I clearly have a very successful career as a screenplay writer in my head, and now I’m also a blogger (thanks to the two people who subscribed to my blog who are not my boyfriend and my friend who was checking the sites analytics). But, if I were to choose another way to make money  – so I could holiday in the kinds of places I deserve to in my head –  I would go into juice, or candles.

Or maybe both.  Juice and candles. And then my house would always smell like the Rag & Bone stores at Christmas and my digestive system would always be as clear as a luge track at the start of the winter. You see neither of these items – candles or juice – can be purchased for fewer than eight dollars.

Let’s begin with juice. It’s like there was some kind of minimum juicing law passed. Some juicing vigilante  – highly energized because he’d only ever drunk  juiced turmeric, dandelion and collard greens  – got all the other people who make juice together.  They all did fresh pressed ginger shots together and decided that if people cannot work at Walmart for under nine dollars an hour, there’s no way they could ever sell a single juice they make for under eight. And because they were all amped from the shots, they all saw the logic in that. And all the juicers did a secret, very firm because of their healthy bones handshake and went back to pressing what little life there is out of beet leaves. And they began charging $8 and up. And guess what? You know what, because you’re reading this post while you gulp down an $8 “Beet-a-Licious” aren’t you?  Hell, I wrote it sipping on a $10 “All Hail to the Kale”.  Hail these juices we do. We lap this stuff up like pro athletes taking erythropoietin in the back alley of the Olympic Village. Bless them, the OG juicers. And we laud the benefits of juice too. “The ‘Sweet Greens’ one actually made me shit myself, ” someone once told me enthusiastically. On that note, let’s talk about candles.

Scented candles cannot be purchased for less than double digits. Again, something happened.

Someone figured out that we really want our homes to smell like citrus orchards, or eucalyptus wood fires, or a library filled with marsh scented romance novels, and we flew like moths to their glorious smelling flames. This year a scented candle holiday gift can cost you up to $500. As I said before, I make my house smell like the Rag & Bone store at Christmas all year round and I happily throw out piles of dirty smelling money to do it. It is a little ridiculous. And while I’m a fool, I am still smart enough to do the math on how much it really costs to press roots and leaves in a world where fresh produce is abundant. And how much it really costs to make wax smell like 34 Saint Germain Boulevard.  (Yes you can buy a Diptyque candle that smells like their original store in Paris. Of course I love it.  Seems I have a thing for store smells…) 

Here’s my theory though. I think the two industries – juices and candles – are in cahoots. You know, the “Sweet Greens” clears the pipes; the scented candle covers any evidence of said pipe cleaning. Think about it.

Will I stop buying juices and candles? No way. I have a loyalty card at Juice Served Here, and I will take my free juices there. Also, as a successful screenplay writer in my head, I will always reward myself for attempting to write with a long bath and a scented candle. And one day when I’m actually famous I plan to have my own candle range. It will smell like wool being pulled over your eyes with a hint of fresh pressed ginger.

I panic when I buy coffee that is not from Starbucks. It’s a deep-seated panic that jolts my heart nearly awake enough for me not to need the caffeine, but not quite enough to rip me from my somnolent haze. And the reason is three words: Tall. Grande. Venti. That’s right. Tall. Grande. Venti.

Let me explain. You see, back in the day coffee wasn’t a big deal. It was just caffeine. It had a job to do, and you got it so it could work its magic and you could make whole sentences by the time you got to work. And so you went to Starbucks. You muttered that you wanted a coffee in small, medium or large and someone repeated your order back to you with a huge smile saying Tall, Grande or Venti. And eventually this became part of your nomenclature.

And then they came. The coffee cognoscenti. The ones who pooh-poohed this proliferation of caffeination, preaching hand crafted, hand made, doubled steamed dry cappuccinos and the likes. Basically they came and small batched the shit out of coffee. Planting their flag in a pile of beans as the sommeliers of caffeine. Baristas in the high courts of coffee they turned coffee into an academic pursuit with cocoa sprinkles in a leaf shape on the top. Or maybe it’s a heart. Do academics heart things? Probably not right?

And in these hallowed spaces – these ivy leagues of coffee – you just can’t say, “I’ll have a Grande iced coffee with one pump of vanilla.” No. If you mutter a half sentence that has Tall, Grande or Venti in it, you’re pretty much throwing the book at the institution of coffee.   You’re aligning with corporate America and the downfall of all small business. You might as well call the barista a guy who makes coffee, and his finely crafted facial hair – yes I’ll say it – a beard. What you are doing is exposing yourself as someone who uses caffeine rather than someone who appreciates coffee. You might as well also tell everyone there that you drink wine from the box and not just when the screw tops are all finished.

If you’ve ever dropped a “Grande” bomb in one of these places, you’ll know exactly what I mean. You are frowned at in away that’s not about misunderstanding; it’s more of a “God is disappointed” frown. Then you are shown cups and asked to point at which one you would like, like a child who is minutes away from a time out if you don’t get it right. And then when you get your coffee you will notice there is no leaf/heart – a gentle jab really because they hate you.

So each time I wander, not fully awake, into one of these places, I fear I will be exposed for the Venti fraud that I am: a girl who just wants a cup of Joe in the morning. (Also, at the end of the day I just want a glass of wine but I’m happy with a cup too). And somehow I’m turned into a mumbling twit as I lose all words while my brain tries to navigate around those three no-no ones. I think I might have a family history of Tourette’s and pray I don’t blurt one out like a puff of the steam they are putting in the wet cap with almond milk.

I really hate that coffee has become a way to make me feel so bad about myself. That what I hold in my hand is now a sign of class, social standing, and political alignment. I mean its just caffeine. One cup and I’m as smart as the next guy. It can be delicious, crafted, double roasted, tripled foamed, but its just caffeine. Wake up and smell the Grande coffee.

*This was written using the Wi-Fi of a “fancy” coffee shop just for spite.

Why do we do it to them? Poor things. Why do we take men to spas? Why do we do couples spa weekends? Men might be down with the massage, but I can promise by the looks on their faces they are not okay with being in the spa. The only other time I’ve seen such a look of horror on any face – gentlemen forgive the analogy – is when I bathed my cat.

You see, cats are not meant to be bathed. Their tongues are made with all kinds of wiry tongue stuff, which is essentially a loofah in their mouths – handy because a good loofah is hard to find but that’s a separate conversation – so cats never need bathing by humans. Cats have bathing handled. Men, they get that same look. It’s a look that says, “Why did you bring me here to get all preened and relaxed? I’ve usually got this handled with a shower in the morning and a heavy dose of television watching in the evening, as long as its not Fashion Police or Grey’s Anatomy”.

So, why do we take men to spas? Why do we throw beige terry cloth robes over them and make them sit outnumbered by women? They are not like a shitty sofa you throw a new cover on and pretend it’s not shitty. (Forgive the analogy again gentlemen – many of you are very fine looking sofas – I am working your corner here). Do we want them to smell less like sweaty balls and more like citrus jasmine when we go down on them? Or are we so afraid to be on our own that we’d rather submerge someone into an aroma therapeutic bath of misery than brave the weekend in solitude? Or do we mistrust them so much that we’d rather have them rubbed up by someone on a massage table next to us, than think about them doing that alone?

Whatever the reason, I’m going to go ahead and say I don’t like them at the spa. Because they look so miserable. They look like they just want to go home before anyone sees them there. They stare into the middle distance; I’m sure thinking what they will tell their colleagues on Monday about the weekend, because they can’t possibly tell the truth. Like children who don’t want to see their parents having sex they look away from the women liberally letting their bodies fall out of the robes. Nope, I don’t like having them there. I like men to be men. They don’t have to be chopping wood, but they do need to be doing what they like doing. And have enough of a manly voice to say, “I’d rather chop my wood than go to spa”.

I should say, for those guys who do like it, you can stay. Because you look comfortable in your exfoliated skin. Have a nice chakra alignment rose bath, Sir. The rest of you squirming and sighing next to your girl, go home and remember you have a pair under that terry cloth robe. And to the ladies who have dragged them there: bring a friend. Or a book about the joys of solitude. Or get a cat. And leave your sourpuss dude on that covered sofa, where he belongs.

I recently had the pleasure of working in one of those start up places that give you free food all day, everyday.  This is how I reacted.  I love a bargain.  Somewhere between my Scottish roots and my six years in Amsterdam, I’ve got this thing.  But I also hate haggling, so really what I’m saying is I love free stuff.  If something is free, I take it.  Maybe that sounds normal, but I mean I take it even if I don’t need it.  And I’ll take a lot.

I have walked out of my Ob-Gyns offices with a bag full of prenatal vitamins.  I’m 45 years old.  I will not be needing prenatal vitamins.  But they’re vitamins, right?  And they’re free.  When I go to a Bliss spa I allocate an extra half hour to an hour just so I can eat the slices of cheese waiting in the lounge with whale sounds.  And the crackers.  And then take a shower after  – even though I just got scrubbed – so I can use the great free Bliss soap.  And the lotion.  And the mouthwash.  And pack my bag full of plastic combs just in case I ever decide to actually comb my hair.  And I use the Q-tips.  And I clean my contact lenses.  I basically go along the shelf and use everything.

I will wake up from the deepest sleep on a plane – having drunk the free champers – at the slightest rattle of a dining cart.  Not thirsty, not hungry, but I take what I can.  I buy cosmetics just so I can get the free samples.  Every time I’ve moved I’ve left garbage bags filled with Clinique, Dermalogica and La Mer for the homeless people in my neighborhood.  If you see a homeless person with glowing skin and super refined pores, that’s where I lived once.

So coming into a office where everything is free is really interesting for me.  For the first few days I ate everything.  Full egg and bacon breakfast.  Lunch with dessert. I drank kombucha because it was on tap.  I hate kombucha.  But free kombucha is amazingly delicious.  But then I started to miss eating cereal.  I started to miss coming home to the bits of cereal dried up in the bowl in the sink.  Getting my own coffee.  Deciding what I will eat rather than lining up to eat like a veal calf destined for slaughter.

Seeing the glee on new employees’ faces as they get shown cafe, after cafe, after cafe, I genuinely fear for all of us becoming human veal calves.  Lead to the slaughter with food, and gentle massages.  Maybe I’m older.  Maybe I just like to be in control.  Maybe I like to feel like I’ve earned my money,  and like men did back in the day, I want to walk into the saloon and put down my penny and buy my man-self a drink.  Maybe I just like going outside.  Walking away from where I am and using the free Wi-Fi at Starbucks and knicking a few packets of agave for my cereal while I’m at it.  Maybe I think if we are given everything, we will never know the joy of free.

I believe in something I call air travel amnesty. Let me ask you, if I gave you a cushioned, colored toilet seat to wear around your neck would you wear it? Would you happily put it around your neck and then walk onto a plane with it? Maybe walk through the entire plane, passed all 216 odd passengers as you go to the actual toilet seat? Stand outside the toilet, totally cool, greeting other passengers with a nod as if wearing cushioned toilet seats was as commonplace as a neck tie, or scarf, or a ruff collar in the mid-16^th century and you’re Shakespeare on plane and you need to pee. “No way!” I hear you exclaiming.

Then why is it, do you think, that people walk about airports and airplanes with that cushion for your neck – that is admittedly very useful and frequently neck-saving – but is undeniably shaped liked a toilet seat? I mean it’s easy enough to take off. It can be a pain to carry, but we do look crazy. Well, because of air travel amnesty of course.

It’s the amnesty that somehow says here we do things we would never normally do and we are magically absolved of them. Exonerated. It’s as miraculous as flight itself. This is not the only form it takes. We also slope around airport buildings in search of power outlets under the air travel amnesty rule. We sniff them out like hyenas after a kill. “Look there’s one!” and we snarl and growl at anyone who tries to get to it before us. And then we sit on a carpet and we take out our computers and we charge our stuff like the power might never come back again. Sucking every watt out until boarding time so our stuff is charged when they tell us we can’t use it. Tell me under which circumstances you would just sit on a dirty-carpeted floor gripped by some sort of post apocalyptic fear and use a power outlet, outside of an airport? Air travel amnesty, my friends.

Then there’s sleeping in airports. I’m not talking about the nodding off between layovers thing. No, I’m talking about the full up sleeping, making a bed like I’m on Venice beach with a spoon of meth, setting camp and sleeping thing. You’ve seen it. All that’s missing is the Ikea rug and the “Home Sweet Home” sign.

Is it because we are going somewhere we are not known that we allow ourselves to be shrugged of ourselves? Or is it because beyond customs, through the security tube thingy, at 50,000 feet, rules can’t possibly be the same? Or is it because at 50,000 feet, we all sleep with our mouths open next to a stranger and drool just a little so we might as well abandon all other decorum while we are at it? Maybe here in air travel world we are all truly equal, needy and strange. Hard to tell. Maybe I’ll sleep on it. On this plane. With my mouth open. Drooling on my toilet seat.

Is it just me or is everything that’s supposed to be good for your teeth impossible to open unless you use your teeth? And here begins my dentist conspiracy theory.

Take toothbrush packaging. You know, its in that hermetically sealed plastic so the hobos who live in your neighborhood can’t come into the toiletries aisle and brush their teeth and then sneak the brush back into the packaging and onto the shelf with their meth breathe stuck in the bristles. I get that. Meth breath is dangerous probably. I also get that there are things called scissors but I’ll be damned if I can EVER find them so every time I buy a new toothbrush the process goes something like this. I begin at the top thinking the plastic will peel away from the card backing. But there’s actually no obvious way “in”. They don’t mark it, thats how much they don’t care if you ever actually use this toothbrush even if you’re not a hobo. (Conspiracy theory is building…) That’s phase one.

Phase two is recognizing that the weak point is somewhere at the back in the cardboard area, but that too is triple layered and as impenetrable as Dwayne Johnson’s abs. It’s during this phase that I start ripping, and clawing with my short nails. My face also gets bunched up like I’m lifting one of Dwayne Johnson’s weights while scratching. I’m basically like a hobo trying to get into a hermetically sealed plastic package with meth in it.

Phase three is when I start using my old toothbrush like it miraculously has a sharp edge that never cut my hand off before this moment, and I bang around on the cardboard like a blind overweight mutt looking for its doggie door. I know this doesn’t work because every time I buy a new toothbrush I somehow I still do it. (Indisputable fact: toothbrushes will never open anything. Try it or take this advice for free, you’re welcome.)

Phase four is when I lean in and tear at the packaging with my teeth. And every time I do it, I confirm my own conspiracy theory – dentists are designing this packaging. Take toothpaste packaging, with the little foil seal. You can’t tear that off with your nails. It has to be with your teeth. And the package your dental floss comes in? Teeth. And the toothbrush they give you on overnight flights. It’s wrapped in plastic that can only be torn with teeth. And the little tube of toothpaste that’s attached to it with plastic. Teeth. My theory is strong. I recently had gum surgery and I left with a bottle of Vicodin in my purse, ready for all pain and a nice housewife high. When I opened the bottle of course it was sealed with the kind of seal I’d need my teeth for. Are the dentists out there hoping just to make more money as you put your enamels through the ringers, or do they just like that the little foil seal makes your teeth ache just enough to remind you they have the real power in the world? I decided to counter tat power and go and buy a pair of damn scissors. Guess what kind of packaging scissors come in? Teeth gritting sound goes here.