How to Not Die When Hiking

You know when you wake up before your stomach isn’t fully done digesting the entire box of macaroons junk food you ruthlessly shoved down your gullet the night before? You feel like a mix of the Michelin Man and seven-year-old you the morning after Halloween — that’s me any morning I wake up before ten.

Yesterday, as a means to rid myself of this feeling, and the entire container of almond and dark chocolate chip cookies I heroically consumed in a day’s time, (without having t0 resort to a suppository), I did a brave thing: I went on a hike. Normally, throw some coffee in my volcano stomach and bing, eruption results (As my mom would say, in the middle of the checkout line at the grocery store, “aww Al, I gotta go poops,” because she’s apparently a five-year-old boy) but my innards are vindictive — they hold my feasts against me. (FINE, I guess I did also eat the entire container of macaroons but Matti had some too…. okay, okay, he only had two.)

Aww, New Yorker, you’re so clever!

I felt excited about the idea of going on a hike, I felt like Caesar Milan would really appreciate my pack-leader sensibility and the last time Matti and I went on this trail it barely felt like exercise (except for maybe at the end when I was huddled over a sharp rock holding back vomit). But hiking has a way of hiding its misery better than other forms of exercise like say, running on a treadmill; I feel like the same people that invented hamster wheels also invented treadmills. I did used to run on them when I worked as a swim instructor at Boston Sports Club, but that was because the gym membership was free, and you know what, hiking in the woods is always free! (Unless it costs money!)

My experience hiking can be summed up by my choice of foot wear: my powder blue Chuck Taylor’s from 7th grade that are a mysterious size 6 yet still fit. (Because my aim is to look like a hiker who doesn’t give a fuck.) Fast forward an hour to me attempting to sprint in an empty riverbed, dodging rocks and baby plants as Tengo chases me, then crookedly stepping on a stone and almost breaking myself due to the Chuck’s lack of ankle support — I imagine I looked like one of those models on the runway with toothpick legs and 20 inch heels that looses her balance and looks like a baby deer trying to get up and walk for the first time — ugh, so painfully delightful to watch.

Halfway down the trail is when I realized, however, this could be where I die. I clearly had not thought out this whole hiking thing: I never go anywhere by myself I could likely be killed. Don’t get me wrong, Tengo’s a good protector, but he takes after me — throw him something edible and he’s all are you my mommy now? I mean, I get scared just lying in my own bed at night, fearing tiny dangerous people will pop out of the AC unit, so how did I not properly anticipate the danger before positioning myself as serial killer bait deep, deep in the wooded trail behind my apartment. Matti even texted me “Be safe!” (More about my irrational fear of serial killers).

This is not me but it is the best depiction of the type of area I would’ve been killed in.

There was also the fact that I had some misplaced confidence from the first half of the hike, which was the going down part. I used all my energy prancing and maneuvering around wooded obstacles that I forgot I wasn’t sixteen and in shape. You would’ve thought I was trying to invent my own brand of woodland Parkour (key word: trying). Looking around, I thought, yeah well, this would be an awfully good place to murder someone: a skinny trail leading to an empty riverbed in the middle of the woods to which I have no alternative way to get out besides the mountainous way I came. But that’s when I realized, Aly, you’re way to ordinary to get killed by a lurking serial killer in the woods behind your apartment — this is the logic that usually helps me to calm down in unfoundedly fearful situations. Also, if you predict something awful is going to happen, it’s less likely to occur, because then we’d all be psychic — it’s just science.

Matti and I on the same trail a few weeks ago, notice my side forehead sweat

So Tengo and I ventured back up where we came from, and needless to say, we didn’t get murdered, which leads me to believe my previous assertion about tragedies is correct. Also, I believe I sweat out all of the leftover cookie fat from the previous nights, because that’s possible. I wish I had pictures to show you of my cranberry sauce colored face on the way up but I was too fearful that showing I was distracted by taking a picture would entice the hiding killer.

I did learn some lessons from my hike: Don’t assume you will want or be able to carry anything on your way back from the hike. Yes, this includes water. Get a damn fanny pack or some shit. Better yet, strap it to your dog’s back — he’ll appreciate the workout (I say he because all dogs are boys). There’s always going to be something that looks like a snake hole that you must jump over. Don’t waste your energy on the way down, you idiot. And finally, find an alternate route of evacuation incase of serial killers. Happy hiking!

What have you done lately that scared you?

When Will I Feel My Mouth Again and How Did You Become a Dentist?

When it comes to going to the dentist, I am a seven-year-old boy — I have at least three new cavities every time I go and I’m loath to admit how scared I am of power drills being inserted into my mouth.

The receptionist, however, never misses a chance to call me ‘sister’ and treat me like Kourtney Kardashion (‘cuz Kourt’s the hip, grounded one) — today is no exception. As I sit in the waiting room I wonder if it’d be weird to invite her to my wedding, mostly because I like her blue framed glasses and feel like she’d be the type of friend to monitor my bad dental habits without being too naggy. My BFF daydream is interrupted, however, by who I can only imagine is an ex-reggae star turned dental hygienist. He is way too talkative, and in case you were wondering, he’s from Florida, has two crowns, and his grandmother also has digestive problems.

The dentist comes in and I recognize him as the one who doesn’t believe I brush my teeth. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE when a dentist gasps and then adjusts his tone to say, “wow you actually have kind of white teeth.” It’s super confidence-boosting. I have prepared for him today, however, by brushing my teeth before entering the room, scrubbing my tongue of all coffee residue.

I start exercising my mouth like I’m trying out for the lead part in Dentistry Training Video: When a Patient Has a Grape-Sized Mouth, when I realize I forgot to put on the stunner shades Ziggy Marley handed to me before Doctor-I’m-a-real-Dentist walked in.  I slide them on.

Do you think the dentist will take a picture of me in these will my mouth pried open if I ask really nicely?

“Do I look like I’m in the Matrix?” I ask the two uneasy men who now look at each other, their eyes screaming “there’s ALWAYS one.”

“Yeah, definitely,” says Ziggy Marley and I’m immediately grateful for all the life decisions that brought him to this moment.

Doctor-real-dentist is now sticking needles into my gums and shaking my lip like I’m being shot up with heroin and I’m thinking hey, buy me a drink first, guy.

Halfway through the procedure, doctor-dentist chuckles to himself and says, “Girl you are a saliva factory.” I’m sorry, sir, is the spit filling up in my mouth crowding the four hands and twenty drills that are currently occupying my grape sized pie-hole? My mouth can barely fit around a hot dog and you’re stretching my lip to my ear while complaining about my overproduction of saliva? Were you not here three minutes ago when you pumped my gums full of the tinglies? Do you realize half my face is paralyzed?

Do dentists need to take a course in condescension to graduate? There’s no place that more adequately reminds you of the consequences of your poor life choices than the dentist. Me, eat too many sweets? No way. Oh, you found pieces of cookies in my teeth? Well, okay, I guess you’re right.

“You need to rinse your teeth after you drink coffee,” says the dentist devil as he spears my gums.

legitimate attempt at smiling while mouth is temporarily paralyzed. This wasn’t the first take incase you were wondering how I get my beauty to transfer so gracefully

I immediately spit out the gauze pad soaking up my drool and look at Ziggy to back me up, “you saw me brush my teeth before I came in! Didn’t I?” He barely nodded. Clearly there was a dentistry code being played out here. Finally, my third and final cavity is filled and I am set free by sir-judges-a-lot. Of course, I receive no lolly pop or treasure box like the other kids, just a ridiculously hefty bill and an ultimate case of lazy mouth.

 

Sleep Disturbers Anonymous

Because sleeping in a tiny white room on a what appears to be an end table is always super comfy

Hello, my name is Aly and I’m a leg and body shaker. No I’m not humping Boo Radley, my all-white stuffed dog under the blankets, I’m rocking myself to sleep, you a-holes. What’s that awful cackle-like breathing noise? No, it’s not a coyote killing a cat in the far distance — that’s also me snoring. What’s that now? The blankets keep coming off of you while you sleep? Well, no, I haven’t noticed anything — it seems I have a surplus of covers over on my side of the bed. You keep waking up in the night because the bed is moving? Well saw-reee there’s a mythical organ inside of my body that only functions at night and in the wee (no pun intended) morning hours to push on my bladder until I succumb to the toilet — and yes, of course I have to turn the bathroom light on because there could be poisonous spiders living in the toilet bowl like the ones in Olive Garden that killed those people; You’ll get used to the light, don’t worry.

But believe me, I am not the worst culprit. Sure, my chainsaw snore may relegate you to quieter quarters but it’s bearable in most instances. And don’t try to hide, I can see you, fellow disturber, rolling your eyes as if you don’t wake up in the middle of the night with an ugly cloud shaped drool stain on your pillow — just like Zac Efron in High School Musical taught us, we’re all in this together. Some drip out mouth liquids loudly, some shake through the night like they’re in a Beyoncé video. We all have one thing in common: we can’t sleep still. 

Sleep talkers: The coolest of the cats. The ones that can’t be silenced. The kind of sleep disturber I aspire to be. I happily engage in conversations with Matti all the time while he is sleeping. The other night he mentioned something about burning quinoa, so obviously, the conversations are extremely important and wildly original. It always feels like he’s being super coy, like there’s something he’s secretly hiding, which is ridiculous, because in reality he’s just sleeping and I’m trying to force his brain to spit out random, funny statements that I can write about. Sometimes it works. Then, there’s the closet-serial killer sleep talker. Like this guy: “the other night he was shaking his hand in bed and telling me I was going to hurt the woman in the corner–I said there was no woman there and he told me to look on the floor for her shadow.” Some advice to this wife: Lady, get the fuck out of that marriage before your husband turns into Harrison Ford in What Lies Beneath and you find yourself drugged up in a bathtub wondering how you got there.

Sleep shakers: Who falls asleep while remaining completely still? Well, a lot of people. But if you don’t then you’re a sleep shaker so welcome to our exclusively shaky club. I like to think of us as being prematurely independent and adult-like, because as kids, we rocked ourselves to sleep — we learned to adapt. By the time I was born, my mom was 40 and had already done the family thing with another guy prior to my dad, so there was definitely no way I was getting the rocking chair, baby swaddle treatment. (Ugh, life as a middle class white girl was just so hard.) We disturb in a cute way, by rocking our bodies back and forth like we’re trying to catch the ultimate sleep wave. Okay, I guess it can also be associated with Restless Leg Syndrome which isn’t so much cute as it is bountifully annoying, or that’s the vibe I get whenever Anna sternly slaps her hand on my leg while we’re watching a movie on the couch, giving me the I-don’t-love-you-enough-to-not-cut-off-your-leg-if-you-don’t-stop look.

Sleep Walkers: Man, you freaks are crazy! How do you not chain yourselves to your bed in fear of accidentally throwing yourself over your balcony? Seriously, I can barely walk down the stairs while conscious without tripping let alone while my brain hasn’t made the connection I’m still sleeping. Sometimes, walking isn’t enough though, you have to make a sandwich or prod your partner awake until he or she is conscious enough to start fooling around. I like the idea of you guys because you’re multi-taskers — I sometimes get confused when making a sandwich and listening to music at the same time, but ya’ll are sleeping and laying down smooth sexy moves. Good for you guys. (Just please don’t assault anyone.)

Mysterious sleep sound makers: You’re trying to fall asleep when all of the sudden you hear the sound of someone eating a seemingly delicious ice cream cone. But no, there is no ice cream in sight. You think, okay, someone may be receiving some oral pleasure — if you will — by way of mouth; Because there’s a smacking sort of noise, a loud puckering, smushing together of the lips — is someone gargling mouth wash? No. And there’s definitely not another person in that bed so again, no to the oral pleasure. But the thought of it being that intimately distinct sounding act sticks with you until it’s all you can think about. Oh my god, this sound is disgusting and detestable! Stop smacking your lips together, god damn it! Why is your tongue moving around so much? Sleep, tongue, sleep! God, how is that pillow not dripping wet by now? And the only way you can get to sleep is by jamming those uncomfortably awkward Apple earbuds into your ear socket until you’re sure you feel your ear drums bleeding but anything is better than the sound of that disgusting mystery smacking coming from the guy in the bed next to you.*

Darth Vader Sleepers: If we are ever attacked by aliens you fuckers would be all set — I can’t imagine any foreign being approaching a sleeping person with a sleep apnea mask and not thinking that sleeping monster can and will kill me.

Sleep Eaters and Sexers: I feel like these disturbers are sort of looking for the same thing, although I can’t for the life of me come up with which one I think is worse. You’re screaming at me “fucking a stranger is worse! It’s definitely worse!” and I’m thinking, ‘if I ate while I was sleeping I’d have to go grocery shopping twice as much and I’d look like more like my Uncle Mark than I am comfortable with.’ But mostly, these people are guilty of a couple things: suppressing their inner desires, buying too many cookies, and not finding a way to outsmart their sleeping selves. Designate a car key keeper to ensure you don’t have to enter couple’s therapy because your partner can’t stop screwing strangers while asleep. Win-win!

Snorers: Okay, this audibly difficult. Growing up, I lived in a house where I would be in the living room watching television, and even with the volume on full blast, every night the chorus of snores would play on high — the more violent, brash snore of my father sleeping in the basement and the choking, power tool snore of my mother from the bedroom upstairs, all combined with the screechy developing snore of my brother in his room. There were many times I found myself running to my mother’s room, in fear she was legitimately dying, only to shake her and have her wake to a short, punctual yet grating snore that sounded more like somebody trying to get the spanish “R” sound correctly. Don’t you love when a chronic snorer wakes themselves up? Oh my god, the pure joy of seeing that startled reaction in person is ultimate perfection.

Are you a sleep disturber? Is there one next to you in bed? What do YOU think the worst kind of sleep disturber is? Did I miss any?

*Disclaimer: Yes, this situation happened. Sorry, Charlie, for hating your sleep noises so much but I swear you’ll be invited to the wedding. Also, London was so fun!

Related articles (from idlikearedo.com):

• A Few Reasons Why I Might Stop Leaving My Apartment
• Yoga and Other Ways I Can’t Relax
• 14 Signs You Are be Prematurely Aging
• 17 Things to Do While You’re Unemployed

Where I Thank You All and Give You a Recipe for Delicious Cookies

There’s an old proverb I just made up that says “all good things happen to those who force themselves to leave their apartment to complete the tasks they’ve been putting off for weeks.” It may seem a bit specific, but I have some pretty scientifically conclusive anecdotal evidence that proves my point.

A few months ago is when I knew Kelly Oxford was meant to be my writing mentor and ultimate life-spiration. I finished her book Everything is Perfect When You’re a Liar in about 30 seconds and I appreciated her honesty. I’m also not embarrassed to say I only started twitter this year. I’m sorry that I was busy living — and yes, by living I mean watching The Office re-reruns in my carpeted apartment with the shades drawn, sometimes crying into the bowl of popcorn littered with delicious raisenettes. But when I figured out you could like, directly talk to celebs via bird noises tweeting, I was as intrigued as any pop culture obsessed ex- Nysnc fan (Screw Backstreet Boys!) would be. But I’m also an educated person, so I follow classy chicks like Joyce Carol Oates and Representative Wendy Davis because, you know, I care about what’s going on in the world. It’s called being cultured.

I was super weary to tweet to celebs though, mostly because it’d take me too long to draft a perfect 140 character message that hints at my subtle yet brash humor without sounding wholly desperate and fanatic. (Love me, everyone!) But one night when I finally agreed to babysit the two boys — we’ll call them energetic –that force me into a Dark Vadar mask every time I’m over, a miracle of fandom happened. I was walking out of what felt like was the modern re-make of the classic Full House estate when I started thinking about how awesome the Olsen Twins had it back then — one uncle plays with the Beach Boys and the other has a cool radio show where he personifies a beaver; My uncle still tickles me inappropriately and threatens to throw me in my family pool whenever he sees me.

This conversation was actually severely awkward for me, yet it still makes my top five life moments.

But it was in the middle of this embarrassingly mundane thought, when I heard the noise that means someone on twitter hasn’t ignored you.  Of course, thinking it’s the same spam robot that keeps favoriting old tweets about Community, I continue to find my way out of the labyrinth that is every rich person’s neighborhood in Texas, glancing down to check directions, and seeing a big old Kelly Oxford shaped tweet on my phone’s now beautiful screen. So, that happened.

Then, yesterday, I finally decided it was okay to bring my engagement ring in to get resized and oh yeah, I’ll make sure that “check oil” light on my dashboard doesn’t mean anything important. I don’t know why, but the highways in Austin this week have been scarier than the first time my brother held me down and made me watch the original Chucky Trailer when I was six. Of course,  I have to go see Al Bundy in North Not-Austin-Anymore-Ville to get the “wholesale discount” from Anita the antique jeweler’s guy, which is forty minutes away, or forty minutes longer than I want to be driving.

But then… Brrrrrrrrrng! The best sound in an unemployed, self-obsessed writer’s life: A wordpress notification. And then another. And then another. Another. Another. Never before did I believe and want so badly for Transformers to be real so I could shape shift my way to the nearest guy station and figure out why the shit I was blowing up so hard (Because, yeah, I don’t text/use my phone and drive like an idiot teenager practicing for a roll in a tragic car accident ad.) Eventually I got to a gas station where I could read my email and allow my head to fully inflate upon reading the words “Freshly Pressed.” Man, I should’ve started doing errands sooner.

So yeah, shit goes down when you’re busy being completely ordinary, stuck in traffic, wishing you charged your phone more so you could plug it in and play that song Matti is sick of hearing on repeat. And yeah, when my book deal goes through I’ll be sure to thank you all for my humble beginnings.

Seriously, I want to hold all your faces in my hand and kiss both your cheeks like Heidi Klum in Project Runway except none of you will be eliminated. Then I want you all to sit with me on my pull out couch and watch Gilmore Girls reruns and talk about how Lauren Graham was famous before Parenthood. We can eat homemade vegan cookies I made for you all because I’m bad at being vocally appreciative and thankful — something about it not looking “cool.” Seriously, here’s the recipe for said cookies, because you deserve it! (Thank you all and don’t ever leave me!)

Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies (recipe modified from afa-online.org)

Ingredients:

2 sticks (1 cup) vegan margarine, softened

1 ½ cups flour

1 ½ cups light brown sugar

1 ½ cup quick oats

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla extract

2 egg substitutes (1 T ground flax seed + 3 T water for one egg)

8-oz vegan semi-sweet chocolate chips

Mix dry ingredients in a bowl, including flax Seed. Add the margarine and the water from the “eggs” and mix with a hand blender (I use a fork and a can-do attitude!). Add vanilla and mix again. Dough should hold shape in ball: If too dry,
add a teaspoon of water; if too wet, add ¼ cup flour or oats. Add chocolate chips and fold in by hand or with a mixer. Using a spoon, form balls of dough and place on cookie sheet about 2 inches apart. Bake at 350F for 8 to 10 minutes.

Do insanely good things happen to you when you’re busy being average? Where’s the weirdest place you received great news? Did you wish you were somewhere else?

The Initiation of the Neighborhood Dog Poop Watch

The other day as I walk mindlessly in the grocery store next to my apartment, occupying myself by pretending I actually need to go grocery shopping, I spot a nice chunk of mud on the side of my bunion toe, squishing between my new red Dorothy sandals and my improperly manicured big toe nail. My first instinct, which I regrettably followed, was to wipe off the mud with my fingers — why not touch the mysterious black gob on your foot as your simultaneously prod the habanero peppers for ultimate freshness? Oh, that’s right, because it’s definitely a hunk of a dog shit now smeared all over my forefingers and up into my nail crevices as if I’d been mincing up shit flavored garlic.

Obviously, as an attempt to appear less materialistic in the super local, plastic-is-the-devil, doesn’t-carry-jiffy-peanut-butter market next door, I didn’t bring my purse which consistently has at least 5 different types of hand sanitizer at all times. So I began to venture around the store, dragging the shit side of my poop foot on whatever rug I could like I was Keyser Söze. There’s no hand sanitizing stations anywhere because someone is clearly punishing me for some severely overlooked past transgression.

In the middle of wandering around, I realize I actually don’t have to be shopping at all, since I only came for the joy of being able to tell Matti I left the apartment that day, but I realize if I buy something I can most likely bother the cashier for some hand sanitizer, despite how mean her mustache looks. Obviously I get stuck behind two — let’s call them “older” — ladies who had apparently spent the entire night prior plotting the best ways to elongate the grocery checkout process.

The cashier wasn’t pleased and I immediately regretted the line I chose to stand in — this lady reminded me of Miss Storti, my old middle school substitute teacher who chain smoked out the window in the classroom, called every girl “Trixy” and sounded like she had a hole in her throat (she also once made me stand up and lift my arms over my head in front of the entire class to prove that my belly was showing). The cashier seemed just as personable. The level of annoyed she looked at having to box the old ladies groceries instead of bag them was akin to me coming home to a freshly made dog shit on my rug.

Three hours later in shit-on-your-fingers-time, it was my turn up at bat with the headmaster from The Little Princess the cashier. I couldn’t help but think of the cashier I had a few days prior whose sense of humor I LOVED:

“Hey, Gabe, remember that time we worked at Sprouts?” She half-shouted to the cashier two registers down, laughing to herself, then continuing to sing a song about dancing women that was playing in her head.

But I had the one lady who didn’t think that Sprouts was a locally-owned dream to work at. Thankfully, I was only buying an onion, and hopefully, a chance to clean my shit-smeared fingers.

As I began to pay, I mustered up the quietest, least threatening request for the keeper of the sanitizer, “Excuse me, I hate to ask but I have some crud on my hands. Do you mind if I use a squirt of your sanitizer?” Instantly I was thankful my brain chose “crud” instead of “stinky-ass-dog-shit” which was the more accurate description.

She agreed with her mouth, her eyes, however, were telling me that she was going to find me later to Tanya Harding me in the parking lot.

The excruciatingly ironic sight of a just made shit a mere foot from the sign begging you to pick up your dog’s shit.

I walked home in the middle of the street, despite beeps from angry drivers who clearly didn’t empathize with my shitty (get it?!) situation. But my shit day didn’t stop there. Because I had to take Tengo to the dog park to poop, which is the appropriate location for dog shit. At the park I was greeted by a gigantic turd pie IMMEDIATELY outside of the entrance to the park. It’s an approximate four second walk to the doggy bag station from this poop pile. If you’re reading this and you’re all like, sometimes you’re just in a rush and can’t pick up the poop, well then please send me your address so I can come take a huge dump on your lawn, right on the path you walk to your car every morning. And also, you’re the absolute worst. I seriously hate you so much — because I used to be you, when I was six years old and didn’t understand what personal responsibility meant. I seriously want to just poop everywhere I can in hopes that you step in it.

I don’t know how we have gotten to this wretched, dark place in doggy poop etiquette. The other day at Anna’s dog park, I picked up five shits that were not Tengo’s simply because I was offended. These turdlets were tiny and apparently this is common because tiny dog owners think their tiny dog poops are so tiny and cute that mystical turd fairies will come with little turd wands and turn it into compostable glitter. This is not the case.

Would you just leave your shit in a public toilet without flushing it? Because that’s what you’re doing, except worse, because people aren’t wading through public toilets to get to work. I swear to god if you assholes don’t start picking up your dog’s shit I’m starting a neighborhood poo watch and there will be consequences. And all you dog owners who can’t find the time to pick up your dog’s shit, please do me a favor and never have children. 

Do you want to join my dog poop watch club? Are you also severely concerned about the lack of dog poop etiquette? Do you need me to help you get dog shit off your shoe?

Did You Get My Email? (and other virtual concerns)

Dramatic reenactment of me writing an email if I were a member of the Brady Bunch.
Source: michaelmccurry.net

When I begin to write an email, I am openly engaging in a never-ending struggle to get the greeting right — my face transforms into that of an important person, about to solve world mysteries through the click of some buttons by well manicured fingertips. In reality, my fingernails are half painted blue, half bitten off and the email I am writing is solely an attempt at modest employment, returning a hello, or sharing an embarrassing youtube clip — So, not in any way an effort at saving the world.

But I can’t just write the email because it’s too hard — because most of the charm of being myself is how I am in person. That’s a total cop-out as a writer but seriously, I’m super captivating and dynamic in person. My old boss told me I get the engagement award at meetings (which didn’t exist) for emphatically bobbing my head, smiling and just really connecting with everything she said. I’m a head bobber. I look interested and engaged in what you’re saying and that makes you feel good. And then you make me feel good for making you feel good. Do you see what I’m saying? It’s hard for you to see how good I’d make you feel over email without me being that person who overly uses emoticons.

What’s worse is that I was born in the age where virtual communication is supposed to be super natural. Sure, I grew up on AIM, so I know a bit about flirting my way into a virtual relationship virtually communicating my personality — but this had nothing to do with being professional.

There’s also no such thing as a sarcasm font and that is tragic. ‘Dear Sir/Madam who is hopefully going to fund my addiction to Starbucks iced coffees in the future’ wouldn’t be an appropriate way to start off an email. I have learned this. Professional seems to always trump quirky. There is also a problem I seem to have with being appropriate. I have a theory about this called the Michael Scott model which predicates that a lovable inappropriate asshole is still lovable — that’s basically the whole theory. The point of this theory is that it allows me to feel okay about being an inappropriate asshole. The problem with this is that the lovable part doesn’t usually transfer over email which leads to a stripping away of the whole entire character, producing an email tone similar to George Feeney’s (William Daniels) way of speaking.

See what I mean?

Emailing immediately relegates me to a perpetual state of insecure teenage outsider — like that time when a Senior boy in my high school came to my table at lunch just to pop my birthday balloon. I don’t know the person I am emailing as well as I want to and basically, I want to be a part of their team. I want him or her to pick me first for dodgeball, or basketball, or swim races ( I’m really good at all those things). So you try the standard greetings: Dear Hiring Manager, To Whom It May Concern, Hello Madam/Sir, Hello Mr. or Mrs. Has More Power than Me, etc etc. And the worst possible response? You get an email reply with absolutely NO greeting because they are super aloof and hip and totally past all those formal greeting procedures, and also they are, of course, “going to pass” on you working with them.

At this exact moment I am in the middle of writing an email to a woman from a temp agency who could potentially get me a job. This sentence alone should tell you how prepared I am to send this email. “A woman from a temp agency.” Wow, Aly, you’ve really done your research. I am president of the emailers against researching club which meets daily on my couch. This might have contributed to my current, extended state of unemployment.

“You’ll literally have a job the next day after you email her” says Anna, my red-headed counterpart who I imagine goes to work in 80s power suits even though I know what her wardrobe looks like. But what if she senses my rebellious attitude towards email communication? What if she never gets the chance to see how endearing I am while bobbing my head? It’s tragic.

And then there is the reality of knowing I myself never answer emails…or text messages…or smoke signals. Usually to get in touch with me you must let yourself into my apartment and clap a few times in front of my face while offering me a dark chocolate sea salt infused candy bar, or use the pretense of wanting to compliment me on my awesomeness. I’m always available for flattery. But knowing my own attitude on email decorum negates me from taking email communication seriously — too much of a chance to be rebuffed — and it is not my preferred way of ignoring massive amounts of people (that’s usually voicemail and text messaging). And also when you see me in person and ask, “Hey, did you get my email?” I want to punch you square in your eye because why the hell would you send me an email if you were going to see me some time in the near future? Of all the possible ways to get in contact with me you’ve chosen the one in which Groupon and the Mary-Kay-lady-I-was-too-nice-to-say-no-to are among the most frequent attendees. At least put a god damned important flag on that thing.

Is this what you people want?
Pic Source: Eharmony

I’m also convinced that emoticons are taking over and I’m desperately scared of plunging into a world of fake, creepy, emoji faces as substitutes for displaying personality through well thought out discourse. Emoji icons for Facebook statuses are deviously genius — further perpetuating people’s likeliness to adequately depict their emotions through pre-made pictures without having to physically be around anyone. Where this is headed, as I see it, is a massive population of overweight recluses representing themselves through yellow or blue smiley faces. And this is coming from someone who counts brushing her teeth as leaving the house.

There’s just too many ways to give a wrong impression. Whether it’s over email, Facebook messaging, twitter, texting, tumbling, whatever. We have all opened up communication so much that our main concern is worrying about how we sound in all these mediums. So far, my solution is perfecting communication between myself and my dog, Tengo. This is going very well. He has assured me that he would hire me for any job as long as I keep mixing wet food into his dinner — a very clear,well-received message.

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Today I started talking to my dog as he was performing his “butt rocket” routine — an attempt at itching his little doggy butt hole by sitting and using his front legs to drag his bum against the plush feel of the (thankfully) beige-colored carpet.

“Tengo, you know that humans use toilet paper to wipe their butts?”

He didn’t answer. I was also beginning to wonder why I said “their” and not “our.” I should definitely be including myself in the human category. I should also not be in my house at 10 am on a weekday having a conversation with my dog because I believe him to be smarter than all the other dogs.

I think I’ve been unemployed too long.

If we could at least stop memes like this from happening, there will be some victory

Maybe I should be vying for swanky careers that offer things like insurance, like these exciting new professional-sounding positions I found while job searching: “Dell Product Specialist” or “QA Engineer III” or “Technical Specialist.” These positions would definitely help make back the money I wasted on college pay back my student loans.

There is the problem of not having a degree relating to any of those positions. Who would have thought that a degree in Creative Writing wouldn’t yield a high-paying power career whereby I immediately, upon graduation, move to California and start working on a new hit series with Mindy Kaling and Zooey Deschanel about how their lives changed when they met me:

“It’s good to have a fresh face and comedic mind to work with,” Mindy would say.

“I just….want everything in her closet,” Zooey would swoon.

In the midst of my hypothetical stardom, however, while doing really important research for my writing online, like marveling at  Kelly Oxford’s tweets and stalking ex-boyfriend’s Facebook profiles, I came across this video:

Despite the fact that I have never wanted to be an engineer (though I’d love to have the skills to have that option), this video is totally kick ass and inspirational. I call this the “badass-ifaction” of little girls and I’m totally down for the movement.  This toy aims to squash the notion that girls should play with barbies and leave the problem-solving and building to boys. Debbie, an engineer and Goldie Blox’s CEO claims this came from her reaction to the lack of females in the engineering world.

Maybe I should go blonde again?

As a young women trying to break into the comedy writing industry in whatever way I can, I absolutely love this. We live in a world where Christopher Hitchens claimed “women aren’t funny” as an empirical fact without his car getting tamponed. Come on, my car got lo mein noodled in high school by a girl just for looking at her the wrong way. See, girls are funny. Also, I’m way funnier than my brother, and he has an engineering degree!

If my Hitchens example didn’t make you a believer, check out this experiment by author Maureen Johnson revolving around the gendering of book covers and how that dictates what we choose to read:  “A man and a woman can write books about the same subject matter, at the same level of quality, and that woman is simply more likely to get the soft-sell cover with the warm glow and the feeling of smooth jazz blowing off of it.”

As much as I like the idea of feeling smooth jazz blowing off my book cover, I think I’ll pass. I imagine my book cover having something more controversial like me and my dog, Tengo photoshopped into a picture with Robert Pattinson or something equally as edgy.

Seriously though, when is the last time you saw a book with a female author and said to yourself gee that could use a woman’s touch, maybe a little more pink. The answer is never. That conversation has never happened.

Isn’t it just time that we stop telling girls what they can’t or aren’t meant to do altogether? Yes, yes it is, says the crowded studio audience of feminists inside my head. You guys, if I had had this toy growing up I would have hours back of my life that was spent making u-turns due to an inability to read a map. My map navigational abilities come to a glaring halt whenever I am required, in any capacity, to know which way east or west is.

Maybe if I had put down the my-size barbie as a kid, which come to think of it, was one of the most anti-social toys I owned — I spent months telling friends, when asked on play dates, that I was busy with my new friend from California — I could’ve learned how to properly draw a human figure or build a simple machine. A child once asked me to draw them a barn and that was the last time I was ever asked to draw a barn. The children I nannied for have also stopped asking me to help fix their blanket forts.

Play Title: Best of Friends

I mean I always knew I wanted to write so I don’t have too much of a right to be so pissed about my lack of engineering skills. My family recently informed me they will be throwing away all my childhood memories selling my childhood home and that I should start gathering my shit. I took this opportunity to fill my checked suitcase with a favorite end table (best idea I ever had) and all my childhood journals. The first play I wrote was gold.

So sure, I already knew I was destined to be the next big thing, especially by my ability to spell interlude at age six. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have benefited from some construction toys. I totally could’ve used some legos to build houses for my beanie babie habitats — instead, I hung them on my dresser by sticking their beanie bodies through the drawer handles.

I just feel like I missed out on the boy toy fun my brother had growing up, and with how awesome I am without having had those experiences, imagine how amazing I would’ve turned out if I had a chance to develop my scientific brain to its full capacity? My jokes would be more intricate! It wouldn’t take me a half hour to change my camera lenses! I wouldn’t have to spend an extra ten minutes before each trip making sure I know where I’m going! The ability to read maps seems like such a luxury. Also, the kids loved the male teacher I worked with so much more when he taught them how to make robots out of toothbrush heads and tiny batteries. I want such adoration! When I would try to get the kids excited about writing a story they would all groan and ask when they could to the gym to throw balls at each other at high speeds.

I guess I’m still pretty cool and talented without having a profound understanding of machinery or engineering though. No, I don’t actually want to be “QA Engineer III” but it would’ve been nice to feel like that was an option as a child. For now Im totally content to just keep sending unanswered tweets to Mindy Kaling until I get famous.

What toys did you play with growing up? Do you think it had a part in shaping your awesomeness today? Do you also talk to your dog? What about women in comedy and writing — what’s your take?

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