Tech Writing Qualifications

With the end of my internship, I've been nervously looking around for someone to hire me.  Unfortunately, most of my writing experience is in the editorial realm, and I live in an area where business and tech writing abounds.  In order to better compete with my competitive competitors in this particular competition for jobs, what follows is a very technical piece that I've been working on.  You guys are under no obligation to read it, since the technicality of the technicalness will probably be over your heads, and I don't want to be responsible for any of you having some kind of brain aneurysm from having to think too hard.  I'm a professional, after all.

Advanced Guide for Using an Internet

1.  First, locate your computer.  Double check to make sure that your computer has at least one cord coming out of it somewhere, otherwise you'll want to make sure you're not trying to log onto a cardboard box.  This is a common mistake.

2.  Is your cardboard box computer plugged in?  That means the cord should be stuck to the wall somewhere.  A good way to check is by tripping over that cord we discussed in Step 1.

3.  There is probably some kind of big button that is used for turning on your computer.  It's usually farther away from the other buttons, sort of like it's in a time out or something.  Go ahead and push it.  This is where the magic begins!

4.  You may have any number of Internet icons on your desktop.  Remember, an "icon" is a little picture that represents a computer "program" and your "desktop" is that background picture of the Cheezburger cat.

5.  Ha ha ha, yeah, that cat is pretty effing hilarious.  

6.  Okay, so back to the icons.  If your Internet icon is a little blue 'e,' that means you're using Internet Explorer, and your Internet will not actually work.  If you are in this category of computer users, you may go back to looking at the Cheezburger cat picture on your desktop and wait.

7.  If you are using Safari or perhaps Firefox, you are most likely some kind of computer wizard who understands things like string theory and how to make toast.  Well done!  Let's not get ahead of ourselves yet, though.

8.  You may now click twice on your Internet icon.  This step is called "double clicking" and it is an important skill to master. 

9.  When your Internet opens, you may start looking at websites or "surfing."  To find a particular website, find the long, blank bar near the top of the screen and type in Google.com.

10.  Using Google is as important to web surfing as marijuana is to couch surfing.  With Google, you can search for everything in the universe, like "nearest Taco Bell" and "what is a tapeworm" and "cyborg pornography" and "show me more Cheezburger cats!" and "how much do new livers cost and can I remove my own?"

Thank you for taking this journey with me.  By now you should be well-versed in what computers are, how to "double click" on an "icon," and how to accurately and effectively use an Internet.  Congratulations on this accomplishment, savvy technology user!

Battle of the Sexy Sexes! (In which we all just look like chumps.)

I've been reading "Bossypants" by Tina Fey (I love her more than chili cheese fries) and there are a few sections in her book about what women go through to "be pretty" and the cycle of insecurity that it perpetuates.  I nearly peed in my pants when I read the first part because it's so funny, and so I went down to EM and EM's fiance's apartment to share in the hilarity, and what ensued was a rather unexpectedly heated discussion about who had it worse, men or women.  Since then, I've done a lot of thinking about the subject, and the conclusion that I came to is that we all lose.  Join me on this journey to discovery, won't you?

At first, I was pretty sure women had it worse than men.  As a female, I consider myself to be mostly low maintenance (don't all girls, though?) but there was a period of my life when I liked to spend my time getting dolled up.  Cleverly, much of this time was in college, so I figure when I die and get to the Pearly Gates, St. Peter is gonna be flipping through the book of my life and get to my college years and hopefully not see all of the shady, unpleasant things that I did while intoxicated because it's one big montage of hair curling and lip lining, and he'll just be all, "Yeah, you spent a LOT of time just getting ready to go out, so I guess I'll just skip forward here..." Because I did.  Hours.  Added up, probably at least 3 times more than the time that I was actually out.  But damn, I looked good doing it!  (For the time that I was sober, so after that first 15 minutes it was all drool and drunk eyes.)  Even now, as a low maintenance gal (that is my story and I'm sticking to it), I still have entire days devoted to grooming.  Seriously.  I'm going to give you a look behind the veil of what the average woman goes through.

We have days that we have to pre-groom.  These are days we need to:  dye our roots and/or hair, pluck or wax eyebrows, shave the entirety of our bodies, exfoliate, moisturize, deep condition, anti-age, buff, polish, trim, etc.  Hell, there are several steps to just WASHING your face if you're a girl.  It's never just soap. It's a cleanser, then a gentle exfoliation, then a facial mask, then toner and moisturizer.  Oh, the moisturizer.  It is most likely something freakishly expensive, like ground up baby fetuses that we slather over our skin to hide wrinkles and blemishes and everything else that shows we are human and we are imperfect and might have wrinkles or oily T-zones.  And that's just pre-grooming, you guys.  That does not include what we still have to go through on a daily basis to style hair, apply makeup, and accessorize our outfits with squish-suppressing underwear usually made of the torture devices known as Lycra and Spandex.

I'm made of Photoshop!

My point is, it is exhausting.  And even then, after everything that we go through, after all of the money that we spend, absolutely none of us thinks we look good naked.  There are industries upon industries that market to our insecurities.  I'm not even getting into plastic surgery here.  If you ask the average girl what she likes about herself, she might not know how to respond.  But, if you ask her what she dislikes about herself, she's got a list a mile long.

Now, I can hear you men yelling at me.  "But I like a natural looking woman!  I hate a woman who takes forever to get ready and wears tons of makeup!  I think that's awful!"  First of all, shut up, you dirty, dirty liar.  You cannot honestly expect us women to believe you like women to look "natural," when "natural" to you is Megan Fox rolling around all dewy and fresh-faced in sheets in some Maxim spread.  If you really believe that's what women look like in the morning, you are probably wearing a helmet and eating paste.  Trust me.  EM is a professional makeup artist, and it takes more makeup to look "natural" than if some stripper came in asking for a smokey eyeshadow application and body glitter all over.  Natural, to women, means greasy hair in a ponytail, no makeup (but somehow always smudges of yesterday's eyeliner), weird pimple cream on our zits, baggy tee-shirts, and some kind of soft, flannel, pajama pants.  We love natural, too, you see.  We just don't want you to see it.  I even know girls who, if staying with their boyfriend overnight, will get up early, run into the bathroom to brush their teeth and put a "natural" face on (powder, mascara, lip balm) and rush back into bed so that they can pretend that they're waking up looking that good when their man wakes up.

Not that I am maligning the beauty industry, because I play along just as much as everyone else.  I don't want to leave my house without makeup on.  I don't want to be seen with my hair or my clothes other than put-together, but I accept that much of it is about illusion.  Do I really believe that some dreamboat is going to look at me and think, "Yeah, I bet she rolls out of bed looking like that every day!  I BETTER PUT A RING ON IT!"?  No, because that's unrealistic.  It will not, however, stop me from wanting to at least have a face on if I have to run errands somewhere.

So yes, being a girl is tough.  But EM's fiance reminded me that there are industries that market to men's insecurities, too, and while they may not be the same things as women, it's still based on being "good enough."  Men are supposed to have abdominal muscles and pectoral muscles and biceps that people only get by drinking raw eggs and doing sit ups until you herniate something in your spine, and while you're at it, fight genetics with pills like Enzyte to make your junk bigger and longer lasting with Viagra and Cialis, and then smear some Rogaine on your head (because women hate balding men, didn't you know?) and hop into a car that you can't actually afford to make payments on, and then, ONLY THEN, will we with vaginas give you the time of day.  If we aren't PMSing, and if we want you to buy us something, that is.  All in all, I feel bad for guys.  I do.  Women might have more things to worry about in terms of body image, but I can at least pass for attractive without having to convince myself that I need a Mercedes to attract a mate.  (Which, if you think that, I would assume are the same helmet-wearing, paste-eating person that believes porn and romcoms dictate romance.  NO!  NO!  ::spray bottle:: NO!)

My conclusion is that it's all a fucking shitshow.  A circus.  "Enhancing" your appearance to look more attractive isn't a new idea, and it's not one that will go away.  It isn't even exclusively human.  The important thing is knowing where to draw the line, I guess.  To that end, no gender really comes out on top.  No one really has it harder than the other (haha, 'harder') because it's difficult in different ways.  So, don't judge a book by its cover, don't think you're any worse off than anyone else, and if you meet anyone who thinks they'll find the love of their life just as soon as they get that boob job or that fancypants car, bitch slap them once for me.

But other than these things, men are still a mysterious conundrum of enigmas to me.

Okay, so the other day I was talking about this particular blog with all of my super-excellent dating suggestions and my friend threw it back in my face like, "What the heck do you know about dating, perpetually single girl?"

And I was all, "Hey man, I know at least 3 things for sure about dating," and that led me to generate this spectacular list that I'm pretty much giving you guys for FREE because I want you all to learn from my mistakes, which I make on a routinely regular basis (so obviously I'm not learning from them myself, which is why you guys have to, you feel me?)!

Things I Know About Dating (Alternatively: Lessons I've *Almost* Learned)

1. It sucks. Maybe it doesn't for everyone, but dude? I am so tired of having the same conversations over and over. "Grew up in California. Love cheeseburgers, burritos and beer. Have seen almost every zombie movie ever made and yes, they are an art form. Hate Kristen Stewart and romcoms. Love Vonnegut, Moore, and comic books. UGH I AM ALREADY BORED. But! I have also learned that if you try to mix things up like, "If James Bond had Jedi powers and existed as a foil to Indiana Jones, would Indiana Jones still save the world?" people look at you weird because they think you're on drugs or don't really appreciate the intricacies of the places that ADD will take your imagination. So, you have to stick with the boring stuff, which always feels like a job interview, and you know what? I don't want to go to job interviews when I could be eating boxes of Girl Scout cookies in pajamas with EM or sitting pantsless in my apartment playing video games.

2. The job of dating is to judge the other person, which means you should tell half-truths, or keep your weirdness to yourself.  Okay, hear me out on this one:  recently, I went out with a nice-ish fella who was somewhat interested in the fact that I was a writer, so I enthusiastically told him that I'm having a short story published in a horror anthology. "Oh," he says, interest waning. "Horror? What's it about?" and I said, "It's about a girl who kills and eats her boyfriend." I do see how that could be a red flag, but I explained that it wasn't to be taken literally and that it was more of a metaphor for some of the types of people that I met when I lived in LA and how our culture seems to condone disposable relationships with flippant consequences... but the damage was done. In his eyes, I was already a cannibal. So! Perhaps I should have stopped while I was ahead and changed the subject, but I only really have the miraculous gift of hindsight. The point here is that every single person is weird in some way, but you're not supposed to talk about it until after you get in the other person's pants. Or until the other person understands your sense of humor. Whichever comes first, right? It's just that personally, my goal here is to find someone whose oddities are on par with my own because I'm really bad at half-truths, but I'm sure if I was more coy or mysterious, I would just be covered up with dreamboats.

3. Just try to take care of yourself. I still have no idea how women are supposed to behave. I just cannot keep up with the news, you guys. Am I supposed to let a guy pay for me? Am I supposed to offer? Does that offend his sense of masculinity? Should I be offended if he asks to go dutch? If he doesn't offer to pay and I'm left with the check, should I hate him immediately for not being a gentleman? Am I supposed to demand the check because I am a strong, independent woman and I don't need no man to pay mah bills? If he pays, does that mean I have to laugh at his jokes that aren't really funny and entitle him to sexy Business Time? DOES ANYONE EVEN KNOW THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS?! Because I don't. Seriously. When the bill comes, I usually get really sweaty and twitchy and just try to pay for myself. My rationale lies in my upbringing, because my parents always taught EM and me to take care of ourselves and not expect anyone else to, because it isn't anyone else's job. This is why I've never been able to understand the "gold digger" philosophy. What happens if your ugly rich husband dies and changes his will on his deathbed and leaves all of his money to Save the Sea Otters or something? You can't rely on someone else to pay your bills, ladies. Those sea otters are fucking cute.

OMG OF COURSE I WOULD LEAVE EVERYTHING TO YOU!

That's what it boils down to for me, you guys. Always hang out with your friends and family over dates (unless your date is Bruce Campbell). Try to find someone who matches your level of weirdness, or be good at keeping your quirks secret. Don't rely on anyone else to take care of you. Also, I guess if you're gonna be a gold digger, make sure your husband hates sea otters.

Free Dating Advice for EVERYONE!

A friend came to me a few days ago to ask me for help.  He was about to embark upon a magical journey known as "Second Date" and wanted the advice of a lady.  (Played here by me!)  I did used to have a dating advice column, after all, despite the fact that it was very short-lived because I advised several women that their boyfriends were probably secretly gay, and all of my letters involved some form of, "You know what?  Just have a beer and let love happen."  Plus, I've been known on occasion to let my probable ADD run away with me, which makes my advice more colorful than, say, "Dear Abby," because I have never known her to recommend tried-and-true relationship bonding activities, like lighting things on fire and taking your loved one to a shooting range.  (There's just something romantical about the smell of gunpowder!)  Sometimes, I think the ADD actually works in my favor... sort of like my advice-giving-superpower.

Me:  You honestly cannot go wrong with hot wings and The Trinity of Bruces.

Him:  The what?

Me:  The Trinity of Bruces!  Campbell, Willis, and Lee, duh.  Ladies love Bruce Campbell!

He's so sweaty!  Plus, chainsaw hand!  ::swoon::

Him:  Uh, I don't know that she'd be into B-horror and action movies... Maybe a drama or a romcom or something.

Me:  Romcom?  I don't know so many of those.  Ugh, what the hell kind of a woman are you dating?!  Okay, what about... a museum, or the aquarium?!  OR!  You could take her to a bookstore and buy her a book, and then she'll fall in love with you.  Women like it when you buy them things, and books are the greatest presents ever.  Fact.

Him:  Um...

Me:  It's true.  Plus bookstores are awesome.  Unless you buy her like, "Idiot's Guide to Fixing Scooters" because I'm sorry, but scooters are the bisexual of the bike world.  Not a motorcycle, not a bicycle, just hanging out in the middle and you're like, "DUDE, JUST PICK A SIDE!" and everyone would be cool with it, you know?  We just want you to be happy and secure with yourself, Vespa.

Him:  I don't know why I ask you for help.  You suck at dating.  You hardly make it to second dates, anyway.

Me:  Hey, it's called truthiness if you just nip things in the bud because your date doesn't like "Jaws," dude.  Or doesn't read.  Or has a criminal record.  Or looks at you all judgmentally when you're talking about how you went to Taco Bell last weekend and ordered so much food that the guy asked if you wanted a second drink.  Speaking of which, you could get some Taco Bell and a six-pack and go have a picnic somewhere out of your truck!  That's romantic.  So is showing up with a bottle of whiskey and all the Jurassic Park DVDs and making out on the couch.

Him:  ...wow.  Dating you must be like dating a pubescent teenage boy.  I'm just going to take her out for sushi and a movie, I guess.  Like regular adults do.

Me:  You know what would make that date better?  Fireworks.  Or you could surprise her and show up in a Stormtrooper costume--you could borrow my helmet.  OR... lasers.  Like, a laser light show!  But set to the music of Indiana Jones!  Also, ice cream.  Ladies love ice cream.

Him:  Ice cream is not a bad idea!  I'm surprised; I didn't think you'd be helpful in the slightest, but you've managed to give me a good suggestion after all.

Me:  You know what else ladies love?

Him:  Don't say it--

Me:  Bruce Campbell.

I don't get into political debates because I use bizarre analogies.

Very Political Friend:  I can't believe how Rush Limbaugh is acting!  First to call some poor student a slut and then to offer up some half-assed apology.  It's shameful.

Me:  I don't understand why you can't believe that.

VPF:  Because he totally crossed a line!  Don't you think so?

Me:  Well, he's a figurehead who makes his living with sensational pseudo-journalistic political commentary.  It would be more appropriate for you to be shocked if he were to come out and say, "Politics are silly!  I'm going to live with the penguins in Antarctica before it all melts away due to global warming."

VPF:  What the hell are you talking about?

Me:  I'm saying that I am not shocked by his behavior.  To expect a turd to be anything more than a turd is naive on your part, actually.

VPF:  Are you a Republican?

Me:  No.  Maybe I'm not explaining myself well enough... Okay, think of it like this:  Rush Limbaugh is like a dominatrix.

VPF:  This is supposed to explain things?

Me:  Shh, yes, okay.  Limbaugh is a dominatrix.  You, as a member of his audience, are the submissive.  You're the one with the power in this relationship.  You're the one who can control how much attention he will get for his shameful behavior.  The surest way to disappoint him would be for everyone to think, "Oh, Limbaugh is being a twit again!" and turn off the radio, or stop reading his blog, or whatever.  You can walk away from the situation.  As long as everyone is talking about what a twit he is, he'll get more press and publicity, which is how he pays his bills.  Don't want to support him?  Don't listen to him.  Just like the submissive in the relationship, you are the one with the safety word.  You can say "stop" or "banana" or whatever your safety word is.  And then move on to more important things, like buying me tacos and beer.

VPF:  Sometimes, I worry that you are a voter.

Me:  That's weird, because I usually worry about everyone else being a voter.

Why you can get over this "Christmas comes early" business:

Many of you know that I’m working retail these days to help pay my bills.  If you didn’t before, you do now!  And another thing that you may not have known… it’s freaking Christmas season already.  It was *actually* Christmas the day before Halloween for me, when I was at work doing a floor-set of products for holiday stockings, entrenched in gaudy gold packing material and fake plastic snow.  THE DAY BEFORE HALLOWEEN.  I was somewhat shocked, having never remembered how the last third of the year was apparently one long string of holiday bleeding into holiday, confusing everyone with which greeting card to send and which cookies to bake at which time.

Last week my store started playing Christmas music.  One of the customers actually said that it’s been proven that people buy more if there is Christmas music playing.  Whether or not it’s because they feel more generous, or if it’s because they’re annoyed enough to rush out of a store quicker, I don’t know.  But there’s psychology to it, I guess.

I think more surprising to me than this oddly early holiday fervor is the marked backlash that it has had.  True, I have often found myself uttering how unprepared I was for Christmas *already*, but upon reflection, I wondered what it was that had people so bent out of shape.  Is it the fact that we should all be out shopping for our loved ones?  Is it the anticipation of stressful family situations and that chest-tightening panic at the last minute when you realize you’ve forgotten something really important, like pie?!  (But seriously, that’s an exaggeration.  No one could forget pie.)  Is it our impatience and frustration at having to wait in longer lines wherever we are going, be fake-nicer to people “for Jesus” and face down the looming financial repercussions of our months of seasonal gluttony?  Is it that we have to (ugh) stop whining about our own problems and think about other people?

I confess, I found myself having those anxious breaths of late.  As one of the wretched poor unpaid interns and underpaid seasonal workers, things will be a bit sparse this year.  Honestly, it’s depressing for me.  My family and friends are the most important things in the entire world to me (even more that Guinness and bacon) and I always struggle with finding the right gifts for them.  This year, I just plain can’t afford everything that I’d love to lavish on my people.  I lamented this fact to my mom the other day, with no small amount of self-pitying grumpusness.  She was kind as she always is, and assured me that homemade gifts were *the* best and often the most memorable and I sighed and nodded and got off the phone, not really believing her—at first.  But then, the more I thought about it, the calmer I became.  While I love useful, wonderful gifts that I’ve received over the years—the KitchenAid stand mixer and iPad come to mind—some of my most cherished items are the quilts that my mom has made for me.  And the scarf that my sister knitted my mom one year (which I have since pilfered and have worn nearly threadbare) and the emergency kit supplies that my Dad has thoughtfully put together (this would probably make more sense if you knew my Dad).  The same goes for gifts that friends have made for me over the years.

So, you know what?  It’s okay.  Sure, given the funds, I would buy everyone I love private islands populated by magical wishing unicorns and velociraptor pets that you could ride around and unlimited supplies of bacon doughnuts and Guinness and technology that even the military was afraid of and sparkly tiaras made of platinum and rainbows… because they all deserve those things.  But they’ll all get handmade gifts from me this year, and they’ll be just as excited as if they were getting unlimited bacon doughnuts, because they love me.  That’s what “the holiday season” is actually about, you guys, and why it’s so silly to rally against it.  If corporations are advertising early to make more money, that’s their prerogative, but it’s really up to you to choose how you’re going to respond.  You can either spend the time hyperventilating about getting your coupons in order, or you can chill out and actually remember that the holidays are really about finding ways to show your people that you care about them.  If I’m reminded of that in October instead of December, so much the better.

Things I want to say to customers, but can't.

I'm working in retail again whilst I intern.  Hilarity ensues.  Also ensuing:  a sad, head-shake at the state of humanity.

Customer:  “I’m looking for something that will make my wrinkles go away.”

What I want to say:  “We sell skincare, not time-traveling DeLoreans.”

Customer:  “Do you guys sell those flavored massage candles?”

Me:  “No.  We have massage oil and candles, but I wouldn’t recommend pouring this particular candle wax on anyone.”

Customer:  “It says these are ‘all natural’—does that mean it’s okay to eat?”

What I want to say:  “’All natural’ just means it comes from nature.  Slime mold, rat feces and poison oak are technically all natural.  Is it okay to eat those?”

Customer:  “This lotion made me break out all over my face!”

Me:  “That’s because this lotion isn’t meant to go on your face.  It’s body lotion.”

Customer:  “Well, your face is a part of your body.  They should state that this doesn’t go on your face.”

What I want to say:  “Toilet paper is marketed as ‘bath tissue.’  Am I to understand you take all product directions literally and use it in the bath?”

Customer:  “I want to buy a gift for my wife, but I don’t really know what she likes.”

What I want to say:  “If you don’t know what your wife likes, you should probably be buying something a lot nicer than bath products.  Like a giant diamond apology for not knowing the person that you married.”

Customer:  “I bought some blush here last time, but I really didn’t like it.”

Me:  “Okay.  Was it the color or the product itself that you didn’t like?”

Customer:  “It was the color.  I’d like to try this one.”  (She picks up a different type of blush, in the same color that she said she did not like.”

Me:  “Well, that’s the same color that you said you didn’t care for—would you perhaps like to try another color?”

Customer:  “No, since it’s a different type of blush, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

What I want to say:  “You know, trying the same thing and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.”

Curious gentleman:  “I’d like to apply for a job here.”

Co-worker:  “Do you have any experience with makeup or skincare?”

Curious gentleman:  “Yes—I won a modeling contest.”

What I want to say:  “Oh, I see how this works.  Excellent.  Well, I’m off to go pilot an airplane because I flew to New York one time.”

Consolation Prizes: Wherein I Compare Ladies to Dogs (in a good way)

So the other day, I was standing in line to get a cup of overpriced coffee (is there any other kind these days?) and I overheard a guy complaining to his friend about how these days, girls just don’t know how to take compliments. He cited his experience on a date, during which he had remarked to his lady friend that he liked her dress, and she had responded by snapping at him.  “I don’t get it,” I heard him say to his friend.  “It’s not like she was a bitch, she just got mad when I complimented her.”  His friend seemed to shrug it off.  “Girls just do that,” he said.  “No one knows why.  Because they all expect to be complimented, it’s just a lot of them are snarky about it.”

At this point, I could no longer resist feigning deafness and I turned around.  I sighed.  I nodded sagely.

“Consolation prize,” I said.

There was understandable confusion between the two gentlemen.

“That’s why no one takes compliments anymore.  More often than not, they’re offered up as consolation prizes to bad news.  For example:  ‘You’re very talented at what you do, but it’s not right for our company,’ or ‘You’re amazing, but I don’t want to date you.’  Things along those lines.  Much as they say that you shouldn’t trust flattery, compliments can be suspicious.  It’s like the silver medal, the second place ribbon, the certificate for participation—the consolation prize.”

“I didn’t follow it up with bad news, though.  I just wanted to tell her that she looked nice,” the man said, somewhat endearingly.

“Well done to you, sir!  And I mean that sincerely, not sarcastically.  May I offer some words of wisdom to you?  Getting a new girlfriend is sort of like adopting a dog from a shelter.  You don’t always know where they’ve been or if they’ve been mistreated, but proceed slowly and be consistent and they’ll eventually stop growling at you when you try to pet them.  I don’t really mean that literally, but you could totally take it that way.  Not that I mean women should be compared to abused dogs.  I’ve just been watching a lot of ‘Animal Cops: Houston’ lately and it seems appropriate.”

The man scrunched his eyebrows in a way that probably meant, “Why are you still talking to me, weird girl?” but that I chose to take as a look of, “Thank you for your wise advice, mysterious stranger.”

Because if there’s one that this animal has learned, it’s that you should take compliments where you can get them, whether they’re intended as consolation prizes or not.

(Did I just compare myself to a shelter dog?!  What-the-ef-ever.)

Why I'm excited for the apocalypse and how you can be, too!

At the risk of sounding complacent, I am mutha-fuckin' ready for some natural disaster-apocalypse shit to happen.  Preparedness runs in my veins, you guys, a gift (in part) from my ass-kicking, pirate chasing (seriously, that happened fo real) military officer father.  The other half of that is from my ass-kicking, sharpshooting (she has a medal), military officer mother.  Holy balls, TAB, you must have had an insane upbringing!  Not so much, voice-in-my-head, EM and I had a relatively normal childhood.  But when you go through survival training and organization and ass-kicking lessons in the military (like my parents did) they drill that stuff so far into your head that it hits you square in your genetics, which is why EM and I are genetically programmed to outlast even cockroaches and Keith Richards and Twinkies.  Are you following this logic with me?  Good.

So when things like Katrina and Haiti and Japan and Chernobyl and the end of the dot-com era and the breakup of Pangaea and the end of the dinosaurs at the hand of alien robot overlords who will probably return happen, EM and I will be waiting, ready to rule the land like kings because we are so much more prepared than everyone else, except my parents. And probably the president, because I imagine they have him pretty prepared for this kind of thing.  Oh, and unless you have some kind of bunker or lead-lined basement, in which case I'm jealous and we should be friends so that we can talk about our emergency plans and survival kits together.  (Does yours involve bacon?  Because mine does!)

Now, because you lovely people are actually reading this ridiculous blog, I'm going to impart some of my wisdom to you about what you really need to be prepared for some kind of disaster.  What KIND of disaster you ask?  ALL KINDS, including, but not limited to:  earthquake, tornado, hurricane, tsunami, cyclone, wildfire, volcano, nuclear meltdown, zombie/bear/shark attack, monsoon, flood, flash flood, solar eclipse, lunar eclipse, getting lost in the forest or at sea, something involving a desert or extreme drought and finally, getting in a death match with Bear Grylls because you have a cache of fresh water and he is left drinking snake blood and the water squeezed from elephant poop.

Let's discuss the two types of emergency kits you need:  an Oh Shit! kit and an Armageddon Box.  Your Oh Shit! kit should be small and compact enough that you can grab it in less than five minutes and run, especially if there is something like a tsunami or a dinosaur chasing you.  It should have enough supplies to sustain you for two days.  Your Armageddon Box should be something slightly more long term, and this would be something that you could rely on if parts of the infrastructure collapsed and you needed to camp out somewhere for 10 to 14 days, or until you heard over the radio waves that the military had cleared your city of the zombie plague and you're safe to return to your abode.  Both of these kits should be easily accessible - for example, since EM and I live in Los Angeles and spend most of our time in traffic, our Oh Shit! kits are in the trunks of our cars.  Our Armageddon Box is in our carport.  It's smart to keep supplies in a couple different locations, in case you can't get to one.

There are three rules that you should keep in mind when getting your kits together:

1.  Depending on your location, you need to make sure you are dry, warm, watered and fed. 

2.  The rule of 3:  a human can last 3 minutes without air, 3 days without water and 3 weeks without food and 3 times 3 is 9.  Wait, forget that last part, that's not part of the same rule...

3.  Be aware, use common sense, and remember:  shoot 'em in the head, and they'll stay dead.  (Especially useful when fighting zombies and Bear Grylls.)

Here are some things that you should consider having in your Oh Shit! kit:

• Drinking water and water purification tablets (at least a gallon, but FYI, you should have a gallon per person per day)
• Food for two days (you can get compact and semi-tasty MREs at any army/navy surplus store)
• A first aid kit
• A flashlight and extra batteries, or even better, a hand-crank flashlight
• A clean, dry change of clothes
• A space blanket
• A small emergency radio
• A multi-tool (like a Leatherman) or a Swiss Army Knife, something with a can opener for canned food
• Waterproof, windproof matches or a fire-starting flint
• Maps of your area
• A dust mask (to help against dust and also airborne biologicals that will zombiefy you)
• Baby wipes, toilet paper, pads/tampons and garbage bags for "personal sanitation"
• A small tool kit:  wrench, pliers, screwdriver  (important for turning off utilities)
• Road flares and a whistle (should you need to signal for help)
• Bear spray (not just for bears/Bear Grylls!  That's a 30 ft. radius of spicy protection, my friends)

That should help you last for a couple days.  Granted, that is if you're in a climate like I am (in southern California) and we don't have to worry too much about cold, wet weather and our main concern would be having clean water.  If you're in some place like Seattle where water is more accessible and you would be more concerned about staying warm and dry, I'd seriously consider having rain gear and the little chemical hand warmers in my Oh Shit! kit.  Remember, keep this one the most easily accessible to you and in a backpack or bag that you could carry.  If you can't lift it because it's too heavy, it's not going to do you any good.

Here's what you should consider having in your Armageddon Box:

• A small tent
• Plastic tarps to go under said tent (wet ground = wet tent = wet sleeping bag = unhappy)
• A sleeping bag
• More water!  Hooray!
• More food!  Hooray!
• Another first aid kit!  Hooray!  With any prescription meds that you may need, sunscreen and a first aid book so you can know how to treat things like broken arms and shark bites.
• Don't forget your pets!  Food and water for them, too.
• A secret stash of cash
• A portable water filtration kit
• A mess kit with pots and pans, paper utensils
• A small camp stove
• A lantern
• Bigger tools:  a shovel, an ax, a machete
• IF you're familiar with firearms and firearm safety (and yes, I am), a pistol

Above all, have a plan.  How are you going to get in touch with your family, especially if cell phones and land lines are down?  Pick an evacuation route and a meeting place, and then have a backup plan.  Also, here is a great resource for helping you to get your shit together:  http://www.ready.gov/america/index.html.

Now that you're on your way to being prepared for the apocalypse and for Bear Grylls to creep in and try to bogart your stuff, be sure to maintain your kit.  Food, water, and medicine all expires, so be smart about it and update it once a year. 

If you've come this far with me, you're probably so gaddamn prepared for everything that you're just itching for the opportunity to use your Oh Shit! kit and your Armageddon Box, and you should be.  Just remember to be smart and sane about everything, don't panic, and keep an eye open for Bear Grylls.  Being friends with Bruce Campbell couldn't hurt, either.

Things I think would make great Valentine's Day Gifts

1. Promise to parallel park my car for me whenever you're in the car and I have to parallel park so that I don't get all anxious and hyperventilatey about it.

2. Cookies.  Make them, buy them, give them to me instead of candy because I like cookies so much more and I'll probably share them with you, but just don't eat them all, okay?  Otherwise, present NULLIFIED.

3.  This.  OH MY GOD, WHY DON'T I OWN THIS YET?!  (link me)
 
4. Some kind of BBQd red meat.

5. Maybe you just tell me on the regular that you appreciate me all the way down to the guts and black stuff inside me and not wait until one day a year when it's all obligatory, and then we can just think of this day as February 14 - the day that we don't need to celebrate anything out of the ordinary because we've done a fair job of making all the other 364 days of the year pretty extraordinary.  Just a suggestion.

Obviously I just do not want to shut up about food.

I know that I've posted a few things about food on this blog and you guys are probably sick of me talking about it and want to hear something entertaining or juicy about the fellas, but this is sort of the wrong time of year for me because I'm usually running around like a hummingbird on Aderol trying to get all the holiday stuff done for family and friends and I just don't have the time or inclination to toss out some holiday-themed pick up lines and it's hard to wink at boys in bars all saucy-like if your eye is twitching from stress and too much coffee. I've been told it looks like I'm having a seizure when I try to do that, so point taken, gentlemen. Moving on.

Christmas is a time when my family gets even more excited about being in the kitchen than we normally are, especially my mom and EM and I. EM isn't much of a kitchen-lover, but you should see her tackle a batch of candy cane cookies. She will effing bake your face off. We stick to our family traditions, but a few years ago I thought it would be a great idea to get all fancypants and try to make some peppermint bark, because everyone in the entire world loves peppermint bark and if you don't I probably wouldn't ever really trust you completely, sort of like those people who don't like chocolate and bacon. It makes me think there's something wrong with you a little bit, and considering I just compared myself to a hummingbird on Aderol, that is saying something.

Anyway, I went and got dark chocolate and white chocolate and peppermint extract and candy canes and was determined to make peppermint bark so good that world peace really *would* have been a legit possibility because everyone would have been united by the deliciousness of my holiday candy. What happened when this candy was finished was something like a disaster of epic proportions meeting up with some kind of culinary angel magic. I don't really know how it happened. Maybe Jesus looked down from his Laz-E Boy in the clouds and took pity on my horrific cooking errors and was all, "That looks like crap. Maybe I'll help out and make it taste good at least, so that she doesn't have a Christmas meltdown."

Because oh baby, did it taste good. So in the spirit of the holidays and giving and Jesus and puppies and rainbows and all, I'm going to give you guys my recipe for one of my favorite edible holiday mistakes - Christmas Fark.

(Sounds kind of dirty, huh?!)

Christmas Fark was the frankensteined peppermint bark that sort of ended up with a softer side - not quite bark, but not quite fudge, but a wonderful blending of the two. Sort of like the texture of a Hershey's bar on an August day in SoCal, but less melty. It's not fudge, it's not bark, it's fark. Get it? Good. Here's how you handle it:

Crap You Need:

1 c. crushed candy canes (more or less depending on how pepperminty you like it)
1 lb GOOD dark chocolate (don't skimp out, the better the chocolate, the better the fark)
1 lb GOOD white chocolate (seriously it's gonna be so good omg)
1/2 tsp. peppermint extract
2 tbsp. heavy cream
A cookie sheet covered in plastic wrap or wax paper

Crap You Do:

So, the most fun part of this is crushing up the candy canes. Unwrap 'em and really go to town on them. You can take out all of your stress and holiday blues and "don't YOU tell me to ease up on the Christmas cookies, you dingbat!" on a Ziploc bag full of candy cane pieces until they're good and pulverized. It's cool to have a few big bits because it looks more festive or something.

Chop up the dark chocolate and try not to eat a lot of it. I mean, a few nibbles are okay to "test the quality" but make sure most of it goes into the top part of a double boiler. You have to melt this chocolate gently and keep stirring it. Watch it closely, as if it is a beautiful shirtless man or a Christian Louboutin shoe parade. When it's mostly melted, add in one tbsp of the heavy cream and keep stirring until it's all incorporated. By this time, it should be pretty liquidy. Pour it out onto the cookie sheet and give it a wiggle to make sure it spreads out all even-like. Let it set up a bit, maybe an hour or so. It doesn't have to be super hard, just solid enough that it'll stay on the bottom when you pour the white chocolate on top.

Next, chop up the white chocolate and melt it slow like you did with the dark chocolate. Add in the peppermint extract and the other tbsp of cream and stir it up, little darling, stir it up. When it's looking liquidy, pour it on top of the layer of dark chocolate. Give it another wiggle so that it spreads out well, and then sprinkle the crushed candy canes on top. Let it set for another couple hours or so, until it's firm. Cut it up into pieces and keep them all to yourself. (Or wrap them up and give them away, if you're into that kind of thing. You know, whatever.)

Everyone is too fat for LA so you should just get the large fries and stop worrying about it.

This week one of my friends was talking to me about her diet and weight and such and how she wanted to lose 10 pounds or so. You guys should know that all of my friends are super foxy, so it was really ridiculous to me that my beautiful friend wanted to lose unnecessary weight. I told her she was full of crap and that we should go get drunk and eat fried things, she didn't need to lose a damn thing (except her current state of sobriety). She grumbled something at me about how I didn't have to worry about things like weight because I was thin and obviously ate whatever I wanted. Half of that is true - I do eat whatever I want 99% of the time because it's food and I love food so much sometimes I wish I could transform the idea of food into a man and then marry him and bear his food-children. And then I would eat them, because they would probably be delicious. Hang on, someone brought in doughnuts to work and I gotta go get my glaze on.

Okay, so. I told her that was not true, it's genetically programmed in all women to give a shit about their weight. I do worry about it. Obviously I want to be attractive to the opposite sex because I really like the opposite sex, and magazines tell me I have to look a certain way to do it. (Don't yell at me about that, that's an issue for another day. Wait, I'll just take my tongue out of my cheek here before I continue...)

Anyway, I came clean with my foxy friend about why I gave up on stressing about diets and being thin and squeezing into smaller sizes several years ago and just decided to go with the flow ('the flow' in this case being the steady flow of delicious calories into my face) and let the gaining or losing of pounds happen on its own.

According to The Industry, I am already too fat for L.A., so there is not much else I have to be concerned about. Here's the skinny. (Pun very much intended!)

When I first moved to Los Angeles a few years ago, I secured an editorial internship at an ass-kicking alternative music/girlie magazine. Punk rock and tattooed pinups all over the glossy pages and the editorial freedom do bring my own ideas to the table - color me "tickled pink"! Through this internship, I met a lot of cool people and did a lot of awesome stuff. Through a rather random series of events, I even got to do a bit of modeling (it was all PG, don't get excited) and had a blast because they paid me in beers and I think that is darn near everyone's dream. Fast forward a few months and one of my friends that had worked on this particular shoot ended up showing my pictures to a casting person at Spike TV when they were casting babe-types for the show "1000 Ways To Die" and they needed a redhead, I guess. Since I was temporarily a redhead and apparently passed the "cute" test, I got a call from the show's producer.

I said it would be fun to be on a TV show, and he just thought that was swell so the stylist would be calling me later that day to get my sizes for my wardrobe. Super. I went in to work and waited. When the stylist called, I had the suspicious feeling that things were not going well.

Stylist: I need your shirt size, your bra size, your shoe size and your pant size.

Me: Uh. Medium?

Stylist: No, like numbers. What size jeans are you wearing right now?

Me: Oh! I don't know, hang on, I'll check my ass. These jeans say they're a size 9.

Stylist: (silence for a couple minutes) ...size 9? Really?

Me: Yep, that's what they say. Size 9.

Stylist: Are... are you sure?

Me: Yeah, size 9. The number between 8 and 10.

Stylist: Oh. Uh. Okay...

Me: Is something wrong?

Stylist: No... not really. So... size 9.

Me: Yep. My ass fits comfortably into my size 9 jeans.

Stylist: Oh, you know, I just remembered I have to ask Producer something. I'll call you back this afternoon.

Me: Word.

I definitely thought it was odd when she hung up. Was that weird? Huh. I didn't quite get it... they *had* my picture, they knew I wasn't a rail. I went home that day and told EM what had happened.

"I think she things my ass is too fat," I said, kind of giggling. EM agreed that it was weird. "I will seriously not be surprised if she calls me back and fires me." That's how showbiz is, you guys. Don't take it personally, but you are a heifer and we cannot even fit your blubbery butt in the frame. Thanks for playing. Later that evening, I did indeed get a call from Producer. He was very kind and said that he was disappointed, but they wouldn't be able to use me. Something about other babe-types on another Spike TV show being under contract and they had to be used instead of hiring new babe-types. That's how you get rejected in L.A. - they're super sweet about it because they don't want to be the ones to send you into a bulimic downward spiral into rehab. Fortunately, I am rather well-adjusted that way and laughed to Producer and told him that was fine, good luck with your show. He said he would keep me "on file" and I laughed again as I'm sure we both rolled our eyes.

That was my last foray into modeling and TV. Truthfully, I wasn't that invested in the project and at the time, I was perfectly happy with my shape, so the event passed rather humorously for me. These days it's a story I tell to people who come to me all worried about thick thighs and a beer belly, because it doesn't matter in the end. You're always going to be too fat or too short or too this or too that for someone, so don't you think it's a hell of a lot more productive to just accept the way you look and enjoy it?

Maybe I'm crazy. I probably don't belong in L.A. because saying such things is blasphemy in a town where everyone makes a living carving images. I suppose I'm guilty of carving my own image, as well... it's just that it has a size 9 ass.