In the Land of GIANTS

The exact amount of people that apply for every journalism job I have applied for since I graduated ... it's either that or I have a giant "DO NOT CALL ME BACK" watermark on my resume ... moving on.

SO MUCH HAS HAPPENED. It’s actually going to blow your mind right out of your socks … so hold onto those.

First, it’s over the hill and through the woods to San Francisco we go. Ya, I went to the bay area again — what of it. Anyways, I met up with some Pepperdine friends who included one of my college roommates from last year (whose name also happens to be Ashley … so she’s obviously great) and Zach who had just returned from his temporary position as a bartender in Chicken, Alaska.

As we embraced at the mass transit station somewhere between the bowels of Oakland and the epic Giants game we had gotten the cheapest possible tickets for — I realized how great it was to be in the arms of people who understood the 43 different quarter-life crises I go through on a day-to-day basis. They too looked tired, they too looked confused, and they too looked like they had also been wondering why they spent so much on a college education that only added debt to their youthful lives. I’m just kidding. College is totally important.

Anyways, after using our higher-educated minds to figure out the ticket machine, we plopped down on the bus and began the necessary catching up questions that always seem to severely put your life into a focus so sharp that it’s painful.  Zach is planning his trip to India, Ashley is getting weird job-offer phone calls from a company that doesn’t actually exist, and then there’s me. Applying for grad schools and looking into being a snow reporter for Sierra at Tahoe — a ski resort that’s not too far from my house.

Yeah, you read right — a SNOW reporter. What duties does that entail you ask? Well … a lot.  I would be responsible for reporting conditions on the mountain and finding leads for possible stories I could write. So it’s awesome basically. PLUS, I get to snowboard for free and I get free lessons and stuff. Not that I need free lessons. I’m just not really like … Olympic material. Example: the last time I went snowboarding I fell off the ski lift at the top of the mountain and when I went to get up, the next chair hit me in the back of the head. Thank god the ski lift operator took a break from hitting his bong long enough to look up and notice that there was a strange woman face down in the snow, appendages fully spread. By the way, it’s only alleged that he was high. But he was allegedly REALLY high. Oh and that was in Denver, Colorado when it was 7 degrees outside — and that is not alleged.

After Zach, Ashley, and I made it to AT&T Park in all of it’s drunken mob glory, we began our ascent to the seats made for the poorest of the poor — the viewing deck of left field.

This game however, was no ordinary game — it was against the DODGERS … of Los Angeles. And I’ve gotta say, there was something therapeutic about screaming “BEAT LA” in harmony with 2938752086528 other people from my home region (ß- that’s an exact count).  It really felt like we were all sticking to the man … or in this case the land we all three had called home only 4 months ago. A land that turns women into wafers and men into people that are attracted to wafers.

And we crushed them — we seriously beat them 10 to 2. And we even got to see a Dodgers’ fan get thrown out of the game for trying to ignite fury among an entire section of wasted Giants’ fanatics. Like, there’s being a badass and then there’s just being stupid.

After the game we made the mile-long walk back to the BART station and listened to Zach’s stories from the land of Sarah Palin while trying to block out the drunken, triumphant screams from the San Francisco fans that had flooded the streets.

After we made it back to Ashley’s house, which was only a short drive from the station, we did probably the best thing to do for anyone who is trying to remain fit and trim — we ate an entire pizza at 1 am and stayed up talking until 5. We got it all out at least — frustrations with the job market, frustrations with life, and which on-screen roles really helped Leonardo DiCaprio become a household name. Was it Gilbert Grape or Titanic? … All important things.

And now I’m back in black. And my 23^rd birthday is coming up. Which can only mean one thing … 2 more years until I can rent a car! Wow … nine years after I get my drivers license and I finally feel like I’m really capable of driving a car that’s not my own. But don’t worry Enterprise — I know that with great power comes great responsibility.

But seriously, they really should think about lowering that age — like, now. Because I’m thinking about going down to Disneyland for my birthday and just WHAT am I going to do if my car craps out? Not a darn thing that’s what.

I mean, I’m going with friends so I could probably just … borrow one of theirs. Whatever. 

The Miracle (Starbucks) on 34th Street (Main St. Placerville)

Pour some sugar water on me ... in the name of staying up

for another 3 hours applying for jobs.

Greetings loved ones. I am sorry to report that this entry will not be as travel-filled as the past couple have been. Indeed, the only real travelling I’ve been doing is from the couch to the refrigerator — and occasionally to the shower. And by occasionally I mean OCCASIONALLY. Just kidding I shower. It’s just that I think that life should be about more than just looks you know? That may or may not be my excuse for not showering.

Anyways, if this accidentally starts to sound like a cover letter, I apologize as I’ve written and applied to about 39825783946598 jobs in the past couple weeks. And no, that was not just me running my fingers across the number keys. That number is an accurate reflection of the amount of times I have released my resume into cyber space with a blind faith that I will eventually hear back from someone — a thought that I am beginning to think I have pulled out of my backside region. Every day on Facebook it’s the same ol’ thing. Everyone posting statuses about how they just landed the best job ever and life is just sooo great. Well shove it.

Ok, that sounded really bitter. But when you’ve just spent 200,000 big ones on an education that has so far only made you more dependent on others than when you were 3, you tend to become a little bitter. Bitter like a lemon. Or those cumquat things that, I’m going to be completely honest with you, I thought were baby oranges for a good portion of my late teens/early twenties. So like up until a month ago. Maybe that’s why I’m unemployed. Well geez if I knew that was going to be a test maybe I would have asked sooner why those stupid orange bushes outside my friend’s house never grew oranges that were bigger than an inch. I just figured they had vertically challenged trees. How was I supposed to know? Crap.

So this has been my life — waking up, showering (….), going to Starbucks, applying for jobs, and repeat. Throw in a couple episodes of The Office and really stupid scary movies about three or four times a week and you have a day in the life of Ashley. Come on in, the waters’ fine. Only if you want to though. Because the water is warm, but boring. Didn’t know water could be boring did you? It takes talent.

Speaking of me, I went to Starbucks today. Shocking. But this was no ordinary Starbucks. No. This was THE FIRST STARBUCKS I EVER WENT TO EVER IN MY LIFE. Of course I was about 14 then. I remember it as if it t’was yesterday. My dad opened the smudged-glass door unto the bustling café of wonders and legal-stimulant addiction. As a reminder, this was in Placerville, so by bustling I mean there were five people in there.

Anyways, as my innocently eager eyes scrolled down the menu (a menu that by the time I went to Pepperdine I would be able to recite backwards while intoxicated and solving a Rubik’s cube) I found my poison — a mocha malt. Now, because I was young and uncultured, I had not the foggiest idea that a “venti” meant the biggest freaking cup in the whole world. I mean, shoot me but I thought “tall” was supposed to be the large one — forgive me, I knew not what I was doing.

So there I stood waiting at the counter with my father, so proud of my choice yet so blindly unaware of the error in judgment I had made. As the barista called out my dad’s grande black coffee and my larger-than-my-head blended drink, my heart was filled with both joy and confusion as to why anyone could ever possibly want a coffee that big. Of course now I just have no idea why anyone would order a tall. I mean c’mon, it’s not even worth it.

So I grabbed my 10,500-calorie drink jubilantly and skipped out the door and into the car — sipping all the way. Five minutes later on the hairpin-turn drive home, I felt like my stomach wanted to be anywhere but in my body. I didn’t go back to Starbucks for like a year. Actually, the day I went back was the day I got my drivers license. I was again, with my dad — and it was the same Starbucks. And so began my addiction.

And now here I am — then just a naïve 14-year-old girl, now a mature, sophisticated, and unemployed 22 year-old woman. Just livin’ the dream — one day/venti iced coffee with room for cream at a time.

Damn you Dad, damn you.