“Your life is weird,” people like to inform me on a daily basis. It’s true, while I’ve made strides to unleash my inner basic for this autoblography – hitting up mimosa brunches, attending Moon Goddess yoga (it’s a thing), and making my ears bleed listening to Justin Bieber (sorry, Born Again Beliebers) – there seems to be some transcendental force out there… and it ensures nothing ever goes normally for me. It doesn’t help that I have questionable taste in men.
While this blog is “The Art of Being Basic,” sometimes even the most basic of bitches need a break from being basic. So this week I present to you a few absurd, unique things I’ve done the past month that are accessible to the general, basic public. Then next Wednesday you can go back to posting quotes that are falsely attributed to Marilyn Monroe and pretending your Longchamp bag isn’t hideous*.
*Sorry boo, it is. You deserve better and you know it.
1. You can race turtles
If you’re like me – and hopefully you are – Thursday evenings revolve around the apotheosis of the Shondaland TV lineup. And, like me, that latest episode of How To Get Away With Murder has skyrocketed your blood pressure (ABC does NOT care about your health, man) – so it’s time for a drink… or five. Why not celebrate at Brennan’s bar in Marina Del Rey WHERE YOU CAN ALSO RACE TURTLES? Yes, I know, the ethics are more than a bit questionable, but I’m 80% sure it’s legal.
There are official rules:
1) Don’t point at the turtles: This is when I shouted out “What are they, self-conscious?” like the obnoxious person I am. The announcer ignored me – probably a smart move. Because business integrity is so last year, Brennan’s plays it off like the turtles have stage fright in order to rake in some extra dough. How? Every time you point at the turtles you’re required to pay a fine. $10, then $20, then $50… You get the idea. And there is ALWAYS, without fail, one plastered bro in Chubbies who points. Every. Single. Round.
(When this happened during my race, I turned to the Darwin Award Recipient who couldn’t resist his drunken urges and said, “Dude, just put your hands in your pockets.”
“Whoaaaaaa,” he replied, because his remaining three brain cells never made that connection. I truly am a modern-day Mother Teresa.)
2) Don’t bend your knees when placing your turtle in the ring: Random, right? What was the point… to watch girls bend over? No way, I thought. That’s such a cheap sexist trick. They can’t be THAT transparent.
Oh, but they are, they really are. More on that later.
3) Don’t be a douchebag: No promises!
On a particular Thursday night, I was in it to win it. Not because the prizes were anything spectacular – I’ve had friends win both Frozen hair barrettes and anal beads (and like I need any more of those!) – but because I intend to sustain my 23-year streak of being the best at everything. Problem: it’s $5 cash to enter these races. Why they expected an assemblage of millennials to keep cash on them in the year 2016 was beyond me. My squad came up empty-handed, and when I asked the announcer if I could Venmo him, he failed to see the practicality in this. Old people are the worst.
I decided to shift tactics and unabashedly stood up in the middle of the bleachers.
“CAN I GET A SPONSOR?”
Somehow, a random dude in the crowd actually volunteered as tribute and agreed to pay for me – probably because he sensed an illustrious turtle-racing champion in his midst. The night continued to not go as predicted when I selected my turtle – effortlessly singling out the Usain Bolt of the bunch – and the referee pulled out his clipboard.
“Turtle name?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you naming your turtle?”
Good question. I went with my first natural reaction, which was undoubtedly what anyone would say in my situation.
“Drake.”
“…. Right.”
(It probably had to do with the fact that my phone plays Hotline Bling whenever a guy calls.)
Finally, after a few excruciating rounds of watching complete amateurs race their turtles – with utterly vanilla names like Speedy and Michaelangelo – my name was called. I leaped to my feet, wrenching off my jacket in one grand motion (and ultimately flinging it right into Hannah’s face – sorry, girl), and bulldozing randoms over to make my way to the ring. Instantly, their speakers changed the tune to blast Hotline Bling. Good God, THIS WAS MY MOMENT.
“So put your turtle-”
“Drake.”
“Yes, Drake – put him into the ring, but remember, you can’t bend your knees.”
And naturally, it was at this very moment it dawned on me that I was sporting cheap H&M leggings – of the $7 child laborer variety – that were more than a little see-through.
(Later, I turned to Hannah for the truth.
Me: So how much could people see?
Hannah: All of it.
Me: But, like-
Hannah: All of it.
Me: Damn.)
Yet I knew I couldn’t disappoint Drake – so I did the quickest bend-and-snap (shoutout to Elle Woods) the world has ever seen. Booing erupted in the background.
“That was way too fast,” the referee snapped. “Redo!”
The crowd cheered at this. You’re all a bunch of animals, I thought bitterly. IS NOTHING SACRED?
My gaze drifted downward to Drake, who was clearly both disillusioned and agitated by the immaturity of our peers.
“I’m sorry, little guy,” I whispered to him. “But we’ve got to risk it to get the biscuit. Show these bastards who’s in charge.”
So, sacrificing my final scraps of dignity (there wasn’t much left after Spring Break 2014 in Cabo), I crept down much more slowly and planted Drake’s teeny green body down among his plebeian competitors. I could feel a hundred sets of eyes thirstily zoomed in on my butt as I bent over – I mean, sure, I probably looked amazing doing it, but that didn’t make the situation any less gross. (Meanwhile, Betty Friedan rolled over in her grave.)
The referee frowned. “I saw the slightest bit of a bend in your left knee. Redo.”
THE NERVE!
I snapped my body up and twisted to him, voice low.
“Are you fucking kidding me, bro?” I hissed.
“Rules are rules.” He seemed to be enjoying this, a clear sociopath in the making.
“You’re smiling now, but just wait pal, I’ve got a sexual harassment lawsuit with your name on it.”
In a matter of three seconds, I scooped Drake up and placed him back down, unwilling to comply with this exploitative bullshit any longer. Before he could point out my poor form, I strutted back over to the bleachers, mentally flipping him and the rest of the male population off.
Ultimately, Drake didn’t win his race. I know what you’re thinking: “It was clearly rigged!” Trust me, I know. Sadly, we didn’t stand a chance against opponents who had obviously doused their turtle’s lettuce with performance enhancing drugs. Turtle racing and dirty politics truly go hand in hand.
So, in conclusion… Drake, if you’re reading this, I’ll be back for you someday.
The Art of Being Basic 