Oh hey, Men of the World. Take Note.

One day you may be lucky enough to meet the love of yor life. You'll want to spend every day with this person, and see them through the good times and bad. 

One day, you'll both be getting ready for bed when she'll say to you in a shaky, terrified whisper, "There's a spider in the bed." 

Take note: The correct response is to pick up the magazine that's been sitting on your dresser for a year and try to get the spider to crawl on it so you can take it outside and let it die of natural causes (because no one wants spider carcas on his/her freshly clean sheets). This is the right thing to do because your spouse has crippling arachnaphobia and the magazine is near your side of the bed. You will react promptly and sensitively. Aint no how spidey is crawling around yo woman tonight. 

What you shouldn't do is mumble something nonchallantly without lifting your eyes off the facebook scroll on your phone, finish reading your friend's über mensch status and then look up to check out the situation. You should not be surprised when that spider gets away and disappears almost seemingly into thin air on your spouse's side of the bed. You should not then complain about having to wash the sheets immediately because your spouse finds evil lurking spiders to be unclean. 

You should react with immediate gusto because the spider may appreciate the escape, but your spouse will never forget. And she'll live a lot longer than that spider. 

Take note. Take note. 

Attack of the Cookies, Part II

A bright and colorful, deco-era building stood strong, as though it were an oasis amongst an industrial wasteland. The Lala Button factory was the only supplier of custom and designer-quality buttons in downtown Los Angeles. It was the oldest button establishment, dating back to the 1930's, family run, and absolutely cut throat in its competitive practices. So much so that, in 1996, when an Ebola outbreak contaminated the up-and-coming Fasten-Tech Industries, the competitor met ruin. Since the outbreak affected none outside the factory, whispered rumors of Lala's supposed involvement ran amok, without ever gaining proof or basis. It was the quietest, yet most impactful rumor to ever rock the Button Industry of downtown LA.
It was in this quaint-looking, artificial-sweetener colored environment, where Veda met the Cookie Ashat on her first day of work as a Product Development Associate. A recent graduate of FIDM with a degree in Toy Design, Veda was elated she would have the chance to gain experience in her field, even if it was somewhat outside the genre of employment she'd originally hoped for. She was creating, developing, manufacturing, compensated and grateful.
On her first day of work, an HR Rep guided her around the giant room where she would be working. She showed her how to use the office printer, which apparently required special codes that changed every three days, and introduced her to all her new co-workers, starting from the back of the room near the exit, one by one to the end of the room closest to the widows. The last coworker was located in a sectioned off area of the room, like an office whose walls were created by pushing together Ikea bookcases, with one bookcase missing to allow entry from the side, out of view of the rest of the office. The space was big enough to set comfortably, side by side, two large desks facing the window. In this cubby-area was an empty desk, soon to be Veda's, and at the occupied second desk was the first Cookie she'd been ever met.
Veda gasped when they'd walked through the entry and she saw the squat thing with its wavy blue hair shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the window. Ashat didn't stand to greet them, but eyed the smiling Veda wearily as the HR rep made the introductions and explained how they'd be partnering up and sharing the workload. As Veda sat at her desk for the first time, looking in the drawers at the files already there and checking out the system of organization, the alien sat munching on Skittles from a bowl sitting on the desk with a spoon. It was nearly impossible for Veda to mind the angst radiating from across the office because of her excitement.
She'd only ever seen the aliens on the news, and thought they'd seemed really adorable then. She'd thought the creatures resembled a short person who had merged with an Afghan Hound and then showered in Easter egg dye.
Veda, who thought of herself as shy, despite her colorful wardrobe, finally worked up the courage to start a conversation.
"You sure do love your Skittles."
Her first remark was met with icy silence. Ashat's left eye twitched as Veda continued.
"I'm more of a berry kind of girl. Raspberries and strawberries, and blueberries, et cetera. Nature's candy and all. "
Ashat raised an eyebrow, and Veda realized that her attempt at conversations may have made her come across as condescending.
"No judgement intended," she said, "Just my preference."
"I hate fruit," Ashat muttered. "I hate seeds, peels, juices... too  messy. It's disgusting. This," holding up a skittles-filled soup spoon, "is cleaner, more dignifying to eat."
 "Do all Cookies speak English so well?"
Ashat grunted before responding, "What did you think? That we wouldn't do research before approaching this planet? Earth had been releasing radio waves into space for a hundred years. We followed it like that children's game... what is it... connect the dots. Ah, it was easy. Your language is primitive, quaint, even. We liked some other languages better, but sensed the wars surrounding those areas would not make it an ideal spot to impose upon. California... a land of vegans living amongst slaughter houses. We chose the right land."
He was referring, of course, to a famous Los Angeles slaughterhouse, which was still operational but, coincidentally, the only surrounding restaurants within a 2-3 mile radius were either vegan or vegetarian - a coincidence noticed by the slaughterhouse workers or the bulk of the fashion industry which also occupied the same area. The reference went completely over Veda's head, being so new.
Not quite sure how to respond to that, she said, "Well, I'm very glad to have you here."
After a few moments she asked, "What do vegetarians and slaughterhouses have anything to do with Californians? I mean, those are everywhere."
Ashat looked at Veda condescendingly and spoke with disdain, "A society that kills the animals for eating but then doesn't eat the animals. The meat is shipped elsewhere. You are too peaceful to eat the animals, despite knowing how to kill them.You kill them for other people to eat, not for yourselves in the immediate area surrounding the killing. You are passive. Passive people are not harmful."
"Plenty of people eat meat in LA."
"Do you eat meat?"
"Actually, no."
Ashat waved his hand dismissively, "Nor me, and we'll get along fine."
Veda didn't follow the logic, figured something key was lost in translation and decided to change the subject. She gestured at the bookshelves, "Most of these are empty. What's the deal with them sectioning us off like this, I wonder?"
Ashat laughed, "Me. I was sick of being gawked at. Humans stare. It is very discomforting."
"Are you male or female?"
At that Ashat sat up very straight, abruptly and stared down Veda and spat, "You are rude to ask."
"I apologize! You're right, that was insensitive. I'm very sorry."
"Silence," Ashat hissed.
The next six hours were uncomfortably, shamefully silent.  The southern sunlight drifted in, throwing painted-glass shadows on everything; filling Veda with conflicting emotions. She felt like a social failure, insulting her new coworker on the first day, but also like she'd won the lottery with the beauty of the place.
At the end of the day, as she stood to leave, Ashat spoke to her again. "How do you feel about spiders?"
"They terrify me."
Ashat squinted, "Do you kill them when you see them?"
Veda shook her head, "If I see one, I try to confine it without injuring it, and then I take it outside, find a place in the garden free of other webs, since they eat each other and all, and let it free."
"It," Ashat nodded as this answer was expected, "Fine, see you tomorrow."

No King

I heard that Stephen King writes stories based off nightmares. I have no idea how factual that is, but I could imagine that's true, at least sometimes. 

I could never do that, though. I mean, my nightmares are nothing to write stories about. Literally, the worst dream I can recall from a recent night was that I wore the wrong shirt to the charity volunteer group I take part in every couple of months. It's a bright yellow tee and, because I didn't wear it, I couldn't receive a painted handprint on it, which is like a tally mark for how many times you volunteered. 

That's it, that was my nightmare. Sleep is supposed to lower your level of cortisol (stress hormone). But not me while that dream was occuring, nope. That probably rose my cortisol level, embarrassingly. 

There are far worse things than having tame nightmares; I know, believe me. I feel lucky that night terrors don't trouble me. I guess I just wish my dreams meant more than the wishy washy textbook regurgitation of the day's happenings with an impossible feat or an exploited minor fear mixed in sporadically. 

I wish

I wish I could be happier and more positive in general. 

But in a world where every little thing can feel like a fight some days, I'm not happy but I'm also not unhappy.  I'm just jaded. 

So there. 

...but I still think I'm an optimist. So enjoy this picture of a statue of Einstein at the Observatory in LA that slightly looks like he's instulting you and have a nice day. 😊

Seen and Heard: Designer's Lunch Room

Today, while eating my lunch and researching menstration tracking apps on my phone (yes, they exist), I couldn't help but overhear the conversation next to me. When I say, "I couldn't help but overhear," I mean that I would honestly rather concentrate on reading reviews than hear the high pitches girly-girl voices of ladies desperately trying to sound younger and cooler than they actually are, but I had trouble doing so because certain high-pitched sounds are difficult to tune out. 

The ladies at the next lunch table were having a discussion about what it means to "really be Greek." My boyfriend thinks he's Greek, but..." "Ommigod, look at her rolling her eyes!" "Well, he's not! His family is from Minnesota or something?" "Oh, he was born here?" "No, he was born in Greece, but he grew up in the MidWest."

Then she proceeded to describe all the thigs about him that make him inauthentically Greek. I tuned in an out and didn't actually catch the whole conversation, but some qualities mentioned involved a love of potato chips and frugality. "He thinks he's funny but he's not," was a comment thrown out there, but I was more interested in tracking calendar with symptom notes. 

When I stood up to throw something away, I glanced in their direction since they sat between me and the trash can. They were a table full of mixed girls, all of whom have American accents, wearing pretentiously "edgy" outfits, eating asian-fusian cuisine from a place called something like "The Eaterie," still discussing the arrogance of someone claiming an association with a place where he was born. Like, he's less Greek for loving such obviously 'Merican things, like potato chips and video games. I wanted to ask them if they were less American because of their obvious love of Eurotrash-inspired cloth and food. I didn't, mostly because I would like to continue not being the crazy person in this, but it leaves me feeling uneasy. 

Do gossipers have any idea how lacking in intelligence they sound when their high-almost-shrill voices gab in loud volumes? 

I guess my biggest fear is, if these are my peers, am I guilty of the same behavior simply because the same mentality that led to their hiring led to mine, as well? 

Idk. Maybe I'm just PMSing. Maybe I should add that to my new lady-bits calendar. 

The American Abroad

A work-worn American struggled through her fourth day in China, visiting manufacturers with her work associate. On top of the jet lag, they’d been working long days in the cold March weather, rain noiselessly moistening the foreign world surrounding them, muffling smells, sounds, thoughts. The pollution sunk deep through the lungs and the skin, deploring the body of any energy remaining, albeit the supply already depleted. During a mostly silent dinner, her tired associate suggested the two of them get massages to help revive their bodies and spirits. The American agreed that that would be nice, and after paying their check, they set off, found a place, and were shown to their separate rooms.

The American lay comfortably on the massage table and fell into a deep reverie almost at the moment she felt the masseuse's first touch. In a warm, comforting instant, she was back in the States, the Los Angeles sun filtering through the large windows of the rooms open to the familiar hospital hallway she glided through, walking towards the room she intermittently saw more often than she did her own home. Her mother’s nurse, leaving that room, stopped and asked her a few questions that he routinely asked her.

Whether the questions were good news or bad, the American could never decide. That they remained the same always meant there was no change in her mother’s condition, which could be interpreted either way. In spite of this, following the short and habitual conversation, she moved on to the room to find her mother awake and sitting up in her bed wearing her own clothing and not a hospital gown. This was the first time she’d looked her mother in the eyes since the late November stroke. The fact that her mother was awake was an absolute miracle, an answer to many prayers, but her mother appeared genuinely furious.

“Why,” her mother shouted, “Would you allow me to stay here for so long in those rags? How could you?”

The American, unable to process or talk about the miracle of her mother’s sudden improvement in health, began instinctively appeasing her. She apologized, offered to make her new clothes to wear that were more comfortable, with better fabric. The mother consented but could not be consoled. She was upset about the lack of comfort she received and continued berating her daughter regarding it.

The American struggled, could feel herself being pushed awake from within the dream while psychically not wanting to leave it. She could recognize the weight and feel of her body again, as well as the tapping of the masseuse, waking her. She sat up, realizing she’d been likely moaning in the internal sleep struggle. She looked at the tiny, anxious, wide-eyed Shanghai masseuse and burst into tears. She could detect the awkward fear seeping from the small Chinese girl in a confused panic like a shark with blood in the water but she hardly cared, allowing herself to push the sorrow from her through every sob.

The masseuse shrieked something incomprehensible and ran from the room. The American wiped her tears as assumed the massage was now cut short. There would be no more comfort today for her work-weary soul.

Blue moon over Long Beach