Why Every One is a Schizo

I recently switched to a new job in a new industry with a whole new group of people. I went from working in an industry with majority of women, to an industry with majority of men. 


I also chose a college major that had majority women so this whole majority men thing is a little new to be in the professional scene. 


Initially, I thought it would be a big adjustment. I assumed working with all men would be easier, they are the simpler sex. Turns out, men/women - doesn't matter. They are all psychos. 


When you work with all women, you have to play the game. You have to make sure not to hurt feelings, to stroke egos and to remain neutral. You have to compliment shoes (even if they are white patent peep toes, die.), hair and make sure everyone thinks you're their bestie. You might even say 'we're like, besties.' You can't be the prettiest in the office, or the funniest -- and if you are (ahem, duh) then you better just shut the hell up. Women in the office like to be the center of attention, and if you're not competition, you're a gal pal. In an 8-5 job where you just want to go to work and go home to pet your dog, you want to be a gal pal. If you're trying to get promoted, you have to be competition. So, its basically exactly like high school. With more Dell computers. 


When you work with all men, you're fighting every stereotype since...mmm...1940 or so. Men have a really hard time grasping that you're not someone's secretary, assistant, piece of ass, mistress. In fact, even when you tell them your job title/general duties/rough job description and resume in detail, they will still refer to you as someone's assistant. Sometimes you go with it, and sometimes - blind rage. Sometimes a bitch snaps and someone says the wrong thing at the wrong time and they get the middle finger pointed at phone and a very passive aggressive tone. This confuses the man, as they are unsure of the source of this anger. Here is the difference -- while a woman would hold this grudge against you for months maybe years, a man will forget it happened in 3...2...1. The draw of them forgetting this is that they also forgot that you're not an assistant. 


And the worst kind of person - a man who has a woman mindset. A man who gets his feelings hurt, plays games, gossips and then calls you an assistant and makes a comment about your looks. I will poke your eyes out with my ballpoint. Because the thing is, you don't get to be both. It's hard on the rest of us and how can I plan a strategy around your confusing gender traits? It's a mind fuck, so quit it. 


A week ago, I met an industry partner's girlfriend at a work function. I have to admit, it was nice to be in a work setting and around a girl. It had been awhile and for like 16 seconds I was like, this is nice.  And then she started talking about what hell hole small town she's from, how she met her middle-aged balding overweight boyfriend (what a catch!), and what she does for a living. People love LOVE talking about themselves, don't they? Don't care. 


"I work for 3M," she says in a tone that makes me think she thinks her job is bananas. 


In the context of my situation -- I work in an industry where everything is an acronym. Entire sentences are broken down into acronyms and It's Absolutely Ridiculous - IAR. 


So when she says 3M I'm assuming it's an acronym for something really complex like Mechanical Methods of Minnesota...or something like that.


Then she starts talking about adhesives and - light bulb. Fucking tape. She sells fucking scotch tape. And this is more than I can handle because how do you tell someone on a elevator/airplane/wedding that you sell tape? And when you have a business conversation with a stranger at a bar, how does this roll of the tongue -  'what I'd really like to talk to you about is what kind of adhesive you're using...Waitress, I'll take another Merlot. Anyway...back to tape...'


And she goes on an on about her clients, tape, tape, tape blah I don't know I blacked out I'm making this part up.


When all I'd really like to talk about is how much sterling silver she's wearing. 


So anyway, in a general consensus I've decided there is no 'better' in working with all men or all women. Every one is nuts. The only person that makes any sense to me is the fat black mother of 6 receptionist with a gold tooth that sexually harasses me on a daily basis, telling me, 'GIIIIIIIIRRRLLLLL YOU HOT! YOU GOT IT GOIN ON! Sista, you got it." 


Because isn't that all anyone wants to hear?

The Time Boyfriend Died

My family and friends know about me that sometimes always I overreact. 


A little background on the situation: since August, boyfriend has started a new job that is insanely demanding and taking up a lot of family bandwidth - as of Tuesday, I started a new job that will amusingly do the same. We see each other almost never and occasionally catch one another coming or going - it's basically the most #romantic thing of all time. I assume Mary & Joseph went through a similar struggle. 


So I'm at my new job all week about to fall into a coma from all the new info. Boyfriend, on his days off this week, is at home taking care of our autistic dog. Since we see each other every other leap year, we casually text throughout the day, on most days. So today around 12:30p I haven't heard from boyfriend and send a totally casual *non stalker* text saying wahtup. Nothing. 


Around 1:30pm - "...hey?"


...nothing.


3:30p : (still not being a stalker, for the record) dkjfasdkfja WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU


5 (or so) missed calls


5:15pm: "..."


At this point, I'm driving home from work in a complete tizzy because I've been trying to phone home for 5 hours and haven't gotten anything. 


The highway I take home from downtown runs down a hill and as I am on top of the hill, I see a huge cloud of smoke in the horizon. 


Oh my God. The house is on fire. They are both dead in the house. OR they ran out of the burning house and the phone is inside. But probably dead. 


I keep driving and realize the fire is too far south to be my house and rule that out entirely. Whew. 


At this moment, I have about 10 minutes before I get home. I have ruled out the house fire, but you should know -- it takes much less than 10 minutes for a girl like me to run away with things. 


Maybe he got roofied?


Maybe he's breaking up with me in the most poetic way ever? He packed the house, he's moved out and theres a note on the table explaining why he doesn't love me. Speaking of #romance. 


Video games? Do men like video games?


But neither of this is true. Because we all know what's coming next. He was dead. There was absolutely no other explanation. I was going to walk into my house with a cold body in the bed and there was no way around it. I braced myself for this reality, melted down. 


Five minutes from home. My heart is racing, I'm sweating, shaking and about to murder the ass hat that wants to go 41 in a 40. I need to get home at 60 mph. 


I peel into my driveway, check the curb, throw er in park and run into the house. I clod hop through the house back to the bedroom, tear open the door and turn the lights on. 


And then I see it. 


His eyes fly open, surprised. 


He's ALIVE? 


I am calm cool collected hysterical. I immediately start bawling and really don't know what do to with myself so I run out to the back yard.


The back yard?


Boyfriend follows me out to the backyard seconds later in his boxies and bed head. In retrospect, I can't imagine what was running through his head. Probably planning the note/moving out/leaving your crazy ass *ASAP*. 


So in my hideous cry face I manage to stammer out, "...WHERE (sob, sob)..HAVE....YOU (sobsobsob) BEEEEEEEEN???"


 "Baby, I've been here. I've been sleeping all day."


"(sob)......you have? (sniffle, sniffle)"


"Yes, what is wrong?"


"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD."


And at this point, it's like moment when you're so worried about someone and then when it's nothing - blind rage. I'm all 'you jackass, you mean you're NOT dead? How dare you. Imsomadatyou." 


We're over it, obviously, since I just wrote 300 words on it. The point is, if you're going to be dead, just be dead. Quit playin' games with my heart. 


And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I cannot have children. 

Unplugging

Recently, I went to New York City with my mom. As we pull into the airport, I realize I've left behind a rather important appendage. My iPhone.

Too far in to turn around, and (trust me, I called) it was going to be $90 to overnight the phone to my hotel. When I paid $199 for the phone, and I spend money on a lot of stupid shit, I can't justify.

I was going to have to go on without it. Sob.

Connectivity. Creativity. Portal to document life. Instant access. All the things that really get me going.

So after melting down, and checking and re-checking my car, purse, etc. I decide that maybe leaving my iPhone behind wasn't a complete death sentence. Maybe this would be a good opportunity to disconnect, unplug, and relive 1995. Plus, I had my iPad so that would get me through the weekend, probably.

Probably. Yeah, this will be fine.

The thing about disconnecting is, just no. While I envisioned myself a little granola, a lot free spirit and frolicking around NYC like it was the goddamn 1990s, like most of my ideas, that didn't exactly pan out. I was anxious, lost, without purpose. How is anyone supposed to get anywhere without Siri?

Just kidding, that bitch is worthless.

If you're going to experiment with 'unplugging' - New York City is not the place. Connectivity Mecca. Have you seen Times Square? Every asshole is - not on - but OF their iPhone. It is an extension of the modern human. The New York City rite of passage. Also, I don't typically carry a camera so I also had no way to document my trip. Balls, busted.

Guam? Peru? Those might be a appropriate places to disconnect. Because no one wants to be the douche face-timing with their BFF in a third world country. Not chic. Also you probably don't have a choice, given the number of  WIFI hot spots in Peru. I'm just saying.

So anyway, everyone likes to entertain the idea of 'disconnecting' from phone, email, Internet, Siri - but the reality is, that is not our world. We are the instant information junkies. How many of you twerps Googled 'Whitney Houston' when you heard the news - just to be sure that it was true? It's like a 'what? NO WAY' thought and then 'let me scour the entire Internet in 90 seconds to be sure' ... 'it's true. People Magazine said so.'

I'm sure someone will read this and think, WHAT a shallow bitch. Well that's not very nice and do you kiss your mama with that mouth?

Point is, disconnecting, like pedicures - while designed to be relaxing and mind-cleansing, ends up making you feel more stressed, lost, and empty than before. 

The Thing About Anxiety

About a year ago, I started paying more attention to that tingle in my stomach, that knot in my throat and the pounding in my chest. 

What I thought to be complete psychotic female meltdowns actually turned out to be, to my surprise, anxiety. I've always been a Nervous Nellie but I always attributed it to my Type A personality, control freak-isms, and well, being crazy.

When you say anxiety it kind of feels like an allowance to be psychotic. I take what I can get. 


She's not crazy. She just has anxiety.

Once I was self-aware enough to realize my anx and pumped to not actually be insane, I started trying to get a hold of myself and not be such an anxious freak. 

Always Typically, it backfired. Because the more you focus on not being an anxious freak, the more you actually become an anxious freak. You become stressed about your stress and it's such a mind-fuck that you end up in the fetal position crying, sweating, blacking out, texting your mom.


Cue tingle in stomach, knot in throat, heart pounding. Anyone who has had anxiety knows, once you get to this point, it's pretty much all over. There really is no calming yourself down from here. And what's really fun -- when you're in the middle of this cycle and some ass clown is trying to help by saying; calm down, just relax, settle, breathe.

CAN'T. WON'T.

At this stage, you're either going to run into a full-blown anxiety attack or you're going to pass out.

The thing about anxiety is that sometimes it hibernates. Something happens that would typically turn you into a crazy ball of anx and it doesn't. It's kind of like that '...wait for it...wait for it...' mentality and then it never comes. And you're like 'go me!' because look how fucking calm you are? The epitome of laid back. I'm practically a stoner by now. 

Just when you start listening to Reggaeton and checking your companies drug testing policy, It comes back. You have a Super Bowl-sized meltdown about something totally irrelevant, like whether or not you should get bangs. You stay up all night, you toss and turn, you research pictures, take dozens of screen shots from your iPhone, write a pros and cons list and before you know it, it's 4am and you JUST DON'T KNOW IF YOU WANT BANGS OR NOT.

You spend the entire next day in an adrenaline hysteria, scour the Internet about haircuts and really try to make a rational decision. Because, if you make the wrong decision, well, you just can't deal. 


And so help me God if someone has the audacity to tell you this 'isn't that big of a deal.' 


Obviously, I know that. War in Middle East, American economy, poverty, Demi Moore - bigger fish to fry, I get it. The thing is, I know getting bangs isn't that big of a deal but I can't stop thinking that it is a big deal. That's what anxiety is. This issue has all the sudden become life or death and you become so wrapped up and enveloped in your stress that you can't move past it (without panic attack, passing out). 


It's a bizarre feeling that seems difficult to describe and even more ridiculous to write about. But I'm having one of those days today, and I can be comforted that I'm definitely, probably just a little bit absolutely I'm fucking off my rocker insane in no way crazy, I have anxiety. 

Teen Mom

I'd like to take today to talk about the greatest show on television, Teen Mom (previously known as 16 and Pregnant). Teen Mom is the most fantastic, brilliant and inspiring event to inspire a generation since, oh I don't know, landing on the moon probably. 

Thank you MTV, I forgive you for Jersey Shore and the last dozen seasons of The Real World. 


Teen Mom was designed by the really nice folks at MTV in order to to make 20-somethings with average jobs and even more average salaries have a greater self-image. 

You know, the 20-somethings that graduated college into a shiteous economy where jobs were scarce, people were angry, and our parents lost their retirement funds?

Yeah, those 20-somethings. 


The 20-somethings that have been defined by disappointing pop culture, technology and fat assery? 


And then everything changed. 


And then, Teen Mom. 

Because every day I wake up and I'm not a Teen Mom, it's a pretty fabulous fucking day. 

Because no matter how badly I might screw up, curse, drink, or over-surf the Internet -- you know what I'll never be? A Teen Mom. 

All those little assholes born in the 90's are making 20-somethings seem intelligent, inspired and moral. 


I dig it. 


Not that I think my generation is some shining star, but 20-somethings have had a less than easy time lately, you know, voting in Obama and everything. It's nice to get the heat off of us for once. 

You think we're bad, look what they're doing.


However, what's good news for the 20-somethings of the world is bad news for the 40-somethings and even worse news for the 50-somethings. 

Because as horrifying as Teen Moms are, guess what they're doing?


Raising children. 


The future. 


The equally horrifying cast of Jersey Shore aren't raising our young. At some point, that cycle will stop. 

.........It will, right? 

And even though those sluts from The Hills had little going for them at the time, at the very least, they weren't mothers.

As far as I know. 


Teen Mom's cycle has little chance of slowing down anytime soon. Because just when you think the dysfunction can't get any more dysfunctional, these Teen Moms want to be Teen Moms twice over. 


And then they want to get married and divorced and then collect welfare. 


Guess who gets to pay for the welfare?


20-somethings. 

Schizo and the Doggie Daycare

Back in March, (against my best advice) boyfriend bought a dog.

He was soft, had lots of extra skin and his breath smelled like comfort zone.

Sometime in June, the dog grew into this.

He was still soft, his breath smelled like a dead body and he was much more complicated.

Sometime between point A and point B, the dog picked up a mix of mental illness coupled with separation anxiety and schizophrenia.

Diagnosed per me, the expert.

But FOR REAL THOUGH.

Boyfriend travels all the time for his new fancy job, so I have been *luckily* left with the dog to my own devices. Due to all of our one-on-one time, the dog has become unhealthily attached to me.

As in, when I leave the house, he vomits on himself and chews his body to the point that he has bald patches all down his back and on his legs.  

Upon my return, he has diarrhea for hours.

Boyfriend does the same thing when I leave the house, which is totally charming.

Anyway, this has left me with little options but to:

Take him with me in the car

To the bathroom

To doggie day care

Wearing clothes

And generally treating him as a human at all times

You might think this is adorable, and 30 percent of the time it absolutely is.

Remember when Paris Hilton first came on the scene and she was always spotted with a small dog in her purse, her hoodie, on her belt buckle, on her earrings...and it was SO fashion forward?

Well, this 85 pound doberman has become a fifth appendage and that's not chic.

Sometimes, I JUST NEED A MINUTE.

We I have resorted to taking him to doggie daycare three times a week so that I can go to work and function guilt-free knowing my schizophrenic dog is slap happy and frolicking with other dogs his age but not really his size. He comes home, diarrhea-free and tired as shit so I can sit on the couch and watch Real Housewives for 3 or so hours a night.

For the record, doggie daycare is totally against my religion but, you gotta do what you gotta do, amiright?

Well, I've got two primary issues with doggie daycare: 1. the dog is sick and dirty all the time, which is expensive and 2. for the amount of money I spend on DDC I could have gone back to get my master's degree.

So, when life gives you lemons....

What does an anxiety-ridden, guilty conscience, type A person who cannot fail do when their dog is completely unbearable?

GETS ANOTHER DOG!

I haven't pulled the trigger on this idea just yet, but I've 90 percent convinced myself that this is the best option.

While boyfriend is ready to just throw in the towel to our manic dog, I can't help but picture him chained up in some thug's yard chewing himself to death because he's depressed that no one tells him how pretty he is anymore.

My master plan is to ditch doggie daycare and bring in reinforcements. This little wiener above will provide downs syndrome doberman with the companionship and attention he needs while I am at work.

Read: no vomit, no self-induced bald spots, no diarrhea.

Well, maybe a little diarrhea.

I imagine my future life, taking car rides alone, going to the bathroom with only me and my iPad and blissfully watching Real Housewives in my underwear whilst eating Nutella with a spoon.

OR this will go completely the opposite direction than I have anticipated and big dog will be unbearably jealous of small dog and turn to suicide and sleeping pills. Cue vomiting, chewing on self, more diarrhea.

What's a girl to do?

My life is hard.

The Best Buy Guy

When boyfriend and I first moved to Oklahoma we were staying in an apartment complex as part of boyfriend's relocation package. We were on the top floor with me, boyfriend and a now 85 pound puppy. It was miserable and I cried often.

About a month ago, we ran out of that apartment complex 100 miles an hour and moved into this chic little 3 bedroom house with a fenced in backyard. Praise the Lord.

Before leaving Houston, in a really practical move I sold all my furniture. Out with the old. The point is, we moved into our 3 bedroom with no furniture. Two weeks and a million dollars later, we were furnished and I cried much less often. But the most prized possession investment was the 60 inch 3D television that boyfriend bought.

Mind you, boyfriend went to a military school for college and spent 4 years in a shoebox with three other roommates and no television. It was time to go big. And he went big. We picked out the most expensive television at Best Buy and drove 13 miles an hour down a major street in Oklahoma City. I start cracking up and boyfriend shoots me a sharp look because NOTHING IS FUNNY ABOUT SAFETY.

"What?"
"Do you realize, we would not drive this carefully if there was a newborn baby in the car?"

That makes him laugh. Plus one for the females.

Anyway, the whole TV buying process took our entire Saturday afternoon and the help of a nice Best Buy Guy. He told us the ins and outs of televisions, sound, 3D, Blue-Ray and generally had a pretty good time spending boyfriends money.

There goes my Caribbean vacay. Thanks, Best Buy Guy.

So we get the television, sound system, 3D, Blue-Ray all home and (similar to a newborn baby) we don't know what the fuck to do with it. We stare at the massive box, hoping that the TV will just mount itself.

Turns out, it didn't.

The next evening, I get home from work, kiss boyfriend, kiss the dog, kiss the TV. Boyfriend says to me, "Eli is coming over later."

"Who? Who the fuck is Eli?"

"You know, the Best Buy Guy."

"Of course. The Best Buy Guy. But...how did you....what....why?"

"I had some questions so I called him, he's coming over."

At this point, I've got two things going on in my head.

First, how quickly men bond is blowing my mind. I have the same friends I had when I was 10. I've got a handful of (kickass) soul sisters from high school, college and Houston. My friend-making: see frigid, guarded, selective.

Secondly, what if the Best Buy Guy is a serial killer?

Eli ends up eating dinner with us that night and coming over again that weekend. He has since become a staple in our life in Oklahoma City, growing our technology and still spending boyfriends money.

This is not a paid advertisement for Best Buy, however, thumbs up on the customer service.

But seriously, what if he's a serial killer?