Rock.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
i think whatever economically-challenged group you volunteer for would rather you not brag about it
I made the huge, huge mistake of lurking through facebook on a person's page who I can't stand. When I say "can't stand," I mean that they never, ever fail to make me want to rip out my hair, stand on my terrace and screech my fucking head off about how fucking stupid, self-absorbed, and idiotic people are, to pass out fliers with their photos and a description with something like, "This person is a complete ASSHOLE under the facade of a deep-thinking, caring individual. He will eat out your soul in a bad way, and avoid if all possible."
This person is the epitome of My Arch Nemesis, if I were a super-hero with no super powers whatsoever and all the examples of this "type" somehow merged into a giant blob creature of fucking obnoxiousness and defeated by their mere speech alone.
I've been trying to come up with a name for this type of person. "Guru of Guilt" is one of them, after "Guru of Good Causes." Also, "Vapid Volunteer" may work as well. I'll right, I'll go with that, because I need to keep going to a description, and trying to come up with more and more descriptive titles will make my head explode.
Let me explain. I'm sure that everyone knows this person, some form of them. I suspect they're a hive mind, though I have no proof. Maybe I'll grab a doctorate on the subject, and then I can be just as fucking stupid and retarded as them. You can recognize them through their intelligence. "Hey," you'll say, "This person is pretty smart! I might like to know him/her!"
You don't. You don't at all.
They ARE smart, because being a tried and true Asshole requires some degree of intelligence. Their other quality usually is having really, really loaded (or least comfortable), supportive parents. Probably too supportive. Their parents probably clapped when they took a shit till they were 15.
Smart and probably well-off. The "smart" means they know how to use the "well-off," and boy, do they. What VV's realized somewhere around middle school, a bit earlier than the rest of us, is that in their hunts to get into Harvard, Sarah Lawrence, etc., they needed to Be a Good Person. They got that teeny little nugget of golden information in terms of how the world works. People in general, and especially colleges, love Good People. Good People do nice things. They help others. They will hold your hair behind your head as you puke 5 rum and cokes and a warm, ice-melted vodka tonic into your dorm bathroom (not that I would know anything about that). Good People treat others with respect, frown upon injustice, and typically are well-liked, respected members of their community.
So, when you're around 12, smart, and have enough insight to realize that being a Good Person is kind of a big deal, especially in a shitty way, you jump on that bandwagon like a 45-year-old woman with cats collecting Beanie Babies. However, you are too young to really get that "good" is probably a wide definition, and that Good People probably spread their goodness mostly among their own friends and families, perhaps with the line of work they chose, though not always. Goodness, in fact, is not that far-reaching. Read "The Tipping Point" if you really want to get an idea of how it's not the size of it, but the intention.
Ahh, intention. Funny little word, isn't it? Because at this point, our 12-year-old budding Vapid Volunteer needs some way to categorize their goodness. It can't JUST be that you're nice to people, and have a general air of helpfulness, understanding, and compassion. Because they can't put that on their college applications in four years. That just won't fly. It doesn't help . . . them.
Ay, there's the rub. How does one manage to organize and place Goodness into little subheadings on their trusty little one-page résumé? And how can a person do this in as simple a way as possible, that immediately shouts, "Why, Al! I think we've got a Good Person over here!" And what is that thing that Oprah keeps talking about, when mom is lying on the couch in a drunken stupor when I come home from school? V-v-vacant? No, thats not it. V-v-v-viral? Nooooo . . .
VOLUNTEERING! THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE WAY TO PEOPLE'S HEARTS! IF I VOLUNTEER, EVERYONE SHALL ADORE ME AND I WILL BE RECOGNIZED FOR MY GREAT ACHIEVEMENTS, AND maybe ill actually help someone in the process BUT YES!!!!!!!!!!!! I HAVE FOUND THE KEY TO SUCCESS AND ADMIRATION!
. . . Yeah, it pretty much goes like that.
So the VV begins to volunteer. Hard-core. On Saturday mornings, they're up at 5 am serving soup to the homeless; at noon, they're organizing various canned goods for more homeless people, or at least hungry ones; by evening, they're putting paper across long tables that'll hold punch and Pizza Hut pizza for that night's school dance. This is because at this point, usually their volunteerism is put into two distinct categories: "Homeless and/or Hungry" and "School Events." VV's are almost never, ever creative, but more on that aspect in a bit.
It should be noted that when not volunteering, VV's are winning friends and influencing people (or rather, The Kid Whose Parents Don't Care if They Use Their Field for Drinking) after the emceeing the local Bingo match every weekend. Ahh yes. They suddenly were one of the Cool Kids. Who knew that being Good also meant that, sometimes, you were Cool too? Like I said, VV's are smart. Very, very smart. They realize that you can't just volunteer your ass off and then go home and pass out, exhausted, in a heap of your own feces - er, goodness. Nah, you need to mingle. To market yourself. To . . whatever the hell idiots who have nothing to do but think about themselves do. You have to make sure everyone knows of your goodness. Naturally, you draw the line at being a Designated Driver or lending The Token Lightweight your jacket when she inevitably pukes all over herself, but why would you do it anyway? You volunteer. Remember? You're already a Good Person.
There are about four or five years of this, depending on how young the VVs were when they first sold their soul to Satan in the guise of good deeds. They climb the ladder of whatever ill-conceived "volunteer" organization the school sponsors, becoming president by junior year; they actually end up losing a lot of their social life, because really, who has the time? That desperate feeling of insecurity only grows as college applications loom, and when you check the mailbox between homeless feedings you can only pray that it's all worth it.
The Vapid Volunteer needn't worry, because of course they will get into an amazing school, because who can resist that so finely formatted list of Goodness, along with that impeccable 4.6 GPA (the regular ol' 4.0 not good enough for you, because you, my friend, took AP classes for extra weight)? If Kinko's could manufacture goodness, it would, in fact, be one of these shit heads' college applications.
It's interesting to think that colleges are headed by people that as a society we consider to be intelligent. We assume (remember the definition of assume!) that these people must be fairly discerning, especially at an incredibly famous school, widely renowned for its diverse, academically enslaved student body. However, what we forget is that when you're busy telling 9 out of 10 people that they can't actually attend said-school, you sort of lose a bit in the whole acceptance process. You glance at the little forms. You see one of three categories:
So anyway, the Dean of Admissions or whatever goes through, and perhaps interviews a few people. This is The Key Turning Point of the Vapid Volunteer, so pay attention. It changes the course of their lives, and the lives of people like us, who have to live with them, forever. With this one oversight, we are all doomed to listening to them kvetch (yep!) for eternity, and wonder if they could erase all of those years of Doing Good by the one simple act of Making Me Blow My Own Brains Out.
The dean makes the simple mistake of only asking his/her standard questions. I'm not sure what those are, but you can bet the VV does. While they were waiting for the truck to unload all of the donated sweaters and boots for the clothing drive last winter, they read all about college admissions, and the typical questions asked. No doubt, questions about their volunteerism, highly impressive, will be inquired about. Then, suddenly, the VV realizes something:
They have no fucking idea why they're doing what they do.
They have this unbelievable dawning of realization. The realization that, for all these years of sweat and tears and feigned compassion, they only had one goal: To Be Good. And now this? This . . demand of wanting to know why you find the homeless so stimulating? Or why you're willing to stay after school for six hours labeling unmarked paint cans in the art room ("Puce . . . cerulean or cornflower blue? Cornflower. Cherry red . . ?") Suddenly, just doing it isn't enough. Suddenly, you have to account for your actions. You have to explain, in utter seriousness, what makes you tick, why you think homeless people need help, an event/circumstance that occurred that made you passionate about the subject ("passionate, wait, where's my dictionary . . ."). This . . . is . . not . . FAIR. You DID it, didn't you? You got up at 5, you hung around rude, schizophrenic homeless men who stared at your boobs, you DID it, why isn't that enough?! What's with all this EXPLAINING? GOD, WHY?
Remember, VV's are smart. They know how to stay cool, and most importantly, they know how to answer. They ran over a few scenarios, played it out with Mom in the kitchen with some index cards, like a fucked-up version of the Johnny Carson show, and relaxed. Yeah, they had this.
If only the fucking Deans had caught on by now.
After the short list, some, though not all, Good People (along with their alter-ego, Vapid Volunteer) will get into the school. If it's not one good school, it'll be another. They always get in. ALWAYS. And why shouldn't they, really? They worked hard. They got the grades. What other reward could be expected? And now that they've accomplished their goal, they can stop. Relax. Spend 7 nights/week drinking into oblivion as opposed to just Friday nights after lining up the beverages at the Snack Bar at the football game. Ah yes, this is the sweetest time of their life.
*screeeeeeccchh!!!!* (Those were tires squealing to a halt, by the way.) "Oh, fuck," cries the Vapid Volunteer, "Where is my identity? Who am I? What am I doing? I suddenly have all this . . . time." The VV has perfected the art of getting straight A's on chem tests without sleeping for four days, so spending a lot of time on grades isn't at all in their nature. They've got that covered. They were looking forward to endless nights and days, a four-year road trip ending only in a 100K/year existence with a hot wife and kids, or if you're a chick, an Italian-furnished apartment with white leather couches and Manolo Blahniks (usually female VV's develop into successful career women whose goals center around valuable things like that). Their major is usually in something having NOTHING to do with helping people. At all. Economics. Business. Biology. Well, I guess biology could help people, but don't worry, I promise the VVs won't be the biologists who even remotely entertain the idea.
They yearn for the popularity that sustained them through high school. They think back, "Wait, why did I have so many friends . . . ? Right! I was a Good Person!" *ding!* A light.
Now, one of two things will happen. The first is that the person automatically becomes the (Glory Days) Vapid Volunteer. They don't care enough about being a Good Person again to actually go out and do cleverly-disguised-with-self-motives acts again. Nope, they paid their dues, and they're going to ride on that 10th grade trip to Israel teaching English for the rest of their lives. It. Never. Ends. "Oh, you went to Germany last year? I went to Germany. We worked with a Holocaust survivor on recording their personal history. It was amazing."
Oh, that's another thing you need to know about the VV. Everything is "amazing," "life-changing," or "unbelievable." The reason they use these words is because they know how to read, and know that usually when people go on trips or do Good Things that they themselves have done, they describe in those ways. It's sort of like when a baby puts its hand on a hot stove for the first time, if the baby didn't feel anything and just kept doing it over. And over. And over. Until finally someone just gets a new baby. Or, in this case, a new friend.
If this moron doesn't immediately go into the Glory Days phase, then they immediately back-track into their old, insane level of volunteering. Only this time, the bullshit you have to put up with increases thousands fold. While in high-school they were well-aware, and even embraced, the fact that This is What You Do to Get Into College, and nobody really pretended otherwise, the VV understands that once you hit college, people generally hold you to the fire. Because that's the funny thing about college, or any foray outside of high school: You realize that there is someone who has done more than you. Someone who is smarter, prettier, richer, or in any way that you can conceive, better. Because there always will be. ALWAYS. You will never be the best, because just when you think you are, some random person will appear to show you what's up - as they should, to save you from making someone wipe your ass for you.
The VV takes it up a notch. Now they not only do every organization, ever, they also like to go to protests. Protests Show You Care, because nothing shows you care so much as standing outside for 40 minutes between two classes holding a sign your friend gave you while she ran over to Starbucks. In addition to protests, they'll probably help organize some sort of artistic endeavor, like an art show, or a play. Plays are REALLY good ones, because they require lots of time and effort. As we have learned, the activity itself and its cause is of little consequence to the VV; it is, in fact, their nature to just coast along causes like a collection of skateboards. Their only goal, in fact, is to be able to have this conversation about a billion times a day:
Yeah. That's how the VV develops. They work themselves sick, and goddammit, still get NO CREDIT FOR IT. None. At all. They're tireless, and no one seems to care. Your poor, sad soul that spend so much time giving and giving and giving, and nobody understands that Tibetans need cookies, and why are people so ignorant, and if only everyone else understood how awful the world was and wanted to do something about it . . .
Right. The VV has, at this point, Started to Believe Their Own Bullshit. They really and truly think that their brainless volunteering actually is effective. That, because they spent two fucking hours in a fucking meeting of the Confederacy of Dunces discussing what fucking color of crepe paper to use for the Save the Whales benefit, that actually makes them a better fucking person than anyone else. That they are well-rounded, informed individuals. That they are not the worthless, steaming pile of crap they really are, who just basically live a hollow, shell of a life and cover it all up with ribbons and bows to hide their own hatred of themselves, and in the process, making other people feel bad that they're not as ridiculously shallow and self-absorbed.
I. Hate. These. People.
They make my skin crawl. No, that's a lie; they make my skin want to rip itself from body, à la Robbie Williams' "Rock DJ" video, be tossed to a hungry lion, bear, or some other large-toothed creature, have it ripped to shreds, while I begin to bury myself in sand (burning on the open wounds of my skin being ripped off) and wait for the sun to eventually cook my ravaged body. When, no doubt, a VV will come by in a nice little khaki floppy hat and backpack and pour water down my throat, because that's the type they shit they love to brag about doing for other people. Oh, yes, you get a fucking prize, you piece of shit.
When waxing unpoetic about these people, I often get the following argument: "Well, even if they don't really care, isn't it better that someone is out doing good for people, regardless of their intention?"
Are you kidding? It's ALL intention. Everything. EVERYTHING. I have not learned a lot in my life, but I have learned that. Remember the "Friends" episode when Joey and Chandler go on a police ride-along, think they hear shots, and Joey dives over Chandler? And everyone thinks that he was trying to save his life, but it turns out he was just trying to protect his sandwich? INTENTION. Don't tell me that in Chandler's position, you'd feel the same as if he ACTUALLY was attempting to take a bullet for you. Don't fucking give me that bullshit.
People are fucking GENIUSES at spotting insincerity. And it pisses me the fuck off to think that somewhere, a VV is helping build a hut for some tribe, with this waxy smile on their face, the "Aren't-I-Great-Because-I'm-Helpful" look, and you know what that guy in the tribe is thinking? "What a fucking asshole."
We rally against self-righteousness. We have a lot of morals/tenets/what-the-fuck-evers in this country, and one is to be humble. Well, not so much anymore, but way back in the day I think someone wrote about it in a Readers' Digest. If you are a VV reading this, I have something to tell you. It's very important, so look very closely at your screen: You are not great because you help people.
YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FUCKING HELP PEOPLE.
If you think for one fucking minute that you are better because you flew to fucking Zimbabwe to read to school children as opposed to the little old lady down the street who runs a day care, or the man who shovels his neighbors' driveways in the winter, you are a FUCKING ASSHOLE. Being a Good Person has nothing to do with miles. It has nothing to do with how much money you spend to actually DO the volunteering. And quite frankly, if you are so fucking dumb that you only think far-off countries where they don't speak English have problems, you should fucking look around your fucking ridiculously privileged life. There are problems, there are bad things happening next door to us.
Why is intention so important? Let's give an example. President Bush really and truly thought that there were WMDs (some may disagree and say he blatantly lied, but even with the benefit of the doubt, he still fails, so bear with me). So we go to war. We have lost, oh, how many lives? Thousands. For a false premise.
But his intention was good, right? So fuck it, he must be a pretty great guy!
Not many people would agree with that statement. We have, as we should, high expectations for people in power. We believe that they should be using their own opportunity effectively do good, not just spread around some half-germinated good seeds in the hopes that somethiing will catch. Because Doing Good IS expensive in some respects. It certainly doesn't have to be, and again I refer to just generally being a helpful, kind person to better the world, but the truth is that people forget this and have big plans. And that's okay, as long as the time and money and effort is used wisely. And you know what a fucking waste of money is? Sending some punk high school kid with too much time and not enough knowledge to some random country to do something that probably could've been accomplished much more cheaply and effectively by a local group that's wondering why Whitey somehow thinks it's necessary.
And of course, I'm not saying that these aren't good causes. I do think that kids need to get as far away from their safe haven and experience the world. What I'm saying is, don't disguise it. Don't let it be more than what it is.
Why does this matter? Because you know why people don't volunteer? Because they think they can't do anything. They think they don't have time, that they don't have the energy, and that they don't have the money. The people we profile in terms of Doing Good are too often those ones who are extraordinary. And I need to keep reiterating that I don't believe those people are bad or VVs (we're past VVs now in the conversation, in case you haven't noticed), but they are inaccessible. By only profiling Oprah and her going through Africa with a giant tent filled with dolls and sneakers for school children, we know there's no way we can compete. And the world gets shittier and shittier, because people don't just think, they truly know they can't do anything. They don't have the resources.
The reason I hate VVs is because they imitate the Superman, that they can do everything. And again, the idea of helping people, of contributing usefully to society, is put further and further away from "ordinary folk" (no one is ordinary - i know it's cheesy to blatantly say that, but I can't stand the word) who really could do something if someone should just show them how easy it is. They also are doing a variety of things that collectively make little to no difference when, if they just concentrated on ONE thing, in the RIGHT way, a world of difference could be made. VVs also make Doing Good unreachable in the sense that they embrace that they are Good, alienating again, everyone else. People look at them and go, "Wow, look at her. She's really into this," and of course they're not, but then they continue on to say, "I don't think I could ever have so much passion for something as to spend that much time doing it." Well, of course not. Nobody in their right mind could have that much passion for anything as to not sleep for weeks at a time and drink enough Starbucks to go into a diabetic coma. And guess what? VVs don't either. They have no passion. They have nothing behind what they do. It's all action, and misappropriated action at that.
When you add a dose of passion, however, everything changes. You love knitting but have already given potholders to everyone you know? There's a book called "Knitting for Peace" which basically tells you where to send the stuff you knit, both in the states and around the world, such as blankets for NICU babies. You like to paint? Donate a painting to a charity auction or art show. These are things you'd do anything, but with a Good Person twist to it. Got more time? TEACH.
I swear, I cannot tell you how many people I tell this to. TEACH. TEACH. TEACH. TEACH. I don't care what you do. I don't care if you're an accountant. I don't care if you're a lawyer for Big Oil. GO. TEACH. Tell kids what you do. Tell them how you do it. Tell them what a typical day is like. Tell them funny stories about meetings gone wrong, or how you once had to learn a new design program in 3 hours to complete a project. Be honest. Tell them how you were conflicted while being a defense attorney.
I'm not saying this just because I'm a teacher. I'm saying it because our kids are failing. We're losing them. It's not right. In fact, it's a fucking crime that should be punishable. Look at my news stories about "Little Criminals" on the sidebar. An eight-year-old girl was caught committing robbery. The police officer held her hand like her dad to take her to the squad car. People think the have to do some grand scheme, that they have to, like, teach kids how to cure cancer, or they convince themselves that they're not interesting. I'm not saying go back to college and become a teacher. I'm saying, call a school with, say, a struggling art program, and ask if they'd like a pro in the field to come in (for free of course) and spend a couple of hours showing the kids your fancy equipment. (Just a sidenote, but especially go teach if your job involves some kind of awesome gadget. Kids love gadgets. If you have a gadget, you will immediately recruit about half the class to your field.)
Everyone relates volunteering or teaching or whatever to "life-changing." Not everything has to be life-changing. If you're a fireman and go tell kids exciting stories of saving lives, they're probably NOT all going to become firefighters. But you know what you did teach them? That somebody gives a shit. Somebody came to talk to them, to entertain them for an hour or so. Someone cared enough to interrupt their hideously boring algebra class. Someone wants them to know that there's more to life than just high school, and that one day they really can do anything they put their mind to.
Our problem in this country is that the atmosphere's all wrong. We need a shift - a tipping point, if you will. It's not that people don't care - I don't believe that. I think people just believe they can't make any difference, and we need to show them how we can.
This person is the epitome of My Arch Nemesis, if I were a super-hero with no super powers whatsoever and all the examples of this "type" somehow merged into a giant blob creature of fucking obnoxiousness and defeated by their mere speech alone.
I've been trying to come up with a name for this type of person. "Guru of Guilt" is one of them, after "Guru of Good Causes." Also, "Vapid Volunteer" may work as well. I'll right, I'll go with that, because I need to keep going to a description, and trying to come up with more and more descriptive titles will make my head explode.
Let me explain. I'm sure that everyone knows this person, some form of them. I suspect they're a hive mind, though I have no proof. Maybe I'll grab a doctorate on the subject, and then I can be just as fucking stupid and retarded as them. You can recognize them through their intelligence. "Hey," you'll say, "This person is pretty smart! I might like to know him/her!"
You don't. You don't at all.
They ARE smart, because being a tried and true Asshole requires some degree of intelligence. Their other quality usually is having really, really loaded (or least comfortable), supportive parents. Probably too supportive. Their parents probably clapped when they took a shit till they were 15.
Smart and probably well-off. The "smart" means they know how to use the "well-off," and boy, do they. What VV's realized somewhere around middle school, a bit earlier than the rest of us, is that in their hunts to get into Harvard, Sarah Lawrence, etc., they needed to Be a Good Person. They got that teeny little nugget of golden information in terms of how the world works. People in general, and especially colleges, love Good People. Good People do nice things. They help others. They will hold your hair behind your head as you puke 5 rum and cokes and a warm, ice-melted vodka tonic into your dorm bathroom (not that I would know anything about that). Good People treat others with respect, frown upon injustice, and typically are well-liked, respected members of their community.
So, when you're around 12, smart, and have enough insight to realize that being a Good Person is kind of a big deal, especially in a shitty way, you jump on that bandwagon like a 45-year-old woman with cats collecting Beanie Babies. However, you are too young to really get that "good" is probably a wide definition, and that Good People probably spread their goodness mostly among their own friends and families, perhaps with the line of work they chose, though not always. Goodness, in fact, is not that far-reaching. Read "The Tipping Point" if you really want to get an idea of how it's not the size of it, but the intention.
Ahh, intention. Funny little word, isn't it? Because at this point, our 12-year-old budding Vapid Volunteer needs some way to categorize their goodness. It can't JUST be that you're nice to people, and have a general air of helpfulness, understanding, and compassion. Because they can't put that on their college applications in four years. That just won't fly. It doesn't help . . . them.
Ay, there's the rub. How does one manage to organize and place Goodness into little subheadings on their trusty little one-page résumé? And how can a person do this in as simple a way as possible, that immediately shouts, "Why, Al! I think we've got a Good Person over here!" And what is that thing that Oprah keeps talking about, when mom is lying on the couch in a drunken stupor when I come home from school? V-v-vacant? No, thats not it. V-v-v-viral? Nooooo . . .
VOLUNTEERING! THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE WAY TO PEOPLE'S HEARTS! IF I VOLUNTEER, EVERYONE SHALL ADORE ME AND I WILL BE RECOGNIZED FOR MY GREAT ACHIEVEMENTS, AND maybe ill actually help someone in the process BUT YES!!!!!!!!!!!! I HAVE FOUND THE KEY TO SUCCESS AND ADMIRATION!
. . . Yeah, it pretty much goes like that.
So the VV begins to volunteer. Hard-core. On Saturday mornings, they're up at 5 am serving soup to the homeless; at noon, they're organizing various canned goods for more homeless people, or at least hungry ones; by evening, they're putting paper across long tables that'll hold punch and Pizza Hut pizza for that night's school dance. This is because at this point, usually their volunteerism is put into two distinct categories: "Homeless and/or Hungry" and "School Events." VV's are almost never, ever creative, but more on that aspect in a bit.
It should be noted that when not volunteering, VV's are winning friends and influencing people (or rather, The Kid Whose Parents Don't Care if They Use Their Field for Drinking) after the emceeing the local Bingo match every weekend. Ahh yes. They suddenly were one of the Cool Kids. Who knew that being Good also meant that, sometimes, you were Cool too? Like I said, VV's are smart. Very, very smart. They realize that you can't just volunteer your ass off and then go home and pass out, exhausted, in a heap of your own feces - er, goodness. Nah, you need to mingle. To market yourself. To . . whatever the hell idiots who have nothing to do but think about themselves do. You have to make sure everyone knows of your goodness. Naturally, you draw the line at being a Designated Driver or lending The Token Lightweight your jacket when she inevitably pukes all over herself, but why would you do it anyway? You volunteer. Remember? You're already a Good Person.
There are about four or five years of this, depending on how young the VVs were when they first sold their soul to Satan in the guise of good deeds. They climb the ladder of whatever ill-conceived "volunteer" organization the school sponsors, becoming president by junior year; they actually end up losing a lot of their social life, because really, who has the time? That desperate feeling of insecurity only grows as college applications loom, and when you check the mailbox between homeless feedings you can only pray that it's all worth it.
The Vapid Volunteer needn't worry, because of course they will get into an amazing school, because who can resist that so finely formatted list of Goodness, along with that impeccable 4.6 GPA (the regular ol' 4.0 not good enough for you, because you, my friend, took AP classes for extra weight)? If Kinko's could manufacture goodness, it would, in fact, be one of these shit heads' college applications.
It's interesting to think that colleges are headed by people that as a society we consider to be intelligent. We assume (remember the definition of assume!) that these people must be fairly discerning, especially at an incredibly famous school, widely renowned for its diverse, academically enslaved student body. However, what we forget is that when you're busy telling 9 out of 10 people that they can't actually attend said-school, you sort of lose a bit in the whole acceptance process. You glance at the little forms. You see one of three categories:
- Goodness
- Asian-ness
- Famous Person and/or Child of Alumnus
So anyway, the Dean of Admissions or whatever goes through, and perhaps interviews a few people. This is The Key Turning Point of the Vapid Volunteer, so pay attention. It changes the course of their lives, and the lives of people like us, who have to live with them, forever. With this one oversight, we are all doomed to listening to them kvetch (yep!) for eternity, and wonder if they could erase all of those years of Doing Good by the one simple act of Making Me Blow My Own Brains Out.
The dean makes the simple mistake of only asking his/her standard questions. I'm not sure what those are, but you can bet the VV does. While they were waiting for the truck to unload all of the donated sweaters and boots for the clothing drive last winter, they read all about college admissions, and the typical questions asked. No doubt, questions about their volunteerism, highly impressive, will be inquired about. Then, suddenly, the VV realizes something:
They have no fucking idea why they're doing what they do.
They have this unbelievable dawning of realization. The realization that, for all these years of sweat and tears and feigned compassion, they only had one goal: To Be Good. And now this? This . . demand of wanting to know why you find the homeless so stimulating? Or why you're willing to stay after school for six hours labeling unmarked paint cans in the art room ("Puce . . . cerulean or cornflower blue? Cornflower. Cherry red . . ?") Suddenly, just doing it isn't enough. Suddenly, you have to account for your actions. You have to explain, in utter seriousness, what makes you tick, why you think homeless people need help, an event/circumstance that occurred that made you passionate about the subject ("passionate, wait, where's my dictionary . . ."). This . . . is . . not . . FAIR. You DID it, didn't you? You got up at 5, you hung around rude, schizophrenic homeless men who stared at your boobs, you DID it, why isn't that enough?! What's with all this EXPLAINING? GOD, WHY?
Remember, VV's are smart. They know how to stay cool, and most importantly, they know how to answer. They ran over a few scenarios, played it out with Mom in the kitchen with some index cards, like a fucked-up version of the Johnny Carson show, and relaxed. Yeah, they had this.
If only the fucking Deans had caught on by now.
After the short list, some, though not all, Good People (along with their alter-ego, Vapid Volunteer) will get into the school. If it's not one good school, it'll be another. They always get in. ALWAYS. And why shouldn't they, really? They worked hard. They got the grades. What other reward could be expected? And now that they've accomplished their goal, they can stop. Relax. Spend 7 nights/week drinking into oblivion as opposed to just Friday nights after lining up the beverages at the Snack Bar at the football game. Ah yes, this is the sweetest time of their life.
*screeeeeeccchh!!!!* (Those were tires squealing to a halt, by the way.) "Oh, fuck," cries the Vapid Volunteer, "Where is my identity? Who am I? What am I doing? I suddenly have all this . . . time." The VV has perfected the art of getting straight A's on chem tests without sleeping for four days, so spending a lot of time on grades isn't at all in their nature. They've got that covered. They were looking forward to endless nights and days, a four-year road trip ending only in a 100K/year existence with a hot wife and kids, or if you're a chick, an Italian-furnished apartment with white leather couches and Manolo Blahniks (usually female VV's develop into successful career women whose goals center around valuable things like that). Their major is usually in something having NOTHING to do with helping people. At all. Economics. Business. Biology. Well, I guess biology could help people, but don't worry, I promise the VVs won't be the biologists who even remotely entertain the idea.
They yearn for the popularity that sustained them through high school. They think back, "Wait, why did I have so many friends . . . ? Right! I was a Good Person!" *ding!* A light.
Now, one of two things will happen. The first is that the person automatically becomes the (Glory Days) Vapid Volunteer. They don't care enough about being a Good Person again to actually go out and do cleverly-disguised-with-self-motives acts again. Nope, they paid their dues, and they're going to ride on that 10th grade trip to Israel teaching English for the rest of their lives. It. Never. Ends. "Oh, you went to Germany last year? I went to Germany. We worked with a Holocaust survivor on recording their personal history. It was amazing."
Oh, that's another thing you need to know about the VV. Everything is "amazing," "life-changing," or "unbelievable." The reason they use these words is because they know how to read, and know that usually when people go on trips or do Good Things that they themselves have done, they describe in those ways. It's sort of like when a baby puts its hand on a hot stove for the first time, if the baby didn't feel anything and just kept doing it over. And over. And over. Until finally someone just gets a new baby. Or, in this case, a new friend.
If this moron doesn't immediately go into the Glory Days phase, then they immediately back-track into their old, insane level of volunteering. Only this time, the bullshit you have to put up with increases thousands fold. While in high-school they were well-aware, and even embraced, the fact that This is What You Do to Get Into College, and nobody really pretended otherwise, the VV understands that once you hit college, people generally hold you to the fire. Because that's the funny thing about college, or any foray outside of high school: You realize that there is someone who has done more than you. Someone who is smarter, prettier, richer, or in any way that you can conceive, better. Because there always will be. ALWAYS. You will never be the best, because just when you think you are, some random person will appear to show you what's up - as they should, to save you from making someone wipe your ass for you.
The VV takes it up a notch. Now they not only do every organization, ever, they also like to go to protests. Protests Show You Care, because nothing shows you care so much as standing outside for 40 minutes between two classes holding a sign your friend gave you while she ran over to Starbucks. In addition to protests, they'll probably help organize some sort of artistic endeavor, like an art show, or a play. Plays are REALLY good ones, because they require lots of time and effort. As we have learned, the activity itself and its cause is of little consequence to the VV; it is, in fact, their nature to just coast along causes like a collection of skateboards. Their only goal, in fact, is to be able to have this conversation about a billion times a day:
Unknowingly About to Explode: Hey man, what's up?
Vapid Volunteer: Ugh, nothing, on my way to a meeting.
UAE [trying to be sympathetic]: Oh yeah? Um, what's it for?
VV: It's raising money for Tibet. We're thinking of having a bake sale, but of course no one knows what kinds of cookies Tibetans eat. It's like, am I the only one who reads?
UAE: What kinds of cookies do Tibetans eat?
VV: Like I have time to find out, I'm so fucking busy. Ugh, hold on. *cell phone rings, conversation ensues about whether African drumming is appropriate at a "Drop the Debt" rally*
Yeah. That's how the VV develops. They work themselves sick, and goddammit, still get NO CREDIT FOR IT. None. At all. They're tireless, and no one seems to care. Your poor, sad soul that spend so much time giving and giving and giving, and nobody understands that Tibetans need cookies, and why are people so ignorant, and if only everyone else understood how awful the world was and wanted to do something about it . . .
Right. The VV has, at this point, Started to Believe Their Own Bullshit. They really and truly think that their brainless volunteering actually is effective. That, because they spent two fucking hours in a fucking meeting of the Confederacy of Dunces discussing what fucking color of crepe paper to use for the Save the Whales benefit, that actually makes them a better fucking person than anyone else. That they are well-rounded, informed individuals. That they are not the worthless, steaming pile of crap they really are, who just basically live a hollow, shell of a life and cover it all up with ribbons and bows to hide their own hatred of themselves, and in the process, making other people feel bad that they're not as ridiculously shallow and self-absorbed.
I. Hate. These. People.
They make my skin crawl. No, that's a lie; they make my skin want to rip itself from body, à la Robbie Williams' "Rock DJ" video, be tossed to a hungry lion, bear, or some other large-toothed creature, have it ripped to shreds, while I begin to bury myself in sand (burning on the open wounds of my skin being ripped off) and wait for the sun to eventually cook my ravaged body. When, no doubt, a VV will come by in a nice little khaki floppy hat and backpack and pour water down my throat, because that's the type they shit they love to brag about doing for other people. Oh, yes, you get a fucking prize, you piece of shit.
When waxing unpoetic about these people, I often get the following argument: "Well, even if they don't really care, isn't it better that someone is out doing good for people, regardless of their intention?"
Are you kidding? It's ALL intention. Everything. EVERYTHING. I have not learned a lot in my life, but I have learned that. Remember the "Friends" episode when Joey and Chandler go on a police ride-along, think they hear shots, and Joey dives over Chandler? And everyone thinks that he was trying to save his life, but it turns out he was just trying to protect his sandwich? INTENTION. Don't tell me that in Chandler's position, you'd feel the same as if he ACTUALLY was attempting to take a bullet for you. Don't fucking give me that bullshit.
People are fucking GENIUSES at spotting insincerity. And it pisses me the fuck off to think that somewhere, a VV is helping build a hut for some tribe, with this waxy smile on their face, the "Aren't-I-Great-Because-I'm-Helpful" look, and you know what that guy in the tribe is thinking? "What a fucking asshole."
We rally against self-righteousness. We have a lot of morals/tenets/what-the-fuck-evers in this country, and one is to be humble. Well, not so much anymore, but way back in the day I think someone wrote about it in a Readers' Digest. If you are a VV reading this, I have something to tell you. It's very important, so look very closely at your screen: You are not great because you help people.
YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FUCKING HELP PEOPLE.
If you think for one fucking minute that you are better because you flew to fucking Zimbabwe to read to school children as opposed to the little old lady down the street who runs a day care, or the man who shovels his neighbors' driveways in the winter, you are a FUCKING ASSHOLE. Being a Good Person has nothing to do with miles. It has nothing to do with how much money you spend to actually DO the volunteering. And quite frankly, if you are so fucking dumb that you only think far-off countries where they don't speak English have problems, you should fucking look around your fucking ridiculously privileged life. There are problems, there are bad things happening next door to us.
Why is intention so important? Let's give an example. President Bush really and truly thought that there were WMDs (some may disagree and say he blatantly lied, but even with the benefit of the doubt, he still fails, so bear with me). So we go to war. We have lost, oh, how many lives? Thousands. For a false premise.
But his intention was good, right? So fuck it, he must be a pretty great guy!
Not many people would agree with that statement. We have, as we should, high expectations for people in power. We believe that they should be using their own opportunity effectively do good, not just spread around some half-germinated good seeds in the hopes that somethiing will catch. Because Doing Good IS expensive in some respects. It certainly doesn't have to be, and again I refer to just generally being a helpful, kind person to better the world, but the truth is that people forget this and have big plans. And that's okay, as long as the time and money and effort is used wisely. And you know what a fucking waste of money is? Sending some punk high school kid with too much time and not enough knowledge to some random country to do something that probably could've been accomplished much more cheaply and effectively by a local group that's wondering why Whitey somehow thinks it's necessary.
And of course, I'm not saying that these aren't good causes. I do think that kids need to get as far away from their safe haven and experience the world. What I'm saying is, don't disguise it. Don't let it be more than what it is.
Why does this matter? Because you know why people don't volunteer? Because they think they can't do anything. They think they don't have time, that they don't have the energy, and that they don't have the money. The people we profile in terms of Doing Good are too often those ones who are extraordinary. And I need to keep reiterating that I don't believe those people are bad or VVs (we're past VVs now in the conversation, in case you haven't noticed), but they are inaccessible. By only profiling Oprah and her going through Africa with a giant tent filled with dolls and sneakers for school children, we know there's no way we can compete. And the world gets shittier and shittier, because people don't just think, they truly know they can't do anything. They don't have the resources.
The reason I hate VVs is because they imitate the Superman, that they can do everything. And again, the idea of helping people, of contributing usefully to society, is put further and further away from "ordinary folk" (no one is ordinary - i know it's cheesy to blatantly say that, but I can't stand the word) who really could do something if someone should just show them how easy it is. They also are doing a variety of things that collectively make little to no difference when, if they just concentrated on ONE thing, in the RIGHT way, a world of difference could be made. VVs also make Doing Good unreachable in the sense that they embrace that they are Good, alienating again, everyone else. People look at them and go, "Wow, look at her. She's really into this," and of course they're not, but then they continue on to say, "I don't think I could ever have so much passion for something as to spend that much time doing it." Well, of course not. Nobody in their right mind could have that much passion for anything as to not sleep for weeks at a time and drink enough Starbucks to go into a diabetic coma. And guess what? VVs don't either. They have no passion. They have nothing behind what they do. It's all action, and misappropriated action at that.
When you add a dose of passion, however, everything changes. You love knitting but have already given potholders to everyone you know? There's a book called "Knitting for Peace" which basically tells you where to send the stuff you knit, both in the states and around the world, such as blankets for NICU babies. You like to paint? Donate a painting to a charity auction or art show. These are things you'd do anything, but with a Good Person twist to it. Got more time? TEACH.
I swear, I cannot tell you how many people I tell this to. TEACH. TEACH. TEACH. TEACH. I don't care what you do. I don't care if you're an accountant. I don't care if you're a lawyer for Big Oil. GO. TEACH. Tell kids what you do. Tell them how you do it. Tell them what a typical day is like. Tell them funny stories about meetings gone wrong, or how you once had to learn a new design program in 3 hours to complete a project. Be honest. Tell them how you were conflicted while being a defense attorney.
I'm not saying this just because I'm a teacher. I'm saying it because our kids are failing. We're losing them. It's not right. In fact, it's a fucking crime that should be punishable. Look at my news stories about "Little Criminals" on the sidebar. An eight-year-old girl was caught committing robbery. The police officer held her hand like her dad to take her to the squad car. People think the have to do some grand scheme, that they have to, like, teach kids how to cure cancer, or they convince themselves that they're not interesting. I'm not saying go back to college and become a teacher. I'm saying, call a school with, say, a struggling art program, and ask if they'd like a pro in the field to come in (for free of course) and spend a couple of hours showing the kids your fancy equipment. (Just a sidenote, but especially go teach if your job involves some kind of awesome gadget. Kids love gadgets. If you have a gadget, you will immediately recruit about half the class to your field.)
Everyone relates volunteering or teaching or whatever to "life-changing." Not everything has to be life-changing. If you're a fireman and go tell kids exciting stories of saving lives, they're probably NOT all going to become firefighters. But you know what you did teach them? That somebody gives a shit. Somebody came to talk to them, to entertain them for an hour or so. Someone cared enough to interrupt their hideously boring algebra class. Someone wants them to know that there's more to life than just high school, and that one day they really can do anything they put their mind to.
Our problem in this country is that the atmosphere's all wrong. We need a shift - a tipping point, if you will. It's not that people don't care - I don't believe that. I think people just believe they can't make any difference, and we need to show them how we can.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
dork out!
Okay, ummmm . . . I just saw this, found it, and needed to share. I think it's adorable. The song is adorable, and then there are little cartoon robots and bizarre things.
Erin's World from eSurance: Erin and Erik Meet PWRFL POWER.
Second video down. Apparently not up on youTube yet, otherwise I'd just put it smack right there.
Erin's World from eSurance: Erin and Erik Meet PWRFL POWER.
Second video down. Apparently not up on youTube yet, otherwise I'd just put it smack right there.
questionable dreams and photo slip-ups
Last night I came home and conked out at 8 pm, to wake up again at 6 am, rendering me someone apparently over the age of 70 - or someone who works with extremely small children.
I've frequently remarked to friends about how I don't dream in the NYC area. I mean, yes, I learned in psych class that we always dream, we just don't remember most of it, etc., but in P'burgh I have vivid, logically-sequenced dreams I remember the full details of the next morning. Here, not at all. I think just because of work I conk out really deeply or something, whatever.
Last night was an exception. I had an utterly insane sequence of dreams, no doubt the product of reading about both Benazir Bhutto's assassination and the Pittsburgh Penguins before going to sleep.
The first part, I was a political leader in an eastern country who was being assassinated. And at first the dude missed me cause a body guard threw me on the ground, saving my life - except then, proving that I am a moron not only in reality but in my dreams, I got back up thinking the coast was clear, the guy saw me, and there I went. It actually wasn't as terrifying as it sounds. Just rather irritating.
The next part was even more bizarre - the Pittsburgh Penguins were playing in some horrible place, I don't remember where, in some sort of international tournament, like the Olympics. And a friend and I traveled to go see the game (it should be noted that despite my family's maniacal obsession with the Pens, I rarely go to games even when I'm in town, so the fact that I would travel halfway across the world to see them is in itself proof that this was a dream).
Anyways, the friend and I noticed that this was no ordinary game, as one of the players on the opposing team used his hockey skate to chop off the head of one of our players, holding it triumphantly in the middle of the rink. The Penguins seemed rather surprised at this too. I remember thinking (Well, Dream Alice was thinking), "Now, that is just not fair," much like your grandma would remark at a bad ref call at your Little League game.
Of course we couldn't just let the beheading of one our team members go, so in the next face-off, Sydney Crosby stabbed a Japanese figure skater in the stomach. Apparently not used to mortal combat, he then sat on the bench and the monitors showed a close up of his crying, guilt-ridden face.
Now, the odd thing is not that I had this dream at all, even though I'm a pretty non-violent person and don't really think that much about "Lord of the Flies"-like scenarios. No, the weird thing is that my first thought upon waking up, in that weird state when you're kind of still believing that what you dreamed was happening, was:
"God, I didn't think that Crosby was such a pussy."
While we're on the subject, here is the greatest piece of Penguin mania as of late:
Despite being a bit weirded out, I had a normal day at work and then went over to a specialty photo lab to see how my Holga photos turned out. This is the first time I'd used the Holga, and thus medium-format film, and I just snapped random shit around my neighborhood to get a feel for it. When I went to drop off the film, the guy had no fucking clue what I was talking about, as he didn't speak a whole lot of English, and I was trying to say to just make prints, or slides, or whatever, and "I'm-new-at-this-so-please-don't-think-I'm-too-much-of-a-moron" statements, and finally I ended up just paying for contact sheets. I attempted to tell him that I didn't really want to choose which ones to pick, as there were only 12 of course, and since it was my first roll, I wanted all of them just so I could chat with some photo friends over what I fucked up and how to fix it. But he insisted I'd rather get the contact sheet and pick later.
I also had a roll of 35 mm I took with my Oktomat way back in October during a visit from The Falon. I took it to a regular ol' drug store, because I don't really care about quality with the Oktomat - cause really, it's a plastic cheap-ass camera that's only affect is going to be improved simply because I paid more money to get them developed. The problem though was that it couldn't loop on the machine, since it was all ripped up along the edges. Oh right - Oktomats are not known for their delicate treatment of your film either.
So again, I try to explain this, at one time pointing to a little cartoon of film to show which part was messed up, and again I'm talked into just developing the roll. Ugh. Okay, fine.
Went back today, Holga shots leaked of course, another of their infamous traits, but whatever, and they hand me back the Oktomat negatives. I go over to the light board, and I'm peering through and i'm like, "Oh, fuck this shit," and just tell them I want everything - what I had told them before and they were convinced I wouldn't want. Some people just aren't accustomed to how lazy I am, I guess. They then point out to me . . . that the roll is ripped and can't loop onto their machine. Jesus. fucking. christ. *head slam* *hulk smash*
So, long story long, I pay more to get them hand-down, and am picking them up on Friday. Wonk, wonk.
I've frequently remarked to friends about how I don't dream in the NYC area. I mean, yes, I learned in psych class that we always dream, we just don't remember most of it, etc., but in P'burgh I have vivid, logically-sequenced dreams I remember the full details of the next morning. Here, not at all. I think just because of work I conk out really deeply or something, whatever.
Last night was an exception. I had an utterly insane sequence of dreams, no doubt the product of reading about both Benazir Bhutto's assassination and the Pittsburgh Penguins before going to sleep.
The first part, I was a political leader in an eastern country who was being assassinated. And at first the dude missed me cause a body guard threw me on the ground, saving my life - except then, proving that I am a moron not only in reality but in my dreams, I got back up thinking the coast was clear, the guy saw me, and there I went. It actually wasn't as terrifying as it sounds. Just rather irritating.
The next part was even more bizarre - the Pittsburgh Penguins were playing in some horrible place, I don't remember where, in some sort of international tournament, like the Olympics. And a friend and I traveled to go see the game (it should be noted that despite my family's maniacal obsession with the Pens, I rarely go to games even when I'm in town, so the fact that I would travel halfway across the world to see them is in itself proof that this was a dream).
Anyways, the friend and I noticed that this was no ordinary game, as one of the players on the opposing team used his hockey skate to chop off the head of one of our players, holding it triumphantly in the middle of the rink. The Penguins seemed rather surprised at this too. I remember thinking (Well, Dream Alice was thinking), "Now, that is just not fair," much like your grandma would remark at a bad ref call at your Little League game.
Of course we couldn't just let the beheading of one our team members go, so in the next face-off, Sydney Crosby stabbed a Japanese figure skater in the stomach. Apparently not used to mortal combat, he then sat on the bench and the monitors showed a close up of his crying, guilt-ridden face.
Now, the odd thing is not that I had this dream at all, even though I'm a pretty non-violent person and don't really think that much about "Lord of the Flies"-like scenarios. No, the weird thing is that my first thought upon waking up, in that weird state when you're kind of still believing that what you dreamed was happening, was:
"God, I didn't think that Crosby was such a pussy."
While we're on the subject, here is the greatest piece of Penguin mania as of late:
Despite being a bit weirded out, I had a normal day at work and then went over to a specialty photo lab to see how my Holga photos turned out. This is the first time I'd used the Holga, and thus medium-format film, and I just snapped random shit around my neighborhood to get a feel for it. When I went to drop off the film, the guy had no fucking clue what I was talking about, as he didn't speak a whole lot of English, and I was trying to say to just make prints, or slides, or whatever, and "I'm-new-at-this-so-please-don't-think-I'm-too-much-of-a-moron" statements, and finally I ended up just paying for contact sheets. I attempted to tell him that I didn't really want to choose which ones to pick, as there were only 12 of course, and since it was my first roll, I wanted all of them just so I could chat with some photo friends over what I fucked up and how to fix it. But he insisted I'd rather get the contact sheet and pick later.
I also had a roll of 35 mm I took with my Oktomat way back in October during a visit from The Falon. I took it to a regular ol' drug store, because I don't really care about quality with the Oktomat - cause really, it's a plastic cheap-ass camera that's only affect is going to be improved simply because I paid more money to get them developed. The problem though was that it couldn't loop on the machine, since it was all ripped up along the edges. Oh right - Oktomats are not known for their delicate treatment of your film either.
So again, I try to explain this, at one time pointing to a little cartoon of film to show which part was messed up, and again I'm talked into just developing the roll. Ugh. Okay, fine.
Went back today, Holga shots leaked of course, another of their infamous traits, but whatever, and they hand me back the Oktomat negatives. I go over to the light board, and I'm peering through and i'm like, "Oh, fuck this shit," and just tell them I want everything - what I had told them before and they were convinced I wouldn't want. Some people just aren't accustomed to how lazy I am, I guess. They then point out to me . . . that the roll is ripped and can't loop onto their machine. Jesus. fucking. christ. *head slam* *hulk smash*
So, long story long, I pay more to get them hand-down, and am picking them up on Friday. Wonk, wonk.
Monday, May 26, 2008
shift
I made the old "alice kvetch" into "alice spooks" to document my sincere love of making fun of, while secretly immensely enjoying, ghost hunters and paranormal enthusiasts. I am well aware of my own dorkiness, so save it. I'll quote a friend who brought me down to Earth when I said I wanted to start a ghost hunting group:
I took a nap today. It was a, "I don't have to work today, and even though I'm not tired, I'm going to go to sleep for an hour, because I can. And because tomorrow night, when I want to take a nap, I won't be able to, because I'll be doing report cards. So I shall own this Memorial Day gift of slumber!"
Well, when you sleep when you're not tired, you wake up and immediately feel like complete fucking shit. Your head hurts, and there's almost a queasy feeling in your tum-tum. I realized that what I did NOT want to do, was sleep. And now I'm awake, on my day off, milking it for all it's worth no doubt by staying awake until 4 am, getting up at 6, and feeling like crap again, and I just blew the whole thing.
There's another aspect to this anecdote. And that is that I've been trying to eat better lately. Now, I've never been one to obsess about my weight, but I caught a glimpse of myself at work and was like, "Hm. I look a bit pudge." In terms of numbers, I'm on the low-end for my range, which is great, but I had what us ladies refer to as a "Fat Day," where you are just a big fat Fatty McFatterson, and there is no reason for it, but nothing fits, and you're convinced that people are making fun of you on the subway.
My grocery shopping consists of: Pepsi 12-can FridgeMate (GENIUS), 4 Celeste small pepperoni and/or deluxe microwavable pizzas, El Monterey 3-cheese w/ chicken microwaveable quesadillas (they're delicious), and then usually something I actually have to make. Most likely chicken (courtesy of Purdue's ready-made chicken strips) and rice (goya).
Therefore, my approach was to do the following: Eliminate Pepsi for water, and either the pizzas or quesadillas for Lean Cuisines. this worked for about a week and a half. Then I thought I was going to blow my brains out without cola streaming through my bloodstream, so that came back.
I was still confused about snacking. The kids I work with have such great, healthy, delicious snacks from Whole Foods. Well, we don' thave one of those in my neighborhood, and I'm sorry, I cannot bring myself to brave the insanity of Whole Foods in Union Square to maybe save myself 50 calories. No. NO. (Their organic lemon cookies are absolutely phenomenal, by the way.) I tried to buy more fruit, but it literally just rotted in my fridge. Then again, I bought the wrong mini-oranges; I wanted seedless, and didn't get those. Christ, I hate seeds. So really, all of these circumstances are just god's way of telling me that I shouldn't bother eating more healthily. I'm guessing.
But today at the grocery store, fully stocked on Pepsi yet again, though balanced with the delight of frozen Lean Cuisines, perfectly packaged and nutritious, I realized that I had no snack food. I didn't want to just eat my favorite (Wise chips, french onion dip, good Jesus . . . ), so I got a ball of mozzarella.
Okay. No, I don't know why I did this. I have no fucking idea why in my head that seemed like a good idea. I didn't even get any bread to go with it. I guess I just figured I'd sit on my couch, watching "Top Chef" and chewing on a giant ball of mozzarella, kind of like someone eating an apple, but the texture all melty like a marshmallow. GROSS.
So I wake up from my Forced Nap, and am like, "God, I need a snack." I didn't want a full meal. And then I realized all I had was that mother-fucking ball of mozzarella. And I realized that that is NOT a good snack.
Current Favorite Song: "Comic Strip" by Serge Gainsbourg.
The background singer is doing all of the onomonopeias from comic strips, and it's way cute. (Whiiissshhh!! Booom!!! Whiiizzz!! Plop!!!)
Friend: That's stupid.Touché. Whatever. i still like it. And then I realized I had a lot of non-ghostly things to bitch about, or just yammer about.
Me: It's an interest. How is it any different than your liking boats?
Friend: Because I don't have to prove that boats exist.
I took a nap today. It was a, "I don't have to work today, and even though I'm not tired, I'm going to go to sleep for an hour, because I can. And because tomorrow night, when I want to take a nap, I won't be able to, because I'll be doing report cards. So I shall own this Memorial Day gift of slumber!"
Well, when you sleep when you're not tired, you wake up and immediately feel like complete fucking shit. Your head hurts, and there's almost a queasy feeling in your tum-tum. I realized that what I did NOT want to do, was sleep. And now I'm awake, on my day off, milking it for all it's worth no doubt by staying awake until 4 am, getting up at 6, and feeling like crap again, and I just blew the whole thing.
There's another aspect to this anecdote. And that is that I've been trying to eat better lately. Now, I've never been one to obsess about my weight, but I caught a glimpse of myself at work and was like, "Hm. I look a bit pudge." In terms of numbers, I'm on the low-end for my range, which is great, but I had what us ladies refer to as a "Fat Day," where you are just a big fat Fatty McFatterson, and there is no reason for it, but nothing fits, and you're convinced that people are making fun of you on the subway.
My grocery shopping consists of: Pepsi 12-can FridgeMate (GENIUS), 4 Celeste small pepperoni and/or deluxe microwavable pizzas, El Monterey 3-cheese w/ chicken microwaveable quesadillas (they're delicious), and then usually something I actually have to make. Most likely chicken (courtesy of Purdue's ready-made chicken strips) and rice (goya).
Therefore, my approach was to do the following: Eliminate Pepsi for water, and either the pizzas or quesadillas for Lean Cuisines. this worked for about a week and a half. Then I thought I was going to blow my brains out without cola streaming through my bloodstream, so that came back.
I was still confused about snacking. The kids I work with have such great, healthy, delicious snacks from Whole Foods. Well, we don' thave one of those in my neighborhood, and I'm sorry, I cannot bring myself to brave the insanity of Whole Foods in Union Square to maybe save myself 50 calories. No. NO. (Their organic lemon cookies are absolutely phenomenal, by the way.) I tried to buy more fruit, but it literally just rotted in my fridge. Then again, I bought the wrong mini-oranges; I wanted seedless, and didn't get those. Christ, I hate seeds. So really, all of these circumstances are just god's way of telling me that I shouldn't bother eating more healthily. I'm guessing.
But today at the grocery store, fully stocked on Pepsi yet again, though balanced with the delight of frozen Lean Cuisines, perfectly packaged and nutritious, I realized that I had no snack food. I didn't want to just eat my favorite (Wise chips, french onion dip, good Jesus . . . ), so I got a ball of mozzarella.
Okay. No, I don't know why I did this. I have no fucking idea why in my head that seemed like a good idea. I didn't even get any bread to go with it. I guess I just figured I'd sit on my couch, watching "Top Chef" and chewing on a giant ball of mozzarella, kind of like someone eating an apple, but the texture all melty like a marshmallow. GROSS.
So I wake up from my Forced Nap, and am like, "God, I need a snack." I didn't want a full meal. And then I realized all I had was that mother-fucking ball of mozzarella. And I realized that that is NOT a good snack.
Current Favorite Song: "Comic Strip" by Serge Gainsbourg.
The background singer is doing all of the onomonopeias from comic strips, and it's way cute. (Whiiissshhh!! Booom!!! Whiiizzz!! Plop!!!)
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