I have to say, it takes a lot to be best friends with me. I don’t mean just friends, because I’m kind of awesome and fun and entertaining and a good listener and all that jazz, but to be best friends with me takes work. I am too loud for my own good. I say things that, while true, are not exactly the things you want to hear. I am demanding and incredibly opinionated. I can be a little too energetic and my brain sometimes goes off on tangents that don’t make sense to anyone but me and if you can follow along then more power to you but a lot of the time I can ‘t even keep track of where I’m going with something…I’m getting a little off topic because this was not supposed to be about me and all my quirks. Moving on…
There is one person who has been doing this job for almost 10 years now, and since today is her birthday, I thought I’d dedicate a little post to her. Much like I did with my Grandma’s birthday, this a little list I came up with about the things I love about Cierra, who sometimes makes me angrier than Chris Brown in a Lamborghini and crazier than any of the patients at McLean Hospital, but for whom I thank my lucky stars everyday to have in my life. 10. She lives in New York, so I always have a reason to go. Much like I had a reason to go to Philly when she was living there. Now all I need is for her to move around to all the major cities in the world so I’ll have a reason to visit, other than I just want to visit all the major cities in the world.
9. She is the only one of my friends that can keep up with me on the dance floor, even though I’m totally the better dancer.
8. I can talk sports with her and her eyes won’t glaze over. Although, she’s a Laker Lover and I’m a Laker Hater. It really makes for some quality arguments.
7. She never holds back with me. When I’m being stupid, she will tell me so. When I’m down, she’ll yell at me to get over it. When I’m being annoying, she will reach through the phone and smack me. (As of right now, it’s only verbally, but I’m sure that once the technology is developed, she will do it literally.)
6. She offers to ship all the books I buy and can’t fit in my suitcase when I come visit. She doesn’t tell me I bought too many or that I read too damn much. She fully supports my addiction, and usually asks me to send one or two back when I’m done.
5. I have never met anyone that can talk shit like she can. She’ll do it to your face, to your back, to your mama, to everyone about everything. Even if she has gotten a little nicer in her old age, she can still throw out an insult like a pro.
4. She didn’t go to college and always hated school, but she made her own way and is one of the smartest people I know. Even if she doesn’t act like it sometimes and I have to be the voice of reason. (Which will not always work in our favor.)
3. She believes in me. She has been saying for years how I’m going to do something great, so when I don’t believe her, she just gives me a verbal smacking that reminds me of how capable I am and that everything will work out. (I am just now realizing we have a bit of an abusive relationship, but that's ok. It works for us.)
2. She enjoys a good beer and likes going to Timmy Nolans when she comes out for a visit. ‘Nuff said.
1. She is the strongest person I’ve ever met. She has been through so much and has never let it get her down or ruin her. I know so many people who have been through things similar and have broken down or become terrible people. But Cierra still remains the amazing, smart, beautiful, kind, wonderful person I’ve know for the past decade.
So, I raise my glass to you, C. Happy Birthday and here’s to another decade of friendship. I love you.
(Ok, and because we can be a lot like Lucy and Ethel, here is a little video for you as well.)
I did a previous post on the 4 names I identify with (It's a link...go read it) and, upon re-reading it, I realized I skipped a very important part of my name: the spelling!
Most people don’t get to choose the spelling of their name. If your parents gave you a funky spelling, too bad, you’re stuck with it. But there are some of us who HAVE to be so unique that we create our own spellings. I am, of course, one of those people.
In the second grade, I was dubbed “Kimmie” and I spelled it the traditional, cutesy way with an “ie.” After maturing two whole years as Kimmie, I decided I wanted to try it out with a “y” instead. I liked they way I could make the “y” turn into a kind of underline when I was signing my name. I also liked how, if I felt like it, I could loop the “y” and make a happy face in the loop. I was in fourth grade. Don’t judge me too harshly.
Then, in seventh grade, on the first day of computer class, I was writing my name and decided I wanted something a little more exotic. Something a little more sophisticated. I still wanted to be “Kimmy” but I wanted to be a little something different. (I should have know there was something wrong with me then…) So, while I was making my nametag tent, I wrote “Kimmi.”
I thought it was so cool and unique and I wrote it EVERYWHERE. Everything I owned said “Kimmi” at least 5 times. I was a walking advertisement for myself. I also felt so cool when someone asked how to spell my name. “It’s Kimmi, with two m’s and two I’s.”
After many years, I have kept this spelling. I get people asking me a lot why I still go by Kimmi, and not Kim or Kimberly, because most 25 year olds don’t keep their childhood nicknames. But I do. What can I say? I’m unique.
Plus, then when Barney Stinson (played brilliantly by Neil Patrick Harris) makes the following statement, I can laugh a little bit harder than everyone else:
“Don’t even get me started on girls whose names should end in y, but instead end in i. Those girls are like roller coasters. You gotta wait in a long line but once you get up there you hold on for dear life and hope you don’t drop your keys.” –Barney Stinson, How I Me Your Mother “The Three Days Rule”
It has been a long time since I updated my blog. That's what happens when you work 2 jobs and barely have enough time to do your laundry, let alone write anything interesting or worth reading. (Not that anything I write is interesting or worth reading, but I try.) But, well, I now only have one job, so hopefully there will be a whole lot more where these came from. (The "only have one job" is going to be a different post.)
Now comes the all-important question: What do I write after having been absent for so many months? Do I write about why I only have one job now? Do I write about the fun phone calls I’ve had to deal with? Do I continue my Jury Duty story that I never did continue? Nope...I feel like this post is going to have to be something easy, much like the first workout after not exercising for a long time. (Yet another post idea…) So, I’m instead going to write about something very near and dear to my heart: the Dart.
The Dart is a 1974 Dodge Dart that is kind of a family heirloom. My grandparents on my dad’s side bought it brand new in 1974. Then, my Aunt Bev drove it out to CSUN for college. Then, my grandparents drove it for many more years before giving it to my dad to update their ride to a pimped out Oldsmobile station wagon(corduroy seats anyone?). My sister then had the pleasure of driving it, and then, it came to me. I drove it almost every single day of my senior year of high school. My dad took it back when I started college and needed something to make the long drive out to Pierce. He drives it everyday to work. Except when my car has trouble and I have to us it.
We don’t have money or jewels to pass down generations, but the Dart is totally priceless.
Now, looking at it, you wouldn’t think much of it. The blue paint has faded and the white canvas top is almost completely gone. The seats are cracked so the padding is showing and the dashboard is not in the greatest shape. In order to open the trunk, you need a screwdriver and a little bit of lock-picking talent. This is all before I mention how my dad keeps every water bottle from the past year in the front seat along with his passes from work, his Thomas Guide, jumper cables, and straws. Plus, the Christmas lights in the back seat he got from General Hospital. (Do we actually need more Christmas lights? No, but the prop department was throwing them out so I must take them!)
Driving it is, well, to put it nicely, an adventure. There is a whole ritual to getting it to start and then you have to keep your foot on the accelerator to keep it from dying. When you need to brake, you have to pump the brakes three times and pray that three times was enough. The heater has to be on at all times so it won’t overheat. Also, just recently, it started popping out of gear so sometimes you have to slow down and let it pop back in.
You’re probably wondering why I would consider this POS as special. (Or if I just really have a thing for living dangerously.)
Here’s the thing: The Dart has never failed me. Sure, it’s died while I was sitting at a red light, but it always starts up. I might be sweating by the time I get to my destination, but I always get there. My right leg might get a workout pumping the brakes, but I always manage to stop. Plus, when my car (which I love very much) has some trouble, as all cars do, the Dart is there to get me where I need to go.
Even more than its reliability, the Dart has memories. I remember being a kid and driving around with my grandparents to run errands and pretending the hump on the floor of the backseat was a wall that my sister was not allowed to cross. I remember when my mom stalled it and couldn’t get it started again because she flooded the engine and then yelled at me because I was laughing pretty hard. I remember piling the whole basketball team in it to go out to lunch, even though most of my teammates were not supposed to leave campus for lunch.
The Dart is way more than a car on its last legs. It’s a part of my history and my family’s history. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
However, in the past few days, I have been really reflecting and thinking and, well, feeling.
I look at what is going on in Haiti and I can’t help but feel incredibly sad for each and every person there, as well as every person here who has family or friends there. It is a country where there was so much turmoil before this huge earthquake, and now it is just in shambles. Food can’t be given out because of near-riots. Medical workers are being evacuated because of threats of violence. Rescue workers are not even able to get to the island because the airport and dock have been destroyed. Orphans are sleeping on the street because the orphanages are too dangerous to be in. Paperwork for these orphans is completely lost and, thus, these children don’t even exist. There is no clean water for people to drink. People are dying from diseases that we not only have cures for, but are what we consider minor. Mass graves are being built because there is nowhere to put these bodies and there is no way to find out who they are. People are missing, starving, and dying. It is so heartbreaking and, unfortunately, there is only so much we can do.
As I sit here, all I can do is be thankful for everything I have. I live in a country where our government is stable enough to live through natural disasters and tragedies. I have family and friends whom I love and who love me. I have 2 jobs that I complain a lot about but allow me the small luxuries in life. I have my health, and my life. I have never felt so grateful for everything I have. I find myself worrying less about the small annoyances and just being appreciative.
Thank you to every single member of my family and every single one of my friends for being so amazing. I know I make a lot of jokes and I complain a lot, but from the bottom of my heart, each and everyone of you means more to me than I could every express in words.
I know....I know....I haven't posted in forever. Here's why:
I have 2 jobs now.
Yeah, you read it correctly. In these troubled times where people are lucky to have one job, I have 2. There's been accusations that I am hoarding all the jobs for myself, but nothing's been proven. Yet.
Job #1 is still Starbucks, where I now work almost every night. They started doing this thing called "optimal scheduling" which means that you have the same shifts every week. It's easier for the managers because then, instead of having to come up with a new schedule ever week, all they have to do is switch people around to accommodate time off requests.(Not that my new store manager actually pays attention to such things....But that's another story.) It sucks for everyone else, though, because then you are stuck working with the exact same people every week, so if you work with someone you don't like or with, say, someone who moves at a snail's pace and then moves even slower when you point out how slowly he works, you're stuck with that person until he requests a day off. However, I no longer have to wake up at 4 am to be at work, so I'm totally fine with all of this.
Job #2 is working at a newspaper, where I was originally doing an internship. I was an editorial intern, but now I am working as an administrative assistant part time. Yup, I have the big fancy title that almost all 20-somethings have. It's a nice way of saying "I answer the phones and am just paying my dues until I can get the job I really want or find something that pays better." I don't mind it too much, though, because I am getting to learn about the business side of newspapers, which I wish I could say was interesting, but it's not. The more I work at the paper, the more I realize that newspapers are just for advertising. That's where the money comes from and it really isn't about the news or the stories. But, if it weren't for the money, then no one would ever get the news. I guess it's just a vicious circle, much like everything else in life!
So, you ask, how do I have any free time? Well, I totally do...not at all. When I do have free time, I have to spend it catching up on all the stuff I don't have time to do, like laundry. It's amazing how quickly someone with a million clothes can end up with nothing to wear. But, some of it is my own fault, since I kind of pack up my free time, so much so that I can no longer call it "free" time.
I'll start from my last post, which was about 3 weeks ago.
My sister came down from Sacramento, so I spent the time I wasn't working hanging out with her. By "hanging out" I mean driving her around to see her friends. I think it's revenge for when we were younger and she had to drive me around. But it's ok, we had some good sister-time, like going to a movie-in-the-park and eating delicious corn and BBQ.
The next weekend, I was off on Friday and Saturday, so I went to see my grandparents. Going to their house is always fun because we just sit around and talk and catch up. We went to see The Ugly Truth, which kind of horrified me at first because I had read that it was a raunch-com. But, it was more of a raunchy chick flick. And the raunchiness wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, so there was really no awkwardness with my Grandma after. On Saturday, my grandma and I had lunch with her sister, my Aunt Peggy, aka me in 60 years. No joke. She is loud and inappropriate and doesn't hold anything back, which I LOVE! The first time she met me as an adult, it was at my cousin Cheryl's wedding and I was wearing a particularly low-cut blue dress, so naturally my boobs were the prominent accessory. Before the ceremony started, she turned to my Uncle Greg and said, "Who's the slut in the blue dress?" Therefore, everytime I go to my grandparents' house, we try to get together with Aunt Peggy, if for no other reason than she's entertaining!
Then last weekend, well, that was just chock full of fun! Saturday was Alec's birthday, and, naturally, we ended up at Timmy Nolan's. I will spare Alec's dignity and keep the antics of the evening to myself, but needless to say, we had a good time.
Sunday was Torrey's wedding reception, basically the wedding minus the boring ceremony part. (I'm sorry, but let's be honest, the ceremony is boring. It can be lovely and moving, but whatever. I'm here for he party.) Torrey and Stephen got married in Hawaii, so my broke-ass, in addition to many other broke-asses, could not attend. Therefore, her parents threw them a reception here in Burbank so we could all celebrate their new togetherness. It was soooo much fun. Richard Blade was the DJ (If you don't know who Richard Blade is, then you didn't grow up in LA.) We all just danced and ate and drank. Then, that night, 6 of us went bowling and I got to show off how awful I am at bowling. I mean it. I'm terrible.
So, there you have it. I will do my best to update more often mainly because it drives me nuts not writing. I wish I had a better excuse other than "I'm busy" but the whole point of this blog is to write about living, so sometimes the "living" gets in the way of the blogging.
In the 10th grade, my Pre-Cal teacher, Mr. Peebles, issued us a challenge. We had all completely bombed a test and, since tests were 90 percent of our grade, he decided to offer up a chance to get some extra credit. The rules were simple: come up with a question about Saved by the Bell that he could not answer. Only questions having to do within the realm of the show were acceptable, therefore no bullshit questions like “What was the name of the actor who played the nerd Screech took Tori Spelling away from?” (Jeffrey Asch). Being the competitive person that I am, I decided that I didn’t want to win for the extra credit. I wanted to crush Peebles.
Peebles was one of those teachers who taught you by forcing you to grow up and take responsibility for the work you did. Or don’t do, as was the case with me. He was also a bit of a jerk who knew which buttons to push in order to make you work, but somehow keep you motivated instead of making you want to quit. He could joke around with you and insult you and yet, you came out of it feeling like you were smarter. However, I don’t like cocky people, so my goal was to make sure I brought him down off of his high horse.
I grew up watching Saved By the Bell. The only reason I would wake up before 10 on a Saturday morning was to watch. (Ok, maybe I also got up to watch Power Rangers. Whatever…Tommy was hot….and still is based on the images I found on Google…) So, when Peebles brought up the challenge, I reached into the farthest corners of my brain to pull up that useless knowledge taking up space I should have been using for Pre-Cal.
We had one class period to come up with our question. We were not allowed to check the Internet or go home and do research on our stash of videos. With 20 minutes left in class, we all started asking our questions. As he worked his way around the room, I realized that there really wasn’t any question Peebles couldn’t answer.
Who were the original cast members? (Zack, Mr. Belding, Lisa, Screech) Where did they live when the show originally started? (INdianappolis, Indiana) What was the name of the all girl group Lisa, Kelly and Jessie formed? (Hot Sundae) What was the name of Tori Spelling’s character? (Violet Bickerstaff)
None of these even made Peebles hesitate. I was the last one to go and I smiled my most vicious smile. “What was the name of Jessie’s stepbrother?”
Pause.
“Umm…Hang on.” He was sweating. “I know this.” More sweat and now a bit of a nervous shake. “I….don’t…know?” Yeah. I stumped him.
Here’s the problem though: I also stumped myself. He never said anything about having to actually know the answer! I left class feeling horrible. I had done the impossible in stumping the self-proclaimed King of Saved By the Bell trivia, but I had lost on a non-verbalized technicality.
Two classes later, it was still bugging me. I was in Spanish and should have been focusing on how to conjugate verbs, but all I could think about was the name of Jessie’s brother. I was deep in thought when the door opened. I was Peebles. He didn’t say anything, just walked up to the white board, wrote “Eric” and walked back out. Needless to say, I still wasn’t focusing on the correct conjugation of “trabajar.”
Now, almost 10 years later, I am back to thinking about this story. Why? Jimmy Fallon is trying to get the class back together. Only two more cast members need to confirm and those of us who are Bayside Tigers at heart will have our dreams come true. Now if only Jimmy Fallon would reunite the original Power Rangers…plus Tommy.
It takes a lot for me to find someone truly high maintenance. I am used to people being uber picky about how they want their drinks, but every once in awhile, I get a customer who makes me glad that I only have to deal with them at work. If I had to hang out with these people, I'd probably be in jail for murder.
The other morning, this guy came in. He was wearing a nice striped button down with navy slacks and really didn't have any of the tell-tale markers of a high maintenance person (Bluetooth headseat, executive notebook, very large purse with three different agendas, and pretty much anyone who, at 5 am, looks like they've been up for 2 hours to put themselves together). Then he orderd, and it was a whole new level of fastidiousness.
"I'd like, in a paper cup, a Venti Coffee Frap." Pause to make sure I got that he wanted his cold drink in a paper cup. I kept to myself the fact that if you put a Frap in a paper cup, the cup will become soggy and leak all over his perfectly-pressed pants. (Yes, after his first sentence I started noticing all the little things that made him picky. He didn't keep cash in a wallet but kept it in a money clip. All of them were new bills. God forbid there's a wrinkle in that 20.)
"With no Whip." Pretty normal for, well, everyone in LA. Not too annoying.
"With an add shot blended in." Pretty normal for anytime before 10 am. Again, not too annoying, but getting there.
"With one and a half scoops of tall ice." Shit. Just when he only borded on picky, he became high maintenance.
I know what you're thinking. How come with just one line he became high maintenance? Well, here's the thing. If I have to walk over to the bar and read the instructions to the person making the drinks, your bitchass is high maintenance. Demanding, picky, stubborn, controlling; all of these are understandable, but just plain high maintenance is not. You're holding up everyone else and you are making my job a lot tougher than it needs to be. Not to mention the fact that you're getting shit you don't need in a very complicated way and it makes you look like a complete fool.
So, the next time you are in Starbucks or at a restaurant, think about what you're ordering. If it involves changing more than two things, don't get it. You probably don't need that decaf, half soy, half nonfat, 190 degree, no foam, one pump mocha, one pump cinnamon dulce, no whip latte. Save your money for something imporant. Like shoes.
With the NBA playoffs well underway and the WNBA season coming up (Ashley Paris in LA...I can't wait to see how she does!) I got to thinking today about all the reasons basketball is my favorite sport. I came up with a lot. The most important one seems, to me, pretty basic: it’s completely fair.
First of all, if one team scores, the other gets the chance to retaliate instantly. There aren’t three more outs to wait for or 100 more yards to get through to even the score. It's your five against a theirs. If you can’t score the next time down, it’s on you. The other team might have played awesome defense, but just the same, you get the chance to go down to the other end and play defense just as well.
Secondly, it’s FAST! I’ve seen teams come back from a 20-point deficit in just 5 minutes. Or execute a last-second-timeout drawn up play in only 5 seconds. There is so much going on that it’s very hard to get bored. Even at a blowout game, there are a few minutes when the underdog starts to comeback and you think the game might even get interesting.
Finally, it’s not all about being the biggest or the best; it’s about heart. Well, ok, having true talent does make it a lot easier. However, there are plenty of times when The Best are brought down by those who just wanted it more and worked harder for it. I will never forget when I played against a team who had beat us at home 100-28. (That’s not a typo. We lost by 72 points. At home. It SUCKED) But, when we went into their house, we didn’t have anything to lose. So, we came out and kept them from scoring the first 5 minutes of the game and, even though we lost in the end, we only lost by 15. The fans did that annoying thing where they stand until their team scores and I have to say, it felt good to see that half their fans sat down before they scored. Those are the best games to watch and the best games to play. (And it’s always fun to walk by the smaller gym during the men’s game and see the other team running lines.)
Now, I’m not trying to say that other sports aren’t as fair. But, if you take away all of the other factors (excuses), at the end of the day all you need is a ball, a basket, and an opponent, even if that opponent is just you.
The funny thing about living in LA is the amount of things we see that, in an other city, would be totally ridiculous. Or insane. Or just plain weird.
For example, size DD boobs and long blond hair on a woman who weighs 100 pounds walks down the street in skinny jeans and sky-high heels. In any other city in America, she would illicit stares of envy, jealousy or anger from women. Men would pretend not to stare, but as soon as they thought no one was looking, they would sneak a peak at her peaks. The women would talk about unhealthy she must be to be so skinny or how much her feet must hurt from wearing those shoes. The men wouldn’t talk about her, they would simply think about her later that night, if you catch my drift. However, in LA, the men would only glance at the woman because there would be another one looking just like her coming from the other direction. The woman wouldn’t talk about how unhealthy she looked, but would instead ask where she had “them” done or about how “hard” they look. No one would think Barbie looked strange or unreal. Ridiculous.
In any other city, sitting at a red light watching people run across the street would not seem at all odd. Yet, here, those people you see running across the street are not running to catch a bus or because they are late. In fact, these people are carrying three different kinds of cameras, including telephoto lenses. These people are sprinting across the street at full speed with total disregard for the lights or their safety in order to get a picture of a person society deems newsworthy. By getting that great picture, they can make thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars for taking a picture of someone who does nothing of note but do drugs, drink, party and illustrate how money and neglect can truly fuck you up. These paps are sprinting to get a picture of nothing more than a woman shopping with her boyfriend. Insane.
Then there’s the characters on Hollywood Blvd. When I say “characters,” I mean literally. Any day, you can walk down to Graumen’s Chinese Theater and be hoodwinked into paying to take a photo with a crack-head dressed up as Spiderman. These people, many of them homeless or out-of-work “actors,” dress up like the characters from movies, whether it’s Spiderman, Batman, Wonder Woman or even Captain Jack Sparrow. The best part, however, isn’t that you can get your picture taken with them. It’s that you might be there to see a fight between Darth Vadar and Superman. Or you might catch Chewbacca sexually assaulting Marilyn Monroe and then get to testify in the pending trial. Anywhere else, these people would be either arrested or committed. Hey, they don’t call it “Hollyweird” for nothing.
I know that I am always the first person to say how fake LA is and how intellectually numbing this city can be, but, truthfully, all of these absurdities are what make this city fascinating. You never really know what is going to happen or who that person really is. “Barbie” might be the next Jenna Jameson, enabling you to tell people how you saw her with her clothes on. Those paps might get the photo of Brad and Angelina pre-Aniston breakup, making you a witness to a huge piece of pop culture history. Finally, those costumes characters are a part of the reason tourists still come to Hollywood and are helping tourism stay alive.
In the end, these eccentricities are what make up the unique culture of Los Angeles. No matter how much I complain about LA, it does have some interesting assets that I have grown to love.
I was watching Gilmore Girls the other night and there is a scene in one of the episodes between Lorelai and Emily (her mom) right after Lorelai has told Emily that she and Christopher are getting a divorce. (If you don't watch Gilmore Girls or have never seen the 7th season, then just keep reading.) Emily is upset because Richard (Lorelai's dad) has had a heart attack and now Emily must take care of a lot of the family business that Richard always took care of. She tells Lorelai that marriage is like being in a canoe and she feels that Richard has dropped his paddle and now she must do it herself, but can't, and now they are just going in circles. Then, Emily tells Lorelai that she, Lorelai, is in a kayak and can steer herself. In a nutshell, she is independent and can survive on her own.
I wanna be in a kayak.
I have never really liked the idea of being dependent on anyone else. It's not just the cynical side of me coming out, but my true need to do it on my own. I hate asking for help and will put it off until the very last second. I've always been that way. I like to solve my own problems and not put them onto other people. I don't know why, but it's always been that way. I don't like to feel I should rely on anyone else, because, inevitably, they will drop their paddle and we will just move in circles. This is probably why I am so averse to the idea of getting married.
I'm not saying I don't believe in marriage because I acutally think marriage is a great thing. If not for all the legal reasons, than to always have someone there for you when you need them and having someone who supports you and encourages you, etc. It's a great concept, but honestly, I think I need to come first. Not to say that I'll never get married, but it just won't be anytime soon.
I know a lot of my friends want to be in relationships and get married, but not me. I want to succeed on my own before I worry about succeeding with someone else. If I can't support myself and find my own way in the world, how would I ever be happy? I know that I have a long way to go before I'm happy with myself and my life, so why would I want to go through this process with someone else to worry about?
Maybe, eventually, I'll be ready for one of those two-person kayaks. That way, if my partner drops his paddle, I don't have to worry.
My cousin Cheryl has a baby. My cousin Lisa is pregnant. Ed got married. Iisha has her Master's. Beckie is going to be a doctor soon. Molly is in Spain. C is in New York. People call me Kimberly. Now, the real proof that I am getting older, I am planning my first Bachelorette Party. Is it sad that I'm more excited about this than I am about...well anything?
Here's the story: My good friend Torrey is getting married, but she's doing it in Hawaii. Unfortunately, in my current financial state, I am not able to make it to the wedding. I really can't even begin to say how sad I am that I can't make it happen, but, my other friend and I have decided that since we can't make the big shindig to celebrate her nuptials, we might as well throw her the best "exiting the single world" party ever! Although we haven’t gotten beyond the “we are going to plan you a bachelorette party!” phase, I’m sure it’s going to fun.
The thing is, it’s made me really think about how old I’m getting. I mean, not “old” in the Denny’s-early-bird-special kind of way, but in the my-friends-and-family-are-getting-married-and-having-kids-and-working-real-jobs-following-their-dreams kind of way. I have friends that are going to med school and have gotten their Master’s and are making money. Not necessarily great money, but anything beyond minimum wage is a step up.
I pay bills. I go to bars. I have friends in different cities, states and even countries. I drink coffee. A lot. I do and have all of these things that, five years ago, I considered only grownups to have or do. Now, thinking about it, it’s really strange. Although, I wouldn’t really consider myself a grownup. I still enjoy cartoons and the color pink and, come on, what’s more fun than coloring?
*So, as a little update: I was on the phone with Cierra earlier and we realized that we have been friends for 10 years. If that doesn't give me the "Holy shit, I'm getting older feeling" then I don't know what will....
Working at Starbucks, I have to write a lot of names on a lot of cups. I can’t tell you how many times people get upset when I write “Megan” instead of “Meaghan” or can’t call out “Rajhamenanae” (Yeah, that was an actual name. I wrote it down on my hand in marker so I would remember it for this exact reason.) Getting snapped at or made fun of out of frustration is really annoying, but I can totally understand. Our names are a huge part of our identity, so having someone disregard the spelling or pronunciation can feel like someone is just disregarding you. My advice? Identify with many different names.
I have 4 names that I go by, the first being the name my parents gave me at birth, Kimberly. The credit goes completely to my mom, who got to name me since my dad got to name my older sister. (Shelby, like after the car. On the up side, Sissy, he could have named you Caroll. You are so not a Caroll.) My mom decided on Kimberly because it was the name of one of her favorite characters from Days of Our Lives. Anyone who wonders about my flair for the dramatic, there’s your answer. The only people that call me Kimberly are my parents when they are angry/annoyed/frustrated with me, my brother-not-in-law Joey, bill collectors/telemarketers, and Ernesto at work. I have no idea why he uses my full name, but I think it’s kinda funny.
The next one is Kimmi. How I got to Kimmi is long story, but basically, in the 2nd grade, there were 3 Kimberlys. One of us got to be Kimberly, one got to be Kim, and I became Kimmi. I don’t know whatever happened to Kimberly, but Kim and I are still friends to this day.
The third name I go by is Kim. Mostly, I use this one at Starbucks and other places where they need my name for something. If I say “Kimmi,” inevitably it comes out as something different. Kammie, Kally, Kayley, and Kelly most often. The only person that really calls me Kim is Cierra, and she’s been doing it ever since she met me. Sometimes she’ll call me Kimmi and it sounds weird.
The fourth is Queen Kimmi. Obviously, no one calls me that in my day-to-day routine, but it’s still a part of me. I got it because when I was working at Cold Stone the whole “Princess” trend was in full swing. There were princess bags, tees, necklaces, pillows, name tags, and everything else you could possible put it on to express that you were a princess. One of the girls I worked with wore a princess pin on her hat and I mocked her endlessly. One day, she very maturely responded to one of my taunts, “You’re just jealous because you’re not a princess.” I stopped, turned, and said, “You’re right. Why would I want to be a princess when I can be the mother fuckin’ queen?” About two weeks later, got promoted and she made me a name tag that said Queen Kimmi. I’ve gone by it ever since.
So which one do I prefer? It doesn’t matter. I’m Kimmi to most people, Kimberly to others, Kim on rare occasions, and Queen Kimmi always.
So the other day I wrote about big girls who won’t accept their weight, and, by extension, themselves. Well then I got to thinking. Some of these women won’t accept their weight because they have high hopes of being the next Star Jones. Which is fine. If a person wants to lose weight, I am all for it, no matter what his or her motives are. However, more times than not, these same people don’t do shit about it.
They talk and talk about how they want to lose weight and how hard they are going to work to reach their “goal size.” I’ve seen it a million times and every time it’s the same: I’ll start on Monday. Wait. Monday I have a big meeting and am going to need some comfort food. Ok Tuesday. No, I have so-and-so’s dinner party. Wednesday. Yeah Wednesday is perfect. Except that on Thursday I have dinner at my boyfriend's parent's house and it would be rude to not eat the food his mom cooks. And Friday I have a wedding to go to. Ok, next week. And the cycle continues. Then, instead of going on a diet or starting a regular workout routine, she will either do it for a day or she will put it off until everyone forgets about it.
Here’s the thing: If you want to lose weight, you have to actually do something about it. It doesn’t magically come off. Unless you get some disease that doesn’t allow you to eat for weeks, then you can’t lose it by sitting around. So shut the fuck up and get up and do something. Either accept the way you look or shut your mouth, go for a run, and eat an apple instead of a bag of chips.
This brings me to my next point: Oprah. Don’t get me wrong, I love Oprah. She’s powerful and smart and entertaining, but damn if she doesn’t get on my last nerve with her whole weight gain issue. She’s been up and down for years. Every time she loses the weight, it becomes a major news story about how strong she is or how great it is that she has the discipline to do it. Then, when she gains it all back, it becomes even bigger news. Every single station has a 10 minute segment chronicling the "issue" and every critic has something to say about it. It’s always negative. No one ever admits that maybe, at 200 pounds, Oprah still looks damn good. She might not be able to wear belly-baring shirts, but honestly, her face looks healthier and younger when she has a few extra pounds on her. Plus, I think she is more outgoing and confident when she weighs more. But, for some reason, she thinks it’s best to keep losing a ton of weight, only to gain it back. If she would just pick a weight, whether it’s 150 pounds or 200 pounds, I think she would be a lot healthier. She would also be a much stronger role model.
So, whether you are like Oprah or the silly girls who can’t get themselves started or even one of those women who can’t just accept the way they look, it all breaks down to finding out who you are inside and letting that show on the outside. I had embrace many years ago that I am not perfect, inside or out. There will always be things for me to work on and challenges I have to face. It’s all a part of being human. But, it’s not about facing the challenges; it’s about stepping up and conquering them. If you’re weight is your challenge, then conquer it, don’t just talk about it.
I was in Macy’s the other day, shopping in the “women’s” section (because “plus size” is so low class) and I overheard these two girls talking. They were both about my age and one of them was, well, um, on the large size of plus size. The other looked like she could still fit comfortably in youth sized clothes. Anyway, Plus Size keeps picking things up and making a face and putting them back while Size -3 picks up stuff and says, “This would be so cute on you!” and Plus Size makes a face so Size -3 puts it back. Finally, Plus Size finds a great electric blue wrap dress, that would, in my opinion, look fantastic with her blonde hair and fair skin, and she asks Size -3, “Do you think I would look fat in this?” I snorted so loudly to keep myself from laughing that they both looked up.
Her friend, ignoring me, replies, “I think it would look great on you. The color is great and you could wear it with a pair of tights and pumps or boots. I say try it on.”
Plus Size looks at it one more time, puts it back on the rack, and says, “I’ll think about it. Let’s go walk around a little bit.” I just shake my head and walk over to see if they had that dress in my size. (They didn't, I was a little sad, especially because it was marked down from $250 to $60!)
Now, I know it was mean of me to laugh when a fat girl asks if something will make her look fat, but come on. The dress won’t make you look fat, honey. The fact that you’re fat will make you look fat, no matter what you put on. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. I would have told her that if she had asked me. (Although, props to Size -3 for her tact and encouragement.) Here’s the thing. If you aren’t willing to embrace your body, no matter what size it is, then you will never be able to shop happily, which means you’re missing out on one of the most enjoyable activities of our society.
I see this a lot with plus size women. They are so hung up with making themselves look thinner that they miss out on looking good. They will wear over sized shirts, baggy pants, shapeless dresses, or, on the other end of the spectrum, tops 3 sizes too small, skirts let their ass hang out, and jeans that create the ultimate faux pas, the muffin top. All of these “styles” are worn with the intention of looking thinner, which makes them not only look larger, but sloppy also.
The problem is the idea that is burned into our brains everyday: thinner equals better. I’m not saying that being thin is bad, but why am I going to judge what I think about myself based on someone else’s standards? I can wear clothes just as well, if not better, than every other woman on the planet, so I refuse to look in the mirror and think of ways I could look thinner. I am never going to be small. If I spent my whole life obsessing over that, I would never be happy. So, instead, I shop at stores that carry plus sizes, buy things that fit, and accessorize accordingly. I love the way I look and if other people don’t, then they can just look somewhere else. And if all women embraced this, maybe Queen Latifah wouldn't be the only Über successful plus size woman in the media.
I think that it’s because I’ve been working a lot of Friday and Saturday nights that I’ve really noticed it. They come in packs.
It’s not just two or three teenagers coming in together, but they literally come with no less than five people. Always. It’s like they can’t go out unless everyone in the whole school can go with them and they can’t do anything without the whole group. Like being loud and annoying.
Ok, so here’s what I see at work. It’s 3:30 pm and school has just let out. Two or three of them will walk down to beautiful Downtown Burbank and either walk around the mall or loiter on street corners or do whatever it is the kids these days are doing. These two or three will come into Starbucks and meet a few other groups and merge into one. Then, they will either hang out there for a few hours, holding tables and chatting loudly about last night’s episode of Gossip Girl and how hot the Jonas Brothers are, or they will go outside and take up the whole sidewalk walking down to the mall where they will aimlessly wander in and out of stores until their parents pick them up and force them to go home.
It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so loud about everything they do. Everything has to be vocalized, but instead of waiting until the others are done speaking, they just speak over each other. It gets so loud that you can barely hear, and the bits of conversation you can hear makes you understand why some teachers become druggies. (If you grew up in Burbank, then you should know some of the great stories…If not, feel lucky)
Now, I totally remember what it was like to be a teenager. But I never went out with that many people. We would go out with three or four of us, unless it was someone’s birthday, and then we would go to dinner in a big group but not walk all over town 20 people thick. I tried thinking about all the other groups I wasn’t really tight with, but even the most popular crowd didn’t go out in large groups like this. We might have all congregated at someone’s house to cause a raucous, but we never did it in public.
I asked my friend’s little sis, Sami, age 16, about it the other night before work. We were sitting there and a group of twelve kids come in, get in line, make a ton of noise and get in the way for every other customer in the store, and then only one of them actually orders something. I asked Sami if that’s what she and her friends do, and she just rolled her eyes at me.
“I’m so over that,” she said. “It turns into too many cliques and someone is always mad at someone else so you have to choose sides because there is no middle ground. I only need a few good friends to hang out with and I’m good.”
Yeah, I know we are just going to a movie, but I look good.
These are all answers to everyone who likes to hate on me whenever I wear heels. Every time I wear heels, all of a sudden there are tons of people who look at me like I’m crazy for wearing them. If it’s not my mom, who hardly ever wears anything other than tees, jeans, and sneakers, then it’s people who are either short and hate that I am tall or it’s people who wish they could have the confidence I have. Either way, it’s really annoying.
First, there are the people who ask me if I “really need the extra height.” First of all, if I felt the need for extra height, then I would seriously reevaluate who I am as a person. Height is something that cannot be drastically changed, so you just have to accept whatever height you’ve been given. Whether you are short or tall, you can’t change it. So get over it. Now, for women, if you are short, then wearing heels is a great option. But if you're tall, all of a sudden you have no right to wear heels. Nevermind the great posture I have in them or the way they make my legs look more toned or how much longer my legs look in them. I'm tall, therefore I have no right to wear them.
Let me tell you a little story. I spent the majority of my life being taller than everyone I knew. I’ve towered over my classmates for as long as I can remember and never had friends who even came close to my height until high school. This, coupled with the fact that I was very self-conscious about myself in general, made me slouch. I hardly ever stood up to my full height, except on the basketball floor or the softball field. Both of my grandmothers always told me to stand up tall and not slouch, but it was very hard when I was at the age where I just wanted to fit in. In about 10th grade, I started to realize that being so tall was not a bad thing and I really did need to stand up straighter. I began to realize that fitting in was highly overrated. It wasn’t until I wore heels to prom that I realized how much straighter I stood in them and decided that I should wear them more often. Ever since then, I have been wearing heels and loving the way I look in them. So, no asshole, I don’t want more height. I want to be more statuesque.
Also, I know that heels imply that I am going out on the town or something, but really, they can be just as casual as flip flops. They might not be as comfortable as sneakers, but when I feel like looking semi-cute and I want to make minimal effort, a pair of heels really does the trick. Also, when it’s cold (or coldish I should say, since I live in SoCal), a pair of boots look a lot better than Uggs. Seriously. Uggs are ugly. I get they are comfy, but if you are going to wear them in public, it had better be freezing and you had better be bundled up, not in a skirt, shorts, tank top, etc. Yeah, I know that I could get a pair of riding boots or flat boots that are cute, but like I said earlier, I walk a little taller in a high heel.
I know that a lot of people are saying things just because they like to tease me, which I don’t mind. But at the same time, it gets really annoying. I know that I am tall and sometimes overdress a little for things. But I would rather go somewhere and be overdressed then feel like I don’t look good. I have to wear black pants, a black shirt, a green apron, and a hat everyday at work, so every chance I get, I like to look good and show off my individuality. If I’m lounging around the house, yeah I love to wear sweats and mukluks. If I’m going to the gym, of course I’m wearing basketball shorts and a tee. But if I’m going to Timmy Nolan’s, I like to look like I at least made some effort. If I’m going to the movies, I don’t like to look like I rolled out of bed and threw on the first thing on my floor. If I’m going shopping, I like to look I have some sort of style. If any of this calls for heels, I’m going to wear them. And if anyone has a problem, you can just kiss my ass.
And please, keep your negativity to yourself. The media makes it hard enough to be a woman, we really don't need to help them out. If you are like me and prefer to break the mold, then don't listen to any negative things. It might get to you, but eventually, if you make the choice to just be who you are, then you will be much happier for it. I know I am...
When you are working on your resume, there seems to be a consensus about the most important thing: the objective. It gives the resume a focus. It shows the employer what your goal is. It helps you stand out.
So what do you write if you really don’t know what your goal is? What do you write if you don’t know what the true focus of your life’s work is? What do you put down for your objective if your only objective right now is to no longer have to serve coffee to idiots who don’t know what they are ordering or who don’t care that you don’t get paid enough to have to deal with all their bullshit? In other words, what would someone with a degree from Berkeley write when all she wants to do is find a job that will pay her fairly well and get her the hell out of Starbucks?
This is my current dilemma. I was sitting at Aroma today thinking about this. I’ve actually been thinking about this for quite awhile but it became even more apparent today because I was supposed to talk to my Aunt Stacey about all of my fabulous work experience and how we can make my resume even more amazing but, of course, we are now playing a mean game of phone tag and instead of getting some feedback on how to make myself appear even more awesome, I am waiting. It’s not my Aunt’s fault that she is supermom who has a career and two kids playing sports to take care of or that my hours are completely unpredictable. Anyway, so this is why my objective is on my mind.
I have so many things that I would love to do and that I’m interested in, I’m really having trouble in general, so writing an objective about where I want to be is something that is making me stress. I would love to work in something that would make me feel like my degree in English was not a total waste of time, but at the same time I don’t want to limit myself. As I have said before, I think publishing would be the most logical step because it would allow me to be somewhat creative and, while I don’t really think I would make a very good writer, knowing that I had something to do with the process of putting a book on the shelves would make me happy. If I have to start out working in “new media” as a reader or something, that’s great, but for me, I’m all about books because they are tangible objects. Like Giles on Buffy said, “Books smell musty and rich…If it’s to last then the getting of knowledge should be, uh, tangible, and it should be, um, smelly.”
There are also a lot of other things I can see myself doing, though. I am nothing if not a great partier, so something in party planning could be good, although I don’t know how well I’d be able to handle a crazy bride or a spoiled 16 year-old. Angelica has pointed out that she could see me doing something in fashion because I own more shoes than her entire family combined. It has also been said that I would be great at owning my own business, although what that business would be is beyond me because owning a business requires money, which I have very little of. There are a ton of things that I could do, but the issue is figuring out which one of these fabulous careers I would like to pursue, especially when all the experience I have is in slinging ice cream or pushing coffee.
Yeah yeah, I know. Transferable skills. Blah Blah. I get it. But when it comes to the shitty economy we are in right now, no one wants to hire someone with great transferable skills that they have to spend the money to train.
All of this rambling is basically just a way of me whining and asking: What the hell is my objective?
So I've decided that I am not going to law school. After all the work I put in on the LSAT and all the time I spent looking at schools, I finally decided that I really just don't think it's what I want. I know that I would be a great lawyer, and the law and the practice of law fascinates me, but it's not something that I am ready to fully commit my life to. Which is what I would be doing.
As I have been looking at law schools, I've really been thinking hard about why I want to go to law school. What got me started on the idea and where did I see myself going? On almost every application, they ask you to write an essay about what you love about the law (or why you want to study the law, or what you will bring to the school in terms of studying the law...you get the picture). The more I thought about it, the fewer reasons I could think of. I'm not someone who wants to change the world. I'm not someone who is motivated to put the bag guys in their place. I don't want to help corporations or small businesses become successful. I don't want to see justice served. The most prominent reason I could think of was that I wanted to do something that would be a career and something that I would be successful in. The thought of whether or not it was something I really had a passion for hadn't even crossed my mind.
Neither of my parents went to college. My dad's chosen profession is something that he is really good at, but something he never had any success in. My mom is basically a housewife who had part time positions just to help pay the bills. My dad is no longer really doing what he chose to do, but is rather doing what will pay the bills. My mom does nothing. I don't want that life.
So what do I want? Happiness. Security. A job that I don't dread going to each and every day. Making some money in the process would be nice too. Now all I have to do is figure out how to get all of this...
and I have to be the voice of reason. (Which will not always work in our favor.)
2. She enjoys a good beer and likes going to Timmy Nolans when she comes out for a visit. ‘Nuff said.
