Friday, December 31, 2010

Even Vegas Needs a New Year's Resolution

In honor of the new year, I propose the following resolutions for the city of Las Vegas. Let's be honest, if Las Vegas were a person, it would be a fat, smokey, aging mobster, so in theory this whole metaphor thing works.

1) Quit smoking
People still smoke a lot in Las Vegas-- the most I've seen outside the Midwest. It's so 1990.

2) Cut back
New casinos continue to open. New highrises continue to go up. When the average hotel cost has dropped by 50 percent, clearly this whole building this isn't working anymore.

3) Invest in education
This isn't so much a Vegas resolution as a Nevada resolution. We're the lowest performing state in a stupid country. Completely unacceptable.

4) Exercise
Since we're not getting better hospitals or doctors anytime soon.

5) Go to therapy
Depression is a disease that can't be cured by booze.

Monday, December 27, 2010

Back on the Blogwagon

Ok, I guess I should jump back into the blogosphere after a long time away. As some of you know, I've been busy at a new job, tutoring in the evenings, and enjoying time with family and friends over the holidays. I have wanted to write a post about a dozen times, but in an effort not to endanger said new job, I've censored myself. Now that I'm back in the town where I mostly grew up, I'm again bestowed with some ideas that I don't have to censor.

It's cold here in Minnesota. And everyone kind of looks the same. I forgot how white everyone is, how bearded, how fat. In Vegas we have many months of sun, which motivate at least the younger people to look their best. Here, everyone holes up in the winter. Aside from my close friends and family, to be honest, people look like shit.

I'm serious. Everyone stays at home, only to venture out of the house to bar hop or buy aspirin. And even at the bars, people keep their coats on. In Vegas, even when it's chilly, you sacrifice your comfort to show off your amazing clothes, skin, hair. Here, you can literally go through life in a duck-down parka, suspenders, and a scarf.

And it's not entirely their fault either. I mean, how are you supposed to stay in shape here? Snowdrift diving? And what are you supposed to do, spray tan ten months out of the year? But seriously, people. Have a little self-respect. Brush your neck hair once in a while. Make this Las Vegan's trip home a little less depressing.

Friday, December 3, 2010

I Heart Mayor Goodman

Some of you may have noticed I haven't blogged in quite some time. That's because I worked about 65 hours this week. I've been saving this post up for days now.

Alas, Oscar Goodman's reign as mayor of Las Vegas is coming to an end. And for the first time, I really hate term limits. Suddenly I realize that just about everyone really loves our mayor. This is rare for a city. It's rare to find a politician that matches a city's personality so perfectly.

Mayor Goodman is real and famous, crass and street-smart. He remembers your name. Once, he participated in a fundraiser for our synagogue called "The Wedding Game" with his wife. It was basically The Newlywed Game, and Oscar divulged details about everything from his sex life to his favorite food. He was totally transparent, and he took time out of his busy schedule to do something selfless. Our next mayor has to be the same way: real and famous. And intelligent. Vegas is weaker now than it's ever been in the past, so we need someone strong.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Desert Smesert

It's really fricking cold all of a sudden. For a few weeks there, Vegas really had me fooled. I thought we might have another mild winter. But, no. It's freezing.

A lot of people think it's got to be sunny here all the time, like we're in Florida or something. But we're not. I mean, it's not cold like other places are cold, but it snows. Tourists think they can wear pasties in the winter. Actually, when is a good time/place to wear pasties?

And now I'm sensitized to cold. The October after I moved here, I remember sitting on a restaurant patio under a heat lamp and marveling at how cold it was. When we looked at the thermometer, it read 62 degrees. I had officially become weak.

I'll never live somewhere with four seasons again. I don't like having to run from location to location with my nose frozen shut. I don't miss driving on ice or snow on my birthday anymore. The only real con to the weather here is a shortened scarf season. That's about where it ends. And no skiing. Other than that, I've learned to love the dry heat and almost passing out while sitting by the pool.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Birthdays

Today is my birthday. What do people in Vegas do on their birthdays? Other people fly to Vegas. On my birthday, I like to stay away from people.

When I was a little kid, I used to like to have parties. Mostly, I think I just liked presents. Then, at a certain point in my life, I liked to have parties to see how many people I could pack into a room as a barometer for my popularity.

A few birthdays ago, I officially decided to forgo parties altogether. That year, the guy I was dating at the time was supposed to arrange a party, and he waited until the day before Thanksgiving weekend to plan anything and everyone was out of town. Of course, at my party, when he was buying me a drink at the bar, I just grabbed some other guy and kissed him without my boyfriend knowing. Well, now he knows. That was the worst/best birthday I've ever had. Good to stop while you're behind/ahead.

Now, I avoid birthdays because it means I'm getting older. And I don't want to get older. I'm not afraid of death, so it's not a mortality thing, but I really like life, despite how much it sucks sometimes. And I have a lot I want to experience still. This might change when I hit thirty. I have a feeling, when I hit thirty, I might want presents again.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

People Las Vegans Hate

I'm starting a running list of people Las Vegan's hate. Here is the beginning in no particular order. Feel free to suggest additions:

1) Paris Hilton
2) The guy(s) who defaced the Welcome to Las Vegas sign
3) Lil Wayne
4) Sharon Angle
5) Candidates who try to de-thrown Oscar Goodman
6) The Hoff
7) Militant evangelists who picket on Fremont Street
8) East Coasters who go to the A.C. because it's closer
9) People who walk in front of our cars around The Strip
10) Cabdrivers who try to cheat us like we're tourists

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Why Even Bother: I Try to Start a Writers' Group

I really have no idea why I even bother. I mean, I've lived in lovely Las Vegas for five years now. (Good god, that's a long time.) I don't know what made me think I could find one or two literate, normal people to join the writers' group I wanted to start with fellow Nebraska alum, Chris Smith, who recently moved to this fair city.

Perhaps I've been reading too much Joyce lately, and I've tricked myself into thinking genius lurks around every corner. I'll tell you one place it doesn't lurk: between LVB and the mountains.

Ok, I probably sound pompous. But really, the only "writers" in this town think they're one bus ride with a Warner Bro's exec away from being the next Steve Spielberg. "I like dogs, and, um...Here's a link to my blog on which I've posted pictures of Rover opposite an acrostic poem beginning with 'rovely.'"

And, "Here's my post-apocalyptic masterpiece wherein women roam around topless for some reason; perhaps the garment district is where they're hoarding the viable Twinkies."

I don't know. I think I give up.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Dude, where are my sunglasses?

I was at job training the other night with my purse under my chair and a pair of old crappy sunglasses wrapped around the handle. I got up to move to the other side of the room, and I realized I no longer had my sunglasses. I looked on the floor around where I'd just been sitting, on my head, in my purse, to no avail.

Then, I looked up to see the elderly, retired teacher book it out the door--my sunglasses on her head!

And the next two nights at work, she was scheduled to work next to me, and she didn't show! Little does she know, those sunglasses were broken. The left lens pops out all the time! Ha!

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Are you supposed to be a cat or a prostitute?

Aside from New Year's and payday, Halloween is Vegas' favorite holiday. The already crazy populace of the city has an excuse to get a little crazier, to let it all hang out, and be completely unapologetic about it. We even have a strategically placed government holiday, Nevada Day, that acts as a buffer from work sometime around Halloween weekend.

I'm curious to see what this Halloween will bring. For those of you who haven't been to Fremont Street lately, the place has turned into a sad Hollywood Boulevard. A guy dressed as Freddy Kruger has been stationed there for weeks. In fact, entire brigades of unemployed people have taken to downtown, costumed and desperate to make money from a photo op. How we'll tell the professional Jokers from the amateurs, I have no idea. Chances are, both demographics will be drunk when October 31 comes around.

As fun as Halloween is here, a place where you don't have to be a kid to celebrate, it's pretty stressful. There's a lot of pressure for a woman to find an original, flattering costume that won't disintegrate when doused with booze. Ok, to be honest, most women aren't all that creative. The scantily-clad teenagers in the pre-incarceration Lohan flick, "Mean Girls," spoofed it best: You really can't tell a cat costume from the work uniform of an actual prostitute.

This year, all my personal costume inclinations have been too political, from "recession showgirl," who would don a headdress made of beer cans and old newspaper, to being the city of Las Vegas in a t-shirt that reads "15% unemployment," and "foreclosed," maybe I'm just not in the mood. I've finally settled on a flapper. After all, what would be more ironic right now than an outfit right out of the Roaring Twenties?

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

When it rains, it floods

Between working, going to school full time, launching a new website, and buying my first pair of jeggings, I've been really busy lately. Then, this morning, my life was put on hold when I woke up to ridiculously heavy rain. In any other city, rain means nothing more than dragging around an awkward umbrella, but in Vegas, rain equals Armageddon.

First of all, people in the desert don't know how to drive in the rain. Or if they once did, they completely forget as soon as they cross the Hoover Dam. People drive about 20 mph and STILL insist on crashing into each other. Once, I even saw a car catch on fire in the rain.

Second, the streets flood. The city was built before climate change was even a term that "scientists" could deny, so we don't have a sewer system. This makes Vegas less advanced than India circa 1500 B.C. The point is, I had to drive for an hour to get to work today. And since I know I don't have any readers in Los Angeles, that's a long time to all of us.

But my extended commute did give me time to think. It gave me time to breathe. And it gave me time to make a mental list of everything I wanted to be hit by lightening. None of those people/places were, of course, but it's fun to pretend.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

The Classic Vegas Night

Many tourists think a classic Vegas evening begins with Tequila shots, centers on losing your money playing baccarat, and ends with a head in the toilet (not that you'd remember). And I don't think "The Hangover" helped our case any. But really, a classic night in Vegas is characterized by nothing. Classic Vegas is completely random.

Tonight, for example, we headed to The Palms Casino to see Vampire Weekend, an indie band that has been around for a few years now and has recently gained modest notoriety in the mainstream. The occasion was a launch party for Fallout: New Vegas, a video game sequel set in a post-apocalyptic Las Vegas. I'm not sure why Vampire Weekend was playing at this event, or even how I ended up on the guest list exactly, but that's just so typical. In Vegas, you never really know what's going to happen next.

But then, before the band went on, who steps into the spotlight but Mr. Vegas himself, Wayne Newton, wearing a half-mesh black shirt and looking, well, as weird as usual. He awkwardly referred to Fallout as a "video I had to be a part of," and then sort of stood there while everyone took pictures of his plastic mug with their iPhones. Bizarre and strange.

That's all. There wasn't really a point to this post. It's just sort of a weird slice of life.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Pushing people into limos and other Vegas career options

I know I've been posting a lot about jobs, careers, and career-hunting lately, but I haven't had time to think about much else. I've applied to some jobs lately that I truly hoped I would get. And then there's everything else.

At least job hunting in Las Vegas is entertaining. There was the posting for "Steel Erection Manager," which is giggle-worthy just from the title. This is pretty much what I'd call level-one job search humor: The simple idea of the job is funny.

Level-two humor occurs when the salary or, more often, wage, is laughable. I can't tell you how many times I've been really excited about a certain job until I get down to the bottom and see how much they're offering to pay me. "Seeking ghostwriter to turn my life story into a manuscript. $9 per hour." Come on people. I'm a professional.

Level-three humor is, I think, mostly unique to Vegas, though I'm sure lots of locales have their own version of it. Level-three humor occurs in the job description, maybe in some of the listed duties or directions for the hiring process. "Woman needed to shove tourists into cabs to be driven to VIP locale," is a hilarious way of saying that you'll have to target drunk twenty-somethings who look like they're apt to lose track of direction while someone drives them in circles on the way to an unmarked brothel. "Looking for an experienced executive assistant who types at least 70 wpm and has knowledge of Excel. Must be willing to interview in a bathing suit," is another way an employer says he doesn't care if you know how to answer the phone; he was short in high school. Now he's a freelance accountant, dammit.

At least, in the dismal process of job hunting, I get a few laugh breaks. Even though I'm not going to submit a paralegal application that requires headshots.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred job applications

Ok, not really. But you have applied for 42 jobs. Here's some more employment math: You've received two nice rejection emails, one rejection phone call, and zero interviews. It's like a countdown, except at the end, instead of a rocket taking off, you have a cocktail.

Did you know that all the fixings for turkey sandwiches for every meal for one week are only $13? Also, if you feel guilty stealing the internet at a coffee shop without buying anything, the cheapest drink is generally a small iced tea. And you won't run out of gas driving across town with the needle below empty.

And no matter how much debt in graduate student loans you carry, you still aren't qualified to work at the make-up counter at Macy's. Not even as the person who takes the inventory.

But you're alive. You're alive, and you have some amazing friends and family. So there's that. At least there's that.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Shameless Self-Promotion

Hello, Loyal Followers (all three of you). My editing business has really been picking up lately, so I thought I'd spread the word that I am a freelance editor in addition to being a teacher, student, and asshole. My undergraduate degree was actually in editing, and I have lots of experience editing things like term papers, resumes, applications, business plans, grants, etc. I charge really competitive rates, and I'm practically broke. Actually, my rates are probably why I'm broke. Hmm, that's a topic for a different blog.

Cheers.

Friday, October 1, 2010

I was just trying to send a letter

For the first time in months, I took a trip to America's favorite artifact: the post office. Usually, if I need to mail a package, I go to the grocery store near my house, but they always have really long lines, and I just wasn't in the mood today.

Apparently, the postal service has finally realized they are soon to be extinct, because they seemed to be making an honest effort to improve their customer service. Of course, what this really did was piss me off.

I was sending a flash drive across the country, along with an invoice for my editing business. I picked up the smallest padded envelope I could find and stood at the island to address and stuff the envelope. But then this annoying postal worker began systematically accosting everyone, traveling from person to person, trying to be "of help" by suggesting alternative methods of mail transport.

"Is that all you're mailing?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, before you do that, let me just..." he said, taking my envelope away and going over to the wall of packaging stuff to grab a cheaper, un-padded envelope.

"Here, you go. This will save you 80 cents!" he replied gleefully.

"Um, ok. But won't that rip open? It better not rip open."

"Uh..." he replied.

"This is a really important package," I said.

"Well, how far are you sending it again?"

"To Florida."

"Um, well, it should be fine."

It should be fine, he said. Great, that reeks of confidence.

"Fine," I said. "Give me the cheapo envelope."

I packed everything up stood in the line for checkout, assured that the worst customer service of the day was over. The available mail clerk was a short, partially bald, middle-aged guy who wore two huge silver pentagrams from his neck and insisted on wearing his hair in a ponytail even though he was partially bald. He also sweated profusely.

Him: Hello. How are you today?
Me: Fine. How are you?
Him (smiling mischievously): Well, I'm great now.
Me: Oh?
Him: You wanna know why????
Me: I think you're about to tell me.
Him: Because you're here! You wanna know why that makes me happy?
Me: Uh.
Him: Because you're sooooo pretty! It always brightens my day when a beautiful girl enters my line!
Me (handing him the package): That's nice.
Him (swiping my credit card incorrectly, then swiping it again): Oh! You're not married.
Me (looking at my hand): Um, no.
Him: I can cook! Haha! I'm naughty today!
Me (grabbing my credit card and fighting back vomit): Uh, ok, thanks.

Normally, I would be really mean to the guy, but apparently this was how he translated their new, improved customer service initiative. Customer service=sexual harassment. I thought of his personal life, conducting desert seances and preparing Ramen noodles six different ways, splitting the portions between himself and his three cats, named after the girls from "Charmed." I couldn't be mean. Actually, I just drove away. Now that's restraint.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Worst Jobs Ever

Throughout my job search, I've come across a lot of listings for jobs I wouldn't want to do. The following is a list of jobs no one could pay me any amount of money to do. These are actual jobs from Monster.com.

1) Has-mat driver
Sorry little girl, but the ice cream truck went that-a-way.
2) Sender of only health insurance rejection letters
Don't kill the messenger. She doesn't have insurance either.
3) Telemarketing of any kind
Can I please speak to the D-bag of the house?
4) Technical writer for insurance company
Blibbity bloppedy jargon blah blah.
5)Intern
Hi, I'm the 26-year-old intern. Yes, I made bad choices.

So, when I'm completely destitute and living out of a box (which should be in about 6 months), remind me to look back at this post.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Las Vegas vs. Atlantic City

Most of you probably find the title of this post ridiculous. I mean, comparing Las Vegas to the AC is like comparing apples to carcinogenic oranges. But in case you're stupid, have bad taste, or live under a rock (now I'm being redundant), here's my list of differences, as collected last week when I visited AC for the first time. Yes. I visited AC. It was free, so don't judge.

1. AC cocktail waitresses don't have implants. In Vegas, you have to have implants to waitress or people will laugh at you. Where else are waitresses supposed to stuff their tips?
2. In Vegas, you only have to go as far as the buffet to eat cotton candy. In AC, I couldn't find one cotton candy vendor on the entire boardwalk. I did see seagull shit.
3. The Vegas airport supplies slot machines for patrons stuck there. If you're stuck in the AC airport, you better have a book or money for a hooker.
4.Las Vegas has a plethora of nice hotels and shopping. In AC you have the Borgata and a smattering of others. You also better like Old Navy a whole hell of a lot.
5.Las Vegas is a city onto itself. People end up in AC because they tried to go to Philly and got lost.

As you can tell, I have a real soft spot for Atlantic City. Luckily, I only spent one night there.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Of Steaks and Unemployment

The unemployment rate in Las Vegas is the highest in any metropolitan area in the nation. 14.8 % baby.

I was in the neighborhood of my previous roommate's business yesterday, and I decided to stop in to stay hello. He's a few months shy of hosting a 400-guest wedding, so I expected him to be frazzled. Instead of jumping first to tell me about the $900 he spent on party favors, he told me he'd had to fire five employees last week for stealing out of the register. He works in the steak-peddling business as the general manager of the local office of a popular national chain. He'd caught them on camera pocketing the change of customers paying in cash. They'd been hired recently as seasonal employees.

"Oh, great," I told him. "I need a new job!"

But he'd already been able to replace all of them this week. He's a great manager and can tell within a few minutes of meeting a potential hiree whether they're a good fit. After a short interview, he tells you if you're hired.

Many people applied to fill the empty positions. No one in Vegas is currently hiring. On Monday, he hired a woman in her 50s who had applied everywhere to no avail. He told her she got the job. A job that pays less than $10 an hour. It requires heavy lifting and touching raw meat. It's only seasonal, through January. She cried happy tears. She jumped up and down and danced.

I'd like to bet, Vegas-style, that those people who stole out of the register really needed the money.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Gentlemen's Club and Other Euphemisms

The other night, I came back to my car to find a little 5 by 7 card stuck under my windshield wiper. Ah yes, a popular form of Vegas advertising I like to call "the dribble," which I named after what our more productive city-dwellers, pigeons, leave on my windshield. While you're inside a business, peons dribble bulletins advertising psychics, health food stores, hookers, and, as was the case the other night, strip clubs. I unlocked my car doors, settled into my seat, started the engine, and looked up to see the high-gloss (classy), double-sided, card-stock ad, which I plucked through my rolled down window.

Beautiful. This particular dribble advertised Crazy Horse, a Vegas strip club of moderate reputation. I'm sorry, a "gentlemen's club." Where did this euphemism start, anyway? Do they think they're fooling anyone? If Crazy Horse called themselves a strip club, would men shy away from going there. "I'm sorry, Lou, I can't go to your bachelor party and look at naked women. I only fluff my nosegay at GENTLEMEN'S clubs."

I don't think this ever happened. In fact, when I studied the ad closer (for research purposes), I notice two other euphemisms on the same card. In honor of football season, Crazy Horse is now featuring a special unit of dancers known as the "tight ends." (Hee hee hee.) Also, they claim to showcase a variety of "ladies."

Ha. Ladies.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Do Drink the Water (How to diet on vacation)

Well, I'm in the Atlanta airport on my way back to Vegas from a lovely trip in Jamaica. Normally, I'd be kind of worried to go home. Not only do I usually feel pretty depressed to return to the real world, but I also get scared when it's time to step on the scale again. Fortunately for me, on this vacation, I drank the local water, and boy, did that make eating difficult.

You see, the resort we went to only offered bottled water for guests staying in the suites, and since we weren't on our honeymoon, we just booked a normal room. Also, the only other real difference between a regular room and a sweet suite was a plunge pool, which everyone said sucked.

Anyway, that left only a few beverage choices at the resort: tap water, coffee made with tap water, juice made with tap water, and booze. Most of the time I chose booze, but there were several occasions when I wanted something that would actually satiate my thirst. So I broke down and drank water.

At dinner on our first full day, I felt kind of sick. I just assumed this was the combination of alcohol and sun I'd had that day. But then I started to get this sick feeling after every meal. Finally, on the last day, I abstained from water and water mixtures altogether and drank a lot of alcohol, and I felt much better. But by that time, I hadn't been able to eat as much as I usually would on vacation, so in the end, water contaminants ended up saving me. I never got really sick. I took part in all regular vacation activities. Red Stripe made me feel fabulous. The only better vacation diet I can think of is if I'd contracted a parasite. Those are supposed to make you look really skinny.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

The Employment Guide: AKA where to sell your plasma

Today at the grocery store I picked up one of those little free bulletins next to the sliding doors. It was labeled "The Employment Guide" (Read: The Unemployment Guide). Great, I thought. Here's one place I've haven't thought of searching for a job, the good old newspaper. And the muckraker in me always loves the smell of a hot sheet of black and white.

So I opened it up with all the innocence of a child about to lick cold metal. The "employment guide" had one actual job listing: telemarketer. The rest of the space was covered with ads for trade school, bogus real estate schemes (because that's a hot market these days), and plasma donation. Actually, plasma donation is an oxymoron. Only the desperate give plasma. No one willingly "donates" it and then just walks away. They expect benjamins! I've personally considered donating as recently as this morning.

Oh, I forgot. There was also a job listing for the border patrol. Right. There's a dream career. Personally, I think anyone would be crazy to sneak into this country. "Turn back!" I'd yell. "No jobs that allow you to maintain dignity here! No American Dream alive past this border!"

Monday, August 30, 2010

HOA: The Ultimate Irony Machine

At the beginning of the summer, our homeowners' association tried to fine us because of a beach towel laid out to dry after a day of swimming, citing it as "structural damage."

But what about all the janky cars people park in front of their houses? My car isn't beautiful, but at least it doesn't have mismatching doors or an obnoxious paint job.

Also, the other day I took a walk and saw that our down-the-street neighbors have a pot in their yard the side of Tut's tomb, and it's spray-painted with a bunch of ugly swirls of yellow and pink and red and orange. Yes. Like graffiti. As if this isn't an affront to the eyes. It's not even done in an artistic, kitschy way. It looks like some kid had left over paint from a school project and went at it. Actually, the more I think about it, that's probably exactly what happened.

Also, our next-door neighbors just moved, and instead of putting all their garbage in bags before they took it out, they just kind of threw it on the curb. I walked out to my car barefooted to get something, and dirty baby diapers were strewn over the yard like landmines. Now, I'm not sure what the HOA is supposed to do about this since the people have left already, but they could at least pay someone to clean it up using all the money we pay in dues.

I'm just saying, in a battle between beach towel and dirty diapers, there isn't much contest.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Bloody Ears: Like Life

I'm in a reflective, existential mood, tonight. But what else is new?

In the shower, I debate whether to rinse out my ears with the plastic bulb. (See my last post.) When I do, some blood flakes out the next morning. If I don't, nothing. Is the rinsing causing the blood? Is not rinsing letting the problem accumulate there? This isn't about ears anymore, is it?

It's harder to view things like this in Las Vegas than in some other, more ruminating place, somewhere where the leaves change, somewhere like the middle of Nebraska.

I have a student who's obsessed with medicine; he wants to be a physician. Today, during recess, he asks me about old epidemics: "What's cholera? Smallpox? How did HIV begin?"

"I don't know," I say. "Someone was probably too curious about science. So curious, he found himself up to his elbows in monkey blood. Dead a few years later."

Saturday, August 21, 2010

I thought my ears would stop bleeding when Celine left.

As a Las Vegan, I never thought I'd have to endure another bloody eardrum after Celine Dion left Vegas for her world tour a few years ago. But today I did. Hmm, she is coming back. Coincidence?

In all seriousness, those of you who know me know I have recurring sinus issues, basically all through allergy season. Today, I visited the doctor who said he could shoot me in the butt with steroids, or I could get my ears irrigated and that might help. Ears... IRRigated. Get it?

So I agreed with the flip of a wrist. "Sure, that's fine," I said ignorantly. In comes the nurse, Leticia. I was worried it might be her. She has the worst bedside manner of any nurse at this particular practice. In she came with the irrigation kit. She put cold drops into my ear canal and had me lay on each side for about five minutes to assist drainage. I read the book I'd brought along, feeling like I could shut my eyes and fall asleep in the quiet room, blissfully ignorant.

Leticia enters again. "Ok," she said, handing me a paper towel to put on my shoulder and juicing the big syringe full of saline. I held a little barf basin to my cheek for the drainage. "Let me know if it's too hot," said Leticia calmly. In retrospect...almost too calmly.

The warm, but not too hot water hit my inner ear before what must have been the worst pain I've experienced in my entire life began. (At least that for which I've been completely conscious and non-doped.) I have an amazing pain threshold too; I really do. First, I'm a woman and engineered for pain, but I've also danced through tendinitis and broken bones and ate a hamburger the day after I got my braces in junior high.

But none of this pain came even close to the pain I felt earlier today as the solution hit, at high-pressure, my inner ear and flooded my sinuses. I could feel the stuff behind my eyes and felt drowned. I couldn't hear a thing and began to wonder if this was what deep sea diving without scuba gear would feel like. I think my legs started twitching as I forced myself to breathe through the pain so I wouldn't cry, because the nurse asked if it hurt. "Yes," I said, "quite a lot actually." She must have heard, "Please sir, may I have another," because then she took out this scraper and went back into my ear, scratching the part of it that was already raw. When she finished, the worst part was knowing we still had to do the other ear.

Somehow I survived the second squirt, during which I think I had some sort of out-of-body experience. Somehow I was able to stand up to drive myself home. I got in my car, touched my pointer finger to my ear, and brought it away covered in blood. Ear number two: same.

It has been approximately eight hours since I left the doctor, and they finally stopped bleeding. It's not like you can stick a tissue on it like when you cut yourself shaving, or put on a band aid. But now I have two ears full of dried blood, so that's awesome. Completely nondisgusting too, sort of like Celine Dion's singing, face, and whole deal.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Radio Psychics: Vegas Style

This morning on the way to work, the radio station I usually listen to had a psychic on the air. I tuned in mid broadcast, so I'm not sure if this was a local guy or what, but I at least know he's performed--ahem, visited--Vegas several times and is friends with both D.J.s on the station.

One caller asked him whether she would keep having relationships that lasted only four years and then break up. Wait, I thought, he can predict the future too?

Then someone called in asking about her son, who predicted a plane crash earlier this week. The psychic suggested that next time the kid had premonitions of a tragedy, he should surround the people with "white light" with his mind. The psychic said he had known 9/11 was going to happen and projected white light on it. Apparently, he didn't project enough white light or something.

Just when I was convinced this psychic was awesome, not only was he psychic, but he could also prevent tragedy and predict the future, he said he sees auras when he enters a room. Auras and rainbows.

I guess when you're in Vegas and a psychic, you have pull out all the stops. Vegas is sparkly, so you need to be sparkly too. But on the radio, no one can see a sequined bloomers.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Professional Development 3.0

I've been to many school-wide professional developments in my life, but today I had the first one at my new school. Here is a list of analogies illustrating the differences between beginning-of-the-year PD at public school and PD at a Jewish day school.

Public School: Jewish Day School

Discussing your summer with fellow teachers: Discussing your health conditions with fellow teachers

Cold coffee: Movie-theater-concession-sized candy bars, cookies, lox

Revealing your suntan: Revealing your feelings

Arguing about how to teach fractions: Arguing about how to best nurture self-esteem

Finding out you have three Victors on your roster: Finding out you have three Moshes in your class

There you have it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make math stations.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Pigeons: Wildlife or Dinner?

The last few days, pigeons have been everywhere. Flying in pairs, ruffling the leaves of bushes, leaving lots of beautiful presents on my car. Coincidentally, the episode of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations in which Anthony eats pigeons in Cairo was also on TV. The pigeon he ate looked delicious. Greasy. Juicy. Golden brown.

For three days now, a pair of pigeons has sat on the ledge outside my roommate's window. They don't fly away when you press your nose up to the glass, or when you make noise, or stare at them. Then I started to think, do city pigeons have diseases? How long would it take to de-feather two pigeons?

So far, I haven't made my move, but I haven't given those pigeons names either.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

An obnoxious vehicle is fine if you know your apostrophes.

Our diagonal neighbors bought a new car. I don't usually notice when someone has a new car, especially someone I've never spoken too, unless it's a really nice car. But I noticed theirs.

At first I hoped they just had some ostentatious relative visiting for the weekend, but alas, the car is still there. Anyone could see that from a mile away.

You see, it's an obtrusively long Lincoln, is cranked up really high, and happens to be bright, shiny lime green. The best part is the AWESOME decals on the window: "22's or better," they boast.(An aside to those who don't know, 22s are a type of rim.) Yeah. "22's." Two, two APOSTROPHE esssssss. Apparently, "or better" belongs to the 22s, because any idiot knows an apostrophe S shows possession. Because we learn that in first grade. Surely, if you weren't an idiot but weren't quite sure if the phrase needed an apostrophe, you'd look it up. They park the thing diagonally in the driveway as if they're particularly proud of the stupid thing.

I hope the owner of the car isn't out gambling with his deuces because he probably isn't smart enough to know when to walk away.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Pick-Up Lines: D.O.A.

Today I went to several bookstores looking for a specific writing craft book that I didn't want to have to order. I actually ventured into Border's (which I HATE) because they have a better-than-average selection of books about writing.

So I parked my car in the parking lot and was walking to the store when I realized I was being followed. A short chap who appeared to be about 18 jogged to catch up to me as I quickened to a speed walk. Normally I'd find this creepy, but it was daytime and near a busy intersection in a bustling shopping center. Unfortunately, opening the door to the store slowed me down a little, which gave him time to shoot me this doozy:

Him: Hey! Don't I know you from somewhere?

Me: No.

Inner Me: What are you doing near a bookstore? Are they giving away muscle shirts with every Kafka purchase?

Come on. Is this really the best conversation starter you can think of? A yes or no question? That doesn't even qualify as a pick-up line. After I answered, he of course, hightailed it away from the books. Then again, for all I know, he genuinely had me confused with Justin Bieber.

Friday, August 6, 2010

How to Make Friends and Irritate People

It seems like whenever I leave the house, I get pulled into some strangers weird, awkward conversation. Just the other day, I was sitting in the doctor's waiting room, bereft of any decent magazine or book. I suppose this was my first mistake. Always have a book. Alas, I'd brought my small purse, and I was too lazy to carry a book in my other hand.

Anyway, this particular waiting room is quite small. Soon after I arrived, a few more people walked in, and every seat was quickly full. I could either stare at a blank spot on the ceiling above me, or stare at the unfortunately penned tattoo on the ankle of the twenty-something across from me. Reminded of gross diseases like hepatitis, I chose to stare at the wall. Apparently this is the first signal that you'd like to have a conversation with a random stranger.

The woman sitting next to me waited with her teenage daughter. "What's with your hair today?" She harped. "It's not supposed to look like that! You look like a bum!"
Her daughter simply smiled sheepishly, undoubtedly embarrassed that her mom chose this time to comment on her self-expression. To my horror, the woman turned to me.

"Doesn't she look ridiculous?" She asked me loudly.

"Uh," I replied, buying time to formulate my response. I looked to her daughter, self-conscious in her budding womanhood. The entire room waited for my response. "What are we looking at here? The color, or. . .?"

"No! The way it's parted. On the side like that!"

I looked at the mother's face, about to ask her why she was asking my advice since she obviously had formed her own opinion, when I saw she was wearing navy blue eye shadow, at least three coats of mascara and bright pink lipstick ala Molly Shannon's dress in Sixteen Candles.

"I think it looks good actually," I said, turning to her daughter and smiling. Conversation over.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Keeping Fit in the Desert

Well, it's been pretty hot lately. So hot I don't want to go outside. Some people here head to the gym for exercise. Others, whether seasoned locals or just workout obsessed, actually still jog, bike, or circuit train in the heat of the afternoon. I guess if you like Bikram yoga, it's the same idea.

A few summers ago, I was driving to take a short, early summer hike at Red Rock Canyon. For those of you who've never been there, it begins on a piece of land outside Las Vegas where the desert starts to meet the mountains. The terrain can be pretty steep, even driving. Well this lady with six-pack abs was jogging uphill. She was jogging uphill in the desert in the summer. I parked, finished a hike and started driving again only to pass her in my car and find her still jogging. She did appear to be on roids, but come on!

Anyway, I thought I'd seen everything in terms of extreme workouts until yesterday. While exiting my neighborhood, I glanced around to admire all the power walkers and joggers pacing around the park across the street. Then, I saw a brisk walker sporting not only a six-pack, but a full fifth of whiskey. No open container laws here folks.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

More of the Good Stuff

In the next few weeks, I'm going to try to refocus my blog to be more Vegas-centric. After all, none of you really care about what I'm doing, but you're probably pretty curious about my city.

I arrived back in Vegas from Nebraska on Saturday evening. My boyfriend picked me up at the airport and informed me we'd have to run a few errands before making our way home. I personally hate making stops after a long day of traveling, but hey, the ride was free.

In an endless effort to make his bedroom more comfortable, he'd recently upgraded to a bigger mini-fridge, bought via craigslist.com. After a few weeks with the dutiful fridge, it clonked out. Just one of the dangers of buying appliances from a fortune teller with pink hair.

Anyway, by the time he picked me up from the airport, he'd tracked down yet another Craiglist fridge. $20 and not too far away. On our way to the address where the fridge was being held, he texted the seller to let him know we were coming. The guy acted pretty weird. "When exactly will you be here?" he kept asking after we gave him our best estimate.

"I don't know," we texted back, cutting off cabs to ensure the fridge would still be ours.

We pulled up to typical Vegas home: dusty colored and under the freeway. Soon after we realized why the guy was so concerned with our ETA. He was hammered. In fact, he had a beer in hand. In fact, he had just bought a MUCH bigger fridge himself (presumably to hold more booze), a purchase that necessitated he rid himself of his old mini model.

Only one problem: He'd mistyped the dimensions of the fridge on craigslist, and we looked at each other nervously, skeptical that this fridge would actually fit in an Acura. After 15 minutes of sweaty maneuvering that made Drunkboy set down his beer in exhaustion, we'd pretty much succumbed to defeat.

Enter secret weapon: Drunkboy's equally drunk frat bro wearing a velvet smoking robe with Palm's Resort and Casino insignia. "Why don't you just put down the front seat?" he asked.

"Oh," we said stupidly.

Needless to say, it worked. Not sure if there's a moral here, but whatever.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Job Search 2010: Take Three

It's been a little over a month since I've been unemployed, and I've started my job search again. And by again, I mean for the third time this year. By now, you'd think I'd be a unemployment pro. To be honest, I haven't even revised my resume to my liking yet. I don't think I ever will. I mean, it's pretty, but that's pretty much it. But if I don't even have prospective employers with whom to share my resume, what's the point?

So I took to the internet this afternoon and searched the listings of five different websites. (I already get automatic emails from all the big job websites like monster.com.) Just my luck, the Las Vegas Review Journal classified section was experiencing some annoying technical difficulties, allowing me to view job listings, but only the leftmost half inch of the posting. Am I applying to be a classy Las Vegas Strip hostess or to dance at a strip club? Html only knows.

Another major problem I always run into when job hunting in Las Vegas is that many of the job for which I'd otherwise be qualified require headshots. I don't have these, nor do I have the money to obtain them. If I did, I wouldn't be looking for work. Some employment listings even say things like, "Send photos," with the caveat, "Don't worry. I'm not a pervert." Oh, phew. Now I feel comforted. I can TOTALLY trust the guy who needs photos before he'll set up an interview for his potential future secretary. I'd personally rather know I'm applying for something sketchy than be surprised later.

In the end, I wound up finding two jobs that look interesting: rare book salesperson and hookah hostess. Neither require photos. Now excuse me while I write my cover letters.

Friday, April 23, 2010

I told you I work better at night. Part 2.

Lately, I've mostly been worried about getting older. Shoving all well-meaning comments from older women about how they wish they could be my age again aside, it really freaks me out. I could write about 5 million entries about the psychological effects of facing my own mortality, but in this blog I'd like to tackle the good, old-fashioned shallow things like wrinkles and gravity.

I am completely aware of the edge that my youth gives me. I'm also completely aware of how to use my gender to get things, not only socially, but also in the business world. As I reach middle age, being a woman is going to become a hinderence instead of an asset in my professional career. No longer will I be able to get through difficult situations by acting cute. I'm going to be an old lady in the eyes of male colleagues. I'm going to be expendable. Let's face it: Women who've been at a job for a long time aren't looked at as veterans like men are. Shit.

Not to mention the fact that I'll have to compete for men with women half my age. How is it fair that men continue to have their choice of women as our prospects twindle to nonexistent as we age? But there isn't anything I can do about it. I'm aging right now, and whether I like it or not, it's going to dictate how other people percieve me. Even if I choose to be "young at heart," I'll still be religated to the role of wacky aunt or cougar or Cat Lady (the plastic surgery woman, not someone who likes cats). Shit.

So here I am. Now what?

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I told you I work better at night.

So it's six minutes until 2 a.m., and I'm really, truly exhausted.

I know, usually I'm a total insomniac, but I'm really exhausted from a long day of writing, exercising, and reality TV watching. I also started a new blog recently. It's not ready for public viewing yet. It's my profession blog, as opposed to this personal one in which you must endure my sleep-deprived ramblings.

Anyway, I just thought I'd share with you all the completely physical, completely existential crisis I've been amidst lately. (I am the only person I know who is able to have a crisis that is both physical and existential at the same time.) It started a few months ago now, but really it started a quarter of a century ago when I was born. It started the first time someone cooed, "Oooo, look at that pretty little girl," or commented how big my eyes were or whatever.

You see, I've always obsessed about the way I look. I know I'm a smart person and an independent woman and I'm not supposed to say that or admit that. I should be spending this time I spend obsessing reading a book or volunteering or something, but I don't and I'd be lying if I said I planned to anytime soon.

I clearly remember being five and having a debate with myself in front of my closet about what outfit I should wear to school. There was a boy in my class I had a crush on, and I distinctly remember my five-year-old self looking at a particular dress is my closet and wondering, "Hmm, if I wear that, will I look sexy?"

Yeah, I had that word, "sexy," in my vocabulary at five. I don't know how it got there, probably TV, but that's beside the point.

The point is, that ever since I was at least five, I've been worried to some extent about my physical appearance. I know everyone does this to some extent. Even the really anti-establishment types dress a certain way due to concern about appearance. I have several male friends who think they eschew superficiality by dressing only in clothing that doesn't have any logos on it. I'm sorry, but do you have any idea how difficult it is in this country in this day in age to track down clothes with no visible label? Even if you found such a garment, the thing would probably have some kind of discernible brand marking. And I'm not just talking about people who "know designers." Any idiot can recognize a shirt from Hot Topic if he needed to.

So I know I'm not the only one who worries about appearance, but I've recently become so utterly obsessed, and at the same time, so utterly tired from worrying all the time. I mean, can't one hour go by when I don't have to worry if I have food in my teeth or what my profile looks like or not stare into my reflection in a window as I walk past (while pretending I'm not looking)?

That's the question. The epicenter of my crisis. Tomorrow I will likely post part II of this blog topic. But only if I'm not too busy buying whitening strips.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Just an Observation

You're in luck! Today I'm so driven by procrastination that I'm writing another blog!

The issue I've been thinking about lately is one I've been pondering for a long time. Stay with me here, guys, because it's a woman's issue. I'm curious to hear if anyone else has noticed this phenom.

When I started college and began to circulate in more diverse social groups, I started to notice something. If I was talking in a group of myself and two or more men, I would frequently be either talked over or seemingly half-heard. It didn't matter whether we were discussing politics or parenting, sex or sedatives, but inevitably, I would begin to feel like I wasn't even part of the conversation, and the only thing worse than being left out of it would be to continue talking like an idiot as if someone was listening.

The first few times I noticed this, I felt paranoid, and then I felt angry and hurt (Why were these people who were supposedly my friends/colleagues/servants brushing me off?), but eventually I learned to just shrug it off as part of gender politics.

I would have expected that groups in which the men were the most "liberal" politically (those who would traditionally be most vocal for female rights) would be the least likely to do this. In actuality, some of the worst cases of being talked over/ignored that I can recall were in groups of self-proclaimed male feminists or gay men. This fact makes the "situation" (I hate to use that adjective for fear of evoking images of fake tan or "creepin.") even more troubling and complicated. If someone claims to have your back as a woman and doesn't act like it, you kind of start to feel betrayed.

The male-dominated groups in which I feel most comfortable and virtually never have this occur are 1) several male relatives 2) men who are attracted to me (on the rare occasion that this is the case) 3) men who are intoxicated and have passed out under a bar stool 4) men who are (pretending to be) asleep. So really, the only time men ever listen to me is when they want something (quiet, another drink, the continuance of our familial bloodline, etc.). Isn't that a happy notion?

You might wonder if maybe I'm some man-hating feminist. I am not. I am a feminist in that I believe women should have equal opportunities and receive equal pay. I do not fight the urge to run to the street to burn unmentionables on a daily or even biweekly basis. I shave my legs (but not in the winter).

The simple fact is, I'm never spoken over by other women, nor am I spoken over in mixed-gender groups, so the hypothesis that I'm just quiet or unimposing doesn't really hold up here either.

If you're a woman and have never noticed this, watch out for it. If you're a guy (and probably thinking "I never do that!"), check yourself. That is all.

Disclaimer: Dad, this has nothing to do with a negative male image that you are, right about now, thinking you projected to me sometime during my childhood, nor is this blog applicable to you. Exhale.