Bad Idea #12: June 29, 2010

Drinking straws are a really bad idea. Why? How could a straw possibly be considered unwise? They come in all sorts of fun colors, are available in the bendy or twisty variety, save hand dishwashers and bus boys a lot of trouble by taking the lipstick hit from women in restaurants… but straws are not all harmless fun. No, like cocaine, they possess a few minor drawbacks that could cause some, such as myself, to think that they may in fact be a pretty bad idea at times.

1) It first hit me when I was four. I was playing out in the backyard with my cousin. She filled a McDonald’s cup with mud and topped it off with a lid and straw. “Here, it’s a chocolate shake!” she squealed. I took it and drank. Straws cause you to just drink, and not question what is being suctioned into your mouth immediately. I downed about a half cup of MUD, that probably contained maggots, caterpillars, snakes, wilderness poop, parasites, and god only know what else. My cousin kind of stood and watched, half shocked. I guess she had assumed that I would know she was kidding. I did not SEE her make the hepatitis tainted mud shake. And I was four. Jeez. If I had not been drinking through a straw, I would have maybe thought twice. Maybe.

2) With that said, it doesn’t really matter what is in a cup (within reason), it’s going to go a lot faster with a straw stuck in it. If I get a GIANT tub of coke zero from Sonic, reason says that it should last me the entire day. It is, after all, a GIANT. TUB. You could potentially fill a watering trough for about ten horses with one of those large Sonic cups. However, the coke zero is gone in hours, and what is worse, it leaves you having to use the restroom every five minutes for the rest of the day, and should you happen to be out with friends, you have to do the embarrassing explanation thing (“sorry, I went to Sonic today… no I know this is the fifth time I’ve had to go in the last hour… look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I can do about it now…”).

3) This problem is also highly present when consuming beverages of the alcoholic persuasion. Someone kindly mixes you a beverage, puts a straw in it, and you think, “Oh shit.” You promise yourself you will go slowly. I am a lady, after all. I will take a casual, dainty sip from time to time and not give it another thought. But then, oh but then, someone launches into a story. A long-winded, involved story that you are obligated to listen to due to uncontrollable situational factors. In attempts to diffuse the awkwardness, the straw goes to your lips. BUT IT DOES NOT LEAVE. Before you know it, you are quickly, quickly shitfaced, which is a state that I personally never purposefully try to reach. Nothing good can come of this.

Say no to drinking straws. And cocaine.

(PS I was the D.A.R.E. honor graduate in 5^th grade, so I definitely know what I am talking about in that respect. I’ve seen it all.)

Julia

Bad Idea #11: June 28, 2010

I love the summer, and I love being at home with my family. They are great. I really can't stand how adorable and kind my mother is, my father is one of the funniest people I know, and my brother is in many ways, my best friend.

With that said, when you have such fond things to say about your family, it is a bad idea to go home for too long of an extended stay; you might question all of that after living with them again for longer than a week.

1) When you are home, you are a child again. That's fine, I completely accept this and am at peace with the NOTION that I am a child, as I am still completely financially dependent. The PRACTICE of treating me like a child is something I have a few issues with. My parents have these great little alarms installed on every door and window of their house to prevent "intruders." Now, I'm sure that that is legitimate on some level, because my dad feels like everyone that drives down the street is casing the joint. He has a lock-down checklist that he must complete each night, which is, in itself, not only exceedingly obsessive compulsive, but annoying as hell. But no, these little alarms sound three little beeps throughout the house every time a door or window is opened. These were installed before I got into high school. We now know the most obvious challenge posed when trying to sneak out. Now, now that I am a senior in college and about to take on the real world by myself, my parents STILL think that it is acceptable to make me explain where I am going, who I will be with, when I will be back, etc. whenever I leave. Even if I step outside to BREATH SOME OUTSIDE AIR. The front door opens, the beeps do their duty, and dear mother comes running from wherever she is, trying to act as if she did not run, asking casually, "Oh, where you headed?"

"Mother, I am going to make a pick up, as I have recently developed a rather serious addiction to crack, sometimes heroine. It depends on my mood."

Where does she think I'm going that I really need to explain myself? Come on. I did not make it this far by making idiotic choices. Well, for the most part.

"Who are you going with?"

Is this a serious question? Because I refuse to rattle off a list of names of people that my mother does not know, re-explain as she mixes up the few that she does, and clarify who everyone that she doesn't know is, how I know them, and why I want to hang out with them. It would do no good, as she remembers almost nothing, and it is a complete waste of time.

"Hookers, terrorists, and some fellow junkies. You know, the crowd."

"When will you be home?"

Never. I am going back to my apartment and staying there until I forget that you do this when I am home. I will wait it out until I miss you again.

"Never."

"Okay, well call me when you get there."

Sure thing, mother.

UGH.

2) It is the summer. I am currently taking two online classes, an acting class in town, revisiting the lost art of recreational reading, and writing everything I've ever wanted to write but had no time for. In a few weeks, I will go back to working at summer camp, and also start training for a restaurant job. It ANGERS ME when I am asked why I am not busy doing something. I JUST FINISHED A SEMESTER OF 24 HOURS OF COURSEWORK WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY BEING IN A SHOW THAT REHEARSED 4 HOURS A NIGHT ON THE REGULAR. I AM STILL BACKED UP ON ABOUT A YEAR'S WORTH OF SLEEP. IT IS THE SUMMER. GET. OFF. MY. CASE.

3) You hear the same things over and over again. For example, my mother rarely cooks dinner. This is expected. Her children are both off at school during the year, and her husband's job keeps him away the majority of the time. She eats lean cuisines, I get it. That is absolutely fine. I, too, am happy eating lean cuisines. However, she acts like when we are home, she is expected to cook, though she still never does. Instead, she just remarks what a bad mother she is for not ever making dinner. She works in a school. She has the summer off, and could easily make dinner if she really felt compelled. Please stop acting like a huge failure every single night. You are finally a woman who is semi-liberated from the oppressing bonds of domesticity. If I were you, I would be out running the hidden pine trails of the forrest, having talks with Grandmother Willow, and swimming, basking in the sun, contemplating my freedom.

4) My brother sleeps on the living room couch. That would be cool, I guess, if he didn't have two different bedrooms to choose from upstairs. It's annoying.

5) You cannot play piano later than about 11pm. A serious issue.

6) My father is obsessed with my car. We are a four person family with five cars. I know. Wasteful as sin. In my defense, I won't need ANY car when I have learned to fly. Anyway, none of these vehicles are all that amazing. I drive an Impala. But he acts like it is a rare show car that constantly needs to be prepped for viewing on the showroom floor. He's ALWAYS out checking the oil, washing it, taking it out for a drive to make sure it works, taking it to the shop to get it checked, and on and on and on. I O-PPRICIATE this. I am not complaining. I am SO thankful to have a car that I didn't have to pay for all by myself. However, a lot of these things he does are not necessary. I check my oil. I wash it when it gets bad. I am good to that car. But he acts as though I throw it around and am out drag racing in it. Maybe I should? Maybe that would teach him a lesson. My favorite conversation in high school went like this:

"Julia, I am very disappointed, this was very irresponsible of you."

"YOU WANT TO SEE IRRESPONSIBLE? I CAN SHOW YOU IRRESPONSIBLE."

Maybe I should just live by that long forgotten principle of the past.

7) Forget about privacy when you are home with your parents. They don't understand the word- it's a foreign language to them. Anything and everything is subject to being riffled through. They will often act like they stumbled upon your hidden items by accident, and then have a serious talk with you about where your life is headed. My favorites are, "I was wiping the counter and your purse fell over and this [insert unauthorized substance here] just slipped right out of your purse." No. No, my purse was ACTUALLY zipped tight. Don't pull that with me. I learned from when I was in the dark ages in high school, and diet pills, ipecac, and laxatives frequently just 'fell' out of my purse. Another good one is commonly used on my brother. We do our laundry and clean all of our own stuff. There is absolutely no feasible excuse for either of my parents to be in our rooms. However, sometimes someone will be overtly kind, fold some laundry, and WHOOPS, accidentally discover some controlled substance (of the harmless nature) in his closet, or my favorite, a REALLY BRILLIANT hiding place that would've taken hours to figure out. W.T.F.

8) My parents have to say goodnight. They will do it multiple times. They will do this before they go to bed, when you are clearly awake. They might come down to do it again in the time between when they go to bed and when you go to bed. And they will come to your door when they have sensed that you are now in your room to say it one last time. If you have PASSED OUT on your bed from exhaustion, they will wake you up to say goodnight.

GOOD. EFFING. NIGHT.

Holy crap.

I need to stop. Because I really do enjoy taking breaks and coming home. Whoooooosh, all of the annoyed energy just went flying. I have been restored to factory settings. I love my family very, very much.

Peace, harmony, and anger management.

Julia

Bad Idea #10: June 27, 2010

When I was in high school, I was completely annoyed with people who carried cameras around and took pictures all of the time. Not the aspiring photographers with good cameras they had gotten for Christmas. I'm talking about the scrapbook obsessed girls that carried around their digitals. Whenever something funny happened, they'd ask you to stop and pose, or recreate it. FUNNY can't be recreated within a span of five seconds. It was all so forced and put on, like they wanted these pictures to prove they had friends and a life. I hated that.

When I was in high school, I also took for granted the fact that other people were capturing my memories for me. I was really involved, so there were always cameras going off at one practice or rehearsal or performance or another, by the yearbook committee, professionals, friends, or, in extreme cases, by my parents (which in my defense, only really happened my senior year, with homecoming court and prom and all of that stuff that parents are really not allowed to be kept out of). I got through those four years with a nice, albeit limited array of memories. I had managed to collect only pictures of the really fun times, with only the really fun people. And I was satisfied.

Now that we are all really busy, and out on our own, I applaud the people who have cameras on hand. When you get to college, and realize that you are not all that special compared to the zillion other kids that have done everything you ever did AND managed to be a National Merit Scholar or save whales or something, you LIKE having pictures to validate that something you are doing is worthwhile. Albums from the other night go up on facebook, and you can't help but skim through them and giggle at all of the images of your friends singing drunk karaoke and throwing all caution to the wind. It's fairly glorious.

But then, in the middle of the stack, you see it. Published on the internet for all the world to behold. THE most UNFLATTERING picture of yourself that you have ever witnessed with your own two eyes. Not just goofy looking. Your face is contorted, your head is pulled back, causing a double chin effect, that, had you just held your head NORMALLY, could've easily been avoided. Your hair is frizzy and wild and catching every little speck of light in the room to show its untamed self off. Your face shines with sweat, and you SWEAR that your arms did not look that gigantic when you picked out that top in your excited preparation for the night. Every angle is a poor one. Every thought is a bad one. There is no way that your ego will not take a nasty blow after viewing this photograph.

But it's a bad idea to stare at pictures of yourself for too long.

1) First of all, no matter which way you spin it, it's super narcissistic to sit and focus on every detail of a picture of yourself. Whether you are admiring it, happy with how it came out, or crying because you would like to burn it and transfer universities, you are spending a whole lot of time on YOU when you do this. I usually catch myself, and feel appropriately douchey.

2) Keep looking, but that picture won't really tell you anything. I mean sure, it'll tell you that you should probably invest in some better foundation, or look into finding some really good concealer. But a picture won't tell you anything you don't already know about yourself. Your arms did not suddenly look that fat overnight. Just burn the top and blame yourself for exercising bad angles. (And just in case, you will most certainly be executing some extra sets when you work out.) Especially if the picture is terrible; JUST CHALK IT UP TO BEING A TERRIBLE PHOTO. I cannot tell you how pictures have made me agonize over the way I look, as if being a girl in America that seeks work in the performance industry does not do this enough. I cannot tell you how much energy that wastes, because I am bad with numbers. But trust me when I say that this is just a bad idea, and not worth it. You know your flaws, and you are constantly trying to fix them. You don't need to see them spelled out for you over and over. Just get crackin' with the self-improvement, right?

3) The camera supposedly adds ten pounds. I feel like that only applies to some people, and that many lucky souls are exempt from that notion, AND that the rule applies on a picture by picture basis. I am rarely one of the exempted. Do I care? Only a little. Which I think is progress, compared to the YES I ABSOLUTELY CARE that I might've given in the past.

4) In all of the time you are obsessing about how shitty you look, you are neglecting the fact that:

a) THESE ARE JUST FUN PICTURES THAT YOUR FRIENDS TOOK, AND NO ONE ELSE REALLY CARES WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. YOU HAVE GOT TO CALM DOWN.

b) You are neglecting the fact that some of your friends look just as wretched as you. Take solace in security in numbers. Also, acknowledge who looks amazing. Don't miss out on bearing witness to beauty because you can't stop focusing on how you wish you had plucked your eyebrows beforehand.

c) There are some great memories involved in these photos. You did not notice that this was the night X and Y finally got together after years of flirting and courtship. But here they are, making out behind you, as you stupidly trying to play rock band and look cool (a very tricky balance for those of us that are incapable of playing video games well).

d) It really just doesn't matter. Pictures don't capture motion and real life- they get one great, or one embarrassing still, and then they quit. Stop obsessing. It's getting old.

So DON'T stop and stare at things you can't do anything about. The moments have passed. Enjoy the memories. Laugh and fondly remember when, or brood over how badly that night may have turned. That's what the pictures are for.

Photogenically and UNPHOTOGENICALLY,

Julia

Bad Idea #9: June 26, 2010

Accutane, to the general public. Isotretinoin, to the medical community. Claravis, to the cheap, generic pharmaceutical companies that can prescribe me POISON, but can’t seem to mail any cheap, generic, life-saving AIDS drugs to Ethiopia.

In any form, under any name, taking powerful medication that was once used as chemo treatments for cancer patients? BAD IDEA. You will understand this by the time I am done discussing the PRELIMINARY warnings, and will think that I am an idiot by the time I delve into my own personal experience with accutane. But, like the olive, I feel that accutane is indeed a serious health threat to the community, and should be sent into outer space via giant cargo aircraft and blown up. I feel like the fire from that explosion would be black and terrifying. But then again, that might be a bad idea, because it would cause universal radiation poisoning, and the solar system as we know it would disintegrate. Early conclusion: accutane basically = antimatter/matter collision. Thank you for allowing me to draw that comparison, Dan Brown.

1) I see a dermatologist because skin cancer frightens me. I am afraid of very little, but when I am out in the sun, practicing unprotected sun sex, I can FEEL every cell in my body turning to cancer. This is when I call the dermatologist to make sure that I will live. At the end of my senior year of high school, after assuring me that I would in fact make it through to see another day melanoma-free, the doctor brought up my face. Like many teenagers, it had a zit or two on it. It wasn’t bad. I never really experienced any self-loathing due to acne, like so many others did. I had it super easy. But doctor thought that the one or two zits should be blasted off my face from within. And then she said the word: accutane. Go home and think it over, she says. Imagine never having to worry about your skin ever again for the rest of your carefree life. I was young and foolish back then, as opposed to the aged, wizened, mature woman that I am today, almost three years later. THAT SOUNDS SWEET, I thought. Take a pill once a day for six months and have a Covergirl complexion? Sign. Me. Up.

2) Doctor handed me the literature. Not a pamphlet. Not a few informational sheets of paper. I would’ve benefit from a backpack, had I had one at that moment. She gave me a DICTIONARY of material that I had to legitimately read every word of before giving her a yes or a no. So I got home, opened the 430,954 lb stack of papers and read what I would be risking by becoming an accutane consumer. Here are some of the things I discovered:

a. Accutane is a substance that is controlled and regulated by the government. We will not tell you why, but know that there are many rules to taking accutane, especially if you are a girl and capable of producing a child.

b. You have to be on the pill, and use some other form of contraception, because the government forbids you to get pregnant while taking the drug.

c. To take accutane, you must have your blood drawn frequently, see your doctor, and take a quiz provided by the government before you pick up your prescription each and every month.

d. Accutane may dry out your skin.

e. Accutane may cause migraine headaches.

f. Accutane may cause severe depression and/or thoughts of suicide.

g. Accutane will make all of your problems go away.

Now, the 18 year-old Julia Gytri was no fool. She sat and thought about all of these points thoroughly.

a. Accutane is a substance that is controlled and regulated by the government. Good job, America. Finally you are doing something right. I o-ppriciate you looking out for my health and well being, and would gladly have you take control of everything else if you will do it with care, and include an equal distribution of wealth clause (you see, I may or may not have been a communist at some point in my life).

b. Don’t get pregnant. DUH, Accutane packet. I am eighteen years old. And though yes, I may be on the pill, I do not sleep around. We are covered. Moving on.

c. Blood drawn frequently, see your doctor, and take a quiz every month. I love getting blood drawn. My doctor is nice. I get lucky on quizzes and tests. Check.

d. Accutane may dry out your skin. The winter dries out my skin. I own lotion. I can totally handle it.

e. Accutane may cause migraine headaches. My brain NEVER aches. I don’t even know what a normal headache feels like. Not even brain-freeze. Surly this does not apply to me.

f. Accutane may cause severe depression or thoughts of suicide. You see, I joke about depression and suicide on the regular, because my sense of humor is in very poor taste regarding at least ½ of its subject matter. That, and I am just a dramatic person, so whining that “I want to die” after being assigned a really long calculus project or something was/is still not out of the ordinary. Besides, I am young and indestructible. Even in my newer, more mature state, I still think this on many levels. I feel like it won’t wear off until I am at least 35. But who knows.

g. Accutane will make all of your problems go away. WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR? DID I STUTTER? Sign me up!

3) By now you are aware that I was FANTASTIC at making well informed, fully thought out decisions. But oh, how I wish I had known then what I know now. I started taking the stuff my first year of college. My skin still wasn’t even bad, but accutane TOLD ME it would MAKE ALL OF MY PROBLEMS EVAPORATE, for crying out loud. That’s an offer no one would refuse. When I began suffering from some side-effects, I THEN got online and did a little research of my own. Great timing. Here’s what I discovered:

a. Accutane is a controlled substance because it was, as I have said above, first developed to use as a chemotherapy treatment for BRAIN CANCER. It basically beats down everything inside of you. It is also a TERATOGEN, which means that it causes SEVERE birth defects should you conceive a child. If you become pregnant on accutane, the government will force you to abort the fetus because if you don’t, you will be left with a child that looks like a cone head, with no earlobes, possible missing facial parts and deformities, and mental retardation. This is not a laughing matter. Nowhere close. Between 1982 and 2003, 160 children were born like this to women who had been taking accutane (wikipedia, aka the most credible source on the world-wide-web). I can’t even imagine. That is one of the most unfortunate things I can think of, for those children, not even the women. *Note that I have not been able to find anything about the lives these deformed children led. I am assuming that their life expectancy is significantly less than average.

b. You have to get your blood drawn frequently to make sure that it has not mutated. Accutane annihilates your white blood cells, which fight on behalf of your immune system and keep you healthy. Accutane releases a firing squad on them from its central headquarters, begging you to contract syphilis (even THOUGH, if you are active, you are using a condom, and spermicidal EVERYTHING else in the entire world as you have been told. You are thinking of investing in a plastic bubble to stay inside of. No catching diseases, no getting pregnant, no breathing the wrong way). Your doctor has to see you every month to make sure that you have not a) killed yourself, b) been punched to death by a radioactive fetus within you, c) give you more of this blessed medicine. Once you see her, you can take the quiz, which just makes sure that you know you are not supposed to share it, because it is not ibuprofen. It could KILL other people.

c. Accutane does not “dry out your skin.” Accutane sucks the very life force from every single solitary cell in your body. YOUR INTERNAL ORGANS FEEL DRY AND THIRST FOR HYDRATION. It does not matter how much water you drink. I to this day drink a hundred gallons of water each day because I am in the habit of trying to save my shriveling organs from accutane. No, accutane causes your skin to dry out and then tear when it touches anything. Anything at all. I still have scars from cuts that I got while petting bunny rabbits. It’s completely ridiculous. Your lips also turn into a brillow pad, or steel wool, rather, and there is no amount of Chap Stick, medicated lip balm, or industrial strength Vaseline that will save you. You are becoming a monster.

d. As I said before, I’d never had a headache in my life. Ever. So when I was still taking it at the start of my second year of college, and I blacked out while still standing up in the middle of an audition clinic, I was slightly taken aback. What is this feeling, so sudden, and NEW? Why, that’s a migraine, Julia. Off to the eye doctor to make sure the migraine didn’t sever the connection between your eyeballs and brain. And ouch by the way. That shit hurts. Like, you don’t even have to cry over it, because the pain bears down on you face and opens up the tear ducts just for funsies, so its all already a streamin’. I was never suicidal, but I noticed an extreme change on my outlook on life when I was on the stuff. I got upset a lot more easily, took everything really personally, hated a lot more people, and was just generally not all that fun. This was actually really noticeable to me especially. This is when I thought maybe there was a problem.

e. Accutane does not make your problems go away, it in fact makes your life suck for a long while. AND THEN I began to see tv commercials that wanted to know:

i. “Have you taken accutane?” Why yes. Yes I have.

ii. “Have you suffered from the numerous side effects?” Uh, unfortunately, yes.

iii. “Other people who have been taking it have developed all sorts of problems that are causing them to have impaired life or die. We can help you get money if that’s the case.” WHAT?

f. And that was the last time I took it. I stopped after five months in a six-month cycle (my skin had already started looking good by the end of the first). I have yet to call the dermatologist or go in and see her since then, even though she says it’s imperative that she has a follow up with me. Next she will tell me there is a pill she can give me to get rid of cellulite forever, and I need only turn completely purple and grow an extra arm out of my right thigh. No, I say. No thank you.

But that was all exposition to the REAL reason why it is a bad idea to take accutane.

:D

No, the number one reason that it is stupid to rid your face of zits and blemishes forever? Should you EVER develop a small little zit from then on? YOU WILL NOT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE IT AND IT WILL DRIVE YOU INSANE. YOU WILL LIE AWAKE AT NIGHT WONDERING HOW YOU WERE HOODWINKED INTO ALL OF THAT HELL, and you JUST GOT A ZIT, even if no one can see it, even if it is barely noticeable, it is THERE, and ACCUTANE, the GOVERNMENT, and your DERMATOLOGIST PROMISED YOU THAT IT WOULD NOT EVER, EVER BE THERE AGAIN. The anger surges through every muscle in your body, and try as you might to just MOVE ON with your life, you waste many minutes each day allowing this anger to continue to flow until the zit subsides, and you are free and clear once more.

A little dramatic?

Yes.

Please, excuse me while I get a grip.

Julia

Bad Idea #8: June 25, 2010

It’s a bad idea to get up in the morning and leave your apartment in work out clothes, with no make up and nasty hair, and continuously reassert to yourself that you don’t care how you look.

1) In truth, you may not. I myself do this quite often. I genuinely don't give it a thought. Or if I do, I get up and look in a mirror and think, “Okay, it’s not red carpet, but I don’t need to throw a paper bag over my head or anything.” But the sad fact is that the mirrors you look into every day, the ones in your bedroom, that big one over the sink in your bathroom that you should probably take some Windex to as it's been a long time? They are LIARS. They lie to you constantly, because they know that if they don’t reflect a decent image for you, you will sit there and analyze your every flaw, in an angry, confused, weepy, “why me?” manner. Mirrors, like men, don’t want to sit and listen to you analyze your every flaw. They are MIRRORS. They see it. So instead, like men a lot of the time, they will just tell you that you look good. They will ask the light in the room to hit your face just right so that your bone structure looks GREAT without any doing up for about the half a second you are looking at yourself. They will pretend that your hair is not as frizzy and downright scary as it truthfully is. They would rather lie to you and send you out into the world looking a MESS than sit and listen to you figure out what to wear to perfectly cover your really bad sports bra tan lines. I can’t blame them. But I can still resent them.

2) Not aware of just how awful you look, you go forth to conquer the day. Now, taking into account the fact that you look this way, and spent all of ten seconds on your appearance, you either a) woke up late, b) stayed up too late, c) are stressed out beyond reasonable understanding, d) very secure in your relationship with your significant other, e) trying to repel other people, or f) any combination of the above. In my case, it’s usually just a stress/no sleep combo. When you are stressed out and running on no sleep, you are DELIRIOUS and care about very little. UNTIL YOU GET OUT INTO THE SUNLIGHT. Because on this fateful day, this day where you have so boldly said “fuck the world,” you will suddenly have the wind knocked out of you when daylight strikes your face. When you pass the really, super cute, well made-up sororislut in the grocery store, or somehow end up in line in front of the HOTTEST, MOST BEAUTIFUL guy you’ve ever seen up close with your own two eyes, with him watching your every move. And at that moment, you develop telepathy, and he is NOT thinking that he should gather up the nerve to ask you out, as he would in any ideal situation. No, you HEAR his thoughts, you feel them radiating strait out of his gorgeous, well-styled head, thinking “Ugh. That’s unfortunate. I am uncomfortable, and hope this moment passes quickly.” If he’s nice, that is. If he’s a hot guy with a NICE aura. If he is a hot TOOL with a DOUCHEY aura, his thoughts will be about a thousand times more harsh and momentarily life ruining.

3) Should you decide to go to a nicer store that you frequent when you look normal, like Neiman’s or Nordstrom or Saks, those prissy sales people (you know, the ones that will spend the rest of their lives in retail and are already bitter about it) will not give you the time of day. They will not just pretend to have overlooked offering you the help that you find COMPLETELY unnecessary and annoying when you look normal, they will actively snub you and pretend that they are better. I AM SORRY THAT I AM NOT WEARING MASCRA, SAKS FIFTH AVENUE. (Wouldn’t logic be to try and sell me some? Just a thought. Back to all caps.) FORGET THE FACT THAT THE BAG I AM CARRYING WITH MY ATROCIOUS ENSEMBLE IS PROBABLY WORTH 4 OR 5 OF YOUR PAYCHECKS. No, I am obviously just dirty white trash that wandered in from K-Mart with an Hermés knock-off, and cannot afford anything in Saks and therefore, do not deserve to be helped or treated like a human being. Ugh. This is the most annoying thing in the entire world. Snobbery and ill treatment from sales associates should be punishable by mild to moderate torture. I’d say it’s probably one of my top ten things that just really makes me want to tear someone’s well colored hair out.

So, to avoid the side-effects of this really bad idea, I suggest always looking at least somewhat prepared to

-buy something of high value

-(figuratively) judo chop a tri-delt

-meet the perfect guy at the supermarket

-be confident in any light

Take this day to center your auras and rejuvenate your confidence.

My car and room smell like vanilla now. I like it.

Julia

Bad Idea #7: June 24, 2010

I had bronchitis last week. I got home from my cousin's wedding and felt like I wanted to die. Soar throat, body aches, and what I like to call the "sponge lung," where you inhale and filthy air creeps into every last crevice of your lung tissue, causing you to hack and cough until you've cleared a 50 foot radius around you. The Bronc is indeed a delightful ailment, chasing off all human life around you. Who could blame them? I would dart, too. I have actually had it four times since January. This is either the universe telling me to stop singing and urging me not to quit my day job, or I am just the most unlucky lady in the entire world. (I prefer to think it is the latter.) I went to the doctor, hoping it was my tonsils, almost begging on hands and knees for him to say, "Yeah. We're going to have to yank those suckers out. Then you'll never be sick again in your entire life. Don't forget about the $20 co-pay you owe for me solving all of your problems." Instead of pulling the pock marked infection-prone tonsils from my throat, he gave me an antibiotic that made my mouth taste like metal.

"Is the coughing keeping you awake?" he asked.

"Uh, well, not real-" I rethought this mid-sentence as it was coming out of my mouth. I have trouble sleeping without the Bronc, so even if it was keeping me up, I wouldn't really notice any difference. HOWEVER, I DO have a fascination with prescribed drugs and their effect on me. Purly for scientific reasons, of course. And I could really use some help falling asleep. So I did the unethical. And in the least suave manner possible.

"Uh, Yessss. Yeah, it kind of is."

Doctor is not stupid. He did not spend the better years of his life in medical school not to be able to know when someone is lying to him. However, doctor is also cool. He smiles, takes out his little Rx pad, and cheerfully writes a prescription that will help me rest. A little medicated cough medicine to speed up the recovery process. He hands it to me, chuckling, as if to say, "You crazy kids and your purple drank. God bless'em."

(Not that I have ever experienced purple drank. My life is not a rap song. My life is actually the polar opposite of a rap song in many respects.)

Anyway, I pick up these prescriptions, retreat to my parent's house for a little rest and relaxation, and come about 10:30pm, I decide that sleep is a good idea. The very word has a glowing halo around it in my mind, and supposedly now, it is within reach. I get up from my place on the living room couch, and leave my family for a moment to partake in some cough medicine. Two teaspoons, it says. Does the pharmacist know how small teaspoons are? Surly he must. He went to pill counting school. I conclude that he actually meant tablespoons. I know better most of the time.

(Pause for everyone, myself included, to roll eyes.)

I pour the liquid into a tablespoon and brace myself. It's thicker, much more viscous than I had thought. Not appealing, even though it is grape flavored, which is my long time favorite. I down it as fast as possible, not giving myself time to taste it before I chase it with half a bottle of water. The taste it has left in my already heavy metaled mouth is almost unbearable, and the vapors seep into my nasal cavities and punch my tear ducts. Awesome. But there is still another tablespoon to go! So I pour and repeat, making that lovely expression that we all make after cough medicine permeates the cells of our face.

It is a bad idea to purposely take too much of anything. Especially around your family. Even if you didn't think it would be a big deal, even if you didn't mean anything by it.

I. was. DRUNKSIES. well, not drunk, but you know what I mean. Within a matter of minutes. And I had to go forth and function around my family like this. Being unable to walk strait from the length of your parent's kitchen to your parent's living room is a problem. I think this is kind of self explanatory. My brother, an expert on all things of substance, noticed, and immediately asked what I had done to myself. No, I did not sneak into the liquor cabinet and take swig after liberal swig of Schnapps. This is not high school, and I am not going to a homecoming dance tonight. Cough medicine. Plain and simple, easily explainable and fairly innocent.

Unfortunately, the cough medicine did not help me sleep. It actually only caused the little sleep that I get to be riddled with shitty dreams and writhing in pain from an intense headache. I woke in the morning to find my brother in a horrible mood. What could be the cause of this? He is an all-round nice, laid back person, and almost never replies "Fuck you," when you greet him with an unconvincing "Good morning." I found that the majority of my cough medicine was now gone, and had a hunch that I may have found an explanation.

Runs in the family.

Lesson learned.

Julia

Bad Idea #6: June 23, 2010

I have been sleeping really poorly lately. All I am granted by the sleep gods is a few measly hours a night, tainted by undesirable dreams. Not nightmares, not visions of myself running for my life from velociraptors that will eat me alive limb by limb, but WORSE, if possible. I’ve been having dreams that leave me a complete emotional wreck for the entire day when I wake up. Dreams of betrayal by the people I trust the most, loss of the people I care about, rejection or fighting or hostility from those that in my conscious, wakened state, don’t even play a recognizable part in my life, really. I sat down to think about what could be causing this hopefully temporary dream series, what on earth could be keeping me from waking up feeling good. There are variables that fall into the category of external stimuli that could be affecting my sleep. Medicines, staying up too late, academic stress, social stress, stress that I place upon MYSELF… it’s all there, neatly in a single file line, waiting to be blamed. But all of that stuff is pretty much constantly in everyone’s life, am I correct in saying that? I think I am. WHAT could be causing these shitty dreams? Am I mad at someone? So mad that it is slowly gnawing away at my brain until there is nothing left? I don’t think so. Am I heartbroken? No, not remotely. Am I questioning my spirit path? Well, yeah, constantly. Isn’t everyone?

Ugh.

Let’s just go with this: It’s a bad idea to have dreams. Not “have dreams” in the sense that it is a bad idea to have things you want to achieve. No. You MUST have those kinds of dreams. But let us refer to them as “goals” or “aspirations,” allowing for them to come true one day. Literal dreams, the sleeping kind, don’t really come true. Unless you dreamed that you were maybe buying new ink for your printer. That’s a dream that will most certainly come true. You may have psychic powers, or you may just use a lot of ink printing out bootleg sheet music and think about this lack of ink before your eyes close to sleep. But, nonetheless, it is these dreams that I speak of today.

Now, most of us have no control over this, but let’s go ahead and just let your brain know this fact, whichever part of it may be responsible (and from my intensely dedicated “study” in the extremely difficult and multifaceted field of PSYCH 301, I feel like the parietal lobe, possibly in cahoots with the limbic system, is the culprit, since all of that junk orchestrates our instincts, drives, sexual behavior, yatta yatta yatta. That’s what I got out of a glance at the textbook, anyway. Though I wouldn’t take my word for it, if I were you).

1) Dreams, even the good ones, are not real. Things that are not real are deceiving. Have you ever dreamt that you had a conversation with someone, and then refrained from having it when you were awake because you thought you already did it? I’m not talking about like, telling your boyfriend/girlfriend you cheated on them, or coming out to your parents, or arguing with a professor over a grade that could keep you from graduating (all hypothetical, of course, based on actual talks I have overheard or been consulted on in the past few weeks). I’m thinking of small, passing conversations more along the lines of, “Hey, I need the sweater you borrowed from me last weekend back, I have to wear it tonight.” This happens in real life. And then, when you go to the sweater borrower, she is totally oblivious, and for a split second, you get mad, because HOW could she have forgotten this? You TOLD her that you need that damn sweater for this important evening. What a self-absorbed, out of the loop, no good… and then you realize. Shame on you brain, with your misleading sleep visions. Friend is not bad friend. Brain has been bad a brain. I take back those bad thoughts I just had in the span of a quarter of a minute.

2) Maybe I am just unlucky when it come to this, but I can probably count the number of good dreams I have had in twenty years of life on one hand. On the rare occasion that I have one, I wake wishing to go back to sleep, to say “No day, I will not face you. My brain is fooling me into thinking something really, just too good to be true is happening, and I think I'll keep rolling with that. But thanks for the offer.” This may seem nice at the time, but is not conducive to a productive lifestyle. However, like I said, this happens once in a blue moon. The breakdown of dream tones that MY brain allows ME probably looks something like this, just off the top of my head:

a. Good- 4.24%

b. Neutral- 7.21%

c. Odd- 37.54%

d. Bad- 48.03%

e. Night Terror- 2.98%

So you see, dreaming isn’t really all that worth it, as my personal odds for feeling anywhere close to positive after the process are next to nothing.

3) Especially of late, it is my experience that dreaming leaves you totally emotionally unprepared for the day upon waking. The past few days, I have felt so bad when I woke up that I did not feel normal until the late afternoon or evening. Can’t remember what these mentally taxing, psyche shredding dreams were about. But I do know that they have thrown me into such an existential funk that I could probably rival Kafka right now, on a level of significantly less genius, of course. But I could totally take him in who could ask “WHAT IS THE POINT OF IT ALL?” the loudest. My voice CARRIES. I was once a cheerleader in my dark and lurid past. And he is dead, anyway. So it goes.

4) The lucid dream. I’ve only ever had one that I remember, but it made me late for rehearsal, and being late is on the list of top ten things that stress me out so much my heart might stop. I was sitting on my bed in the middle of the day, and must’ve been really tired, and before I knew it, I was out. I kept thinking I had woken up and was getting ready, and then something would happen to make me think “shit, I’m still sleeping.” Something simple, like finding a stuffed animal in the desk chair. Wait, I don’t do the stuffed animal thing. This is a dream, I am still dreaming. The indicators grow more intense, like finding a ladybug the size of a dinner plate on your closet floor, or waking up next to some hot dude who you quickly realize you’ve never seen before. THIS IS ALL A DREAM, and you are being tricked into thinking you’re awake, sometimes 20 times over. These 20 waking sequences could take anywhere from 10 seconds to the fully recommended 8 hours of sleep plus. When you get to the point where you “wake” for the 50^th time and think, “okay, seriously, I have to get to rehearsal,” you REALLY wake, in frantic, panicked shock, throwing on clothes and hoping that you have grabbed everything you needed, not bothering to look in a mirror or double check to make sure you locked the door behind you. That is the waking panic of a stone cold lucid dream. And let me tell you, it’s not a super fun feeling.

Please, electrochemical boosh inside my head. Give me one night of just SLEEP. Take a rest from torturing me. I would greatly o-ppriciate it.

Yours truly,

Julia

Bad Idea #5: June 22, 2010

Today we're going to lighten it up a little. I now realize that throwing the five stages of dying into the mix is a little intense. So let me tell you about a bad idea that WILL SURPRISE YOU, because I'm sure that many of you have been actively, even voluntarily practicing this bad idea for your entire lives. I myself, have not. I am smart enough to know that eating olives is a very, very bad idea. For you poor, poor souls that before now, did not know that olives are in all actuality rank poop pellets from Satan's tiny, yappy, sad looking lap dog, I have generously taken time out of my day to educate you on the matter. It is important. You will thank me.

1) Every time I see olives in food, a lovely, fresh salad, perhaps, or a ridiculously good smelling pasta, I think, "I'm sure they don't taste as bad as I think they do. That pit in my stomach, the one saying 'NO. DO NOT DO IT,' is wrong. Forget that that pit has been debriefed by not only the inner depths of my SOUL, but the part of my brain that knows I will probably vomit the minute the olive touches my tongue. I think it is a good idea to eat that." JULIA GYTRI, YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE WRONG. In situations such as these, I have this thought in my mind of what olives taste like, because they are surrounded by other yummy looking food. This taste is NOT ANYWHERE CLOSE to the disgusting reality that is the essence of the olive. I taste the salad or pasta, and immediately gag. I cannot touch it again. The putrid taste has made me temporarily want to die, and I cannot see strait, let alone eat.

2) Olives hold you back from drinking when placed in a cup. I have never had a martini. I don't know what they taste like, and never will, because there is an OLIVE in the glass and I just cannot handle that. I. can. not.

3) Eating olives would be giving in to those that want to see you suffer. My step-grandmother is a horrible woman. I have never liked her, and she has clearly never liked me. When I was, oh, I don't know, 16 years old maybe, I had just had my braces tightened into oblivion. The orthodontist had literally attempted to implode my skull that time around, and I was in such brutal pain that I could barely feel my legs (don't ask me how that correlates, but I'm serious). After days of living off skim milk and apple sauce, my grandfather and step-grandmother had us over for dinner. They served meat. Nope, can't chew that, my entire head will dissolve and melt to the floor slowly if I even try. Corn. No one with braces has ever been able to eat corn. Rude. She knew this. Green beans. Still not soft enough. Will die if eaten. No, the only thing that I could even possibly conceive of eating on this already awkward and emotionally strained evening was, and you will FAINT when you hear this, DEVILED EGGS stuffed with OLIVES. At the time, I also had a rather large aversion to eggs, a serious problem that with counseling, I eventually got over. Wicked step-grandmother smiled the slimy, maniacal smile of pure evil as she slid one onto my plate. Everyone is eating, enjoying the food, and I take my knife and fork and cut about a millimeter thick into the terrifying satan egg. I swallowed that tiny bit without chewing, knowing that I would surely barf all over the 500 year old table cloth if I actually let myself taste the sludge. I was hungry. People do crazy, insane, unexplainable things when they are hungry. Here it comes: BAD IDEA. My throat can sense the vile aura of the olive/egg mixture. It did not even make it past the halfway mark in my esophagus. That millimeter, along with a solid 1/4 cup of bile/milk/apple sauce cocktail splashed up into my (luckily highly absorbent) cloth napkin. The devil's sauce for the deviled egg, if you will. Lesson learned? GO HUNGRY. It is not worth it. I drank grapefruit juice for the rest of the meal, after excusing my, uh, "burp" and ridding myself of the napkin. Which leads me to my next point.

4) Who needs syrup of ipecac when you've got a jar of olives in the fridge? It's okay, I am allowed to make jokes like this, though this is really note a joke. Though, let's think about it. All of us know from either theory, or years of experience that ipecac is a very bad idea in retrospect. Ipecac is to bad idea as olive is to bad idea. Therefore, olive = ipecac = VERY BAD, STUPID IDEA. Conclusion: research suggests that olives are a serious health risk to the community.

I am offended by the existence of the olive. The olive itself was a terrible idea.

Think before you eat.

Julia

Bad Idea #4: June 21, 2010

So I’m writing a show right now. It’s on a topic I am incredibly passionate about, but before you think I’m writing a musical about fighting the ebola virus, or feeding third-world countries with the amount of money we spend on commercial theatre today (which seem to be very good or very bad ideas), I should clarify. I got my start in music as an instrumentalist. Some of the most interesting people I’ve met along the way are instrumentalists. I played in pit orchestras before I even thought about being onstage. And let me tell you, THAT is really fun. You have a great time, hopefully (usually) with great people and brilliant musicians, you have way less rehearsal than the stage people… it’s a sweet deal… until curtain call. Everyone claps loudest for the funny, soubrette type characters, then the leading man and ingénue, and then the cast graciously acknowledges the crew and pit and yatta yatta yatta; they were done clapping or thinking about the work that went into the show when Kelli O’hara took her last little bow before falling in line. But what would a musical be without a perfectly orchestrated pit? The answer is, of course, nothing.

Instrumentalists are some of the most avid supporters of musical theatre. No actual theatre person would don a Wicked or Spring Awakening t-shirt past high school, but instrumentalists buy all of that merchandise, support shows that they love to play and listen to, and just promote the HELL out of what we do. We owe SO much to them. But do they ever get recognized? Truthfully? No. Their names go into the backs of programs, where they are forgotten. When was the last time you checked the program to see who had that great bassoon solo in the Act II opener? Could you even identify the sound of a bassoon amidst the orchestra? My point exactly. Most people can’t.

(So after that long explanation) This is why I decided to write something about this fascinating, hard-working, talented, quirky group of individuals. The musical is a piece called Ensemble, and will be workshopping in the fall (2010).

The only problem is, I haven’t finished it. I am at a total standstill with it. Ideas that should be just flowing through me are elusive and totally out of reach. In this horrid state, I began to read around for inspiration. Poems, mostly. Not that I’m a huge, well-read poetic expert. I wish I was, but no. Far from it. Anyway, I stumbled upon a poem I had to memorize in the eighth grade, and have ALWAYS loved passionately since then.

Fern Hill, by Dylan Thomas. Look it up and read it. You will not be sorry. It’s not a poem you won’t get. It’s not a poem that spits in the face of the otherwise literate, obscurely written and saying things like “Oh you poor plebians, if you don’t know what the hell this poem is about you must be an idiot.” It’s just beautiful, and even if you don’t get a story or tying theme, you’ll at least walk away with some BEAUTIFULLY arranged words. I wish words were that beautiful in everyday life. So inspired by this poem was I that I began writing a 35-40 minute opera with a plot based around it, using just Thomas’ text for libretto.

(Pause for moment of shock. Me? Opera? When I so vehemently oppose it on many levels due to its shitty, atrocious acting technique and inaccessibility to the general public? Yes. Me. Opera. Don’t ask me why.)

Anyway. Here is where I hit a snag. It is a really bad idea to start working on something else in the middle of a big project. Note that this bad idea applies to ANY projects. Any at all, as I’m sure we’ve all experienced this. Why is it a bad thing? Let. Me. Tell you.

1) You will never want to go back to work on your original project (that one that you had a LOT of people already signed on for, by the way). You will pass your piano every day, sit down and practice things in the order that you always do, and then when it comes time for funsies? YOU WILL PLAY AROUND with chord progressions for the new show, and die a little when you’re done, realizing no one is interested in that piece.

2) Things will begin to bleed over. For example, if you’re writing a modern style musical and begin an opera over top of it, the songs that you are frantically scratching together for the musical will begin to sound operatic, and hold more properties of ongoing recitatives than of stop-and-sing musical theatre. Some might say this cross-inspiration is a good thing. While it might work out sometimes, I assure you that in this case, it is not. Working out, I mean. Imagining the actor who is playing my Trumpet player singing a big operatic piece? It does not. Fit. And. It’s so. Annoying. That I cannot. Even type. Full SENTENCES, everyone.

3) But it’s a short piece, you tell yourself. I’m just going to write this little 35-40 minute opera and get strait back to working on MY show, the one I was once (and truthfully, still am) very passionate about. WRONG. YOU ARE WRONG. Writing lead sheets takes no time at all. In that sense, the new, little opera is completely finished. But actually putting it down on staff paper, writing the orchestral parts, and trying to make it NOT SUCK? THAT TAKES SIGNIFICANTLY LONGER. To the point of where you just want to give up, because you are TIRED of thinking about acceptable progressions and voicing and secondary dominants and things you learned in theory and never thought you’d use but now you have to. This may or may not have been a problem you faced while tackling the first big project.

4) If you watch House M.D, or skim psychology textbooks, like me, you’ll know that the five stages of dying according to Kubler-Ross are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These grim stages can be applied to the writing process. Observe:

a. Denial. “I’m not going to start slacking on my favorite project, what I consider to be one of my best ideas of all time, just because I am inspired by something else.”

i. REALITY. Shut up. You totally will.

b. Anger. “Shit. I have been slacking. I have been LYING to myself (*De-niiiii-al) and fear for this show. Even if I do finish it now, will it be forced? Will it suck? WHY AM I SO MAD AT MYSELF?”

i. REALITY. At least now you know, and are NOT in denial. However, it is hard to take a productive course of action from here. Instead of buckling down, you resort to…

c. Bargaining. “Please, higher being, universe, whoever, whatever is in charge. Send me some vibes, give me a song, a couple of really well written lines that will get the ball rolling again.”

i. REALITY. The higher being, universe, whoever, or whatever is in charge may or may not hear you and process your request. Even if this happens, said request may not be processed in a timely manner. You HAVE to be self-motivated, or no juice. When there is no juice, there is…

d. Depression. “I am the worst writer alive. I hate my life and everything in it. I never want to see the sun again, I need to wallow in shadows and spend endless amounts of time thinking about how tortured and twisted my soul is.”

i. REALITY. Unless you really are prone to depression and really do have a super twisty tortured soul, you will really only think the first sentence over and over, until you finally believe it. I am the worst writer alive. I am THE worst writer alive. I am the worst writer ALIVE. Once you believe it, you move on to…

e. Acceptance. “Okay, so what? How many people in the world really do write anything worth reading anyway?” (*The REAL answer to this question is, a LOT. A LOT of people.*) “Maybe I should just stick to my day job, entertaining children at summer camp. Maybe I should just aspire to move from waiting casual dining to FINE dining. I mean, I can come to terms with the fact that I am just a normal, dime a dozen, hardworking if misguided girl.”

i. REALITY. This is where these steps differ from dying. While the dying may REALLY accept their fate, they also have no power to change it. Writers have the ability to change our fate, and are therefore, NOT accepting. Not for long, anyway.

So what do you do when you are not accepting of being a sucky person, writer, and living, breathing being? You stop writing the blog entry that you so enjoy, and you sit down at a piano and get. To. Work.

Wish me luck,

Julia

Bad Idea #3: June 20, 2010: Father's Day

In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to center today's bad idea(s) around my dad. There are PLENTY of bad ideas that come from the guy.

1) It's a bad idea to do a triathlon that you have not been training for. This would be my father's most recent (as in, this happened today) bad idea. You have not been flying planes for the military for many a year now, dad. Translation: no more government enforced fitness. My father now flies for a commercial mail carrier, and spends his life on the road, working out in poorly equipped hotel gyms and eating really, QUITE unhealthfully. Why is he extremely sore and in pain right now? Gee, I have absolutely no idea.

2) It's a bad idea to not double check whether or not you've closed the hood of your vehicle after checking the oil. Why? Because the next time you are driving that large, four wheel drive vehicle at a speed greater than 25 mph, it WILL fly up and crack your windsheild. AND everyone will laugh at you.

3) When putting together a dresser purchased from the lovely Swedish folks at IKEA, it is a bad idea to throw away the directions ON PURPOSE, thinking that you do not need them. You are a master carpenter, after all. How hard could assembling this thing be? Um, father? Have you COUNTED the number of pieces that this dresser came with? Because there are over 500,000 things to keep track of. Why on earth would you trash the complimentary, step by step guide that the Sweds INCLUDED in their sale of this inexpensive, particle-board product to you? Alright, you know best. But WAIT, it WAS a bad idea, because, thinking that his Swedish dresser assembly kit is missing a piece, he cuts the piece that is supposed to be the BACK of the DRESSER in half. Very, very bad idea. Back to IKEA he goes, head hung low. That is the walk of paternal shame, dear friends. We've all seen it. Only this time, it did not involve getting schooled or humiliated by Mom.

4) It is a bad idea to refrain from treatment after being bitten by a black widow. That numbness that is climbing from your hand up to your arm? That is BRUTAL SPIDER VENOM. Do NOT wait a week and a half, even if you are tough. Even if you grew up chomping nails while the other kids munched on cotton candy. Even if you walked to school uphill in the snow with no shoes and no breakfast. Even if you were shot at by the drug guerillas in Columbia. DO NOT PLAY THE HERO. Know when spider venom is coursing through your veins, and learn to tell whether or not it is radio active. Because if it is, let it continue until you turn into Spiderfather.

5) One Thanksgiving, after finishing a beautiful dinner, we all packed into cars to have a visit with extended family. For some reason, my dad and I were the only ones driving in his car. *Note: the entire downstairs of my parent's house is an amphitheater. You can hear everything that everyone does on that level of the house, because it is built on a kind of circle, with no walls blocking sound. It is a BAD idea to release gas in any space where the sound can be that easily picked up on. And when I say "release gas" you guys of course know that I am, in reality, talking about a huge, rancid, nasty methane emission that could very well have knocked a few people out. The kind that big disgusting men need to check their pants after letting go of. (I can't believe I just wrote that. I'm blushing/embarrassed). I of course laughed at this, because I think my father is hilarious, if repulsive, though, my grandmother had decided to ride with us, came back inside, and heard every last carefully tuned pitch of that fart from the foyer. I hit the FLOOR laughing when I walked out and she was standing there awkwardly, not knowing how to react.

Just wait until his birthday. My dad has so many great bad ideas. Completely priceless.

Happy father's day to all! Appreciate your dads. If they are anything like mine, they've paid for and loved you and encouraged you throughout your entire existence.

DAD!

Julia

Bad Idea #2: June 19, 2010

One of my dearest friends in the entire world works summers and breaks from school as a waitress. Many of my dear friends are servers at restaurants, and operate on the unjust system in which most servers are paid these days at casual dining establishments.

Company owners think that it is fair to pay their wait staff $2.13 an hour considering it alright since they receive tips from costumers. However, company owners do not consider/care about the fact that many customers at casual dining establishments are ass holes, and tip next to nothing. On top of this, servers are also required to report a certain percentage of these already mediocre tips, AND some restaurants do the the tip share thing, which is a COMPLETE joke, because lets face it, some of our fellow servers are nowhere near as charismatic and good with customers as we are, and bring a significantly smaller amount of tips to the table. Translation: you are a bitchin' server and put $100 dollars into the tip jar, and the other morons in your shift put in $0.50 because they either earned nothing or are withholding what they really earned. You get $0.01 for 1,478,3895 hours of work. IS THIS FAIR? The answer is no. In no way is this remotely fair.

While, in my opinion, restaurant owners should be the ones to pay their employees decent wages to the tune of at least $8-$10 an hour in casual dining, the burden falls to us, the customers, to pay for both the over-priced entrees that are slowly killing American citizens with their portion size and fat content, AND to finance the lives of the average server. IS THIS FAIR? The answer is still no, but having been a server, and knowing I will be again at some point, this leads me to today's really bad idea.

It is a really bad, really mean, really inconsiderate idea to tip poorly or not at all. Here are just a few reasons:

1) You obviously want to reward good service. If your server pays no attention to you, messes up your order, and is just an all-round dick, I can see slightly holding out on him or her. But if your server was at least decent, meaning they took care of you and had everything done in a timely manner, it is imperative that you tip them well to say "Hey, thanks for not being incompetent." If your server gives you vibes that they are an excellent person, and just really go above and beyond for you? If you want to get their number and either go out with him or become her best friend? If this server moves you so much that you want to come back and eat at the restaurant in question every single day for the rest of your life? Tip them REALLY well. I am a very observational person, and I HAVE been so moved by servers in the past. I could have easily have become best friends or soul mates with a handful of servers. Some are looking for the tip, and some really are just good people. WE NEED TO ENCOURAGE THE GOOD PEOPLE OF THIS WORLD TO CONTINUE BEING GOOD PEOPLE, AND NOT TURN INTO BITTER, RESENTFUL DICKS LIKE EVERYONE ELSE.

2) Servers have the power to mess with your food AND your credit card. Have you never read "20 things your server won't tell you" on the yahoo news feed? Some of it is truly appalling. There are the classic standards, like spitting in your food or beverage, and then there are the really vicious, cutthroat moves, like purposefully trying to piss you off and overcharging you. Case and point, wait staff can sense the nature of YOUR aura and whether or not you're a douche bag who will tip them much less than their time is worth. Be the good customer that they WANT to serve well, and everyone will winsies.

3) Always tip and treat your bartender well. Chances are you will want to have sex with them. I don't think I need to elaborate any more than that.

4) Think about the life your server or bartender leads. That waitress may look like she grew up in a clean suburban home with daddy subsidizing her entire life, cell phone bill, and education, but for all you know, she could just be a really well made up crack whore with seven kids from different fathers to feed and no help around, with a cow in the back yard that produces no marketable milk, and a gullible son who will trade that cow for magic beans, leaving her with nothing, except for a possible giant that comes down form the sky and beats her. Give this poor girl a break. The world clearly has not, but YOU can.

5) The main reason to tip your server well follows the golden rule: If you were making $2.13 and hour, how would you feel if someone left you a couple of dollars after you spent two hours waiting hand and foot on an obnoxious party of 15? Servers work harder than most people for what little money they earn, and are often jipped the worst out of everyone in the service industry. Some nights, the money they make is not even worth getting out of bed and turning off the rerun of "Never Been Kissed" they are watching. If it's worth the time and energy to eat out, it's worth paying the person who refills your chips and salsa and Dr. Peppers.

Respect humanity. Respect servers.

Namaste,

Julia