Lang lebend deutsch interns!

Part of our daily experience at my job is working with the interns. Interns are fun. Interns are innocent. Interns are gullible. Interns are vulnerable. Interns are fresh faces that haven't been in the industry long enough to look frazzled and have that grouchy demeanor. But dammit, interns are smart.

I've been very fortunate that my firm has employed some crazy ass interns. Each one more different from the next - but they all mesh in the environment and I love them to pieces. But, like summer camp, there's always the last day to say goodbye to your new friends.

Let me tell you about one of my favorite interns of all time who I am bidding adieu to today. His name is Niko and he's the most well-mannered German you'll ever meet. Niko and I have this agreement going that each day, I teach him slang English phrases like "How's it hanging?" (he responds, "A little to the left,") and "What's the 411 on that bitch?" and "keep that shit on the down low" and other phrases that are mostly perverted in nature. (Hey, if he's going to master the language, he has to know the dirty phrases - that's what American English is all about. None of that "bum" and "cheerio" crap like the Brits.)

In return, Niko keeps me updated with internet articles on what all those crazy Germans are doing. For example, there was the man who put out an internet ad for a person willing to be eaten - and someone responded and was cooked for lunch. Ewe. There was also the German man who was "freed" from the trunk of a car wearing nothing but some leather S&M accessories (the cops thought he was kidnapped), but then he informed them that's the way his lover transported him around town. Niko at first seemed mortified of his fellow countrymen's behaviors, but, now, from being demented by myself and my co-workers, he has learned to embrace it. (Again, I go back to recommending you embrace your inner freak. Just don't eat other people - that's foul.)

Niko has remained a good sport and even made me a phallic looking flip flop out of paper to remember him by. (Shoes and sex - he must know women well.) Of course, he was humiliated when I pointed out that it was phallicly-shaped (had to also define "phallic") and he stole it back from me and promised to make my puppy Cameron a functional set of flip flops out of rubber. Damn. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

As part of today's send off, I posed the question to him, "What are you going to miss most about the states?" After he gave me some really mature and wonderful answers (not what I was looking for, but, it was interesting to hear), I said. "I know what you're going to miss most: Women with shaved armpits." That erupted into a big office debate over whether or not European women shave their armpits (it's a VERY busy Friday here). To my dismay, I was incorrect and apparently quite ignorant. We checked several informational websites and it is confirmed that the majority of European women under 50 DO shave their armpits. Well, shit, now we have nothing on our international competition!

It's always sad to say goodbye to friends, but, it's also really great to know that you have free places to stay all over the world! Free place to stay in Germany = more money for beer. And that is a VERY important thing, my friends.

So, adios to our dear friend Niko. I will now have to begin harassing the new intern, Joe. He looks like fresh meat. But there will always only be one Niko.

.....

On a totally separate thought, since I think most of you are dying to hear this. As of 2:48 am this morning, I am officially D-U-N with Charlie. Interestingly enough, the lightbulb went off (and so did he) after I read a really great article on the pains of ambiguity in relationships. So that's it. No more grey. As Michael Jackson once said, "It's black. It's white." He never mentioned grey.

So, to start my moving on, tonight is girl's night and it should bring about some interesting reading material for Monday.......

People of the World - Band Together

I would like to officially start a campaign against that disgusting commercial for Lamisil - you know the one: where that gross little yellow bug crawls underneath the cracked and jank toenail? It honestly makes me ill everytime I watch it and because I am concerned about the future of our children, I think it should be banned from television - they do not need to grow up being afraid of their toenails - they have enough to worry about. So, let's all pull together and write to the makers of Lamisil, Novartis Pharmaceuticals, and demand a new mascot for their medication. Honestly, if your toenails are that whacked out, just amputate - and I don't need a commercial for that either. That's my deep thought for the day.

Feeling a tad cranky today. Perhaps it's because I was up all night fretting about little yellow bugs invading my freshly pedicured toenails. Who knows. I know all the men reading this are thinking, "PMS." Well, screw you! Uh oh - maybe their right. Anywho.

I was stood up last night for the second time in my quest to find a new roommate for September 1. I landed a nice lad moving out from DC to rent out the room for the month of August. As an added bonus, he has also agreed to paint my living room, kitchen, dining room AND bathroom for a six-pack of beer and a pizza. UM - AWESOME. Unfortunately, he doesn't have a job out here yet, so, I don't think he'll be able to float the whole 1/2 rent beyond August. But, if he's hot, maybe I could just make him run around with no shirt on fixing stuff around the house while I sip on mai tais. Hmmmmmm - like my own personal "John" from "Desperate Housewives" (the 18-year old gardener). Although, with my luck, it is more likely that he has three nipples and one eye. In that case, he can keep his shirt on and run around with a patch.

The whole roommate thing out here is crazy and it's beginning to give me a headache. Thank goodness the winery that I belong to (Eberle Winery - see link to the right), accidentally resent me another set of my quarterly two-bottle wine shipment so that should help. I figure I'll just slam down one of those babies and then grab one of the homeless people off the street to be my new roommate.

Speaking of roommates, my current roommate, Paul, is leaving Saturday morning to head back up north. Supposedly, his "super hot" friend, Kramer or Kraentz or something, is coming into town tonight to help him move back up to the Bay area. I will have to run out quickly after work and pick up a small fan and a flowy dress to put on so when I walk into the house I can re-enact the famous Marilyn Monroe pose with the white dress blowing up and her acting surprised. I think that will be a good introduction for sure.

Paul has been a great roommate, even if his jaw cracks everytime he chews. He's a cool dude and I will miss him. But, out with the old and in with the new!!

The Face of Sexy

Today, since nothing too exciting happened yesterday beyond work and my dog pooping out a worm (I threw up a little in my mouth) thanks to the deworming medication, I thought I'd take requests. My friend stepped in and gave me a topic to write about - him. Typical male ego, I'll tell you, but, there is a story attached that I forgot to mention.

Last weekend, while in Buffalo, I forgot to mention who saved me from puking at the wedding from one too many glasses of wine combined with shots of Southern Comfort that I was doing with my friend's mom. John #2 stepped in to save the day. While attending a stag, he willingly drove out to east bum-f to pick me up and drive me home to the safety of my parent's house where my sister was waiting for me with an everything bagel with cream cheese.

John #2 is actually #1 and I wanted to give him a shout out (that's him in the picture with BOTH his middle fingers extended - he is so suave). John receives the gold star of the day. In my opinion (and his as well), he is "the face of sexy" and completely well-rounded (um, he did not make me say that). Although he's a perv, he's happily married, a stellar friend and easy on the eyes. He also does a killer impersonation of Chewbaca from Star Wars and works as a successful financial advisor in Buffalo. As an added bonus, he also knows how to think quick on his feet. One evening, after a few drinks at a local pub, he came home and didn't have the energy to make it upstairs to his room where his wife was sleeping comfortably. But, it was a cold night in Buffalo, so what is a man to do? What else? He pulled the tablecloth off the dining room table and wrapped himself up like a taco and slept soundly on the floor until his mother-in-law, who was coming to visit, woke him up. See? Smart too.

I've often wondered why adventures follow me where ever I go. And then it dawned on me. It's not genetic. It's magnetic. My friends and I are all certifiable freaks. It has nothing to do with my family - it's my FRIENDS. IT'S ALL THEIR FAULT. But I love it. Boring friends = boring life. Freaky friends = adventures and a life filled with good times and weird shit (no pun intended from the doggie accident last night). I've known John #2 since I was 17 (if you review blog entry #2 you will remember that he broke my heart in 1995, which I've since just barely gotten over), and he is definitely one of those friends that fits in that category. Yesterday he was telling me about an eye infection he has because he was playing drunk golf and got walloped in the eyeball with a divot-thingy - only him - or me would that happen to.

So I've learned to embrace my adventures - that's kind of the point to this blog. Adventures are what make life worth living and the adventures come with your friends who also make life worth living. And family. And shoes. That is our lesson for the day, children. Well, that and deworming medication on dogs actually works, but I like the prior lesson better. Embrace your freakiness, my friends. I have embraced mine and I have also embraced yours.

PS: This blog will NOT turn into a "shout out" blog. So, John #2, you are the lucky one. Enjoy your 15 minutes of fame and to the rest of you, when I ask you for requests, don't make me write about you, no matter how much I love you!!

Putting the Foot Down - In Stilettos Of Course

Well, I gave it a shot. Today is officially my last day on match.com. Why cancel, you ask? Have you found your Prince Charming? Are you going lesbian? Nah, I'm just sick of of illiterate people emailing me without reading my profile. See, because that's what they do.

My roommate went to a bar last week where, I'm assuming, there were a lot of available ladies. He actually referred to the bar as "some serious ass soup". Although that paints a disturbing visual, I tried to not take it literally and understand this is the male version of what I refer to as a "sausage fest" or "meat market".

Match.com is definitely the virtual version of an LA Meat Market. Now, this is not to say that there aren't some decent people on there - helllloooooo? I was on there. And I was fortunate enough to meet a couple guys (Boot Scoot, primarily) that were actually interesting and what I'm looking for. But, it's incredibly annoying to ask for someone who is "purple with polka dots" and get emails from everyone and their brother who is "green with stripes". READ PEOPLE READ. I swear, I could have put "I like to eat puppies" and I still would have received the same number of emails and winks and licks and whatever else you send. So, I'm over it.

Anyway, I have my hands full between Charlie and Boot Scoot and I go out on the town enough to actually meet people in person. The email thing, although awesome for some people, just doesn't seem to be my style. I do recommend it to people who aren't as assertive and extroverted as I am, or for people who just moved to town and are looking for cool people to hang out with. I guess I have to suck it up that I'm just too damn picky (and lazy - clicking on all those emails gave me carpal tunnel in my right click finger).

Boot Scoot has recovered from his kiss of death a couple weeks ago (blood clot and knee surgery). His mother and brother were in town for the past week and I he wanted me to come say hi, so, I did. Thus, I MET THE MOTHER. I was definitely a little squeamish, but, for some reason, all mothers love me... must be the shoes. She was extremely sweet, a good mid-west mom, and I managed to only stay for 30 minutes, so, it was quite painless. But as I was backing my car out of the driveway (and into his neighbor's garbage can - oops), the estrogen kicked in and I started hyper-ventilating. What does meeting the mother mean for him? What did I get myself into? It's not like I don't like him or enjoy his company, but, holy crap - I met the mom.

Charlie is easy in this respect. His mom is 5,000 miles away. I always had the goal in mind to meet her, that would mean that Charlie really cared about me. That would be "a big step" - something to work towards.

But with Boot Scoot we went from steps to leaps and bounds virtually overnight. Everytime I think about it, I need to whip out the ole' brown paper bag (demonstrated by the random chick in the above picture - a shout out to whomever she is).

My friend told me that I'm ridiculous (no, really?) and overthinking it (me? never.) and that I should just "chill the fuck out and go with the flow" (my friends are very subtle in their opinions). Oh. Ok. Flow. Right. Flow. He only shared a womb with this woman for 9 months - nothing too major. Bag, bag, where's my bag.

Perhaps the reason I spazzed is because of the ever lingering Charlie. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with that crazy Brit. He's been all open to communication and all but I don't want to let him back in - it'll just be bad news for me. Although, since I am a glutton for punishment, I didn't give him the ole' "Cheerio" from the get-go. But, I'm working on it.

I'll tell you. Men can always sense when another man is making a move on his woman. It's like they have some bizarre sixth sense about it. Perhaps they all pee on us when we sleep like dogs do to mark their territory. Ewe, I hope not. But I am convinced that although they're not always the most observant creatures, they ALWAYS know when there's someone else in the picture.

So, do I continue to feel out the Brit-Rachel-Boot triangle? Boot Scoot is heading to London (of all damn places - as Alanis says, "Isn't it ironic?") for 10 days for work. I'm not making any crazy moves until after his return, but, at that point, I have a feeling, I will have to (gulp) establish some clear boundaries. Bag, bag, where's my bag.

I am now interviewing people to play the part that Cher played in Moonstruck where she smacked the crap out of that dude and said "Snap out of it!" I can not guarantee an Oscar for you, but, if you smack me and yell that, perhaps I will pull my head out of my ass and I will understand what needs to be done. Please send all applications to me directly at bigdumbass@superdumbass.com.

Ok, I'm off to invest in some new brown bags now, since I had garlic for lunch and breathing that back in is not enjoyable.

More to come......

Diesel Fumes In the Face and A New Love

Sorry it's been a while since the last entry. I had quite an eventful weekend - all good, of course. I hope that you are all still breathing and functioning ok without me. Put on your bifocals, this one's gonna take a few minutes to review - I'm busting at the seams here.

Let's recap some of my adventures and changes that took place this weekend, and no, I did NOT go through menopause.

My current roommate and I got this great idea that we would drive out to one of the Indian casinos for the day on Friday. He wanted to do nothing but play unadulterated blackjack and I wanted a massage and to fry in the desert sun by a luxurious resort pool while sipping mai tais. Some much-needed R &R. I even invited Charlie to join me as entertainment by the pool (sans mai tais, of course), which he gladly accepted. So we had it. Destination: Pechanga Resort & Casino in Temecula, CA (AKA: Strip Mall/Chain Restaurant Central). The idea of a casino in Temecula should have seemed like a BAD idea to me, but, apparently, the sleeping pills had taken their toll.

After a leisurely Friday morning rush-hour drive to Temecula, we arrived in style - with the hubcap popping off my roommates car and banging into the curb leading to the parking garage. Smooth. Upon entering the "resort", Charlie and I proceeded to wander around aimlessly for 15 minutes looking for the "Spa" (during which time I asked two people who I thought worked there for directions, but, they didn't. Damn those blue tooth wireless earphone thingies - they make all people wearing suits look like security). After locating the 6-room "spa" (men/women locker rooms, and four massage rooms) we waited in our robes (buck naked underneath, mind you) for another 15 minutes in the LOBBY since there was no jacuzzi, sauna, or a friggen hairdryer in the locker rooms.

I must say, both our massages were great. And do NOT ask if there were happy endings - this is a PROFESSIONAL massage at a RESORT, pervs. So, I was pretty relaxed and ready to hit the pool and pool bar. But, oops, the main pool was closed for a private party! This to me = NOT COOL. It was 100+ degrees out and I was going to catch some rays. Luckily, a shuttle could take us to the RV RESORT POOL. WOW! Lucky us.

So off Charlie and I went - to the RV RESORT POOL. I'm pretty sure at this point red flags are beating me in the head. We arrived at the pool that appeared to be a puddle. My face dropped. Obese people everywhere and everyone had their own radio - all tuned to different channels. After conning one of the local kids to let us in (we didn't have a key and security is strict at the RV RESORT POOL), we found two empty chairs next to foot dance lady and 10-month pregnant greasy-hair man. I plugged in my iPod and began to fall asleep, washing away the scene around me.

Then it happened. I felt the ground shake beneath me and I heard a giant rumble. Seconds later, thinking I was in an earthquake, I got a giant face full of diesel fuel from the house on wheels that rolled up next to me (to register for the RV RESORT), only 3 feet from my face. Unfortunately, the fumes did not knock me unconscious and there we laid for 3 hours, sucking in the various fumes from the enormous gas-guzzlers. I'm pretty sure by the end, we could tell Mobil from Chevron and so on.

Lesson learned: RV RESORT is an oxymoron.

So here go to Saturday. I woke up bright and early to go put salve on my diesel fume-burned face and race off to the Pet Adoption Fair in Brentwood. Let's just say that what I expected to be a couple tents and some animals was way off. It's Brentwood. Therefore, there was a red carpet (not sure for whom, though), a marching band (ugh) and tent upon tent of adorable animals. I wanted to take them all home but I didn't think I could fit them into the Stang (that's my pimp Mustang for those of you who don't know - ha ha).

And there he was. Cameron. The new 1/2 Maltese, 1/2 Lhapso Apso sunshine of my life. We were instant friends. It was as if the lame-ass clepto crazy psychos that stole Bo were banished from my memory. He is my new love and he has not eaten his brother, Floyd the Goldfish, as of yet. That's always a plus. My Christmas cards will feature the three of us, so, keep your eyes open.

Yesterday was spent watching the Yankees spank the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim's asses. We had some sweet nose bleed seats but it was good stuff to know that Boston lost and we won - and I was there in person to cheer them on. I bet they heard me. I bet China heard me.

But I do have to relay some observations that I made while being a spectator at the game.

1. The banger sticks (those stupid inflatable french-fry looking things that you bang together to make obnoxious noises) should be banned from the earth. They are the stupidest invention ever and if I see another pair, I will run out immediately and buy a bb gun and shoot them (or the owner).

2. Extremely obese women should ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS wear a bra. It's great that you are comfortable with your body but those things are lethal weapons and should be kept under guard.

3. 85 degree heat does NOT give you the right, as a man, to take off your shirt. I'll leave it at that.

4. Unless the number and/or player is retired, don't wear jerseys of old players that have since been traded. It's retarded and you look stupid. Wear a regular shirt. They will still give you a ticket to the game - I promise.

5. Last but not least. And some of you men will not agree with this (shocker). Women who wear Bud Light or Coors Light triangle bikinis = white trash.

So that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

More tomorrow on the roommate and dating saga - it's "a whole thing".

One, Two, Three, Four...I Love the Marine Corps!

For the past 10 hours, I've been reliving the title line over and over and over and over (you get the point) again in my head. Why, you ask? Well, let me explain. Here is why I don't ever want to live in a large apartment complex ever again: DUMB IGNORANT PEOPLE. Believe it or not, these people do exist in LA....shocking, I know.

First of all, some people I know are going to kick my ass, but, I need to preface the story with this simple fact: I stayed at Charlie's last night. Ok, the truth is out and consider me bent over for a spanking. Charlie lives in a ridiculously large apartment complex with no air conditioning (since it's on the H2O); thus, everyone sleeps with their windows and screen doors open. This, my friends, is a recipe for a sleep disaster.

I am spoiled. I live in a very quiet bungalow complex where I fall asleep each night to the hushed sounds of the Sav-On air conditioning unit and the broken fountain in the courtyard of our complex that my landlord, Jared, claims is NOT ghetto. Anyway, it's quiet, serene, and everyone is polite to their neighbors.

Not so much at Charlie's complex. Picture me: sleeping soundly with a little bit of drool enjoying a dream about sugarplums and unicorns (because, yah, that's what I dream about). All of a sudden, I am shaken out of sleep by "ONE TWO THREE FOUR I LOVE THE MARINE CORPS. ONE TWO THREE FOUR I LOVE THE MARINE CORPS." For a moment, I think that I have been beamed to Falujah, Iraq and a regimen of hot, sweaty men is running by my bed doing their march songs or whatever you call them (sorry Will). But not quite.

After picking myself up off the floor (the startling sounds of a screaming drill sergeant knocked me out of bed and flat on my face on the floor) I start scrambling around blindly (couldn't find my glasses), screaming, "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" After the man screams the same line about, oh, 50 times, we realize that it's some poor schmuck's damned alarm clock.

It is at this point that all hell breaks out in Charlie's apartment complex. Apparently at the same time Joe Blow's alarm decided to go off (er - 3:30am), the LAPD decided to do a hot pursuit by helicopter IN the complex. I know they weren't trying to turn off the alarm, but, I'm pretty sure the pilot was close enough to do just that. Then, to help me sleep even better (keep in mind the Marine clock is STILL going off), the woman upstairs' (who lives in a studio apartment, but, apparently has three separate telephones in case two go dead at the same time) phones start ringing at a level that Helen Keller could hear clearly. At this point, suicide is a viable option. Charlie is laughing hysterically, which is always a good move when you have a cranky woman laying on the floor crying. Blasted Brits.

After a solid hour of, well, basically, HELL, it all stopped. It's my understanding that someone closer to the Marine-lover (who obviously hooked up last night and didn't come home) took it upon themselves to break into his apartment and slam the dreaded alarm clock to pieces. Rock on. Also, the LAPD caught their culprit who may have been trying to escape via canoe. And, 1-900# Helen Keller decided she had worked enough for one night and put the phone to rest.

A hush fell over Charlie-land. And I.....popped an Ativan, threw a pillow over my head, told Charlie to sleep on the couch and went back to sleep.

Ironically, I slept through my alarm this morning and was late to work. Curses.

So, here are the lessons we have learned. 1.) Don't ever get an alarm clock that yells stuff at you. It's rude and annoying and we that sleep around you, hate you for getting one. 2.) If a person's alarm clock is going off and you are within ear's reach of it and they are not home to turn it off due to hook-up status, you have the right to break into their home and smash that piece of shit to pieces. 3.) If a man laughs at you while you are crying because you fell out of bed on your face and you feel like you're in the middle of a war zone, you have the right to bitch-slap him and make him sleep on the couch - with no blanket. 4.) If the LAPD decides to do a helicopter pursuit 8 feet above your roof, take matters into your own hands, go outside with a shotgun, locate whomever they are looking for and take them out yourself. You will get back to sleep faster. And finally, 4.) Sleeping pills are a gift from God.

So there you have it - my night's sleep (or lack thereof). Perhaps it was God's way of saying, "YOU DUMB ASS. DON'T SLEEP AT CHARLIE'S. YOU BROKE UP." Hmmmmm. Food for thought.

As an added bonus today, because I will not be able to update the blog until Saturday, I am giving you a link that will make you, most likely, pee your pants. This is a REAL personal listing from my girlfriend in D.C. And let me just say that she's received a number of responses and some appear to be actual men!!

http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/w4m/85915599.html

Housing Anxieties

I never knew that I lived in such a primo pad. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my house (been there over 2.5 years which is LOOOOONG in Rachel years) and I have no plans on leaving, but, I didn't realize everyone else thought my house was so bitchin'. But, apparently it is.

After living with my current temp roommate, Paul, I've decided that it can be kind of fun to have a roomie - if it's the right one. So, I put an ad on Craig's List yesterday and received over 60 responses! I should have asked for more rent! Dang. It feels like match.com for my house.

Now I have the horribly stressful duty of selecting the next person I'm going to live with - EEKS. This requires some wine and sedatives. How do I weed out the freaks? The slobs? The pervs? What if I come home some day and the new roommate is going through my underwear drawer - or worse, WEARING my panties!? Or, worse, eating them like the guy pictured above.

I've decided to live with a straight dude considering they are significantly less drama and don't take up as much closet space (I need that for my shoes) and they never want creative control over the home decoration process because everything is staying as I already have it. Also, I never have to worry about re-enacting the movie "Single White Female" - my shoes are NOT to be used as murder weapons.

I've had good luck thus far with all my male roommates, with the exception of Will who loved to throw open my bedroom door and yell "Oops, sorry!" hoping to catch a boob shot. He never did and that's why I still love him. Plus, men have tools and know how to fix stuff. And, as a single girl, that is helpful; they also take out stanky garbage. AND, usually, they have HOT FRIENDS. Score. See? I always have a purpose to everything that I do.

But this is stressful. What if I make the wrong decision? I've only interviewed two people and I already need Tums. Most everyone seems eerily normal thus far, but I KNOW that there are some serious weirdos out there.....I'm terrified of selecting the next Jeffrey Dahmer or something and then I will end up in a freezer somewhere waiting to be Rachel soup.

I actually got a few inquiries yesterday that I automatically deleted. One was from a lady who worked in an S&M lair and the other was a man who sold drugs. (He actually told me that. I was going to write back that I was in the DEA, but, didn't really want to mess with that.) I guess I'm lucky that they were so forth-coming (apparently to many hits to the head with her spank paddle and too much taste-testing of his inventory), but, they aren't the ones that make me nervous. It's the behind-the-scenes freaks that I worry about. And, again, I ask - how do you screen for that? They should make Freak Tests with multiple choice questions (I'm not big into essays):

Someone cuts you off in traffic. You:
a. Blare the horn and flick them off.
b. Ram them off the road.
c. Drive by giving them the thumbs up headbanging to Metallica.
d. Go home and cut up your roommate visualizing her as the driver.

Seriously.

This is a life-altering experience. All advice is welcome, although I know none of you want this burden on your shoulders.

Excuse me for a bit while I go throw up a little in my mouth.

Update tomorrow.....

The Rachel Strikes Back

I had the extremely disappointing experience of reading an article written by, what I'm assuming, is a very single man, one who will remain that way for a very long time. Please share in my pain. It's called, "12 Types of Women to Avoid". It is senseless, generalized crap like this that is breeds everything that is wrong with the current dating pool.

http://www.askmen.com/dating/curtsmith_100/114_dating_advice

This disillusioned, bitter Cro-magnon of a man apparently does not possess the smarts to understand a very simple concept: women NEVER EVER fall into one "category" (unless you're speaking of Anna Nicole Smith). As easy as it is to depict all the separate bits of personality that a woman CAN possess and then toss every woman into just one of those "bits", it's absolutely asinine. But, let me say, that we can do it to, just to show what a stupid theory Mr. Fitzgerald has come up with.

So, I am taking it upon myself to step out of my educated, open-minded self and throw myself into character for the sake of making a point. I, Rachel, am now going to write the rebuttal article breaking down the 12 types of "Men to Avoid". Wait, unfortunately, I don't think there are 12 types, so, I'll get as far as I can.

1. Mr. Tit: This man will do anything for you as long as you have large breasts. If you do not have large breasts, he will hang out with you until a women with large breasts comes into the picture and then it's "Sainara, mole hills." Generally, this man has an IQ of 50 or below and likes to say the word "booby" a lot. He was most likely breast fed until the age of 3.

2. Mr. Rico Suave: My friend recently went out on a blind date with "RS". According to her, he was obsessed with his Mercedes (which I'm sure was merely a C-class coupe), wore too much hair gel, wore white Italian leather shoes, and flexed his muscles at every waking moment of the insanely dull conversation revolving solely around himself. Stay away from this douche. He will eventually bend too close to an open fire and have a Michael Jackson moment with all that hairgel.

3. Mr. Eternal Teenager: This is the man whose idea of an adult date is some Irish Car Bombs and french fries at the local Irish Pub. When you enter his bedroom he has a twin-sized bed with a beer bong hanging above it, a computer with a naked or bikini-clad woman as the wallpaper in the corner and a lava lamp. Most likely this man has a college education, but, drank so much in college that he actually forgot how to function outside the fraternity house. This man will demand that you learn every word to "Old School" and will also say "booby" a lot. He will never commit since the only thing he's committed to his whole life is a pair of tennis shoes that smell to high heaven that he's had since the 9th grade.

4. Mr. Blase: This is the man that could get hit the head with a frying pan and not notice shit. He spends a lot of time in front of Play Station and most likely has minimal brain functions although he can work a TiVo like a champ. Don't date him because you can walk around naked in front of him and he won't notice and then he'll break up with you because you don't resemble the computer graphic that represents Laura Croft Tomb Raider in the video game, since she is his ideal woman.

5. Mr. Playboy: Generally, women swoon for this man. He is financially successful, semi-intelligent, handsome and likes to drop super cheese lines to the women at the Sky Bar. A real catch. He only goes for the blonde super-model types and, like Mr. Rico Suave, conversations will include incredible amounts of name-dropping and self-important anecdotes that are only 14-18% true. He will have self-serving sex with you (lasting maybe 5-8 minutes) and then he will toss you in a cab home. There's no commitment for this hot stud. Just him, his Porche and his hair plugs.

Think about how ridiculous this is? Men and women are different entities - COMPLETELY. There are definitely some people that fall into the extreme "categories", but, for the most part, we are all complete mixtures of all the bad and crazy with a decent dose of some good, credible traits. I'm not so bitter (yet) to believe that people aren't, for the most part good, unlike our dear author-friend Matthew Fitzgerald.

I am a self-proclaimed Miss Feminist, Romance, Elusive, Angry, Insecure, Bitch (for sure), Me, Turncoat, Tease and Controlling. When I'm PMSing, I'm sure there's some of the Miss Desperate and Take, but, that's what hormones can do. And, some day, I will probably end up with Mr. Pain in the Ass, Blase, Eternal Teenager, Play Boy, with a giant touch of the things that make me actually love him.

Until then, I will enjoy all the different traits of all men and Mr. Fitzgerald can go about his lonely, miserable life classifying women into his ignorant, pig-headed categories until all he is left with is his right and left hands.

WHAT YOU DO?!

Ok, I'm sober again. Like straight hair, it's hard to maintain sobriety in Buffalo, especially when it's 95 degrees with 90% humidity. That and your weight. I think I came home 50 lbs heavier from all the chicken wings and other heart-healthy treats that I ate. But, oooooh, so good. I always forget how good crispy, saucy Buffalo wings are. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

The weekend started and ended with some interesting flights on Southwest. Their commercials should say "Ding. You are free to be a freak in the air." Seriously. Since I've already mentioned the complete lack of attractive men that fly Southwest, I had the pleasure of sitting next to some interesting characters.

From LA to Las Vegas, I sat next to two very tiny, very old Asian women. Although they did not speak a word (breath of fresh air when flying), they both fell asleep within moments of take off. So, you may ask, "What's wrong with that?" And I will reply, "Nothing." But, because I'm me, small, tiny, elderly Asian women became a little adventure. See, halfway through the flight I stopped peering out my window and noticed STEAW (small tiny elderly asian woman) #1 was not moving - and, her eyes were open! Awesome. I pick the seat next to an old lady who kicks it. Her friend was head-bobbing sleeping, so, not privy to the fact that her friend had "passed over", or so I thought. Just to make sure, before hitting my "O flight attendant lady please come see the dead lady" button, I started waving my hand in front of her unblinking eyes. First few times...nothing. Then it happened. STEAW #1 grabbed my hand with cat-like speed and yelled in my face, "WHAT YOU DO?"

Me, never seeing a dead person come back to life while still buckled into their seat, which can be used as a flotation device, screamed and yelled back, "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" The asian zombie released my hand and I chugged my Southwest chardonnay. Oops. Last time I try and be a good citizen.

The second half of my flight was spent next to a semi-senile old lady who was worried because "A young, clean cut dark man, I think Iraqi, is sitting up front with a briefcase." Oh wait, she didn't whisper it either. Our troops IN Iraq probably heard her, including the man on the plane - who I think was just Italian with a tan. I proceeded to convince her that unless they were planning on taking down all the pink flamingos in Buffalo, she had nothing to worry about. Again I chugged my Southwest chardonnay and pretended to not hear her incessant babbling. No wonder her husband has a hearing aid - he has the ability to turn it OFF. Wish I had that ability.

I finally landed and proceeded to have a wonderful weekend with my family and friends. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except I ripped my dress at the wedding while busting out the running man on the dancefloor. But that's pretty typical.

My flight home to LA was normal on the first leg to Phoenix. Then I got stuck because there was a monsoon in Phoenix. HUH? Dust clouds everywhere and just my luck. I finally made it on a flight and was forced to sit next to Mr. I-Want-Everyone-On-The-Plane-To-Hear-My-Conversation - and only maybe 10% was appropriate for 90% of the passengers. By the end of the flight, I not only knew his full sexual history, salary history and political views, but I also wanted to gouge my ears out with flaming hot rods...anything to get away from the talking. I honestly don't think he stopped to take a breath the entire flight. Did I mention the "conversation" he was having was with a girl sitting two row BEHIND him? And people say I talk too much.... if only they knew.

So, now I'm home - back to LA LA Land, to the crazy life and my pink beach cruiser. But Buffalo doesn't get off that easy - I'll be back.....

Is There Another Mode of Transportation?

I pose the question: Is there another mode of transportation for going cross-country? I ask because I find that every single time I fly on a plane (which, by the way, holds over 200 people) there is never EVER a hot guy on the damn plane. WTF, batman? So, I'm thinking, there MUST be some alternate mode of transportation just for the hot men. I just need to figure out what that is. Ideas, anyone?

I'm really not going to get into how my flight out here was. Ok, fine. It was f-ing hysterical - only because the weirdest things only happen to me. And there are sooooooo many reasons, which I will get into when I'm not drunk from attending one of my best friend's weddings.

By the way, I'll have you know, I was, out of 300 people, the ONLY single woman at the wedding (under the age of 65 at least). Is that even humanly possible?! I felt like the groom was pimping me out - but, although he's a handsome dude, his "single friends" that we in attendance were Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn on radioactive material. Yet, not hot.

So, not only do the hot men NOT fly on airplanes, but, they also don't attend wedding solo. Awesome. So, where does that leave me?

More details from the trip to come...... Peace out for now, g-monies, little mamma has a headache.

I'M AN A - I'M AN A!

So, I'm off to the land of humidity and puffy hair today. But I'm thrilled because I actually get to see my mom on her actual birthday. I am a constant reminder of how complete and wonderful her life is - I mean, who wouldn't want a non-drama, calm, patient daughter like myself? I believe that she's 39 today, so, wish Judy a happy 3-9....again.

Getting to the airport should be interesting. Besides having to actually finish up some work before a leave (a very adult responsibility) I also have to go visit Boot Scoot in the hospital because since going on a date with me, he has had knee surgery, had pneumonia and was admitted into ICU, and then now is back in ICU with a blood clot in his lung. Um, what am I? The curse of the mummy? I better not end up on one of those A&E specials. I can see it now: "Cursed Women and the Men that Die for Their Love". No thanks.

After getting through with visiting blood clots (what do you say to someone with a blood clot? "Thin out soon?") I have the pleasure of figuring out how to get to the airport for free. See, this is my favorite game. This girl isn't paying $15 a day for parking - no way. Charlie is insisting that he take me but I'm not feeling that. I'm thinking of wrangling in one of the girls at work. They don't expect me to come back to them.

But, the best parts of the trip are the following:

1. Thanks to online check-in, I'M AN "A" for both my flights from LAX to Vegas and onto Buffalo. If anyone has flown Southwest, you know this is like hitting the jackpot because not only will I get a window seat (as opposed to a middle seat which all the "C" bitches end up with) but I am also guaranteed to CARRY ON MY LUGGAGE. Which, in Buffalo, saves me about 45 minutes and also guarantees that I will not have to wear my baby sister's clothes for the next three days due to my luggage taking a vacation elsewhere. Those "C" bitches almost always have to check their "carry-on" luggage because apparently, the engineers of the 747 that we fly didn't really expect people to bring clothes and stuff with them on their trips - only the lucky ones. Well, my friends, I AM one of the lucky ones.

2. I am well-stocked with Southwest drink coupons - flight passenger's gold. I'm gonna tell Betty the flight attendant to start bringing the chardonnays and not to stop until I'm sound asleep - drooling. (The drool is really just for effect, since I don't want anyone to think I actually do that in my sleep.) Free booze and perhaps a vicadin for the anxiety of crashing. If I'm going down, I'm going to enjoy it.

So here I go. Magazines? Check. Books? Check. Pink mini iPod? Check. Drink coupons and Vicadin? Check. Now I just have to find my tickets......

Ciao!

AARP

Sometimes it dawns on a person - Shit. I'm old.

Last night was one of those times for me.

I've often told people, including my therapist, that my biggest fear in life is that I grow old alone and end up being that crazy lady living with 100 cats. One day I will die of natural causes with my hair in rollers and my cats will feast on my face and when the neighbors finally find me two weeks later, half of me will be missing. Dramatic? I think so. But, hell, I know for a fact that I"m not the first 20-something, single woman in Southern California to think that. I just admit it - publicly.

Perhaps the "Shit. I'm old" thought came about because I was packing last night for my trip back home to Buffalo for one of my best friend's weddings this weekend. Interestingly enough, it's also the same weekend as our 10-Year High School Reunion. Ouch. So here I go, in my Prada shoes and Kate Spade purse, off to Buffalo to celebrate two VERY adult functions - alone. Ugh. Like a punch in the stomach. Kara is the first of my high school gang to make the leap. It's bizarre. I never really thought the day would come where my high school friends would be MARRIED and having BABIES. Dogs, yes. When they started buying houses, ok. But, marriage and kids? Stomach punch again. Now, this isn't to say that I'm not INCREDIBLY thrilled to be participating in this amazing day with a couple who could quite possibly be the cutest couple ever, but, packing up my coordinating wedding outfits (because you need one for the ceremony and one for the reception) and realizing that I was going to be one of THOSE chicks out on the dancefloor pummelling other women for a chance to touch the all-mighty wedding bouquet made me a little, well, thirsty. I went straight for the wine. And had two thoughts:

1. I don't HAVE to play "catch the bouquet". I have the option to race to the open bar and hide out there pretending I have a hearing problem and can't hear the grunts and screeches and thuds of all the dressed-up chicks hitting the floor. Instead, I CAN drink martinis in honor of the beautiful bride and groom and maintain complete dignity. My friend Angie mentioned to me last week that another option would be to change up the bouquet from flowers to a bouquet of poison ivy - that would be a hell of a laugh. But, we'll wait for our own weddings to do that one - Kara would KILL me.

2. What's so wrong with showing up alone - to either a reunion OR a wedding? It doesn't mean that I can't be a red hot sexy mamma in a great dress and great shoes enjoying my time with my friends. In fact, I'm going to convince myself and you that it's better. You don't have to worry about making an ass out of yourself in front of your date after a few dozen glasses of champagne. You can hit on all the eligible bachelors (as long as one of you "taken" friends agrees to monitor your progress, and doesn't allow you to start making out with Woody the buck-toothed midget). AND you can ALWAYS use the excuse that you're there alone because your boyfriend is "on location". It's not exactly a lie....my future boyfriend will be at an unknown location and unavailable to me (since I don't know who he is). Plus, with that, you can have the air of mystery - "Hmmm, was that HER I saw in People magazine last week with what's-his-bucket?". A well-thought out plan for sure.

But I'm still feeling old. I guess this feeling really should just be a learning experience and kickstart my couch-laying-on-staring-at-the-cellphone-waiting-for-it-to-ring ass into gear and get out there and enjoy the hell out of life and the pursuit of love.

So, I'm going to stay away from Botox this year. And I'll even admit my real age after my next birthday. But, I WILL go out this afternoon and buy some new shoes, because when you start to feel old, shop - with wine.

Watch out Buffalo, here I come.....

The Flaws

I was thinking today about what some of my girlfriends were telling me the other night during our out-of-control girl's night out and combining it with certain thoughts I've been having lately associated with my own relationship. As women, we all sound like broken records.

Now, before all the men break out into immediate applause and the wave, here's what I mean, and please note, that although the drive me crazy, I LOVE men. We will always love men (except those few women who decide to switch teams, and, then, that is just merely an extreme). But, the truth is this:

Men have two major faults: What they say, and what they do.

Think about it for a minute. How many times have you heard your best girlfriend say, "I just don't understand 'him'. He SAID he was going to come over, but he WENT to his buddy's house instead to play poker and then told me that he'd call me LATER." What she really meant to say is, "What an f-ing idiot. He said one thing (that had to do with me) but did another (that didn't) and then after he was good and drunk and sick of sucking on cigars, he'd give me a booty call." Everything else he did that day was fine. Except: what he said and what he did.

So, how can men win? Until they learn the concept of CONSISTENCY I don't think they can.

I've been thinking about it with Charlie. I adore him, I really do. After seeing him Sunday night and spending most of yesterday with him, I couldn't help but think to myself that the reason he drives me batty is because the only thing he is consistent with (with me at least) is being inconsistent. One day: "I love you." The next day: "Your name again?"

When I look at the friends of mine who have good, functional relationships (because YES they do exist), I see that the key from "his" side is pure consistency. If he says he's going to call, he calls. If he says he's going out with the boys, he goes out with the boys (and then we go out with the girls and "boo" the boys when they come in the same bar that we're hanging out at). The only thing that Charlie knows how to do which seems so prevalent (especially in the Venice Beach, CA area) with men in their 20s and 30s (and I'm sure way beyond that) say one thing but do another.

Perhaps they can take a class or a seminar in middle school, when their little pre-pubescent minds are still unscathed by beer and pot and open to learning about the emotional workings of women. Not an elective, either. A required course. "Listen, Think, Speak and Follow-Through: In That Exact Order". We, as women, can take a similar class, "How Not to Analyze Every Single Thing He Does and Says". Between the two classes, by the time relationships actually begin to grow, we may have more of a middle ground and better chance for success.

Unfortunately, I'm 20-something and there are no such classes. So, how can we fix what's wrong? Do we live with it and just accept that men and women ARE different? Or do we, oh my god, educate each other once we are in a stable and ADULT relationship. To each their own, but, I'm a fan of a little bit of both.

Now, my goal - to initiate this theory into my own life....

Viva Las Vegas - Well, Sorta

Sorry about leaving everyone in suspense. I know that you've all been clicking on the website wrought with anxiety about what "happened next". Unfortunately, I've been living out some new adventures am just now getting around to making an update - hey, don't hate the player. Hate the game.

So, let's do a quick wrap-up of the three "potentials" - Boot Scoot, Cruiser, and Joe.

Joe: Joe and I have traded some funny-ass text messages throughout the week. We missed each other in Vegas, which was fine, because, well, I'll get to that.....

Boot Scoot: ADORABLE. Went out with him Thursday night and not only is he incredibly attractive AND intelligent, but he is also goofy and seemingly sincere and a hell of a dancer. Yes, I accompanied him (after a few margaritas, as I had stated earlier) to one of those dance "clubs" where he proceeded to put on these weird black dance shoes (all the men were wearing them) and tear up the floor. I elected to not embarrass myself on the first date and hung out with Paco, the Mexican bartender wearing a cowboy hat. The dancing was actually quite incredible. Everyone was so smooth and they all new the right moves - kind of like a dance cult. Although, it was interesting. They weren't dancing to country music. It was like the two-step to Biggy Smalls and J-Lo. Go figure. Well, fast forward. BS had knee surgery on Friday and apparently it didn't go so well, so, my cowboy in dance shoes spent the weekend in the ICU and is now bed ridden for four weeks - seriously. That's just my luck. But, I agreed to bring him some soup or a candy bar or something. I dunno - what do you bring someone who is healing from knee surgery? Playboy? Anyway, I will definitely be seeing him again.

Cruiser: Very sweet guy but a TOTAL snooze and a half. I almost feel asleep in my beer while he was demonstrating how to compose music for tv shows. I guess it's a lot of "ba buuums" and other bizarre sound effects. Rock on with his badself, but, I'll be passing on a second date with Cruiser.

Charlie: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Charlie threw a fit Friday night when I didn't answer my phone and proceeded to call me over 30 times. When I finally spoke with him and alerted to him that I was in Vegas, it was like someone lit a fire under his ass. I guess men don't want the women they kick to the curb to do anything - ever. They should sit at home and watch movies and stare at their cell phones. Um, no. He threw a second fit last night when he saw me out with "the girls" having a blast. What is that all about? This whole concept of "I don't want her, but, I don't want anyone else to want her either" is d-u-m-b and incredibly selfish. Dumb and selfish - never met a man like that. (she writes with a facetious stroke) So the Charlie saga continues. Too bad he's half American so I can't have him deported. Damn those dual citizens. Pick a country, will ya?

So that's the "sausage" update as my girls Amy and Heather call it.

Vegas was a whole different adventure. Upon arriving in Vegas, my friend Gaybird picked me up. As one of my favorite people in the world, I know Gaybird and I would have a blast doing whatever in Vegas - and we went in with the hookups. We were staying with a married couple at their house, whom I've met before. Long story short because reliving it is painful. The wife, an ex-stripper and pill popping feign decided to pop some "candy" before we went to dinner and halfway through the first course at the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay the drugged up ex-nude decided to ask the waiter, and I quote, "Is it true what they say - once you go black you never go back?" Oh yah, our waiter was African-American. LUCKILY, he laughed it off and was a good sport but I came this close to tossing myself from the 43rd floor balcony to get away. After dinner we proceeded over to the lounge area where we were curtly "excused" (86'd) after only 10 minutes. I didn't even get to finish my $15 martini. So, we were home by 11:15 - IN VEGAS. I'm telling you, Gaybird and I wanted out so bad that I paid $60 extra and we took one of the first flights back to LA the next morning. Oh yah, I forgot to mention the wife's decision to share with me her "special photo album". While expecting to see wedding photos or baby photos, instead, I was treated to an album full of photos of her having, um, relations with other women. I locked my bedroom door that night. Why me? WHHHHYYYYY. Ahhh, it happens to me so I can entertain you.

Tonight I think I'm going to lock myself in my room and read a book and lay like broccoli. Thinking I'll probably turn off the phone too, although, then Charlie might break into my house. And I've already had one breaking-and-entering for the month of July.

Mullet Clarification

Due to some recent death threats, I need to make a clarification to one of my earlier postings. Not ALL people in Buffalo wear flannel and have mullets. There are a select few that are not only devastatingly beautiful (namely my friends and family) but also completely in the know when it comes to fashion. My friends ONLY wear zuba pants to snowblow the driveway. I apologize for any emotional harm this may have caused my babes in B-town. Forgive me.

Confessions from a Really Dangerous Mind - Mine

Ok, so here's the deal. For sheer research value, not to mention entertainment, I've gone ahead and entered myself on match.com. (The picture to the left is what my graphic designer told me to put up as my profile pic. Um, no.) Yes, I am venturing into the world of what I've always referred to as "geek dating". But, apparently, everyone is doing it these days. And, as someone who sucks with peer pressure, I'm giving in. I've been on it a week now since the official breakup with Charlie and I must say, I'm certainly impressed with the number of FREAKS in the greater LA area.

In less then a week, I've been "checked out" over 900 times and have received over 300 winks and emails and crap. I even received one from someone's 70-year-old grandfather in eastern Pennsylvania - SWEET. But, after sifting through the "eccentric" ones (ie, one gentleman whose screenname was "BEAM ME UP" and in his profile photo he was shooting the Star Trek gang sign - the Vulcan thing, or whatever the big-eared guy was. He was probably good for a laugh or to keep me company if I decided to stand in line for the next Star Wars movie, but, I hit the delete button immediately upon ceasing my fit of laughter), I narrowed it down to about, oh, three people within 10 miles.

Bachelor #1 we will call Joe. Joe had the balls to ask me to lunch and he proved to be a very funny, intelligent, successful, attractive person. Joe I would like to see again.

Bachelor #2 we will call Boot Scoot (BS for short - hmmm, maybe that's a hint). BS asked me out to have a drink with him last week, but, I played hard to get and now we're trying to reschedule for this evening. He's very attractive (from his photos), but, seems awfully busy and LOVES country music and dancing. And I don't know how good I look in fringe. But, we'll see. After a few margaritas, I'll be the best Boot Scootin' Boogie dancer in the land.

Bachelor #3 we will call Cruiser. Cruiser is funny as all hell (through email at least) and persistent. I finally gave in and agreed to meet him on the bike path this Sunday for a beer (don't drink and pedal - my personal specialty, but, it should not be tried at home). Not sure if aesthetically what I'm looking for, but, I'm sure he'll be a riot to hang out with. Or, maybe he'll be obnoxious and I'll toss my beer on him. No. That would be alcohol poisoning.

So, after taste testing each bachelor (um, not literally, you pervs), I will hopefully have some additional stories. At the very least I will have lots of free booze in me and that could make for a fun blog.

As a Charlie update. The wanker is getting his wisdom tooth pulled today. Can you say "karma"? He had the nerve yesterday to ask that I help him maintain his dental insurance through me. And, since I am a sucker of the nth degree, I agreed and then wanted to shoot myself in the foot - oops, already did that. That was met with a special "good night sweet dreams" phonecall which I barely remember due to the Ativan. Ahhh, sleeping pills. Sometimes I really wonder why women (particularly myself) can't just break away and tell the men that hurt them to piss off. I am currently taking applications from individuals who would like to knock me over the head with a frying pan and hopefully knock some sense into my dense noggin'.

"You are a Trouble Magnet"

One of my dearest friends, Mark, told me today that I'm "a trouble magnet". And perhaps he's right. Perhaps instead of REPELLING good luck, I attract "trouble". But, for my own peace of mind, and so my co-pay at my shrink doesn't go from $25 to $10 ($10 co-pays are for serious mental problems only), let's just say, I attract "adventures". Example.

Two weeks ago I went on craigslist and adopted a wonderful puppy who was supposedly a "rescue dog" from a very, well, zealous couple. I knew something was a little off when they brought the dog over to "visit" and they lectured me for 20 minutes on what types of dog food I should feed him. In my mind, I was thinking, "It's dog food. It's not like I'm going to run to Big Lots and buy the expired shit." Well, I absolutely adored the dog, whom I named, "Bo Duke", and proceeded to write a check and sign a contract with the adoption Nazis.

Within days of this new addition joining my miniature family, the Nazis began stalking me via phone telling me that they wanted the dog back. My reaction was always, "Um, no, you batty freaks." Bo and I would frolic on the beach - woman's true best friend. And then it happened. I went to dinner on a Friday night locking Bo in the house to gnaw on a bone or lick himself or whatever dogs do when they're alone, and when I came home 2 hours later? Bo go bye bye. Apparently, Bo grew opposable thumbs and let himself out the door, closing it behind himself because he was no where to be found. As a second miracle, the stalking ended. Coincidence? I think not.

I called LAPD. Besides laughing directly into the phone, they recommended that I go play Nancy Drew and find out if Bo was at the Nazi abode. Apparently gang murders and crack dealers are a bigger deal than my half Corgi/half Shephard mix puppy. F-ers.

So, I've given up. Last night I put the doggy bowls away in the cupboard and tonight I may move the doggy bed to a storage bin. Rachel. The girl who had a dog for 4 days. I'm just going to add this pet adventure to the ones that have come before - my goldfish who exploded and my parakeet whose beak fell off.

So, my adventures reach beyond men. Maybe I do attract trouble. Or does trouble find me? Is the glass half empty or is the glass half full? Well, if it's my wine glass? Empty.

Men: What the Hell's Wrong With Them - Part Deux

Sorry. It's been a few days. Some day I won't buy so many shoes and I'll invest in a computer at home. But until then, I leave you in suspense....more fun for me.

So let's continue with the Rachel chronicles. To date, we are up to my move to the fabulouso region that is Southern California and up until this point (2000) life has been pretty "normal" for our young heroine. But like the area itself, the dating scene changes dramatically to "odd" and "bizarre" from the moment I stepped foot in LA. From this point on, all male names will be changed not for their protection but because I'm embarrassed for the most part to admit that I've spent valuable hair-washing time with these young lads.

So, I'm in LA. "Hi LA, " I say. For the first couple weeks, I walked around aimlessly looking for not only Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and Matt Damon, but also for friends, because, oops, I left everyone I ever knew a minimum of 1,200 miles behind - including Jason. So I did what any girl would do - I went in for a bikini wax and asked the girl doing it (mid-rip) if she wanted to hang out sometime and introduce me to her friends and go hunting for dudes. She awkwardly obliged and the blossoming friendship didn't last long. The one night I went out with her she introduced me to exactly 8 crackheads, 11 cokeheads and a handful of meth-heads. Ah, they were quite a barrel of men to choose from. It was like playing "name that rehab". From that point on, I went to a different salon and began to worry that maybe good ole' Jason was not such a bad thing. His drug of choice was a Snickers bar....uh oh. But things began to change for the better once I met my girlfriend Bobbi and moved in with her. There was "Steve" the 20-year old Marine from, um, Alabama or something like that. I was over that when our first date was to the Sizzler. Next I graduated to a Marine Officer - very fancy. His name is, oh, "Bob". Bob lasted for about a year, but, then Bob went to Afghanistan (which we all appreciate as it is a courageous thing to do), but, he managed to stalk me from the desert and came home a pure bred psycho asshole, so, that was the end of Bob. At this point, I was homeless, since Bob wanted his apartment back even though our roommate liked me better (yah, you Will), so I moved back up to LA (and quit the 200-mile-per-day commute - WHAT?! I know). For the next year, I met some nice guys, some freaks, and went to dinner a lot with "Bling Bling" - a young investment banker who bought me stuff. Although that was fun, he sprinted at the word "we" and Bling Bling went bye bye. At this point, I'd had it. I was O-V-E-R all Los Angeles-based "men" (and I use that word loosely). So, I went home for Christmas to the land of men with flannel shirts and mullets and who can forget the zuba pants. Ahhhhh, Buffalo - home sweet home. Hey, at least the guys there aren't prettier then the girls - and better dressed. After a festive holiday season, I ran onto my connecting flight in Cincinnati, not very gracefully, mind you. And after smacking my head on the overhead compartment and stepping on my neighbor's shoes, I realized that Mr. Newly Flat Foot was actually pretty cute and that plane ride was the beginning of a whirlwind romance with, um, we'll call him "Michigan". Six months later I was drinking cheap wine at home crying over spilled milk and swearing off men yet again. And that actually lasted for about 6 months - dating here and there between spells of karaoke bliss. Then came "Charlie" - the one who spawned the blog. Charlie - a devastatingly handsome, charming, international wonder. Fell for him on Day 1. But after 9 months of of roller coaster, Charlie is in the midst of dropping me like the a bad habit. Which is ironic since he can't actually kick the bad habits he does have. So here I am. 27, still in LA, surrounded by freakishly large lips and breasts and not a date to be had. So now begins my next chapter - it's either going to be called "Going to the Convent", "Institutionalizing Yourself - For Dummies" or "The Quest for Mr. Right....Now". After some grieving, I'll hopefully shoot for the latter. In the meantime, my life is full of amazing bad-luck-who-the-hell-else-does-this-happen-to adventures. And you'll be able to sneak a peak into all that fun. After all, 95% of you who are reading this are "normal" and you can only live vicariously through me. Suckers. Read on....