The Time I Used “HORNY” in a Job Interview…

For the past year, I’ve been working as a PR Associate for interior designers. During this time, I’ve missed my past career as a content marketer terribly. I’ve also discovered that I lack interest in the field, which hasn’t helped the situation much. So, when a friend reached out asking if I wanted to apply for the copywriting position at her company, Huckberry, I eagerly agreed.

After all, while working as the Associate Editor at Dot & Bo, Huckberry was the be all, end all. Their email campaigns killed it every time and their copy spoke directly to the adventure-seeking urbanites they targeted.

I was sure that this was going to be the job for me.

On the day of my phone interview, I was not worried. Even as I was pulled into the conference room of an architecture firm to meet with a big name in the industry. Around ninety years old, this woman has written for a variety of publications including Veranda, C-Magazine, and Gentry Home. She’s also a self-proclaimed Instagram expert who wanted to teach me how to post on the social media platform.

… did I mention she is about ninety-years-old?

After over an hour and a half of listening to her say things like “hashtags are pathetic” and “oh, dahhling! This is so chic!” and “yes, when I fly Singapore Airlines I am always appalled by the simpering little stewardesses” I was feeling burnt out. Who uses the term “stewardesses” anymore? Don’t we live in an era of flight attendants??

Still, as always, I smiled and nodded and let her speak her piece. Even when she mentioned the fact that everyone should just “get over” the fact that Trump was president, I humored her. That is/was my job after all.

By the time she finally exited the office, it was time for me to take my phone interview. As I paced outside on the phone, I suddenly found it difficult to switch from haughty interior design mode to laid-back menswear start-up mode. My voice shook on the phone, I searched for answers to the questions (even though I’d been so prepared the day before), and I kept thinking things like, “oh, well dahling. Your products are just so chic!” 

Maybe this was a sign.

So, I was somewhat surprised when this phone interview was followed up by a copywriting test. I was no longer sure that this company was a fit, but I was grateful for the chance to show off my chops and make up for the less-than-perfect phone chat.

Unfortunately, my “chops” turned out to be totally misguided and inappropriate prompts for potential clients…

See, I believe my subconscious has an extremely strong hold on me. After the phone interview, something must have told me that this position was not, in fact, right for me.

The writing challenge consisted of creating storylines for two different brands (something I was very experienced with having done so every. single. day. at a past position). Yet, as I sat in front of my computer, it was like walking through mud as I searched for the right words and quippy phrases. Still, I pushed through and completed the first brand description.

The second brand had only one product. A horn from which the owner drinks. Better than “Das Boot” this horn could make any man feel like a Viking and came conveniently with a neck strap so you literally have to put in no effort to carry your beverage of choice.

The instructions for writing this brand description? To have fun with it!

Well, I definitely had fun with it… So much so that I completely disregarded the small detail that if selected, this copy would be published on the Huckberry site and e-blasted to their entire email list. In other words, it still had to be somewhat professional.

The start of my description was not too bad. It waged a witty war between Das Boot and Das Horn. It was the ending of this paragraph truly sealed my fate.

So, I wrote, if anyone ever asks if you’re horny, feel free to say ‘JA!’

Because that’s a normal thing to include in your job application.

I may as well have written “SELF-SABOTAGING. PLEASE DISREGARD MY APPLICATION NOW.”

A week later I received an email letting me know that they’d gone with a candidate who had more experience in the product they were selling. In other words, they’d found a copywriter who knew that prompting customers to confirm their sexually aroused state was probably not the best choice.

Anyway, as we approach the Thanksgiving holiday, I wanted to write this post to say “thank you” to the team at Huckberry. Thank you for not mentioning the fact that I’d used horny in a job interview and letting me sweep it under the rug.

 

The 60-year-old Roommate

It’s 8:00 PM on the longest day of the year and I’m sitting alone in my inner Richmond District apartment. Sex & the City is playing on my iPad and I’m half listening to the sound of Carrie Bradshaw singing a line from The Way We Were. 

I take a moment to look out of the bay windows of my living room, smile at the sight of the red-shingled roof across the way, before noticing that I’ve strewn the throw pillows hap-hazzardly on the adjacent sofa.

Their smashed shapes cause me to feel a slight discomfort at the edge of my mind. They’re reminding me of a thought I had the other day as I sat on another sofa in a dark loft in Potrero Hill.

In Potrero Hill, I sat on the dark gray cushions of the sectional, my feet tucked up to my right side. My best friend and I had just finished putting the two boys we babysat to sleep and were now watching a particularly exciting episode of The Real Housewives of New York.

Usually, these reality shows are a welcome distraction. I love how invested I can become in the unimportant—not to mention staged—lives of these privileged strangers. It is oh, so relaxing. But this night, as the sound of an engine pulled into the culdesac outside the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows, I felt something else.

Anxiety.

As you are probably all well aware, anxiety is a daily occurrence in my life. Of course, rather than confide in a professional, I choose to bottle everything up really neatly inside and when that doesn’t work? I self-medicate with anything from a plate full of brownies to binge-watching shows to a weekend’s worth of gimlets all in one night… all of which, of course, results in more anxiety, but that’s a whole other story.

So I was sitting there watching The Real Housewives and suddenly this sharp anxiety was brought on by the politically-obsessed, cougar, author princess Carol Radziwill.

It wasn’t anything she said. It was just the entire setting in which we found her in. She was sitting on a sofa (*I’m realizing there’s a lot of sofa sitting in this post) in her penthouse loft with leopard throw pillows and a fantastic coffee table.  To seal the deal, two tiny kittens hopped about playfully and her puppy wagged his little tail happily at home in the space.

As I stared up at the screen in the dark loft (in which I was merely a guest), my stomach suddenly sank.

You see, I had suddenly realized the one difference between Carol’s life and my own. Okay, so not the only difference, but this one seemed pretty important. As I saw how much the interiors reflected the princess’s personality, I was shocked to realize that I would never (at least not in San Francisco) have that. I would never have my own place.

At least not until I am in my late-30s, early-40s, and even then! I’m a writer. A very single writer. These two factors result in the fact that for the rest of my adult life, I will most likely live with roommates.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore having roommates now. Even as I approach my thirties, I love the fact that it’s not always my turn to buy the toilet paper and paper towels, that there’s three of us to unload the dishwasher, and that on the rare occasion that I drink too much (very, very, very rare… cough, cough), I  wake up and can confirm that everything is all good in the hood. It doesn’t get better than that.

BUT, when it comes to the next ten years of my life, I don’t exactly picture myself living in a San Francisco apartment with (at least) two other people. No. I imagine my own studio that allows for guests at any hour and screams of my personal aesthetic. Of course, it will be messy, but in my own oh, so chic way.

But, if I’m truly being realistic, this vision of my future life is inaccurate.

If my track record holds true, I will always have to seek out roomies. Can you imagine browsing Craigslist as a fifty-year-old??

It’s times like these when I start asking myself if my father was right when he told me not to major in Creative Writing. Then again, after about a week of Code Academy, I’m pretty sure that an engineering degree was not in the cards for me…

It’s been four years now since I moved to San Francisco. During this time, I’ve always felt that though I love living here, it’s a temporary place; San Francisco is a place I will live until I’ve made a name for myself career-wise. It’s a temporary place that I’ll live in my twenties until I find someone to marry.

Now that I’ve realized my disinterest in marriage or children, I’ve begun to consider at a more permanent locale.

BUT this city is also known for its high rent… highest in the nation? In the world?

I know there have been plenty of infographics on the topic, but I can tell you it’s damn expensive and writing doesn’t pay. So does that mean I’m destined to be a sixty-year-old roommate? If so, what does that look like? Will there be other sixty-year-olds to share my fate? I mean, I guess Golden Girls is one of my favorite shows. But that begs the bigger question…

Am I a Blanche, a Dorothy, or a Rose?

Me in Pacific Heights, standing proudly in front of a home I will never own.

Hey, Are You Single?

That was the subject line of an email that just popped into my inbox from a company called Zoosk.*

As a copywriter (with experience writing subject lines), I commend them. Questions are always a smart tactic and touching upon consumers’ pain points usually results in high open rates.

But, as a woman, NAH.

This is something I’ve been struggling with recently. I, myself, have no need (or interest) in letting someone new into my life, but the world around me seems to think it’s necessary. Every single day, I’m bombarded by messaging that suggests my life is incomplete unless I’m in a relationship.

Even my friends play into this messaging. Constantly demanding that I try out dating apps or drunkenly informing me that I am doing something wrong by not actively pursuing the D.

I have tried out some apps, but it was really hard to stay interested in anything that resulted in a twentysomething boy asking me if my parents had named me because of Helen Keller.

Great pick up line.

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that I’m pretty freaking happy alone. Okay, I know this blog makes it seem otherwise, but when I’m not sending out emo vibes into the internet, I’ve got what you’d call a sunny disposition on life.

I’d like to also point out that I derive no greater pleasure from anything other than escaping to a quiet corner in a café to read or write by myself.

Don’t get me wrong. I definitely love socializing, but does that have to have a dude involved?

Of course, I understand the fact that, like, biologically I’m going to be driven to reproduce (Ew. Reproduce. How terrible is that word? And can we talk about the pregnancy belly button for a second??? NO THANK YOU! I do not need any part of me to pop out). Still, I know that a part of me will be hoping to make a baby. But I’m pretty sure that it isn’t strong enough to convince me to actually go through with it.

Then again, even if I did find someone who got the libido shimmying, I’d be terrified if they were actually interested in me. Anyone who would stay interested someone who enjoys twelve-hour Lord of the Rings marathons (extended editions, of course), talks about pooping on a regular basis, and pukes before turning into a zombie at music festivals is seriously unhinged…

Not to mention the fact that I have serious doubts about anyone who could stay attracted to this:

So here’s my open letter to the world around me: let’s reclaim the word “Spinster!” I’m ready to own the fact that I’m a crazy cat lady at the age of 26. (Sorry, mom).

And Zoosk, to answer your question, Hellz yeah I’m single AF!! and I plan on staying that way. PEACE.

 

Self-Esteem Tips for Anyone Whose Mom Says You Weren’t the Prettiest at Prom

In my last blog post, I kind of gave my dad a hard time. Yes, he did “LOL” at the fact that I’m unemployed, but in all fairness, the fact that someone like me (a person who’s terrified of breaking any routine) is suddenly completely free to do whatever the hell she wants… well, it just might be “LOL” worthy.

So, in order to even things out, I decided to write a post about something my mother did that was equally as disturbing for my self-esteem.

Join me as I travel back to the year 2008. My senior year, when Miss Independent was topping the music charts and Christian Bale’s Batman voice was still considered a bold move.

Prom was right around the corner and I knew exactly how I wanted to look. I was going to wear a black strapless Betsey Johnson dress, covered in sequins, with black Betsey Johnson pumps, criss-crossed around my toes.

As for my hair, I wanted finger waves, like a 1920s movie star, so that I could wear red lipstick and pretend I was Marion Cotillard.

The thing is, at the time, I lived on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and apparently, when you go to a salon in Kailua, Hawai’i, finger waves are too much to ask for… After being told that they didn’t know how to create this classic, elegant look, I decided to trust the professional hairdresser and let her create a Prom-worthy masterpiece.

The result? A rats nest with two jehri curls.

Don’t believe me? Here’s the proof:

Yes, I sat in a chair for an hour+ waiting for THAT. Yes, I did pay $75 for it because my fear of confrontation is so strong that I was unable to tell the woman that my hair scared me more than the stringy shit that covers the girl in The Ring.

As you can imagine, my self-esteem at this point was pretty unstable. But, after six (or maybe ten) gulps of champagne punch (and a quick hair wash), I was feeling pretty good again. I was in my dress, covered in sparkles, and the red lipstick was working out to my favor. My locks, though not styled in old-fashioned curls, were falling nicely around my ears, and I had a nice buzz going.

I went to prom, danced the night away, and stayed in a hotel with a huge group (sneakily stealing a room for just a small group of us). #Sorry to everyone who had to sleep on the floor in the other room.

When I came home the next day, I was still in a post-prom high! After a briefly awkward chat about whether or not I knew there was champagne in the punch, my parents and I started looking at pictures together on the computer.

Cienna and I posing for prom, but resembling two young woman on their wedding day.

“You’re all just so pretty,” my mom said, which is something I hear often and didn’t surprise me, “but Cienna…”

I stopped and looked at her, curious about what she was going to say about my best friend.

“She was just so beautiful!”

Okay, that was fine. She was just pointing out that one of my closest friends looked really pretty at our final school dance. That was great! My mom was being the sweet woman I knew her to be. But then she went on…

“Like you were pretty and everything… but Cienna looked like a movie star!”

“Okay?” I responded, because what else are you supposed to say when your mother, your own flesh and blood, the woman who birthed you (and watched Cheech’s Born in East LA to get through the labor) implies you that you not nearly as pretty as your best friend. Like, isn’t she, out of anyone in this entire world, supposed to love me most and think I’m the most beautiful girl ever? Isn’t that her biological duty or something?

Jumping back to present day, I’d like us all to think about how this moment played into my current situation. You know, perhaps if I’d had a little more support with my self-confidence, I’d be applying for more positions and would be employed. I dunno. Not pointing any fingers. Just lettin’ that sink in for all of you.*

So, what are my tips? Never trust a hairdresser to create “fun prom hair,” drink a little less champagne punch, and remember that your mother is only one person, and you’re still pretty even if she doesn’t think you’re as pretty as your best friend…..

 

*My parents are amazing people and I totally take responsibility for my own self-worth and trust me, I really dig myself. Just wanted to even the playing field so my mom doesn’t feel bad after I totally trash talk my dad ;p

 

 

 

 

When You’re Unemployed and Your Dad Thinks It’s Funny…

Remember those days when you were young and you thought your parents were these all-powerful beings. They could do no wrong and were always there to save you when things went bad. If someone was picking on you at school or you couldn’t figure out a homework assignment, your parents were always there to help out.

Then you hit your mid-twenties and suddenly they expect you to take care of yourself!

How the hell did that happen? When did my problems become my problems and not ours? I know. I’m a spoiled brat. But I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that I have sole responsibility for myself. WHO THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA???

Last night, I was sitting at the Irish Bank in San Francisco’s Financial District. I had done a couple freelance assignments and was able to afford two whole drinks: one at Rickhouse on Kearny and then a Guinness at Irish Bank. Crazy, right?

The Giants game was playing—it was a wildcard game against the Mets—and so there was quite a bit riding on it. Maybe because it was another even year or maybe just because #SPORTS, but the Giants ended up winning the game!

That’s when I got the text that really hit home the fact that I was on my own.

Dad: The Giants just won. You going to any playoff games?

Me: No, dad. I’m poor… haha

Dad: LOL hope you get a job soon

LOL?? LOL???? LOL????? Dad, I’m fucking floundering in life over here and all you have to say is LOL?????? Not even an “I believe in you” follow up. Simply LOL and hope you figure your shit out soon.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT?

This is my life now. Search for a new place of employment while keeping my father laughing in the meantime…

Wish me luck?

If a Freelancer Jumps Off a Cliff, Should I?

I’m currently sitting at a Starbucks downtown, but it feels as though I’m standing at the edge of a precipice. Of course, if I were actually on a cliff, I probably wouldn’t have a tall chile mocha beside me nor the soft acoustic sounds of coffee shop music floating along the airwaves, but still… the point is that I feel like I’m on a ledge somewhere and that I’m pretty unstable.

Don’t worry, I’m not totally depressed. It’s just that recently my job came to an end, and I haven’t had the best time dealing with it. Also, my ability to accept the uncertainties in life is nearly nonexistent. I want rules, guidance, and a plan! I know, not the most exciting personality type, but Capricorns need love too, guys.

So What’s Next?

Now that I’m on the job hunt again, I’ve discovered the most terrifying secret of all—what they don’t tell you when you graduate from college with a BA in Creative Writing: Freelancing is a viable option.

This, of course, should not be terrifying at all. It’s exciting to have the option of controlling your own schedule, workload, etc. But when I think about vying for assignments, managing my finances, and TAXES, I start to lose my shit. Like really lose my shit.

True story: last year I thought I owed the government $5,000. I, of course, have never even seen $5,000 so I was in a complete state of panic.

Turns out, I’d simply forgotten that I’d worked at a second company that year, and the government actually owed me money, but still. How the hell am I supposed to figure out what I owe who, where, and why if I’m a fuckin’ self-managing FREELANCER?

As I sit here typing away on my computer, I’m riddled with anxiety over whether or not this is my next step. There are pros and there are cons, and I can’t figure out which outweighs the other. I’m a writer; math is not my strong point. Or do you weigh things in physics? It doesn’t matter. I’m a basket case over here.

Pros:

There’s something about the freelance lifestyle that just screams “author.” From Hemingway to my latest literary obsession, Karl Ove Knausgaard,  creative writers tend to supplement their income with contract work on magazines and other word-driven companies. These are the people I admire. Not because they were great people. No, they had extreme problems of their own, but because they’re the ones who produced works that make you feel. I can honestly feel my heart beating as I read about the disturbing choices of a Karamazov brother or a Norwegian’s turmoil over Swedish culture.

Then there’s the biggest #Millennial point I could ever make: Over the last year and six months, I’ve struggled with the lack of PTO available to me. I’m not one to take advantage of vacation opportunities, and I’m actually a very nervous traveler… no surprise there… but I can’t deny the lust for travel that roams through my veins. I think it’s something most twentysomethings feel. We need to explore, experience what’s out there.

Freelancing would allow me to do this. I currently have a trip to Iceland planned, and honestly, if I had it my way, I’d choose to continue writing while there. Imagine this: My day is spent traversing unfamiliar landscapes to a waterfall that crashes down into a field of deep, lush greenery. Then, I’d return to my warm room or RV, and dive into whatever assignment awaited me. It’s perfection!

Photo Courtesy of Pixabay

Of course, if I’m being completely honest, getting back to work wouldn’t be that simple. After those hikes across grassy or rocky terrain, I’d probably return to whatever hotel I was staying in, and immediately gorge myself on food. They eat a lot of dairy there, right? That is not a good look for me… Then, of course, I’d have to make some instant coffee because sleep would have wrapped me in its all-encompassing grasp and my mind would beg for a break from copywriting.

But still, there’s something freeing about having the opportunity to write at any time and place. I know, I know, that’s why it’s called freelancing, but give me a break here. I’m having an existential crisis. And that fantasy of enjoying time away while still being active in this field, is dangerously seductive.

Cons:

Of course, this wouldn’t be a blog about what’s happening in my mind if I didn’t immediately juxtapose these pros against the cons.

Like how ridiculously difficult it would be for me to stay organized. How in the world does anyone keep track of all of that information?! What solutions are there for someone like me? Someone who can barely remember what day of the week it is?

The thought of managing enough assignments to maintain my income—all in unique brand voices and with varying due dates—is terrifying! I mean, I once forgot how old I was…  Is this really something I’m going to be able to do?

Of course, I’m not looking for answers here. In fact, I’m aware that there’s probably no one who can answer these except myself. Still, I had to throw them out there into the universe.

Will freelancing be next step? Am I on a brand new path?

 

I Took Away Phones at Tracy Morgan’s Comedy Show. Here’s What Happened…

It’s always a pleasure to start one of my posts with a bit of irony, so here we go: I normally write humorous blog posts and tonight’s post is actually about Tracy Morgan’s comedy show, but there is nothing funny about my experience there.

Okay, so yes, helping an older gentleman turn on his Nokia flip phone was adorable, and yes, Tracy Morgan’s ability to joke about his recent coma had me filled me with giddy admiration, because… coma jokes. BUT what occurred before the show was not so cool. In fact, I’d go so far as to call it the uncool.

Not to go all RHONY Countess on everyone but…

Here’s what you need to know: A friend of mine works for an awesome company, Yondr. They facilitate phone-free events. They’ve created these little pouches (they look like mini wetsuits) for phones. At an artist’s request, they’ll set up stations and lock away everyone’s cellular devices for a completely unplugged, in-the-moment, let’s listen to who’s performing event.

Pretty cool, if you ask me. Also, you’re not losing your phone. You keep it. It’s just locked away in a little pouch so you’re not Snapchatting while the artist is trying to, I dunno, connect with you as an audience member and not a screen.

FYI, during the show, it was incredible to stand in the back of the FOX Theater and watch how engaged the audience was without their devices. There were such a genuine reactions to what was happening on stage. I’m used to seeing phones out, a flash here and there, at least a handful of people staring down to see if they’d captured the right shot. None of that was happening. I also need to point out that at the end of the show, not one person was complaining about having been separated from their phones for that short period of time.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a millennial and definitely have anxiety issues about letting go of my device. But, I was excited about the overall experience. In fact, I locked my own phone away as soon as we arrived.

Using Yondr on the Audience

My job at Tracy Morgan’s show was to help lock away the audience’s phones before they went inside the Fox theater.

Here, I will inject a bit of self-deprecating truth and admit that I am not the most qualified phone-snapper-inner. I may be able to hit a few computer keys to write blog posts, but when it comes to sliding things into wetsuit material…  I’m not so adept. 

For the most part, people were cool with the process. They handed over their phones, and though some didn’t look thrilled at the prospect of no texting or Tindering for an hour and a half, they didn’t complain. Some asked if they could just keep their phones off, but accepted our rejection of that idea pretty easily.

Of course, I wouldn’t be writing this if I wanted to talk about the average person who walked through those doors.

I’m here to address the people that made me embarrassed to be a Millennial; to be in a generation of screen-addicted, tech-driven monsters.

The Phone-Free Panic

First, there was the man whose phone case made his device the size of a fucking iPad. He not only scoffed at the process and how ridiculous it was that he couldn’t have his phone, but went on to make dick jokes about its size. Because nothing is funnier than comparing your big black phone to your penis. Oh, wait. Literally, everything is funnier than that.

There was also a pair of hipster boys (I really can’t call them men, though they were probably 5 years older than I am). They stood mumbling nervously as they watched us tuck away people’s phones, and shook their heads saying definably hipster things like, “You know, this really makes me lose respect for Tracy Morgan.” Because a comic’s talent is defined by the fact that he wants a fully-engaged, phone free audience.

Finally, there was the worst of the worst.

I’d never volunteered with Yondr before, and I’m not exactly comfortable with confrontation. In fact, I’m so terrified of having to face someone who’s angry with me, I just won’t. I will either find a place to hide or I’ll pretend it didn’t happen. I will completely deny the fact that we’ve had a disagreement and never speak of it again.

…I know, totally healthy.

Anyway, this fear of anger made me go into full Sweetheart mode during the phone-locking process. I like to think of it as my “waitress-from-the-South” mode. All smiles and pie. Though there was no pie and I’ve never been to the South.

As I was focusing on other people, a young man with a beard came out and hovered by our table. I barely noticed because of the line, but he smiled at me and said, “hey, I’m not being creepy, just waiting for some friends.”

“Not a problem,” I told him because again, I’m fucking nice.

After a while, he looked slyly down and said, “oh, so that’s how it works? I just go like this?”

He reached over me to the locking contraption and unlocked his phone pouch before taking off at a sprint. He was so fucking pleased with himself…  It took me a moment to realize what he’d done, and to form a mental image of him inside, crouched against the bar like Gollum, stroking his phone and staring at it lovingly, calling it my precious.

Here’s what disturbed me so much about this trickery: First, this bearded man turned into a balding, loin-clothed creature from Lord of the Rings in my head and secondly, here was this grown man who had schemed and taken advantage of a busy volunteer because he absolutely, positively could not part with his phone. Even though an artist, (who I assume he respected and enjoyed) had requested that he do exactly that. He couldn’t last 90 minutes? He was that reliant upon a single object?? It was disgusting.

 

After my initial anger towards him subsided, I grew curious. Why couldn’t he live without his phone for 90 minutes? I know that he came with a group of friends. Were they that boring? Was he so alone in this world that he couldn’t connect with the people who he encircled himself with?

Things started to get serious and worrisome in my brain at that point.

What would happen if this man ever found himself in a situation where he didn’t have his phone? What if he accidentally went on a backpacking trip without bringing a portable charger? What would he find out about himself when he stared up into the vast night sky, searching for the satellite that normally connected him to his cellular device? How lonely and boring would he realize he was.

Food for Thought:

What is it that we need from our phones so badly? Why is it we can’t stand to be in this world without constant electronic stimuli? I’m including myself in this question. I can’t handle going to a bar without my phone at the ready (so I don’t look like the loser we all know I am). But that begs the question… why do I care how I look to others?

This is all just something to think about. Why can’t we unplug, especially while we’re being stimulated elsewhere? If an artist is performing, why do we still feel the need to be connected elsewhere via smartphone? What is it we aren’t ready to face? Who are we trying to impress with our Snap stories and why can’t we just be happy knowing we were there?

What to do when you’re drunk on your last night in London Part 2

Okay, where did we leave off. Oh, that’s right. We were brusquely greeted by a waitress who was not at all pleased by the fact that she was serving two young Americans, who were not only fifteen minutes late to their reservation, but also seemed unable to focus their eyes…

Disclaimer: Portland is an incredible restaurant with a chef who does culinary magic, an atmosphere anyone with even half a design brain would fall for, and a wonderful waitress who we’ll remember forever. It is not any fault of this establishment that we two dinguses made a mess of it all. 

Keep in mind, this is a high-end restaurant, beautifully decorated and curated to the last detail. Now, picture the two of us sitting there staring blankly at the one page menu they’ve brought out for us.

On it, each item was listed beneath its corresponding category: starters, appetizers, entrees, and desserts.

Looking up at our waitress, we naively asked if we could order a starter and appetizer and then see if we were hungry enough for an entrée. The look she gave us made it seem like we’d asked to burn the place down. Like, “hey, would it be cool if we poured kerosine everywhere and lit the shit out of this place?” She was (to put it mildly) pissed off.

“No…” she responded tersely, “the kitchen’s going to close. You need to order all courses now.”

So, we revisited the menu and placed our order. We’d begin with the cheese macarons, then we’d have the *lobster rolls…

*Okay, folks this is where things get a bit hazy. All I can say is that we chose an entrée that was some sort of fish. Halibut perhaps? I think it came with seasoned asparagus and the dessert was probably a chocolate cake of some sort. I’m vaguely remembering eating chocolate cake. Oh, god. I hope it was chocolate cake…

Moving on, we gave our sunny-dispositioned waitress these requests along with, of course, a cocktail and wine order, because we needed more alcohol…

While waiting for our first course, we received our beverages and talked (god only knows how loudly…) about how hungry we were. Now, first world problem jokes aside, we were really fuckin’ famished.

As our drinks slowly dwindled and our heads got even cloudier, out came our starters. I don’t believe at this point we noticed that our first waitress had abandoned us. 

Chewy, cheesy, savory macarons, those little morsels didn’t stand a chance. I’m pretty sure we swallowed them whole. And, as you can imagine, we looked classy AF as we shoveled those little circles of joy into our mouths beneath the twinkling, atmospheric lights. Someone really should have taken our picture.

Then, of course, we just had to sit there twiddling our thumbs while we waited for those thick lobster bodies to be our next victims. I’m not even sure we talked to each other while we waited. I think we just stared down at the emptiness that was our plates and tried not think about how it matched the emptiness of our souls without the joy of food. And then we tried not to think about the food and then tried not to think about trying not to think about the food and then… YES!!! Our appetizers were coming our way.

Two things happened at this point:

First, we realized that we had a new waitress who did not look like she wanted to recreate a Guy Richie fight scene with us in the alley outside.

Second, the “lobster rolls” that were placed in front of us were not really fucking rolls at all. What do I mean by that? Instead of the thick, rice paper wrapped, sustenance-providing dishes you’d find in your average sushi restaurant, these things were TWO slivers of, I dunno, a lobster’s oblique maybe? Seriously, together, they might have equaled the size of a pencil. A FUCKING PENCIL. A #2, not a sumo grip for you ’90s kids, fucking pencil.

At the sight of those rolls, my stomach gave a lurch, and I was lost to a fit of tears and laughter. Here we were, a couple of the hungriest little piggies I’ve ever known, and this bougie restaurant was serving up lobster PENCILS. It was too much.

I scooted back my chair and went downstairs to use the restroom. I’d love to describe it for you here, because I’m sure it was lovely, but let’s be real. I don’t remember it.

Meanwhile upstairs, Cienna was chatting with our new (and may I say much improved) waitress.

“What are you girls up to tonight?” our waitress asked, “It’s Friday so you must be going out to get drunk.”

“Well, we were across the street…”

“Oh!” the waitress exclaimed, “then you already are!”

That’s when Cienna said she noticed it (though I still can’t testify that it’s true). The woman had six fingers on her right hand.

I came back upstairs and joined in the conversation with the waitress and Cienna. Did she have other tables to take care of? Thinking back on it, I can’t quite figure out how she spent so much time shootin’ the shit with two wasted Americans, but I’m so glad she did!

Sitting down, I finished my drink, and the entrée arrived. The rest of our evening was a blur of chatting with our waitress about her children, what she does in her spare time, shoveling some sort of wonderful fish into my mouth, telling our waitress about our travels, eating chocolate cake? and listening to some sort of story that I’m sure was far too intimate, but felt totally appropriate at the time.

Then the bill arrived. A good ol’ £95. Not that I was shocked. Honestly, through the happy and hazy lens that I was seeing the world, it was the most perfectly reasonable cost for a meal. It’s funny to think about how little a part reality played in that entire euro trip…

When we’d paid our bill, we stood from the table, suddenly aware that there had been quite a few other diners enjoying their quiet meals in the restaurant. The giggles hit again as I thought about the role we’d played in their evening. They had probably been racking their brains, trying to figure out how two obviously hammered twenty-year-olds had gotten into a place like this. We’re rish bishes! I wanted to yell. Thank god I didn’t. We’re not.

We walked (not so steadily) toward the door. Our waitress friend followed and told us how nice it had been to meet us. She asked if we knew our way to the Underground Station.

“Yep,” we said with confidence!

We had no idea where the station was.

She pulled out her phone and pulled up maps, showing us where we needed to head to catch a train. I should have noticed Cienna staring madly at her fingers as she typed in directions, but I think I had been more interested in the way the streetlights were blinking or how I was swaying every so slightly.

We said goodbye and started our jaunt toward the Underground.

“Did you see??” Cienna asked with wide eyes.

“See what,” I responded, because I’ve never noticed anything in my entire life and wasn’t about to start then.

“She had fucking twelve fingers. SIX on each hand.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I KNOW!” she countered, “that’s why I fucking counted them again. I was like, Cienna, your drunk. Count again. And I DID. 1..2…3…4…5…6…1…2…3…4…5…6…1…2…3…4…5…6″

“Okay, okay!” I still didn’t really believe her but we’d arrived at the Station.

We walked inside and I pressed my little card down onto the button to open the gate, but the gate wouldn’t open. I tried again. And again. Omg. My little card was broken! What was I going to do? Did I have to buy another one? Where would I buy another one? This was terrible. I tried again. It still wasn’t working.

I looked up and spotted two officers standing together chatting. Cienna took off toward them with a confident march.

“Excuse me,” she said with authority, “my friend’s card isn’t working.”

The men stared down at us and blinked.

“That’s because it doesn’t have any money left on it…” he replied and turned back to the other officer.

Red with embarrassment, I simply reloaded the card at the kiosk, pressed it down and we were on our way to the platform to catch the train. Back in the hotel room, we drunkenly tried to prepare for bed. In the morning, we would be catching a train to the airport (or so we thought, but that’s a whole other story….).

In the morning, we awoke to hangovers that were made a tiny bit better by a delicious breakfast downstairs and then went on a wild goose hunt for H2 Brun Sauce to take back to the States, like the good yankee girls we are!

 

What to do when you’re drunk on your last day in London Part 1.

As promised, today I’m writing about the time my best friend and I managed to spend $140 on dinner and became friends with a twelve-fingered waitress.

In order for you to truly understand why this momentous event is, in fact, momentous, here’s what you have to know:

During this trip across the pond, my two friends and I were suddenly filled with an insatiable hunger. We had to eat every three hours on.the.dot. And I’m not talking about little snacks. No, no. I’m talking full plates of fried fish, thick chips (those are French Fries to you uncultured Yankees), full pints of beer, and mashed peas—which aren’t as nasty as they sound. OH! Then there were the breakfasts of toast, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, scrambled eggs, and coffee.

If we didn’t get the these giant man feasts? Unleash the hangry monsters from America. Move over football hooligans (that’s soccer to you Yanks), our stomachs were ready to kick. some. ass.

Ready for that teen movie montage but with hungry monster adults?

Now, that that’s out of the way, let’s continue.

If you know anything about me, you know that I can never eat like this. Not because I’m worried about keeping my figure. Let’s be honest, that goal died years ago… but because I have some not so “cute” issues with yee ol’ tummy. Read about the burrito fiasco of 2015 here.

Anyway, the miracle of London was that these thunderstorms in my belly seemed to no longer exist! Talk about GAME ON. Food could “spice up my life” and I would still be ready to have another curry within the hour.

On our last night in the Queen’s land. My best friend Cienna and I said goodbye to our fellow traveler, Haven, and went on our own to paint the town red (or at least a nice mauve).

Here’s what to keep in mind: Haven is the responsible one out of our trio.

After our goodbyes, we checked into one of the trendiest hotel’s I’ve ever stepped foot in, The Hoxton in Shoreditch. We were welcomed in by a sexy piece of Brit at the font desk. Yes, I did have to fight off the young gay man in order to get him to assist us. And yes, I am proud of it.

Check out this super trendy building outside The Hoxton in Shoreditch.

Once we were all settled in, we decided to go see Gringotts … I mean, Harrods (honestly, they’re the same thing).

There, we proceeded to spend upwards of $80 on important things like a pen with the name Harrods on it…

Heading to Gringotts!

After spending a hour or two in this incredible maze of material goods, it suddenly hit… the hunger. Yes, you guessed it. It had been far more that three hours since we’d gorged ourselves on fried potatoes and we needed food. STAT.

While in San Francisco, I’d gotten a recommendation from a real fancy lady for a restaurant in London called Portland. Yes Alanis, that is ironic.

So we looked it up, and Open Table said we could make a reservation at 10pm. It was around 9pm at this point. Cienna suggested we just head there instead, and see if they could seat us earlier. With our stomachs growling and our heads woozy from a full 4.5 hours without a massive meal, we grabbed a car and went to the little restaurant.

When we got there, the host answered the door and shook his head when he heard our plan.

“Sorry,” he said, “we’re all full for tonight.”

Not even a cute British accent could subdue the disappointment we felt at those words nor could it quell the little monsters in our stomachs and demanded to be FED.

We stepped back out onto the street, hearts full of despair, and pulled up Yelp. There had to be another place to eat nearby. Right? RIGHT?!

Wrong. There was absolutely nothing.

Desperate for some sort of sustenance (yes, I know there are starving children in Africa and I’m a brat, but we were SO HUNGRY), I pulled up Portland’s website again (No, not the state. The restaurant. Though how cool would it be if we could make reservations for Portland, the state, and just like reserve it for an hour or two… Portlandia, I’ve got your next amazing skit right here!)

Back on topic: That 10pm reservation was still showing up as available! Should I just book it? Perhaps they kept a few spots open just in case someone made a reservation. I clicked the button.

As I made the reservation, I noticed the hours listed on the website. Portland closed at 10pm… (Oh, god. Now I’m wondering what it would be like if an entire state closed at 10pm. Crazy.)

WHY in the Queen’s name would they have an Open Table reservation available for that time if the restaurant wasn’t even going to be open?! 

The hunger was really boiling at this point.

That’s when we spotted it. An English pub right across the street. And I’m talking a classic, Notting Hill-esque, straight out of a Jane Austen novel, English pub. I think it was named the Farrier or The Horse and the Hound. Something that made you go, oh my god. I’m in fucking LONDON.

We ran inside and sat down at the bar staring desperately at the young bartender. He strode over and casually asked us what we’d like.

“Food!” We cried, because Americans aren’t obnoxious at all… #Trump amiright?

“Sorry,” he replied trying not to show his dislike of the two obviously well fed, gluttonous girls in front of him, “kitchen closes at 9pm. All we have are some crisps.” For you Yanks out there, crisps are fucking potato chips… those were NOT going to quell the demons that were raging inside of us.

So, we ordered two ciders and drank down our sorrows. Remember, we had not eaten for about 5 hours, and in London, that means we’d been starving ourselves for at least a full day! By the time we finished these drinks, we were already a tiny bit tipsy. That’s when the older bartender came up to us and asked if we were ready for another. “It’s Friday!” he exclaimed, “You ladies have to have another!”

“If I have another,” Cienna told him, “I’m going to end up passed out on your floor.”

So he poured us two more.

That’s when my phone began to ring…it’s them! It’s the restaurant. I panicked. Thrusting my phone at Cienna, I demanded that she answer.

“Hello? Yes, this is she. Oh, sorry. We thought you closed at 10pm. Oh? That’s when your last seating is? Yes, well, we’re right across the street. We’ll see you in a bit.”

Downing our fresh glasses of cider—not the best idea for us—we paid our bill and ran across the street where the same host opened the doors and welcomed us in. We were seated at a small table in the middle of the restaurant and a waitress with a pixie cut and a bad attitude (or maybe she just wasn’t thrilled to wait her last table on two drunk Americans who couldn’t seem to stare straight at their menus) came to take our orders.

The remainder of the evening’s escapades (including tears at the sight of a pencil-sized lobster appetizer, the contrasting size of our bill, and our debate about a twelve-fingered waitress who pretty much saved our lives) will be in tomorrow’s post. Tune in then!

So This is What Twentysomething REALLY Feels Like

When I opened up WordPress today, I meant to write a post about my trip to London (a trip where my best friend and I spent $140 on dinner and met a waitress with twelve fingers). Rest assured, I’ll still be writing that post, but right now, I’ve got something else on my mind.

Recently, I went through something so “grown up” that I honestly never thought I’d experience it. After all, anyone who knows me is more than aware of my lack of talent in adulting.

Not that I’m totally irresponsible. I always complete work on time, can successfully use a washing machine, and am fully capable of feeding the cat when my roommate is out of town. Still, none of that prepares you for something like this.

On Friday morning, my coworkers and I found ourselves without a job. I’m not going to get into it more than that, but this totally shook me to my core. More than anything else, the way people reacted to the news—including myself—was completely unnerving.

People who had previously left the company showed their bitterness in their words and shocked me with their tactlessness when it came to speaking with someone who had just lost their job. It really made me wonder: if I had left when they had, would I completely forget all of the hard work, soul, and time I’d put into this company? Or, an even more disturbing question, had they never cared for the company or anyone who worked there at all?

But before I judge them in too harsh a light, I have to reflect on my own reactions. Immediately after it happened, I could think of no one else but myself. Anyone who wanted to talk about something other than my loss of a job and the disappearance of my company was cruel or unimportant. At the same time, I couldn’t (and still can’t) stand being looked at with pity or asked concerned questions as the center of attention. I don’t want people to delve into the situation because anyone outside of it has no chance of understanding.

So what does this leave me with?

Today, I spent the morning reading with a cup of coffee. I applied to some interesting job descriptions and fought the fears in my stomach that I wasn’t skilled enough to do any of them.

During this, I couldn’t help but ask myself, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?

I mean, how long have I dreamed about sleeping in, waking to the sunlight dripping into my little bedroom, grabbing a cup of coffee, and getting to write and read the day away?

But the question comes with a tinge of sadness. Sadness at having watched a company that we worked so hard on end. Sadness at the realization that this isn’t something my parents can help with. I can’t call saying I have a sore stomach, be brought home, and have them reassure me that everything will be okay. It might not be.

So, here it is. This is twentysomething. It’s strange. It’s frightening. But it’s real, and we just have to discover why we’re still so happy to be in this stage of our lives.