Friday, September 25, 2015

enjoyable leisure activities for adults.

this is how we have fun now. so my homie christine owns this gorgeous, sprawling house nestled into lush green lawns right on top of the sugar sand and shimmering waves of a private beach on lake michigan, and one of my very favorite pastimes is to rent the nicest mid-sized sedan my local enterprise has to offer and drive up there to sit inside in the climate-controlled dark and scowl at the sounds made by sunburned dads grilling dry, underseasoned chicken breasts on outdoor gas ranges that cost more than my apartment and leer at shrieking children splashing each other in the pool. "drown him," i whisper to myself, tying my robe closed with a phone charger as i peer through a slit in the blinds, watching two little boys wrestling in the water over an inflatable pig while checking the weather and hoping for a sudden thunderstorm. i scuttle from room to room, occasionally venturing down the stairs for a snack (cardio!), but mostly i just huddle paranoid in a corner of the master bedroom and hope no one calls the police because 1 i put a number 5 plastic container in the public recycling bin (DON'T I JUST GET POINTS FOR DOING IT, GOD) or 2 they've spotted the smoking ford fusion with chewed-up floor mats and rusty new mexico tags i tried to hide between two BMWs in the visitor parking lot and know there is an interloper among them.

HAVE YOU MISSED ME OR WHAT. you know what i've been doing? "working on my book." which really means "sitting in front of my computer staring at half-empty google docs wondering why i'm not roxane fucking gay." damn that bitch is smart. and i don't want to give a fucking ted talk or whatever (wtf would it even be about, cheetos!?) but i sometimes wish when i drag my macbook into the bed to pretend i'm going to write the next great collection of essays (LOL) that some eloquent, socially-relevant words would come pouring effortlessly forth from my fingertips so i can stop being so anxious about whether or not people really want to read this stinkpiece i'm working on about how thirteen years of customer service has slowly murdered the nice parts of my soul. which is why i broke down and braved the world outside in an attempt to participate in some of this elusive "joy" you happy people are always going on about, in the vain hope that it would inspire some genius writing. i read on the internet that group vacations are a fun thing that some people like, so i grudgingly invited a handful of my most amusing friends to south haven for a busy, exciting weekend of riotously fun things like sitting on the beach fully clothed and peeking at wildlife from behind a closed and locked door. everyone is always talking about how you have to connect with people and leave the safety of your crib to explore the world around you to really live your #bestlife. but i hate that. whatever happened to just dying alone in your ice cold apartment while netflix plaintively inquires of your rapidly decaying meat carcass, "are you still watching gossip girl...?"


WHY ARE WE OLD? HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN!? one day your idea of a house party is passing around a bottle of vodka the girl you sit next to in geometry snuck out of her mom's liquor cabinet or cramming butts to nuts into somebody's deafening basement and indiscriminately making out with any face that comes within an inch of your own. fast forward twenty years and you think a rollicking good time is inviting your friends over to watch empire on the couch in your jammies with catered snacks and a couple boxes of night wine and then falling asleep before the first commercial. i can't stay up past nine o'clock or tolerate too much loud-ass music or truss myself up in fashionable, uncomfortable clothes anymore. i wore elastic-waisted tribal print palazzo pants to a wedding last month, guys. it is officially over for me. 

menu planning. the funnest thing you could ever imagine doing in your whole life is trying to plan a weekend full of elaborate meals for seven adults' specific palates +/- allergies without accidentally poisoning a bitch or forgetting that one of these jags is gluten-free. life is fucking terrible for real. the most terrifying thing about leaving your home to stay in someone else's is: what is the snack situation gonna be like. also are they the type of assholes who don't own washcloths or hide their garbage cans in unconventional locations or expect you to compost or actually buy 1-ply toilet paper but who am i kidding WILL THESE MOTHERFUCKERS HAVE DORITOS. i would spend a weekend eating instant oatmeal and old batteries if i had to, but when you invite people to a slumber party you can't expect them to live like a goddamn animal just because you do. the last thing i ever want is for one of my scumbag friends to be tweeting about how i filled the refrigerator with an insufficient number of cheese hotdogs. so 
here are some real life copied-and-pasted out of context excerpts from an excruciatingly grown up gchat prior to embarking on a motherfucking three-day trip. get ready to die.


"friday menu: the goddess chicken plus fish (salmon? please advise), i'm thinking roasted potatoes and also whatever veg looks best at the farmers market tonight? (hoping for okra and brussels sprouts). they haven't had okra much at the market but i am gonna try and then just get it at the grocery store if necessary"
"are we making fingerlings? and the thai salad?"
"def baked feta with tomatoes. but i could get some more rice and we could make the stuffed tomatoes too. also have an edamame spread and should i bring the rosé?"
"also some homemade vin d'orange shit that we mix with fake champagne and is truly
delightful"
"okay. WILL GRAB SOME AT WHOLE FOODS."
"bottle of riesling y/n?"
"that sipping cream is divine"
"i'm not sure about the no bake, do i need a mixer? i think i will!""i also was dreaming about that burrata. but i've never bought burrata in real life (not available here that i can figure) but i could get ciabatta and arugula and i have my strawberry balsamic jam" artisanal jam alert!
"if you grab my tomatoes and butter and onions and spaghetti i will make that for lunch"
"do we need real milk?"
"i'll have cream for coffee and almond milk for cereal/porridge"
"yeah i'm bringing my gruel. will not force anyone else to eat it unless they are so inclined? i usually soak overnight in almond milk but can make it hot in the morning"
"you are going to come real up close and personal with all of my bizarre foods GET READY."

LOLWUT. did you read the part about the porridge. i mean, who could even be hungry after all that. i'm not even going to disclose all of the participants in this snoozefest or how many hours of my life i lost to all this blahblahblah just in case you ever meet any of my friends in real life and recall this conversation then immediately beat them to death while screaming "burrata" over and over at the top of your lungs. why are we such insufferable jerks. ps i fucking ate peanut m+m's and lime lacroix all weekend. LOL FOREVER AT THAT THAI SALAD THO.

catching up on scandal. sacrilege to miss an episode, i knowwww. but don't take my NAACP card just yet. i fell off halfway through last season because i can never stay awake later than 830 on a thursday night, and when is anyone going to admit that this b316 shit is motherfucking confusing and GODDAMN SHONDA CAN WE PLEASE JUST GET BACK TO THE SEX. that huck and quinn thing was kind of gross and i don't care that much about mellie so yeah, i kind of missed most of last season. the only reason i started watching it anyway is because everyone i like on twitter was going nuts every thursday night, plus the wardrobe is a jam and i am a big fan of an expertly tailored coat. and even though birds were chirping and the sun was shining and the frat boys next door were playing bags (i am surprisingly good at bags, get at me) i instead sat in bed watching drunk-ass olivia's quivering lips. i mean, "working on my book."

facetiming other morons who also have no idea how to have fun. my ace keila lives in LA and has probably never seen 1 midwestern earnestness in real life or 2 a waistline bigger than the circumference of a beer can, so as soon as we unloaded the 4,372 bags of pizza combos (the best kind duh) and halloween candy from the car the first thing we did was huddle around the old picture machine and dial her up. which was amazing. because watching people awkwardly hold their phones at a flattering angle and try to effortlessly pose as their eyes dart back and forth between your face and their reflection is goddamned hilarious. for the record, she looked beautiful and perfect and her lip gloss stayed intact the entire time. facetime is the fucking devil, tho. a couple weeks ago i was slouched in bed in the kind of outfit i only let the cat see (and even she was like, "ugh put your areolas away") when the webcam popped up and the most hideous, eight-necked garbagemonster's giant head filled my screen. nothing is more humbling than that surprise facetime showing you what a disgusting beast you are look like while scrolling through the clearance section of old navy's website. OH SHIT THOSE ARE MY GLAZED-OVER EYES AND ACNE-SPOTTED CHINS CONTEMPLATING THAT BILLOWY POPLIN TUNIC!? how can i turn that shit off, pretty please. i don't want to put on a full face of makeup and hose down my apartment every time i watch porn just in case one of you jerks decides you want to say hello in person. although if you do i will make you say hi to helen for, like, three real minutes.

instagramming pointless shit. you would think none of us had ever seen the fucking sky before. i don't know how i always end up stranded somewhere in the middle of nature when i totally hate the outdoors (yes i do: white people), especially when all there really is to do is look at trees and shit through a camera lens because i am loath to interact with it in any way. i can't mess with biting things or stinging things or bloodsucking things or plants covered in hazardous goo; the furthest into the wilderness i was willing to venture was right up to the edge of the porch, where i glowered at chipmunks from behind big black sunglasses. grass? WORST. flowers!? KILL ME. i almost took a picture of a butterfly, but then it sensed me trying to capture it in the most twee setting i could find and flew the fuck away and i immediately abandoned my budding career as an amateur national geographic photographer. i took a lot of pictures inside of food and my toes (jk why do you guys do that just why), but i needed to document some live shit so people would believe that i was really there. a rat or some other furry brown thing i would never touch had drowned in the deep end of the pool and the surface was covered with slimy yellow leaves and FUCK THAT. the frothy, churning lake was on the other side of of the pool and that's pretty great but i don't like swimming next to dead carp and waterlogged baby diapers so fuck that, too. which leaves no outside shit to do other than taking pictures of cloud formations and fighting squirrels. besides, does anything really exist if it hasn't been filtered through your goddamned phone?

taking a serious and mathematical approach to children's board games. the last time i played clue i was maybe ten years old, and i basically just guessed "professor plum in the library with the candlestick?" on every fucking turn because i hate thinking. but fuck that reckless abandon when you're an adult, i guess. these dudes were typing up excel spreadsheets and making complicated notations on the backs of napkins while grimacing at the board and it wasn't even noon yet. i hadn't even had my third mimosa! i am not competitive, like at all, unless it absolutely does not count. my GPA was garbage, i quit the marching band after two years, i spent my early 20s dating the least desirable men in the metro chicagoland area, i totally got this job by accident and continue to keep it despite being a shit because i'm the only black one: i don't care about anything that matters. i was the kid in volleyball who stood next to the star athlete and casually ducked behind him every time the ball soared my way so he could send it flying back over the net so my team wouldn't hate me (I LOVE YOU MARK WELLINGTON) and i never entered any goddamn spelling bees or science fairs but i did get to go to an ice cream social once because i read a lot of books in the second grade. because reading is cozy and takes place indoors and doesn't require any coordination. so obviously i am the last person you want on a team of any kind, because i will quit and go watch tv the minute it gets difficult or looks like i'm about to lose. these assholes were playing clue like it was an episode of fucking CSI, like there was an actual dead body in one of the five walk-in closets upstairs. (see also: WHY ARE WE POOR.) bitches are pulling out DNA swabs and fingerprinting kits and i'm sitting there like a dummy with my untouched suspect sheet because i was busy daydreaming instead of keeping track of who was in the game room and whether or not anyone had seen the rope. i couldn't even remember who i was half the time. i've never been so stressed out in my life. i did win apples to apples, though. at least that's something?

doing things and going places is overrated. i fucking hate trying to have fun. who wants to start a book club with me that focuses solely on sappy YA novels and never meets in real life? any takers!? i'll bring the fucking riesling.