Tender is the Blog

Life Looks Better on Top

2012-01-24T19:04:00.000-08:00

Guess what, Las Vegans! We finally won something! We finally topped a list (and it's not a swimsuit contest at Wet Republic).

A list published in CNNMoney of the top 100 zip codes hit hardest by foreclosure listed Vegas as numero uno! In fact, we swept all five tops spots.

Not that anyone should be surprised by this. I like to brag about how bad the economy is here all the time. Other cities brag about their great hospitals or parks or number of doctors per capita, but is the best news since our suicide rate hit the press last year! Winning!

I like to social climb while I stair climb

2012-01-18T18:38:00.000-08:00

Have you heard of DAVID BARTON GYM? Well, DAVID BARTON GYM is about to hit Las Vegas. I've got to type it in all caps, because it's just that sweet!!!! Consider the evidence:

Don't you workout like this?

Everyone else does...

...at DAVID BARTON GYM!

Don't worry, everybody. You too can exercise in a club environment when DAVID BARTON GYM opens it's new Las Vegas location at Tivoli Village. I hope to social climb on the stair climber (while wearing stilettos). After all, what's the point of working out if you can't lounge on a suede beanbag after?

Wanna buy a huge drink and stumble around somewhere?

2012-01-15T11:05:00.000-08:00

Alternate title: There's nothing to do here (or anywhere for that matter).

Las Vegas is a 24 hour city, so many people assume this means 24 hours of constant fun. But think about the last time you visited Vegas; what did you do? I'd venture to guess it had something to do with booze and empty pockets. Now imagine you're stuck here permanently. No, you're not incarcerated after pinching a councilman's tush on NYE(I can tell you that story later), you just happen to live here with neither the plans (nor funds) to get the hell out.

"There's nothing to do here," is a common complaint from Midwestern kids who resort to getting black-out drunk in the cornfield and tipping bovine. This isn't a stereotype; I actually knew people in college who said that this had been their typical weekend growing up. Naturally, I assumed that if I lived somewhere bigger or brighter, I'd never face that boredom brought on by yet another Friday night spent in the same bar or coffee house listening to the same Black Eyed Peas cover band or Klezmer group (what?).

But it's no different here. Aside from some really expensive shows or equally bank account-draining activities such as indoor skydiving, helicoptering over LVB, or going to a concert, I generally face the same icky feeling of deja vu weekend after weekend. Here's where I could link to a bunch of stuff that always makes various local press' lists of things to do for locals, such as the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art or the Pinball Museum. But I won't, since most people exhausted all those ideas during their first four months of living here. Instead, I've short-listed several insane ideas I've never tried before. Have you?

Really Stupid Shit to Do When You're Bored in Vegas:

1) Get a prostitute, refuse to pay, and run away on foot.
2) Graffiti the side of Encore.
3) Buy a little remote control boat and drive it in the pool at Bellagio. (Someone has to have thought of this one already.)
4) Scale the fence of Steve Wynn's neighborhood, ring his doorbell, and steal his walking stick. (This is only funny if you know Steve Wynn is blind.)
5) Buy front row seats to Holly Madison's Peepshow, wait til the music gets soft and make loud accusations about which parts of her are plastic.
6) Dine and dash at Joel Robuchon.
7) Egg newlyweds taking their pictures in front of the Welcome to Las Vegas sign.
8) Fill The Mix elevator with ping pong balls; push the button for the top floor.
9) Get a penthouse suite at any hotel and throw stuff off the balcony.
10) Go to the Eiffel Tower Restaurant and order everything in French, ask the waiter questions as if it's the real Eiffel Tower, such as "Did you work here when Bridget Bardot filmed that movie?" and "What do you think of President Sarkozy?"

Auto-correct, Disrespect, or Consumer Obsession?

2012-01-12T19:46:00.000-08:00

Before I start this long overdue post, I'd like to offer a brief apology/explanation for my long absence from the blogosphere. As many of you know, the last six months have been fairly confusing for me for numerous reasons (if only by First World standards). In the interim, I've felt self-consumed and over-exposed enough without taking to this blog and barfing out stories.

That being said, I can only keep from staring in the mirror for so long. Don't misunderstand this as some Michael Jackson-type self-reflection metaphor; I'm really just totally conceited. Consider the following as an end to my hiatus:

The other day I received a work-related email from a woman I've known for some time. It was probably the third or fourth message in a succession of back-and-forth dialogue between the two of us. She's one of those people who sends hurried emails from her iPhone midday and expects an immediate response. In fact, she'd prefer to receive rushed emails full of lies than still prompt, thought-out emails that actually make sense.

At this point, I also have to mention that she'd emailed me several times already that day, and, since she doesn't seem to connect "thinking" to sending emails, nor understand the concept of "day job," she sent them in rapid succession. Many included statements such as, "Before I forget..." or "After I sent that last one, I realized..." in bubbly violet (or was it chartreuse?) script.

Sweat forming on my brow, I noticed that a whole 5 minutes had passed between when the email hit my inbox and when I read it, so I took to my keyboard like Amy Winehouse on speed (too soon?). I furiously typed what I thought seemed like a semi-coherent response, hit spell check and sent it off, hoping that this women was mid tennis match or gnawing at a piece of kale or something and I'd be able to get work accomplished before being forced to send out another reply.

I gnawed on my arm staring at the auto refresh button, shushing anyone who tried to talk to me. Point five seconds later, her next email appeared. It said:

"Dear Nissan..."

No, that's no typo, she actually addressed me as the multinational automaker headquartered in Japan. You might think that happens to me often. Nope.

As I see it, there are several explanations:

1) Auto-correct: Isn't there a law that says the simplest explanation is the usually the correct one?

2) Consumer obsession: Is it possible that this women subliminally advertised a brand loyalty so unconsciously entrenched by our commercially absorbed society that it has invaded even her most casual communication?

3) Disrespect: Is it not true that I, being referred to as "Maserati" or even "Mercedes," could have emailed the remainder of the day away with Bourgeois pride?

4) Fat joke: Have you seen the rear bumper on the current Xterra?

Regardless of intent, my head swarmed with a life's worth of awkward party chatter to the effect of, "Wouldn't it be cool if you drove an Altima?" or "Dude, it would be so sweet if you just took an X-acto knife and just scrapped off the 'N'." I even debated calling her out on her mistake in my next email. I didn't, and I'm still unsure if she realized her mistake.

When I move, you move (Four hours later.)

2011-09-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I moved to my own place this weekend. This is my first time living on my own without a roommate or boyfriend. It's just me and Dugi now.

I'd been pretty diligent with my moving plans, making sure my electricity would be turned on, doing a lot of research into what moving company I should use, and having Cox turn on my internet.

I decided to hire movers because I had to move over Labor Day weekend, and no one would be around to help me. Also, I hate driving U-Hauls. Anyway, I looked on Yelp to see who was highest rated, and I found a moving company called Gorilla Rose, which had almost all 5-star reviews on Yelp, a nice website, and tons of great customer testimonies. I called them two weeks ago and was pleasantly surprised by the friendliness and flexibility of the owner.

So on Saturday, moving day, I woke up early to get a relaxing facial and drove home relaxed, sure all my moving needs would be taken care of. Somewhere on the drive home I started to have a premonition that this move wouldn't run as smoothly as I'd thought. I have these often, and usually they're right.

Gorilla Rose was scheduled to show up at 10 a.m. At 10:15, I started to get nervous. I decided to call them to confirm that they were still coming. To my dismay, the number had been disconnected, and the only thing that kept me from totally panicking was the fact that I hadn't paid them anything yet, nor did they have my credit card information. I went immediately to Craigslist and began calling numbers until I found a guy named John who, over the din of Swapmeet, told me he could help me out the next morning. Realizing that Craigslist people really aren't reliable either, I called my friend and coworker Kym in a panic, hoping that she'd be able to help me brainstorm what to do. We decided she'd drive to my house and we'd go rent a U-Haul and pick up some day laborers at Star Nursery.

With Kym on the way, my phone rang and, much to my surprise, it was Gorilla Rose, calling to explain that they'd "forgotten to pay the phone bill," which somehow translated to running 2 hours late. It was almost noon at this point, and Brian, the mover, informed me that they hadn't even picked up the truck yet from U-Haul. He did assure me they were on their way. Next time I don't want to do something, am running late, or forget to do my homework, I'm definitely using the "forgot to pay my phone bill" excuse. But only because it makes so much sense.

Ok, so Kym comes to my house, and soon I get a phone call from Brian explaining that he didn't have the money to put down for the truck, so I'd have to call U-Haul and give them my credit card number so he could get it. So I gave my credit card number to them, and realized that the U-Haul Brian had gone to was in deep Henderson, which is in the exact opposite direction of where I needed to move from and to. Why they wouldn't rent a U-Haul near me, I have no idea.

Anyway, two hours later, they show up with the truck. Kym and I look out the window and see what seems to be three Vietnam vets who definitely collect social security stumbling up the sidewalk. "This should be interesting," I said. "I think they're hung over," said Kym.

They did reek of the particular scent of sweat, drugs, and alcohol. The guy with Meth teeth was still tweeking. Whatever. I just wanted to move.

Since I only really had one room to move, the entire operation only lasted an hour. Then I remembered that my couch was supposed to be delivered that day. I called the furniture company and the manager assured me that the delivery truck was on its way. A few hours later, no truck in sight, I called them again, and the manager told me they were about half an hour away. I really didn't understand how one day of deliveries could take so long.

But half an hour later, when two men drove up in a pickup truck, I realized that the furniture store didn't even have a real truck, and they'd been lugging furniture, one piece at a time, all over the Valley.

I live on the bottom floor. There's a stairway that residents on the second floor take up to their units, which is about ten feet from my door. Coming around the corner, the guy walking forwards moved too fast for the guy walking backwards, and he managed to squish Backwards-Walking Guy's hand into the side of the stair railing, also causing a huge tear in the back of my couch. After the day I'd had, I took one look at the tear, told them to position it with that side facing the wall, and called it a day.

And after all that, Kym figured out that the name "Gorilla Rose" is actually the title of a psychedelic rock track, just the kind of track one would use for background music while getting high in the back of a van.

Deep-fried Oreos: Worth it?

2011-08-15T14:58:00.000-07:00

I have an apology to make.

You see, whenever friends come to Vegas and ask me what they should do, I give them a list that includes adventures to activate all the senses. Since I'm a foodie, this list does tend to rely heavily on taste. Naturally, I refer people to Mermaid's Casino for the fried Oreos. They're fried. They're three for a dollar. How can one go wrong?

Here's my confession/apology: I'd never tried this gluttonous dessert. Until last night. After digesting our meal at Serendipity 3, Rob and Dugi and I ventured to Fremont Street to taste these Oreos. I held Dugi next to the dining area while Rob stood in line.

The first warning should have been the fact that no one flinched when I brought a dog within five feet of the fryers. I mean, Fremont Street is gross and Dugi is clean, but that's got to be violating at least 10 health codes. And then, well...

Let me begin by saying that the fried Oreos themselves were delicious. They were salty and sweet and instantly raised my cholesterol. But Mermaid's has got to be the most disgusting place I've ever eaten, let alone one of the most disgusting places I've ever been in my life.

I had more of an appetite looking at a street dog's bottom in Santo Domingo.

My shoes stuck to the floor.
Three people behind Rob was a bearded woman.
Multiple career hookers (illegal) told me how cute Dugi was. They actually pet him.
I was afraid to sit at the slot machine for fear of contracting scurvy. Is that even contagious?

We ate our Oreos outside the casino. We drove home. I lived to tell the tale. But I've got to apologize to anyone I've put through this frightful experience.

Goo goo gah gah fries with that?

2011-08-11T22:35:00.000-07:00

I'm rather disappointed by the media outlets in this town. It's blatantly obvious, to me at least, that Las Vegas has some serious child labor issues. Why, I ask, is a 10 year old allowed to serve me my smoothie?

Ok readers, I have to be honest, Vegas has many problems, but employing underage kids isn't one of them. The real problem is that I'm getting old. Sixteen year olds suddenly look like babies to me. Several times now, I've almost blurted out, "What are you, like five?" to teenage boys working around town. Luckily I've been able to resist the urge, lest I become one of those old bags who humiliates the children.

All my favorite artists: Van Gogh, Matisse, Charles Manson

2011-08-08T12:35:00.000-07:00

Next month, Sin City Gallery will feature a collection created entirely by convicted serial killer John Wayne Gacy. No, this isn't just a Vegas thing; for those who don't know, so-called "Murderabilia" (art created by serial killers) is highly collectable. In fact, as featured in the 2000 documentary "Collectors," some enthusiasts devote their lives to collecting artwork created by murderers.

In Vegas and elsewhere, this trend has sparked controversy. On one side of the argument are victims' rights advocates who insist that this hobby glorifies killers and stomps on the memory of their victims. On the other side are collectors who argue that displaying this art is free speech and fascinating. Furthermore, profits from the sale of this artwork often, at least in part, go to charities that benefit victims and their families.

As a response to the Las Vegas opening, advocates are providing a competing show, which will instead display photographs of murder victims and act as a kind of memorial.

As a life-long advocate of free speech in all forms and someone who finds true crime television interesting, I support the gallery's right to display this collection. While I understand how victims' family members could be disturbed by this, I don't understand how they equate these art displays with desecration of the memory of the serial killer's victims. This mindset is the same one that leads to capital punishment: Though we as a society would like to forget it, serial killers are human and should be afforded the same basic dignity as the rest of us.

Buy the fountain of youth for one low payment!

2011-08-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

Apparently, the ACLU is suing because of gerrymandering in Las Vegas, but I'm going to talk about skincare products.

You see, today I went to the dermatologist for my occassional botox. My doctor had barely shoved the needle into my third eye when he began telling me about a new product.

"That over there isn't even available to the public yet," he said, gesturing at a large orange pill bottle. "That's the fountain of youth."

"Yeah," I chuckled, unsure if he was serious. He has a tendency to ramble about skin science while working on me.

"It's called Telomerase. It'll make you live to be 150." Apparently, Telomerase is an enzyme that was discovered by some Nobel Prize-winning scientist that mimics the resilience of cancer cells. My doctor started taking the stuff a week ago, and he had already noticed "subtle differences." I didn't ask him what these differences were because he seems like the type to blurt out "bedroom stamina!" but I was a little intruigued. "Google it," he said.

After further research, I found that the activation of Telomerase makes some cells "immortal." Yikes, that's one scary word.

The death of books

2011-08-02T13:31:00.000-07:00

I had a very disappointing weekend. First, I attempted to sell some books to a used bookstore. Then, I went to Borders.

That's a pretty explanatory sentence right there, but let me go on.

There are several used bookstores in Las Vegas. Perhaps the most well-known is Dead Poets Books, but I would never go there because the owner is an asshat. Just look at him.

They used to have a website, but I can't find it anymore. One part of the site featured guidelines explaining the types of books they'd buy, which is fine; I understand it's a business. The problem was that the owner had basically used the page as a forum to condescend to the little people who couldn't possibly understand the difference between Ann Rand and Tolstoy.

Anyway, I traveled to this other used bookstore on North Rainbow that manages to survive down the street from both Borders and Barnes and Noble. I took a bag of my old books including anything from paperbacks that are now movies to out-of-print craft books. Alas, they wouldn't buy any of them because, as the sweet old lady who owns the place explained, "They won't sell anymore." Sure enough, I noted that they shelves held multiple copies of several of the books I'd brought in. What does sell, judging by the shelves, is romance novels. The "literature" is condemned to a miniscule section at the back of the store. There I saw a paperback copy of East of Eden and about two dozen fancy first editions that are out of my price range.

I lugged the sad sack of books back out to my car and drove down the street to Borders to peruse the now defunct store's inventory. It was kind of a madhouse there, since Vegas loves a sale. As I entered the store, I passed a family exiting. The teenage boy of the group exclaimed, "There's nothing to buy here. All they have is books!"

If you know me at all, you know I hate Borders and have mixed feelings about their going out of business. Clearly, this means the decline of reading, but, like I said, I hate Borders because 1)it's a chain and 2)they mostly sold toys and movies anyway. Still, I love discounted reading material. I picked up several copies of Best American Short Stories, a few lit mags, and a travel magazine for the BF. I'll be visiting again as the prices drop further.

Anyway, what I really had to deal with walking past the shelves of pawed through books was the fact that no writer deserves to have his or her life's work stamped with a huge 20% off sticker. It's depressing to see the likes of Alice Munro defamed like that. There's nothing worse than seeing surplus inventory from a writer you know and then having to face that writer later, pretending nothing is wrong. The maternal side of me wanted to buy all five copies of Fear and Loathing and hightail it out of there.

My two favorite things: fish and human flesh

2011-07-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

For those of you who still haven't bought into the idea that Vegas is a classy city-those of you who think all we have to offer are street brawls (see the video in the post below) you're in for a big surprise. In fact, Vegas can add its name to a long list of cosmopolitan locales where you can eat raw fish off a naked lady. That's right, one visit to Geisha House Steak & Sushi on Decatur, and you can eat sushi off leaves strategically placed on an otherwise naked woman.

See, that's totally not weird or awkward. I immediately begin picturing Larry David inspired scenarios in which I find a migrant pube stuck to a spicy tuna roll. Gross. Would you try it?

Batman gets beat up in las vegas

2011-07-30T01:07:00.000-07:00

Confessions of an MFA grad

2011-07-28T17:36:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone. I'm back from Nebraska, and I officially have my MFA in fiction. Some of you might think the pressure is off since I no longer have homework, but actually, graduating is a little like having a permanent homework assignment.

You see, I now have to uphold the expectation of my program, my friends and family who have watched me earn this degree, and my graduating class-some of the most talented individuals I've had the pleasure to encounter. Now I have to publish, which is the best advertisement for the program. I have to not sit in front of my computer with a cork-less bottle of wine that I must drink because it will go bad soon.

Then, Amy Winehouse died the day of graduation, which is like some kind of cosmic warning; create or perish! It doesn't help that we're the same age. I tried to find a nice Amy Winehouse quote to read at graduation, but most of the quotes were short drink recipes. "What's your recipe for success?" asked the Rolling Stone reporter. "Uh, that's a dash 'ah scotch an' lots of ice," Amy probably answered very seriously and drunkenly. That didn't actually happen, but it could have.

Apparently we need some clarification

2011-07-14T11:55:00.000-07:00

I'll admit I've done plenty of weird Vegas-typical things in the five years I've lived here. For example, just last week, I walked from a club, through a casino and all the way out to my car without shoes on. I'd been dancing for hours and my heels hurt, ok? I washed my feet with hot water and soap when I got home, and I haven't died yet. Would I walk through puddles of sewage? No. But I don't think the casino floor is any dirtier than walking barefoot outside, which everyone does or at least did as a child.

However, I've never walked into a restaurant without pants. And yesterday, I witnessed someone who did. I was eating a late dinner at the Palms cafe, and in comes this group of drunk kids, one of whom was wearing a very long shirt. Hmm, I thought, perhaps she's wearing a swimsuit underneath or just has on some really short shorts.

My question was answered five minutes later when one of the guys at the table pulled her shirt up to her waist while she was standing and talking too loudly as drunk kids often do. And no, she wasn't wearing anything underneath her shirt. The carpet matches the drapes people. So I'm thinking, maybe "No shirts, no shoes, no service" needs to be ammended to include pants.

Naughty and Nice: Two more options to diversify the Vegas economy

2011-07-06T15:38:00.000-07:00

I'm constantly trying to think of ways to pull Vegas out of this downward spiral. As the one metropolitan area that has yet to see any economic growth indicators since the recession, we're still in need of help. I wrote a blog a few months in which I brainstormed non-entertainment ideas for Vegas economic expansion. Here are two ideas within the existing hospitality industry.

The Nice: Legalize Gay Marriage

This idea has been discussed quite a bit. If Vegas wedding chapels were able to perform gay marriages, then wedding sales would go up. This would create a trickle-down advantage for photographers, caterers, hotels, casinos, resorts, etc, that Vegas could cash in on. The only problem (which is a big one) is that our state constitution already has an amendment banning same-sex unions. Any movement in gay marriage legislation would take at least 5 years to finalize via the voting process. Not to mention, Nevada has plenty of rednecks and militias that would not easily stomach gay marriage rights.

The Naughty: Legalize Prostitution

This one has also been discussed in length, though not recently, and not as a way to mitigate our financial crisis. For those of you who don't know, prostitution is only legal outside the Las Vegas city limits. I used to think prostitution was kind of gross, but I recently watched the 80s documentary "Chicken Ranch" (Watch it free here:http://www.hulu.com/watch/155136/chicken-ranch ), which filmed the everyday lives of the young women at the brothel of the movie's namesake. After some research, I actually decided it wasn't too bad, and hey, I'm always a fan of regulation. Vegas hardly has a pure reputation as it is, and the sex industry would definitely bring more tourism.

I'd like to see either of these scenarios happen. While the legal same-sex marriage process is long, it doesn't look like the economy is going to bounce back anytime soon anyway. And then there's prostitution, which is happening right now, like it or not, so we might as well go with it and make it legal and safe.

Still wondering...

2011-07-02T21:40:00.000-07:00

Driving home from the dog park with Dugi on my lap tonight, I was listening to the KNPR special about anthems-not just national anthems, but rock anthems and other songs that have become cultural anthems for one reason or another. At that point, "All You Need is Love" was playing.

I turned into our neighborhood and was almost immediately flagged down by a young teenage girl-probably fourteen or fifteen-in front of an SUV stopped with all its interior lights on and the doors open. I pulled over and rolled down my window. "What's wrong?" I asked, before she could say anything. The hairs on the back of my arms were standing on end. Something wasn't right.

"Can you help us?" she said, "My mom"-at this point her voice broke and she started crying-"hurt her arm and she can't drive the car."

"Ok, of course. Let me pull my car closer to the curb," I said. I parked, grabbed Dugi and my purse, and got out.

When I approached the SUV, I immediately saw the girl's mother, who was also crying, and what I assume was the girl's little sister in the back seat.

"Do you need me to call someone?" I asked the woman.

"She already said she doesn't want to call anyone," answered the girl's daughter quickly.

"Well, what can I do? I can drive your car back to your house. I can give you a ride," I offered.

"No, no," the woman said and shook her head. "Never mind." At this point, the girl started to argue with her mother in Spanish, telling her that as long as I was offering help, she should take it.

"No, no. We only live a few streets down," the woman insisted.

"I can call someone else-a friend or family member," I offered. I thought it was strange that they had stopped in our neighborhood since it's gated. If they didn't live in our neighborhood, they must have been coming from a house within it.

"There is no one else," said the woman.

"Ok, well let me do something," I insisted.

"No, no, we'll just go," said the woman, shifting her car into drive with her good arm and beckoning her daughter to get in the car. I began to walk away, and, out of earshot of her mother, told the girl where my house was if she changed her mind. I watched the woman struggle to make the one-armed u-turn she would need to exit our neighborhood. She drove very slowly and made a very wide turn that almost took her up onto the curb. At this point, I got back into my car and drove down the block to my place. I'm still wondering how she hurt her arm and if they got home safely.

You mean all great journalists have a black Amex?

2011-07-01T17:40:00.000-07:00

My favorite late-night activity is (No, not going to the strip club.) watching obscure documentaries on Hulu. Last night, I happened upon a doc from 2003, which was filmed, produced and directed by Jamie Johnson of the Johnson & Johnson fortune. It's called "Born Rich," and the point of the project was to interview all his other heir and heiress friends about being wealthy.

I highly recommend the film to anyone (You can watch it for free here: http://www.hulu.com/watch/174635/born-rich ). The best part of the movie is not what Jamie intended of it, but the subtext that only a non-billionaire like me would pick up. I don't even want to describe it, lest I spoil the surprise.

Anyway, when I finished watching, I went to the blogs to see what other people thought. I happened upon this blog: http://www.halfsigma.com/2008/02/born-rich.html

Reading through the post, I realized the blogger pretty much agreed with all my thoughts, until I got to this paragraph:

"This gets to a key point I make all the time on this blog, that the “cool” professions, such as journalism, are heavily populated by children of the rich, but they don’t wear t-shirts that say “my parents are decamillionaires,” so unfortunately many middle-class children try to get into these professions without realizing how the odds are so stacked against them."

What?!?! Shut the front door! I was a journalism major. At one point I wanted to be a journalist! Why haven't I heard this before? I thought I understood everything there was to know about class, status and power. After all, I minored in sociology. I thought my complete failure to get any cool internships was because I sucked. Does this blogger mean to tell me that I'm not freelancing for Vogue because I'm not an heiress?

I immediately became very annoyed at all my ancestors for not being WASPs who came over on the Mayflower and instead went through dirty Ellis Island circa the recent past. I'm still peeved about it, right now, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a silver spoon to shove in my mouth and meditate for the best.

Vegas weather is sucking the creativity out of me: My current thoughts about the writing process

2011-06-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to write anything lately, and as you can tell from the title of this blog, I'm just going to blame the weather. Other people blame the weather for stuff all the time, so I've decided I'm just going to make a habit of doing that too. Instead of, "Oh, I have to stop my exercise plan because it's sooooo hot," or "Sorry I forgot to pay for my gas and drove away. The heat must be getting to me, " I'm just going to say that I get heat stroke every time I open the document that contains my novel manuscript.

When it gets cold, I'll say my computer keys gave me frostbite.

Anyway, my writing malaise might actually have started because I'm going to be graduating with my MFA at the end of this month. I'm basically done at this point. I've sent off my thesis, made the powerpoint for my lecture, and purchased my plane ticket to Nebraska for my last residency. But I can't seem to think past graduation. To be honest, I don't have any plans. I can't really imagine what it will be like not to have the guarenteed 10 days with my writing pals every six months. I love every one of them, and for a long time, my writing has depended on not letting them down.

Book Review: The Long Journey Home by Margaret Robison AKA The Worst Book Ever

2011-06-28T23:20:00.000-07:00

My first reading project for the summer was to finish the memoirs of the Robison family back to back to back.

For those of you who don't know. Chris Robison (AKA Augusten Burroughs) wrote a bestseller called Running With Scissors, which details his chaotic childhood living at his mother's crazed therapist's house after his parents became too unstable to raise Chris themselves.

The second book is the memoir of John Elder Robison (Augusten Burroughs' brother), which details his childhood as a misfit and his eventual diagnosis with Asperger's Syndrome at age 50. This book also became a bestseller.

These two books deserve all the accolade they've been given: Burroughs' book is a delightful, comical survivor's story, and Robison's book is a truly unique account of growing up with Asperger's.

It's the third book, John Elder and Christopher's mother's memoir The Long Journey Home, that really threw me into a fit of rage, and I don't mean the kind inspired by really good, dark literature.

First of all, no one would even bother to pick up the memoir of Margaret Robison, a mediocre, manic-depressive poet, were her sons not so infamous. I decided to read the book hoping to gain some insight into Margaret's horrific parenting, or at least to feel some sympathy for a woman who has been so demonized in literature and the press. Neither of my expectations were fulfilled.

For one thing, the writing in this memoir is atrocious. I understand this woman had a stroke, but I would expect Random House to at least maintain the editorial standard that readers have grown to expect. If I had to read one more scene in which Margaret hangs her head and cries pitifully, I would have thrown the book across the room. It reads like a stream of consciousness with no discernible structure or purpose. I read the book in two weeks because it was so boring. Usually, I finish books within 48 hours.

Second, Margaret doesn't even attempt to apologize for the way she neglected her sons. I understand she was mentally ill and in an abusive marriage, but she seems to use these facts as excuses and a simple ploy to elicit pity from the reader. In fact, she accuses both sons of lying in their memoirs, stating she knows that her side of their stories is the truth, while in the same breath admitting that she has major holes in her memory due to a stroke and bouts of psychosis.

Third, since the only reason anyone picked up the book was to read more about John Elder and Chris' childhoods, it would have made sense for her to actually write about them. The fact that a mother can write nearly 400 pages of memoir while only rarely mentioning her sons, and only then to slander them, is something I find both troubling and narcissistic.

Fourth, Margaret should have been able gain my sympathy easily because she is a)lonely b)elderly c) mentally ill d) partially paralyzed, and e) estranged from her youngest son. On the contrary, I felt nothing but disgust for this woman who seemed to use her sons' fame only to get this lousy book in the hands of an agent. Shame on her. I hope she gets back into therapy and fixes herself while she still has time left.

There are definitely parts of Bad Teacher to which I relate.

2011-06-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

Let me preface this post by telling you the part of Cameron Diaz' character I can't relate to: the hating teaching part. I love being a teacher, I love kids, and I (think I) am pretty good at it.

But then again, I laughed a lot during this movie, which is because there was a lot of truth to it.

First, like Diaz' character, Elizabeth, I never thought I'd be a teacher in the long term. I too envisioned myself marrying rich and never working again, wracking up large credit card bills at Bloomingdale's buying clothes and Manolos.

Second, like the perennially annoying supporting characters in this film, the public school system is filled with well-meaning but irritating educators that often made me want to put my sweatshirt over my head and nap.

Third, an extremely high percentage of public school teachers I once worked with used their hard-earned salaries to buy implants. Unfortunately they didn't perform the courtesy of scheduling surgery during the summer.

That's about where the similarities end. I highly recommend this movie for anyone who has spent time in the classroom.

Lake Mead does not have a real beach.

2011-06-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

Sorry everyone in the tri-state area, but going to Lake Mead does not count as going to the beach. If you want a real beach, go to California. What do I mean by a "real" beach? Well, first of all, it shouldn't look like Nevada's version of the tar pits.

Does this look like a good place to sun bathe and feed seagulls to you? Yet, me neither.

But many Las Vegans insist that Lake Mead is beachy, mostly, I think, to make themselves feel more secure about living in the middle of the desert.

Between Fact and Fantasy

2011-06-22T11:56:00.000-07:00

I know, I'm blogging again. Shocking, right? One day I got stuck, and then another day passed and then another. Soon, I had piles of things to write about that accumulated like dirty laundry. Each pile spread into each other pile, and soon, I was buried.

And there are always better things to do and excuses. I had to get rid of a lot of shoes I hadn't worn in a long time. And then I became a mother to my beautiful adopted Morkie, Badugi. In the important things, I am a perfectionist, and Dugi is important enough to deserve all my time.

So here's a stream of consciousness of all the things you've missed, and then in my next post, I'll be normal again, and it will be like we never stopped communicating at all...

...Carolyn Goodman is mayor of Vegas tourists who think swimsuits are clothes that scream for me to buy them from the rack when I'm trying to save money to buy a car dealer who works at Hyundai and doesn't know the names of the models who I find out now are only 16 or 17 and make me feel old photographs that I find when cleaning and that I want to through away but can't sleep because Badugi is licking my face serum that costs $200 for several ounces of happiness I feel when I think of how good summer vacation was as a kid ourselves that the economy here will ever be the same as it used to be careful when going to the grocery store when hungry for change...

Talk to you soon.

If You're Going to Read Poetry, Read This

2011-03-28T20:56:00.000-07:00

Ship of Fool
Poems by William Trowbridge
Red Hen Press
$18.95

Maybe you've noticed this is my first book review. That's because it's not often I find a book I want to plug. Especially not a book written by an esteemed yet modest professor from my own MFA program. Not only is Bill Trowbridge one hell of a faculty member, but he's also one clever writer. Read on.

Ship of Fool, Trowbridge's long-awaited collection, out now from Red Hen Press, is three parts. That is two parts humor and one part poignancy. Parts one and three follow Trowbridge's lovable schlemiel, Fool, a guy who tries so hard but has nothing but trouble coming for him. Part two is a taste of nostalgia served up both like a sundae and a slap in the face. I enjoyed this collection, but I'd bet on the fact that almost anyone could pick it up, poet and layman alike, and take away Trowbridge's message: There's a fool in all of us, but there's good in there too.

I'm not a fan of reviews that give away a work's best lines, but here's a little taste from a poem called "Class of '59':

"We muster smiles as we try/ to read between the lines/ and wattles. This must/ be you. This must be me, we muse,/ surprised we're not unhappy, showing our age,/ showing our class,/ lifting our plastic cups."

So buy it, you Fool.

The Next Big Las Vegas Industry

2011-02-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

I recently listened to a radio segment that suggested the only hope for Michigan's economy is giving up its reliance on the auto industry and in favor of something new. That made me start thinking about the potential for Las Vegas to bring itself back by creating a new industry that would be more recession-proof. I know what you're thinking, prostitution IS recession-proof. But everyone knows prostitution is only legal outside the city limits. Here is a list of my predictions for what industry Las Vegas will transition to when the big guys realize Casino's can no longer sustain us.

1) Prostitution: See above. If it were legal, we'd have more jobs, more tourism, and there are already plenty of hotels to bring a John to.

2) Marijuana: Medical marijuana is already legal, which has spawned dozens of new hydroponics shops. It's an ideal crop since it can be grown indoors. The only foreseeable problem here is a lack of water.

3) Eco-tourism: We're surrounded by beautiful mountains and desert, and we're certainly worthy of the schlep. Imagine how good someone would feel after a week of digging up lawns to replace them with socially-responsible, sustainable rock gardens.

4) Fine dining: We already have better dining options than pretty much anywhere in the US outside of NYC. But I think we're still doing a shitty job advertising it. Plus, we could use better and more frequent food festivals.

5) Furniture: What ever happened to Mayor Goodman making us the furniture capital? We don't even have an IKEA yet. I'm not sure how people are going to haul their stuff across the desert, but it's actually a legit industry, so who am I to argue?

The Real World Las Vegas: Again

2011-02-13T21:16:00.000-08:00

Yep, you read that right. If you haven't already been alerted, MTV's reality pioneer is returning to Vegas...again. The first Vegas season happened sometime while I was in high school. Then that same cast came BACK to Las Vegas, and now there's another season in Vegas with a new cast that premiers in March.

I find this odd for a few reasons. First of all, the obvious: Has any other city been host to three seasons of The Real World? I don't think so. Wouldn't MTV want to go back to London or Paris or maybe try something different like Topeka before giving us a third season of clueless twenty-somethings living in Vegas as so-called "locals" despite never leaving their penthouse?

Second, is this really the best time to tape here? I mean, if they want to see a real (excuse the pun) disaster, why don't they just tape in Egypt? I doubt foreclosed condos and deserted casinos are really going to provide the fun-loving party atmosphere MTV usually looks for. Although, they did just tape in New Orleans, so maybe it's like a big, fat, season-long public service announcement for our fair city. In which case, I guess I should be grateful that the network was willing to double our monthly tourist count from 7 to 14.

Lastly, they still haven't cleaned up the muck they left here after the first season. Any tourist is bound to trip over Trishelle at some D-list Strip event to this day. You think I kid. Well, in a way I do. Trishelle is actually very nice, from what I hear.

Vegas: Like a Lint Roller for Weirdos

2011-01-26T20:14:00.000-08:00

Every city has its eccentrics. For example, in the town where I grew up, this creepy middle-aged man decided he should dress up as Superman and wave an American flag on the street corner for a post-9/11 morale boost. Now that doesn't make any sense.

But Las Vegas has even more weirdos. In fact, we have at least a dozen people who walk around dressed up like Superman, and not for the sake of some lofty ideal like patriotism. It's because they're broke and have no shame.

What really made me start questioning the sanity of the average Las Vegan was when I began attending education conferences after I moved here five years ago as a new teacher. When most people think of teachers, they think of a bunch of squares who are really only as wacky as their loudest holiday sweater. So, theoretically, a city's teachers should, if anything, be the most normal cross-section of the population, and teacher meetings should be a small representation of the city's most responsible, level-headed citizens, right?

Uh oh, Mrs. Peterson, someone's been eating the paste, and it isn't little Johnny.

The people I meet at these things are CRAZY. Just today, I attended a small conference about sensory integration disorders with several of my colleagues. We were really excited to network with some private occupational therapists in the area to whom we could later refer students. Boy, were we wrong. I'd be more likely to leave my kid alone with the crazy lady on the corner who gets the mail in a shower cap. I couldn't even attempt to break down all the kinds of crazy on this page. But if I were to create a composite, imagine post-plastic surgery Roseanne Barr (physically), wearing Kurt Cobain's clothes with Tom Cruise's personality (circa frenetic Oprah interview).

Then I got to thinking, what if the crazy teachers are just leading to more crazy students who are growing up to be crazy adults? That's something to think about.

Leaving Las Vegas

2011-01-16T06:47:00.000-08:00

Have I complained about early morning flights at the Las Vegas airport yet? Because if I haven't, I should.

This morning I left my house at 4:30 to drive to Terrible's Casino to park my car to catch the airport shuttle. When I got there, the shuttle was already parked outside, which is awesome because I didn't even have to pretend like I was staying at the hotel and make them call for one. Unfortunately, I got an incredibly talkative shuttle driver who wanted to carry on a completely one-sided conversation. When I told him I was flying to Minneapolis, he fell into a tailspin of excited chatter. Apparently, his first love lived in St. Paul. Apparently it's his favorite place in the world.

When we arrived at the airport and he handed me my luggage, he gave me his card. Great, I thought, at least I have the number handy for when I need a shuttle back. Then he flipped over the card and pointed to his cell number and told me I should text him so we can go to a movie sometime. Now I have to live in fear for a week that he'll be on duty when I get back in town. Maybe I'll just pay for a cab. But no, I get back Friday night, and the cab line on Friday night is a disaster.

Anyway, I went through security and stood in line at Port-of-Subs, which was the only thing open, to get an orange juice. "I've gotta warn you, this is going to take a while," said the guy in front of me. "The line hasn't moved for like ten minutes." Since nothing else was open and I was early for my flight, I decided to brave the line. The really notable thing about early morning flights out of Vegas is that everyone is drunk still. One guy could barely stand up to order his "baconincheesesanwitchanacoffee." And there's always a girl who thinks it's cool to wear an ass-baring club dress to the airport. I mean, how long does it take to pull on pants and a shirt?

Needless to say, I am rather glad to be getting on a plane soon to fly to a different city altogether. And I'll let you know how it goes with me and the shuttle driver.

Chivalry is dead, and it was killed by this guy ----->

2011-01-11T17:33:00.000-08:00

On the way home from work yesterday, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some yogurt and granola. You see, I recently arrived home after my MFA residency where I was served yogurt, among other things, for breakfast every day, so I had a hankering for active cultures.

Anyway, I grabbed a big bulk box of yogurt and a bag of granola and headed toward the self-checkout. When I got there, all the lanes were full, and this one guy was waiting in line. As I approached him, he said, "Go right ahead," and made this little sweeping gesture with his hand. I figured, ok, he must be letting me go ahead of him because I only have two things and he's a genteel. So I stood in front of him.

A second later, he made this little clearing-of-the-throat sound and said, "The line's behind me." Really? REALLY? From what I deduce, his "Go right ahead" statement must have actually been meant as a signal to cross in front of him and then take my "rightful" place behind him in line. So I stood there stunned for a minute and moved behind him.

First of all, I don't need some guy's permission to cross his path. (This isn't Iran.), and second, who would go through the bother of specifying that I should move to the back? I mean, there were only a few of us in line and eight lanes! I've been told lately that I should be nicer to strangers, but it took every ounce of self-control not to say, "Oh, I thought you were being A GENTLEMAN!"

Karma allowed me to swipe my two measly items and pay and get the hell out of there before he even finished. So there. Ha.

And then the mob said, "Turn your head and cough."

2011-01-08T16:56:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I needed to go to the doctor. The only person available was the doctor's assistant, but he can prescribe drugs too, so what the heck.

When he entered the exam room, I thought perhaps I'd accidentally driven to urgent care on the Jersey Shore. He had one sort of droopy eye like he'd been punched in the face during one too many bar fights, and he kept saying shit. "I'll give you some of this shit and you'll feel all better. Shit." It's cool, I guess. Maybe the mob has infiltrated the medical industry.

Then, for dinner, we decided to try this new taco place. It's new but they'd sent out coupons in the mail, so what was there to lose?

We walked in and ordered and the guy's like, "Sure! Fuggidaboutit! I'll make you an offer you can't refuse," and gave us a bunch of free stuff. Then he started speaking Spanish with the grill guy in an Italian accent. At that point, we were pretty sure our burritos were going to suck, but that's beside the point. Has our economic slump trickled down to include organized crime? Will Bugsy Siegle show up to clean my carpet? I won't let him park out front for fear of car bombs.

Even Vegas Needs a New Year's Resolution

2010-12-31T12:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Back on the Blogwagon

2010-12-27T15:05:00.000-08:00

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.

I Heart Mayor Goodman

2010-12-03T20:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Desert Smesert

2010-11-21T16:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Birthdays

2010-11-15T18:49:00.000-08:00

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.

People Las Vegans Hate

2010-11-11T01:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

2010-11-02T23:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Dude, where are my sunglasses?

2010-11-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

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!

Are you supposed to be a cat or a prostitute?

2010-10-24T17:41:00.000-07:00

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?

When it rains, it floods

2010-10-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

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.

The Classic Vegas Night

2010-10-17T01:46:00.000-07:00

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.

Pushing people into limos and other Vegas career options

2010-10-13T16:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred job applications

2010-10-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2010-10-07T15:13:00.000-07:00

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.

I was just trying to send a letter

2010-10-01T14:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Worst Jobs Ever

2010-09-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Las Vegas vs. Atlantic City

2010-09-27T22:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Of Steaks and Unemployment

2010-09-18T22:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Gentlemen's Club and Other Euphemisms

2010-09-13T21:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Do Drink the Water (How to diet on vacation)

2010-09-10T15:01:00.000-07:00

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.

The Employment Guide: AKA where to sell your plasma

2010-09-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

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!"

HOA: The Ultimate Irony Machine

2010-08-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Bloody Ears: Like Life

2010-08-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

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."

I thought my ears would stop bleeding when Celine left.

2010-08-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Radio Psychics: Vegas Style

2010-08-19T16:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Professional Development 3.0

2010-08-18T17:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Pigeons: Wildlife or Dinner?

2010-08-15T16:20:00.000-07:00

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.

An obnoxious vehicle is fine if you know your apostrophes.

2010-08-10T16:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Pick-Up Lines: D.O.A.

2010-08-07T23:11:00.000-07:00

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.

How to Make Friends and Irritate People

2010-08-06T19:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Keeping Fit in the Desert

2010-08-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

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.

More of the Good Stuff

2010-07-28T14:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Job Search 2010: Take Three

2010-05-13T19:26:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2010-04-23T03:16:00.000-07:00

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?

I told you I work better at night.

2010-04-21T02:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Just an Observation

2010-01-24T18:45:00.001-08:00

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.

Television Review: Gone Too Far

2009-11-01T16:05:00.000-08:00

While MTV is not the typical venue for quality television programming, I have to admit, it always has something to say about the state of American culture. In a new series, Gone Too Far, Adam Goldstein, better know as DJ AM, arranges interventions for young drug addicts and offers them in-patient rehab, while MTV foots the bill.

I first decided to watch the show because I was simply curious to see DJ AM in action. The celebrity died earlier this fall of drug overdose after a lifelong battle with addiction. A major aspect of the show is that AM is able to understand the station of the young addicts from personal experience. I was skeptical when I first tuned in because I expected the show might be gimmicky, exploiting these diseased young adults for profit's sake. On the contrary, AM brings a genuine quality to the program. At times, he is unable to hide his emotions. He gets teary-eyed with the family and friends of the addicts and his face is visibly pained as he sees and holds various drug paraphernalia. If the addicts relapses after treatment, he takes it personally.

The show provides real footage of the addicts using. Hollywood glamor aside, Gone Too Far shows real scars, real pain, and real addiction. My toes curled as I watched some scenes. Others I couldn't watch at all. There is ugly tragedy in how young the addicts are and in how powerless they are over their addictions.

In light of AM's death at age 36, I can only wonder what demons confronted him as he filmed this show. Was he using during filming? Did touching a crack pipe again awaken old muscle memory and persuade him to use? MTV recorded 9 episodes, so AM got 9 chances to save others from his fate. Unlike other reality shows with celebrity hosts, I could tell AM didn't care about money or exposure from Gone Too Far. For him, this show hit painfully close to home.

You can watch episodes of Gone Too Far on Mondays on MTV or for free on the MTV website.

How much time does it take to save the American Dream? At least 12 hours.

2009-10-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

I spent yesterday in a crowded convention center with thousands of people united by one purpose: saving their homes. NACA, a national nonprofit dedicated to modifying mortgages and saving homeowners from the big, scary teeth of loan sharks, hit Las Vegas this past weekend. Sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair all day with all these people was one of the weirdest, most surreal experiences of my life.

First, let me explain how it all started, both my trip there and NACA. I accompanied my boyfriend who, for the record, is both current on his mortgage payments and can afford them, but would like to have them reduced nonetheless. The organization was started in the early 90s to use unionist tactics to confront lenders who provided sub-prime mortgages. Today, NACA has waged relationships with many lending companies. Its workers calculate a fair and affordable mortgage rate on an individual basis and negotiate directly with the lenders, who will then modify the conditions of the mortgage, or else. Or else face harassment by the organization, NACA members or elected officials.

Anyway, we arrived at Las Vegas Convention Center sometime around one on Monday, unsure what to expect. We'd heard on the news that the convention, called the "Save the Dream Tour," had been highly attended and quite successful all weekend long.

First, we were herded into a room with perhaps a hundred other individuals to complete an "orientation." This orientation basically acted as a weed-out for people who don't qualify for NACA's help, ie, people who flipped houses commercially, the unemployed. From here, our entire group was herded into the main conference center to sit in a block of metal chairs. Approximately six other groups like ours sat in the center, in line before us. Within two hours, the first of those other groups was led to the other side of the partition where the loan counselors and lenders sat. We were unable to see at this point what went on over there.

I have waited in many lines throughout my life. I've waited in the notorious lines at Disney World. I've waited in line to buy textbooks at the beginning of each semester while I was in college. I've waited in lines for sold-out concerts at huge venues. I had no idea, however, what sort of line I had stepped into on Monday. Luckily. If I, or any other person there, had any idea, we probably would have left.

Everyone sat there, in uncomfortable chairs, with relatively little information, for hours, for the mere hope of getting a more affordable mortgage. Tales circulated of people who'd had their monthly payments cut in half, their interest rates reduced to 2.5%. But who were these people? Friends of friends? The Boogey Man? Simple urban legends?

We had brought a magazine, water, a book, pistachios and a Cliff bar. In this monstrous facility, all we really had to do was wait. The stories we overheard from other people waiting, while definitely sad, drove us crazy. I heard about layoffs. I heard about grimy loans. I heard about serious illnesses and injuries. Everyone had their story. Everyone seemed to want to be the one with the worst case, the one with the most problems and the most debt.

It was so easy for me to pass judgement. I have to admit that. For instance, there was one young woman sitting a few rows behind me who had a $2000 purse and implants. I began to think, "If you couldn't afford your house, why did you buy these luxuries?" I was automatically prone to think there was something wrong with all of these people. Why did they take out loans they couldn't really afford? But in reality, I didn't know anything about any of them and, if tens of thousands of people in Vegas are in this spot, and there are enough people countrywide to warrant a tour, something is wrong with the system, not the individuals.

The worst part of waiting was knowing that many people scammed their way forward in the line. I saw dozens of people, who began in our group, somehow get hours ahead of us. Normally, my philosophy is, if you're smart enough to cheat, go for it. But in this case, they were significantly hurting others to get their way. Again, those of us who decided to follow the rules had little recourse. We were at mercy to NACA and were just grateful to be there.

After eight hours, our group finally got to cross the threshold into the space behind the partition. What we saw once we got there were the very same six group that were initially before us in the first room. Essentially, in eight hours, we'd moved nowhere. In any other situation, such a large group of people would have revolted, probably only after a few hours. But the chance to save hundreds of dollars a month was enough to pacify everyone.

Three hours later, we were finally able to see a loan counselor named Velvet. After plugging in my boyfriend's monthly earnings, monthly spending, and applying a $200 buffer, Velvet calculated what an affordable monthly mortgage would be. According to her calculations, his lender should be able to chop a few hundreds dollars off his monthly payment. Because it was one in the morning at his point, and because all the lender reps had gone home, NACA faxed their recommendations straight to the lenders. My boyfriend's lender wasn't there to begin with, so we didn't miss anything by getting through the line so late.

Now all there is to do is wait. NACA says we should receive an answer from his lender within a few weeks.

After my last blog post, people complained I had stopped being funny and/or didn't proofread before I posted. Frankly, I don't care. This blog is the one place in my life where thoughts flow freely.

Not so much blogging as bitching.

2009-10-03T23:28:00.000-07:00

Enough people vent in our society that I don't really think I should be one to add to it. Talking heads vent on news programs, women vent to loudly on their cellphones at the grocery store, and, when I was teaching, the teacher's lounge could have been called the bitching lounge with no exaggeration. All that being said, I'm about to vent myself.

You see, I find myself really annoyed tonight. I guess you could say, I'm annoyed by one thing that is a constant in our world: change. I don't mean I'm bothered by changing opinions or new technology like some idiotic neo-con. I'm annoyed by one specific type of change. I don't think it has a name yet, or an abridged descriptor that likens itself to a blog, so I'm going to invent a name for it now for the sake of writing. The type of change that annoys me most (and has me in a tizzy tonight) I am going to call: Affected Personality-Fondness Drift (APFD).

Now for the definition. APFD is a condition that affects old friends and relatives you haven't seen for a while, or people might see everyday. It affects your closest companion, often people you started out really respecting and enjoying rounds of beer with when you felt you couldn't talk to anyone else. They live their lives as these admirable, likable people for days, weeks, years, decades, and then The Drift happens. The Drift can be caused by many factors, though there are commons ones you might recognize. The Drift can be a new significant other, a change of region, or a new circle of friends (especially when the person with APFD is a teen). The Drift can be a new religion (though religion can also be a symptom of APFD) or a change in careers. No matter how long it takes between when the subject first contracts APFD until APFD is full-blown and mind-blowing, those around the person with APFD often describe the onset of the change as "sudden." Suddenly, the person likes things he or she detested before. For example, someone who once wore hemp and played hacky sack in the quad between classes can now be found on Monday night at some trendy sports bar watching football, something that same person used to describe as "barbaric." The distinguishing factor between APFD and a simple change of taste is that, in cases of APFD, the person's likes change for the worst, the person seems to de-evolve, and, when questioned, the person offers no explanation and insists "I always liked country. It's been my favorite music since I was a kid."

Ironically, the thing that made we want to write this blog was reading an old friend's blog-- a friend who my friends and I have been saying for a few years has APFD. We didn't call it that, of course, but list the symptoms above and mourn the loss of him to this day.

I was about to send him a link to a photo I thought he might appreciate, but when I went to look up his email on his Facebook page, I noticed he had a blog and went to it, curiously. Almost immediately, I felt like I couldn't possibly extend contact to this person, even though he once used to be one of my closest friends. Now, he is a stranger, more acutely than those I've simply lost touch with. You see, when I was young, I was lucky enough for a year or two to have waged some of the closest friendship I will ever have--friends of the type I will never have to feel ashamed or shy in front of, the types of friendships you can only make before a certain age or during a terrible tragedy such as sickness or battle. Perhaps some people reading this blog will know the guy I describe. Perhaps he will read this blog himself, but I doubt it. I doubt his new persona sits around reading the blogs of old friends.

When we knew him, he was humorous and childlike. He wanted to commit to nothing, and committed to everything at the same time, because that is what he thought you were supposed to do as you got older. He loved to talk about sex and make horribly off-color jokes when he met people for the first time. He wanted an exotic house on the water. He had never been on a plane. He was irreverent and cried easily in the darkness of a movie theater.

Sometime during his formative years, he had a mental breakdown. I'm sorry to use that kind of dramatic language in this atmosphere, but that's what it was. He no longer knew what was what. He didn't know what he wanted to do or where he was going. He began to drink a lot. He dated strings of ridiculously inappropriate women. He became a different person. He couldn't have a conversation with any of us without some foreign pretense that I don't even know how to describe. He became obsessed with seemingly random things: car engines, loofahs.

When he met his current wife, he was still half himself, I think. I remember talking to him on the phone and hearing him tell me he had cut back his drinking to impress her; she was very religious. He suddenly became religious. He went to bible study with her, stopped drinking completely, and began having whole conversations about God. When he wasn't talking about God, he still brought up God, fitting religion into every conversation, as if he has something to prove. He said that worst things that he could say about himself before we could say them. In his blog he described himself as "not one to get emotional." He cried more than I ever did during that time, often about almost anything. He always wanted to be something outspoken, like a lawyer or a speech writer. Now he's an artist of sorts, capturing everything with a silent viewpoint. He got married after a few months. That he always wanted, but he says he loves this wife he barely knows.

I am happy he seems to think he's happy, but I wonder how long he'll be able to suppress the true side of himself, his essence. After all, he had a breakdown once, a complete change of personality. I feel sorry for his wife and friends, and how they will feel when he can't keep it up any longer. Or maybe he'll keep it up forever, and I should feel sorry for him.

Growing into an adult with the name Nissa Wallinga

2009-09-01T22:55:00.000-07:00

Neesa, Nice-uh, Lisa, Missa, Lissa. . .

Wallington, Wallinger, Walling, Walenda. . .

These are just a few of the names I've been called in the past 25 years (and these are the nice ones!). Since adolescence, I've begun to ponder how having a unique, apparently unpronounceable name has influenced me as a person. When I really started thinking about it, my name has shaped me more than I think most people would guess.

First if all, whatever the pros or cons of my name have been, I can't fault my parents at all for trying to make me an individual. My last name is, of course, practically unavoidable, but they chose the name Nissa for a reason. They didn't want me to be another Tom, Dick or Harry, and they wanted my name to be ethnic and reflect who I would become as a person.

Nissa is a name that has a variety of rich, delightful meanings in several different cultures. It's not some boring one-syllable name or grunt with a hard vowel. Nissa is poetic. It's phonetic. I would rather be Nissa than Jessica or Sarah. When someone yells, "Hey Nissa!" I know they're talking to me. Nissa can't be shortened, though people try all the time. Don't call me Niss, or at least don't call me that if you want me to respond.

Which brings me, I guess, to the cons. People want to shorten my name constantly. They want it to by a typical name with multiple variations. They want to pigeonhole it and Americanize it. (Whatever that means.) When I was growing up, I didn't have a way to set myself apart, all on my own. I couldn't go from Jennifer to Jen, or Jenn, or Jenni, or Jenny.

Something I've noticed more and more as I've gotten older has been the increased incidence of the question: "Oh, where are you from?"or "What race are you?" after I introduce myself. I liken it to when people ask, "So what are you?" to multi-racial citizens. Fuck you, I want say. I'm an American. Who says someone with my name can't just claim to be an American? Beyond wanting to yell just that at them, I know my name somewhat determines their perception of me. While there are many people who just tell me they think it's a pretty name, I can see in the eyes of other people that they are using my name as a clue by which to judge me. There have been plenty of sociological studies citing this effect in others who have atypical names.

I'm aware I come across, a lot of times, as rude upon introduction. "Hi, I'm Nissa," I say, "I'm Nissa Wallinga." I prepare for the same old dialogue.

They look puzzled. "Lisa?"

"Nissa."

"Lissa?"

I always have to be on my best behavior, or I roll my eyes.

What's worse is when someone is reading my name off a paper somewhere, or calling me when my coffee's done.

"Decaf for Neesa!"

"Yeah."

"Did I say that right?"

"No, goddamn it. It's phonetic. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to read?"

My 9-year-old special ed students, on the other hand, could read it perfectly off my staff badge the first time. They know phonics. All I'm saying is, take a lot of time to think before naming your kid something weird.

I can't see ever changing my name, though I've definitely thought about it. I probably think about dropping Wallinga more often (hence this url). At this point in time, getting rid of Wallinga is just about the best reason I can see to get married. In fact, my own family can't decide whether it's pronounced "Wall-IN-ga" or "WALL-in-ga." But that's a whole other story.

Paranoia: Helpful or Harmful?

2009-08-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

Today I made my yearly trek to temple to turn in my High Holidays seat registration. I needed seats for myself and Rob's mom, who's coming into town as a guest at temple. Each year, entrance to the building during the holidays requires your temple ID or valid photo ID and your ticket, which is collected at the door. I'm not sure if I just haven't noticed in the past because I've never had a guest before or if it's new policy, but Rob's mom had to send a copy of her driver's license with a current address, where they'd send her the ticket. Without this, no ticket. In fact, without knowing me, she couldn't have attended services for so-called security reasons. Visitors must know a temple member in good standing to attend.

My temple employs at least two full-time security guards at all times and locks all outside doors during the day, except the main entrance to the day school. Doors are locked from the inside too, so you can only come in and out one door. This, in tandem with heightened holiday security, makes me wonder: Is all this worry helpful or harmful to the Jewish community?

I estimate that approximately 50 percent of all Friday night sermons at which I was in attendance have dealt with the idea that a sudden, dangerous rise in Antisemitism is imminent. Thousands of years of history do support this view. Among the list of things listed that could make Antisemitism spike: not attending temple regularly, not making at least one visit to Israel, not enrolling your child in religious school, and caring too much about what you're wearing to holiday services. While I don't underestimate the importance of any of these issues, I highly doubt any of these things will lead to a rise in Antisemitism. On the contrary, I think discrimination will most likely arise due to political fluctuations. Additionally, I don't doubt the importance for my rabbi to create a culture of fear in order to persuade his members to be "good Jews;" it's essential to the survival of the Jewish people; however, I'm not sure that living in fear is good for our health, spirituality, or peace of mind.

While I'm glad our parking passes are indistinguishable as temple parking passes (they contain no Jewish insignia) every time I see a white supremacist or skinhead from rural Nevada at the casinos, I also noticed driving home today that a modern orthodox congregation down the road is welcoming anyone to High Holiday services. This synagogue does not have gates surrounding it, nor does it employ 24/7 security, as far as I know. Clearly, my temple is doing things differently than other synagogues around us. I wonder what fills in the space during sermons where we talk about fear and protecting ourselves. What are we missing that could help our faith and identities grow?

I'm not sure what my views on this issue are exactly; I can understand the merits of both sides. All I know is that this issue deserves more debate and consideration than we're giving it.

Things I Wish I Was Good At

2009-08-11T02:06:00.000-07:00

1. singing
2. photography
3. thinking of interesting things to say to fill in gaps in conversation
4. pool
5. kickball
6. good-byes
7. staying in touch
8. admitting when I've acted wrongly
9. physics
10. running
11. withholding tears
12. making eggs sunny-side up
13. conjugating verbs in Spanish
14. not scratching bug bites
15. sleeping on planes, trains, and automobiles
16. playing guitar
17. painting

Residency Day 3

2009-07-26T08:27:00.000-07:00

To answer the question: Is an MFA really necessary? YES! And I'm not just saying that to justify the tremendous amount of money an MFA costs. I have learned more the last two days than I have writing by myself throughout the rest of my career. The process of reviewing others' work combined with the support of a community of writer is something you can't find anywhere else. I can't wait for tomorrow!

Residency Days 1 and 2

2009-07-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

I checked in yesterday for my first University of Nebraska MFA residency at Lied Lodge in Nebraska City. It is a quaint town, which is currently being taken over by Wal-mart; the independent grocery and bookstore are the most recent victims. Lied is an eco-friendly cabin that has recycling bins in each room and the best food ever. Apples are their thing here. There is fresh apple pie every night at dinner, an abundance of coffee and plenty of plush pillows.

My fellow writers are incredibly friendly, like-minded individuals. Everyone is a character, and it's difficult not to like everyone, even if you don't particularly like their work. I already feel at home, and I'm determined to write more when I get back home. I already feel more focused than before.

I'm up at workshop tomorrow. Rumor is workshop is helpful but sometimes intense. I'm looking forward to it anyway. I'm too close to my own writing. I need other opinions in order to improve.

The rest of the day will be occupied by faculty readings, workshop, and eating. Amen to that.

Blogging: It's what we do.

2009-07-19T19:29:00.000-07:00

I've created this blog for several reasons. First, all the freelancers are doing it. Second, for writing practice. Third, to kill time. Fourth, to catalogue strange Las Vegas happenings.

I'm heading to Nebraska next week to start my MFA program in creative writing. I'm not sure what I'm going to take away from it yet. If anything, it will be impossible for me to say that I didn't give writing a shot, and I can die knowing I followed my dreams or something like that. In any case, I imagine I'll have a lot to report during those ten days.

Meanwhile, I shop for affordable insurance, buy a smaller laptop, and try to calculate how much sleep is too much sleep for the self-employed. I eat cheaply, avoid buying new clothes, dye my hair a more serious shade, and enjoy telling people what I do for a living for the first time.

So far, so good, but I'm still getting paychecks from the school district, and will for another few weeks. I procured a job teaching college composition, and I've yet to determine whether this will prove profitable enough for the money. Additionally, I'm starting to feel some malaise because I have no daily schedule. My guess is this feeling will go away once I have coursework to finish and papers to grade.

Until then, I nap.