"Death will be a great relief. No more interviews."*

   [After righting (really??) writing this and rereading it, I imagined it in a deep, emotional voice.]  

   Hello.

   It’s been a while.

   My life is a series of unimportant misadventures, so I won’t try to make this seem more epic than it is.

   But changes have occurred.

   No, I’m not majestically thin and one-chinned, like I hope for every year.

   And I do have new stories and drawings…but they mostly play on iterations of my failures at life, which is fair game for this blog. But still.

   Okay, enough. This post is veering toward what seems disturbingly like a Todd Rundgren song (not that there's anything wrong with Sir TR).

   I had the worst interview of my life the other day. (Just kidding I've had worse.)

   I’d been in Omaha for FOUR WEEKS (what?!?) and I’d only been back in Austin for a day when I received an email from one of the higher up professors here at school (we’ll call him Dr. W) saying that I’d been suggested as a viable candidate for a TA position (no idea who would have gotten that idea).

   These TA positions are rad. I mean, at the very least, you get in-state tuition, which would, if I were to receive it, significantly decrease the inevitable hell of debt I’ll face upon graduating from this super expensive lofty institution.

   So I pulled my hung over responsible, well-rested ass out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn to be at Dr. W’s office at 8:30. Okay, so it’s not really that early, but whatever, I was coming off 4 weeks of 13-hour sleeps. I was seemingly the first person in the building. The janitor was just getting started, classes hadn’t begun and I had on my most responsible looking ensemble (eye-drops, blazer, socks, etc..). Another gal was sort of sneaking in and out and around through the building, but I figured she was lost. Dr. W wasn’t in his office yet and so I had to be his first interview of the day.

   By 8:45, I was draped over a chair, my chin on the back, staring out the window at the fog.

   Dr. W stepped off the elevator with the creepster girl and started walking towards his office.

   I followed them.

   “I’m early,” she said.

   “No, I think you’re right on time.”

   “Maybe you’re thinking she’s me. I’m Lacey. I’m supposed to be your 8:30.”

   He turned and stared at me for a moment.

   “No, Lacey, I think I have you at 9.”

   The other girl said, “I’m supposed to be at 9.”

   He said, “Lacey, you won’t mind, will you?”

   I'm not gonna lie to you. I think he took her first because she's black. But whatever.

   So I slunk back to the lobby and read the 3^rd installment in the Caroline B. Cooney’s The Face on the Milk Carton series for young adult readers for half an hour.

   When he finally ushered me into the room, everything seemed odd.

   I sat down.

   He got on his computer and typed for a few minutes.

   “So, do you have any questions?”

   We hadn’t spoken before, so I had several.

   I began by asking him to explain the class.

   He said that in addition to one graduate TA, he would have 5 undergrad GA’s who would effectively do all the work. Then he explained the online discussion forum, how they'd tried it 3 or 4 times, how he didn't think it was so great and he wasn't sure why the University kept doing it.

   I said, “And you’ve done this before?”

   He said, “Yeah. I just said that. Literally one minute ago.”

   I suppose I’d meant the question as more of a rhetorical one, as in "why do you keep doing a virtual discussion that you think is counterproductive?" but okay. I was shamed, in the way I generally feel shamed anywhere I go outside of grocery stores, the only place where I feel free to tell people how rude and inappropriate their behavior is.

   “Sorry.”

   Meek.

   Then he talked some more about the class, and the program in general. He was mostly reading emails and looking out the door.

   “Do you have any questions?”

   I tried to explain what I felt the class was about, structured as a question. “It seems to be a class about the practical application of advertising in different career fields…?”

   “No. That’s not really it at all.” You could feel that what he meant to say was, "No, you fucking moron. That has nothing to do with anything. Shut your mouth when you're talking to me."

   I felt like I was in some sort of awkward shame spiral. I didn’t have anymore real questions to ask, because usually people ask me questions during interviews.

   “Well, do you have a syllabus I could look at?” I had asked him repeatedly to just tell me in plain language what the class was about and every way I approached it, he acted as though I were some sort of feeb who didn’t understand English.

   The syllabus cleared up a few points. But not many.

   But for some reason, we looked at it for a long time and then he started telling me stories about undergrads who'd tried to use this class to get into the advertising major and how they'd failed: Jason and Maria, in case you're interested. Yes, he was naming names. I was sweating in a weird, sick person sort of way. My face felt really hot.

   He asked me if I had any questions. I was very uncomfortable. I couldn't keep coming up with questions for a whole interview, could I?

   So I asked if he had any questions.

   He pulled out my résumé and stared at it.

   It was all misformatted (not a word), with a bunch of crapola HTML printed out in large type all over the top.

   “Oh no. That’s not right.” I pulled out a copy from my bag.

   “Well, now you know that this can happen,” he offered, throwing the ill-formatted résumé in the garbage. "And, so you know, you're here because what's-her-name Natalie bailed on me. Maybe you know her?"

   “I don't know if I do?"

   "Well, she flaked."

   "Sorry...?"

   Meek again. Who was I? Why couldn’t I speak? Why did he keep ratting people out?

   Long silence.

   “Why did you spell ‘copyeditor’ as one word?”

   I panicked. As you already know, if you read this blog at all, I AM A HORRIBLE SPELLER.

   “Um, I don’t know.” I crept behind him and read over his shoulder. “I thought it was one word?”

   “Hmmm…maybe it is. I don’t actually know.”

   He stared some more.

   “If you want to know, I’m actually a really bad speller. I mean, not bad. I’m a good writer. I write. I mean, I use the computer to help me when I’m spelling. I have a blog. It’s about how I’m good with ideas and not so much with spelling…?”

   (OH MY GOD WHY AM I TALKING ABOUT WHAT A BAD SPELLER I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF AN INTERVIEW FOR A TEACHING POSITION??)

   “Are you in creative?” he asked.

   “Yes. But I just got in.”

   “Okay, so what was your answer to the question?”

   He pulled out the prompt from a month ago. The one that caused me a lot of sleepless nights and hard, hard work.

   I told him my answer to the prompt.

   He raised one eyebrow and shook his head as if to indicate that he had no idea why a big old dumb-dumb such as myself could have made it into Texas Creative.

   Silence.

   “Why don’t you send me a copy of that application?”

   I agreed to it, though I was scared he'd tell people all about how bad it was. It seemed clear that he didn't keep secrets very well.

   “You wanna see some really great résumés?” he asked.

   We spent the next 15 minutes looking at résumés on his computer, beautiful résumés clearly created by graphic designers, with timelines and pie charts and arrows and colors, and he said he’d email them to me, so I could make mine better.

   I felt thoroughly shamed.

   My résumé was bad. And it was not well formatted. I couldn’t spell. My creative application was awful. I’d arrived at “the wrong time.” And I asked a question he’d already answered a minute before. I couldn’t wait to get back into bed.
   He said he'd be in touch and let me know by the day's end.

   On my walk of shame home, I looked up “copyeditor." Chicago Manual of Style agrees with me, as does Word. Your basic Google search and this here Blogger: not so much.

   But She of the 9 o’clock appointment got the gig, even though it turned out all the words on my résumé were spelled correctly..

   Life is a game of whack-a-mole, as my friend Rebecca always says. And I’ll talk more about my insane blessings in a future post (yeah right, who wants to hear about things going great for someone? Isn't that just a blog about bragging?), but it feels good to be back and telling you all my troubles. 

Do you think my résumé really needs work?

*Katharine Hepburn. Dark, admittedly, but she has a point. Although I'm pretty sure she wasn't referring to job interviews.

"She has lost the power of conversation, but not, unfortunately, the power of speech."*

   Y’all ever feel weird and like things aren’t quite the way they ought to be? I’m not a person who fears change, but change does tend to wreak havoc on me. Lately I find myself feeling like I’m the central figure in some David Arkenstone album.

   In case you’re a normal person (or just someone with good taste), you've never heard of David Arkenstone. You should be able to find out everything about him here. My parents, who’ve instilled me with their excellent musical tastes over the years (The Beatles, Yes, Ravi Shankar, The Gershwins, The Allman Brothers, and Led Zeppelin as well as all things classical), had a dark period in the mid-nineties. It was the Arkenstone period, and I don’t want to talk too much about it. Because it’s embarrassing. But his “music” (if you can call it that) always made me feel as though it was about nomads wondering through the desert. But not, you know, like real nomads. These nomads (again, all in my head) were dressed like Olivia Newton-John in that “Physical” video. It was “Physical” meets Lawrence of Arabia. It was (is) terrible. Listen to Mr. Arkenstone sometime. You’ll get it.

   So I’ve been feeling all wandery-in-the-desert, and purposeless and also just epically removed. But maybe also a little bit like Olivia Newton-John in the "Physical" video (spandex, leg warmers, bad hair, headbands). When I get confused about my place in the world, I get tired and take a nap. But there’s really no time for that. I have to take math class (stats, finally!) and find a job (anywhere, anytime) and work on my summer bucket list.

   The bucket list isn’t long, as yet.

   Here it is:

1.  Do a pull-up.

2.  Run a mile.

3.  Run a mile in under 15 minutes (this was my time when I was on the track team in junior high and finished last at EVERY SINGLE MEET.)

4.  Get over fear of bugs, especially spiders, as there will be many of both in Texas.

   I’m currently running for 10 minutes IN A ROW and have accomplished only .63 miles. I’ve killed many spiders and one silverfish, but I’m not anywhere near over my fears. (Especially after hearing Ouisa's boyfriend, Matt, talk in a scholarly fashion about bedbugs, which I'm now convinced are crawling on me at all times.) I’m working on lat pull-downs to make my side muscles stronger.

   But I feel kind of like those people in that American Gothic** painting. I’m standing around with a bunch of tools (or just a broom?) and looking confused and angry in front of a big old barn house: the modern-day, Nebraska equivalent of wandering through the desert.

Nebraskan Gothic

*The quote is George Bernard Shaw. It should be my epitaph.

**Did you know that Grant Woods modeled the figures in American Gothic on his neighbor and his own sister? I also didn't know it was supposed to be a farmer and his spinster daughter. I always thought they were supposed to be a married couple. Wow, art.

"'Cause I've seen blue skies, through the tears in my eyes, and I realize...I'm going home."*

   Hi. It’s been a while. It’s okay if you’re over me. I’ve been sort of over myself, if you know what I mean.

   A lot has happened in the last three weeks. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will provide you with hi-lights, so we can ease back into our routine without too much hoop-la. I hate explanations. I never know what to leave out, and then I end up writing too much and everyone gets bored.

   Bored is bad.

   Okay:

1.  I live in Omaha now. It’s not permanent, but it feels strange. Being here on vacation is one thing. Living here (if only for a couple of months) feels overwhelmingly surreal. I don’t have a ton of stuff to occupy my time as yet, so I drive around and take pictures of things. Which is pretty much exactly what I did the last time I lived here…in the year 2000. Only back then I just drove around. And, to be fair, I can make anything feel overwhelming.

So strange to see in the summer, but so great all the same. Memorial Park, Omaha.

2.  Em and I drove from Los Angeles to Three Rivers, CA to see the Sequoias (more on that later). Then we drove from there to Omaha. In total it took 4 days. We are no longer sprightly, energetic people like we once were. We are slightly older and we get tired easily. Four days felt long, but three days would’ve killed us. Can’t imagine how much it would’ve hurt if we didn’t really like each other.

The drive from LA, via Sequoia National Park, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado and Western Nebraska.

3.  My life leading up to the road trip was a hazy blur of packing, drinking, eating whatever I could find, and sleeping and then doing all of those same things again. It may have been fun at times. I don’t choose to remember. 

My life pre-move: a vicious cycle.

4.  I realized the other week that I’m sexually attracted to men in drag.

5. Speaking of men in drag, did you hear Tim Curry had a stroke? E and I saw him in LA once. It remains the celebrity-siting hi-light of my existence. One of the sexiest men EVER. He's recovering properly, so don't worry.

6.  I don’t know if my succulents will survive the summer in Omaha. It’s already rained twice since they’ve been here, and the sun isn’t being too cooperative. They don’t like that. They look a lot like I do when I’m hungover. And my aloe plant has a broken arm from the road trip.

7.  I have been forced to kill three spiders in three days (Gabe would say I wasn't forced, and she herself would just pick them up with her GD hands and take them outside because she is INVINCIBLE). And I don’t want to kill them (yes I do! I do!), but not because I’m good and nature-y like Gabe, but because they horrify me, but the alternative is worse (they will mutate into Shiders and/or eat me in my sleep). It’s so spider-y in the summers in Nebraska. Just writing about it makes me feel things crawling on my skin.

8.  I feel very fat at present. And covered in webs.

   Alrighty, then, I think you’re up to speed, basically. I will write more and better things in the next few days, if my sanity holds out. I still need to find a groove but also...I was afraid to write, thinking that this would be hard for us. And then I had to figure out my parents' Interwebs code. But then I realized that one of us had to be the mature one. You’re welcome. 

*"I'm Going Home" by Richard O'Brien from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Performed by my beloved Tim Curry.

"Reality is the leading cause of stress among those in touch with it."*

   It seems like major life changes always come in bunches. When it rains, it pours, if you will. And I started with one change and then things sort of spun out of control. As they do.

   So, there’s the fact that I’m moving again. And this time I’m moving across the country (but only halfway) to Texas. (Yeehaw!) But then there’s the fact that I’ve got a lot of packing to do, recently quit my antidepressant, have applied/am applying to a butt-load of internships, went to the wedding of one of my best friends and learned that one of my other best friends is engaged. I’m going to live in Omaha for the summer and need to find a job. I’m starting school in Austin in the fall and need to figure out how to pay for it. I have to cancel all the utilities, get rid of some furniture, pass my marketing class, and remember to water my plants and shower occasionally. Whoa, lordy, lordy. I’m a mess. Sadly, I’ve not skipped a single meal so I’m still not one of those people who lose weight when they’re stressed out. 

I'll have to get better at drawing Texas...

   Let’s start with the fact that I’m moving to Texas to raise, ride, and rope broncos. No, not really. I’m just going to graduate school. (The bronco thing will just be a side gig.) Did you know that graduate school is very expensive and there are no dorms? It’s okay, I didn’t have a dorm in undergrad so I’m not that worried. But a little handholding and a helpful to-do list from the U would be useful. I can’t think about that now. There are too many things between now and then that have to get figured out, if I think about that now I’ll go crazy.

   I’m moving back home (Omaha) for the summer. I have to find a job of some type, since I’m almost positive I will not be receiving an allowance. Finding a job in a new/old city is hard. Especially when the city is so small that there’s a good chance you’ll wind up giving a lap dance to one of your high school teachers. Just kidding. My dancing days are over. But it’d still be slightly awkward to wait on my parents’ next-door neighbors or serve coffee to my ex-boyfriend’s best friend.  Shoot. Fingers crossed I get an office job and never have to explain my poor life choices to someone from my past this summer. But Omaha doesn’t usually work that way (3 degrees of separation), so my hopes aren’t very high in that regard.

   But even BEFORE I can panic too much about summer employment, I have to move. Again. And I hate moving. Moving is a heinous, boring nightmare that forces me to really examine when and how I became such a ferocious hoarder. And I have to shut off all my utilities, but I can’t get out in front of them: you really have to cancel them right when you move or you’re sort-of fucked for electricity and gas and Internet for a few weeks. Nards.

   I generally respond to stress by taking a nap. But even that is biting me in the butt, because napping prevents me from packing. And if I don’t finish packing, I can’t move. And if I don’t move, I can’t go to grad school. And if I don’t go to grad school, I’ll die of sadness and poverty. Life is viciously stressful.

   And did I mention I stopped taking my antidepressant? Good timing, that. But I couldn’t bear to go back to my mean, old psychiatrist. She’s a bitch and makes me cry every time I see her. I’d rather cry for free. Plus, it was probably time to quit, anyway. But now I feel like everyday I’m standing outside of my body watching things happen to someone else and it’s extremely disconcerting. And it’s super hard to feel energetic or to get good sleep. I really couldn’t have planned a worse time to go cold turkey on my mental health meds. But…such is life. And it is, yet again, a first world problem. But I’m insane (for real) at the moment. And I probably sound like a bona fide psychopath. But that was always lurking inside of me, and its time I start appreciating myself as the fucked up individual I’ve always been…and may always be.

   And it’s making my insides feel like they’re full of poison and tears. But my insides are also working desperately to expel them, so it’s sort of like a cleanse, right? I’ll add “cleanse” to my California bucket list. It’s such a California thing to do.

I didn't really drink poison. That was artistic license. But it feels like poison's going to come out sometime soon...

   In an effort to stay the positive course, here are things I’m looking forward to in the next few weeks/months:

1.  Leaving Los Angeles.

2.  Spending summer in Omaha.

3.  Paddle-surfing (tomorrow!): bucket list! Bucket list! (Thanks to Gabe and Em!)

4.  Road trips (to Omaha, to Austin, maybe to Mt. Rushmore this summer).

5.  Summer, summer, summer.

6.  Cowboys.

7.  New beginnings.

*The quote is from Lily Tomlin. I don't know how much it applies to me personally, since my grasp of reality is questionable. But it's a nice quote anyway.

"Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination."*

   Good grief I’ve been lazy the last few weeks. I apologize. I’ve been in Omaha and you all know how that usually goes. See, in Omaha I have what is known by the general population as “A Social Life.” Since I don’t have much of one in Los Angeles, I have lots more time to write when I’m there. And since I don’t have much of one in Los Angeles, it is important to take full advantage of the one I have when I’m in Omaha. My life is really sad and pathetic. 

   Anyway, I’m going to ease back into blogging and not overwhelm your senses with my super insightful musings on life today. I have lots of pictures of stuff to show you from my last week in Omaha, but today I just want to share a couple from my bedroom.
   Here’s a book my parents bought me in junior high that makes me feel like laughing and sobbing at the same time. The title pretty much says it all:

   It's pretty clear that I wasn't feeling too happy in seventh grade and it's nice to know that my parents were doing what they could to cheer me up. Namely, buying me literature so I could read about how to get better. That's kind of the way we did things growing up at the Rouse House. You got a math problem? Here's a book about Algebra! You want to learn computer programming? I found a great book about DOS. You have a leg cramp? Here's a copy of Curing Your Leg Cramp for Dummies! I guess the theory is that most things can be fixed by doing the research. Thus the book on how to cure crippling sadness if seventh grade is sucking your will to live.
   But why was I so insecure? Because look: what's this bookmark?

 I'll show you what it is:

   It's my ribbon for First Honors. How could I have suffered from low self-esteem when my grades were so good? Could it have been the fact that my forehead, nose, and extremities were enormous and my hair was constantly greasy and I had gotten my period but not my boobs and there were constantly at least two zits on my chin and I could never be sure if my friends would still be my friends on any given day? I don't think that's enough to make a seventh grader sad: all junior high kids really care about is good grades, right?
   Still, it's nice to know that I read that book and all my problems were solved that very same year. (Coincidentally, this was also the year I began taking anti-depressants. But I'm pretty sure it was the book that turned things around.)
   Anyway, that's just one of the many treasures I've unearthed here in my parents' house in Omaha since I've been back. I will be updating on a more regular basis now that the holidays are essentially gone along with all my friends and my social life. 
   (Notice how much more cheerful a person I am nowadays?)

*The quote is from Mark Twain. I'm not sure what the implications are for my life...I guess I'm either insane and happy or sane and miserable? Most likely it's the former.

"What the hell are you driving here?" "We had a small fire last night, but we caught it in the nick of time." "Do you have any idea how fast you were going?" "Funny enough, I was just talking to my friend about that. Our speedometer has melted and as a result it's very hard to see with any degree of accuracy exactly how fast we were going."*

   I regret the decision to write about Planes, Trains and Automobiles in my last post. For those who haven’t seen it because they care nothing about culture or the world in which they live, it is a movie about a man (Neal/Steve Martin) who is attempting to get home to Chicago from a work trip in New York in time to celebrate Thanksgiving with his family. In New York he stumbles upon Del (John Candy) a shower ring salesman who inadvertently poops all over every attempt Neal makes to get home. The two wind up traveling together on planes, trains (though I honestly don’t remember a train part—but I’m sure it’s in there) and also in automobiles. And it’s rough. It takes days. And Del is a slobbish buffoon who makes life hell for Neal, who doesn’t really have the holiday spirit (Thanksgiving holiday spirit, not Christmas) in his heart to begin with. But then it stops being funny and gets sad and I can’t stand it. Intrigued? Because you probably should be.

Neal and Del have an accident. (Photo)

   I regret my decision to bring this movie up because I’m pretty sure I planes, trains and automobiles-ed myself by even mentioning it. It’s like saying Candy Man three times or mentioning the name Macbeth in a theatre. It’s bad luck and/or certain death. I’m Irish, was raised Catholic, and spent the first 28 years of my life in theatres so it’s okay for me to be superstitious to a decidedly ridiculous degree. I have no choice in the matter and can't do anything about it, anyway. Just ask my Tarot deck and my Ouija Board.

   The shit started with a phone call around 12:30 on the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving. It was Primetime Shuttle calling to inform me that my shuttle would be arriving at 1:05 pm instead of 1:20. That was surprising in and of itself because I’d scheduled the ride for 1:50. So despite being butt-naked and just out of the shower (you're welcome for that imagery) I had to bust ass to get ready on time and having done that, I sat on the couch and turned on My Best Friend’s Wedding to pass the 5 minutes until the shuttle arrived. At 1:25, I called Primetime Shuttle and said, “Hey, not to be a pest, but where the fuck are you? I’m already to the part where Cameron Diaz sings karaoke.” And they said don’t worry, the driver will be there at 1:35. Then the driver called at 1:45 and said he was 5 minutes away. So I went outside and waited and he showed up at 2:10. (He also took a truly asinine way to the airport and had trouble realizing he was driving a conversion van and not a Camaro and nearly killed us about 8 times. Whatever.)

Traveling image: Best part of Thanksgiving. I walked with my family at Neale Woods. Omaha skyline in the background. Traveling on foot seems to be the best mode of transit for me, across-the-board.

   So then I got on a plane to Las Vegas and sat there for four hours due to circumstances beyond everyone’s control. I really don’t know why the flight was delayed so long. They never told me. But the Las Vegas airport is an especially depressing place and flights never leave on time from there, so I don’t know why I keep going back. Oh yeah, and I had to spend my eating money on tampons because…well, for obvious reasons, and the tampons cost way more than normal tampons and they were embarrassing to buy in a way they never are when I buy them at Target.

   When I arrived in Omaha, it was 1:40 in the morning. Normally Omaha's Epply Airfield stops receiving flights around 11:30. It's two terminals and 2 random dudes running baggage to the carousels. Seriously. So I called my Mom figuring she’d be glad that I’d gotten in 20 minutes earlier than expected, but she didn’t answer the phone. Because she was asleep. Which is totally fair because it was 2 in the goddamn morning. But she kept not answering her cell, so I finally called the home phone and no one answered that either. When she called me back at 2:06 a.m. I was relieved because most of the people were gone…and so were all of the (3) cabs. It wasn’t that big of a deal—she’d set her alarm for another day. And my mom doesn’t regularly keep finding projects to work on til 2 in the morning like I do. I blame it on Las Vegas, but more than that I blame it on the fact that I wrote about Planes, Trains and Automobiles right before I flew home for Thanksgiving. 

An Omaha gas station. Also loosely related to travel.

   Then on Saturday I ate lunch at Runza. If you’re not from Nebraska, there’s a good chance you don’t know what Runza is. Don’t worry about it. It’s kind of embarrassing, but all you need to know is it’s a fast-food place and my best friend Michelle wanted her boyfriend, Danny, to try it since he’s not from Nebraska, god love him. So I met them and ate Runza and then left and promptly backed into a car. Now, I didn’t back into the car going very fast. In fact I was going about .25 miles per hour. But I backed into a parked, empty car and then parked and got out to survey the damage. I circled the damn car and inspected it’s rear-end and saw no damage. While I was doing this, a family inside was watching me and laughing. I thought that was mean. But I saw no damage to the car so I left.

   Well, the highly-amused family of four must’ve been madder than they looked, because I guess they took down my license plate number and four hours later the cops showed up at my parents house looking for my mom.  I asked what they were there for and they said it was for a hit-and-run. And I said, “Oh, that wasn’t my mom. I guess you’re here for me.” And then they said they weren’t going to take me to jail (perhaps only because my mom said, "You officers aren't going to take my little girl to jail, are you?"**), but that they probably should and they gave me a citation and now I have a lawyer and I’m a big-time criminal. IT IS ILLEGAL TO HIT A PARKED CAR AND NOT CALL THE POLICE, REGARDLESS OF DAMAGE. Lesson learned. I’m an idiot. Again. Still?

   Did I mention we were on our way out the door for my dad’s birthday dinner? Happy Birthday, Dad! Guess what? I’m still a fuck-up at 30. Thanks for working hard every day so I can go out and raise your insurance rates during one of the 20 days you see me each year. Let's go eat fancy dinner!**

   My lawyer (that feels kind of grown-up to write…in a sad sort of way) says that it’s good that it was 1 in the afternoon at a Runza and not 1 in the morning at a Taco Bell, because the cops had/have no reason to think I was boozing it up and then running away. He says lots of people in Nebraska get drunk and hit cars and then go home and by the time the cops catch up with them they can say they got drunk at home. I was not drunk or drinking, but the whole event made me want to start drinking. And it cast a dark shadow on my favorite week of the year and I still feel really bad all-around. And I didn’t have the heart to write about it until now. I’m remorseful and, as is so often the case with me, full of self-pity.

   And I can’t help but think about scenes in movies like the one in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles where Del falls asleep in the rental car and somehow simultaneously starts a fire and ends up driving into oncoming traffic and they barely escape with their lives. Where’s the gruesome, icky and yet somehow also monotonous aftermath scene in the police station and the follow up scene in the lawyer's office? These events seem funny in the movies, but they really suck a whole lot in real life. And you know what else, they’re embarrassing moments that stick in your brain and run like reel-to-reels for days and days on end.

   Today I flew home to Los Angeles. It was uneventful, thank Shiva. I did however see the following text exchange on the phone of the woman seated next to me:

Incoming: I need drugs. And help.

My seatmate’s reply: Drugs I got. I don’t know about any help.

   Anyway.

   Needless to say, I think I’m pretty much traveled out for this year. Since January I’ve been to Denver, Phoenix, Omaha, Minneapolis, San Francisco, Omaha again, Chicago and now Omaha. It’s a miracle I didn’t relive that entire movie. My luck has officially run out. I’m a grounded eagle. I may never fly again.

   P.S. Sorry for being such a Debbie Downer.

*An interchange between a State Trooper and Del in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (John Hughes, 1987). 
**Despite my failings as their daughter, my parents are truly amazing, supportive, incredible people who keep loving me and being nice to me anyway. Which I don't think they are legally obliged to do at this point, seeing as I'm well over the age of 18. So my Negative Nancy attitude aside, I think I have to acknowledge that I'm VERY LUCKY INDEED. 

***As a tie on to this more-sane (saner?) train of thought, I'd like to tack on this link to Gabe's recent blog post, which put things Thanksgiving- and other-related into a bit of perspective.

"Some people are cut out for champagne and caviar. I'm more the beer and pretzel type."*

   It is a truth universally acknowledged that things tend to be more awesome when you have money. You can have your own chef, trainer, masseuse or pool. Better yet:  a mega bus that has room for one hundred of your best friends and offers them each a DVD/Xbox 360 console at their seatback. I heard that Snoop Dogg got that for one of his kids, just because. 

   But other things are awesome, too. You can pay all your bills at one time, for instance, instead of pacing them out through the month. Because you have all kinds of money in your bank account(s). You can take a trip whenever you feel like it, even if it’s just a trip to Council Bluffs, Iowa. You can fill up your entire gas tank instead of filling it up 3 gallons at a time. You can buy your underwear somewhere other than the clearance bin at Kmart. Money is kind of awesome. And no, it can’t buy you love (unless by “love” you mean “sex”, because it CAN buy that), but it can buy you pretty much anything else worth having. 

   I don’t, at present, have very much money, but I’ve started a list of things that I’m going to have when I have money, and things that will convince me that I am indeed financially stable. And I intend to be very wealthy one day. I hope that day comes before I’m 85 and don’t give a shit anymore, but that’s a train of thought for another time.

   Here are things that will prove to my future self that I’m finally classy:

1. I will have tissue boxes, and not just toilet paper for blowing my nose. When I’m sick, I treat myself really well by buying a nice, big box of moisturizing facial tissues. BUT AT NO OTHER TIME DO I BUY THESE. The rest of the time I blow my nose with plain old toilet paper. Why? Because facial tissues are an unnecessary luxury that I can’t afford. Whenever I’m at someone’s house and see a box of tissues (especially those fancy name-brand tissues like Puffs or Kleenex), I know I’m at the home of a wealthy person. Especially if they have tissue boxes THROUGHOUT the house/apartment/yacht. And when I see them I act like a yokel at a fancy hotel: I stuff them in my purse. For later.

This drawing represents money coming out of a tissue box, FYI.

2. I will have champagne in the fridge for “just in case.” I saw that in a movie once and it stuck with me. At the moment I’m the kind of person who, if I had champagne in the fridge, would drink it long before “just in case” happened. But I think that has to do with my poorness. I think that if I were rich I wouldn’t worry so much about never having the opportunity to drink champagne (or eat sushi) again and I would definitely save it for when one of my friends came over to tell me they’d just published a novel or landed a starring role in a Broadway play. Those are champagne celebrations, and I will definitely have some on hand for when they happen. 

3. I will have Andes Mints on hand at all times. When my Aunt Mel was rich, she had a mini fridge in the basement of her big, beautiful house on Candlewood Lake in Omaha. The mini fridge was tucked inside a big, wood-paneled bar and there was always a box of Andes Mints in the door. Because that house had walls with paint so expensive I wasn’t allowed to touch them, a pool table in the basement, all-white furniture, an INDOOR balcony and a lake in the backyard, I’ve always associated Andes Mints with wealth. And subterfuge. Because I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be eating those mints. (Side note: Andes Mints are great because they’re way more chocolate than mint.)

4. I will have a den or “library” in my Rich Person home. Books show that you are intelligent. And if you are intelligent, you probably know a lot of things. And if you know a lot of things, you are most likely rich. This library will be like Henry Higgins’ library in My Fair Lady. It will be two stories and feature a spiral staircase and a phrenology skull. It will have tons of really hard-to-read works of nonfiction that I will rifle through just before company arrives in order to make it seem as though I read about String Theory in my spare time. But it will also have a Young Adult Section with a couple of beanbag chairs where I will do my ACTUAL reading.

5. I will always have things to eat in my fridge. Never will there be a day, like so many days in the past 10 years, where I open the fridge and try to figure out what to make out of pickles, cream cheese and hummus. Condiments will be condiments and not dietary staples. 

   I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if I am wealthy because I tend to be very generous, especially when I have been drinking champagne. So if we all do a group prayer, this can be come my reality and the trickle down will make your lives immeasurably classier.

*The quote is from I Love Lucy. I too love beer and pretzels. So much. Seriously. So much.