Poor Schleps Like Me

I can tell by the glow around my blinds what kind of day it’s going to be. This morning my window radiated like God was trying to make an impression on me, or more likely a cruel joke because the early wake-up call was for work.

So much for the storm of the century, right? All I heard this week was that it was going to be the coldest, wettest Christmas EVAR. StormWatch 2008 was in full effect with “Asian News Reporter” on the corner of pick-your-intersection reporting that yes, in fact, there is water falling from the sky. “Washed-up-former-anchor-who’s-relegated-to-field-work” was reporting from the base of a burned out hill from last month’s fires waiting for the inevitable mudslide to consume him. I don’t want to downplay the potential danger that comes with storms, mudslides, floods, and the like, but come on! LA, you need to man up! It’s just fucking WATER!

It sucks to be working the day after Christmas. Seeing that I’m temping here, I thought I’d impart some yuletide spirit and volunteer. There’s only two of us here at the office, me and the boss, who I play softball with. Luckily, I brought my MacBook and my brand new How I Met Your Mother seasons 1 & 2 DVDs.

I braved the mall crowd Christmas Eve to do some last minute shopping. I wandered into a going-out-of-business sale at Suncoast Pictures and found myself deliberating which DVDs to splurge on: How I Met Your Mother or The Laguna Beach Gift Set. What a dilemma. How I Met Your Mother is my new favorite show. If the The Wonder Years is my idealistic childhood lived vicariously through the eyes of a prepubescent Caucasian boy living in the suburbs of Anywhere, USA, and 90210 is the idealistic teenage years lived vicariously through the eyes of privileged teenagers run amok, then How I Met Your Mother is what my twenties would be like if… if I hadn’t had my head in the clouds wishing my life were more like TV.

The First of a Long Ten Days

The first alarm went off confusing me in my semi-conscious state not  knowing if I had actually fallen asleep.   The last thought I remembered before drifting off into this period consciousness limbo was,  “hold her while you can.”

By the time the alarm went off a third or fourth time, she crawled over me to get ready for her flight.  I wasn’t in a rush to send her off because she was leaving me for ten long days.

I swear I wasn’t like this before.  Her love consumes me, and I’m only all too willing.  I  had started missing her days before she was supposed to leave, and this last morning was tough.

She got caught trying to sneak an extra carry-on bag into the terminal so we had to get back in line at the counter to check a second bag.  I didn’t mind because I got to spend another 10 fleeting minutes with her before TSA rules separated us.

I stood in line with her as long as I could before reaching the first security checkpoint.  I kissed her lips and said goodbye before walking off to an area outside the checkpoint.  I watched her as she matriculated through the checkpoint to the escalator seeing if she’d look back to see if I was still there.  I was.  And every time she looked back I would blow a kiss to her.  I stayed until I couldn’t see her anymore.

By the time I got home I had to call and tell her how much I loved and missed her.  I swear I didn’t used to be like this, not that it’s a bad thing.  I’m lucky because she doesn’t just appreciate it, she revels in it.

I’ve always considered myself a “romantic” of sorts daydreaming about love and its exploits before really understanding what it all entailed.  I evolved (devolved?) into a “hopeless romantic,” which was probably  my darkest hour.  Unfortunately, that hour turned into weeks, months, and years to the point where it started defining me.  I would spend countless thoughts throughout the day wondering what was wrong with me lamenting everything I had become.

She saved me from me.  She is the love I daydreamed about as a boy when I didn’t know what it was, but had an idea what it should feel like.  She is the  love I believed in when I was an optimistic teenager.  She is the love I held out hope for in the despair of my young adulthood.  She is love.  All the heartbreaks,  tears, love-sick poems, musing on chick flicks, sunsets, starry nights, dewy dawns, and all the failed attempts before was only preparation for this moment, this special girl whose existence I began losing faith in.

Hurry home.  I miss you terribly.

When I Get Old

I joke around that I’m an old 28 to which those who are younger respond by saying, “no, you’re not!” I think the say that because they know that they, too, will be my age one day. Those who are older — older as in 10-15-20 years my senior, not 30 or 31 — get a gleam in the eye as their mind begins reminiscing about their halcyon days from their 20s.

Having been the youngest person in the office the past seven years has allowed to take notes as to what not to be when I get older. Maybe it has more to do with the types of people in my office than it does with getting older, but either way, please God, don’t let me turn into:

• “Hums-To-Himself-Guy” – It’s one thing to hum or whistle the tune of a song that’s been stuck in your head since you got out of the car, but I find it disconcerting when you make up your own tune to hum while you file papers away into your desk. If you’re going to whistle or hum while you’re working, you better be doing some back-breaking work where you need some kind of diversion from your laborious toils.
• “Co-workers-Are-My-Friends-Guy” – Look, just because I put on this smile when I have to talk to you, or maybe I’ll even go so far as to ask you how your weekend was while pretending to listen and care about what you have to say when I’m really daydreaming about sex doesn’t mean you’re my friend. It’s bad enough that I have to spend eight freaking hours putting up with your constant attempts to strike up conversation, I mean can’t you tell by my dead-end responses I just want to be left alone?
• “Work-Is-My-Life-Guy” – You know the guy. He’s the one at the office who unlocks the door, turns on the lights, doesn’t take a lunch break, and is the last one to leave the office if he leaves at all. I understand that some people are required to work long hours for the job they have. I get that. This doesn’t apply to your hard-working, high-income-earning go-getters. This is the guy in my office toiling away at a dead-end job hoping that his hardwork will get recognized and earn a promotion to “Dead-End Level II.”
• “Office-Holiday-Party-Is-The-Highlight-Of-My-Year-Guy” – I’ll know I’ve hit rock bottom when I start looking forward to the Holiday Party. I’ll shoot myself if I end up talking about it afterwards. These people suck. Plain and simple. If you’re talking about being sore the next day from dancing at the Holiday Party, then you need to get out more often. These parties suck, and if you’re having fun, then it better be because you’re piss-ass-drunk. And if you’re piss-ass-drunk at the Holiday Party, then you’re an even bigger ass.
• “Casual-Friday-Hawaiian-Shirt-Guy” – I always thought Hawaiian shirts were for tourists, old surfers, fats dads, and Pacific-Islanders. I guess they pass for “casual” attire in the workplace too. Maybe when you’ve been all buttoned up in a shirt and tie all week, it must feel good to “hang loose” in a bright blue hibiscus shirt? Whatever.

Damn My Costly Impulsiveness

Back in 2006 when the Lakers were Kobe and 4 stiffs, they gutted out a miraculous Game 4 playoff win to take a commanding 3-1 series lead over the heavily favored Phoenix Suns.  I was so ecstatic with the win that I went to Galleria right  afterwards and spent $200 on a Kobe’s signature Nikes and a #8 Kobe Lakers jersey.  

 

Works on the court, not in life.

$130 for a pair of basketball shoes that I’ve worn a total of two times in the past 2.5 years.  They work if you’re wearing a basketball uniform, but I didn’t think about that when I splurged for them.  Kobe’s coming out with a new shoe and this time they’re low-tops, which mean they can probably be worn more than once a year in my case.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice… shame on me?  

 

It's progress.

Internet Infamy is Thy Name.

There’s a picture circulating the internet proving that the jungle isn’t slashed and burned into extinction, it’s just be re-grown between the legs of lazy asian college girls.  I thought this was 2008?  

 

And for fun… Viet captured every man’s worst fear with his little upgrade:

 

SLAAAAASH & BUUUUURN!!!