say, "Hi. I'm calling from Kristin's phone because I got drunk last night and lost mine." Sometimes she'll call and say, "I just got home from Massachusettes. My plane was delayed and I spent three hours at the airport. Then the traffic on 95 was really bad. I hope you're having a better day than I am."

Lately, my mom's been winning the Shitty Day Contest, since this summer she's spent a lot of time at the hospital or over at my grandparents' house. After my grandmother died, she's been dealing with my grandfather, who is obviously having a rough time as well. My grandparents had a woman stay with them during the day and helping them run errands, but she would leave in the afternoon, so my mom has been responsible for getting my grandfather food for dinner and staying with him at night.

So in the last few weeks, she's been having a shitty time. When I'd call her and complain about how everything that could possibly go wrong during the move did, in fact, go wrong, she'd reply with, "I'm taking your grandfather to Richmond tomorrow to look at assisted-living facilities." She'd always win.

When I got home on Friday I saw that I had a missed call from her. I assumed that meant bad news because I call home so often now that they only call me to tell me something bad has happened. I listened to the voicemail and it concerned the woman who has been working for my grandparents for about six years now: "She stole your grandmother's credit card and went on vacation."

Apparently, the woman took the credit card and charged about a thousand dollars worth of stuff on it. She spent about six hundred dollars at Wal-Mart, which seems about right, because if I were to steal someone's credit card, I'd most certainly go on a Wal-Mart shopping spree. She also took the bill when it came in the mail, thinking she could pay off the charges before anyone noticed. My mother, however, is obsessed with bills, and since she had actually used the card to buy something my grandparents needed, she noticed when the bill didn't come in the mail. After calling the credit card company and finding out that there was a payment of three hundred dollars recently posted, she became suspicious and had them tell her what the last charges were.

So now she's fired (even though, after paying my grandfather back in cash, she asked if she could still work for him), my father had to change the locks at my grandfather's house, and my mother has absolutely no idea what to do now. Also, my grandfather turned ninety on Saturday, and when I asked him if he felt ninety, he replied, "Today I do."

I'd much rather deal with leasing agents and U-Haul employees. Thanks, Mom, for putting it into perspective for me.

Gross.

Okay, I realize everybody poops and it's not a big deal, and I shouldn't feel embarrassed about carrying huge packages of toilet paper home from Jewel because everyone uses toilet paper, but seriously, when I go into the bathroom down the hall and the person in the toilet stall sounds like he's buffing the hood of a car, I feel kind of uncomfortable.

It's just so ironical.

So I've come to a point where I've had it up to here with irony. I don't mean irony as a whole because I still think it's an important literary device that has translated well into film and television (I think the best example is Reno 911!, which pokes fun at racism by being offensive, or The Daily Show, which tricks my generation into learning what's actually going on in the world by making fun of the news). I'm really sick of the Snakes of the Plane variety of irony. It's a by-product of the kitsch / "Vote for Pedro" culture we're all stuck in. And I'm kind of over it. I don't think it's funny anymore, because it's just gotten so exhausting to think that everyone is pulling this elaborate practical joke on everyone else, but it's not really the case.

The major problem with this kind of irony is that it's not ironic at all. And let's not slip into the kind of Alanis Morissette conversation ("Isn't it ironic that 'Ironic' isn't ironic?"). It's just the lack of sincerity that's bugging me. Irony seems to be misused to rationalize low-brow culture. I know I'm guilty of using it in that way, but I can rationalize it, and I think that's the problem with the misuse of irony: people are saying things are ironic because they can't rationalize why they do things. For example, why do I watch Next! on MTV? I'm not doing it in an ironic way. I think it's funny. It's entertaining. I'm laughing at the people on the show, but that's the whole point of any realty dating show at this point.

There. See how easy that was? I'm not embarrassed by it.

I fully admit to enjoying certain movies in "ironic" ways. For example: Mommie Dearest. There's a movie about a woman abusing her daughter that was so melodramatic and overacted that it became funny. Or Showgirls, which was supposed to be this "comment" on the fetishization of Vegas and how the culture uses women. At the premiere of Showgirls, Kyle MacLachlan walked out, allegedly saying that he thought the movie was supposed to be an art film.

But do those movies lose their irony when special edition DVDs are released that specifically market their campy aspects?

It's mostly the fake-irony found here that really gets to me. At the same time, however, I love it when I see young white men wearing Che Guevara t-shirts. That's a kind of irony I can appreciate.

I'm not trying to make any bold statements with this post, so don't take any of this the wrong way. It's just something I've been thinking about lately. I mean, wouldn't it just be great if we could just be sincere about things? Did you really love Raising Helen because, for some reason, you found it funny? Well, fucking say so. I can appreciate someone's opinion if it's different from mine if it's actually based on something.

Having said that, it's really refreshing to be honest right now and admit that last night I watched She's the Man and laughed really hard for an hour and a half. I'm not ashamed because it was funny and, when asked, I can tell you why.

An Open Letter to Zach Braff.

Hey Dude,

Wassup?

So I was looking on Amazon this morning and found the soundtrack to your new movie. (By the way, what's it like to have that creepy guy from Ghost direct you in a film? I guess you'd imagine he could handle it since he also directed this gem.)

Anyway, I was reading that you had a hand in picking the songs for the soundtrack, which is, like, so sweet, right? Let's take a look at what you picked:


1. Snow Patrol - "Chocolate"
2. Joshua Radin - "Star Mile"
3. Turin Brakes - "Pain Killer"
4. Coldplay - "Warning Sign"
5. Cary Brothers - "Ride"
6. Athlete - "El Salvador"
7. Imogen Heap - "Hide and Seek"
8. Rachel Yamagata - "Reason Why"
9. Ray LaMontagne - "Hold You In My Arms"
10. Remy Zero - "Prophecy"
11. Fiona Apple - "Paper Bag"
12. Aimee Mann - "Today's The Day"
13. Amos Lee - "Arms Of A Woman"
14. Rufus Wainwright - "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk (Reprise)"
15. Joshua Radin & Schuyler Fisk - "Paperweight"

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Oh, what? Sorry. I kinda just dozed off there. It's amazing, Zach, how exhausting your blandness is.

But hey, at least I have something to buy my mom for her birthday!

Chicago: Part Two.

I'm going to try to avoid the sentimental shit that I'll probably end up writing anyway, so just bear with me here.

It's been a week shy of a year since I moved to Chicago. It's weird. It feels like more of a landmark than the one-year-out-of-college anniversary did. I moved here without any idea of what I would do with myself. I knew that I had sixteen hundred dollars and a few friends out here to help me along. The money's pretty much gone, although I've made a little bit back. The friends have stayed, save for Laurie (who I wish didn't have to go back because I miss her like crazy).

I was talking to Janna a few nights ago about this last year. She asked me if I felt like I was "older and wiser" than I was a year ago. I told her then that I felt younger and dumber than I did last August. I think if she asked me the same question last night, I would have given her a different answer. It's a cliché, of course, but I feel like I was thrown into adulthood without any idea of what to do. I still don't know what to do. I don't know how to be an adult and I catch myself feeling like I'm playing dress-up and I'm sure that everyone else around me is completely aware of how insecure I feel. I seem to always be the youngest person in the room, no matter where I am, which is odd because a couple of weeks ago I thought that, at twenty-three, I'd start to feel a little bit older (but I was thankful that I'm not turning twenty-four in September because that is old). A few months ago I kept having panic attacks about my age, thinking that I'd be a failure if I didn't make something of myself by the time I was thirty. I realize now how ridiculous that idea is.

This past month has been a living hell for me, as if I was in my car on the way to adulthood, driving ninety miles an hour, only to discover that "adulthood" is actually just a big brick wall in the middle of the road. I had to go home and see everything I grew up with at a different angle – an angle that was from a higher elevation than before. I saw my family in different lights, realized how everyone else is growing old, too. The trip home sealed the deal for me: there's nothing back there for me and it's no longer home. I’m not going to eventually settle there, and thankfully my family understands that.

I've come to think of myself as a more independent person lately. I've been thinking a lot about past and present friendships. I realize that I shouldn't, and will no longer, put more stock into relationships with other people than others are willing to contribute, because I'll just end up bitter, exhausted, and poor. When I do find myself in good friendships, though, I find myself to be extremely grateful, satisfied, and rewarded.

I'm glad I have a (mostly) definite plan for the first part of my tour though graduate school. I'm extremely thankful that my job has the benefits that it offers. It may have taken much too long for me to get it, and it may not be the most exciting work, but it was worth the wait and worth the monotony.

I think one thing I want to look forward to in the next year is the opportunity for optimism. I've decided that I really can't let shit get me down anymore. I think that the move into a new apartment has helped me see that. It was hell getting here; there was an incredible amount of stress that drove me absolutely mad. But the crazy is this: I'm here now. I'm so goddamn happy with the place despite the very minor flaws. I feel like all of that trouble was actually worth it. Like the job situation, the apartment worked out perfectly. I think that it serves as a lesson: when things start piling up, and I start to worry about things, I need to just sit back, breathe, and chill out. When situations and other people start to bother me, I'm just going to say Fuck It and let it go. There's no sense in making myself sick over bullshit like that.

It's so funny to think that the move is what sparked all of this, but I honestly think that's what it is. This new apartment is just what I needed: a fresh, brand new space.

But I am kind of pissed that Bravo isn’t on the cable lineup.

Nine things I'm happy about:

1. MY NEW FUCKING APARTMENT IS OFF THE HOOK, Y'ALL.

2. Seriously, my new place makes me so happy. I feel like I'm in a friggin' relationship. With an apartment. I want to do it so bad.

3. The Pitchfork Music Festival is this weekend and it's going to be terrific.

4. U-Haul totally tried to screw me over on Friday and not only did I not let them, I totally screwed them.

5. My room is the shit. THE. SHIT.

6. SERIOUSLY. MY APARTMENT IS BEAST.

7. There's only one real bar in my neighorhood that attracts the LP crowd, and that's about one-hundred less bars than my old neighborhood.

8. Writing cheap, sell-out blog posts that wrap up an entire week of my life in a list. Sorry, dudes, I promise I'll write a real one tomorrow!

9. This video:

DON'T JUDGE ME. It makes me LOL for realz.

It's a tough world out there for modern-day career ladies.

I have this new obsession: comic strip blogs.

This started when Steve showed me Permanent Monday, which is dedicated to the daily Garfield comics. And it was g l o r i o u s. Then I started reading The Comics Curmudgeon, which makes fun of several comics, ranging from For Better For Worse to Mark Trail.

After having a day-long obsession with Mary Worth, the longest-running soap opera comic strip about the crazy life of an elderly woman living in a condominium (Disclaimer from the MW publisher: "The reader is asked to remember that Mary Worth stories are not about Mary. They are about a continuing parade of people who enter Mary's life. If you look closely, you may recognize one of your neighbors — or even yourself."), I've moved on to a new favorite: Apartment 3-G.

This is what the publisher has to say about Apartment 3-G, in case you're to lazy to click the link and read it yourself:

Apartment 3-G was created in 1961 by psychiatrist Dr. Nicholas P. Dallis. Already the originator of two successful soap-opera comic strips, Rex Morgan, M.D. and Judge Parker, Dr. Dallis wanted to turn his attention to a phenomenon that was sweeping the nation: working women.

To do this, Dallis realized that he could not rely upon tried-and-trite stereotypes. With his keen insight into human nature, he created three women with whom his readers could identify because of their humanity, their strength and the truth of their portrayals. Sharing a New York apartment has enabled these three unmarried career women to come together in a place of strength, to meet head-on the challenges they face every day, and to become more than friends and closer than sisters.

Apartment 3-G is one of the few strips that has not fallen behind the times; rather, the world has sped to catch up with it. More contemporary than ever, the strip speaks directly to the new generation of women who try to juggle careers, men and friendship. Today Apartment 3-G is written by Margaret Shulock and drawn by Frank Bolle.

Whenever readers feel they need a friend, they know they can always find one in Apartment 3-G.

Now doesn't that sound great? A comic about three working women, all with different hair colors, living together in The City?

But seriously, let's analyze the second-to-last paragraph, shall we?
Sharing a New York apartment has enabled these three unmarried career women to come together in a place of strength, to meet head-on the challenges they face every day, and to become more than friends and closer than sisters. Now, let's zoom right in on the last sentence: ...to become more than friends and closer than sisters.

Do you think this means that they'll eventually become lesbians, or is this just the kind of bullshit Chicken Soup for the Soul kind of empty statement that makes absolutely no sense? Whichever the case, I CANNOT wait to find out what happens!

Also, I'd like to examine something in the last paragraph: Apartment 3-G is one of the few strips that has not fallen behind the times; rather, the world has sped to catch up with it. More contemporary than ever, the strip speaks directly to the new generation of women who try to juggle careers, men and friendship.

Now, take a look at the actual strip:

I've lived with three girls before, and I'll tell you one thing: Apartment 3-G is as contemporary as it gets.

The only thing weirder than Fresca is Tab!

I've never had Tab. Tab really confuses me - I just don't get it.

My main memory associated with Tab is of my godmother. My family would go to Nags Head every year with my godparents. I remember my godmother buying packs of Tab to last her the week, but she'd only drink one a day because that was back when everyone thought saccharin would give you cancer. I guess she thought that by drinking only one a day, her risk of getting cancer would be lower than if she drank more than one can a day. That's an interesting idea. It's kind of like only allowing yourself one unprotected sexual encounter with a stranger each year. (I'd like to note that the fear of saccharin-induced cancer did not stop my mother from putting two packets of Sweet'N Low* in her coffee and tea.)

Now that saccharin apparently won't give you cancer (thanks, scientists!) I wonder if my godmother allows herself more than one Tab a day. Because I think if we didn't have to worry about The Clap, we'd throw those condoms right out the window.




*Fun fact! Saccharin is banned in Canada, so Sweet'N Low uses the artificial sweetener cyclamate, which is banned in the United States.

Out of whack.

I'm tired. And hot. And cold, somehow, at the same time. It's ninety-two outside right now and it's not even nine yet. Inside, it's probably forty degrees, since I sit right below the vent. But I'm still sweating from walking to the train an hour and a half ago. I keep thinking of those poor gay athletes (gathletes? can we please call them gathletes?) at the Gay Games this week sweating their balls off in the name of equality. They're the real heroes.

We signed our lease. We're moving in on Friday evening. Our apartment is the shit. I'm excited as hell, even though the next five days will be hell. I keep thinking that I've just got a lot of cleaning and packing to do and that it'll all be worth it. I'm excited to get out of Wrigleyvile. On Saturday, as Nicole and I walked down our street, I almost had one of the hilarious slip-ups where someone steps on a banana peel and then falls flat on his back. Except that it was vomit, not a banana peel. I'm so happy that in our new neighborhood, which is on the border between Lakeview and Lincoln Park, people have enough class to throw up on the grass.

Here's my second disgusting story from the weekend: I cleaned out the refrigerator, finally. I expected to find at least one flaming bag of poop, considering the smells coming from the thing, but I only found a few bags of soft apples, a plastic container of what used to be cherry tomatoes, and some grey turkey slices. I was completely disgusted until I found two Red Stripes hiding in the back (those stubby little bottles are so stealthy!). I grabbed them, yelled out, "Sweet, dude!" and drank them. Which is probably why I have a headache now.

I'm too spaced-out to come up with a good conclusion, so I'm posting this picture, because I don't understand it:

Dress you up in my love.

I have issues (surprise!) with my wardrobe.

I hate all of my work clothes. I basically have two pairs of black pants that I bought from H&M that I wear over and over. I have plenty of other pants; before I moved to Chicago my mother made me to go the mall (Virginia Center Commons! Word up, Ashland!) to buy work clothes. Of course, my mother is from the school of work fashion where double-pleated khakis are hot shit! We don't really see eye-to-eye on this. I broke down and bought pants from H&M because, unlike Dockers, that's a brand that actually fits me. When you have skinny legs and don't really have an ass, Dockers just look like khaki-colored tarps. With pleats and tapered legs. There's absolutely nothing attractive about that, and for someone as vain as I am, this is an issue that I find very, very frustrating.

My mother has similar feelings about the shirts men should wear in dressy situations. Usually the shirts she recommends have sleeves that are about a foot and a half in circumference. If the shirts in question are short-sleeved, then the sleeves usually come down to the elbows. When I buy a shirt that actually fits, one that doesn't look like I bought it from Structure in 1997 (remember when we all wore shirts that could fit whole families?), she fusses about them being too small.

This is the woman, mind you, whose wardrobe from the years 1985 to 2002 was essentially the same. She finally bought some straight-leg jeans after I told her that if she continued with the Mom Jeans I would put her on What Not To Wear. I think the fear of being embarrassed on television was a good tactic.

I digress. My main concern is that I hate all of my work clothes. Also, I have this issue with the business casual policy in my office, because looking at everyone else, I don't think I understand how casual we're allowed to be. Everyone else wears khaki pants and collared shirts, but they don't look dressy; instead, it's kind of like the dress code for retail pharmacies or something. And then here I am, dressed in black pants and button-up shirts. Well, not today, because it's Friday, and we get to wear jeans. Thankfully, Fridays are when I'm able to dress normally and remind people here that I don't dress like a square all of the time. TGIF.

When I come to work and see people wearing sneakers (black ones, of course, because black equals dressy, right?), it kind of reminds me of when we used to go to Sunday School when we were little. My mother would always make us wear those stupid dress clothes, because it was church and everything. And then of course, there were kids who showed up in jeans and Redskins jerseys. I actually don't even know who the kids were; there was one woman who never got to bring her own grandchildren to church, so I think she drove around town picking up ragamuffins and carting them to worship away their sins. (This is the Episcopalian church from my mother's side of the family I'm talking about. I'm not even going to get started on my father's family's Southern Baptist church where a few kids may have crawled out of dirt holes in the parking lot.)

Because I didn't care about church (kind of like how I don't care about work...), I basically would spend the hour figuring out WHY those kids were allowed to wear jeans and Nikes when I had to wear those goddamn Dockers and Bass shoes (shoes, which I should add, eventually went to my mother; yes, my mother wears my hand-me-downs sometimes).

I still notice this when I go home for holidays and am dragged to services. There's this one kid who my whole family has a general dislike for, and I promise it's not just because he goes to UVA (even though for generations we've all had a general dislike of UVA students, which, I realized lately, mostly applies to male UVA students). We actually don't like him because he's an asshole. My father always tells this story about how he asked the kid about college parties (you know, he was just trying to be the "cool" fifty-something dad), only to receive the answer, "Oh, we don't drink at The University." My father replied, "You're one-hundred-percent full of shit." (This happened in church, by the way.)

Sorry, I digress again. Once when I went home for the summer and went to church with my parents, I saw Dudester there wearing what my parents call The Uniform: blue Oxford shirt and khakis and loafers. Only, instead of loafers, he was wearing flip flops. In church. Jesus wept.

I guess the point of all of this (hey, it's Friday, and I enjoy...reading the writing of my voice? nevermind, it doesn't work with blogs) is that I am trying really hard to not feel guilty about not looking my best all of the time, because, honestly, who am I trying to impress? If every Chicago woman's idea of professionalism involves gaucho pants and the most uncomfortable looking wedgies I have ever seen in my life, I shouldn't be concerned about occasionally wearing a sweater with a hole in the sleeve.