The Day I Broke My Own Heart Because I Didn’t Understand A Story About OJ

This is going to be uncomfortable – but not as uncomfortable as it probably is to be OJ. Or to be murdered by OJ. Or to be orange juice and suddenly hate your own nickname. 

Yesterday I broke up with my boyfriend of a year and change. Is it very early to write about this? Probably. Am I insane? Almost definitely. I have never written about anything like this for public eyes before (unless you count extremely cringeworthy Facebook statuses circa 2007). I think that may be because I’ve felt like my emotions were so out of control I didn’t have anything useful or interesting to say (even in the throes of desperate, soul vomiting heartbreak I’m able to recognize that “BUT WE WERE GOING TO DO SO MUCH TOGETHER” is not a new take on breakup sadness, and while I may be wrapped in a sad bed burrito as I write this, I would sooner sell my soul to multilevel marketing than let the world know that I’m a fucking cliche). But when you’re an artist and you tell people you’re sad, a scene often unfolds  in which they scream at you “USE IT IN YOUR ART!” as if suddenly possessed by the ghost of Bukowski.

So really this is just to shut you all up. I’m using it. Are you happy? I hope not. I’m not!

I won’t bore you with the details of the genesis of our relationship – the only interesting meet cutes I’ve had with people resulted in relationships that were so psychotic they’re worthy of an entire TSwift album. Sam Jackson in Pulp Fiction gives the only meetup explanation the world will ever need, so we met “however people meet people.”

Something of note, though, is that I was so tired of relationships not working out that we decided we’d try this thing where when we had issues, we made the decision to *drum roll please* WORK THROUGH IT! That this was even an option blew my fucking mind. And I’m certain it’s the reason we made it past a year. I know a year is nothing to some people, but I am not good at sustainability. Maybe it’s the Gemini in me (or the having parents with unresolved mental health issues and inheriting a hefty endowment of anxiety and insecurities myself), but I have a lot of trouble moving through uncomfortable periods. I convince myself this (whatever “this” is) is how it will always be and boy if that’s the case you’d better leave now because you don’t want to be one of those suckers who’s stuck in some 5 year miserable thing they can’t get out of.

That’s seriously where my mind goes immediately for most issues. And I really mean most issues. We saw The Phantom Thread in theaters together and he absolutely adored every aspect of it, whereas I was sitting there wondering how the fuck I was supposed to find an abusive relationship amusing (eventually I realized that I guess it doesn’t seem that abusive to anyone who has never had someone verbally abusive in their lives, but I could write an entire 20 page post on this issue alone so I’ll cut myself off here). Upon realizing our differing opinions on the film, I fell into a deep pit of despair. I lay in bed crying trying to explain to him that since he enjoyed something that made me so sad we couldn’t possibly ever be happy together. And then I wrote the most intense journal entry of all time (I mean literally intense; I wrote so hard the pen tore holes in the page), which included the sublime line “I feel so much rage inside me I want to throw something,” and then I went on a tangent about how my emotional attachment to my unpopular opinions causes more issues than it should, in which I produced the gem “I feel so utterly alone. Why can’t I be right that St. Vincent is less lyrically complex than she comes off? It has to be that she’s not trying to be lyrically complex? I can’t offer interesting insight or thoughts? I’m just a negative bitch?” Poignant.

So we don’t talk about Daniel Day Lewis anymore, which is convenient timing being that he just retired (thanks, Dan.). AND we talked it through. And continued to talk it through every single time an issue like this came up (and it came up a lot). We talked about how I’m an insecure aggressive bitch about my opinions and he can be a bit of a pretentious dick about his. And we worked on it.

This dedication to each other showed me a side of love I had truly never seen before. But the thing about working through issues together is that some issues are too personal to be a team effort. My issues with anxiety and insecurity have, in the past, been too unresolved personally to possibly be resolved in a relationship. There are things that can only be worked through with a lot of personal dedication and a lot of time. And I think my lovely dude is there with his shit. My shit is nowhere near resolved. I’m like a supersenior at the college of My Shit. But he’s a freshman at the college of His Shit; he’s dedicated, he’s going to class, he’s doing most of his homework, and he wants to make the honor roll.

The fact that he was actively working on his shit is one of the things that attracted me to him in the first place. So many people (like, most people) don’t even know what their shit is. I knew I was making a healthy choice for once by choosing to be with someone who actively works on self improvement.

Unfortunately, an extreme desire to graduate doesn’t mean you can take accelerated courses (Jesus I regret picking this analogy. I mean it was good for the introduction of the issue but it’s become really campy and I don’t like it. I’m going to abruptly drop it now). He just wasn’t where I needed him to be with his shit. And we were aware of this. We spoke about it openly and discussed that it would be a deal breaker eventually if it didn’t improve at a particular rate. But again, you can’t just dump 4 years of coursework on someone’s desk and expect them to graduate next week (fuck, sorry).

Yesterday, I woke up happier than I have in a really long time. Maybe you’re used to waking up and not hating the thought of life, but this is a big deal to me. I think I felt okay because for the first time in awhile I wasn’t worried about Us. Though we had questioned the state of our relationship a week prior, the past week had been really great. We were clicking, we got each other, we didn’t get petty or mad about stupid shit like St. Vincent’s lyrical prowess, we chilled and played video games. I was going to go to the gym in the morning but I decided it would be kind of nice to just chill and walk to brunch together which we never do because we’re poor. In fact we hadn’t really just walked anywhere together in months. We had a really nice walk, we enjoyed ourselves at brunch, I put half of my delicious croissanwich in a box to go, and we left to walk back to his place.

On the way he started telling me about the last episode of Sacha Baron Cohen’s (I had to google that, I have never once successfully said or typed this man’s name) show where I guess Sacha disguises himself and gets OJ talking about the murders. On a surface level, I got it. Of course that’s what you’d want OJ to talk about on your show where you trick people into showing their true colors. But I wasn’t quite getting the contextual details of how he got him to talk about it or if OJ knew that’s what he’d be talking about. For some reason, I have always struggled with this; I want to understand all of the nuances of what someone is telling me because I don’t know how to feel about it if I don’t understand all the angles or the full message and yet I don’t know how to convey this need to anyone in a way that gets me the answers I’m looking for.

So I had a complete meltdown on Melrose Avenue in which I cried and screamed “BUT WHY WOULD OJ TALK TO A STRANGER ABOUT MURDERING SOMEONE.”

It’s definitely a “trigger” for me. It frustrates me that I can’t seem to just accept the information that people give me and have a normal conversation. It frustrates me that no one else seems to care about or need context as much as I do. And it really frustrates me that I fail to express myself in these moments because I immediately start feeling like a freak about it, like I did when I was 10 and then I proceed to act like a fucking 10 year old. There are a handful of issues that will do this to me. While I’m pretty logical and self aware, I am also a very reactive and emotional person. I have extremely strong reactions to things as they’re happening and then I calm down super quickly and am able to talk about it. In one of Marc Maron’s specials he reflects on how he hasn’t gotten any better about yelling at people, he’s just shortened the time between the outburst and his apology to the point where it’s basically like “FUCK YOU! I’m sorry.” That’s where I’m at, and we’d gotten to a point where he would just let me have my tantrum and then be there to talk when I was done. I have never felt so loved than in those moments.

When we finally got to his place (it took awhile. I stopped to cry on a lot of corners), we began to pick through what happened. I told him about feeling like a freak and hating myself for having this issue, and then something happened that kind of changed everything. He told me that all those times I had those emotional reactions and screamed and cried, he was just pretending to be okay with it and it actually really hurt him.

I almost threw up. I had just told one of my good friends about how beautiful it was that I was with someone who could just let me do my thing and know it wasn’t about them.

But how could it not hurt someone? When it happens, I often think there’s no way I’d be with someone who talked to me that way. I don’t even remember the things I say in those moments because they’re said in such fits of rage and emotion. That’s a scary thought.

I’m going to have a real moment of honesty here. I started this post thinking I’d talk about how we realized he just wasn’t where he needed to be for a healthy relationship. And I think that’s true. But through writing this I’m realizing I’m not a supersenior at the College of My Shit. I’m a fucking Junior who already has Senioritis and is now phoning it in because they’ve made the honor roll all 5 semesters so far. I’ve been resting on the laurels of all of the work I’ve done on myself and I’ve stopped short of the juiciest bits. I’m not saying the goal is to be perfect and never explode at someone. I think people should be able to be the shittiest versions of themselves sometimes and have people in their lives who love them not just despite it but because of it. But if I’m being honest I’ve barely been trying since I got comfortable with our dynamic.

We sat in silence for awhile after he said this. Then I asked him what he was thinking and he talked about his own struggles. We were quiet for about another ten minutes, but my brain was screaming “breaking up is the right choice!” And eventually, I said it out loud. He said he agreed. I got up to pee because I’d been holding it since OJ. Then I packed up my stuff. We both ugly cried for about 20 seconds and I realized if I didn’t leave then I’d change my mind. So I walked out the door and LEFT MY FUCKING HALF CROISSANWICH. I MEAN COME THE FUCK ON. YOU TOOK THE TIME TO USE THE BATHROOM AND PICK YOUR UNDERWEAR OFF THE FLOOR. HOW MUCH TACKIER WOULD IT HAVE BEEN TO TAKE YOUR FOOD?

I cried the whole way to my car and kept stopping to look back, hoping he’d come after me. I don’t know what I was expecting. What was he going to do, walk out of his place in his boxers and say “No! Don’t go! We aren’t actually troubled individuals! Or even if we are, let’s just risk hurting each other in terrible and dramatic ways anyway!”

Actually that does sound nice right now, if I’m being honest.

I’ve never broken up with someone that I love. I have either had my heart broken or I let myself get sick of the person. I feel like I just broke my own heart. I listened to myself and I feel fucking terrible. I’m the worst friend ever.

If you happen to be reading this (I mean him specifically. Anyone who’s reading this is reading this and this message isn’t for just anyone) please accept my beat up, bleeding heart. It’s not a great gift, I know. I’m not even sure what you’re supposed to do with it, but I want you to have it. I guess you can have the half croissanwich, too. It probably tastes better.

Exceptional, or How I’m Constantly Being Sent Home with Someone Else’s Appendix Surgery Video

When I was about 5, my sister went to an amazing sounding summer camp. Every day when we would pick her up, I couldn’t wait to hear her tell me all about all the art projects and swimming and horse riding she had done and all the friends she had. When I was finally old enough to go to the same camp, I had overwhelming first day of school type nerves and excitement. Even though she had told me all about it for years, I didn’t know exactly what to expect when I got there. Not knowing what to expect is one of the main tent poles of the anxiety I’ve had my whole life, so when the head of camp gathered every single camper together and told us “I’m going to list off all of your names and when you hear your name, your group will cheer for you and you’ll run over to them! That’s your group for the rest of the summer!” I was immediately relieved.  I knew the plan and I was pumped.

He began listing off names using a megaphone. Each kid would run excitedly to the group they were assigned to as group cheered and welcome them. As more and more names were listed and more and more groups cheered, I could barely contain my eagerness to be welcomed into my own group and be able to feel special, too. It had occurred to me that it was odd that I hadn’t been called yet considering I usually come first alphabetically, whether by first name or last name, “But look how happy everyone is! I’ll be that happy soon, too.” The group began to thin. “I mean I’m definitely supposed to be here, right? It’s Monday and mommy said Monday we were starting camp. And my sister is here too. And daddy dropped us off. So, yeah, I’m definitely supposed to be here. Unless they meant to drop me somewhere else and got confused? Or maybe I didn’t understand them! Maybe I was supposed to stay in the car! My sister is looking at me. Does that mean I did something stupid and she knows it? Oh boy I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here….”

And then it was just the two of us.

“What are your names?” someone said. I’m sure my sister answered them because we started walking somewhere else with them but I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of every single organ in my body trying to exit out of my mouth in a disorderly fashion.

Eventually they somehow got my mother on the phone and though I could only hear the camp staff’s side of the conversation and I was like 7 and don’t remember much, I will use my educated imagination and say it went something to the effect of:

Camp: Hello this is camp why are you children here?

Mom: Hello camp, this is Mom. What the fuck are you talking about?

Camp: Hello Mom. Your children are not on our list.

Mom: Hello, Camp. That’s news to me since I signed them up weeks ago and gave you money, you fucking shit heads.

Camp: I am sorry, Mom. You are right.

Mom: I know, Camp.

Camp: We will put them in groups now.

Mom: Good. Probably now they’ll be the weirdos because the other kids have had like an extra half hour to bond and have a fully formed in-group mentality and my children will now be seen as outsiders who must be thwarted. Call me please if my children are murdered.

Camp: Roger. Have a nice day.

I went on to have a perfectly fine summer, but this was the beginning of an entire life of being the exception to every system I come into contact with.

Years later, I became a counselor at that same camp. Originally we had a clock-in system where we would just write down our names and arrival times. Eventually, they wanted something more high-tech that would hold us more accountable so they introduced a fingerprint scanning system. One day after work we were all to come into the office and scan our prints so they could set up our clock-in account. The line moved pretty quickly since the process was pretty easy. Then I got to the front.

Camp: Just put your finger down and when it flashes it means it’s got your print and you’re good to go.

Me: It’s not flashing.

Camp: Hm…lift it up and try again?

Me: No.

Camp: Is your finger really cold? Maybe warm it up?

Me: It’s still not working.

Camp: Okay well let’s figure it out tomorrow so everyone else can go home.

They tried to get my fingerprint on file for the next few weeks but eventually gave up. Every morning, they put a clip board next to the fingerprint scanner so that I could sign in on paper. Every day, I dreaded having to explain to whoever was in front of or behind me why I couldn’t do the finger scanner. To this day, I remain the only one in the history of camp who had to continue paper sign-ins.

My freshman year of high school, I was on the dance team. I had danced all of my life up to that point so it was a natural choice for me. But I found that I didn’t love it as much as I used to and decided after the first semester that I would drop dance and try theatre instead. Though I was leaving, I was extremely proud of the work I had done in the first semester. All the dancers worked well together as a group and it is such a rare feeling to feel part of anything in high school. For the winter festival, we did a performance on pointe that everyone kept telling me I was amazing in. It was taped and our pictures would be featured in the yearbook. It was one of the first times I remember feeling accomplished and recognized. When the yearbook finally came, due to the angle of the picture, the only part of me you could see was my foot. I went to look for my name next to the picture and it wasn’t there. The yearbook staff had labeled the picture based off of who they could see and not from an official list of who was on the team. The school completely lost the tape from the winter performance that year. There is no record of me ever having danced at my high school.

The summer of that year, while working at the aforementioned camp, I had to take a week off to get my appendix removed (for the full story, see my page). It was such an ordeal but since I’m usually able to have a good sense of humor about shitty things, I was kind of entertained by the whole thing. When they told us that they send every patient home with the internal video footage from their surgery, I was so excited. There was no way I wasn’t having everyone over for a viewing party of my internal organs. Once I was all stitched up and well enough to go home, they handed me my forms, my aftercare instructions, and a DVD, but:

Hospital: For some reason we weren’t able to save the footage from your surgery, but everyone basically look the same on the inside and we didn’t want to send you home empty handed so here’s a copy of someone else’s surgery.

There’s a clinic I go to when I don’t feel like bothering my regular doctor with my hypochondria, and they’re often doing blood work for me. At first they would just call or email with results when they came in, but then they set up an online system where each client could log on to see their results and keep track of all of their records. I won’t insult your intelligence. We all know where this is going. No matter how many times I try their login procedure, it always says I have an existing account and no one in their office can figure out how to access the account the system is referring to. They kept giving me the instruction slips every time in hopes that the registration code would work. It never did. Now I have an actual email relationship with the lab and they know they have to email me every time they get my results in. To my knowledge, I am the only client they have to do this for.

I won’t bore you with every single example, because they’re all pretty much the same. My account doesn’t work or I have the “in extremely rare cases” reactions to a lot of medications or the DMV somehow created two titles to my car so I had to go through a year long process of linking the two titles so I could become the owner of the vehicle, which they’d never seen before.

I’ve come to expect it at this point. There have been times where I’ve genuinely wondered whether I’m actually a person or if I’m some weird solid ghost who manages to live a mostly human life but for whom no human systems work properly. Other times, I felt maybe I was just invisible and only imagining the conversations I was having. Sometimes I’ll stop a friend mid conversation to say “I’m real, right?” Because obviously my extremely urgent and realistic fear of not being a human person is more important than whatever my friend was in the middle of enthusiastically telling me.

I was thinking about this the other while in bed. “I just don’t understand why I can’t be normal. I want to know what to expect when I go to the doctor. I want to have the same easy system as everyone else. I don’t want to be in limbo with every institution because they couldn’t make me fit into their protocol. Why do I have to always be the fucking exception? Why are my circumstances always deemed ‘exceptional.'”

I sat bold upright.

There are two definitions for exceptional:

1. unusual; not typical.
2. unusually good; outstanding.

I’m not invisible. I’m fucking exceptional.

I’ve wanted to be special my entire life. I’ve been spending all this time lamenting the irritation and anxiety that comes with having to do things my own way, when really this is just the most annoyingly big sign that I am obnoxiously special. I don’t want to have everyone else’s life. When people ask me where I see myself in five years I say “I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” I want a life of surprises and adventures. I should stop bitching about the surprises I’m already getting.

Okay I lied. According to the google dictionary, there’s actually a third definition to exceptional:

3. (of a child) mentally or physically disabled so as to require special schooling.

But that doesn’t fit well with my story. I’m including it anyways because I don’t have to follow your stupid writing rules. I have a video of someone else’s appendix surgery. Do you?

 

 

 

 

Skin Tribulations, or “Why there’s a pillow in our trashcan right now.”

I’ve struggled with skin issues most of my life. I don’t call it acne because I know many people who suffer from acne and I know how truly terrible and heartbreaking it is for them to deal with it. My issues are not quite as severe but are 100% more mysterious (exciting!) because it would seem that the universe is very fond of giving me mild yet entirely unrelatable  issues that make the internet shrug at me.

I do occasionally get what one might call a pimple, but mostly it’s been decades of a thrilling combination of eczema, dermatitis, rashes, cysts, and bumpy breakouts not-otherwise-specified.  People (i.e. friends. I.e. the people who love me and want the best for me) keep telling me to go to a dermatologist and I (to repay their kindness and thoughtfulness) reply “FUCK YOU” because my past experiences with dermatologists are entirely their fault.

I’ve been to dermatologists before and generally they are very good at solving very specific, straightforward issues. For example, when I have a cystic pimple, they stab me with a needle, shoot some cortisone into the bitch, and it deflates within 10 minutes. I have found, however, that they struggle with the more delicate and nuanced issues of human skin. I’ve been given numerous products that “should help with that breakout” that ended up making my face have more of a psychotic meltdown than the pre-period Arielle of two days ago (topical: did you know that periods also fuck your skin up?).

I often get small, red bumps around my chin and mouth which the internet is, like, totally sure is dermatitis. When I have a flareup, I cannot wear sunscreen, exfoliate, or wear any heavy creams or oils. But please don’t tell anyone because if Los Angeles finds out that I haven’t been abiding by the “All You Need For Clear Skin Is Sunscreen, Exfoliating Twice A Week, and Coconut Oil, Ladies! Keep It Simple!” manifesto, they will make me watch 3 skin care videos, read 2 blog posts about the miracles of natural skincare, and say 5 Our Fathers.

In an exciting turn of events, I have recently started getting red bumps around my eyes and cheekbone. I haven’t changed products recently, I don’t use brushes when I put on makeup, I don’t incessantly touch my face, yadda yadda all the things that doctors are wont to ask. Which is why I was not surprised by the responses I received when I had my friend Katie (1/3 of the text group “Triple Bae”) consult her doctor friends on the matter:

No. None of the above. Also, the internet has told me to TOTALLY DEFINITELY NOT ever put cortisone cream on dermatitis (which I am at least 90% sure is the cause of the chin stuff, if you recall. I know it’s hard to keep up. You’re doing great). In fact, most of the sites about it list “cessation of use of steroid creams” as literally the only cure for dermatitis which is great since I don’t fucking put cortisone cream on my face.

I fed their thorough responses to the unrelenting tornado of conflicting information and thanked them for their time.

Also, Triple Bae could totally be a girl band.

Before my France trip, I had gone on a diet that the universe (internet) said would clear up many skin problems. I cut out added sugar, dairy, white bread, and soy. I did this for two weeks and arrived in France glowing like a goddamn goddess. So when the eyeballcheekbone shit wouldn’t go away, I decided it was time to try the diet again.

I have been soy/dairy/sugar/whitebread free for 3 days and this morning I woke up looking like I had spent the entire night crying tears of acid:

Which is pretty fucking metal but like I want to be pretty.

I greeted my boyfriend for the first time this morning with this picture and “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO MY FACE. Good morning.” He was like “Maybe it’s your pillowcase” and I was like “I CHANGED IT YESTERDAY, NO!”

I promptly googled “does a pillow make your fucking face breakout” and the internet was like “Yo, it’s totally your pillow.” Which, admittedly, I’ve had since college and haven’t washed once, OKAY?! There I said it.

Within seconds, a magic pillowcase that allegedly clears up your acne while you sleep and the world’s most popular hypoallergenic pillow were in my Amazon cart getting checked out.

I then had 5 minutes left before I had to leave, which I used to destroy evidence of my evil, evil pillow, eat a plum, and warn my roommate about the state of our trash can:

Will keep you posted.

France Part 3: Paris, or “You can’t bleach history, except in America.”

It’s only been 3 months since my trip so now seems like a good time to finally post the last installment of my temporary travel blog.

Before I jump in, I would like to mention, for anyone following along, that my ankle is still fucked up which supports my doctor friend’s suspicion that it is actually a stress fracture and not just a sprain which I accept because it sounds cooler.

Megan and I stayed in an Airbnb in Paris and I won’t pretend to know anything about the different districts. They’re just like any city neighborhoods but they’re numbered and so they sound intense to me and anyone who knows what they mean is a boss.

The building was super interesting. I took a lot of pictures using a polaroid which doesn’t help you at all and I’ve never been good at describing settings (and I usually skip over those parts in books). But they did have very stereotypically European style windows whose shutters opened  outward onto a very stereotypically European street.

It was about 90 degrees most of the time we were there and the Airbnb had no air conditioning. My bed was in the living room and I wanted to sleep with the windows open because it was so hot but one of the shutters wouldn’t lock properly. Megan pointed out that we were fairly high up and said she was unsure how dedicated Parisian rapists are, but I decided to just keep the one working window open and risk dying of heat stroke instead.

1. The things you plan:

When taking a trip to Paris, especially if it is as short as mine was, you’ll want to plan ahead. I’m not one of those people who thrives with a strict schedule, but I wanted to pick a handful of must-sees.

The must-sees (according to me, a lazy planner and person in general):

You will find, if you ever make this trip or one similar, that when asking people for recommendations of what you “ABSOLUTELY MUST” see while you’re in Paris that you’ll get somewhere between 200 and 1 million food recommendations. Eventually you’re kind of just like “Okay, meats, breads, and cheeses. Got it.” I won’t tell you where to go. I won’t tell you what to eat. It is all pretty much the same, and it is all great.

I will mention, however, that my friend Megan and I did take one person up on an ice cream shop recommendation (she had recently married a Frenchman so we decided her input had more value). I’m not much of an ice cream person, but it was hot out and I figured it was a nice French experience and that an adventure like this could add to my portfolio of proof that I’m a human person.

The place is called Berthillon and it is delish. There was a bit of a line, but just as I was starting to feel like a dick for making my friend wait in line in the hot sun for half an hour because someone she had never met told me it was tasty she remarked that it was worth the wait. PHEW. We aren’t insta models and therefor didn’t think to take a picture of our treats at the outset of our eating. Please forgive me. I should also add that I’m very lactose intolerant and  despite all the lactase pills on earth, I had the most explosive poop (a proper poomergency) later that evening, which was unfortunate for my friend because her room connected to the bathroom by way of a flimsy sliding door. I praise the gods (the old and the new) for the fact that our airbnb host kept air freshener in his bathroom. While pooping, I reminisced about the ice cream and thought, “Still worth it.”

Museums

Museums are definitely a must-see, but there are so many that I would recommend just seeing what tickles your fancy. I’m sure the internet has a comprehensive list somewhere. Megan and I decided on The Louvre and Musée d’Orsay (I copy and pasted that from google so I could get the correct accent mark and spelling).

Musée d’Orsay is a truly enjoyable experience. The building was converted from an old train station so it has a really unique and beautiful aesthetic. Also, it is very manageable in terms of size and amount of exhibitions.

At The Louvre, I found not only beautiful art but a deepened hatred for humanity.

First of all, it’s massive. This can’t really be helped because art needs to go somewhere and there’s just so much of it. But it does add to the general frustration one might experience walking for miles in a sea of people while stressing out about how you will possibly consume all of the important art and history in your limited time there and coming to the conclusion that it is, in fact, impossible to fully appreciate it all in one sitting but it is also simply financially irresponsible at this time in your life to split the viewing into two days and isn’t it crazy how it’s actually easier to fully appreciate something if there is less to be seen anyways? Like if it were just the Mona Lisa, a bowl, and 2 sculptures your mind would be blown? But you walk past like 10 Raphaels that you can barely fucking see on the top row and you’re like “BEEN DONE” and even if you had the capacity to immerse yourself into more than a few pieces of art in one go, it’s simply temporally impossible? Like how even if you wanted to read every book ever written, you wouldn’t have time to in one lifetime and mightn’t we as well give up?

So if you aren’t plagued by existential dread, you should find it enjoyable. And I imagine most people who go there aren’t because they aren’t smart enough to experience such a phenomenon to begin with (this is the beginning of a very long and impassioned rant about the state of humanity. I feel I owe you a warning).

In the fucking Louvre, you will find that most people spend their entire time there snapping pictures of things. Now, I understand the need for documentation and the desire for physical memories, but this is not what is happening here. What is happening here is a fundamental lack of the ability to have an experience without trying to figure out how to hold onto it. This is the most understanding sentence I will write about this issue, because while I understand the phenomenon and I know that it is a real issue that plagues our society and adds to a lot of dissatisfaction and depression, I also understand that most people suffering from this issue aren’t aware of what is going on or have no intention of fixing it and they’re fucking ruining everything. People are so worried about memories and experiences slipping away and out of their grasp that they spend their time seeing their own experience secondhand instead of actually creating memories and engaging with their surroundings in a meaningful way.

This issue is not only tragic but it is infuriatingly illogical. You have paid to see these paintings and sculptures (or concert, or comedy show, or firework show, or whatever the fuck) in person. You have, presumably, seen pictures of these paintings and sculptures (or members of your favorite band, or comedians, or a firework) online or in a book at some point and have decided to now take the next step and see it in person. WHY in the FUCK are you choosing then to continue seeing it through a lens other than your OWN FUCKING EYEBALL? I assume many of you intend to post these pictures online where I hope you are aware you could simply look up pictures taken by actual fucking art photographers if you’re ever feeling real nostalgic. FURTHERMORE many of the artists whose works you’re reducing to a poorly lit and over filtered 4 inch display didn’t imagine a world in which you had a lil device in your hand that could capture images and they were painting this shit so you could look at it with your own stupid fucking unadulterated face, you imbecile.

IN ADDITION, you standing there like a flock of goddamn lemmings makes it NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE for actual human beings to squeeze through and look at something with their actual human eyes.

I at one point managed to get through a group of people blocking me with their stupid arms in the air holding cameras and phones in order to see a sculpture and one dude had the audacity to tap me on the shoulder and motion for me to move out of his shot. I yelled “NO. Fuck you. Your picture is not more important than my eyes!” He didn’t speak English, but HE KNEW I WAS ANGRY.

Also no one is looking at your iPhone picture of the Mona Lisa thinking you’re cool. You’re not an art photographer (and if you are and are just there on vacation and not work you’re being a dickweasel). You’re not going to capture it a way it hasn’t been captured. And we don’t value this as some verification that you’re in France. We saw your status about it. We weren’t doubting you. Fuck off.

I did take one Louvre pic because this is great:

“There, there.”

A couple times we were actually able to glimpse sculptures through cracks formed between the different teams of hardworking cinematographers and we marveled at how severely unfathomable to us the process of sculpting something is. How in god’s name does someone have the patience to delicately craft a ballsack out of stone without chipping anything? And how did they have time to do it 30 more times on 30 more bodies? Thankfully, one of our friends is an artist so we bombarded her with questions about how long various art things take:

Megan attributes the prolific nature of sculptors to their apparently extremely fortunate lack of Netflix.

So in addition to the many wings and levels with many different works of art from many different eras and locations, the Louvre has maintained some of the underground (I think?) original structures from when the building initially acted as a fortress. You can walk through and learn about the different phases of the building’s use and structure. It’s actually pretty cool, but for some reason smelled like bleach. We wondered whether that was how they kept everything clean, but figured you can’t bleach history, except in America.

2. The things you don’t plan:

Even though planning is important if you want to feel like you got the most out of your $700 plane tickets, the best part of my trip was the part we didn’t plan at all. We spent an entire day there just walking around to sites such as the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame (I won’t include pictures because I imagine you’re capable of googling). We also walked along the Seine (some water) and had a picnic of cheese and bread. At the end of the day, we started walking home and saw an ice cream stand that called to us. We then took our spontaneous ice cream and walked around the corner where there was a group of street performers. Two of them were playing violin and guitar together and we decided to stay and enjoy the music. At one point, the violinist went over to the guitar player and started playing his guitar with him over his shoulders! It was incredible! Then, as the sun was setting, we walked through central Paris, through locals and tourists alike, down to the delicately noisy subway to our perfectly Parisian apartment where I had explosive diarrhea #2 in our beautifully European bathroom.

As it turns out, the best days of our lives are the ones you couldn’t recreate even if you tried, yet we spend our lives frustratedly chasing the high of each one anyways only to be reminded of how foolish we are when we fall upon the perfect day unintentionally.

So, you know, if this is still a travel guide to anyone, leave time for just chasing fancies.

3. The things you really don’t plan:

Megan again helped me plan my trip back but I took it all alone. I had to take the subway to the airport so I left super duper early, having experienced a subway or two in my life.

I got there a couple hours early, I got some breakfast, picked out plenty of snacks for the flight, took my anxiety pills, and finished downloading my in flight entertainment while journaling about my wonderful travels.

PSYCH!

The subway for some reason stopped being express and started stopping at every single stop which added about half an hour to the trip. Then on two separate occasions we had to get off the train and get on the next one and I wish I could tell you why but I don’t speak French. I just followed all the angry people with suitcases. When I got to the airport, they had sectioned off my entire terminal due to a suspicious package. They held us there for about an hour and then hundreds of people tried to get through security at the same time. By the time I got to customs, my plane was boarding. I kept asking employees if I would be ok and they assured me it was fine which reduced my panic attack by 0%. Finally they started calling for Air Canada and suddenly I spoke French “Oui, Madame! Je suits Air Canada!!!” They put all of us through customs where they decided they had to go through my entire backpack and not put any of it back at which point I decided to just run (ON A SPRAINED ANKLE) with the contents of my bag in my hands. Once I got to the gate I realized I had at some point dropped my favorite sweater. I mentioned this to one of the other passengers in line to board (I honestly have no idea what came over me to cause me to talk with people at this juncture) and they mentioned they had seen it in the hallway and that I probably had time to get it. I sprinted about halfway back down the hallway and then decided I’d rather just be as near to the plane as humanly fucking possible so I KNOWINGLY ABANDONED MY SWEATER.

When I got back to the gate from my failed rescue attempt, I immediately boarded with an empty stomach, a full bladder, a swollen ankle, no food, and no water. I sat down, took a deep breath, and dry chewed my klonopin. 6 hours later, I was in Canada and able to have the thought “Yeah, that was really great.”

I Bisou’ed Olga – My Trip to France Part 2

If you’re following along in your blogpostprayerbooks, this is going to be the “Wow! Things are so different in another part of the world and it has really, truly opened my eyes in ways I never expected!” part.

After taking a train from Paris, I spent the first half of my trip in Grenoble where my friend Megan lives. Though I was really looking forward to seeing Paris for the first time, I am very glad for my time in Grenoble because I got to see what life might actually be like for a person my age living life in France.

These are the things I learned about life in France:

1. They really do eat pastries for breakfast and baguettes with every meal.

Every morning, Megan would go out while I was still sleeping and get pastries and a baguette for the day (have I mentioned she’s amazing?). For breakfast, we would eat soft boiled eggs, fruit, an interesting yogurt/cheese hybrid type substance, and some of the pastries that she had picked up. My favorite was one that had almonds in it. The part of me that is overly concerned about sugar intake freaked out internally, but I told myself to shut the fuck up because we are in France and we’re going to have ourselves a French old time and enjoy ourselves doing it, dammit. Also no one in France is fat or has diabetes (statistic is 100% made up but also seemingly 100% accurate) so I think people only die of things in America, probably because of some sort of international accord that I don’t understand because politics isn’t my strong suit.

For lunch, we would picnic with sandwiches or simply a baguette and cheese.

One night, we went to a very nice and traditional French restaurant. I ate steak (I broke vegetarianism for the trip). It was delish. We also made friends with some Israeli table neighbors who were cool until one of them started talking about how Trump isn’t that bad and then we went home.

2. France does not believe in air conditioning.

France puts Los Angeles to shame when it comes to lack of proper climate control. Everywhere is hot and everyone is sweaty and no one is talking about it, aside from Megan who obviously realizes they’re all insane even if they are saving the Earth for all of us.

3. People bike everywhere.

Not only is everywhere hot, but everyone arriving everywhere is already sweaty because they biked there in 90 degrees. This, too, is not addressed. This, too, will save the planet. Basically, France is just one giant eco friendly humble brag.

I did expect the biking due to my trip to Amsterdam a few years prior. When I went on that trip, I hadn’t ridden a bike in approximately ten years. I don’t know if you know much about Amsterdam, but picking up biking there after a 10 year break is comparable to deciding that because you played basketball in your backyard with your little brother a couple times when you were 10 that you could hop into a pickup game at age 20 with tall, fit people who play every day and are actually secretly on a professional team and are just there for funsies and it’s possible they’re on steroids or were, at the very least, born with super human strength that is yet to be understood by scientists. By some fucking miracle, I biked that whole trip and left mostly unscathed (one of my Toms got mildly ripped when I had to squeeze between a parked car and an oncoming car and hope for the best). I don’t know if it was the magic of weed or if God smiled upon me for my first European jaunt, but whatever happened there made me overly confident that I’d make it through France okay, too.

Megan planned a really beautiful, romantic French day for us. We would bike to the train station, take a train about an hour outside of Grenoble to a town with a beautiful lake. We would then bike from the station to the lake and spend the day laying in the sun, swimming in the water, and biking around the lake in the cool breeze with baguettes in our baskets and sandals on our feet.

We borrowed a bike from one of her wonderful and kind friends. I would use Megan’s helmet because, in Megan’s words, “I have fancy French health insurance and you don’t.”

The bike we borrowed was, I want to say, 50 lbs. It was almost definitely more like 25-30, but a large, unwieldy metal object has a way of becoming impossibly heavy when you have to carry it up and down multiple flights of stairs at train stations.

I tried to feel confident about biking to the train station. I was definitely wobbly and looked like a freakin idiot, but I managed to get there okay even with the addition of a few leg bruises from clumsy bike carrying.

After the train ride, we got off and started our journey to the lake. There was less city traffic than around Grenoble and we were amped about our lake picnic and the beautiful view we would have, so we went a little faster than we had before. I started to really feel like I was doing it. My friend was killin it ahead of me and I was following her. She turned, I turned. And I was even getting less wobbly!

We were almost there! She took a right turn seamlessly and I…did not. I saw a car out of the corner of my eye and froze. In fact, I straight up just stopped in the middle of the street in front of the car and fell over. My ankle snapped as I fell and the 75 lb bike fell on top of me. If you were to ask me how I did this, I would liken it to a time you might have tripped over absolutely nothing and not known how to explain it anyone, even yourself.

I knew I would be okay, but the initial pain was too much for me to do much of anything. The man in the car started getting out and presumably asking if I was okay, but I don’t speak any goddamn French so I just started waving my arm at him in a swatting “I’M FINE JUST MOVE ALONG” type motion which did not seem to get the message across well enough because he continued to stand there. Eventually I yelled “MEGAAAAAAN!” and she returned to rescue me (as one does when they suddenly look back and see their friend on the ground under a bike waving their hand lazily at a Frenchman) and tell the cab driver, probably, that I was okay and he could go, or perhaps that I was just her simple minded cousin who has trouble with basic tasks such as riding bikes but not to worry because she’ll be okay soon and it’s good for her to try things on her own sometimes.

Somehow, miraculously, despite the horrible pain upon falling, I was able to walk and (lucky me) continue biking.

4. France can be stunningly scenic.

We made it to the lake and it was truly stunning.

The breathtaking beauty of this place took up about 20% of my brain while the other 80% was concerned with a combination of how bad my ankle would turn out to be and how I was possibly going to return back to the train station (and then from the train station back to Megan’s) without killing myself. Considering it was sudden lack of confidence that had fucked me over on the way to the lake, a post-injury trip was seeming less doable as time went on and panic rooted itself deeper within me. Not to mention the fact that the seat of the bike was so hard my taint was as bruised as the apple that’s been floating around in my bag for 5 days wondering if it has a purpose. I was stuck in the most stupid, bike themed self-fulfilling prophecy of all time.

Megan kindly distracted me from my worries by taking me through a 15 minute synopsis of Big Little Lies so that I would never have to watch it. Megan is a hero.

Eventually it was time to leave. Megan, with the patience of a saint or someone who has just stopped giving a fuck, let me walk the bike through “scary areas” (ones where there were cars or people) and we made it back okay.

The next day, we had planned to take a hike early in the morning but I decided based on the state of my ankle that I should pass.

We went to the Grenoble Bastille, which can be hiked but instead of further cankling my cankle we took a murder machine to and from the site.

I’m sure I learned a lot about France, but  I can’t say with honesty I remember much of it at all. The coolest part of bastille were the caves. They were chilly and utterly silent. The walls and floors were wet and despite thorough googling we couldn’t figure out how a man made cave would hold water like that. If you happen to know how that works, please hit me up: aandreano11@gmail.com.

Also here is France from the Bastille’s point of view (plus me not knowing what to do with my arms or face):

5. The Bisou.

America has the handshake, Miami (decidedly separate from America) has the one cheek kiss, and France has the bisou. Technically, I think “bisou” simply translates to “kiss” but I heard it used colloquially to refer to the double cheek kiss that French people do upon both meeting and greeting. It’s used as universally, casually, and with as little meaning as when Americans say “it was nice meeting you” – you know, when you’re with your friend walking and talking and all of a sudden they run into someone they sort of know and they talk for a couple minutes and they’re not exactly important enough to fully introduce to you so you just stand there awkwardly trying to look like you’re neither annoyed nor intruding so you manage like a glazed half smile and then at the end of it all, you remark upon how incredible the experience was in the biggest lie of your life?

That’s what the bisou is. Or at least that’s what it can be in certain situations, such as this one here:

I was at a bar with Megan and her friend when they saw someone from their PhD program walking down the other side of the street with his girlfriend Olga. They was too far to call to, so they just spent a lot of time gossiping about him and Olga. I can’t remember whether Olga was bitchy or just weird but whatever it was, we don’t like Olga. Unexpectedly, dude and Olga crossed the street and changed direction which put them on a course for us. When they came up to our table, I was positioned at their access point and Megan and Bea were busy talking to dude so I ended up in an obligatory Bisou with Olga, the non-French stranger about whom I had just been engaging in shit talk. And then they left. It was nice meeting them.

6. France is big into street art.

I don’t know why I found myself surprised by this, but at least in Grenoble street art is a big part of the landscape. Some of it was grand:

Some was tiny:

And some was just perfect:

I saw the tag “Kunt” in multiple locations around Grenoble but we never snagged a pic of it.

As we got on the train to leave Grenoble after my 4th day, we mused “Maybe we’ll see some Kunt in Paris.”

“The Exit Row is a Serious Job” – My Trip to France Part 1

About a month ago at this point (I’m really not timely with these things. My friend is currently doing his travel blog AS he’s traveling and I hate him), I went to France for the first time to visit my friend, Megan. Megan is lovely. If you ever get the chance to meet Megan, you should. But don’t startle her. She doesn’t like strangers just coming up to her. Try calling to her from afar.

I’m trying to figure out how to break this up so that it makes sense and so it’s most interesting to you. I’m really putting in a lot of work for you. How do you feel about starting with my travels there? We’ll get through it quickly, I promise. Not much happened.

“People in exit rows should take their job more seriously” – My Trip There

My lovely friend Andrew agreed to drive me to the airport in the morning while it was still dark out, so I got him some dark chocolate as a gift. Andrew revealed to me on this car ride, while I still had the smug smile of a gift giver on my face, that he, in fact, only likes milk chocolate. “This trip will go well,” I thought.

I learned upon checking in for my first flight that Canada is metal:

I spent one hour of the flight watching Pete Davidson’s SMD and the remaining 3 1/2 hours watching the man in the window seat of the exit row who, instead of taking his job seriously, was sleeping. I mean do you think you’re just there for extra leg room, buddy? I watched you give verbal confirmation to the flight attendant that you felt up to the task. Want to switch seats because I will gladly remain unnecessarily alert for 4+ hours. One time when I was like 7, I heard a weird noise while sleeping at my Grandma’s house and I stayed up for a good two hours with my arms stretched out over my stuffed animals and my eyes wide open because no one was going to hurt my beanie babies on my watch. Get your shit together.

Eventually we landed in Canada, no thanks to window man, and I guess I probably got on a plane to Paris.

My plan was to sleep as much as possible on this flight because I would be landing around 8 AM France time. I immediately drugged myself with a cocktail of klonopin and Benadryl and pulled out my neck pillow and earplugs. Despite my well thought out sleep accommodations, I did not rest undisturbed for very long because there were 3 middle aged women behind me chatting loudly the entire flight. At one point I gathered the courage (rage) to say “Can you please keep it down? I am really trying to sleep” (badass). When we landed, the women were changing the times on their watches, laughing, saying “Oh my goodness it’s morning here! I guess we’ll just sleep all day today! Ha Ha!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.

So I was to take a train from the airport to my friend, Megan (you remember Megan) in Grenoble. About a week before my trip, she gave me extremely detailed instructions that I turned into an extremely easy to follow, numbered, to do list that I ran by her to make sure it was accurate and I still texted her from the station to clarify various steps. Additionally, everyone spoke English so it didn’t even fucking matter.

I will describe my train ride to Grenoble in a series of screenshots and pictures:

 

And then I was in Grenoble.

Up Next:

“I Bisou’ed Olga” and “Will we find more Kunt in Paris?”

How I Ended up Crying in a Vegas Strip Club

…and not for any of the reasons you might reasonably guess. In fact, go ahead and make 3 full guesses and let’s see if you’re right. I’ll give you points if you’re even in the same general ballpark.

How we got to Vegas:

It was under interesting circumstances that I went to Vegas, so it’s not wholly surprising that there was a drunken evening that ended in tears.

My boyfriend was about to move to another state and since he finally had free time we decided to take a trip. His dad lives in Vegas, so we figured that a short drive and not having to pay for a hotel made it a desirable as well as practical and financially responsible destination.

I had been trying so hard for so long to be super cool and understanding regarding the move that I began to realize I was harboring some anger. Being the neurotically zen person that I am, I decided that the best way to handle this would be to use the time in the car to discuss with him how I was feeling anger but I still understood and supported his choices and that I just wanted for my “anger” to feel heard (I am almost certainly rolling my eyes harder than you are. I’m actually surprised I can still type considering my pupils are actually pointed through the back of my head right now). He lovingly heard what I had to say and after about 2 minutes we moved on and spent the rest of the drive posting snapchat videos of us singing horribly to songs from the ’90s.

We got in at about 1 am, so we chatted briefly with his dad and then went to sleep.

How we ended up at The Spearmint Rhino:

I had only been to Vegas twice before: once when I was 9 and once when I moved to LA and we stopped at the Venetian to eat dinner before continuing on. Understandably, I wanted a true Vegas experience.

We slept fairly well Friday night (despite a real dick of a bird that woke me up on several occasions. Also, it’s occurred to me there aren’t really bird sounds in Los Angeles), so I woke up ready to go to the strip.

There were just a few things on my Vegas bucket list:

1. Smoke a cigarette while playing slots
2. Drink at a Vegas strip hotel bar
3. See some titty

We planned to be fairly conservative financially, but before leaving his dad gave us $300 and told us to have fun.

The night started out slowly with dinner and slots. I turned down offers to order drinks by the roaming waitresses in an attempt to still be economical, but was eventually informed that you get free drinks while gambling. By the time we found the Game of Thrones slot machine, we were probably 4 beers in each.

Also, freakin look at this thing:

Ok it was more daunting in person. A drunk person took the picture. It lacks perspective.

Derpy slot player:

Yes that’s a Wizard of Oz themed slot machine. We ended up putting a couple hundred into slots.

And thank god for that investment.

We took some time to briefly roam the bars of the various hotels and then got street cart beers to drink while watching the Bellagio fountain show (which, by the way, has turned into an interactive app game because nothing is sacred).

By this point I had stolen a rock from a display in one of the hotels and accidentally dropped things into the lake at the Bellagio, so we figured it was time to head to our final destination.

My boyfriend called his dad for a strip club recommendation. He said we would have quite the experience at The Spearmint Rhino, and we promptly got in a cab line. Most of this part is hazy to me, but I distinctly remember the man working the cab line saying to our driver “They’re going to The Rhino.”

At The Spearmint Rhino:

Before we start, let’s play another guessing game. If you can guess how we spent $165 in under 20 minutes at a strip club, I will give you $165.

When we got to the strip club, they said that cover was $50. I thought this meant for both of us, so I said, “Yeah, let’s do it!” As it turns out, they meant for each of us but I was too drunk to notice that he had handed them $100.

I really had to pee, so before festivities, I ran to the bathroom. They were in the middle of renovating so their temporary bathrooms were in these weird trailer style outhouses, but they still had restroom attendants. I remember having an extensive conversation with mine, but I do not recall what it was about. I paid her in the change I had left from playing slots. This took up about 5 minutes and actually brings the total amount spent to about $165.75.

Before scoping out the meat of the place, we went to the bar. We got two Bud Lights for $25.

I turned away from the bar and saw a sea of strippers. The ratio of stripper to civilian was approximately 20:1. This is drunk math, but I still feel like it must have been too many. I remember thinking there were so many butts that I had little interest in the butts. Rather than housing an atmosphere of “Oh my god, when are we going to see the butt? I want to see the butt!” it was like, “They’re all wearing the same thong. Do you think the employers provide them or do they have to get their own? And do they tell them to get the same one or is that in style? Is it frowned upon to wear a colorful thong? Anyways, let’s find the stage. Maybe they’re doing something interesting.” But this is neither here nor there. We can discuss the effects that the emergence of a culture of over stimulation have had on the social atmosphere and politics of strip clubs another time.

We waded through the throng of butts towards the stage. Immediately, a stripper came up to us and asked if I wanted a dance. I was interested but wanted more time to maybe watch the stage show first and possibly have a chance to actually select a stripper of my liking. About 5 minutes later, she came back and yelled “Buy her a dance!” I asked how much it was. She said $20. We agreed.

Here are the things I remember thinking during the lapdance:

-She smells like Victoria’s Secret.

-She looks kind of old.

-Wow those are fake.

-Is it weird if I seem too into it? I mean, this is just work for her.

-What do I do with my hands? Am I allowed to touch her?

-Will she be offended if I touch her?

-Will she be offended if I don’t touch her?

-Is it incredibly weird that I’m just slouched down with my palms up at my sides not moving?

-Does she think it’s weird?

-Am I making her uncomfortable?

-Am I the only one who is uncomfortable?

-Can she tell I’m uncomfortable?

-I wonder if it is less weird from where he is standing.

-I hope he is enjoying this because I am not in the moment at all.

The song eventually ended, as did the lapdance, and what followed was this conversation:

Stripper: Okay, that’ll be $20.

Arielle: (Turns to her boyfriend, who is nowhere to be seen) Oh, I don’t know where he went. Um…he’s probably just out having a smoke.

Stripper: Hm, well do you have money?

Arielle: No, but I’m sure he’ll be back in just a minute.

Stripper: Well I can’t really wait. Time is money for me.

Arielle: Okay, um…

Stripper: Come on, let’s go to the ATM.

She took my arm and walked me over to the ATM. I was too drunk to work it so she pressed all of the buttons, took the $20, and left.

At this point, my inebriation was rivaled only by my embarrassment. I frantically ran through the club looking for my boyfriend. I finally found him sitting at the bar, chatting casually with the bartender. I immediately started sobbing and screaming, “The dance was over and I didn’t have any money and I couldn’t find you and she made me walk to the ATM and I was so embarrassed. You left me with her. WHY WOULD YOU LEAVE ME?!” I repeated “Why would you leave me” approximately 10 times. It would seem that, sometimes, calmly telling a person that a part of you is angry with them doesn’t quite get the job done and that you’ll just end up screaming your feelings at the top of your lungs in the middle of a strip club in Vegas.

If you’re keeping track, our tally is still only at $145.75. As it turns out, my boyfriend had actually put a $20 on my arm and left for the bar after deciding it felt too creepy to watch us from the stairs. I never saw the $20, so we can only assume that this incredibly pushy stripper managed to snag the $20 before I noticed and hide it in whatever strippers keep their money in these days (a small satchel in the snatch? A snatchel? I seriously have no idea). She then double charged me by forcibly walking me to an ATM where, ultimately, she robbed me at nipple point. I have to respect her for managing to make a nice $40 for 2 minutes and 45 seconds worth of work.

Did I mention this all happened before 11:00 p.m.?

The aftermath:

Wisely, he promptly escorted me out of the club where we waited for a cab while I continued to cry and yell at him for laughing. My memory of the rest of the evening is foggy, but I recall talking to our uber driver about people who have been struck by lightning more than once. I also somehow managed between the club and home to find two people who had served in the armed forces and to thank them for their service, despite my complete lack of awareness of anything armed forces related when sober.

I also drunkenly tried to pick up a cat I had just met:

We somehow were able to sort of have sex, after which I immediately passed out (which I’m really annoyed about because I have a very firm stance on the fact that it’s bullshit when movies and shows depict people waking up naked as if they had sex and then just went into a coma. Like, get up and drink some water and brush your teeth. Have a light snack, even. Jesus. If you identify with these movie people who apparently don’t struggle with maintaining homeostasis after physical activity, I don’t get you and I don’t want to). I then woke up around 2 a.m. with a pounding headache and my contacts glued to my eyeballs. I woke him up to tell him it wasn’t fair that he got to sleep while I was miserable. I then asked him to help me find my pretzels which he said were in the car. I cried more and then sat on the floor naked eating a piece of bread.

I apologized immediately the following morning.

I digress.

I would like to have advice for you, but I don’t. I don’t want the message to be that there is sometimes no way around a fight in relationships, because I feel there must be. I just haven’t found it. Or maybe there isn’t. I have no fucking idea. Do you know?

But I will say that if you try too fucking hard to be cool and understanding about everything, you will definitely get robbed by a stripper in Vegas. Wait…or was it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

When a Person Who Hates Consumerism Spends Christmas in Disney World

My family tends to be somewhat materialistic. I’m not sure what it is; it could have to do with some type of anxiety hoarding situation or, as my grandparents insist, my parents had nothing as kids and like to take advantage of what they’ve been able to accomplish, blah blah blah. Whatever the reason, it tends to upset me.

Because of this, Christmas has been a trying time for me since I reached an age where a mountain of presents no longer inspired childlike wonderment. After the wonder wore off and I settled into the yearly routine of spending most of the day at my parents’ house opening up an absurd amount of gifts with my family, I entered a never ending cycle of looking forward to Christmas, remembering why I hated it, distancing myself, and, finally, regretting being a dick to everyone. 

Perhaps the worst part about the whole situation is that some members of my family are very resistant to change, to the point where on year they wouldn’t even let me put a Christmas movie on in the background of gift giving because it would interfere with people’s abilities to take reaction photos (I hoped to maybe add some more layers to the experience, or, at the very least, to distract myself long enough that I wouldn’t pop ten capillaries trying to hold in my feelings).

I mean I get it. They just want to share in their success and make everyone happy by showing how much they care through tokens and gifts and I seem like the dick who doesn’t appreciate it. But I seem to have missed the part of brain development that allows for the ability to feel self-righteousness and empathy simultaneously. Also, I’m fully aware of the fact that this is an amazing problem to have. I’m very privileged, and I know this. Don’t worry.

When my mom, partly in an attempt to save me (and herself) from the monotony, pointed out the fact that it was very hard for Grandma to travel all the way up from Florida for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, I was elated.

I knew it wouldn’t be possible to do large scale gift giving if we went on a trip, and I figured any change in routine would relieve my tenacious hatred. I looked forward to the opportunity to actually spend quality time with my family members, which I view as the most important part of the holidays (see, I’m the good one!).

And then Disney happened. In the same vain as their love of the single most material holiday on Earth, my family is part of the Disney Vacation Club.

I don’t like Disney. I want to. I really, really do. There are, of course, things about it I love; they do know how to produce high quality movies (some of the time) and I can’t deny the delicious nostalgia brought on by watching classics such as Aladdin. But I just cannot get over things such as their bad track record with handling sexual abuse in the work place, their ties to anti-Semitism, and the shameless way they manage to sell their for-a-HUGE-profit business model as some sort of necessary rite of passage for loving families. I might be able to get over all of these things if the majority of people buying into the empire were at all aware of what they’re buying into. Also, who the fuck gets away with selling a bag of 1/3 a sliced apple for twice as much as one full apple and isn’t the goddamn devil? That would be like asking someone to slice and apple up for you and offering them money to take half of it for themselves. DOESN’T ANYONE ELSE SEE THAT THIS IS FUCKING INSANITY? THEY LITERALLY HAVE AN APPLE FOR $2 AND A BAG OF LIKE 5 THIN APPLE SLICES FOR LIKE $4.50. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

So we were going to have Christmas at Disney.

1. Before the vacation even fucking began.

At Thanksgiving, we all had to download the Disney Experience App (which, by the way, is the single most retardedly set up app of all fucking time. You’re supposed to be able to find your family and check in to various reservations and see what fast passes you have, because it’s not like you could possibly do this in the real world. But it doesn’t even work and it sends you all to different rides and everyone cries and no one is happy) and I was told that when I returned to Los Angeles, I would get a package in the mail from Disney containing detailed trip instructions, baggage tags, and a wrist band that would act as my room key and my park pass. I got to pick a wrist band color as well as a Disney avatar for the app. I’d like to add here that I am the youngest member of my entire family.

2. Getting there.

I guess I was really excited about my new haircut because I took this in the airport. I realize a picture showing off my new hair and my Starbucks is pretty consumery. NOBODY’S PERFECT.

Do you think he’s a director?

Oh god, someone puked right by the fucking checkin line.

YOU’RE FUCKING STANDING IN IT WITH SANDALS. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

As far away as I could get without risking my spot in line.

I think I took this picture to illustrate that there was an annoying child next to me. Maybe I thought more would come of this. I had taken a lot of klonopin by this point and the most important part of this picture now is that it contains the leg of the man beside me. He was very attractive. We talked a lot and then I fell asleep and that’s all I remember about the plane ride. Afterwards, we got off of the tram at the same place and talked a little more. I was really glad I didn’t have to go to baggage claim (Disney was taking care of it. Thanks for having my back the one time) because I didn’t know what else to say to the beautiful man and I felt I had plagued him with my ramblings enough.

3. Enter: Disney, The 4th Reich

I needed my wrist band to get on the bus going to the hotel.

And to have my papers ready.

No delousing as of yet.

4. Outcast status.

The bus arrived after the first family dinner reservation, so I had to fend for myself.

Killed that shit.

After dinner, we all met up at the hotel’s penthouse bar, which actually was pretty dope. We got there close to last call so I obviously ordered multiple drinks of which I don’t have pictures because I lacked blogging foresight at the promise of being in a better mood.

This was the view:

5. Gifts.

We kept having to move the time of our gift exchange due to circumstances I’ll address in a different post (mystery and intrigue!), which I was actually happy about because it allowed for flexibility and seemed to take into consideration people’s wants and desires.

What we did receive on Christmas day, however, was this shirt:

In case it isn’t clear, it reads “Andreano Christmas Vacation to Walt Disney World 2015” and has three snowflakes in the color of the Italian flag.

I obviously yelled at my mother and told her it was stupid and that she had put me in the shitty position of either wearing a shirt I hated or being the asshole who didn’t wear the shirt. Belittling your loved ones is what Christmas is all about.

While I was having a tantrum over the shirt, I kept thinking “I know I am 100% going to regret making an issue out of this. I know I should just fucking do it and shut up about it to make my mother happy, but I absolutely can’t bring myself to not say something.” It was like watching two cars start to back into one another and there’s nothing you can do about it even though you see how easily it could be avoided if only they knew! Except it was all inside of my own self-important head and all involved parties were aware of the impending, preventable doom.

They also gave us gift cards to Disney, which I thought was very kind, but I worried it was useless to me since I have no interest in Disney merchandise. That is, I had no interest in their merchandise until they made one little acquisition: 

The parks were more packed than I have ever seen them. It was a struggle to walk anywhere, it was 80 something degrees, and lines were over an hour unless you had a very coveted fast pass (they changed the system and we ended up with very few). Because of this we rode approximately 2 rides per day. I spent a lot of time thinking about how much we were paying per ride.

I wanted to find a way to make the best of the irritating situation, and  I felt that if I wanted so badly to complain about how we weren’t making good use of our time together I should fucking do something to fix it.

I started a continual game that consisted of one person picking a famous person or character, alive or dead, and the others figuring out who it was via yes or no questions. It not only helped pass the time but also got us all involved in the same conversation and had us all laughing (is she a hero?). The day we ended up doing gifts, we found a corner in the upstairs bar by a tree and spent the whole time playing the game and drinking. It was what I had always wanted and I actually enjoyed myself for a few hours without being mean to anyone.

6. Reflecting

So it seems I’m really kind of a terrible family member and they’re all probably pretty glad I live across the country. Surely I have at some point in the last 25 years learned how to constructively express my feelings towards other humans. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence of this at hand. I mean I sent my mom an apology letter, but that’s like middle school level problem solving.

It is important to remember that when we are with our family members, we remember all the shit that upset us when we were 5, 10, 15, or even 20. It’s not that we haven’t grown as people. It’s just hard to remember (and practice) the ways we’ve grown when were are faced with decades of resentment, complexes, and other forms of bullshit. This absolutely doesn’t excuse my, or your, behavior. We shouldn’t make our mothers cry, even if it is over a goddamned retarded t-shirt. But it is important to recognize that we are all works in progress, and all we can do is try our best and apologize when necessary. Also, either speak your truth or shut the fuck up because no one needs your passive aggressive bullshit, Arielle. If none of this applies to you because you and your family are all happy and love each other all the time A) I don’t believe you and you shouldn’t believe yourself and B) Fuck you, I want that.

Finally, always remember that no matter how bad things get with your family, you’re not alone. It happens to most of us. And at least you aren’t stuck in the clusterfuck that is Orlando International Airport.

 

 

Avoiding the Plague like the Plague: A How-To for Stomach Flu Avoidance

For those of you who are lying in bed at 3 in the morning wondering how the fuck to avoid getting the symptoms that your friend/lover/child/spouse has just exposed you to, skip ahead to the 3 stars (***). You’re welcome. 

For those who are here to enjoy the experience of a neurotic hypochondriac avoiding a highly contagious disease, enjoy. 

I hate throwing up. I mean, I assume most people don’t love it, but it has come to my attention that some people view it as an actual option on a menu of ways to feel better.

For some reason, I have always viewed throwing up as a thing to be avoided at all costs. I am proud to tell you (and anyone who brings up the subject) that I have not thrown up in 5 1/2 years and the last time it happened was due to food poisoning; no amount of willpower will stop you from puking when you have food poisoning.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I came home to one of his roommates violently throwing up. The other roommate requested that we take over cleanup and help duties so she could tap out and go to sleep. We both said, “Of course.” We are both liars.

The next day, we discussed whether we thought he had food poisoning or if it was a virus. I adamantly stated that it must be food poisoning because “it is violent and constant like food poisoning and he eats like complete shit,” which really meant, “Oh my god if it isn’t food poisoning I cannot fucking handle this I mean I’ve been here since before he was even showing symptoms and it says online that you’re contagious for like days beforehand and what if we shared food and I don’t remember and sure I use a different bathroom but he has touched other things and oh my god his cat I bet he touched his cat and I kiss her all the time oh god I’m going to die.” So I convinced myself it was food poisoning.

Oh also I got this text from him:

I told him he should never trust a sickly fart.

A couple days passed and  I hadn’t gotten sick. I was beginning to feel fine about it, and then one night I woke up to sounds of puking. I then heard the person go into the kitchen and then leave the apartment. I assumed it was Patient Zero, so I got up to pee in the other bathroom, figuring it was safe. I took one step in before I was met with the smell of vomit. I quickly backed out, but not before my foot touched something wet. I went into the living room and weighed my options: If I tried washing my foot in any of the sinks, I would risk further contamination by touching things that have been touched by someone who is infected by what is now clearly a virus. If I don’t clean my foot, I risk getting germs on everything I touch. I decided the best course of action was to put hand sanitizer on the infected part of my foot and not touch my face until I was able to wash my hands in a non contaminated bathroom. I readied my things and said my goodbyes:

Me: She’s sick now.

Boyfriend: Maybe she just went out and got drunk or something.

Me: She went to bed early. We saw her.

Boyfriend: I’m just not ready to jump to the conclusion that my house is infected.

Me: I am.

So I grabbed my shit and drove home at 4 o’clock in the morning. 

When I got home, I furiously washed my foot and quarantined all of the clothing that I had worn on the way over. I stayed up until sunrise (this is not a poetic way of suggesting the passage of time. It was literally light out before I decided I had learned enough) researching how stomach viruses work and ways to avoid getting sick after contamination.

In the morning, with my new knowledge of hippie health tactics and old wive’s tales, I headed to whole foods with a list.

I got this stuff to avoid contracting the virus:

And I got this stuff just in case that didn’t work:

As I left Whole Foods to head to my car, I ran into a coworker. She said hello excitedly and I yelled “DON’T GET TOO CLOSE. I COULD BE INFECTED.” She stepped back with a frightened look on her face and I continued on. Feeling the need to explain myself and the severity of the situation, I texted her to explain that my friend had shit himself in Canter’s Deli.

When  I got home, I started a strict regimen of supplements and I quarantined myself for 2 days, fearing both infecting other people and the start of endless pooping while in public. 

***For those interested, the regiment consisted of the following (skip ahead if you don’t care):

1. Taking about a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar 3 times a day. You have to mix it in something, like water or juice, or you will burn your fucking esophagus. No one told me this the first time I tried it, like you’re supposed to just know. 
2. Three glasses of 100% grape juice three times a day (you can put the apple cider vinegar in the grape juice). The grape juice works for the same theoretical reason that the apple cider vinegar does (it forces your body into an alkaline state, which stomach viruses allegedly hate), but a double dose with the two of them is best for the extra paranoid.
3. Ginger pills (the bottle tells you how many you’re allowed to take in a day. Just do that).
4. Activated charcoal (same as above). You’re supposed to get the powder version and not the pill version. In my haste, I started slacking in terms of thorough instructional research. You’re welcome for fucking up so you don’t have to.
5. Ginger and chamomile tea, three times a day.

The ginger works as an anti-inflammatory for your tumtum whereas the charcoal, apple cider vinegar, and grape juice “detoxify” in one way or another. Allegedly.*** 

I texted a handful of people to tell them what was happening in my life. My brother in law simply responded with the wikipedia page for The Bubonic Plague.

Most websites said that symptoms would appear 12-48 hours after contamination. I kept track by the hour and updated the handful of people who probably didn’t care.

After 72 hours had passed, I felt safe enough to begin writing this post (I didn’t want to jinx myself or write the wrong post). This was until my roommates brother, who had attended Star Wars with me, my boyfriend, and the second person to get sick, began throwing up and pooping profusely. Thankfully, I was not present for this, but I did manage to start a fight with my roommate over text by insisting the virus was the culprit and effectively demanding the bathroom be cleaned with bleach (which, according to the internet, is the only way to kill the virus. #themoreyouknow). I added that I hoped he felt better.

Due to my fear of further contamination, I didn’t return home for a few days and completely missed seeing my roommate’s parents while they were in town.

I left for a family trip to Disney World for Christmas and told myself that I would be completely out of the woods if I made it through the trip without symptoms.

The last night of the trip, my grandmother got sick. She gets sick often, so I didn’t think too much of it, but then my brother in law started throwing up and continued to do so through the night and into the morning. My sister informed me of this in the morning when we met up for what was supposed to be a day of the three of us at Epcot. She told me he wouldn’t be able to go and that they were leaving early. She also said she had a sock of mine in their room and that I could take the opportunity to say bye to him. I said I didn’t need the sock.

Turns out he has gallstones.

Three whole weeks later, I sit in my home reflecting on the whole ordeal and wondering if my neuroses was worth it.

In my paranoia driven avoidance of a stomach virus, I managed to:

1. Miss my friend’s birthday.
2. Start a fight with my roommate.
3. Fail to show sympathy for the ill.
4. Missing out on the opportunity to spend time with the family of a close friend.
5. Pass on the opportunity to say goodbye to my brother in law, whom I probably won’t see again for at least 6 months.
6. Frighten a coworker.
7. Abandon a sock.

Am I an unforgiving and unsympathetic asshole when I’m concerned for my own wellbeing? Certainly.

I definitely don’t think my response to sickness is the most respectable. Of course, if it were something life threatening like Ebola, any other response would be fucking stupid. As I said to my boyfriend (who didn’t take any precautions at all and somehow didn’t get sick. I doubt he’ll read this far so I feel safe saying that I told his roommate I hoped he would get sick. Like, he continued to use his toothbrush which lives next to the toothbrush of one of the infected people in the bathroom that was puked all over), “Of course it doesn’t help to freak out quite this much. I’d like to feel more ‘if it happens, it happens’ about it like you do, but there is also merit to taking actual. logical precautions. Like, I don’t know, cleaning the bathroom.”

If I were to leave you with any wisdom from this 3 week long experience, I suppose it would be to consider adding a little humility to your neuroses, if you have any. Oh, and apparently apple cider vinegar actually works (also giving a shoutout to Welch’s Grape Juice, Whole Foods brand gastrointestinal fix yourself like a hippie supplements, Nutrilite probiotics, and, specifically, Bragg’s apple cider vinegar).

Most importantly, however:

You can apologize for yelling at your friend, but you can’t take back shitting your pants in a famous Jewish deli.

 

 

 

For Anyone Who’s Ever Had a UTI and Hates Antibiotics

Or for anyone who loves anyone with a pee hole.

I’ve been getting UTIs somewhat frequently since I was about 19 (before you think you can change my life with well known information that it somehow hasn’t occurred to me to read up on after dealing with like 10 of these, I already know all the tricks of avoiding them). I now know how to spot them immediately, what the nearest clinic is, and exactly what to say to the doctor.

The problem is, my body is weak as fuck and I really should have been weeded out of the gene pool by now because most medications, including antibiotics, destroy my insides. When I’m on antibiotics, I don’t eat food but I poop for two (WHERE DOES IT ALL COME FROM?), my back kills me, and I can’t sleep. I was complaining about this to my friend once I felt the first tingle of an approaching UTI the other week, and she saved me with some beautiful information:

I was skeptical but willing to try it to avoid antibiotics wreaking havoc on my insides. Not to mention the fact that we should all cut back on antibiotics in general in hopes of avoiding death by superbugs. This sounds like it’s about to be a hippie dippie add for D-Mannose. It’s not. There are some stories ahead for you. Let’s take it in stages.

Stage 1: Starting D-Mannose

I followed the instructions on the bottle which were to put 1 tsp into a glass of water twice a day. It mixed in easily and was flavorless. The UTI wasn’t getting worse (it usually progresses extremely quickly for me) so I was quite excited.

Stage 2: Realizing I was using it wrong and pissing knives

The next day, I was at work with the kid I nanny when I went to the bathroom and realized the tingle was back. As the night progressed, it turned from an annoying tingle at the end of the stream to holding back tears while peeing. If ever anyone deserved an award for not murdering a child, it would be me on that night along with anyone who has ever had to deal with excruciating pain while reheating a bowl of pasta that a 10 year old has deemed isn’t quite hot enough. Did I consider scalding her? Maybe.

I spent the rest of my time with the child that evening both researching the proper way to actually get rid of a UTI with the medication and finding a 24 hour urgent care near me. Which, apparently, is fucking impossible, by the way:

I didn’t go to urgent care.

I did, however, find out that when you have a UTI you’re supposed to take the powder every 2-3 hours.

Stage 3: Bringing the powder with me everywhere

Once I started taking the powder every few hours and drinking insane amounts of water, my symptoms began disappearing incredibly quickly. It was great except that I had to find a way to discretely poor white powder into a drink in public a concerning amount of times per day and pee approximately twice per hour.

One day, I had to attempt to do this while working on set with people I had never met before. This was an issue for various reasons. 1) I didn’t want to answer questions about what the fuck I was putting in my drink 2) I was running sound which doesn’t allow for frequent bathroom visits and 3) we were shooting inside of a dorm room and the bathroom was literally right next to everyone and didn’t have any soap and no one else was using it and I wasn’t really sure on the etiquette of the whole situation. So I just didn’t take it that day.

Stage 4: Going to the clinic anyways because I didn’t want to deal with a UTI on a plane or while traveling

Whether it was the lack of diligence with which I took the powder or the fact that I started using it properly once the UTI was already at full force, the symptoms just wouldn’t go away completely. I had faith if I kept using the powder, they eventually would, but I had dealt with a fiery pee hole on a plane once before and wasn’t looking to potentially relive the experience. So I went to the clinic for backup meds.

I was still using the powder in case I decided not to do the antibiotics and I wanted to be able to give a urine sample when prompted so I drank a lot of water driving to the clinic.

It took me awhile to find parking for the clinic and ended up having to walk for about ten minutes so by the time I got to the clinic I already had to pee pretty badly. After filling out my paperwork, I spent about 20 considering the pros and cons of peeing now vs waiting. For example, if I pee now I might not be able to pee when they ask for a sample, but if I wait and it ends up being an hour wait I’ll eventually really have to pee and then what if I pee like right before they ask for a sample and then I have to wait and should I be drinking water now just in case I do pee soon so that I’ll have more ammunition for later?

I decided to pee.

The nurse called me in  and after taking my information asked me if I would be able to give a sample since she saw me use the restroom recently and was worried I wouldn’t be able to go again. I assured her I could.

I eventually saw the doctor and asked her for the shortest course of antibiotics possible. She agreed to give me a 3-day course, but was concerned about my medical history:

Doctor: It says here you had a UTI just one month ago and our charts say you were here two months ago for one as well.

Me: Oh, that must have been the one I was thinking of.

Doctor: Are you sure? Because if you’re having them once a month I’d like to send you to a urologist to test for urinary reflux.

Me: No, I’m pretty sure it was only two months ago but I am forever going to be convinced that I have that problem now, regardless.

Stage 5: Healing

In the interest of quick healing, I decided to take the antibiotic but kept taking the powder, as well, just in case.

While at the airport on my way home for Thanksgiving, I settled into a nice, cozy klonopin haze and confidently took out a pen cap to scoop white powder into my drink. I smiled, knowing that I would be all better soon and that passersby thought I had managed to sneak coke past security.