Opening the Box

So I'm a little slow on the up-take.

I see blockbuster summer movies at least 3-4 weeks late, I joined the Gossip Girl phenomenon in season two, and I just discovered Pandora this week.

My iPod has been acting up since spilling coffee on it several months ago and on Tuesday, after about 4 rounds of the iPod frownie face alerting me to seek support, the device turned on. But my victory was neither sweet nor long-lived. My battery was dead.

For you Blogtari "followers" (yes, I can speak Twitter although I do not participate. I'm not THAT slow), you know that my general office area is quite loud, and that headphones are a must for powerpoint formatting, spreadsheet calculating, or any other concentrated sales task. So the fact that my iPod battery was dead caused some mild panic.

Since living DVR-free for the last 2 months, I’ve taken to watching TV online, and figured I could do the same with music. Hey, if the Aussie-douche can find Australian dance hits online, I too can find some Jamie Foxx-free tunes.

I blindly typed "internet radio" into google, and found Pandora. DUH! Pandora immediately prompted me to enter the name of a band or song that I liked, and instantly created me a station. Rad.

I spent the rest of the afternoon entering bands into the site and heard some cool stuff. I felt very hip. I was listening to obscure music. Look at me go.

I've never been a real music-y person. I don't like to talk about music, I don't go to shows, and I don't really feel comfortable with the whole thing. I think this is largely due to my formative years spent with some very music-y people who did not allow me to form my own opinion about the grunge hits of the day.

I've always been intimidated by music, as if liking that Miley Cyrus song would out me as the closet loser I've always known myself to be. But then I realized, everyone likes that Miley Cyrus song. And everyone loves Womanizer. And although my husband really hates that Girlfriend song by Avril Lavigne that I could listen to on repeat 1000 times, deep down inside, it makes him dance in his seat.

Even though I realize that certain "lame" songs that I like are OK, I still tried to trick Pandora into thinking I was way cooler than I am. And my entire radio station sounds the same. Fast-paced, whiney, emo rock.

Today is Friday of the longest short week ever, it is raining, and I am pooped. My standard Pandora tunes are not doing a thing to boost my mood. So I decided to let my guard down, and add a little flava to my station straight from my iPod's "lady rock" playlist. I added Gwen Stefani and Avril Lavigne.

Pandora now hates me. All morning it has been playing Leona Lewis and KT Tunstall and all sorts of other adult contemporary garbage sold at Starbucks. The coolness of the past week is now washed away, and my greatest fear is realized. My love of "The Sweet Escape" has come back to haunt me, as I always knew it would.

I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet

California is welcoming me with a bang. Literally.

There have been two earthquakes in the last three days, and for a first-timer, the situation is rather unsettling. (I smell puns aplenty today)

My first earthquake was Sunday night while relaxing at home. I was in the bathroom, grooming myself, my husband and father-in-law were in the office across the hall, and my mother-in-law was in her bedroom. We were all upstairs.

In mid-pluck, it felt and sounded like a tractor-trailer overturned on our quiet suburban street. Before I could process a thought beyond, "did a tractor-trai..." my mother-in-law started screaming in tongues and scared me half to death. My bladder isn't the strongest these days with baby on board, but I probably would have wet myself regardless.

My husband calmly popped his head in the bathroom and told me it was an earthquake and that I needed to stand under the doorway. We stood in our respective doorways, across from each other, with matching worried looks. Mine, for he health and safety of the MIL, still screaming, and CinS for the two neon signs precariously perched atop a cabinet in the garage.

Luckily, the quake did not last long and we all settled back in to our nightly routine of eyebrow sculpting, online poker, and needlessly putting ourselves and our loved ones in high-stress situations. I thought my CA earthquake experience had passed.

Yesterday, I was driving to the DMV for the third time in a week (don't ask) and felt my car shake as I stopped at a red light. It felt like an earthquake to me, but as I glanced around the street, I saw pedestrians and bike riders nonplussed, as if nothing had happened. I assumed it was some unseen street construction and that I was now paranoid after Sunday's events. I went about my business.

After hour 9 at the DMV, I checked my phone on my way back out to my car and saw that CinS had left me several messages. It turns out that the rattling was yet another quake. I guess the citizens of Hawthorne, CA are not as sensitive as I am. Or maybe it was all that screaming that put the fear of God in me.

The moral of the story is that earthquakes aren’t all that scary. Even bigger ones that you can feel. Unless your home is furnished exclusively in 9 foot-tall Ikea MDF that is not bolted down, nothing is going to happen to you. So to all my fellow East Coasters who have lived through hurricanes, ice storms, and nor’easters, a little shaking is not so bad. Universal Studios totally exaggerates.

Bizarro Blackjack

After a great weekend in Vegas, I've noticed just how bad people are at all casino games. Not that I'm the authority on how to play, nor do I claim that I always play smart (see, e.g., the Field Bet -- a longtime CinS craps standard, to the point where I called it the Field of Dreams, but now that I am older and wiser, I finally see it for the awesome/horrible sucker's bet that it is), but it astonishing how dumb people are when it comes to gambling.

To begin with, the house already has an advantage over you, so you're best shot at winning is to play the right way. Now, the standard Vegas douche who lurks around the casino with $40 and is only there for the free drinks would object with the following two points: (1) "I'm just a Vegas douche, and it's only $40, so who cares if I lose, since it's just money spent on entertainment, and if I have fun, isn't that all that matters?" or (2) I'm drunk, so I can't be blamed for my bad decisions.

Bullcrap. First of all, there's a recession out there, and don't tell me that your $40 matters. If you play decently, that $40 can become $80, or a helluva lot more, and I don't know anyone who would happily piss away $40 if they could turn it into triple that in 4 minutes using basic math and/or common sense. And to (2), that's b.s. too. Being drunk shouldn't affect the basic way of playing, only how much you bet. I'll admit that after 6 drinks on the casino floor, I'm more willing to throw down a $50 bet than I would be at 11 a.m., but still, being hammered shouldn't make hitting on a 17 plausible.

And it's not just that people aren't playing smart or the best possible way given the odds. Look, if you choose not to double down on a Ace-7 against a 5, that's not a big deal. Or if you don't want to place 5x odds on the passline, that's fine too. I'm not talking about playing in a way that doesn't fully maximize your chance of winning, I'm talking about playing in a way that can only be described as betting so poorly that you must be trying to lose.

I'm talking about Bizarro Blackjack, as my brother calls it.

So for my own venting, please accept my humble suggestions on how not to gamble in Vegas (hey, I broke even this weekend, so I MUST know what I'm talking about).

Blackjack

Bets NOT to make:
-- hitting on a 17 under any circumstance
-- doubling on a 5 (you know who you are)
-- splitting tens
-- splitting fours

-- not tipping the dealer after winning a monster hand (some douche at our table had turned $50 into $1000 and didn't pass the dealer a single buck -- you're willing to give a waiter 20% for bringing you food you already paid for, but won't tip someone who gave you cards that turned your $50 into a half month's rent?)

-- looking at a 15 or 16 vs. the dealer's 10 or ooohFace card like you're buying a car or a house. Seriously, what the f*%k are you thinking about? You have a crap hand, so hit it already. Stop kicking the tires or running a title check on your 15 and go for it. I'm amazed that people spend like 32 seconds pondering a crap hand. And it's always on a $5 bet -- people who are betting $50 or more know that they're hitting before the dealer is even done passing out cards.

-- and the worst thing you can possibly do at Blackjack? Ask the dealer what the best course of action is, and then ignore it. "What should I do here?" "Well, you have a 14 and I'm showing a Queen, so I probably have a 20. You should definitely hit, since you have a weak hand." (insert obligatory 32 sec waiting period to allow dumbass to ponder the meaning of life vis a vis his 14). "Nah, I don't think you have it. I'll stay."

Craps
what NOT to do:
-- betting the Field when a woman is shooting (women throw 6s and 8s like no one's business)
-- not putting odds on a Come bet
-- $10 on each of the hardways
-- not tipping the dealers after turning a stack of reds into a stack of blacks or even greens

Pai Gow
-- never play Pai Gow I've learned. Horrible odds. Horrible everything. If you want a slow paced drinking game, try Keno or 2 cent slots.

Roulette
-- nothing here, there really isn't a wrong way to bet on a marble spinning around a wheel (unless you quote "Always Bet on Black.") That movie alone has made casinos so much money. The dude who said Always Bet on Black also always bet on trying to outsmart the IRS, and got screwed for it. I think I'll stick with Always Bet on Red.

G'Day Douche.... Update

Dear readers and sympathizers to my plight, as described below in "G'Day Douche."

Since posting the aforementioned blog, the cube-mate has swapped Australian morning shows for an Australian dance radio station. He left his cube about 3 hours ago, leaving the music blasting unattended.

Just had to share.

G'Day Douche

OK. I've held this in long enough. I hate my cubicle-mate. HATE.

I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But I'm sorry, it's also the only word that is appropriate. And yes, I also know that I have a strong tendency to hate my neighbors, but honestly, I've tried. Hey, it's been over a month since I've talked openly about this, so that has to count for something.

But here it is. My cubicle-mate sucks.

He started the same time as me, which I thought would bond us for life, but he is one of the worst people ever, so forget about it. I will bond elsewhere.

The first week on the job, my cube-mate (who is literally a mate, as he hails from some douchey section of Australia where one's accent sounds like those giant-jawed editors at The New Yorker from Family Guy) was having some phone trouble. He was trying to re-route his international number to his new US line and the company responsible for this was clearly incompetent. Or so he screamed. He spent hours on the phone, berating customer service reps until I had to walk away out of embarrassment.

The worst day was April 13, the Monday after Easter. He was outraged that no one was working on Easter. The man is Godless.

The next offense involves a blatant disregard for personal space. Something that I moved away from New York to avoid.

Picture a giant commune of cubicle space meant for three. Now imagine that the space itself is divided by a wall - making one cube on one side (mine) and two on the other (cube-mate and an empty).

Granted, if I had the extra space on my side of the wall, I would definitely let some files stray into the empty territory, but cube-mate has gone too far.

One day, some files appeared. Benign. The next day, he hung pictures on the cork board of the opposite cube. Brazen. Today, he is rocking a television constantly streaming Australian public access. Bastard.

Not only has he effectively taken over two spaces in the office, he is also blasting Aussie morning shows not two feet from my head. This sir, does not make you awesome. It makes me hate your marmite-eating guts.

But the straw that broke my back (wait, did I just make myself a camel?) happened this morning. There has been a large, framed soccer jersey on the floor in the corner of the office since I started. I has nothing to do with our company, our clients, or our products. It always seemed a bit out of place, but not today. Today, the jersey was handing on the wall. The wall just off our cube section. Hanging there. Like it belonged.

Yes, the jersey is cube-mate’s. Yes, he hung a picture on a shared corporate office wall. A wall that is not even attached to his work space. A random wall. For him.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BUDDY? Are you that important that you not only need your own television, but your own wall for personal art? Seriously?

I hope you can agree that this hate is justified. And if you can’t, then I will come after you with all my might – by putting my conference calls on speaker phone. Take that Aussie Scum!

Pool Party

I had a horrible cold last week that left me exhausted and drippy. So like a character fresh from a Jacqueline Suzanne novel, I headed to Palm Springs this weekend to dry out.

I have lived in cities all of my adult life and have never owned a car, which means weekend trips always involved some kind of public transportation. Now that we live in the ‘burbs, we have Tony, our trusty steed, who takes us where we need to go. This made for a rather revolutionary weekend away.

It's not that I've never been on a road trip before (see the drive through Florida, Spring Break '98), but I've never been on a road trip with my husband in California.

When I was younger, my parents and I would venture into New York City once a year to see a show and walk 5th Avenue. At the end of the long, exciting day, my mom would come into my bathroom with a bottle of Sea Breeze and some cottonballs, so I could "clean the city off my face." On Friday afternoon, as we drove through freeway after freeway with the windows down, I felt a burning need to "clean the freeway off my face." Something I am sure to get over in a few more months of living amidst the smog.

When we arrived in the desert, I felt very calm and very dry. And after a solid 7 days of nasal discharge, dry was a welcome feeling. We collapsed into a king bed (oh how I've missed you) and slept off a hellish week.

The next morning, we headed to the pool to have our life forces sucked dry by the desert sun. Luckily, no one else was (foolish enough to be) at the pool that day, so witnesses to my new maternity bathing-dress remain at one.

I've never been a big ocean person - after countless wave incidents involving both involuntary nudity and water in my nose - but I am a total pool freak. I love the pool. And I especially love the pool when CinS and I have it all to ourselves.

Please don't get the wrong idea. We don't do anything naughty in the pool. We just like to play games. Games that look really foolish when played by chubby adults.

When I am in better form, I usually initiate a handstand contest and/or back flip contest. CinS enjoys cannonballs. But we always play Mousetrap. Mousetrap is a game where one person (the Mouse) swims through the other person's legs (the Trap) without touching their opponent. With each successful pass, the Trap's legs close a bit, until the Mouse can no longer pass through untouched.

As I'm sure you can imagine, we look ridiculous playing Mousetrap, as we are over the age of 10. But I promise you, it's way more fun than pool volleyball or whatever other "adult" water games you're playing.

CinS and I will be moving out of his parent's house and into our own place in about a month, and our new place has a pool as well. But I doubt that we'll ever be able to replicate the empty, aquatic bliss of our weekend in the desert. We will have to be civilized. We will have to enter the pool from the stairs. We will have to dunk our heads only occasionally, just to cool off. We will have to discuss world politics and art history while listening to Brazilian Jazz.

This blows.

I'm now counting the days until my unborn child becomes a master underwater swimmer so CinS and I can play again, shame free. But there is no way she is taking my Handstand Grand Champion title. No way in hell.

Calling In Sick this Week

Sorry gang, but we're rockin some swine flu this week. Can someone please tell my innards that I am not Mexican, despite my new SoCal diet?

Suburban Adult Age Wasteland Blues

Seeing a lot of my friends on a regular basis has been great, but there's one dude in particular that I've come to realize is awesome-o. Like me, he went off to college and then law school, and then began practicing law in LA while I was in New York. Because of the distance, I hardly saw him, and when I did, he spoke of trendy restaurants in West Hollywood, bars in Santa Monica, late night spots in Downtown, etc. And like me, he seemed to have lost some of the "I don't give a shit about anything" style that growing up in a small beach town provided us.

The transformation has been amazing. He's back in our town, and no longer that dude. Moving from LA back to our hometown has brought out exactly what made him awesome back in the day (yes, I can say "back in the day" because the day I'm referring to is > 10 years ago).

That quality he missed? Not giving a crap about anything.

Two years ago: Brooks Brothers suits, wine bars in LA, brunch at the Viceroy, etc.
Today: Hawaiian shirts, dive bars in our town, and Mexican hole in the wall grub. And of course, the new habit: dipping.

I think dipping (though not for me and quite visceral) is the ultimate form of telling the world that you don't give a shit about anything. Cigarettes kind of convey that, but those are too much effort. What brand to buy, having a lighter on you, etc. All those things take some kind of premeditation.

Dipping, however, does not. Dipping involves shoving some tobacco between your gums and lower lip, and spitting shit into some kind of receptacle. The reason it works so quickly is because the tobacco contains very small pieces of fiberglass, which serve to cut your inner lip so as to deliver the tobacco into the bloodstream more quickly -- and man does it work. Several friends in college dipped, and one of my roommates in law school would dip all the time. (So much so that random bottles of Gatorade half-filled with spit would loiter his room -- maybe they were souvenirs from a particularly good dip sesh?). But unlike those guys, my friend here in LA dips with the right accouterments that convey that he doesn't care, and more importantly, dips openly in public, often at well-lit establishments like the grocery store or while taking his newborn for a walk in her stroller.

He dips while we're playing softball (which, given his old school grey baseball pants and general attitude, makes him gnarly).

He dips while he's running errands around town, picking up diapers for his newborn (radical).

He dips whenever and wherever he pleases, and lets everyone know (by virtue of all the spit on the sidewalk) just what's up.

And last weekend, while at a fancy bar in Santa Monica to celebrate the engagement of some friends (the kind of bar where the dudes behind the bar dress in 1930's era shirts, ties, and vests and call themselves "mixologists" and charge $14 for a rum and a coke [see, e.g., Tailor in Soho, Employees Only in the West Village, and a host of other bars in New York I've never heard of or could never get into.] [see also name-dropping bars in former city you lived in = douchebag; as is using bluebooking format to make side points within a blog]).

While we were all trying to be mature and sip our beverages (by the way, some dude called me a wuss for drinking a Manhattan [b/c of the maraschino cherry in it], so I ordered him one and watched his face cringe as he tried to swallow down the heavy pour of Jim Beam rye that I insisted the TV-extra-wearing-a-shirt-and-tie-come-mixologist put in there -- don't heckle a fat dude with chest hair drinking brown liquor, chances are his drink is legit), my friend decided that this party at an upscale bar was the best time to bring out his tin of Skoal and began crushing Bushmills in one hand, while dipping into the other.

And then it hit me? Is this how he has dealt with becoming a father? I've heard that new dads under 35 often do things to rage against the machine, that is, to remind themselves that they are not completely settling down (although in reality they are). And by "I've heard that new dads under 35...." I mean I just made that up for the convenience of my point.

So, for him, shoving fiberglass and tobacco into his mouth and spitting brown chaw all over the place lets him know that he still is a degenerate at heart. For others, maybe a new car or an alcohol habit. For me, probably a buttload of neon.

In the end, with a baby on the way, men have to find something to release the anxiety of becoming a new parent. Ladies get the camaraderie of other new mothers, the support of their own mothers, mothers in law, and friends, and society's love of a newborn. That is how they cope.

For men, apparently all you get is a tin of Kodiak or Skoal, and if you like, a cup to spit it all into.