you'll never catch me po po!!! oh...damnit!

#1 reason why today sucks balls: I got a speeding ticket.

Everything else is sucky only because I got a speeding ticket. I told the cop I was late to work (I was, and only getting later by the second) and if I was late to work again I would get into big trouble (not true). He asked me where I worked and I told him the autism clinic up the street. I thought maybe God  or Zeus or Oprah would smile down upon me and send me the cop who has an autistic nephew or something and he'd let me off with a warning. NO. Oprah isn't as all powerful as people think she is. Bitch did squat for me in my time of need.

Hey! Happy Holidays! Here's a speeding ticket! Also, Santa isn't real! Have a nice day!

LAST DAY AT THE STATEHOUSE!!!!

So if you couldn't tell by the caps and the multiple exclamation points, I'm pretty stoked that this is my last day at the Statehouse. This doesn't mean that I'm not a teensy bit nostalgic. If this were a tv show (it really should be) and this was the series finale, they would bring back all the old characters for a giant party in my honor: the intern and friend who got me this job, the one other page that I actually like, the other page who used to speak legalees to the constituents and later went on to Harvard Law School (read: DOUCHE), and the lawyer who became a judge who still gets his mail sent here. But alas, this is not a tv show, it's my so-called life (without Jordan Catalano?!?). Instead of a grand party, I did the same thing I do pretty much everyday: arrive 3-4 minutes late, park illegally in the garage, make the coffee, check facebook, have an awkward bathroom run-in with a co-worker while I try desperately to poo silently as she talks about the construction in the building, blog, check the senator's ancient voicemail that has no vocal cues just morse code-like beeps, and wait patiently for the phone to ring while I fuck around on the internet.

There are a few things I will miss about this place though...

-Ms. Joanie's outdated colloquialisms (the bees knees, the cat's pajamas, golly day etc.)
-using tap water instead of the spring water to make the coffee because no one can tell the difference
-reading the senator's mail. Especially the Republican club newsletters from his "lady friend" that have these horrible jokes poking fun of Democrats.
-The comments section of the annual constituent surveys. Constituents say the darndest things about how Obama is going to ruin the planet and how we should abolish all taxes forever.
-Seeing Ms. Joanie's exasperated face as she hears that Bobby Caution is calling in sick again (as she rolls into the office at noon).
-the 3 pm sugar rushes after yet another staff birthday cake
-watching everyone walk around with their buttholes clenched because the Senator is here (especially Bobby Caution)

And there are few things I won't miss...

-the paralyzing boredom that comes after sitting in the same chair for hours on end with nothing to do but stare at a computer screen
-the crazy constituent phone calls that aren't short and sweet. They're long and annoying as shit, which I realize is not the opposite as sweet but just...ok?
-When people are "too busy" to walk their papers from one room to the next room so I become their room-to-room courier. Don' they get that they end up waiting longer for a response?
-it's 100 degrees outside and I'm dripping sweat from getting everyone's lunches only to realize the sandwich place didn't give me pickles and I die of a heatstroke trying to run back.
-Going to the Senate Chambers to deliver a message to Senator X only to realize that every single senator in there looks like Senator X because they are all old white dudes (there are two or three black men and no women).
-When I finally find Senator X and he doesn't acknowledge my presence.
-Walking to almost every room in the six floor office to deliver a flyer saying that a meeting has been changed when the same thing could have been accomplished without wasting paper or time by using this new fangled thing called e-mail.

Both lists could go on and on (mostly the one about the stuff I won't miss) but I really will miss Ms. Joanie. She has always been so sweet and supportive; like the slightly judgmental grandmother I never had.

Statehouse, we've had a good run. It's been real, it's been fun...I wouldn't say it's been real fun but it's been interesting. I'm off like a prom dress!


**Amendment: Ms. Joanie gave me a going away present which included Palmetto stationary, $20 for a nice meal out and an appointment book from the Chinese consulate that got sent to the Senator. I think she knows I stole the invitation to the Emperor of Japan's birthday party. Whoops.  Also she knows I'm Chinese.

Does Facebook think you're a slut?

I've been watching the BBC mini-series "Sherlock Holmes" on Netflix and for those of you who have not seen it (you should), it isn't set in Olde English Tymes, but in modern London. They have real iPhones and everything! So it got me thinking about my "personalized" ads on Facebook and, just go with me on this, if I was murdered and all that was left was a screen shot of my Facebook ads, could Sherlock deduce what type of person I was and find my murderer (dun dun dun)?

...a slightly morbid and strange thought I admit, but have you read the rest of my blog?

I asked my tech savvy friend how Facebook ads worked and she told me that they will use your picture on third party sites and other information so that the ads are more tailored to you and your friends. Thanks, Facebook for doing me that favor even though I didn't ask and don't want it. Your profile pic could be the face of gettestedforherpesnow.org and you'd never know it.

Looking at my own Facebook ads in a Sherlockian way, I can deduce that:
-I either drink/do drugs too much or have friends that drink/do drugs way too much,  have a shitty job ("Become an addiction counselor!", "Be a pre-birth tech in SC")
-I have good taste in TV and movies ("Princess Bride shirts!", "Watch 'Angry Boys' on HBO this Sunday", "30 Rock tonight on the CW at 10:00!")
-I like tasty gummy snacks ("Welch's Fruit Snacks!")
-I lean to the left politically ("Pass the jobs bill!")
-I shop...a lot (ModCloth, Target, Juicy Couture Push-up Bras, Victorias Secret...the list goes embarrassingly on. Wait. Does Facebook think I have small boobs?).

Gmail chose to judge me in other ways. It thinks I'm really fucking poor ("Stop Payday Loans Now!", "Nonprofit Debt Counseling". There are so many of these. Facebook and gmail are holding an intervention via ads to make me confront my shopaholic habits) but knows that I want to travel ("Cheap Flights to Israel!", "Club Med 50% off!").

I am taking a stand to not let third party advertisers backhandedly judge me anymore. Come at me, Bro! I know the secret to keeping my info private now. I urge everyone to say no to the big whigs at corporations who try to subliminally make you think you need a cake ball maker or whatever. Just one click. Say no to advertisers. Fight for your rights. Be strong. Semper Fidelis. Carpe Diem. I seem to have lost my train of thought.

...or you could probably just ignore the ads and be ok.

A love letter to "The Sing Off"

Dearest "The Sing Off",

Once upon a time I was ashamed to say that I watched you but now I stand tall when I proclaim that I love you, "The Sing Off." When we first met, it was a cold winter and I was very sick and in need of some company. I found it where I least expected it.

At first, I mocked the iridescent shirts of Nick Lachey, the fact that Nicole Scherzinger is judging anyone and the costumes that the "Queer Eye" guys would deem too gay, but then I started to look past your faults to see that Ben Folds' highly technical yet witty remarks made you different from the cabal of inferior singing reality shows. I've also always had a special place in my heart for Boyz II Men, especially Shawn, whose vocabulary extends past the word "dawg". To this day I can sing every word of the heart-wrenching ballad, "End of the Road." I also like that you're self-assured. You never wait for all of America to decide what happens in your show. Most importantly, you're never a douche (I'm looking at you, Ryan Seacrest and Simon Cowell).

I can still remember that sudafed-induced sleepless night when I watched the entire marathon on Oxygen, Television for Women, and found myself surprised when I was rooting for my favorite groups. The a capella aspect of you actually forced the contestants to know the technical side of music, not just belt out one amazing note at the end of the song, a la Mercedes on "Glee", and expect everyone to drool. I can't be fooled by those tricks. I need more substance. You gave me that.

After that marathon night, I thought that the attraction would disappear and I would forget about you, but I missed you. I had to wait a whole year for the next round of talented a capella groups that would capture my attention even more than I imagined. Our meeting was short but sweet. Luckily, you came to your senses and decided to move to a prime time spot for an extended period of time. You even got rid of your biggest fault, that Pussycat Doll, and replaced it with the much more charismatic Sara Bareilles. Well done.

You have grown over your short three seasons into a humble, yet impressive reality show that I'm proud to say I watch.


Love,
Page

New Job Jitters...NOT

It's been a week and a half since I started my new job at an autism clinic doing front desk nothingness or "administrative work" as they like to call it. Here's the breakdown of my job:

1. Sit at desk
2. Sit at desk

Ok, that's not actually all that I do, but I would say that "sit at desk" is approx. 60% of my job. The other 40% is split between handing pens to parents to sign their kids in, watching hulu/netflix/megavideo, gchatting, answering phones and looking up dumb shit on the internet. Normally I get really bad new job jitters where I walk on eggshells for a week or two trying not to fuck something up, but I can't really fuck up "sit at desk". This job is ridiculously easy and the pay is disproportionately high (not that I'm complaining) and as an added bonus, two of my close friends work here and have worked here for years. They've told me all the gossip so I know stuff that I probably shouldn't. However, if I happen to get into a tiff with any of the therapists, I am ready at a moments notice with a verbal smack down, Blair Waldorf style.

The other hidden advantage of this job is that it's a great icebreaker. My other jobs have had their own merits when it comes to meeting new people and ice-breakage but people perk up when they hear autism. Let's look at the facts: Autism is super trendy these days. I remember watching an episode of Top Chef Masters and at least 3 of those Masters donated their winnings to an autism charity. Yes, I judge level of trendiness based on Top Chef Masters. It has a certain mystique to it too (as if you needed more reasons than "Top Chef Masters). There's no certain cause or cure and more and more kids are being diagnosed with it at a surprisingly high rate. After cancer, AIDS and heart disease, autism is climbing the charts for "most likely to have a 5k for." People love wearing their 5k for ______(fill in the blank with charity/disease) shirts.

When I utter the words "I work with kids who have autism" to a stranger, I suddenly look like Mother Theresa in their eyes. And even though I am nowhere near the Mother, I think it's pretty Mother Theresa of me to not let them think that I work for a non-profit and am just volunteering out of the kindness of my heart. No. This job pays and the owners are greedy as fuck. I actually think putting "autism therapist" down on my resume landed me my job at the Statehouse. So after I burst the stranger's bubble, I get to talk about how cute the kids are and the funny things they do or say. For instance, my roommate got a marriage proposal from one of the kids she works with. They've decided on a long engagement. Ok so that didn't happen to me, but it's only my second week. I hope a special someone will put a ring on this finger by the end of the month. Am I right, ladies?!

**Correction: a small child with autism just grabbed my butt not one minute ago. Let the anecdote collection begin.

My life for the past two weeks can be summed up in one word: chaos.

Here are the stats:
2: job offers
2: jobs accepted
1: tutoring job quit
2: shifts as a foodrunner at a greasy pizza joint
1: shift as a waitress at said greasy pizza joint
23: dollars lost in tips as a result of my shoddy bookkeeping skillz
1: job at greasy pizza joint quit
5: jobs I had at one point in time
5: years off my life trying to decide how I will juggle these jobs
5: hour shifts at my new desk job where I have little to nothing to do but fuck around on the internet (more blarticles!)
1 million: tissues I've used since this damn allergy attack started
4: the number of feet high the trash pile outside my apartment is after cleaning out the attic
3: cockroaches that fell out of the attic
1: small claustrophobia-induced panic attack from the massive amount of shit piled in our living room (which later transformed into 4 ft high Trash Mountain)

...and a partridge in a pear tree.

Reasons why I might actually be an old man

To a stranger walking down the street, I look like a normal girl in my early 20s. Upon further examination of my life and the sweater I'm wearing, I've discovered that I'm actually a crotchety old man. Here's why:

1. It's a Saturday night at 11:30. I could be at a cool bar listening to my friend's band play, I could be at my other friend's housewarming party, but I'm here, listing the reasons why I'm an old man. 

2. If I go out more than 2 or 3 nights in a row, my body goes into a tailspin. My body aches, I'm loopy, and all I want to do is lay in bed and do crosswords and drink tea.

3. Right now my pillows are propped up against my wall like a hospital bed. I really want a hospital bed with a remote that not only allows the top half of my bed to move, but also calls a nurse to bring me jello (preferably orange).

4. Yesterday I went to a fancy cooking demonstration with a wine tasting where the median age of the other customers was at least 25 years older than me.

5. After said cooking demonstration, I went to a restaurant/bar where the median age of the other customers continued to be at least 25 years older than me. We did not drink bud light from cans or anything from a solo cup. Real glass, folks. It felt right.

6. Today I watched "Friends with Benefits" at the $2 movie theater. I identified with Justin Timberlake's father  who had alzheimers and  just wanted to eat a steak and take his pants off. While I'm at home, I rarely wear pants. Let me tell you, it is far superior to wearing pants. Try it. You'll never go back to the way it used to be. Then comment and tell me how right I am.

7. I forgot that two of my friends were supposed to crash on my floor for a night. I had to put my pants on to answer the door and now this old man is grumpy.

8. Because my friends interrupted me while writing this post, my words per minute is now approximately 7 words per minute, which I think is comparable to an old man's. Two-finger typing all the way. Also, AltaVista is my search engine of choice. Just kidding! There's just very few occasions where I can bring back AltaVista. ahh memories.

So for all my 20-something comrades out there heading into a quarter-life crisis, don't worry. I'm experiencing what happens when we turn 70 and it's not bad. But I think I'll be signing another tune when I head into adult diaper zone and wearing Life Alert around my neck.

I'm about to unleash a rant on you, blogosphere

Ok, so I haven't written since July. I'm not what one might call "consistent." I'm not here to catch you up on my life. I'm here to rant. Didn't you read the title of this post? GAWD do I have to explain everything to you?

Amateur modeling. Usually it's just girls on facebook posting mobile uploads of themselves making duck bill faces in their mirrors. But some girls are upping their games (and expressing daddy issues) by posing in outfits that can only be described as cocktail napkins for their equally amateur photographer friends so they can build portfolios. There are typically three poses an amateur model does: sexy peeing, hand in hair legs splayed or constipated face with booty tooch. I have to wonder, they do look at their own photos before uploading them to facebook, right? I have to assume that is the only reason why these girls would let such horrible representations of themselves be on the internet. The thing is, I know these girls. They're nice. They wear clothes that won't get them picked up for solicitation or get kicked out of a Chili's for indecent exposure. It's a shame to see otherwise smart and beautiful women feed on the kind of degrading attention that comes from someone commenting "DAAAAYYYUUUUMM GURRRRLL." Please don't mistake me for a femi-nazi; I happen to love fashion magazines and consider fashion to be an interest of mine, but there is a difference between a model showcasing a piece of couture in a way that makes you question conventional beauty and a girl leaning against a washer/dryer combo in a laundromat wearing a catholic school-girl version of said cocktail napkin (this is a real thing, people). If you're going to dress like a hooker, at least get paid for it (ladies on Halloween night, I'm talking to you). I don't think that's going to get you on America's Next Top Model though. Or maybe it will. This leads me to my next rant.

Apparently, Tyra Banks fancies herself an author. Her new "novel", "Modelland" is coming out soon, featuring main character Tookie de la Creme living in a dystopian land of models. Get it? Modelland. It's a land of models. Smart! Now, let's address that name. TOOKIE DE LA CREME? Also, Creme has an accent over the first e but I don't know how to put that in because it is JUST THAT DOUCHEY. I guess naming the character Tookie makes sense in a dystopian land because no parents would make their child bear the burden of such a terrible name in our normal messed up world. Does Tyra think this is how she's going to become the next Oprah? No matter how many issues I have with Oprah's god complex, she does serve her purpose to make women feel empowered. Tyra wins the genetic lottery and somehow that makes her qualified to give advice to women. Remember her singing career? What singing career you ask? yeahhh that's what I thought. Let's add author to the graveyard of Tyra Banks' failed careers. And yet, I'm embarrassed to say that that I dutifully tune in to watch ANTM every damn week, which is by far my biggest guilty pleasure besides my weekly S&M club. Just kidding. Or am I? (Just taking a cue from Ty Ty-always leave them wanting more).

umm...I've been busy?

Ok, so it's been a few days since I've written give or take a month or 3. My b. Let me do a quick Cliff Notes version on what's been going on in my life. I went through a pie making phase, which has moved into making everything with Laughing Cow cheese (35 calories per wedge? That's amazing! {I'll take my money now, Laughing Cow. [tangent on my tangent on my tangent: What are you laughing at, Cow? All the other cheeses who have more than 35 calories but are equally delicious in their own right? Let's not be judgmental, Cow]}), I'm addicted to looking at pinterest.com and gilt.com though I can never afford anything on gilt and do not have the motivation to do any of the DIY things on pinterest. I got a mini-promotion at the statehouse. Less hours, more money, shiny new title that means nothing. Woo! I learned several new techniques in which to braid my hair, after which I contemplated chopping my hair off in frustration. I signed up to take the new GRE in September, despite not knowing what I want to study in grad school. Not that endlessly studying vocab words that Noam Chomsky doesn't know isn't fun, because it totally is. Watch out future scrabble opponent, Ima drop a "perspicacious" bomb on that board. Aaand that $200 spent on test prep books and cards will finally pay off. I actually allotted this time to study fucking special triangles. Whoops. I switched fabric softeners after Downy made my beloved April Fresh smell like a $5 hooker. This probably doesn't seem like a big deal, but I've been in a monogamous relationship with April Fresh since I can remember. It's like that little Downy bear grew up with me then abandoned me...to be a $5 hooker. A note to P&G: if you want to keep my business, and you do (to say I use more than the recommended amount is an understatement), re-name "Spice Blossom Dare". You may as well put "massive tool scent" on the bottle. Thank god I didn't go into marketing like I should have or that could have been me making that name up. The "Freakonomics" podcast and the Elle.com horoscopes are my new best friend and Alexander Skarsgard on "True Blood" is my new lovahhh. Laugh about those Elle.com horoscopes, but after stumblingupon mine one day I was sold. It was eerily specific to what was going on in my life. There are definitely days when it's off, like when it tells me that I'm a classy lady who just loves to wear Celine and Hermes (I got a promotion, I didn't win the lottery or $100,000 on a Bravo reality show) and that I'm going to rule today in the board room. If by board, they actually mean bored room, then they are correct, as I have fallen asleep at my desk 3 times this week. Just another lesson in proofreading and not relying on spell-check. Speaking of which, I'm tutoring four athletes in various subjects who were all born in 1994. Suddenly, 23 doesn't seem so young...

Ok, so that wasn't very Cliff Notes-ish, but I also said I would write on this blog at least once a week. Clearly, I'm not to be trusted.

Henry VIII should have been wearing Manolos.

Remember in 9th grade world history class when your teacher explained to you that contrary to what popular culture shows you today, being fat in the 1500s was actually a sign of being wealthy and upper-class? I've realized what the 2011 version of being fat is: uncomfortable shoes.

Having spent most of my time at the Statehouse today running meaningless errands, I looked down at my extremely comfortable, albeit bland, shoes and realized that my feet would have committed suicide if I wore the 4-inch pumps that many of the young, perky lobbyists and lawyers wear. It's easy to wear fabulous stilettos when all you do is sit in them all day and occasionally saunter over to the ladies room to powder your nose. When your job consists of walking to CVS to buy 12-packs of Diet Cokes in 90 degree heat and delivering printed out emails with post-its attached (the trees! think of the trees!) it becomes a priority to have comfortable shoes. If you have a job where the most walking you do is to your chauffered Towne car, kudos to you. You've made it. Great. Why don't Choo stop flaunting your $4000 shoes in our faces? Come on!

Even though there may be a hint of jealousy there, I know that us lowly serfs will have an advantage if life turns into a scene from Saw 5 or whatever number they're on. Not only will I have the practical shoes to make a dash from the serial killer, but I'll have the cardiovascular strength that my pampered counterpart lacks from sitting around eating bon-bons all day admiring their Manolos. Score: Serfs 1, Royals 0.

The cure for the common sloth

In the second grade I was in a puppet show that featured the animals of the rain forest. I was assigned the part of the baby sloth. Together with mama sloth, we met the other animals of the rain forest and taught them the pitfalls of becoming lazy and inefficient in an ecosystem that is rapidly disintegrating. I actually have no idea what the plot for this dumb puppet show was, but I do remember my one line and it was written in the script like this: "I AM A BABY THREEEEE TOEED SLOOOOTH. I SLEEEEP UP TO EIGHTEEEEN HOURS A DAY." I can't believe we didn't get a Tony. Robbed.

Since I got up at 9:30 this morning, I have not changed out of my pajamas and my movement has been limited to adjusting my pillows and walking the 20 feet to the kitchen. It is now 2:28. I have become the baby threeeeeeee-tooooooooeeed slooooooooth. Someone please tell me how to fight my sloth tendencies. If at all possible, please post comments in the form of IKEA pictorial instructions. If it takes too long, I'll probably be too lazy to read anything.

Sometimes the printed word just doesn't cut it

Yesterday, Venezuelan prez4lyfe Hugo Chavez said capitalism may be the culprit for lack of life on Mars. Sounds like a headline for The Onion, right? It's times like these that a youtube clip would really help so I can see his expressions and what his tone of voice was . Even a hint of sarcasm would help his cause. Maybe he's just a dictator with a sense of humor, not an oil monger who can't distinguish reality from an acid trip.

This guy is the leader of an oil-rich country? Really? There's an old homeless guy I've talked to who says stuff like this all the time and tries to sell me VCRs. Maybe he should be the leader of Venezuela.

Adbhuta

Recently I've been going to a lot of yoga classes, but it wasn't until today that I had actually tried meditating for more than a couple of minutes and not falling asleep (don't judge-they turn the lights down and turn the music off. It's like they want you to fall asleep). Our instructor told us that we could either chant our own mantra in our heads or we could chant the word "adbhuta", which in sanskrit means "wonder," but sounds like "abu" from Aladdin and "two" pushed together. She further explained that we could either say the whole word on your inhale and again on your exhale or inhale while saying the first syllable and exhale while saying the second . I chose the latter. I couldn't believe how difficult it was to keep my thoughts focused on saying one measly word but the more I said the two syllables the more I imagined the monkey from Aladdin prancing around stealing bread from the many voices of Robin Williams. Then as I chanted the last syllable, "two", another Abu would pop up in my head and the two twin monkeys with twice the thieving power! Look out Agrabah, now there are two semi-literate monkeys that are smarter than all the Jersey Shore kids combined wreaking havoc on the markets. Then as I thought that in my mind, giant Snooki poofs popped up on each of the Abus heads. All the while, the actual mantra is still quietly being chanted in the back of my mind. First experiment in meditation=FAIL.

Look Ma! I did it!

After five years of driving my car, I finally learned how to change the time on the clock. I think this is what the adults call "growing up".

That labcoat is HOTTTT

Today I had orientation for my new job as a cashier at a nice health foods grocery store. It's the type of place that doesn't have any harmful chemicals or artificial blah blah blahs in their food and a bunch of other things you didn't even know could give you cancer. As my friend Katie Bo would call the clientele, "fruit n' nuts joggers and uber-rich suburbia moms." I actually do like to shop and eat there even though it costs me an entire afternoon's salary at the statehouse to buy a bunch of grapes and a Kombucha.

All of my previous jobs have been for smaller companies or government, so orientation to work for a large-ish grocery store chain is very different. For one, I watched my first harassment video titled, "From Sex to Religion and Everything in Between." I tried to find a video clip so everyone could experience the awkwardness with me, but a quick google search revealed that this 23-minute cinematic gem costs a cool $325 sooo no video clip. A detailed description of my favorite bit is going to have to cut it.

An average looking man (if he was good looking, he would already be in a mediocre movie about vampires or racing cars, am I right or am I right?) is at a horribly tacky tiki bar getting two martinis and brings one over to an average looking woman who is his co-worker and begins to woo her. Fellas, remember these lines because they are gonna get you some tail someday.

Man: Hey Melissa (or some other generic white lady name) you're looking mighty fine tonight.
Woman: umm thanks...
Man: Really you're looking fantastic. I see you in that labcoat at work and it gets me all hot and bothered! Wanna sex? (That last one was my addition, but I think this character would say something like that)
Woman: ummm... that makes me uncomfortable.(walks away)
(cuts to incredibly dry woman who blatantly reads off cue cards why this is an inappropriate thing to say to a co-worker)

Bottom line: if you don't want to get sued for harassment of any type, don't have a personality and become a mute because anything you say can be misconstrued as offensive.

Just another Wednesday at the Statehouse...

This week is USC's spring break, which means that all but a few of the pages and interns are here. For me, that means I get the morning hours, something that I actually enjoy because it is quiet and I can check my email and facebook in peace. This particular morning, there was no quiet. Lobbyists, constituents, entire organizations of people pushing their agendas stormed through my office like the hyenas in The Lion King and I was Simba (because I'm a prince(ss). duh.) except there was no Mufasa to save me. Just the soothing voice of James Earl Jones would have sufficed.

I got coffee and made some copies for The Senator then headed over to the free breakfast buffet to get a plate for Ms. Joanie, though she wouldn't arrive until 10:30 this morning. A note about the free breakfast and lunch buffets. Companies or organizations sponsor these free breakfast or lunch buffets (the breakfasts have cold sausage biscuits, fruit salad and some sad mini-muffins and the lunch is almost exclusively catered by three barbeque restaurants in Columbia) with the hope that they will get to mingle with some important law makers, but what actually happens is that staffers go get their free food while the senators send other people (read: me) to get them plates of food and bring it back to their various offices and meetings. There is the occasional senator or representative that stops by, but The Senator has never been to a buffet to my knowledge.

So, I got Ms. Joanie a plate but didn't get her orange juice. Through her clairvoyant abilities, she called to tell me that she would be coming in soon and to get her some OJ at the buffet. Trip #2 to the buffet room. There will be five trips by the end of today. Compelling stuff, huh?

My next ridiculous task was to find the peanuts in The Senator's car. No, that isn't a euphemism for anything. Get your mind out of the gutter. I was given the keys to his car and told to dig around for a pack of peanuts he had bought at the grocery store. Whenever I'm told to find something in his car, I feel such power. If this was Ocean's 11 and The Senator was the owner of a casino on the strip, I would have been paid off to slip a bug into his car by Brad Pitt. It would have fulfilled two of my dreams: to be in a heist movie and be in the presence of the ridiculously handsome Brad Pitt. Alas, my life isn't a heist movie. After 10 unsuccessful minutes and a battle with the old-fashioned mechanism on his trunk, I returned defeated by the peanuts to find that he had actually left them at home.

A few more errands and it was lunch time. Yet another buffet luncheon that featured yes, you guessed it, bbq. I walk over for trip #3 to find a line that rivals the line for the new iPad. I patiently waited while others casually cut in line. Temporarily feeling superior for not cutting, a gentleman walks up to me inquisitively to ask a question about what all the hub-bub was about. That's what I assumed. Instead, he asks me what grade I'm in. NO GRADE. NO GRADE AT ALL. I AM A COLLEGE GRADUATE. Why was he making such awkward conversation with me you ask? To cut the goddamn line. I wanted to stomp on his toes and say "I'm rubber you're glue, whatever bounces off of me sticks to you." Thankfully, these functions provide nametags which are real handy. Phil Louis from Furman University, you're on my shit list. A colleague of Phil's, another line cutter, stepped up next to him assuming he had found an in but boy did I show them. Little did Phil know, what he assumed was his ally in the battle of the line cutting would be his downfall. Just as casually as Phil slipped into line, I slipped right in front of him and his buddy while they were chatting. Let that be a lesson to you, Phil. Never let your guard down. I may look like I'm a high schooler, but you would be sorely mistaken if you want to cross me, in lines or otherwise.

I finish my pagely duties, get Ms. Joanie and Penny their lunches and head back only to find that The Senator and Bobby Caution also need their lunches. Trip #4 ensues. I trek back thinking, "I bet the line will have died down by now." How naive of me to think that. The line had not died down, but grown. So I waited patiently in line again trying to look on the upside of things. At least I wasn't at my desk doing nothing. I wasn't looking for non-existant peanuts. It could have been worse. Then I see more and more people cutting in line. Fuck. This. Shit. I find a woman further up in the line and scooch in with her using my standard, "I'm sorry, but I have to get lunch for The Senator and Bobby," which always works. I loaded up two more plates when a man next to me says "wow, you're real hungry aren't you?" I replied using my awkward Statehouse laugh, which I have had to cultivate over my time here as a defense mechanism against awful "jokes" such as these. I'm carrying two loaded plates and a drink like a waitress. Does it look like I want to make small talk, stranger?

I get The Senator and Bobby their meals and settle down to eat my sandwich in peace. No such luck. I didn't get drinks for Ms. Joanie and Penny. Trip #5. At this point, I think the security guards near the buffet room think I have some sort of parasite in my stomach that makes me eat mass quantities of food. This time, I use the back door and sneak in past those suckers still waiting in line, grab my drinks and storm out.

Five trips to a buffet line, four messages taken, three trips to the copy machine, two pots of coffee made, one pack of peanuts missing in action, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Pretty Woman Syndrome

Considering I haven't hit the triple digit mark on my page view stats, this may be a moot point, but I have a question to ask anyone who may glance at this blog:

Have you ever been Pretty Woman-ed at a high-end restaurant? Just to clarify, have you ever been to an expensive restaurant and felt you weren't getting treated with the same respect that older, more high-brow customers were recieving? I ask this because I'm writing a story for a food magazine my friend is starting up and would like to have some personal stories to prove or disprove my point.

Feel free to leave any comments!

Who do you think you are? Mel Gibson?

Imagine my surprise when I went to nytimes.com today and saw this headline: "Dior Fires John Galliano After Bigotry Complaints".

For those of you who don't follow fashion, John Galliano has always been a darling of the fashion industry. Critically acclaimed and beloved for his Jack Sparrowesque style, he's been the creative director of Dior for 15 some odd years...and now he's being charged with saying anti-Semitic remarks at a Paris bar. Ahh how the mighty have fallen.

Yes, he may have been drunk and someone caught his comment out of context, but as a general rule that it is never going to end well when you shout, "I love Hitler!" in a crowded bar. Too soon. Too soon.

Maybe he's inhaled too much hairspray or his manorexia has clouded his judgement but either way, bravo LVMH for firing him. They could have easily brushed it off so they wouldn't have to lose him, especially with their fall showing coming up soon. You'd think that as a man who frequently dresses like a gay pirate, he'd be more open-minded.

Congratulations, Mr. Galliano. You have now joined the ranks of famous people who ruined their careers by shouting prejudiced remarks. Senior members include Mel Gibson, Don Imus, Charlie Sheen and Rush Limbaugh. A representative will be by shortly to tattoo "ASSHOLE" to your forehead. Have a good day.

Let them eat cake!

Is it just my office or does everyone else have some sort of cake at least once a week? I feel like Elaine when she worked at J. Peterman and they had cake everyday for someone's birthday or other ridiculous occasion to the point where her body was craving a 3:30 sugar rush. Whether it is actually someone's birthday or a lobbyist thinks bringing in a cake will sway a vote or two, we consistently have cake in the office. Not only is it always in the office, it sits directly in my eyeline, staring me down, tempting me with its promise of a 15 minute burst of energy in my otherwise stale day. What's worse is that when I finally stop fighting my natural urges and get a piece of cake, there's a 50/50 chance that it tastes like crap. Last week's cake had so much sugar in it that my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. All the more reason why eating the cake is so dangerous.

In today's case, it wasn't anyone's birthday. The occasion was looooove.
A conversation between Ms. Joanie and I:
Ms. Joanie: Come get some cake, ladybug
Me: What's the occasion?
Ms. Joanie: This dumb guy at my church baked it for me.
Me: Ooh Ms. Joanie you have an admirer!
Ms. Joanie: Well, that's just too bad. He can dream on.

That's Ms. Joanie. Breaking hearts one at a time. It was only later on that I found out the cake was actually baked into the shape of a heart. A heart. Yes, a bit cheesy, but gotta give a guy props for trying to woo a woman with a homemade heart-shaped cake.

"If at first you don't secede, try again"

As all (three) of you know from my first entry, I work as a page in the South Carolina Senate. I am at the bottom of the food chain. My main duties include answering phones, making coffee and copies, shredding documents and running errands. Call me a human switchboard/answering machine. Even though I may have the most mundane job in the world, I have to say it has been an enlightening experience. Working at the South Carolina Senate has opened my eyes to how state government truly functions and can be characterized in two words: extreme inefficiency. If SC state's government is any indication of how federal government works, then this country is is in for a rough road and that's not a stab at Columbia's awful infrastructure. Let's take my job for example. All pages are pretty much expendable. While it's true that some senators, like the one that I work for, get high volumes of phone calls it really isn't anything that the main administrative assistant couldn't handle. If you think I'm being whiny, I have to agree with you. Whenever I complain, I think about what I actually do, which is read and play on the computer all day long and occasionally answer a phone call. There are worse jobs out there.

Let me give you a breakdown of the main players in the laugh/cry that is my job:

    Ms. Joanie is a sassy septuagenarian who is The Senator's administrative assistant. She is the sweetest woman in the world to those on her good list (luckily I am), but if you cross her, god help you. She would have no qualms destroying you old-southern-lady style, which means talking about you behind your back, the cold shoulder and ignoring your messages. Despite the fact that Ms. Joanie rolls in at 3:00 many days during the summer, she is actually very good at what she does. She has giant rolodexes of The Senator's contacts and she knows every one of them and if she doesn't she fakes it like a girl on prom night. The Senator also happens to be a hypochondriac (read: needy baby) and she dutifully puts up with every one of his "ailments." I couldn't do it.

    Bobby Caution is The Senator's chief of staff. If you're wondering what the chief of staff for a state senator does, you're not alone. In my year and a half of working there I still can't really tell what Bobby does to earn the $150,000 and corner office that he has, and to be frank, I don't think he knows either. As far as this amateur sleuth's eye can tell, his main duties include drinking diet coke by the gallon, chain smoking and talking on his cell phone in a way that can only be described as religulous, as Bill Maher might say. He is without a doubt the most interesting character in the office. Think Creed Bratton from "The Office."

    Penny is The Senator's actual right-hand woman even though on the . I'm not sure of her official job title, but as far as I can tell, she picks up Caution's slack. When I worked early mornings, I was always expected to be there at 8:50ish to make the coffee and catch any early morning phone calls and Ms. Penny was consistently there at 9 a.m. or earlier, which shouldn't be some miraculous feat considering that everyone there is supposed to work a standard 9-5 day, but from what I can see only a handful within my department adhere to that rule. It should also be noted that Penny and Ms. Joanie are BFFs 4 eva in the office and gossip over coffee and cookies daily. I guess I'd need an outlet if I worked full-time there too.

    The Senator. What can I say about the Boss Man? Last christmas he gave me a computer screen cleaner that looked like a knock-off beanie baby manufacturer realized he lost a ton of money then wondered to him/herself, "what can I do with these damn beanie babies? I know, I'll repurpose them into computer screen cleaners! Donezo, I think I'll smoke some more weed now." Surprisingly, rubbing a beanie baby's tummy on your computer screen will only smudge it and leave fuzz on it. There's other stuff about him, but this is the shit you really wanna hear about, not about his stance on the Voter Identification bill or charitable raffles.

Moral of the story: get a job in state government! You can make a pretty living doing minimal work! Also, it's never as bad as it seems.

P.S. I wish I could take credit for that amazing pun in the title, but I cannot. Senator Lee Bright said it in reference to a bill that says South Carolina should make its own currency in case the Federal Reserve collapses. I won't even get into it. Too. Many. Jokes.

THE NEIGHBOR

I'm not Catholic, so I was unaware there was a patron saint of changing light bulbs/ evicting creepy neighbors, but apparently there is and he comes in the form of an old handyman with a thick southern accent. Let me explain.

When my roommate moved into our duplex four years ago, the neighbor that she shared a wall with was the kind of neighbor that you'd want: nice, friendly, you know, neighborly. So when she moved out, I guess the universe decided to even things out a bit and in comes Chris, who we now refer to as Creepy Neighbor, or Pedophile Neighbor, or simply THE NEIGHBOR (I considered writing a short slasher screenplay based on him). He's your average white dude; you wouldn't pay attention to him if you saw him walking down the street. But if I've learned anything from Chris Hansen on "How to Catch a Predator", it's the average white dudes in their early 30s you want to watch out for. He does not have a job, though purports to be a writer, and is fully supported by his parents (our walls are REALLY thin and I have the unfortunate luck of sharing a bedroom wall with him). Since he doesn't have a job, he's up at 3 a.m. blasting Metallica, which don't get me wrong is a great band, but not exactly the soothing sounds of rain on a tin roof. This dude has Spinal Tap amps and they are set at eleven. I couldn't care less what my neighbors do in their own house, but when it starts to affect my sleep, you better believe I'm coming at you.

My roommate has called the landlord and the cops on him countless times and nada. We tried to be diplomatic by setting reasonable hours during which he could play his music and we wouldn't bang on the wall or bother him, but night after night, he would blare his music. One word. HEADPHONES. They aren't new technology. We theorized that maybe he played his music so that we couldn't hear the screams of the people he kills.

I'm also pretty sure that he has a massive crush on my roommate because she was initially nice to him, which must have been a new experience for him. On the flip side, he HATES me for basically telling him to shut the fuck up. I have a particular hatred for him because he refuses to call me by my name and instead calls me "Asian Roommate" and believes that China is out to get him. Just him.

Just to give you a taste of what I'm dealing with, here is a scenario that stands out in my mind from when I had just moved in. My friend and her husband came over to help me troubleshoot my router and see my new digs. They happened to park their car in his spot so when THE NEIGHBOR came back from whatever a 30 year-old unemployed bipolar idiot does, he parked behind me, effectively blocking me in just as I had to go to work. I knocked on his door to ask him to move his car. I would just paraphrase the conversation I had, but it is too bizarre and needs to be told verbatim.

Me (holding The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest): Could you move your car while I pull out? I have to go to work.
Creepy Neighbor (speaking very quickly and standing too close for comfort): I was wondering when you were going to come over here where am I supposed to park if your friend is parked there? What's that book about?
Me: umm... you probably want to start with the first one; it's the third in a series...so about my car...
CN: You know where the hornet's nest occurred? The Civil War.
Me (baffled): umm... ok. so if you just move your car and could you also keep your music down? you've been playing it at 5:30 and 6 am
CN: You don't have to bang on my wall and don't call the landlord.
Me: You have to understand from my perspective 5:30 am is not a reasonable time to be blasting Metallica. It wakes us up.
CN: Who are you to dictate when I can play my music?
Me: I'm not. The landlord does.
CN: This is just like you liberals. There's me on the right and 200 people on the left. I know ALL the politicians, judges, lawyers, and cops in this town.
Roomate: What does that have to do with anything?
CN:...........

He eventually moved his car and I drove away confused, angry, late for work and wanting to put a flaming bag of dog poo on his door step.

Fast forward several months on one fateful day when our industrial-sized florescent kitchen lightbulb burned out. St. Handyman promptly came over to fix it then asked me about THE NEIGHBOR because he had also blocked him in (sensing a trend?) From there I spilled the beans about how much trouble he was giving us. When St. Handyman politely asked THE NEIGHBOR to move his car, he lost his shit and started cursing. One curse at St. Handyman and BOOM! evicted. I had no idea that Saints worked so quickly. Maybe I should also casually mention those parking tickets to Him.

Hello!

Oh hi there! My name is Page. Not really. I don't want to start our relationship off with lies, but I've got some juicy tales in store for all you readers (i.e. the three friends i've actually told about this blog) about my job, which is a page in the South Carolina Senate. Even though the job pays less than what Lindsay Lohan is getting paid to act these days, it's the only job I've held for more than a few months so I don't want to fuck up my chances at maintaining my slave wages. And for those of you who have stumbled upon this blog because you googled "NBC Page," sorry, you won't be getting any inside info into the application process or the interviews because I haven't been through it myself, but I hope to someday. Sure, I'll still be doing bitch work, but maybe it'll be for Seth Myers (swoon). Right about now you're probably starting to think "screw this, I'm going back to my NBC page research...or maybe Facebook...or StumbleUpon...or ooh there's that piece of pie in the fridge..." At least that tends to be my train of thought, but if you stick around, you'll get the inside look into a recent college grad's life and job at a state senator's office where my main duties include making coffee, handing papers from one person to another and slowly dying of boredom and brain atrophy, if that exists. That last one isn't in the job description, but I bet you're on the edge of your seat waiting to hear more, eh?

So why start a blog when I can't even tell anyone who I am? I don't know, why the fuck not? You wanna start something?!?! No, wait! Don't go! But seriously, I used to have a blog with my two best friends in 8th or 9th grade called "The Perfect Threesome." We were awesome. We thought so, and so did our two fans (a special shout out to Dillion and Caitlin). Unfortunately, we had to make it private between the three of us because my bestie's dad found out about it and was not pleased about our risque conversations about boys and kissing and cooties and reading The Lord of the Flies and how much that totally sucked butt. But I digress. I started the blogging again for several reasons:
1. I'm really bored.
2. I liked blogging back in the day.
3. Who doesn't relish the thought of internet fame that doesn't include an embarrassing YouTube clip?

Are you still reading? Whew, good. That would be a real kick in my non-existant balls if you had already stopped.
You've already heard a little bit about my 8th grade days, but let me bring you up to speed on 2011 me. I just turned 23. I'm a TV and movie junkie. Spiders are my biggest fear. I graduated with a business major with Spanish and Chinese minors. I'm 3/4 Chinese and 1/4 Korean. Sandwiches are my favorite kind of food. I could be the world champion in procrastinating. If I could pick any super power to have, it would be teleporting.  I went to an all girls, six-week summer camp for seven years that my cabinmate's dad affectionately calls "Cult Mont Shenandoah," so named because we were dragged away sobbing at the end of each summer. I met some of my best friends there and wouldn't have traded one day there for any beach vacation.

I'm sure you're dying to read more, but enough for tonight, greedy readers. That piece of pie in the fridge is calling my name.