The Wicked Ingénue

A vignette of sorts about the dark side of Las Vegas.

* * *

It’s a warm desert morning in April of 2004. I’ve been out drinking and debauchering* all night, trying to forget about the fact that I’d recently been fired from my latest dancing gig. My boyfriend had walked out on me a month earlier because he knew I was being unfaithful. As usual, I’ve just spent my last dollar on various vices, but this time there’s no one around to pick up the slack. The rent due date has come and gone, and it’s now several days after the grace period.

Being as it’s six years later, I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking when I climbed the stairs and saw the eviction notice taped to the apartment door: NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. I was probably thinking about my next drink. I certainly wasn’t thinking about scraping together $875 to pay my rent. I guess I thought my ex-boyfriend would come to my financial rescue as he had so many times before.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. The words were etched into my brain slowly and painfully, like the Dante verse I have tattooed on my left shoulder blade. Pay or quit. At the time, I’d become a paradoxical quitter: I was able to quit everything that was good for me and unable to quit everything that wasn’t. And I’d quit caring.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. I had three days to get out, and I blew the first two trying to decide what to do. Do I beg my ex to come back? Do I live in my car while I figure things out? Do I show up at the home of one of my various lovers and panhandle for money? Do I go to the homeless shelter over on West Bonanza Road? It’s hard to believe, but calling my family and/or returning to Los Angeles never even crossed my mind.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. When the final day arrived, I spent the whole day fucking off at the pool in the apartment complex. I walked by the leasing office and waved at the woman behind the counter, she being unaware that I was the evictee in #206. I chatted with my fellow residents about the grand opening of the Wynn, President Bush’s recent visit to town, the early summer we seemed to be having.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. Those black block letters swam with me in the pool, sizzled with me in the Jacuzzi, followed me back up the stairs and resumed their rightful position on the apartment door. My water had been shut off, so I washed the chlorine out of my hair with a bottle of Evian and some shampoo stolen from the last hotel I’d worked in. It smelled like coconuts, like money, like the promise of fame and fortune under the watchful, knowing smirk of Las Vegas neon.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. I tore the place apart and tried to decide what I could and could not live without. I left behind the shoes, but took the clothes. I left behind the utensils, but took the pots and pans. I left behind the pictures, but took the books. Those pictures of my ex and me smiling for the camera only to rip into each other the second the flash went off. I didn’t give a fuck about those pictures.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. After my ancient Honda hatchback was stuffed like a sausage, I took one last look around. It was the sixth time I’d moved in three years, and I’d grown accustomed to leaving things behind, leaving in haste, leaving bits and pieces of my whirlwind life for the next person to find. By that time, possessions were temporary and meant nothing to me.

NOTICE TO PAY OR QUIT. Every other time I’d moved, there’d been a new place to go, a new person to live with, a new person to take care of me. Now, for the first time, I was completely on my own. Every bridge I’d built in town had collapsed. My entire life had collapsed. I’d officially been served by reality.

I’d been given my final notice to quit.

_______________________________________________

*Not an official word, but a favorite in the Brownell dictionary.

If you follow my blogs here on The Wicked Ingénue or if you follow me on Facebook and/or Twitter, you’re probably aware that I’m four months away from earning my B.A. in English (with an emphasis in Creative Writing and Shakespeare. I get credentials and everything for these specialties. Now I can really claim to be a Shakespeare scholar without getting the ol’ eye-roll).

This may not seem like a big deal to some people. People graduate from high school, they go on to college, they earn a degree in something, they enter the job market, they get married, they have kids, they live the American Dream. This systematic process has become less of a hope parents (and society, for that matter) have for their children and more of an expectation.

But, as you may well know already, I didn’t follow this process (click here for a detailed explanation of my six-year detour in Las Vegas). Ironically, I dropped out of high school four months before graduation. Exactly ten years ago this month, I officially left high school and followed my heart’s desire to the middle of the desert.

I’ll never forget my last day as a high school student. For the first time in months, I attended every single class (I’d ditched class so much that I’d been sentenced to Saturday detention every day until graduation), participated in the discussions, ate lunch with my friends, poked around in the library, flirted with the guys hanging out in the auto shop garage. I thought this day was going to be my last day ever as a student, and I wanted to savor it. I never hated school or being a student – quite the contrary. I just hated everything else about my life. Mostly, I hated myself.

I remember it being unseasonably warm that day. You could smell the honeysuckle in the air, the warm asphalt, the freshly mowed grass, the promise of spring. I walked to my car, got in, and sat there in the parking lot for a long time. Until everyone else was gone. Later that night, I snuck out of the house, hid in my friend’s closet, and she drove me to Las Vegas the following morning.

It goes without saying that the rest is history, and I thought my days as a student were history, too. I mean, college? Ha! Not in the cards for Kristen. I was the rebel, the person who wanted to prove she could make something of herself without the input of authority. No more pencils, no more books. School quickly became a distant memory.

* * *

Fast-forward to last November. It’s my senior year of college, and I’m applying to graduate school. I considered several PhD programs, but ultimately decided that none of them had the writing emphasis I was looking for. A straight-up MFA program – Master of Fine Arts – seemed to be the best fit for my needs. A Shakespeare/Creative Nonfiction PhD would’ve been right up my alley, but hey, a girl can’t have it all.

For various reasons, I decided that I wanted to stay in California. There aren’t many MFA programs here at the UC (University of California) level – only three, to be exact – and only one of them offers an emphasis in Creative Nonfiction, which is my main area of interest and the genre of writing I excel in most, I think. So the very short list included UCSD (San Diego), UCI (Irvine, which is where I am now), and UCR (Riverside). Riverside is the only program of the three that has the Creative Nonfiction emphasis, and for this reason it became my top choice. That and the fact that they offer an excellent financial aid package.

The applications went out last fall, and for the past three months I’ve been waiting and wondering and hoping and wishing and praying and contemplating Plan B. I’ve been stuck in limbo, essentially. Then about three weeks ago, I received a rejection letter from UCSD. It was my last choice, but still – rejection stings. It got me thinking, “Dang, if I didn’t get into my last choice, what’re the chances I’ll get into my first and second choice?”

So yeah. I’ve been worried.

Fast-forward even further to yesterday. I’m sitting there watching “Notorious” (I give it three out of five stars) when my Blackberry lets me know I have an email. I ignore it until the movie’s over. Then I check. It’s from the director of the program at UCR:

Dear Kristen,

Congratulations!  You have been recommended for admission to the MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts Program here at the University of California, Riverside.  We would like to thank you for choosing our program.  It would be our pleasure to have you here.

And the letter goes on. I must admit I read it several times and verified the email address and sender’s name and whatnot just to make sure I was correct in acknowledging that I’ve been accepted into my first MFA program of choice. I’ve been trying to catch my breath every since.

* * *

If I had to pick a starting point for my memoir – the Prologue, if you will – I’d say it was that last day of high school when I wrote off any inclination I had to pursue higher education and, more importantly, my inclination to write. Back then, the idea of graduate school was laughable. The idea of my writing a memoir and publishing said memoir was laughable. The stuff pipe dreams are made of. No one believed I could get through my undergraduate studies, let alone go to graduate school, and how could I blame them? I didn’t even get through high school.

But now the moment of accumulation is finally here. I’ve always wanted to end my memoir – the Epilogue – with an anecdote about graduate school, but wasn’t sure things would fall into place the way I hoped they would. Securing a spot in a program that accepts ten students a year – ten out of thousands – what were the chances? Reflecting on my B.A. degree at the end of the memoir probably would’ve sufficed, but the MFA degree – the mother of all writing degrees – this, I feel, is the moment I’ve been pointing toward since the day I left Vegas.

I think the years I’m going to spend at UCR will be an invaluable experience for my memoir and for my future as a writer, and I thank you all so much for supporting and encouraging me along the way.

(Today’s blog is brought to you by a VERY special person and one of the greatest friends a girl could ask for… To learn more about P.Q. check out her blog DC Princess at http://www.dcprincessq.com and enjoy!!)

“Every woman has the exact love life she wants.” – The Wedding Date

Prior to five months ago, I was eternally single. I was involved with men who left me heartbroken day in and day out but I was never bitter to the point of hating other couples that I see in the street.  Quite the opposite, their display of love gave me hope. I love love. I am a hopeless romantic with a cynical streak and whether single or in love, I’ve always loved love.

In the last 5 months, after finding love, I’ve noticed more and more how bitter some of my peers have become.  I’ve heard people bitching about couples holding hands in line at Starbucks. I’ve heard bitter statements about commercials on TV or romantic movies. Of course, any time I have something to input, I’m looked at as the “Happy one with a man who couldn’t understand.”

Excuse me?

I’ve only been in a relationship for 5 months and I’ve been falling asleep alone for all my life.  Being in a relationship doesn’t mean I forget about the lonely nights.  The only difference is that I was never bitter when I was single either.  If I saw happy couples, I smiled.  When watching romantic movies, I was filled with hope knowing that there is someone for me out there…I just wasn’t ready for him.

This past summer, when I thought I was ready to date, I signed up for a dating site.  What I thought was a desire to date was a mask for hitting rock bottom and engaging in reckless behavior that resulted in two unfortunate incidents that I will have to cope with for the rest of my life. It wasn’t my time for love yet because I wasn’t ready to be in a relationship.

*I* wasn’t ready. *I* wasn’t giving out the right vibes. *I* kept going after the wrong guys, knowing the outcome…knowing I’d wake up alone again. *I* was alone because *I* wasn’t ready to stop being alone.

It wasn’t the world. It wasn’t the guys. It wasn’t love.

It was me.

When I was ready to stop being single, I started looking at life differently. I started giving myself standards and I took the leap when it was my time. I don’t believe in luck or fate. I don’t believe in bitterness. I believe in taking control and reacting to life according to the outcome you desire.

So yes…I do believe that women out there who are bitter are in control of their lives…and they have the exact love life they want…and until they are ready to truly find the relationships they desire in life…they will send out that signal to the world.

Oh and Valentine’s Day?

Single or in love, I detest the concept. Love isn’t a one-day affair. Love is second nature. Love is everyday.

-start soapbox-

Interestingly enough, the United States is the only country that celebrates Valentine’s Day with such deliberateness and fanfare. I think it’s a reflection of typical capitalistic Western ideologies, and it reiterates the fact that the almighty (although currently economically-challenged) dollar influences much of our cultural values and beliefs.

I’m sure the individual(s) who suggested making St. Valentine’s Day a national holiday way back when had good intent, but as time went on and industrialization prospered, said “holiday” became a twenty-four hour orgy of materialistic extravagance, which in turn perpetuated (and continues to perpetuate) unnecessary Valentine’s Day expectations. The way I see it, corporations such as Hallmark, See’s Candy, DeBeers, and the Build-A-Bear Workshop franchise are the ones who truly benefit from the outpouring of “love” on V-Day.

This restricted contentedness also raises another iniquitous aspect of V-Day: the exclusion of singles and/or people who are unhappy with their relationships. Singles are reminded (not only by friends and relatives, but also by a countless number of other mediums) of the lack of love in their life while people whose love lives are falling apart are reminded of the pains that often accompany romantic relationships.

If someone isn’t completely content with their singleness (or the fact that they’re probably going to be single soon), Valentine’s Day can be extremely depressing. For some, it feels like a form of failure. Failure because they have yet to find “that special someone” and/or failure because things went to shit with “that special someone”.

For those who are “lucky” enough to be spending V-Day with “that special someone”, it’s certainly not a heart-shaped cakewalk from that angle, either, because the grossly materialistic aspect of V-Day must be addressed. He or she who meets/exceeds his or her lover’s expectations via spending obscene amounts of money reigns supreme. In stark contrast, he or she who fails to meet expectations faces a potential argument, a sexless night on the sofa, or even being “kicked to the curb”.

Is it just me, or is that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?

Even more ridiculous than that, though, is the fact that all these headaches are brought on by a date on the calendar. Let’s say that to ourselves again just so we can revel in its ridiculousness: All these headaches are brought on by a date on the calendar. They should just replace the “St. Valentine’s Day” notification on the national calendar with “Massive Migraine Day”. Or “I’m Officially Broke Because I Outdid Myself Day”. Or “My Partner Is Pissed Because I Couldn’t Get A Reservation At Our Favorite Restaurant Day”.

Am I really as cynical about love as I sound? No. I just don’t believe in setting aside one day a year to celebrate it, and I don’t believe that gifts = proof of love.

-end sopbox-

With that, I leave you with a couple of Shakespeare funnies (which are all in good fun, mind you):

Ok, a few things first.

1) I am not Kristen. I am her much less erudite friend Kerry and since today is her birthday, as her gift I graciously offered to write a blog for her. I know. My generosity is overwhelming.

2) I may not be skilled at anything more than tomfoolery, but if there’s one thing I know how to survive, it’s technology. I thank my father, who demanded we build our first computer from scratch. On the kitchen table. In 1981. I’ve had at least one in front of me ever since. And have survived many a fiasco.

3) When the frustrated updates, about the new Facebook homepage started to appear in my feed, along with the countless tech site articles I subscribe to, I realized that normal people (you) do not give a crap about the “Pros and Cons” of the new layout. I immediately recognized the need for a pretentious expert (me) to find a phone booth, transform into a cape wearing, super geek hero and save you from the diabolical clutches and evil scourge of Facebook. Good luck with that.

4) Instead, you get me and I will do my best to give you a few survival tips to get you over the hump and realize that most people like the new layout. Once they figure out where the hell everything was moved.

5) I realize this blog is absurdly long. But remember, it’s not about you. It’s about me and I like to see my words in print. If you want the info, but don’t want to read it right now, here is a printer friendly version:  Print This Post

So with that said, here we go:

Tip #1

Facebook does not care about you.

Please feel free to continue updating your status with frustrated pleas for help. Join all the “I hate the new homepage” groups and fan all the “Bring back the old layout” pages. Just be aware that Facebook is not going to change back. Even if you ask nicely (or hatefully). I’m pretty sure the people who makes these decisions at Facebook spend their days hanging out in conference rooms, congratulating each other on their self-perceived brilliance and their nights shotgunning Pabst Blue Ribbon and seeing who can mix the most tequila into their Miller’s Genuine Draft beer bongs. This is what you need to come to expect from these over-financed frat boys.

Tip #2

Everything moved from the bottom, to the top and left sides.

I’m sure you’ve figured this part out. The trick is to actually click all the links. One of the first “HELP!” messages I got was, “How do I log out?” This is actually a really valid question, since they hid the button. You’re not going to break anything by clicking the Navigation buttons across the top. The “Account” link, in the top right corner, is where they hid a lot of crucial functions. Click it. See what’s there. Change all your privacy settings to Friends Only. Seriously. You have no idea what those kids are sharing with the whole world, at your expense.

Tip #3

Make lists for all your friends.

I hope you’ve heard this one before. If you haven’t, let me say it again: Make lists for all your friends. I know all the excuses. “But pretentious expert, I have SOOOOOOOO many friends and it’s gonna take SOOOOOOO long. Ugh, do I HAAAAVE TOOOO??!” No, you do not have to. But when you finally do, you’ll find Facebook to be exponentially more functional and personal. Instead of having to subject ALL your friends/family/random high school stalkers to your, “What I made for dinner,” update; you can pick your “People who care about what I had for dinner” group and save those of us who still haven’t headed out to Carl’s Jr. from having to drool on our keyboards.

In the upper right corner click:

• Account > Edit Friends
• Look on the left sidebar now and select “All Connections”
• At the top of your connections list, click “Create New List”
• Title your list “People Who Care About My Dinner” (or on a more serious note: Mafia Wars/Farmville Friends)
• Scroll through the list of your friends and click the ones who care.
• Please leave me off the MW/FV lists. Thanks.

Tip #4

Great, now that we have friends lists, what do you do with them?

Well, the lists put us in business and all your true functionality is going to come from that. Did your brand new baby just get his first bath? Did your toddler just use the potty for the first time? Did you just make yourself the bestest sammich in the whole wide world?! Or my personal favorite, Is there a Bangkok job on your wall? Awesome and let me be the first to say congratulations!! In the meantime, you can direct these updates to the specific people who will be even more enthralled than your pretentious, loud mouthed, know-it-all friends (like me).

• At the top of the homepage, click inside the “What’s on your mind?” box
• Lower right corner now has a padlock button:

• Click that button and choose “Customize”
• Under “Make this visible to:” select the “Specific People…” drop down
• Start typing the name of your specific list of people who are going to care

You see where this is going, right? Same thing works for blocking Mr. or Mrs. Comment Humping Profile Stalker who is always the first to let you know how great they think your dinner sounds. (Ya, I apologize for that too. I promise to try and tone it down.)

Tip #5

Reduce the Feed clutter.

Moving right along, we now have options to reduce the clutter of all those people whose updates you really don’t care about (i.e. pretentious internet experts).

• On the left side of the new homepage, under your profile picture, click “Friends”

A drop down appears

• Now click your group, “People whose updates I care about”

YAY! Functionality and reduced . . . crap.

Additionally, in this drop down, is the link “Status Updates.” This is for all of you who are thinking, “Ohh dude, toootally. Man, I REALLY need to make friends lists, dude.” And then you are not actually going to, but want to benefit from reduced clutter anyway. Clicking the “Status Updates” link is the lazy facebooker’s path to clarity. I realize this tip is probably the only one you are going to use, but be advised that you are going to miss all those hilarious videos and compelling articles that I post. It’s a nightmare, I know.

Tip #6

REALLY reduce the Feed clutter.

If there is one other thing I am passionate about, it’s blocking those annoying Facebook applications (i.e. ALL of them).  One way to go about this is by hovering your pointer over an annoying update. The “Hide” option will appear:

Selecting this, will either hide the person, or in the case of applications, give you the option to hide all updates from that app.

I, on the other hand, am way more anti-application than that and I take joy in sharing this passion with you.

Underneath any application update, where it states the time the item was posted, is a clickable link to take you to the application’s Profile Page.

Click that link and resist the urge to Become a Fan. I’m serious. Put down the mouse.
Under the Application’s Profile Picture is a link to “Block Application.”

My list of blocked applications is literally in the hundreds, so as I kid about application updates, please continue to play your games and take your quizzes guilt free, because it’s not annoying me in the least. Added bonus is that by “Blocking” the applications, instead of “Hiding” them, makes me invisible to the applications too. So not only can they not share my profile information with everybody and my mother, *you* can not send me invites either. Ahhh, the application silence is golden.

Tip #7

Stay organized, while still being a friend whore.

Now that we have our super cool and functional friends lists and know how to quiet the feed, be sure to stay organized as you receive all those friend requests from your admirers/stalkers, by adding them to the appropriate list, as you approve every single one of them.

This way you can look cool and popular to all your old high school “friends”, while keeping them from pulling a “Save Image As . . .” on all the hotness of the mirror pics you migrated over from MySpace.

Bonus Tip

This is for you married but “curious” folk.

I have a feeling this is going to come as a surprise to you and you’re going to have about 5 minutes after I post this blog to follow this tip, before everyone else is going to know exactly who I am talking about.

Go to Account > Application Settings

In the drop down next to “Show:” choose “Authorized”
Click the “Profile” link in the “Zoosk” column

Block this Application!
Repeat for all the other dating apps you approved . . . out of curiousity

Again, I’m very serious about this one. I know, I know. You just wanted to see which of your friends are “dating” and what the pool of losers they have to choose from, looks like. I know you are very happy in your marriage . . . because you reposted that update about having a wonderful spouse and all. So frigging block that application because it is currently showing your bright shining face on their VERY PUBLIC list of people using the “#1 dating application on Facebook.”

Again, 5 minutes after this blog goes public, every non-married person who reads this is going to go look and despite the innocence of your curiosity, you’re going to look pretty effing shady, until you follow this tip.

(Parenthetical side tip for the single people. Be gentle when you see your married friends on this list. I’m sure it was just a one time curiosity, but remember that Facebook is run by self obsessed frat boys, who made it easy to peek in on applications like this, but very difficult to remove them. Just share the link to this blog or send it in a private message. And try to refrain from tagging them all personally as you post this to your updates.)

Ok, that’s it for my New Facebook Homepage Survivor’s Tips. There is a vast amount of functionality and convenience to the update, but I think the frat boys were drunk when they rolled it out, because they forgot to a) warn anyone or b)  include any friendly user instructions. Since I know without doubt (because I know everything, of course), that I have not answered all the questions you have, please feel free to use the comments section to ask all of the emergency, “How the hell do I . . . ???” questions that are haunting you. And then share this post on Facebook, so that we can all see less dinner and poopy diaper updates. Unless you care about that sort of thing, of course.

Kerry is a pretentious, self-proclaimed expert on well, everything really. When he’s not hanging out in conference rooms, congratulating his frat boy buddies on their self-perceived brilliance, he’s shotgunning Pabst Blue Ribbon and looking for anyone who wants to compete for who can mix the most tequila into their Miller’s Genuine Draft beer bong. What’d you expect?