Island Living

Sooo...getting back into the daily grind is proving to be a little difficult. I was gchatting with a friend, and she calculated her hourly wage based on her salary, which turned out to be a pretty depressing figure. And I make less than her per year. This naturally caused us to question our career choices...why are we trying so hard (well...sorta hard) to climb the corporate ladder to afford our metropolitan lifestyles? Is living in the city THAT worth it? Obviously we needed to consider an alternative: community island living.

The scenario I have in my mind is a collective of about 50 really cool (preferably attractive) people ages 23-35 pooling together all of our savings or even just emptying our checking accounts and building a huge commune in, say, Bali. It would be helpful if some of these people had family money to help start us off, but it's not a prerequisite. Once we've established ourselves and done a Costco run (is there Costco in Bali?), then we will figure out how to become sustainable. Obviously we can fish and grow pineapples for sustinance, but we will need a means to pay the electricity bill and the cable bill (I still want to be able to watch Vampire Diaries, ok? It's my new favorite show).

So far my friend and I came up with cocaine and pies as a way to generate income. I think that part of the plan needs about ten more minutes of solid critical thinking. The point is, we will find a way to support ourselves without relying on corporate America. At this point, the real living can begin.

Our days will begin with group yoga, followed by a brisk run across the island and back (um how big is Bali again?). Then everyone will make breakfast (fish and pineapple) and head to the beach for a good 6 hours of sunbathing. We'll return to the commune for siesta, followed by book club. Then we'll prepare dinner (fish and pineapple) and get ready for the nightly party. Yes, there will be a party every night, and we'll play our own music and dance as we sip homemade rum. Finally, we'll drift off to sleep under the stars.

I get that I'm not the first person to have this vision, but really I'm wondering why more people don't go this route. We made a list of pros and cons and the only cons we could come up with for leaving society for good were:

• no happy hour
• no Sephora
• no restaurants

I can't believe it either, but these are the only things that motivate me to be a member of society. Obviously I won't need happy hour on the commune because I won't need to unwind since I won't work. Restaurants I'll miss, especially on a diet consisting solely of fish, pineapple and rum, but it's not a dealbreaker. No Sephora...this is a problem, I'm not going to lie. However, if I'm really tan, which I undoubtedly will be after sunbathing for 6 hours a day, I won't need much makeup.

The writing is on the wall...I'm actually surprised it took me this long to come up with this plan. It's probably because I was scarred by small town living for 18 years. That's totally different than island living though. I'll just have to be really careful when selecting the 50 members of my commune and make sure that everyone is really interesting and fun so that I don't get sick of them. Does it sound like I'm starting a cult?

Never mind...who's with me???

Eat, Walk, Party

Focus for a moment on the images above. Notice how one of these things is not like the others? The first picture is of Opium, a breathtaking nightclub on the water filled with beautiful people in Barcelona. That is where I was Friday night. The second picture is of Bay to Breakers, San Francisco's annual massive race/street party aka the greatest event of the year hands down. That is where I was Sunday, in my warrior costume. The third picture is a cubicle. In a climate-controlled sterile office. That's where I was today.

Is it just me, or does life have a way of leaping from one extreme to the next? A week ago I was in Paris eating creme brulee and now I'm glued to the couch going through a box of kleenex (it was basically inevitable that I would get sick considering the amount of germs I've been exposed to in the last two weeks. That doesn't sound right but it stays). Anyway, you may have guessed that I've been traveling in Europe--Germany, France, Italy and Spain to be exact, which explains my absence. It's really annoying because if I don't write for a while I start blogging my experiences in my head...as I'm experiencing them. It's incredibly cheesy.

I don't want to go into full detail about Europe because, let's be honest, hearing about other people's trips is kind of boring. I could tell you how amazing this:



or this:





were, but really its not the same unless you experience it first-hand.

And no, I didn't hook up with any European men. That seems to be what most of my friends really want to know. Ok, I may or may not have made out with a Parisian in a nightclub. But making out isn't the same as "hooking up"(it's 2010). Besides, only God can judge me, and I visited a LOT of churches on this trip so I'm golden.

There is one thing I absolutely have to discuss that was discovered on this trip, however. It is the French hot dog. I'm not even sure where or how I procured one of these, but it was around 6 am on Sunday morning after a long night out and it was mind blowing. Imagine a fresh baguette shelled out with not one, but TWO hot dogs inside, smothered in melted cheese. This description doesn't even do it justice. I would show a picture, but the picture REALLY doesn't do it justice; it just looks gross. You'll just have to take my word on this one...it definitely would give the bacon dog cart a run for its money.

So did I have a great trip? Yes I did. But I'm not going to sugarcoat it...there were some challenging moments. Traveling isn't all hot foreign men and amazing food. There is also lugging a 40 pound suitcase up and down the stairs of the metro station, and searching for the Catacombs for 30 minutes only to discover that they are closed. Oh, and not to mention Spanish boys at Opium who act like they want to dance with you but really just want to pickpocket you.

I think because being in a foreign country brings you so far out of your element, you have no choice but to adapt and in turn grow stronger. Still, my favorite memories from this trip were the moments when I felt at home even though I was so far from it. Stumbling through the streets arm in arm with my new friend Nevena to McDonald's after a night of drinking and dancing in Munich, or sitting on my old friend Nikole's couch in Italy listening to her strum the guitar and sing Michael Franti...these were the moments that made all those hours in planes, trains and buses worth it.

And as always, every time I leave I'm reminded of how much I love San Francisco upon my return. There could have been no better welcome than the always-epic Bay to Breakers with my "tribe". So, as much as my nose is running right now, I guess I really can't complain. That is precisely what makes life beautiful...the lows make the highs that much better!

xoxo Jess

Moderation

A friend recently showed me her "Weekly Debauchery Analysis" spreadsheet. It's an excel document that tracks things like alcohol and cigarette intake, along with money spent and how many workouts she did that week. At the end of the week after entering in all the totals, the spreadsheet has a "status" column that lets her know if she did a "GOOD JOB" or "FAIL" (did you know you can do that with a formula in excel? I didn't).

Obviously the fact that she tracks her vices in a spreadsheet is hilarious, but I completely understand the impetus for doing so. It seems like most of my friends are constantly involved in an ongoing personal struggle for moderation...another defining characteristic of being in your twenties I suppose. I too am constantly trying to find balance and a lot of the time failing miserably.

We want to be mature, responsible adults who eat well, exercise, and balance our checkbooks. And sometimes we are. The problem is...there is still this kid lurking inside of us who wants to eat pizza and spend frivolously and party like it's 2004. What makes it even worse is that this bratty kid lurking within knows that there is no one to reprimand him/her or cut him/her off. This fucking kid has access to our bank accounts. It knows our pin number.

Last week, I was convinced that I was turning into my dad. In one single day I ate oatmeal with raisins in it for breakfast (a meal that my dad used to force me to eat when I was little), went grocery shopping with my reusable, recycled grocery bags (my dad used those bags before it was "cool" to be green and it always kind of embarrassed me that everyone else got nice, new paper bags for their groceries and we had dingy canvas bags), and ended the night reading a book on climate change that, surprise surprise, my dad lent me (Now or Never by Tim Flannery and I would recommend it).

"I'm such a grown-up", I thought to myself. Until Saturday rolled around and I had two birthday parties to go to. And Saturday turned into Sunday. And I hadn't slept yet. And I spent more money than Jay Z does on an average night popping bottles with Beyonce and the crew. So no...I guess I'm not that much like my dad after all (he was probably asleep by 10 PM that night, having enjoyed a healthy homemade dinner and taken his dogs for a walk).

The point is, this is a constant cycle for me. I eat immaculately for three days and then gorge myself on more Panda Express then I would ever publicly admit. I save my money all week bringing my lunch to work and making dinner at home and then blow hundreds of dollars on clothes and shoes in an impulsive shopping spree (why is everything at Urban Outfitters so freaking CUTE right now?). I try to reprimand the kid inside me but she just tells me to fuck off and that she is young and fabulous and you that you only live once.

My hairdresser told me today that moderation becomes easier naturally as you get older, and I'm hoping that he's right. I'm getting sick of babysitting myself. But at the same time...that kid does know how to have a good time. And she never gets herself in too much trouble. And she has great taste in clothes. Today she bought the cutest black dress with gold buttons...

I guess she can hang around for a little bit longer.


xoxo

Jess

Regret

All the things that we accept will be the things that we regret

Remember that Ashanti song? Foolish? No, I'm not going to get into how much better R&B was when I was in high school again. I promise. I just like those lyrics...they so accurately describe what it's like to be in an unhealthy relationship or situation with someone.

As far as regret goes, well--you could say that I'm familiar with that emotion. I've done countless things that I later regretted, most of them between 1999 and 2007 (the beginning of high school to the end of college). More than one of them involved adopting a cat that turned out to be crazy and had to be given away. Yes, I've done some colossally stupid things, but miraculously I bounced back from all of them with minimal permanent damage. Still, out of all the ill-advised, immature decisions I've made in my 24 years, the only ones I would really take back if given the chance are those concerning boys.

We've all been there...the "bad boys". The settling. The second, third and fourth chances. Turning a blind eye to the other women involved. The mental instability. The DRAMA.

Are women still telling each other that we "had to go through all that" in order to be able to appreciate a good guy when we meet him? Because I'm not so sure I'm buying that. If I could just rewind to me at age 14, basically a blank slate, and date NO ONE until now, would I really be worse off? Maybe I wouldn't know how to identify specific brands of loser in under 5 minutes, but if I met a decent guy who wasn't out to ruin my life it wouldn't matter.

Obviously I'm not talking about every guy. Some of them were nice, and held doors open for me and didn't cheat on me and made me dinner and bought me jewelry. Obligatory disclaimer as I recently discovered that one of my exes reads this blog. I don't regret you (much)! Yay.

Now that that's out of the way, lets get back to the point...there are some men who I honestly can say that I wish I never met, and I actually say that not out of anger, but from a place of calm detachment (I've been meditating...I'll explain later). It's entirely possible that I'm bitter, but I don't think it detracts from my point. These men that I speak of served no purpose except to waste my time. So yeah...I regret them and I wish I never met them. I'm not going to pretend that they taught me some valuable lesson that I can treasure for the rest of my life. They were just assholes.

Maybe everything in life isn't a lesson that we have to learn the hard way. Maybe we should just be smarter, and look out for ourselves better than I did. Tell your daughters.

I heard something recently that I wish someone had told me back in the day, when I was 14. A recently single friend said she was told to consider herself a "winning lottery ticket". I think that is a great way to approach dating...yeah this guy is really cute and he smells good and he just said something SOOOO witty...but does he really deserve to win the lottery? NOT NECESSARILY. Plus, the more people that win the lottery, the lower the value of the prize (aka don't be a slore).

Honestly though, the older I get and the more I establish myself, the less I want to make concessions when it comes to relationships. Like Kelly from Real Housewives of New York City says, "I've created a fabulous life for myself, and I love living it". My friends and family are amazing and I don't want to bring someone around them who doesn't deserve to be there. I know, I know, I'm growing up. It's so special. So...lets just say that's why I'm still single (notbecauseonlyfreakswanttodateme).

Here's to no regrets!!!

xoxo

Jess

Missed Calling

I just saw The Runaways and now I'm feeling like, damn, why am I not a rock star? I know everyone thinks that sometimes, but I actually had the opportunity! I'm musical! If only I hadn't quit piano lessons at 8. I was like, UGH, piano lessons are so LAME, I'd way rather spend my time listening to my Raffi tape and making Fimo clay figurines and writing in my diary about how much I hate my sister.

And then, if only I hadn't quit playing saxophone in the school band when I was 12! I could have started the first all-girl saxophone band! It would have been sick, seriously. But NO, I was like, being in band is LAME, I'd way rather listen to the Backstreet Boys and watch TRL and shoplift makeup from Rite Aid (kidding...or am I?). Was my dad right, that I would regret quitting band? Please say my dad wasn't right.

It's so ironic that playing an instrument is social suicide in middle school, but as an adult playing in a band is basically the coolest thing ever. And even more ironic that the "cool" kids in junior high who think being in band is dorky are now either working at Hooters or coaching football at a junior college somewhere. And the really nerdy smart kids are running companies and peering down at us all from their penthouses. More on junior high later.

Anyway, throughout the movie, there were two women sitting a few seats away who obviously came of age in the 70's, and they were having a ball. Kristen Stewart's Joan Jett impression (which I honestly can't knock as much as I'd like to) was straight up taking them back. They were dancing and singing and clapping in their seats to "I Love Rock and Roll" while all the twenty-somethings gave them side eye. I can't even begin to imagine the crazy memories that movie was stirring up in those women and honestly, I was a little jealous.

I kept thinking, will this be me and my friends when they make the Lady Gaga movie in twenty years? Will we be jamming out in the movie theater when Lady Gaga (played by someone who is not even an embryo yet) steps onto stage to perform "Pokerface" for the first time? Probably. And all the damn kids will be shaking their heads at us with a combination of disgust and sympathy, and we won't give a shit because they have no idea. Their music will probably all be produced and performed by robots programmed to create exactly what the masses will eat up with a spoon. I mean that's where we're heading, right?

Whatever. I'm getting kind of sidetracked. My point is that I could have been a rock star by now, and instead I'm sitting here in sweat pants setting my alarm for 6:45 am. I drive a Civic (a sick motherfucking new Civic that I freaking love, but you get my point). I pay my taxes (I'm the whole package). I budget (poorly). I don't even leave dirty dishes in the sink anymore! If someone doesn't start a band with me ASAP it will be too late!!! I don't remember how to read music or play any instruments, but I'll dance around onstage in leather and pretend to sing! PLEASE!!! My coolness is decreasing by the minute!

*Sigh*

xoxo Jess

The Douche Chronicles, Part II.

First of all, I would like to start off by saying I had an amazing weekend, and I had criminal amounts of fun. While I was having all this fun, I realized something. I completely forgot about an entire category of San Francisco douchey guys! So without further ado, I would like to introduce you to...

4. The Industry Dude



You'll meet this gem at an after-hours rooftop loft party in SOMA (I did). He'll ask you for a light and then strike up a conversation, probably about how bummed he is that he "left his mic at Mighty". Yeah, he's an MC...are you impressed? According to him, you should be, because there are just so few good MC's in this city. (He may also be a bartender...the point is, he is hooked up and has the skinny on the happenin after hours).

After talking to him for about twenty minutes, you may actually think you are having an interesting, meaningful conversation, even though he seems really fucked up and he's asked you the same questions a few times. Then he'll stare into your eyes and say:

"You're really beautiful. You know, I just want someone who I can cuddle with, like, once a week. I rage way too much and I need someone to make me stay in. But just, like, once a week."

Yeah guys...that really happened to me this weekend. As flattered as I was that MC douche wanted to spend one night a week "cuddling" with me, I made my exit soon after. And by "made my exit" I mean grabbed my girl and ran away in the opposite direction of this freak show.

What is my problem?

So I have this dilemma that repeats itself just about every single day, and leads me to believe that I may be borderline obsessive compulsive. My daily (weekday) routine is as follows: wake up to the sound of guitar strumming on my iPhone alarm, shower, makeup, hair, clothes, pack a lunch, and go. Thrilling, I know. As I'm driving to work, though, my heart suddenly seizes and I am filled with panic. I left the iron/straightener/heater/curling iron on! (A lot of heat is involved in being me...pun intended). I have to turn back! My apartment is going to burn down!

I'm usually halfway to work at this point, so I try to calm myself down and remember the EXACT moment in which I unplugged whatever device I am worried about. Usually it works and I can forget about it until sometime midday at which point I reason that if my apartment had burned down I would have gotten a call by then. And (KNOCK ON WOOD...for reals) to this point I have never once left anything plugged in, let alone on. So why am I so worried? It's just weird.

xoxo

Jess