oopsie daisy

Getting Ready for "The Big One." (Or: Why You Probably Don't Want to Make Home Depot YOUR Meeting Spot)

My mother is a part-owner of the apartment building I reside in. And no, this does not mean I live there for free because she is not the type of woman to give handouts. When I was in sixth grade and I desperately wanted a double-cassette "stereo" with a digital radio and high-speed dub, I had to earn that $140 all by myself, which I did by rolling quarters from her buildings' laundry machines. In hindsight, I should have asked to be paid by the hour, not the roll, but that's the kind of thing you learn when your parent puts you to work.

When I finally had all of the money I needed and only a few blisters on my hands (not really), my mother took me to Macy's to buy my new stereo. I think the fact that I picked my stereo out at MACY'S says something about me, but I don't like what that thing is, so I'm going to move on. I then took it home, plugged it in, and ohmygod you guys: Bon Jovi has never sounded so magical. It also lasted me until my junior year of college, in case you were thinking that shopping for stereo at equipment at Macy's means I'm spoiled.

(Aside: it just occurred to me that considering I bought that thing with my own "hard-earned" cash, it was totally unfair that my mother routinely took it away as a punishment. You know, after grounding me and revoking my phone privileges. Do you know what it's like to be 12 years old without a phone OR Skid Row? I was tormented as a child, to say the least.)

Wow. All I was trying to do there was tell you that my mother is a part-owner of the apartment building I live in. But look at all that extra baggage you got as a free bonus? Yay, I can't afford therapy!

Moving right along: In addition to my mother being a part-owner of the building, my oldest brother is also the manager of the building. He lives on the ground floor; I live on the fourth. This is just enough distance to keep us from ever running into each other's one night stands (RIP: mine), but also means that I can shout to him from my window when pigeons invade my apartment (shudder) and give him my leftovers since I sometimes fear he subsides on beer and beer alone.

They say "no one reads anymore," so I'll make this easy for you. All you need to take away from the above five paragraphs is:

1. My mother is a part-owner of my apartment building and

2. My brother also lives in my building.

3. I no longer have one-night stands. Just kidding. I never had one-night stands. Not because I didn't try but because, seriously, guys are so much needier and more pathetic than they pretend to be. No I don't want to cudddle and then have brunch and see you next week for dinner. GO HOME ALREADY! And did you seriously already request to be my friend on Facebook? You haven't even left the bed for fuck's sake!

ANYHOO. My other brother, Ross, who does not live in or own my apartment building, sent an email out to the family a few months ago outlining a very detailed earthquake plan. If you don't have one, you totally should, but wow, they're super complicated and include things like: designated out of state contacts, primary and secondary meeting places, cards you're supposed to print out and fold up and put in your wallet (oopsie), removing anything hanging above your bed, putting a pair of shoes beneath your bed (broken glass, bitches), flashlights, and, well, you get the point. (Something to think about: It's good to keep about $500 cash in your apartment because if the city loses power, you're not going to be able to get cash and you're going to want some when you start your new life in Nevada which will now have amazing coastal views!)

How did this post start with my first boom box, linger awkwardly over one night stands, and finally land on earthquake safety? Is this what happens when I am left to my own devices and get hopped up on meth? KIDDING: Large black iced tea. I'm SO responsible.

So Ross sends this earthquake plan and designates his apartment in Potrero Hill as our primary meeting spot and the Home Depot in Colma as our secondary spot if, for whatever reason, we can't get to Potrero. His reasoning makes total sense: Potrero will be somewhat easy to get to for everyone and we don't need to cross any (now sinking in the water) bridges to get to Colma. He's so smart. And the Home Depot is OUR meeting spot; get your own. Unless you're bringing wine. Then come! We'll party!

I'm not going to bore you (TOO LATE, DAISY) with the details of Ross' email to the family, but it was very thoughtful and well planned out. All we had to do was nod and say, "Wow, thanks Ross!" and then wonder behind his back if he'd joined a cult.

But guess which member of the family JUST COULD NOT DO THAT? GUESS.

That's right...

My mother responded to the email asking if perhaps we could relocate the meeting spot to somewhere else. Somewhere like... HER home!

I mean. Of course she did.

Later that week, over lunch, I tried to explain to my mother why she should just let it go and leave Ross' apartmen as the meeting spot.

"But my home is just so much NICER. And I have enough beds. And it's really more convienient," she quibbled.

"Well, if that's the argument, then we should all meet at my building. Todd and I both live there and it's the most centrally located," I retorted.

"Oh," she scoffed as though I'd suggested the most inane thing ever. "There's no way your building will survive an earthquake that big."

If only there were someone to do something about that...

When Email Goes Bad (Or: I wish Guilt Trips came with pool boys and mai tais.)

First let me say, I love my mother. OKAY. Now that that's out of the way, let me also say that the woman is bonkers. And by "bonkers," I mean something not nearly as nice, but hey! This is the Internet. One day she will find me here and when she does, I'd like to remain in the will. There's a sapphire ring I've had my eye on since I was six.

That's because my mother has excellent taste. (See what I'm doing here?) Except, she really does. Great eye for detail and an ability to improve a room in two minutes just by moving things around a bit. Did you know that you should always group things in odd numbers? Neither did I. But it's true. Everything looks so much better that way! I mean, you come to this blog and you get to waste your employer's time AND get decorating tips while you're at it. You. Are. Welcome.

Anyway, enough of this giving shit, let's get to the point. Because my mother is so good at making things more attractive ("Daisy. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Do you have any lipstick? Do you want to borrow my brush?"), whenever I have a design question, I like to get her opinion. Which is why earlier today, I sent her this email:

To: Mom

I want to put shelves on the wall where the sink/dishwasher are, but I can't decide what will look better --- one shelf (on each side) or two? I don't like seeing clutter so I'll probably just put art or something there.

Anyway, your opinion is appreciated!

Always willing to help her daughter out, she responded:

To: daisy

I would balance it out with shelves on both sides.  You can still put art on the shelf or books.

My response:

To: Mom

Ha. Yes, obviously I will put shelves on BOTH sides. That wasn't the question. The question is ONE or TWO shelves (on both sides).

Her response:

To: daisy

sorry...I cannot read your mind. I would put 2 shelves so you will have more storage space and you can arrange things so that it looks good.  mom  p.s. I bought a road bike.

No, you can't read my mind, but can you read?

To: Mom

Ok, well not to be rude, but had you just read the email, you'd have seen that's what I asked.

"I want to put shelves on the wall where the sink/dishwasher are, but I can't decide what will look better --- one shelf (on each side) or two?"

Two it is. Thanks for weighing in.

And congrats on the bike! :)

And for the grand finale, her response, which so succinctly explains why I started going to a shrink when I was eight.

To: daisy

You are right I did not read it carefully enough.  I have too many emails.  If we had been talking I would not have made the mistake. I remain your very imperfect mother as always.

Awwwwww...who needs a nap and a cookie? Who does?

Anyway, whatever. Did you see what she said?

That's right: I AM RIGHT!!! FINALLY!!! VICTORY IS MINE!!!!

Also, SHELVES people...We were talking about shelves. *sigh*

Is It Too Late to Write This Wrong? The Story of My Struggle, Frustration, and Desire to Get Paid More Than $10/Hour to Do What I Love.

The following is an email I wrote in response to a job offer from a company that, after receiving my resume and cover letter, asked me to complete a three-hour (timed) edit test. After they received my edit test, I was immediately (within the hour) offered a part-time freelance position: five consecutive hours a day with a starting pay of $10/hour and the opportunity to eventually go full-time.

I have yet to hit "send." But ohmygod, do I want to.

Hi [name redacted],

Thank you for your interest in hiring me to work as a writer/editor at [redacted]. When I received your offer, I would have cried, if I'd only been able to stop laughing.

I'll just assume you didn't bother to read my cover letter or open up my resume because if you had, I can only hope that you would not have wasted my valuable time with a THREE HOUR edit test, all the while knowing there is no way I would (or could) take a job that pays the same amount as the starting salary at In-N-Out Burger.

But honestly, my Masters Degree and my 10 years of copywriting experience don't even matter here. Offering to pay ANY writer, regardless of experience or education, TEN DOLLARS AN HOUR is disrespectful and insulting. It is quite clear that despite your claim that you are "leaders of a new journalism" movement, you don't value one of the most important aspects of journalism: great writing, otherwise there is no way you'd ever consider offering an hourly payment that is a mere EIGHT cents above minimum wage. No self-respecting or talented writer/editor would take a job with that pay, so I hope you're not surprised when you end up with flaky employees who do a horrible job. Frankly, if you want my take on it: your best bet is to outsource to India. You'll get hard workers AND you can probably pay them even less! [Edited to remove this statement as it was hastily written and does not accurately reflect how I truly feel about the situation.]

In the job description, you said you preferred someone with a "strong social media presence (e.g. over 1000 Twitter followers). Lucky for you, I happen to have almost 3000, as well as countless more who read my blog. I can't wait to take this story to them.

Oh, and far as I can tell: you owe me $30 for wasting my time with that three hour edit test. You can mail it to the address on my resume. You know, the one you never read.

Sincerely,

Daisy Barringer

p.s. At least at In-N-Out, they also get free food.

Here’s the thing: I want to be a writer. I want to write books and essays, and maybe screenplays or TV shows.  It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do and the only job that will make me truly happy. However, in order to make a living, I also write stuff that is not any of those things, stuff like ads and marketing copy and instruction manuals. This type of writing is absolutely fine, and I’m good at it, but ultimately, I don’t get any personal satisfaction from it. It’s work that pays (some jobs better than others) and that is all. 

In addition to the (mostly unfulfilling) writing jobs that provide me with a paycheck, I am also lucky enough to occasionally get an offer to write content for a publication that I love and respect or that will look great in my portfolio. When I receive these offers, I feel I have to say yes, even if it means writing for very little money, or, more often than not, for free. I’m not in a position where I can turn down the exposure, and honestly, find myself hoping that eventually, one of these gigs will be the one that lands me a book deal. (Yes, I know that’s not how it works, but please don’t crush my dreams.)

But maybe the fact that I often write for little to no pay is why companies like the one above feel they can get away with offering to pay writer/editors ten dollars an hour. Maybe it’s actually the writers’ fault. We love doing what we do so much that when a publication like Bleacher Report or Huffington Post says they want us to write for them, we are willing to create quality content for “nothing.” (Those sites argue that exposure is “something,” but when you’re dealing with that many writers, are most of them actually getting the recognition they deserve? Highly unlikely.)

I want to believe that our society still values things like good writing, but maybe I’m being naive. Maybe it’s unreasonable to think I deserve to be paid for my blog posts, many of which I spend hours writing. Perhaps I should just accept that it’s almost impossible to make a living writing original material. It’s depressing, yes, but not as depressing as the thought of not being able to write, or just as awful, not ever being read.

Of course, my choice to write my personal blog or to write posts for other websites for free (or a small fee) is just that: my choice. It certainly does not make it okay for a website with over $8 million in venture funding to pay writer/editors $10 for tedious, time-consuming work. If we want to write our own stuff for free, that’s our choice. But to pay minimum wage for a job that won’t give us public credit or creative satisfaction? To pay an hourly rate that is less than the price of a movie theater ticket, but requires thought and creativity, and can oftentimes be so draining, there’s no energy left to focus on our own writing? That is unacceptable and, as I said in the email above, insulting.

I want to be a writer. I want to make a living writing. I want people to read my work. I also want to believe that these things are possible and worth a hell of a lot more than ten bucks an hour.

Spin: The Bottle.

Ever since Tom's departure, I've been struggling to find a spin class I truly love. There's Danny, who upon finding out that I was a Tom-devotee, told me he would neither yell at me or flirt with me. (Um, then what's the point?)

There's Shermineh who thinks of her class as a bar mitvah with a spring break rave theme, sings "Welcome to Ibiza!" into her microphone, and bends over a lot so that every person in the room is sure to see her neon thong, which, of course, perfectly matches her skimpy sports bra.

And then there's Jorge.

I found myself in Jorge's class earlier this week, despite the fact that in previous classes he screamed "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!" for the entire 50 minutes. (Jorge: I'm spinning, not giving birth.)

This class was no different. Lectures about how "It's 80% food and 20% exercise" abounded. "If it's on your body, it's because you ate it!" "Summer is here! Don't you want to look HOT in your shorts and tank tops?" (Jorge: we live in San Francisco. What are these "shorts" things of which you speak?)

And then, my personal favorite:

"Put those sexy asses back and PUSH and PUSH and PUSH and PUSH."

Over. And over. And over again.

I went along with the class. I pushed. I put my sexy ass back. I even marched with my arms when he made us.

But when he yelled for everyone to whip her towel over her head, I just couldn't do it. We're not at a night club. We're not at a baseball game. We're at spin. Sorry Jorge, but even I have to draw the line somewhere.

After the towel-rave, towards the end of class, Jorge gave us another lecture burning fat and not muscle (something to do with when you consume food blah blah blah). Then he screamed into his microphone asking, "What are you going to do after class?!"

A chorus of blond girls in cropped pants and skin-tight tanks verbally orgasmed, "EAT!!!!"

But then there was one voice that rose above the crowd. One voice that seemed like it should have a hard time being heard over music, but suddenly was loud and forceful. One voice that bellowed:

"DRINK!!!!!!"

If records were still a thing, one definitely would have scratched.

I looked around the room to see who'd said it. Clearly there was at least one girl in this room with whom I had a kinship. One girl I'd commiserate with after class in the locker room. One girl who also kept a bottle of vodka under her pillow at night, just in case.

But then I realized everyone was looking at me.

That I was the girl who'd yelled to the room about how she couldn't wait to get drunk. That instead of mass-climaxing to the mere thought of a tuna sushi roll, I'd shot my load, loudly and unapologetically, over an ice-cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Jorge looked at me slowly, his eyes moving up and down over my body, and finally said, "Well, at least you're honest."

And then I remembered.

Three weeks prior, as class was winding down, Jorge had opened up to us about his struggles. With weight. With self-esteem. And, last but not least, with alcoholism.

"Waiter, another bottle, please."

Giving New Meaning to "Having a Bad Hair Day"

Walking to the garage this morning, I bumped into my next door neighbor who, yes, I live directly next to (in an apartment building), but don't see that much. And, yet, because I'm super awkward and feel the need to create chitchat with everyone I encounter instead of just saying "Morning!" or "Yes, I'm over 21," I, of course, decided to strike up a conversation with her.

(Yesterday at Trader Joe's the cashier asked me if I was over 21. Instead of just saying "yes" like a normal person, I announced exactly how old I was, then freaked out and told him that if I'm that old, I probably shouldn't be announcing my age. Then he told me we're only as old as we feel, which is something only a 22 year old would say, and then we both admitted we feel 12, and then I told him that I was going house-boating and everyone was responsible for a meal and I can't cook, so I picked sandwiches. Then I also told him that all 6 bottles of wine were for me and that I wasn't sharing. SERIOUSLY. That is the conversation I had during the two minutes of checkout. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't ask him if he wanted to be Facebook friends. I have a problem.)

Anyway, so my neighbor and I are both walking to the garage and I decide that even though it's morning and we're clearly both late, it's a perfect time to chat.

"Your hair looks great," I say.

She looks at me kind of quizzically. Which I, of course, take as a sign that I should keep talking.

"Were your bangs always like that or is that something you just did?"

Still looking at me oddly.

"I mean, were they always that short? I really like them."

Finally she replies, "I'm bald. I wear a wig."

Me: *finally speechless*

"I just assumed everyone knew!"

And then, because I cannot be stopped, "WOW. GREAT WIG! I love it! Do you wear a lot of different wigs?" Because, you know, I don't live right next door and see her in the hallway and stuff.

"I'm actually trying to get up the courage to just go bald," she tells me.

"OH. YOU TOTALLY SHOULD," I say (and then write on the blog that I said that, effectively ruining the chances that any of you will ever take advice from me again).

"I'm just nervous about how people will react."

At which point, I come up with my most sensitive response ever. "Oh, I doubt anyone will even say anything."

And so on and so on and so on. Until she was literally IN HER CAR TRYING TO PULL OUT OF THE GARAGE and I was still talking. About the fact that she's bald.

But instead of being mortified as I backed out of the driveway, I couldn't help but wonder:

Complimenting my neighbor's hair only to learn she's bald and wears a wig. Better or worse than when I told the guy, "Your cock feels so good" only to learn he'd already pulled out?