Being scared is not a way to go through life

I used to do this all the time and I still kind of do and I believe it’s more of a West Coast thing.

When something’s off, or unusual, I always say it’s “scary”.

Oh, your insurance premiums are going up?  That’s just “scary”.

Your dog came down with typhoid?  So “scary”…

Your house was broken into by the Bling Ring and they stole nothing because you’re a broke-ass b*tch?

“SCARY”.

But what does that mean?

Life can’t be filled with that much unrelenting fear.

You can’t be “so scared” all the time.

Most importantly–there’s a difference between *being* scared and *feeling* scared.

Feeling scared is a normal human emotion.

One of my favorite moments on Family Guy is in the episode where they make fun of the South:

Hi, uh, excuse me, you guys. Yeah, I’m here to pick up my son, Chris Griffin. Uh, he’s here to finger the guy who held up that convenience store. M-maybe you’ve seen him, his name is Chris Griffin. Oh, wait a second, y’know, I think I got a picture of him, somewhere…h-here you go. [gives the picture to the one who robbed the store] Yeah, you can go ahead and hang on to that, I got a ton of ’em at home. In fact, I was gonna throw that one out anyway ’cause Chris messed it up by writing his school schedule and a list of his fears all over the back of it.

We all have a list of fears, whether it’s something as innocuous as spiders or complex as commitment.

And let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than an arachnophobe that can’t commit! *takes drag off Virginia Slim*

You feel a lot of things that aren’t real.

You can feel nauseous on a car ride, but that doesn’t mean that your body is ready to undergo a dramatic explosion of brain matter.

You can feel full after Souplantation (if you don’t, you’re not American and didn’t get your money’s worth) but that doesn’t mean your stomach will burst, Alien-style, with focaccia.

And you can feel horny without tackling and furiously humping the senior citizen cocktail waitress with the wooden leg and holiday-themed press-on nails.

When your feeling enters a state of “being”–you’re doing something wrong.

Nobody wants to go on a trip with the person who wails about their nausea and wears it like a uniquely pathetic badge of honor.

Nobody wants to eat a meal with the person who unendingly b*tches afterwards about eating that last zucchini muffin.

And nobody wants to be around the person whose old-fashioned glass you have to monitor for fear they’ll titgrab the hostess.

This applies to all emotions.

Are you angry?

Jealous?

Sad?

Or are you an angry person?

A jealous person?

A sad person?

Or a scared person?

If you can’t tell the difference–find someone whose opinion you trust who will tell you *the* truth (not the truth you want to hear) and ask them.

You’ll likely be surprised.

What you see as that one incidence of anger or fear has likely been an aspect of your personality that you haven’t noticed.

And know that you know this–do you want to be that person?

An angry person?

A jealous person?

A sad person?

Or a scared person?

That judgment is up to you.

But the fact that you’re curious enough to reach the point where you can make that judgment shows you have demonstrated the initial willingness to change.

It’s the first step.

It’s the hardest step.

There will be hard steps down the road, mind you.

Changing is both the hardest thing you can do in terms of sheer will and the easiest thing you can do in terms of obstruction (really, there’s nothing that stops you from changing, ever).

Maybe it will be worth it.

Are you happy where you’re at now?

If you’re not, stop being scared.

Feel scared.

And change.

I have no chill

I’m not great at interacting with people.

For starters, I’m intense.

Not intense like “awesome!”, more intense like “will attack you with a battery of thoughts, words, and commentary and stop making noises by moving your lips in the figures of speech, because I’m still talking”.

I’m not for the weak. I pick up on everything going on—sounds, smells, cues, placement of objects, etc. I’m like your dog, but with night-vision goggles on.

we will fight fire with fire.

–cats

That probably puts off 50% of people right there.

People have different temperaments. Just think among your group of friends.

how was my day? it was fine, thank me

Half of them run at a slower speed. At the deepest end are the most unflagging of stoners, who can’t be bothered to move if they bong-lit the apartment on fire.

Then there are the casually-stoned, the non-inhalers, the leisurely, the relaxed, and the calm.

None of these people enjoy intensity. It harshes mellow.

The other 50% of people run at a faster speed. There’s the brisk walkers, the mild joggers, the sprinters, and the most unhinged of cokeheads.

YOUKNOWI’MGONNAGOBACKTOSCHOOLANDGETMYGED

YOUSHOULDDOITYOUSHOULDDOITROLLERGIRL

I’m somewhere right below “sprinter” on this scale. There’s a constant beat going and if things aren’t moving, I get irritable.

I do best around people who operate at about one half-notch below me in speed. If I’m convinced you’re keeping up with me but that I’m moving too fast, I can then slow down and be relatively comfortable.

But life doesn’t work this way.

And then I realized–I have no chill.

Lots of people have their meditations–golf, art, hiking, exercise, writing, glassblowing, underground gardening, whatever.

I don’t have those. They bore me and if I don’t get them right the first time, there’s little incentive to continue.

I have to spread my chill over the day to keep functioning, like a hummingbird who ingests sugar to stay alive. And as a result, I can be self-indulgent. It’s hard to stop at one chocolate because it’s the perfect distraction. Anything that can take my mind off what’s going on is a plus. My future office will have rhabdomancing acrobats in the background just to give me something to look at.

WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE?!

Also, I challenge myself in weird, spiteful, masochistic ways.

How many cups of coffee can I drink before I go for an intense run and be able to get back to work with increased intensity?

I only need, like 2 hours of sleep, right?

Of course I can get this writing completed in a crowded coffeeshop!

Unfortunately, my lack of chill gets taken out on other people.

Most people probably don’t notice.

But for those who do it’s visibly off-putting.

Who wants to engage with someone who’s consistently high-strung, hardheaded, and physically uncomfortable? If there’s someone shifting in their seats, I will bet you this half-filled jar of nail bitings it’s me!

There’s few people I can relax around, and I treasure those that I can. And to those that I can’t–I’m sorry. Not “sorry not sorry”, not “sorry BUUUT…”, not “sorry IF…”, but sorry.

I don’t want to shop at this Trader Joe’s ever again

I love Trader Joe’s.

Let me repeat:

I have a passionate, undying, borderline-fanatic love for Trader Joe’s.

damn right it does

I shop there at least once or twice a week, sometimes once a day, because the prices and the variety are unmatched.

But I had an incredibly uncomfortable experience today at the Trader Joe’s on Santa Monica Blvd in West Hollywood that I should share.

I walked into the store to buy something for lunch and headed to the restroom–after all, they say you should never shop on a full bladder, or something.

There’s one men’s and one women’s restroom, so I ducked into the men’s which consists of a stall, urinal and sink–standard stuff–and lock the door behind me.

stahhhhhhhhp ittttttttt

As I’m washing my hands, I hear what sounds like a key opening a lock. As soon as I turn around, an older man with a Trader Joe’s badge proceeds to walk into the restroom.

I’m in shock.

What if I was actually, you know, going to the restroom right then?

never is a man more defenseless than at this exact moment in his life

“Uhhh…excuse me. I was using the restroom,” I say, hoping he’s either senile or they just discovered uranium behind the restroom wall or there was some other valid reason for the dude to barge in and not even knock and ask if anyone’s in there.

Unfazed and looking down as he uses the sink, he says “the restroom already has privacy and has a separate stall.”

Odd answer.

I ask, “then…why is there a lock on the door?”

“Eh, the manager from 9 years ago never changed it out”.

I walked out of there still dazed. What if I was a woman, how violating would this feel to have some stranger just unlock the door your locked while you’re using the restroom? What if someone did that to my mother or a friend of mine?

I picked up my “Middle East Feast” and paid, and asked to talk to the manager.

The manager was checking out another customer and sent over someone else to talk to me.

I echoed what happened, and the young girl didn’t understand which employee I was talking about. I didn’t grab his name because I was still in “wtf” mode of the situation but offered an accurate description of him. She shrugged her shoulders and said “yeah, it happens” and that was the extent of how far I got with her.

I left the store and emailed corporate letting them know the situation, got the confirmation the message was received, but no response. I’m pretty surprised by that sort of conduct–not only does it violate customer service etiquette, it violates human etiquette. If I did that to someone in my own home, they could likely sue me for sexual harassment.

So why would it be ok to have some strange employee just walk on in, no knocking, unapologetically, at a store where I’m using the restroom?

I don’t really give a damn about this kind of stuff, but idk what’s wrong with this Trader Joe’s store. This week alone I found plastic wrap baked into one of the falafels I got there and I’ve been shopping at Trader Joe’s and this store in particular for years without incident not to mention I’ve never found a foreign object in food before that isn’t hair.

I recommend Trader Joe’s to people up and down, but I’m not gonna go back to this store anytime soon.

your neon sign beacons towards sadness and despair

Why does Uber hate me?

I’d like to think I’m a relatively low-maintenance individual.

I’m self-sufficient and my diaper only needs to be changed once per day.

Which is why I was stunned to find out that I have a really low Uber rating–and I’m not an Uber driver.

How is that possible? (you say)

Cuz Uber drivers rate passengers too, dummy.

Ratings are out of 5.

Now, if you’re an Uber driver and your rating is below 4.7, they tie you to the back of an UberXL (the big ones) and drag you around the greater metropolitan area til you give better service and/or fire you and take away your iPhone.

what did I ever do to forsake you

It’s a good idea so that drivers provide the best service.

But I’m a passenger.

I’m paying.

And according to Uber drivers, I suck.

Needless to say, I’m inconsolable.

I found some tips online to see how you can earn a high passenger rating:

  • Compliment their car or music
  • Ask them about themselves (how are you doing, where are you from, how long have you been driving)
  • Make small talk (how about this crazy weather/traffic/drunk people, do you have any weird stories, have you ever been to place xyz)
  • Tell them a little about yourself or where you just came from/are going to
  • Have the address of your destination or tell the driver how to get there
  • Leave a tip for efficient service
  • Don’t throw up in the back seat

Ok, let’s go through these one by one.

  • Compliment their car or music: I’m a car nut and like to use UberX most frequently (cuz I’m also cheap) so I get a wide variety of cars.  9 out of 10 times I will either compliment the car or make a generic positive compliment about it.  Am I too cloying?  As far as music, the only things I’ve heard in an Uber are Top 40 or Top 40 Dance Remixes.  So unless Katy Perry is driving me, I’m probably not going to compliment their music preference for “the stuff everyone is listening to”.
  • Ask them about themselves (how are you doing, where are you from, how long have you been driving): I come from a long line of Torosian men having in-depth conversations with strangers.  Check.
  • Make small talk (how about this crazy weather/traffic/drunk people, do you have any weird stories, have you ever been to place xyz): I literally can think of one Uber ride where I didn’t talk to the driver.  One out of dozens, and now that I remember it, I DID talk but it was a 40 minute drive and I was reading emails in the backseat so I wasn’t my gabby self.  I got the same driver again and he was really nice so I doubt he tanked my rating.
  • Tell them a little about yourself or where you just came from/are going to: I do this in 7 out of 10 rides because the other 2 out of 10 rides have painfully quiet drivers who either grunt occasionally or respond in a halted, mousy voice.  No dice, suggestor of these tips!
  • Have the address of your destination or tell the driver how to get there: Unless the driver is telepathic, the whole idea of it is to tell the driver how to get someplace they’re taking you.
  • Leave a tip for efficient service: You can’t leave tips for Uber drivers.  Trust me, I’ve tried.
  • Don’t throw up in the back seatshit.

It was a late night, I ate some room-temperature tuna appetizers (one of the only times in my life I’ve literally tasted myself getting food poisoning), and when the driver showed up he took the absolute wrong route back to my apartment.

We were at Hollywood and Vine.  Hollywood.

I lived off San Vicente and Wilshire.  Brentwood.

You can reach that destination a variety of ways, namely taking Sunset Blvd, Santa Monica Blvd, Wilshire Blvd, Olympic Blvd, or if there’s traffic and you dislike anything remotely scenic, Pico Blvd.

where scenery goes to die

Or if you enjoy beatings, the 10 Freeway.

also known as an “LAPD Thank You”

So with all those options available, bizarrely, our driver chose to take the 101.

Through the Valley.

To the 405.

Back down into Brentwood.

That’s a 20 mile drive.

On surface streets, it’s about 9 miles.

I remember spending most of the trip feeling like dying, and I remember protesting loudly when we obviously weren’t taking a sane route back home, and I remember being so dizzy and sick I slumped against the glass most of the drive.

Instead of taking 30-45 minutes, it took an hour and a half.

Relief came when I saw the Getty.

*insert Hallelujah chorus here*

Almost home.

And then for the first time in my life, I projectile vomited.

I felt terrible, and offered to pay the driver cash on the spot to clean it up and for his obvious inconvenience (tuna appetizer in the backseat of his Uber–wait, that stuff’s expensive.  He should be paying ME)

He kindly refused the money and said Uber would pay to clean it up.

So, it looks like Uber took the money out of my passenger rating.

I still believe in Uber and it’s saved my butt (and other body parts) in more situations that I can count.

Anyway, if you haven’t signed up for Uber, then 1) shame on you cuz it rocks and 2) use this coupon code when you sign up:

uber.wyatt

My Nonny can beat up your grandma…

My grandma is 92. Don’t ask her either, she’ll tell you.

She’s a petite, no-nonsense Italian woman. After marrying my grandfather, an Armenian, she had no way of communicating with her mother-in-law, who was from “Ze Old Count-ree” and spoke little English. So, my grandmother learned the Armenian language, how to cook Armenian food, and volunteered at the Armenian church where she became one of the “Junior Ladies of the Baking Angels”, a title she retains to this day (which proffers endless amusement):

Grandma: I have to go bake at the church tomorrow. I’m one of the Junior Ladies.

Me: Are there any Senior Ladies?

Grandma: Yeah, they’re the old people.

Me: How old could they possibly be? 100?

She’s survived everything, from the 7.3 Kern County earthquake of 1952 where the brick buildings around her collapsed, to my grandfather suffering a fatal heart attack behind the wheel in 1969 weeks before my parents’ wedding, to my mom’s nearly-identical accident in 2004 when my Nonny became my surrogate mom.

She worked at a packing shed as a floor lady, packing boxes of grapes in an ever-so-careful fashion to maximize weight and minimize space. Imagine that episode of “I Love Lucy” with the chocolates. That was her, every day, waking up at 4:30 in the morning to drive from town out to the fields—until age 75.

I remember how my mom got the call on her brick cellphone (pre-Nokia days) when I was just a kid on summer break from elementary school. My grandma was tripped up by an ill-secured wooden board and broke her hip. My mom corralled me into the car and gunned it across town, to find my grandma sitting in a wheelchair in the parking lot and frowning outside the packing shed. They didn’t call an ambulance out of sheer incompetence, but were perfectly capable of calling us to come collect her. We laid her in the backseat of her car and she was driven by my other grandpa at speeds unsafe for any Saturn to the ER.

Her hip was replaced, and that was that as far as work was concerned. She loved that job, and consistently says how much she wants, to this day, to go back and do it. “If it wasn’t for this damn hip, I’d be working out there now,” she says.

She has since supplanted that irrepressible urge to work by coming to my parents’ house five mornings a week to clean and do the wash, volunteering at two churches and at the Armenian Home for the Aged (where she’s older than most of the residents). We’ve tried to get her to slow down or pay someone to handle the house tasks, but she won’t hear anything of it. She still cooks, drives, rakes leaves, washes her car, and probably gets more done in a day than I do in a week. She’s alert, sharp, and will sneak an ice cream bar from your freezer under your nose and feign ignorance.

When people ask her about her health, she has the best responses. For instance:

Concerned individual: “Oh wow! Ninety-two years old. How’s your heart?”

My grandma: “I don’t have one.”

And then she erupts into laughter.

Today, on her way into church to sell donuts (like she does every Sunday without fail), she tripped, fell, and cut her chin open. The paramedics were called and tried to take her to the hospital, but she resisted, insisting on driving herself home. They wouldn’t let her, so she had them call my parents to come pick her up and take her to get stitched up. I just spoke to them on the phone, and she was pissed (“DAMN SLIPPERY SHOES” I heard from the backseat as she attempted to use my dad’s cellphone) but we joked about the irony of spraying a bunch of blood on the front entrance to the church.

Everyone’s grandmothers I know are nice, sweet little old ladies who bake cookies and knit afghans (the blankets, not the people). Mine does that too, but it’s all just a front. She’ll just as easily reach for a third glass of red wine or punch you for getting out of line.

That’s why I’ll always love my Nonny.

How to win at life

Maya Angelou passed away this morning at the age of 86.

Yes, she’s that kindly black lady whose poems you probably read in elementary school, then again in middle school, and just as a fun refresher, in high school.

And in case you didn’t get enough Maya Angelou—her poems and stories frequently appeared on standardized tests, SAT tests, AP tests, and we basically inscribed on the inside of your eyelids by the time you were 16.

Which is ironic because she hated standardized tests, branding them in an open letter to President Obama as “not what did you learn, but how much can you memorize.”

She’s Oprah-approved™ and one of the rare individuals to appear at the White House under both Clinton (where she read a poem for his inauguration) and Bush (where she read a poem for the Christmas tree lighting) and Obama (who gave her an award so nobody had to hear another poem).

And in all that poetry, all that work, I’ll bet you can’t name a single thing she said or wrote.

I know I can’t.

You probably sat in class and thought “that’s nice” and got back to your life.

But you missed something. I missed something.

We missed the story of a woman who raised herself up to take life by the horns and do all she could possibly do, who was raped at the age of 8 by her mother’s boyfriend, who was the first black female streetcar driver in San Francisco, who was both a pimp and a prostitute, who was asked by MLK to organize her own march, who would rent out a hotel room near her home as her writing studio and voraciously write for seven hours straight per day, who crafted 7 autobiographies over the course of her life.

That’s all fascinating detail.

Every life has fascinating detail.

Every life is different, every life is difficult, every life is important, but every life is defined by what you make of it.

What you missed, what I missed, among all the subtext and imagery and watered-down, weak-tea interpretation of this dear lady’s work is the following powerful message:

You’re not special.

Nobody is special.

You’re all different.  Different doesn’t mean special.

Barney told you that you were special around the same age you started reading Maya Angelou’s poems and it was all nice, feel-good crap.

Barney lied and you were lied to.

come here children, I’m going to turn your brains to mush tell you a story!

This woman took herself from the lowest possible rung of society, overcame every disadvantage, and became incredibly strong, successful, and most importantly, special.

You’re not special.

So why are you living a life where you’re not trying to be?

The single largest contributor to LA traffic is…

^^this guy.

You see, we have something in LA called a “traffic problem”.

Well, it’s more like a 24-hour-per-day-vehicular-clusterfuck.

In fact, it’s gotten so bad that traffic at 10PM is as bad as 6PM because they decided that at 9PM they’d just, you know, alternate shutdowns of major on and off ramps.  For shits’n’giggles.

You know I’m not the kind of person to sit idly by when there’s a problem.

When things go south, I’ll put the fkkn Mayor on notice:

Thus far, his solution has been to increase the number of people who stand in busy intersections at rush hour from 0 to about 5, which helps because people are slow and stupid during traffic and need someone in a lime green vest with jaunty hand signals to get their rears in gear.

You’re welcome, Angelenos.

But even I, your humble scribe *gouges into iPad screen with quill pen* cannot stop the Godzilla that visits LA at least twice a year:

trust no bitch

Last time he attacked the Brentwood-Santa Monica border, leaving a wake of disappointed illegal immigrant students and rich people in his wake.

This time?

He decided to take on the heart of the Westside, right next to Beverly Hills.

At 3:44PM, I counted 15 cop cars in a one mile stretch of Beverly Glen Boulevard, right near the embassies (the French one, where the flag out front is surprisingly not just white.

My first thought: who’s the foreign prick who’s visiting?  

My second thought: some high-falutin douche is in town and fkking up our traffic.

I googled “visits LA today”, and sure enough…

And yes, all major roads near my domicile were about to be closed in…13 minutes.

I parked quickly and alerted everyone, like a frightened citizen of Tokyo.

“STAY AT WORK!”

“IT ISN’T SAFE!”

“ORDER FROM THAT PITA RESTAURANT DOWN THE STREET, YOU KNOW, THE ONE WITH THE GOOD HUMMUS, AND HAVE THEM DELIVER.”

“TELL MY WIFE SHE WAS ALWAYS A FRIGID BITCH”

I got to my roof, because if I’ve learned anything from the Weather Channel, when a tsunami hits, you should always seek elevation.

I perched and waited, like the bird that craps on my window.

Neighbors told tales of how they had to park on the main street and walk–WALK–to their apartment (what is this, Eastern Europe?!)

And sure enough, about an hour and a half later, a black limousine goes speeding up Beverly Glen, while exactly two people weakly yelled “woo!”

That’s it.  That was it.  The monster had passed–but spared no one.

IMG_1947

if you squint closely enough by the 76 station you can see the tiny smattering of meek-voiced supporters facing the motorcade.

Traffic still snaked around streets as entire neighborhoods were sealed.

The President was picking up an award from Steven Spielberg this trip, and everyone knows Steven Spielberg can’t just up and leave to go meet the President in DC to give him an award.

The damage was done.  Good, honest, working people’s entire days were ruined.  The people who paid for this motorcade had to wait for it.

It’s like the CEO of a company having to wait two hours to exit the parking garage because Jim, the intern in accounting, has to crawl out the driveway.

In LA, we don’t fear tornadoes, hurricanes, or even earthquakes.

We fear presidential visits.

Yerba mate is the only thing that matters

I never understood “coffee”.

I was a kid and would drink it at holidays when everyone else had some and it never quite had an effect on me.

I liked tea, but I was never one of those people who would be found clutching a Starbucks cup like it was a lifeline.

Until my dad introduced me again to coffee.

My world was changed. Coffee made life vivid, I would get insane amounts of work done, and have brilliant ideas.

Sure, it gave me the runs, but it was WORTH IT.

Then there was the inevitable crash.

And the two or three cups to keep the high going.

And then sleeping for twelve hours to come off that caffeine high.

So my experience with coffee wasn’t great. I’d go through a week where I’d be all about coffee and another week where I avoided it like the plague.

I eventually, permanently switched to black tea, which mellows me out.

Unfortunately, if I have some on an empty stomach, I approach what it must feel like to die quite rapidly.

the struggle is REAL

And then one day at Trader Joe’s, on complete impulse, I bought Yerba Mate, and placed it in the back of my cabinet where I didn’t find it until yesterday.

The first time was awful. It did nothing for me and tasted like old man smell (Polo Cologne and Marlboro Reds).

cigarettes: they help you tear down barbed wire fences!

Today I thought I’d give it another shot, put it in a bigger mug, and it was actually quite pleasant.

But the boost was what made it worthwhile.

I was clear, focused, and not sweating out of my butt.

I’m now a Yerba Mate devotee/believer/evangelist!

if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me

The 30 second rule is the only rule in life

Yes, my sausage sandwich fell on the floor.

Yes, I’m going to pick it up and eat it even though it was open-faced.

Look, floors ain’t clean, folks.

But they’re probably cleaner than my hands.

And I doubt every corner of this Starbucks is teeming with malaria or something (then again, it’s not exactly the Soweto Starbucks).

People who shout “FIVE SECOND RULE” disgust me. Usually they’re those EXXXTREME fratty types who want to show me just how hardcore they are by eating something that has literally come into infinitesimally-quick contact with a surface that isn’t a plate with pizza stains.

Listen guys, this ain’t Fear Factor. Your gravity-propelled Hot Pocket isn’t the same as eating a bowl full of maggots. When you decide to do that outside of initiation, then you can call yourself hardcore, bro.

I love when restaurants comp people for food they drop. I would likely abuse that, becoming complete butterfingers at Melisse or Nobu or something and then getting tons of food on the house.

zoidberg: the final chapter

I’m surprised people don’t spill more things. 9.8 m/s^2 is pretty fast folks. Enough to just let things…slip through your fingers.

There’s no weirder feeling than when something is spilled. It’s a combo of tragedy (NOT THE SPAGHETTINI!), regret (why, fingers, why do you FAIL me SO), relief (welp, guess I’m just officially incompetent and will have to hire someone to carry everything for me now), and satisfaction (fuck yeah, stick it to the MAN with his plates and clean floors).

And as a spectator? The responsibility is overwhelming. Either you can jeer (BUTTAHFINGAHS) or help (here, let me scoop that up for you) or stare (she just…broke the space-time continuum). I think it’s best to run from those situations. I’m not a fan of avoiding responsibility, but breaking into a dead sprint away from someone who lost the meatballs on their spaghetti plate sounds like a logical move.

Nobody noticed me drop my sausage sandwich, and nobody was available to give me looks of derision or flat-out panic. So I consider it a public service I was able to handle this situation effectively.

Everyone calm down.

I GOT this…

How I Added a Second Bedroom

From the man who wrote the award-winning post “I Built This“…

20140209-213240.jpg

Dear Hillary:

I enjoyed building my own Resolute desk a little while back. And although it’s not hand-carved from wood from that mighty ship, I am about 78% sure it’s not particleboard.

Take THAT, IKEA.

I know you hope to sit behind the Resolute desk someday in the Oval Office. It would be a step up from where women kneeled during your husband’s administration.

In reference to the terrorist attack on our consulate in Benghazi and our murdered ambassador and security heroes, you said the following:

“With all due respect, the fact is we had four dead Americans. Was it because of a protest or was it because of guys out for a walk one night who decided that they’d they go kill some Americans? What difference at this point does it make?”

Never mind the fact that you and your boss blamed an Egyptian-American filmmaker for putting up a video on YouTube that allegedly “incited violence”.

Never mind the fact that we were assured this wasn’t a terrorist attack, nosiree.

Never mind that Amb. Stevens asked for backup support on repeated occasions until right before the attack.

After all–what difference does it make?

I set out to answer that question.

So, for my next project, I had to do something ambitious. Something groundbreaking. Something that would be a fool’s errand for just a mere *man*.

I decided to add a second bedroom–the kind you’d need when separate beds just aren’t far enough.

Scientists say you spend 1/3 of your life in your bedroom. Well not “you” specifically. Scientists are not following “you” and your dalliances. It’s not all about YOU.

I wanted more room. I wanted to make a DIFFERENCE.

But how, HOW to accomplish this? When you’re a leader, you have to make the tough choices. You can’t just knock through with a wrecking ball haphazardly. You can’t just invade Libya and expect to not have to pick up the pieces!

I looked at my 70s-style mirrored closet doors. They keep sliding off and running over everything on the bottom layer of these narrow closets, because apparently this room was built for an anemic child with a single pair of overalls.

I looked at the wall across from my bed. Bland. No TV. No pictures. Don’t want to hang anything and forfeit some of the security deposit.

I decided to put together peanut butter and chocolate. Like an AMERICAN(TM) would.

*shooes away Shania Twain from singing “Let Freedom Ring”* NOT YET!

I used my prodigious muscles and lifted the closet doors straight off their wheels, carrying them over to the open walls and placing them delicately, like old law documents in a shredder.

I set them side by side (careful to not leave fingerprints or spray an incredible amount of sweat on the clean glass) and slid them together, covering up the wall behind.  There’s nothing quite like a good cover-up.

SUCCESS.

The illusion of a second room. Just like the illusion of security provided to our men on the ground in Benghazi.

But, after all, what difference does it make?

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