Of Course I Don't Want Them--They're Sour

My sister is just getting around to reading my blog. "Some of your posts are funny," she said, "but some are sad."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, like that one about your intern--it's very 'sour grapes.'"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, like I didn't accomplish what I wanted to--those grapes are sour, but fuck you, I don't want them anyway."

Have We Met Before?

So this weekend, I went to a conference in Chicago. During the conference, 5 or 6 women asked me if we had met before (if I went to college with them, if I was from their city, etc). No.

It's common, this question. I don't know why. I don't really think I have "one of those faces;" in fact, I think my looks are fairly distinctive. I'm short and slim with green eyes; short, curly red hair; and a big nose. Apparently, there's an army of Jewish (faux) redheads running around.

I Don't Like My Intern

My intern just announced that "It's so great being 21!" We heard all about the lead-up to her birthday last week; the drama surrounding the birthday dinner; and now, the joy of being able to frequent any bar in the city.

I don't like my intern. It's not that I dislike her personally-- she seems like a fine person and is a good employee.

What I don't like is that she's loud. She has an opinion about everything. She's excited about the world and New York and has every confidence that she'll be discovered and she'll find success and it'll be *Awesome*.

Basically, she's me at 21, but with less glitter. Yes, I was one of those girls.

I'm not 21 anymore, high on delusions of grandeur, certain that I was the best thing Ever, confident that I was going to take over the world. I was going to be rich and famous and successful and there was no reason why it wouldn't happen.

I'm not 25 anymore, lost in my quarter-life crisis, unsure of who I was, what I wanted to do, and how to get there.

I'm 30. God, it's still weird to write/say that. Taking over the world? If someone's going to do it, it's not going to be me. I'm not gong to be rich or famous and probably not successful, at least not in the way that I always thought I'd be. I'm not sure if that realization has released me or made me more depressed.

My uncle used to tell me that the strangest part about aging was that you still felt like yourself--even when the mirror betrayed your age, YOU were the same person. I don't know about that. I don't feel like the same person I was at 21. It's not just that I want different things now than I used to or that I don't want to go dancing or drinking all night, it's that I really cannot imagine being that naively, dismissively, delusionally confident anymore. I assume that's just a part of aging, but when I think of the girl I used to be, I feel so OLD. And glad that I'm not there anymore. I don't know that I'm ready to be 30, but I'm certainly glad I'm not 21 anymore.

Dear Abby Has Gone Crazy

Sometimes, I love Dear Abby. Why do I read this outdated, saccharine advice column you ask? It's not because I think her advice (which is quite liberal--in a recent column, she urged a woman to accept her cross-dressing boyfriend since we all have our own kinks) to her flailing readers will offer some insight into my own life. It's because I think she's going crazy. And it's awesome.

DEAR ABBY: I am a professional costume wearer. By that, I mean I have been an elf, a giraffe, a moose, T-Rex and a character for a major hamburger chain. I am presently a character for a major cereal company. Once I am in costume, I am not allowed to speak. Adults and older children think nothing of hitting me, kicking me, pulling at parts of my costume, and trying to knock me down. One 12-year-old even tried to "head butt" me while his father looked on and encouraged him!
I am in costume for about an hour or so before I can take breaks. It gets hot and sweaty inside these costumes. I have a limited field of vision and can't see many of the oncoming attacks. Even if I saw each one, I would not be able to say anything to stop or deflect these random attacks. What I do is have a paid "helper" walk beside me. This is now discouraging such actions by adults and children.
I would ask parents to please remember that there are real people inside these costumes, which are not heavily padded. I feel each and every hit and kick as if I were wearing street clothes. Thanks for printing this. -- H.S. IN COLORADO

DEAR H.S.: You have my sympathy, and I am seconding your request. That a parent would encourage such poor behavior incenses me. You should not have had to hire a "bodyguard" to protect you.
I find it interesting, however, that the children who are acting out against you do not regard you as another human being. It seems they have mistaken you for the same kind of cartoon character they see on television -- probably too much television -- against whom violence is committed with no repercussions. (I'm reminded of the "Mr. Bill" character that was once featured on "Saturday Night Live.")
One of my assistants, who has occasionally dressed as a chimp in her work as a docent at the L.A. Zoo, tells me that this is one of the hazards in your line of work. Call me humorless, but to me, assault and battery are criminal behaviors -- and if someone I cared about were subjected to it, I would be very concerned.

A) First of all, who knew there was a "Professional Costume Wearer" was a job description, let alone a job title. And how do you get promoted--you go from being a hamburger to a cheeseburger?
B) Dear Abby's assistant was a chimp? At the zoo? I suppose being Dear Abby's assistant is a step up from chimp and from a cheeseburger, so it's quite a promotion, but a rather odd career path.

c) For as liberal as Dear Abby is, she's rather behind-the-times culturally with her Mr. Bill reference on the "Saturday Night Live" that all the kids are watching.

DEAR ABBY: My husband and I were trying to park our car in a crowded downtown lot. The line of cars trying to get in wrapped around the block. Each car in line had to circle around until someone left because no parking spaces were available.

When we finally got to drive in, we drove to the only open spot. However, a woman had jumped out of a car that was still on the street and was standing in the spot to save it for her companion. My husband lowered the window and reminded her that because she did not have a vehicle, she was blocking traffic. She angrily told him that her car was "just around the corner" and threatened to call the cops if we didn't keep driving. My husband didn't raise his voice. He once again asked her to move because she had cut in line.
Finally, after she began to go into a tirade, we gave up and circled for another 10 minutes until another spot opened. Was my husband out of line for asking her to move? What would you have done in that situation? -- UNSURE OF THE RULES, BEASLEY, TEXAS

DEAR UNSURE: Your husband was not out of line in asking the woman to move. She was nervy and wrong to block traffic and take advantage. And if the police had been summoned, they probably would have backed you up.
What would I have done in that situation? Had I been behind the wheel, I would have been tempted to very ... slowly ... continue ... parking my car ... until she either moved or I squashed her like a bug against the wall or the car in front. (That's why my husband does most of the driving when we're together.)

A) Is the writer the most passive-aggressive woman ever? She knew that Dear Abby was going to side with her; she didn't want the rules clarified--she wanted validation.
B) "until she either moved or I squashed her like a bug against the wall or the car in front." Wow. Just. Wow. Dear Abby has gone crazy.

I Hate Carrie Bradshaw

I never watched Sex & the City while it was on HBO due in no small part to the fact that I didn't have HBO. Since its syndication on TBS and the CW, however, I've managed to catch up on the pop-culture powerhouse that swept the nation. And while I can understand why people like the show, I don't understand why they like the main character. I don't. In fact, I hate Carrie Bradshaw.

Let's ignore the fact that she's a 90-something pound 30-something year-old woman who runs around the city in bras and short-shorts (or as my co-worker would say, poon-poon shorts), and that she somehow makes a fabulous living as a writer, a living enabling her to pay for her fabulous $500 a pair shoes, fabulous designer outfits (including those poon-poon shorts), and fabulous food and drinks at the trendiest restaurants and nightclubs in the city.

The reason I can't stand Carrie Bradshaw is because she's needy. She's whiny. She's clingy. Basically, she's the crazy girl who is always scaring guys away, not understanding why they don't want to be her boyfriend. And love her. And marry her. And be with her forever and ever because she's so witty and insightful and ohmigod we're in love and why are you bothering to date anyone else because this is it?!

Carrie Bradshaw gives women a bad name.

In Carrie's world, there is no dating, no middle ground--there are only extremes. She either fucks random guys or falls hopelessly in love.

Who is this overly introspective, yet complelety shallow woman? She's the character that witty, literary teen-agers used to dream about becoming. She's the urban alternative to the white-picket fenced in suburban mom. Her character is exactly how I, at 17, thought I would be as a 30-something year-old woman in New York. The problem is that while my idea of women evolved, Carrie Bradshaw didn't. She's still acting out my high-schooler fantasy, and now that I'm a 30 year-old woman, she seems ridiculous.