Im Leaving On a Jet Plane

A few days ago, I realized that my blog is officially 2 hits shy of reaching 1000 views, which is awesome. I'd like to commemorate this soon-to-be-glorious-occasion by saying two things 1) screw you to the people that voted "hell to the no" on the poll about reading a book written and me and 2) thank you to everyone else for your support throughout this process-who would have ever guessed I have a knack for writing and occasionally making an ass out of myself?

So, about a week ago, I was at the airport getting ready to fly out to see the family in Michigan for the holidays.  As I trudged through the check bags line with my overpacked piece of luggage, I accidentally ran over a little girl's foot. Oops. I quickly learned that five year olds have the lung capacity of opera singers. Dirty look from little girl's mom and everyone in line? Check. And my apology? Denied. Ugh. With my 3 connecting boarding passes in hand, I next approached the security stand and patiently waited while the TSA agent took his dear sweet time flirting with the woman in front of me. I spaced out for a minute waiting for him to finish checking out her ba-dunk-a-dunk as she walked past him. I was snapped out of my daze by a rather large lady loudly asking me what part of next didn't I understand. Getting laughed at by everyone line and being sent to the pat down station as punishment? Check and check. After that crap, I finally made it to the crowded terminal and looked for a seat to rest my weary head. Everything was occupied except 1 chair that a short, balding businessman was using for his personal belongings. Surely he wouldn't mind placing them on the ground, right? Wrong. After a good few minutes of huffing and puffing, then asking me if I had looked for seats elsewhere, he finally gave in and moved his precious laptop case. Strong desire to shove this man into a lavatory, give him a swirly, then tell him his 2 inch heeled boots werent helping the cause? Check, check, and check.

A wise bumper sticker once said "mean people suck" and I couldnt agree more. While I don't think this is a generational issue, I do think GenXYZ is more likely to let people get away with acting out because we've become so use to it. Think about it. When was the last time a barista, store clerk, TSA agent or maybe even a stranger was rude to you? I'm guessing it's happened within a week or two. You were probably pissed at the time. You may have even talked about what you wanted to do to him/her with a friend. But, more than likely, you blew it off and didn't say anything. More likely than the last more than likely, you probably ended up taking out your frustration with the situation on someone who didn't deserve it. And therein, my friends, lies the problem.

We shouldn't have to put up with dirty looks, rude comments, and judgement from anyone, and especially not from people that don't know us. While a snide remark here and there may not seem like much to get mad about, it's a toxic start to a poisonous cycle. When the plane landed, my mom and sister were at the terminal waiting to pick me up. Instead of happily greeting them, I asked how far away we had to walk to get to the car. Little Girl's Mom, the TSA Terror, and Bald Shorty had started out my vaca on the wrong foot.

Here is my challenge to you: 1) stop the cycle of meanness if your contributing and 2) don't let people get away with acting out. You should never have to feel bad about taking the seat of a laptop.

All's Fair in Love, War, and Business.

Once upon a time (a pretty recent time might I add), I closed the door on one job to make room for another. I could spend the entire blog talking about why I put in my two week notice, but one quick statement sums up everything: it's just business. Early on in my career, I learned a few basic rules about success in "The Real World" and I've done my best to understand and follow them:
           
1. Don't be a work-horse. Instead, be the horse that everyone likes. If you're the likeable one, your boss is less likely to ride you.
2. Crying is for babies, amateurs, and women on their periods. Period.
3. Above all, no matter what happens, remember: IT'S JUST BUSINESS.

While I understand that these rules go directly against the things that make us human (i.e. strong work ethics, pride in one's job, emotions, etc.), I double dare you to tell me that my rules aren't 100% accurate. I know they are. You know they are. Everyone else who works for Corporate America (and possibly parts of Europe) knows they are.

You can imagine my surprise when I came in the next day and my entire management team, even those unaffected by me leaving, treated me like I had just given birth to Charles Manson. The next two weeks of work were hell. I couldn't understand why out of all times to treat me like crap they were doing it now. I did everything by the book. I went to HR and filled out the paperwork, gave my boss ample notice, and finished up projects that I had been working on. Everything had been strictly business up until I gave my notice, then, all of a sudden, everything and everyone got all personal. WTF?

In case you haven't noticed, me switching up/leaving jobs is a theme throughout this blog. I can tell you that being blacklisted after putting in your notice is a fairly common experience that we GenXYZers go through, which leads me to the most important thing you can take away from this entry: Besides love and war, all is also fair in business.  When it comes to working for someone else, don't ever feel bad about putting yourself first.

Riddle Me This, Riddle Me That, My Freshman Year, I Was Kinda Fat...I Can't Think of a Blog Title.

I was flipping through my old pictures the other day and stumbled upon a photo montage of my freshman year. Beyond the kissy face poses, I noticed a recurring theme; I looked like a pleasantly plump too-cool-for-school hooker in every single picture. Apparently, I was too busy sleeping through my alarm clock and partying to notice that shoving my rather large chest and newly aquired beer belly a into a tiney-tiny tank top and short shirt was not attractive. The summer going into my sophomore year, I discovered a magical place called the gym, and lost most of my gut. My first week back, I ran into a very dear friend of mine who lacks a filter button, even more than me. "Wow," he said, "Looks like you finally lost the tire." Ouch. Lesson learned.

I am pretty good at learning the obvious lessons the first time around. If a boyfriend cheats, I'm out. If I don't like where I'm living, I move. If I put on a few pounds, I wear bigger clothes. These lessons are black and white. However, like many of my GenXYZ counterparts, I get a little tripped up when it comes to lessons that fall into more of a gray area. How long should I stay in a mind-numbing, but stable job? Is a good, but not great relationship enough? Are friendships important to keep when you have nothing in common anymore?

When it comes to anwering gray area questions and learning gray area lessons, I'm stumped. Trusting my instincts doesn't always work and getting advice from others rarely solves anything either. So, what do you do?

This is usually the paragraph where I write some witty/partially serious response to my own question, but I don't have one this time around. However, here is a random piece of advice to all of you who gained the Freshman 15, yet still pranced around like proud little peacocks...Destroy the evidence.

Can You Keep a Secret?

I have a confession to make. I am a mooner. Nothing makes me happier than to figure out a way to get unsuspecting victims to turn around and have to stare at my big, tan rear. Up until right now, no one has really known that piece of information about me besides my very close friends and family members, namely my sisters who had to deal with me doing it to them the entire 45 minute drive home from the Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers concert. While I'm with friends, drinking at bars, and generally out and about, I do my best not to exhibit my secret behavior. No one wants to see that.

We all have secrets. Some we keep to ourselves and some we let out on purpose. Desperately trying to get skinny by summer? Some go bullemic. No one has to know you puke up your guts to get thin. Trying to break up with your crazy girlfriend? Some get drunk at a party and talk about how hot their ex is. Stuff comes out when when there's an open bar. We are very strategic when it come to our secrets since they allow to manuever in and out of tough situations.

When it comes to other people secrets, we're not as forgiving. We need to understand and compartmentalize their actions. Just found out your friend has bullemia? Wow, that's sad. She needs some therapy asap. Co-worker starts talking about his ex in front of his new girlfriend at the company holiday party? What an asshole! You'd think he'd be adult enough to keep that to himself. Overlooking other peoples indiscretions is much harder than seeing our own.

When it comes to looking at ourselves in the mirror, as well as other people, it's important to remember the following: never screwing up is damn near impossible, but so is being perfect.

Checkmate

When it comes to gaming, we are THE ULTIMATE generation. Step aside Playstation. Xbox? You don't have a chance. Wii, well, you don't really count with your silly "Dance, Dance" crap. We've taken down Vegas by counting cards and have flipped the world of poker upside down. I'll also have you know that I personally kick ass at Connect Four. Don't even think about challenging me. I will beat you. Yes, we GenXYZers are truly amazing at playing games.

Our game playing extends beyond electronics and cards. It has become a defining attribute of every aspect of our lives. Take, for example, the following:

Girl meets Guy at bar. Girl and Guy shoot pool for 3 hours, end up grabbing dinner together, laugh a lot, and swap a little salavia at the end. Guy doesn't ask for Girl's number. Girl wonders why.

Disgruntled Employee hates Stupid Boss. Disgruntled Employee looks for new jobs everyday. Despite Disgruntld Employees feelings, he laughs at Stupid Boss's jokes and stays late to work on projects. Disgruntled Employee gets another job, so he tells Stupid Boss just how stupid he is and quits on the spot. Stupid Boss wonders why.

Two friends go shopping. Friend 1 tries on a dress that makes her looks like a sausage and asks for Friend 2's opinion. Friend 2 says "OHHH MYYY GODDD, you look AMAZING!!!!" Friend 1 believes Friend 2 and goes to the register to make the purchase. The salesgirl shakes her head and wonders why.

Do any of the scenarios above ring a bell for you? Yup, that's what I thought.

Now, I won't sit here and preach to you that playing games is wrong. In fact, in this day and age, you cannot not play some games and expect to be a successful person (take the age old "don't quit a job before you have another one lined up" advice). I'm curious, however, to know how much our game playing ways alter the experiences that we truly treasure; the experiences that we want, more than anything, to be authentic.

At 22 years old, I had my heart smashed by the first person I ever really loved. Apparently, he thought sleeping with the greater metropolitan area of Phoenix while we were together was a good idea. Well, turns out, it's not such a good idea. After the breakup, I became the ultimate gamer. I did some truly messed up things and I'm sure my actions caused a lot of pain to some very undeserving people. Over the past 6 years, I've worked my hardest to repair myself from that situation, but I still find myself being a gamer in different ways.

Games are meant to keep things light, interesting, and fun. However, at the end of the day, there's always one winner and one loser, and unless we're predicting the outcome of playing Connect Four with me, you never know which side you're going to end up on.

GUEST POST: I'd Like to Exercise my Option...To Stop Opting Out!

Hi everyone,

I'll be taking a little break from writing this afternoon and turning over the daily post to our guest blogger. I think she hit the nail on the head with this one. Let me know what you think...xoxo GenXYZ

P.S. - Don't think you've escaped me for very long. I'll be writing another one tonight...

"I'd Like to Exercise My Option...To Stop Opting Out"

Most women of our generation probably remember “Legends of the Fall”, a movie starring Brad Pitt as a cowboy-turned-World War II war hero.  Shortly after the movie was released, someone asked Pitt how he convinced a 4-year-old child actor to ride a horse after the director’s attempts of bribery and begging had failed.  The movie star stated with certainty and decisiveness, “I told him to grab the pommel and kick!”

Taking action is certainly not characteristic of Gen X/Y.  We are notorious for “analysis paralysis” in our personal and professional lives.  We refuse to take accept anything less than the “perfect career, passing up opportunities or job-hopping prematurely.  Our love lives can best be summed up by the Michael Buble song “Haven’t Met You Yet”- we hold out for “The One”- who probably doesn’t exist outside of our own imagination.

The following recommendation may be counterintuitive to Gen X/Y’s well-thought out plan for life, but I can think of many reasons to throw out the playbook and get on the field.  My biggest fear is that we will spend so much time on the sidelines trying to strategize and avoid getting sacked by life (which is inevitable), we will wake up one day realizing most of our time was spent waiting for the “perfect situation”, the “perfect job”, the “perfect person”- that never materialized.  If you were to walk down the street tomorrow, get hit by a bus, and die instantly—would you regret not acting on the many opportunities you chose to forgo?

I’m not speaking for all of us, but the next time I come across something not “perfect”- but interesting, I hope I have the courage to “grab the pommel and kick!”

To Give a Shit or To Not Give a Shit...That is the Question.

Inside my petite, not quite 5'4" frame lurks a 20 year old frat boy dying to get out. I discovered him not too long ago when I realized that one of my goals in life was to own a neighborhood dive bar featuring 2-4-1 Miller Lites and 25 cent hot wings. At the time, I didn't know too much about running a bar, so the logical step was to go back to school and get a business degree. Unfortunately, getting into an MBA program is not that easy, especially when your business experience to date involves licking envelopes and running them through a stamp machine. Regardless, I was bound and determined to see my beer and wings vision through, and signed up for a GMAT prep course.

On the first day of class, I couldn't help but notice my inner frat boy's twin. He sat in the row next to me wearing an rumpled t-shirt and partially zipped hoodie. Being the Type-A person that I am, I took one look at him and knew I wasn't going to like the guy. We Type-Aers look down on class clowns. The class progressed and of course, my inner frat boy twin chattered up a storm with the hottie sitting next to him, pissed off the teacher every opportunity he had, and came up with more jokes in 75 minutes than I can in all of my blogs combined.  As I was walking to the parking garage, musing over what box to put this guy in, I nearly got ran over by a white BMW zipping around the corner. I caught a glimpse of my internal frat boy twin giving me a half "sorry-I-almost-ran-you-over-gotta-go" wave with one hand, as his other hand grasped both the wheel and his cell phone. This kid was so f-ing cool. I wanted to be just like him. My inner frat boy cheered as I ran to my car to do a cool, screeching pull-out-of-the-parking-garage-with-one-hand-on-the-wheel move, but when I did get to my beat up 2004 Honda, I methodically put on my seatbelt, turned on my lights, and looked to the left and right for pedestrians.

When it comes to GenXYZ, I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty. We all fall into one of two categories: Anxious, type-A stress-balls OR the laid back, don't give a shit-ers. Don't roll your eyes and huff and puff at me. If you stew over it for a minute, you'll realize I'm right. I don't think that falling into either of these categories is a bad thing. However, what I do think is bad, is not recognizing where you fit. It took quite a few experiences with the Don't Give a Shit-ers, namely one in which I guy I was hanging out with told me I was undateable because I stressed him out (I kid you not!), to realize that I am simply a Give a Shit-er. I give a shit about everything.

Knowing that underneath it all, I am a little anxious stress ball, just like knowing that I am short, has allowed me to make better, more suitable choices. Just like I wouldn't walk into a store only carrying extra long jeans, I won't allow myself to get ran over by the Don't Give a Shit-ers; as much as I'd admire them, they aren't the best fit for me...

One of the biggest myths that GenXYZ has been told is that we can be anything and everything we want. That simply isn't true. The more we kid ourselves into thinking that this is the case, the less time and evergy we have to focus on doing what's best for ourselves.  

By the end of the prep course, my inner frat boy twin and I were good friends. Recently, I found out that he's currently working on his MBA at a fantastic business school, has an amazing job and girlfriend, and still isn't giving a shit about, well, really, anything. I, on the other hand, meticiulously clean my bar and stack up the tables and chairs in a neat row every night. And that's just me.

I Feel the Need, the Need for Speed...

I've had a lot of bad bosses in my short career. A lot. One in particular stands out more than the rest. It wasn't that he was intentionally mean or rude. In fact, it was really quite the opposite. Don't get me wrong, the guy was a condescending jackass, but he seriously SERIOUSLY had no clue, really, about anything.

8:30a: Boss pokes his head out of the morning meeting. "Did you get the VIP letters done yet? I need them". Good morning to you too and yes, I somehow magically completed my daily tasks even though I walked in 30 seconds ago.

8:45a: Boss sticks his head out of his office. Heaven forbid that he actually walk the 5 feet to my desk. "Ummm, I need you to do those VIP letters. Okay?" Apparrently I'm either deaf or have severe short-term memory loss.

9:00a: "Did the VIP letters get delivered? Did you finish them?" FML.

This is how my day would proceed, all morning, all afternoon, all evening, week in, and week out. While I fantasized every day about compiling VIP letters that had the phrase "You're a moron. I quit" neatly typed out and placing them on his desk, the fact of the matter was that I wasn't going anywhere, at least not for awhile. Quitting my job wasn't an option and shooting him wasn't either. I needed to find a way to mentally check out.

What I'm about to tell you, you will judge me for and I'm mostly okay with that.

Obtaining a prescription for pills these days is easy. You go to a psychiatrist, exhibit behaviors associated with a problem, you get a script, and they send you on your merry little way. I'd like to think it's uncommon, but truthfully, the majority of people I know have done this at some point. At the time, I felt this was my best option, since opting out of paying my rent wasn't. I started popping a pill a day, alongside my two pieces of peanut butter and banana toast in the morning and instantly, work became more manageable, at least until the medication wore off.

This post isn't about addiction or pills or psychiatry, rather, it's about one of the many things our generation secretly does in order to feel like we have our shit together and can march alongside the rest. I kept my pills hidden in the pocket of one of my jackets and didn't tell a soul for the longest time. I wanted to be a better version of me, not the one who couldn't stand listening to the office girls incessantly chatter about their caloric intake, nor the one who would always come home depressed about work. I wanted Insta-Personality and Insta-Energy quick, so I wouldn't fall behind everyone else.

 Just like faking an orgasm, popping a pill doesn't provide a long term solution. You just end up screwing yourself. I'd like to live in a world where shitty bosses don't exist and if they do, you could push a red button, a trap door would open, and they would fall into Dr. Evil's secret underground lair (Will Ferrel would provide the voice over for the "I'm very badly burnt" conversation that would surely happen). In the meantime, I continue on the quest to work for myself. If I should ever encounter another shitty boss, the only pill I'll be thinking about is the one I'd like to slip into his or her coffee.

A Hooters Girl, a Stripper, and a Professor Walk Into a Bar...

Many moons ago, I was offered a fellowship to teach public speaking classes at Arizona State while going through grad school. Considering my compensation was less than what a panhandler makes on Mill Avenue, I moved into a three bedroom condo with two girls, one who worked at Hooters and another who stripped. We were all around the same age and got along for the most part, so hanging out and boozing together was natural. Inevitably, when a group of three women are out and about together, you end up attracting male attention (usually unwanted) and the initial conversation goes a little something like this:

"Heyyyyy. So, yeahhhh, couldn't help but notice you guys. I'm (fill-in-the-blank with a douchey name). Sooooo, what's your deal? What do you do?"  Etc, etc.

At 23 years old, I was smug. I puffed up like a peacock and gave them a response they didn't expect.

"Hi, I'm in grad school working on a M-A-S-T-E-R-S degree. Do you know what that is? Didn't think so. Oh, yeah, and someone gave me the authority to teach at a college, so f-off."

My two counterparts didn't feel as compelled as I did to share job-related information. In fact, they avoided it like the plague. Both girls were smart and nice. Beyond that, they were were damn good at their jobs (and I know because I visited...free drinks anyone?)

Fast-forward to present day and that smug grin is long gone. At 28 years old, I mix cocktails for a living. I'm smart, I'm nice, and I'm damn good at my job, but sharing that piece of information with people is, well, kind of embarrassing.

Moving to a new city was suppose to be a break for me. I couldn't keep working at the pace I was working at and knew that getting back behind the bar would be a welcome change. Despite knowing what I want and what I need out of a job are exactly aligned with what I'm doing now, I still dread telling people what I do. What is it about a title that's so important?

I'd like to think that most of you reading this agree with what I'm saying. I'd like to think that if you could get out of your mundane jobs tomorrow and get into something better for you that you would. Stay with me now...dig a little deeper. Would you actually do it? I can't answer for you, but I can say that while the grass on the other side might be nice to lay on while you catch your breath, it's not exactly greener.

If I could go back and change anything, there are two things that stand out: 1) I wouldn't have been such a pretentious peacock in grad school and 2) I would have bought more Powerball tickets.

Sometimes I Feel Like I Don't Have a Partner, Sometimes I Feel Like My Only Friend...

Before I moved to San Diego, I was living in the city of enhanced angels, Los Angeles. I worked in a swanky hotel located in the middle of bustling and hustling (no pun intended, there was definitely drug exchanges going on) Hollywood. The hotel staff was comprised of young, beautiful, interesting people; I felt like I had hit the jackpot by landing a job there.

On day one, I came to work dressed in my cutest LA-chic outfit and introduced myself with a big shit-eating grin to everyone. I was excited to dive into my new job, meet my new friends, and create my new life. I was received with limp handshakes and a half-assed "Nice to meet you" by the majority. I didn't understand. Day one came and went, as did day two, day three, and day four. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. By month three, I realized that my venture into a new life was stagnant; I was lonelier than I had ever been.

By all standards, I'm a pretty good friend catch. I'm interesting, loyal, and am always down to have a good time. However, based on my collection of friends in LA, you would never guess any of the above. What is it about our generation that makes us unwilling to get to know people? At one point in our lives, if you sat in a sandbox and shared a shovel with someone else, you were friends.

I've discussed the "finding friends" issue with quite a few people over the past couple of years and know it's a problem that a lot of us grapple with. I'm not certain what the solution is, but can certainly tell you that trolling the "just friends" section on craigslist is not it (and yes, I'm embarrassed to admit that in my darkest hours, I've actually tried it).

In the meantime, I guess I'll be scaring parents at parks in San Diego by parking my ass in a sandbox and comparing sandcastle building tools with the toddlers. No judgements.

A Little Coffee with Your Sugar?

So, the reaction I recieved from family and close friends after my last post went something like this: "Wow, harsh!" "Are you depressed?" "I'm so sorry, I feel like I haven't been there for you lately." "You're being pretty blunt." After digging a little deeper into the conversations, I had 100% of my naysayers telling me that they felt the exact same way as me. So, thank you to everyone for 1) helping me prove my point and 2) not sugarcoating your feelings...I hate that.

Graduation from the Quarter Life Crisis

Four months after my 28th birthday, I'm still feeling that dull, familiar pain that, despite my best efforts, hasn't seemed to improve in oh, going on four years now. What most refer to as "the Quarter Life Crisis" has become for me almost a half decade of education, growing pains, and a depletion of my finances; I'm officially obtaining a degree in driving myself insane.

The Quarter Life Crisis in an interesting concept; one that is very near and dear to my heart. What boggles my mind, more so than the fact that I can't seem to get past this period in my life, is the lack of answers out there to help us GenXYZers. Trying to find a good group of friends in a new area? Good fucking luck. Job forcing you to pop three Prozac's a day? Suck it up (and hope you have insurance to cover the damage it will surely cause later on in life). Looking for a good man or woman to share your life with before you hit 30? Hate to break it to you, but it's probably not going to happen.

While the issues we GenXYZers are facing today certainly aren't the on-the-surface-difficult struggles that our parents had to face, I think the issues we are grappling with might even be, dare I say, more difficult. Just like the 60s housewife's silent heartbreak over her husband's mistress, we keep everything very hush-hush. We convince ourselves that we're the problem, pop some pills, drink some booze, and sleep with almost anyone to escape.

The reality is that most of us aren't going to have the extended education that Van Wilder had. The longer we stay in the Quarter Life Crisis, the less of our lives we are living.

This is making me want to dig into my Adderall stash.