Hope you kiddies had a delightful weekend. Mine kicked off Friday at a hookah party with a bunch of ostentatious windbags and ended Sunday night swathed in scraps of cerulean blue, reading one of Thomas Friedman's latest articles.
Perhaps we should back up.
J's friend "Sam" invited us over to his place on Friday night for a fun-filled few hours of cocktails and social smoking through a shared tube. Yummy.
"Hey guys, I just ordered Mojito-flavored tobacco, are you in?" he asked giggling over the phone, a remix of Britney's "Circus" blaring in the background from his pink iPod. Love this guy to death, but there is no way in hell he is straight. We've all discussed in depth and think the only person who doesn't know is his girlfriend who's currently living with him. Poor little lamb. It's quite obvious, we're all just waiting for her to some day find out.
Anyway, I'm not one to turn down mojito-flavored anything, so we trotted over and got to meet all of Sam's friends who also, as it turned out, delighted in tropical tastes as much as I did. After the martinis were poured and the hookah was lit, we began ruminating on our college years, current jobs and everything in between.
"I never knew mojito-flavor of this existed," I said in a cottony tone as the smoke poured from my lips. I passed the hookah tube to J and sipped my third glass of wine. The others around me nodded, inebriated grins on their faces.
"Oh I have strawberry daiquiri flavor too!!!" Sam squealed, getting up to find his little store-bought baggie of paradise. I squealed along with him, as did two of the guys to my right, and as he got the new flavor ready I turned to the boys who'd just shared in my strawberry daiquiri excitement.
"Soooo...." I said, "How do you two lovelies know Sam and his girlfriend?"
"Oh, he used to live with them in college," the fatter one said, pointing to his thinner boyfriend.
"Really?" My interest was piqued. The tone of his voice was a little ... off. Perhaps some ill-fated love-triangle had transpired back then?
"Yeah," the thin one said, sitting cross-legged across the table from Sam, his girlfriend, and their fourth cocktails. "I knew [Sam's girlfriend], and that's how I got to know Sam. It was ...," he paused, "Interesting." He sat picking at the table leg, avoiding eye contact with Sam, a weird look on his face. Tension. Drama. Something obvi went down betwixt these boys in college and it was so juicy you might as well have ordered it tar-tar. The others -- minus Sam's girlfriend, of course -- picked up on the subtly, but I wasn't going to prod. Not with her there.
"How very Three's Company..." was all I could think to say, inhaling the strawberry daiquiri goodness and trying to think of a way to change the subject. "Wow, this is like a tropical paradise in my mouth," I said blowing the smoke aside. We couldn't stop laughing, though now without being five glasses of red deep, it's not as funny anymore. Strange how that happens. ;)
Then they all started on about their jobs. Let me preface what I'm about to say with one thing: There's a fine line between speaking about yourself modestly and sounding like a pretentious snob. I can't stand the latter. So, after listening to them try to "out-job" and "out-cool" one another this is all I wanted to say:
"Look, it's one thing to have a job. That's awesome, we get it, you all have jobs when most qualified people your age (22-28) can't even get an interview, much less a job offer. I guess this in someway gives you the right to smugly point out that you're a star for even having one ... or something. But just because you have a job doesn't validate your existence. Congratulations. You've rescinded yourself to accepting your mediocre mid-tier position which you complain about hating but use anyway as a fragile tent pole in your superiority complex . But here's the thing: None of you are doing anything that's really that important. Most of us don't, so really, you've got nothing to feel so goddamn pretentious about. You're not saving lives, or changing laws or finding cures or educating those who need to learn or anything even remotely close to making any sort of difference. The fact is you're all replaceable, and you don't even see it. Or maybe you do, and that's why you feel the need to be so self-aggrandizing. To make up for that bleak realization you have hidden somewhere that it doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Phonies."
Whew. Someone get me another drink. "Ok, Holden Caulfield," J would call me later during the car ride home. But at the party I just sat smiling, nodding at them. "Really," I said, listening to Sam's girlfriend talk about her love affair with her inbox. At least the girl was getting action somewhere. "You don't say."
I know, you're probably thinking "Get over yourself Crystal, like you're doing anything that amazing or important." Never said I was, and that's why I don't chatter on at parties like an insipid fool who's accomplished something incredible. Working on it. Most of us are. Thomas Jefferson once said "Don't talk about what you have done or what you are going to do." Basically, just do it. Actions speak louder than words.
So last night I was working on my Pan Am stewardess costume for Halloween (hence the cerulean blue), when I took a break and read one of Thomas Friedman's latest columns. In it he discussed how "just having a job" these days doesn't cut it anymore, it doesn't set you ahead of the pack. You need to be a thinker, be entrepreneurial, bring something extra to your job.
"In a world in which more and more average work can be done by a computer, robot or talented foreigner faster, cheaper “and just as well,” vanilla doesn’t cut it anymore," he wrote. "It’s all about what chocolate sauce, whipped cream and cherry you can put on top."
I guess that's my point. What chocolate sauce, whipped cream and cherry did they bring to their jobs? None. Going through the daily motions alone was enough to inflate their egos and in someway be brag-worthy. If this had been Alice in Wonderland I would have puffed my mojito smoke and asked in a breathy voice "Whooo ... are ... you?" Instead I simply listened quietly and smiled along from my mushroom.
Writer, wife, and mom to two baby girls. As of 2013 I'm no longer brunette (blond ambition!) nor on a budget. I love shoes, wine, Palm Springs, and Barry Gibb. As always, I'm still looking for my lost shaker of salt.
Email me at brunetteonabudget [at] gmail [dot] com.