An interview with anonymous

I’m walking down a hallway.

I know her name, her title, what car she drives. I know she has kids, a husband, maybe an old dog. I know she prefers blazers over cardigans. Tea to coffee. Silver to gold. I know she favors orders to questions, demands to requests and slams to knocks. I know these things because I’m observant, I’m watchful and honestly, it’s pretty easy to pick up on a few personality idiosyncrasies after several months of just paying a little attention. I could be anyone. I am anyone.

We’ve met. Once during a 10-second elevator ride regarding the weather and once, because I bravely said hello. She nodded and half-smiled. She has absolutely no idea who I am.

I am invisible. I am minuscule. I am Jack’s perfectly camouflaged office attire set to a quintessentially unoffending background of a sea of file cabinets and a yellow fluorescent lighted sky. I am a thousand girls before me and every one who will come after. I am a continuous giggle playback of top 40 hits and an endless Vogue reel of cheap trendy patterned cotton.

I could be anyone. I am no one.

Green is the color of 2013. Green laces and green tights and green carpet. I’ve gotten good at looking at my shoes when there’s no where else to look. And my finger nails. I don’t paint them as much anymore. Chipped fingernails are almost as bad as wearing out of season shoes. It’s a Glamour don’t. I do my best.

A plush corner office is all relative in a dying business. What’s plush anymore? What’s it like to be so shiny that you’re six inches taller than everyone who’s ever worked for you? Being so tall, it’s easy to kick instead of walk. This office is a soccer field. It’s full of balls. We’re all just balls.

“…The more powerful you get, the more you’ll be judged and scrutinized, on display. You’ll miss things– vacations, sunsets, moments with your family. Some people in your life will never accept your priorities. Not everyone can withstand the pressure.”

We graduated. We all graduated and we get to be interns and assistants and get coffee and get good at smiling and saying yes. Some of us are good at it. Some of us learn something. Some of us get Lucky. Some of us don’t.

We’re told we can be anything we want if we go to college. We’re told that and then we graduate and get criticized when we think we’re too good to do anything less than our dreams of being anything we want to be! But you know what? We finally got it. We get in the back of the line. We bite our tongues. We squint back tears. We make new coffee. We do it right this time.

“…So now you know you can have my life. You can do what I do. Because you can sacrifice the things that need to be sacrificed.”

You did what you had to do to get where you are. You yelled. You stomped. You cursed. You hung up the phone. You got ahead. You did it. You are someone. YOU ARE SOMEONE.

And I guess we all want to be shiny. We all want to be noticed and nonchalant about our own perfection. To dance around our own reputable timeless importance. Like look at me! Look at me! Look at what I did.

“….But what if I can’t do that? I mean, what if that’s not what I want?”

Look at you.

You are Jack’s ultimately inevitable karma. You are Jack’s sad bitter end.

You could be anyone.

“…Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Andrea. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us.”…..–Miranda Priestly, The Devil Wears Prada

I’m never going to be you.

Van·i·ty Fair: n. a vain and frivolous lifestyle especially in large cities

A little snippet about Lemony Snicket

One time when I was 10 I went to a book signing of one of my favorite authors at the time, Lemony Snicket (who is actually not a real person but a pen name and it’s all very complicated and you probably don’t understand) and I went up to him and asked him for advice on someone who was going to write a book someday. I suppose whoever he was pretending to be wanted to really resonate with me because he stared at me very intently and said:

“You want to write a book?? Don’t. Because you’ll cry for years and years and years and then it will never be how you want it to be and you’ll be devastated and confused.  Instead, you should go swimming or learn how to sew.” 

If you’ve ever read “A Series of Unfortunate Events” then you will understand that this was simply his way of encouraging me to follow my dreams and thus, I smiled and thanked him and told him I would do everything he suggested. And though I never learned how to sew, I was quite the cross stitcher for a very serious stretch of the second half of 5th grade. I also decorated cakes in contests for 4-H (Google it) and for a  short period of time, we had a bunny named Pumpkin who used to escape from her cage and lay on the couch when we came home from the store.

Also, I was on the swim team and my very first day of practice the coach said ok everyone go do 100. And I thought he meant 100 laps and so immediately I got out and told my dad ok let’s get out of here, no way I’m doing 100 laps. I can’t even do 12 ( I was a cute but chubby child) and then my dad asked the coach about it and the coach said 100 was actually 4 laps. And I was like Oh. I can probably do that. So I went back into the water and I was on the team I think for about a year before I was like wait I’m just swimming in circles and then they give me a ribbon if I win and I’m kind of McKayla Maroney unimpressed about all of this. Also swim caps are kind of creepy and speedos make me uncomfortable.

My point here is that sometimes you actually shouldn’t learn how to sew or go swimming. You should just write a book even if it will probably make you cry because really that’s what you were supposed to do in the first place. Also, if you are a cross-stitching, swim cap wearing, cake decorating, bunny owning, slighty chubby pre-teen.. you can blame boys not liking you until well into high school entirely on children’s book authors.

The end. 

Blogalicious: (definition- make them readers crazy)

I have one hour.

 Let’s do this.

We don’t have a kitchen table and for some reason I do my best writing sitting in a chair at a table. Not a desk. Specifically a table. I tried sitting on the floor, my bed, my couch– nothing. I blame my lack of kitchen table entirely on my lack of writing.  It’s not me, it’s the absence of very specific furniture needs within my household.

I’m not a couch girl.

It’s like sports players who have a ritual before a game. My lucky socks routine. My special game day breakfast. I MUST SLEEP WEARING THIS PAIR OF UNDERWEAR. Yes, precisely.

But right now, I don’t have an excuse so let’s do this.

I’m at a table sitting in a chair writing at a coffee shop that closes in approximately one hour.

As with most things in my life, the answer is usually “it takes time” and the solution is endless waiting. I’m going to go ahead and drop this previous sentence into the wishing well of why I haven’t written recently as well.

I’m not really that good of a “blogger” as it turns out. If I were to give a definition to the terminology blogger, I would say they write about ~1- 3 times a week. They talk about  cute things like recipes and exercise and it’s usually a pretty short read and asks questions at the end like, “what did you do this weekend?” and “how will you reach your 2013 goals?” and “what bad mistakes did YOU make on new years eve?” and “Where is my dignity?” and… sorry. Obvious side tracking.

..I’m a terrible cook.

I made some shrimp scampi tonight!! … but it’s a recipe I found on pinterest that you nuke in the microwave. Prettttttyyy fantastic. I’m a culinary goddess.  I thought it was pretty gnarly step up from the normal cooking I do which involves frozen stir fry vegetables and string cheese. But I look good in an apron! It’s all about appearance.

It’s possible to make terrible health related decisions.

In June of last year, in a moment of health and fitness related insanity, I bought a year long membership to the MOST EXPENSIVE GYM IN ALL THE LAND, and have been pretty much regretting this particular choice every 15th of the month since about September. I was blinded by their eucalyptus infused moist toilettes and the beautiful men on the treadmills. They do this on purpose you know. I think they date raped me with gym related rophynol. AND In an effort to hide from my decision, I rarely go because being there makes me feel like I’m paying alimony for a child I’m not sure is mine. Like I like it and everything but also I feel like a line in Gold digger and that Kanye West is making fun of me behind my back and is there any worse feeling? The logic here is flawed. I admittedly have a problem.

Relationships. Let’s discuss.

Ahhh, my love life. HA-larious material for blogs! Too bad you all read it. I’m forced to write about personal trainers and burrito men and boys with no first or last name, and the worst kisser I ever met last week at the Victorian who I also told to read my blog so SORRY if you are reading this but dude. Come on. Be thankful I told you.

Anyway. Wouldn’t it be fun if I could just say who I’m talking about Taylor Swift?! You’re the only one who understands me.

I tried to explain cryptically in lyrics too but felt that “we are never, ever, ever getting back together” was still a little force-fed obvious for my liking.

So maybe a more mature alternative comes in the immortal lyrics of Don Henley regarding a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac. What’s it say again?

Oh yeah.

Don’t look back. You can never look back.

Eating cupcakes before bed is probably a bad idea. Doing it anyway. 

I bought a dream catcher last week and hung it over my bed. Last night I had this terrible dream where the rapture happened (see: last chapter in bible) and my mom disappeared right in front of me and I was on the beach and I was squinting really hard trying desperately to believe in God so that I could go up to heaven too but then I was too late and I got stuck and scared and I saw some cupcakes sitting next to me so I started eating them. It was terrifying. What the hell is wrong with my brain? Also, it reminded me of an episode of girls but with like severe religious undertones.

I. hate. the. word. blog.

I don’t really care how you reach your 2013 goals because most of them will be vague and unattainable and broken by next weekend anyway. I think that gives you much more anxiety than you need so I am going to do everyone a favor and not ask.

I could tell you that I’m going to learn how to cook. I could tell you I’m going to go to my gym more. I could tell you that I’m finally, finally going to move on from relationships from my past and take control of my future and stop being so heady and finally  immediately halting all eating of cupcakes directly before bed. But instead, I’m going to tell you this.

I can’t tell you when I am going to write next. I can’t keep to a schedule. I’m a flaky, random, spontaneous, emotional, weird, awkward person. And I’m not a blogger. I just like to write.

And my goal in 2013- I’m going to finally do something with that. Something much longer and better than you’ve read here. I don’t know what that means yet but I’m going to spend the time that I don’t spend writing little short anecdotes about a new pumpkin bread recipe you have to try! or selfie shots and where to buy my outfit! for the real bloggers. And in the mean time, I’m going to start writing something that means something to me.

I don’t want to write for a magazine. I don’t want to write for a newspaper. I don’t want to work my way up, fact-checking and doing some beats column regarding things I don’t care about. I don’t want to ask celebrities what they are wearing or “what inspired you for this very important oscar nominated role?” Or “Just how do you manage it all and still have that booty?” I don’t want to do a story about the latest and greatest beauty treatment. I don’t want to half-ass how much I love to write. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it my way. And my way is on my own time in a chair at a table somewhere in Venice, California staring at a cute barista who is going to kick me out of here in oh, about 10 minutes. (but not before I get his name. See? I never learn.)

So yes, I’ll still be writing in here. As spottily and randomly as I’ve always been. You’ll get to tune in on my life from time to time and see where I’m going and where I’ve been.

Hot Barista says times up. Bummer.

What did you learn? What do you think? What is my point?

Well….

Last year, I moved to California…..

This year?

..I’m going to show you why.

To 2013!

M