Sneak a peek into the life of a single, 20-something female who is not in the entertainment industry and who does not have fake breasts. Yes, we do exist. What you are about to read is based on fact and is not for the weak of stomach. You have been warned.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Purpose
Today's entry, unfortunately, is not an amusing one. I thought I'd drop the sarcasm and goofiness for a day to provoke some thoughts within all of us. This is brought on by the fact that my grandfather, one of the loves of my life, is in his final days. At 88, he's lived an amazing life, experienced the world and its wonders, had a fabulous family, and his health up until about 4 years ago. Since then, those of us who love him, have watched him slowly fade from the 6'3" muscular frame of a man to what I call a man no longer defying age. Over the last couple years, he's gone blind, suffered a massive stroke, renal failure and all the other nasty buggers that visit us in our aging state of mortality. But the impressive thing is, he's always maintained his wonderful sense of humor and loving demeanor. He is, to this day, still that same man mentally that used to raise me above him and yell, "I'm sending you to the moon" while I giggled hysterically.
But something occurred to me (that may have already occurred to you) on the cruise the other evening. After we sang Happy Birthday to crazy Simon (old man who asked me to be his girlfriend), he proceeded to tell us a story about how at 64 he underwent a triple bypass after having a massive heart attack. His prognosis was so grave following the surgery that they summoned the priest to give Simon his last rites. At this point in the story, Simon said the following: "But the Big Guy had a different plan for me. He decided that I needed to regain my health and stay here on Earth to meet more great friends and experience all that the world had to offer me. And that's exactly what I've been doing for the past 6 years - tonight being the perfect example."
I thought about that for a while, and I realized that maybe there is a reason for all that happens. Some kind of plan. And the purpose to life is to love those who love you. And enjoy all that life has to offer. For the first time in my 27 years, I began considering my own mortality and my own purpose. That story, combined with my current personal situation with losing my grandfather, and watching the annihilation of the Gulf Coast, was one of the most eye-opening experiences I've had and for that, I am incredibly grateful.
Some people go through life angry at themselves, and angry at others. And the truth is, that's not living life. I believe that in the time that I've been around, my grandpa lived his life, released his anger, and began enjoying life. Even after losing my grandma, he maintained the family bonds and found pleasure in life in those he loves. I don't know if that's how he's always been, but, I know that from that example and the examples of Simon and my parents, I want to enjoy life to it's fullest because it doesn't last forever.
Don't worry, I'm not going to start jumping out of planes and wrestling alligators. I'll stick to expensive shoes and cherishing all the great times I have with my friends and family. Because I understand now, that by doing that, life will open up to you the experiences that you were meant to experience and hopefully, in time, reveal each of our purposes in life.
I say goodbye to my grandpa through here - through you reading this. He is a man of brilliance, love, laughter, and great character. And I am thoroughly blessed to have had all this time with him and to share all the great memories we have - just him and I. I love him through and through and only wish now that he be at peace and comfortable. And when the "Big Man" (or "Big Woman" as I pointed out) is ready for him to end his journey here, that he will start a new journey that will last forever.
Love those around you. I know this sounds "duh" or "cheesy", but, it's truly how I'm feeling today. That's my challenge to you - constantly love and enjoy those around you.
The Love Boat, Exciting & New, Climb Aboard, We're Expecting You
Ahhhhh, what can I say? Other then the cruise was, well, BITCHIN'!! (Or "dreamy" for you prudes out there.) We had a truly amazing time and I have to admit that I probably put on 5 lbs. from the ridiculous amounts of booze and food consumed on our 4-day voyage. I swear, that's ALL you do all day - apparently, cruises are about one thing - GLUTTONY. And long live that!!
The weather was perfect, no one got sea sick (well at least not from the boat rocking), we met some really great people and just had a virtually perfect time. We spent most of our time out by the pool and at the on-board bars just people watching. It's amazing how bizarre and out of control people can be when they are bound by the safety of international waters, no driving, and the idea that "I'll never see any of these people again in my life". We saw it all, including a Wesley Snipes look-alike, an 80-year-old dancing machine, and lots and lots and lots of drunk people. I'm also shocked that more people don't fall overboard. I came pretty dang close a time or two in my Manolo's. See, 4-inch heels, a rocking boat, and tequila shots do NOT equal a safe walk by the deck railings. Luckily, I had a big strong, strapping, hot man to keep me safe. WAHOO.
Now, please don't get me wrong. I still managed to pull some "Rachel-esque" stunts and I always manage to attract the weirdos, but, it was all in good fun. First, there was the 70-year old mostly-deaf man named Simon who was AWESOME, but, a wee-bit pervy. In fact, I should consider myself lucky because he invited me to be his girlfriend. My response (since no one came to my rescue - they all just sat back and laughed) was, "Well, I would but I already have four and that's my max. But if one drops out, I'll definitely put you in for the running." I think it worked because I escaped unscathed with just a few hand kisses and a lot of laughs. He even wore his pajama pants to dinner one night - just for me. Wow. I'm so lucky.
Now, the most Rachel-esque evening was the second evening, which was also the formal night. So, there we were. All dressed up with only 2 decks to go. After the free champagne reception, dinner, and the "Under the Stars" party (including a plethora of tequila shots), I took a spill down the stairs (just two, though, thank goodness - AND the Manolos were not injured). Still rather embarassing when I was strutting to impress. But that's not the worst part. I guess the 6th shot of tequila just wasn't sitting well with my steak dinner and hours of dancing and I, gulp, threw up like a human freakin' geyser AT the pool and ON my date and his suit and my dress. O, now, that's HOT. Luckily, for me, no one saw except him and he quickly got me out of there, and he was laughing with me not at me (or so he says), so that made me feel better. But it was really gross and rather mortifying. Then, to put the icing on the cake, when he was tucking me into bed, I tapped him on the shoulder and said and I quote, "BS (I used his real name, don't worry), I'm going to tell you a secret. The day after we went on our first date, I told my mom that I was going to marry you." AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. At what point was that EVER a good idea to me?!?! Luckily, I passed out before I saw his reaction. But he didn't jump from the ship, and was still speaking to me in the morning, so, that's a positive sign. There was no mention of that whatsoever. So, I'm banking on the fact that the shots will end up being a positive thing for me (after causing me such ego trauma), and he won't remember "the secret". I know, you're all rolling your eyes and thinking, "Aye, Rachel." Sorry. I am what I am. And that's why you all love me.
The rest of the weekend was packed with Mr. Sexy Legs competitions, Bellyflop competitions, Pina Coladas, bad dancing (not by us, of course - after all, he IS Boot Scoot), karaoke (yup - I blew everyone away with my mad skills), more tequila shots, and a whole lot of food, and more tequila shots.
I must say that it was the best trip I've ever taken with a guy. Not only is he sweet, funny, smart, easy on the eyes, but he is also a GENTLEMAN and ROMANTIC. It's been a long time since I've used those words to describe an actual, breathing, blinking, conscious man. And, I have to say, my faith in men may have been a bit rejuventated this weekend. Let's just say this: Boot Scoot IS #1. And, tomorrow (hopefully) I'll post some pictures. And if you're lucky, maybe I'll even post one revealing his face.....keep your fingers crossed!!!
I must say that one of the best inventions of the 20th/21st century (can't remember when it started) is Ebay. Don't worry, I'm not going to bust out in song and dance (unless asked and tipped well), but I do think it's a great example of what this country is all about - pure, greedy capitalism.
Getting tickets to concerts in Southern California is like getting laid in a convent. There are 22 million people that live in Southern California and when there's only one show for 22,000 you can imagine how quickly tickets sell out. And then there's Ebay. Sweet Ebay. If you somehow manage to score tickets to a hot show, it's like you hit the jackpot. Example: I had two killer seats to the U2 show in April and the day of, I was offered $1200 for my two tickets. But, I LOVE U2 and had never seen them live, so, those bitches were staying with me. But, now, I'm really to sell. Rolling Stones tickets - center stage - bitchin', because God knows I don't want to see those corpses dancing around the stage all night. Sorry.
Unfortunately, I am super greedy Rachel and want to make some serious profit off my tickets, so my first round of Ebay was unsuccessful. No one met my astronomical "reserve" price. For those of you not familiar with Ebay jargon, when you place a "reserve" price on something, no one can snag the item for less than that price. Keeps all the low-lives away from my grub. So, I'll wait a few days (perhaps post-Love Boat) and give it another true American try.
Now, some of you may say, "Isn't that illegal?" But, let's face it. Keith and Mick and the rest of the dancing stiffs will make a katrillion dollars on the tour. I've already paid them $350 for the stinking things. Mamma needs a new pair of shoes, and I don't think they'd really mind. It's not like I'm robbing the poor or something. Just consider me the Robin Hood of Ebay. I take from the rich and give to myself - the poor and in need of new shoes.
As a sidenote, I was challenged yesterday by some co-workers to pack everything for the cruise in the MEDIUM bag in lieu of the LARGE bag. At first I was skeptical but then I accepted the challenge. And I'm proud to announce that after sitting and bouncing on the MEDIUM bag to shut it, I was successful in overcoming the challenge. What a stud.
PS: We leave on the Love Boat tomorrow and will not be returning until Monday. So, you will all have to bite your nails and fret about whether or not I'm having a great time or not. As if. While I'm gone, read the book "Skinny Dip" by Carl Hiaasen - you'll find it thoroughly amusing to put me in the lead heroine's role.......BON VOYAGE.
First things first. Can someone please explain to me why my dog, Cameron, likes to pee in one specific area of my office everytime I bring him to work? It really sucks to clean up dog pee when you're sporting a Gucci business suit with some sweet-ass Manolo Blahniks. He never does it at home - is there a special sound that the floor is releasing from that specific spot in the office that says in dog, "Cameron, pee on me"? Aye. I have to figure that one out. There is a serious paper towel shortage in the office thanks to my pet's incontinence. Bleh.
So, the packing for the love cruise (which we leave for on Friday) began last night. Why can't anything be simple with me? My friend E has officially passed the baton onto me as being the world's Queen of Overpacking. Well, excuse me! There is logic behind my madness, believe it or not. Contrary to what some of you think, it IS necessary to pack 3-4 outfit options per day, especially if you are going on a cruise where in the gift shops, all they have is beaded sweaters and tee shirts with boats on them. If I underpack or forget something, I'm screwed. I'll be wearing my bikini to dinner and I doubt that is appreciated, especially by the families and old farts. (Definitely a way to pick me up a hottie waiter on the side, though.)
Along with the outfit options, there must be the appropriate shoe selection. I've actually, being anal retentive as I am, created an outfit matrix. The matrix is a handy little tool that includes all parts of an outfit and well as overlapping parts such as accessories, undergarments, etc. etc. This is a very important step in the packing process, so you are organized and well-planned. Now, I'm sure BS will pack 5 minutes before we depart and will be decked out in jeans and a different tee-shirt every night. But, dammit, he'll appreciate my coordination and I'll be smokin'! (Not literally, Mom. I just say "no".)
So, tonight I have to go into storage and bust out the "Large" suitcase, because I have the luggage set that sits inside eachother like those little Russian weeble-looking dolls. The "Small" and "Medium" will not do for this trip. I'm going Large or I'm going home.
Wish me and my back luck as I'm sure there is a weight limit on the boat, and I'm confident that I can challenge it!
Let me go all Golden Girls meets on you for a second:
Picture it: Sunday afternoon, Venice Beach Pier - two of the girls and I were sitting on the beach discussing life and all of its puzzling enigmas, including: why do people try to push strollers on the sand (Can't I just invent a lock for strollers? Like a bike lock but not); why do really really obese people think it's ok to wear itsy bitsy items of clothing in public; and of course, I posed the question, "Have you ever seen a homeless individual sleeping in a random spot with their face covered and wondered, 'What if he's dead?' and then you poke them to make sure they're not?" That particular question was received with some blank looks and a unanimous "no". Oh, that must just be me.
After those pressing questions were resolved, we started talking on a very important topic. My friend C began telling us about a very attractive male friend of hers who was going to meet us out later. She referred to him as "the kissing bandit" because apparently, he likes to go around kissing babes and running. But, she teasingly calls him that. In reality, he's a really great guy. So, obviously, I ask C, "So, um, why don't you go for him?"
They both looked at each other and C calmly responded with, "Because when you kiss him, his upper lip disappears and you end up clanking teeth."
OH GOD NO. NOT TEETH CLANKING!
I have always had a very strong opinion about teeth clankers: If you are on a date and you clank on the first shot - we can go ahead and call it a mulligan. But, if you clank on your second shot, make like a pinata and beat it. Two people who clank during normal kissing is God's way of saying, "Nope. Move on."
I've been the victim of clanking and I was actually smart and ran away - quickly. See, one, it's uncomfortable. Two, the noise it makes radiates through your skull like nails on a chalkboard. And three, physically, let's face it. If you can't fit together kissing, well, the rest is just going to be downhill so don't bother. Clank and cut. Everyone repeat after me, "CLANK AND CUT".
Very good. Now you have all learned something very important from Auntie Rachel.And who said Sundays on the beach with Barcardi is an unproductive way of spending a day? Because of it, I just saved many a person from withering away in relationships that were never meant to be!
It's interesting when a group of people become friends and in drunken and sober states begin to give each other nicknames. Most of the time, no one outside the "circle" understands or finds the circle's nicknames amusing, but, once in a while, you have a moment of clarity (as I've pointed out before) that most people are freaks and just don't let on that nicknames are funny - and they do understand. K and I had one of those such moments on Friday.
Our friend Emily, a travel nurse, left this morning for her next life-saving assignment in Seattle. :( So, of course, we needed to have a party! And I LOVE surprise parties. I rule at pulling that crap off. So, all day on Friday, K and I ran around town and planned us a non-theme-themed surprise party. What this means is, we ran into Party City and just bought anything and everything that we found amusing and funny - which is about 1/2 the damn store. (Although, nothing in the clearance bins are EVER amusing and funny.)
So, after walking out with 48 balloons (getting those in the Ford Escape was an awesome experience), giant syringes, party favors, bobble head hats, and OF COURSE "Hello My Name Is..." nametags, we had to make out final stop at the grocery store to pick up the "custom cake". On our way, we pondered (while getting suffocated by the 48 balloons) what to write on the cake. Nothing mushy, because we're not a mushy group. Hmmmmm. And then it hit us.
Rewind.
A few months ago, a couple of us girls were out and about having a good ole' time. Somehow, and it's a little hazy now, we began referring to each other as "Em-Hole" and "Ka-Hole" and "Steph-Hole" and "Rach-Hole", etc. Basically (not that it's too hard to figure out), we all wanted to be "holes" because at the time, it was hysterical. So, the easiest way to do that was to ad the first syllable of your name to the word "hole". Genius, I tell you. So, we proceeded to run around for the last couple months IN PUBLIC referring to each other as holes. Mature, yes.
Back to present.
So, while considering our fabulous, brain science nicknames for each other, we decided to write a single line on the cake: "PEACE OUT HOLES!" It was perfect I tell you.
K and I wandered into Albertsons (the local grocery store for those of you out of state) and b-lined it to the bakery. Wouldn't you know it, an older tiny lady was behind the counter. I asked her if she could write something on a cake, but, she had to promise not to laugh at us. She replied with "I've seen it all."
So, I said, "Ok, please write 'PEACE OUT HOLES!'"
The glimmer of recognition in her eye was obvious and she busted out with the last thing we expected to hear, "ME AND MY FRIENDS USED TO CALL EACH OTHER HOLES!" Um, huh?! She lunged into her story about how her and her friends, back in the middle ages or whatever, used to call each other "holes". If was quite a moment - the generations of yesterday and today meeting and bonding over "holes". A small tear came to my eye. (Perhaps it was from K pinching the crap out of the skin on my arm to keep herself from laughing.)
After our Hallmark "Hole" Moment, we thanked her for her help and walked about 20 yards away when she yelled out, in the middle of the store at the top of her little old lungs, "BYE HOLES!!!!"
It was definitely a moment K and I will cherish in our memories forever. And only in LA would that EVER happen. I bet we could have said that we call each other "bitches and hos" and the little old Albertsons lady would say, "Me and my friends used to call each other bitches and hos!"
But, it was a moment frozen in time where the holes of the world united and walked out of Albertsons with the best going away cake EVER, which then led to the best going away party ever.
Before important blogging begins, here is the thought of the day: I never understand why in the summers I have to wear a sweater and in the winters I have to wear a wife beater. Is it THAT difficult for buildings to regulate their hot/cold systems to temperatures adequate for human beings NOT suffering from menopause or anemia? Keep the damn thermometer at 70 degrees. There. I solved it. Deep thought for the day. Now if only I could regain feeling in my feet. I believe I'm suffering from frostbite and it's 85 degrees outside.
Now, onto important things - like me and my life. Last night was a hit. I did the whole: introduce new boyfriend to best guy friend for approval or denial. We met for a great Asian-fusion dinner at a shi-shi restaurant, an actual adult double-date. I disguised the meet-and-eat as a potential client dinner since both Boot Scoot and my friend Mark are both Geek Patrol Computer Nerds - but, BS is anxious to gain Mark's company's business.
The dinner went great from moment uno. I think BS was a little nervous because he ordered Crown Royal on the rocks, but, he settled down after one (who wouldn't, right?). And it was smooth sailing from then on. Of course, in typical Rachel style, I dropped a zillion things on my lap (thank goodness for napkins and dark skirts) and knocked the table a katrillion times with my boney knees, but overall, dinner was a smashing success. [NOTE:Excelsior Cabernet from South Africa is a great wine - check it out.]
However, halfway through dinner I was mildly attacked by Mark (a man of Jewish faith) for my prior blog and comments about "Jews building the pyramids". Apparently, this is NOT great news as Mark, to make it clear to me what I said was NOT positive, gave me a very blunt analogy. "Would you run up to African Americans and say, 'Isn't it great that the slaves picked cotton?' No, Rachel, you wouldn't." SO, it is NOT great that the Jewish people were slaves during the pyramid-building time and it is not great that the Jewish individuals were made to build the pyramids. My deepest apologies to all people of the Jewish faith for being ignorant and wrongly excited. Thank you to Mark for the explanation.
ANYWHO....
Bottom line is BS received two enthusiastic thumbs up from both Mark and his girlfriend which is a HUGE plus in my book. They even made the lame-o comment that watching us was like watching an episode from the Newlywed Game Show. Blech. But, "blech" in a good way.
Meanwhile, in Charlie-land, he decided to bust out into stalker "I love you" mode on any and all voicemails that I have. Isn't that how it always is? Men: They never want you when they have you but as soon as you tell them to make like a bee and buzz off, it's met with "I love you". Like "I love you" is the relationship band-aid. Maybe some girls fall for it. But, not this girl. Too little too late, my little fish-n-chips friend - I'm smitten with a little Boot Scoot n' Boogie. (Wow. That sounds really lame.) Nice.
I think I've finally recovered from the Vegas weekend of fun and debauchery. I really needed to take yesterday to regrow braincells and such. I think I was successful. I think. Therefore I am. Yup, smart again.
So, I had a full blog entry all written and then something happened and I erased it all. And I begin again.
There are three phrases in the English language that absolutely infuriate me (and this is NOT PMS talking), in no particular order of my hateness: 1. "Whatever"; 2. "I don't give a shit" (the Brits say "I don't give a toss"); and 3. "Relax".
All three of those phrases make me go from 0 to 60 in less than 2 seconds. My ears begin to blow out steam, my head begins to explode and I want to bust out a serious roundkick onto the perpetrators head.
But let me back up a smidge to explain what caused the massive blog erase, re-write and high blood pressure.
Charlie (who continues to linger - yes, yes, I've allowed it) called me this morning AT WORK to say to me, "Ever since you got back from Vegas you've been totally different and not your normal lovely self." He continued to state that my behaviors have been "bitchy" and "short", again, "since getting back from Vegas". Now, because I have an IQ over 50, I pick up on the insinuation that something happened in Vegas that is causing me to be "bitchy" and "short" towards him. So, I clearly state, "Nothing happened in Vegas."
And then it came out. He said, and I quote, "Whatever. Relax. I don't give a toss even if something did."
[Pause for massive head explosion.] How the f- is it possible for ONE HUMAN BEING to get all three phrases into one breath?! I swear to you, the light finally went on and I DEFINITELY did not react in my "lovely self": I believe it was almost an out-of-body experience (or maybe that was the margarita at lunch).
But, my response was simple and, considering my partially-psychotic frame of mind from the use of the trio-smackdown, mature. I said, "Well, if you don't 'give a toss', then there's no purpose to this conversation." CLICK.
TWO SNAPS, SISTA'!! (Sorry, went into gay-man mode for a moment.)
Although I've never condoned or perpetuated the "click", I must say, it's awfully empowering. (Insert my evil laugh here.) It's almost as though to make a point clear to a man (particularly stubborn ones like Charlie), you have to be rude and not your "lovely self". How stupid.
I always hear men complain that "women only want bad boys" or "women only want men who treat them like shit". But, let's be honest, there's a strange, mutated gene in ALL of us (dudes and chicks alike) that enables us to be far more patient with people of the attracted sex then normal - the "pushover" gene. But, as it was made clear to me today (yes, I know I've said this before - but I mean it this time. Shut up, Mark and Will) there IS a point of no return. Or, as I've dubbed it: The Point of "Click". There's no going back on the "click". One day you just realize that there are people out there that are better for you and that the "good guy" or "good girl" is actually the one you want.
And to be honest? After everything I've done and put up with, and the use of the trio smackdown by him today, and, OF COURSE, my impending marriage to Boot Scoot:
WARNING: IF YOU ARE MY PARENTS YOU MAY NOT WANT TO READ THIS. I'M STILL A PERFECT ANGEL, BUT, SOME OF THE ACTIVITIES WE PARTICIPATED IN WERE FOR THE SAKE OF THE BLOG.
Ok, now that that's out of the way, shall I continue?
Viva Las Vegas!!!!!
Wow. Where do I start?
Vegas was fun from the moment we rolled out of Marina del Rey to the moment we pimped back in. Full of fun, adventure, new knowledge, lots of mostly-naked men and jackpots. Although the entire time was outrageous, for the sake of your eyeballs (and my fingers), I'm only going to focus in on Friday.
The trip out to Vegas (we drove) was the typical LA-Vegas drive - traffic sucked. But, with three girls raring to go, we managed to have a great time. First, we stalked two Nevada K-9 cops in their K-9 Tahoes. The first one was not-so-hot but the second one was a looker. We entertained him through traffic by dancing in our seats, writing him notes on paper such as K's phone number and "Meet Us At Wendy's" (real mature, eh?). Unfortunately, K's car is only a 4-banger. So when we hit the inclines we all had to lean forward to give the car a little more "umph" which was unsuccessful in keeping up with the V-8 K-9 Tahoes. Dang. We are still on the prowl for Nevada K-9 car #493 - so if you see him, please let us know - he didn't meet us at Wendy's.
But speaking of Wendy's, the trip got off to a great start (me and my big mouth) at a rest-stop in Barstow. After placing our order at Wendy's (we were apparently obsessed), I got a little confused as to whether we wanted it "to go" or "for here" - this is often a challenging moment when traveling in groups. While the other two had decided on "for here" I had requested "to go". When they brought my mistake to light, I said (across the restaurant, mind you): "Oh. Ok. I was just trying to save time. But, no worries. I can shove this down my throat really fast." Oops. Rachel's face goes from tan to beat red without passing "Go". The needle goes off the record and all the grungy, disgusting old men whip around to stare at me. The girls fall to the floor laughing and I just shrug my shoulders and say "Oops, inside voice." This is hour 2 of the trip.
For the remainder of the drive, we choreographed dances to Britney, gave ourselves "Vegas" names: I was Alexis, E was Britney, and K was Babs. (No one actually uses their real names in Vegas - duh.) At last, after 7 hours of traffic, we made it to Vegas. Glitz and debauchery was all around us.
K's friend was getting married on Saturday, so, we decided to show her a good time (even if she was uber-preggos) and take her out for a traditional bachelorette party. And we all know where to have those - STRIPS CLUBS. On a strong recommendation from my friend Stacy (bachelorette party planner extrodinaire) we hopped in a blue limo (compliments of the club) and rolled on over to THE OG: Olympic Garden (men upstairs/women downstairss). The moment we entered it was nothing but a feast for the eyes. As K pointed out yesterday, "THE OG was a life-altering experience." I'd have to say, the evening ranked right up there in the Top 5 best times EVER.
To keep things brief, I never ever liked male strip clubs. Something about watching them do the helicopter with their thingies just never appealed to me. But, it was different at THE OG. It was hysterically funny, sexy and overall, an empowering experience for a group of women. It was also more empowering for us because I convinced the waiter and the manager that we were famous soap opera stars, so, we received VIP treatment all the way. I wanted to make sure that my "real" name was kept a secret, so, I assured the waiter he would get a fat tip if he kept my "real" name (off my license and credit card) confidential. When he asked "What is your stage name and what are you in?" I responded with, "Due to the surroundings and the image I need to maintain, I'm going to keep that to myself." Wow. That was fun - love being a pseudo celeb! Please, no autographs - I think I may have actually said that - ha ha.
And I would like to point out that male lap dances are WAY different than female lap dances. For one, the woman receiving the dance just laughs her ass off the entire time. Two, the strippers ENCOURAGE you to touch them (although, I'm not a fan of that - afraid of the herpes and the hivs). Three, the dancers WANT you to take pictures - of anything you like. And I'll tell you what. Some of the things they "had" could take up a full camera lens - holy moly.
So, basically, we've decided that we will be having every known event (birthdays, bachelorette parties, new job parties, first of the month parties) at THE OG. We also have decided that the three of us are going to start our own "I THE OG" line of clothing and bumper stickers AND open our very own OG in LA - our parents will be so proud!!
When we finally pulled ourselves away from THE OG, we managed to tear it up throughout the strip for another two nights. On the second night, K and I even hit a mega-jackpot - or so we thought. While playing "tag team" slot machine (two people on one machine - we had a strategy), we nailed the "jackpot" - $60!!!! You would have thought that we won $1 million. We were screaming and yelling and hugging and jumping up and down. Hey - we're easily amused. We even considered taking our winnings and heading back to THE OG - since, um, have I mentioned that's our new favorite place? But we didn't. We cut our losses, ran to the cashier and demanded them to cash-out our mega-winnings. Talk about loose slots.
The remainder of the weekend was full of maturity and responsible behaviors. I even learned (since we were staying at the Luxor) that Jews built the Pyramids. I was so excited about it - I said to a bunch of people in the elevator (that were obviously not from the US): "Isn't it GREAT that Jews built the Pyramids?!" I also told our cabbies, the bartenders, bouncers, blackjack dealers - anyone I could find. All I wanted to do was share the truth. Amusing my friends was merely a bonus.
But, like all good things, the weekend came to an end. As we waved good-bye to the Luxor and THE OG and the place where one of us puked up Red Bull and Vodka, and wiped away the tears of sorrow for the memories past, we knew that is was back to the real world - Los Angeles.
After 5 hours of traffic, K pulled up (over the curb actually) to the parking lot and we tearfully embraced. We had done it: we all walked away herpes-free, semi-sober, no new tattoos, still not married, and a little delirious.
Boot Scoot is a hottie and a half, but, it cracks me up that for a Republican, he's quite a metrosexual male. Case in point - he has his hairdresser that makes housecalls. I guess you have to be a VIP for that, because when I asked her how much to come to my house and cut my hair she said "For you honey? $180." Wow. What a bargain - color not included.
Anyway, Tina, the traveling crazy Vietnamese hairdresser proved to be quite a trip. While Cameron and I sat patiently watching "Friends" and "new daddy" get his haircut, I got lectured for an hour about how wonderful BS is and what a great catch he is and if I "screw him over I will kick your ass because I am his bodyguard AND hairdresser". Um, this isn't uncomfortable, is it? I felt like I was in the Spanish inquisition (except with two Americans and a Vietnamese): "How long have you been together?" "Where did you meet this fine young man?" "Are you taking him to the airport tomorrow?" "Are you going to get married?" "How many kids do you want?" Oh my god. I'm telling you, I don't embarrass easy, but, I'm pretty sure my face was the color of my dad's face the night he found out I ran a car into a house when I was 15 - pretty red.
Luckily, Cameron had to go outside, so, him and I took a leisurely walk to get away from the crazy lady and all of her questions. Scooping up dog crap was more inviting to me than spending more time in a room with her waiting for my head to explode. On our way home, we passed Tina's car which was parked out front. As my eyes wandered down to the license plate, I noticed that her frame said, and I quote, "Fueled by Pimp Juice." I almost fell over. That's one hell of a woman to have the guts to put that on her car with a 30-year-old son. I loved her again instantly.
She finally finished with the hair "sculpting" and "trimming" and the constant line of questioning. As BS walked her out I could hear lots of talking and commotion. Apparently, she needed BS to move the Pimp Juice mobile for her since she didn't know how to de-parallel park on a hill.
Ah, Tina. Ah, Boot Scoot. Ah, Rachel.
So, if you're ever in the mood for an at-home haircut for $200 and a shot at winning 20-questions, let me know, and I'll be sure to get you Tina's VIP phone number.
For Pete's sake. Apparently, I have sparked World War III with my comments yesterday regarding men's ridiculous need to make odd noises at women from moving vehicles. I can call yo momma "fat", your girlfriend a "bitch", your dog a "rat", but lord forbid I call you out on your ridiculous antics. Give me a break, gentlemen (and I use that term sparingly).
In a non-Rachel move, I will go ahead and say one thing. I retract my push to extend the middle finger and yell profanities when exposed to a drive-by. It dawned on me, with a little conversation with male co-workers, that, like a second-grader on a jungle gym pulling your hair at recess, even adult men think that any response is a positive response. Typical "no means yes" thought process. Awesome. So, I guess, for now on, we will have to turn our heads, bite our tongues and ignore them. Will this make you stop?
Also, NO. Even if Brad Pitt drives by in his Mercedes G-Wagon (sans Angelina) with money and diamonds hanging out of his mouth, I will not be flattered if he yelps, barks, meows, or makes any other animal-ike sounds. I will also not respond. Believe it or not, most women are a tad more complex than that. Now, if he pulls over and gets out and says, "Hey beautiful, want some diamonds?" That would be a different story. Hey. Just being honest.
Although I am thrilled to see that I am touching the day-to-day lives of those of you who read the blog, I sincerely hope that you understand that unless you have tourettes, it is far better to approach a woman with a little more respect and class than by participating in the classic drive-by. Now, my friends, go find something to do.
PS: I got beeped at twice and told by a smelly homeless man that I had "a great figure" complete with a licking of the chops, yesterday while walking the dog. I give up.
Since I finalized the majority of my wedding plans yesterday, including picking out my dresses and flowers, I decided today to let that continue to sink in while I threw a very simple concept out there for you men (in particular) to think about. Kind of like coffee talk, without me feeling vaclemped - bitchy, but not vaclemped. So, let me ask this: WHY DO MEN WHISTLE, BEEP, GROWL, MAKE CLICKING NOISES WITH THEIR TONGUE AND YELL OUT THE WINDOW OF THEIR CAR WHEN A FEMALE IS WALKING ON THE SIDEWALK?
Really. What do they think is going to be accomplished? Has a woman EVER, since the beginning of time, ever turn around and say "Oh, that's hot. I want you right now big boy. Bring it." Unless the woman is getting paid to stand on the corner, no. Never.
A basic principle in human psychology is that of Operant Conditioning. In dumb-person terms, (pardon me while I put on my Freud glasses), it can be thought of as learning due to the natural consequences of our actions. MEANING (for those of you who STILL don't understand), we learn to act differently based on the results of our actions (positive v. negative). If something results in a negative outcome, you are likely to not repeat that action again. If something results in a positive outcome, you are likely to do that same activity again. (There. Thank you Rachel for that Psych 101 crash course.)
Believe it or not, I do have a point. If this theory of operant conditioning holds true, then why do men still participate in the drive-by hecklings? There are no positive results, more than likely, there are negative results - the finger, an eyeroll, etc. So are these men a special breed of man that repels basic, instinctive conditioning? In other words, how dumb can they be?
I move to end drive-by hecklings. They don't work. They are annoying, and we, the recipients of the drive-bys, do not find them flattering in the least.
So, ladies, the next time a barbarian, instinctive-conditioning-repellent drive-by artist yells or barks at you from their 45 mph moving vehicle, extend your middle finger with pride and throw in a few profanities. Perhaps if we all bond together, these sub-humans will understand that they can mark their territory just as well by peeing on a tree - at least then their behaviors would answer animal instinct.
I'm Not A Physicist But I Did Stay At A Holiday Inn Express...
Is there a law of physics that says, "When something goes wrong, everything will go to shit. And when something goes right, life is perfect"? If there's not, I would like to introduce this new law as Rachel's Law of Life.
I have far more experience with the prior part of the Law than the latter, but, I have to say. The happy stick has done smacked me straight in the noggin and I'm feeling like all the shit has turned into a pile of gold.
[WARNING: If you're not into cheesy cliches and hearts and butterflies you might just want to skip this entry - or, feel free to laugh at me and not with me for this day only.]
First, let's just say that www.craigslist.com is the bomb. I officially have a new roommate, Edison, who will be moving in at the beginning of September. He found my ad in craigslist and as soon as we met we knew we were going to be good roomies. Keys: he cooks, cleans AND has a job that makes him work 3 weekends a month. SCORE. He's also funny and I'm convinced he's the soul mate for my friend Amy. (Sorry, A.) I'm stoked. It'll be great living with someone fun and cool again. And, not paying half the rent is also a bonus. Citibank - here comes some big ass payments.
Which leads me to the next thing. To celebrate the new roommate and the upcoming cruise, I accidentally tripped and fell into the shoe department at Neiman Marcus where a very handsome salesman named Charles convinced me in less than 5 minutes to purchase a beautiful new pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy black heels. Even the soles are Italian leather. I stared at them for a solid 2 hours all weekend letting them know how much I love them. I think in return, they will treat me well.
Now onto numero 3 in the "yah me" department. I realized this weekend what an amazing group of friends I have. Granted, they are all certifiable freaks like me (please refer to previous blog about freaks), but, they are just awesome - and they constantly make me laugh. I've always known this, but, it really came to light this weekend.
Two examples. Ex. #1: While pestering my friend J-Rod (who lives across the courtyard from me) the other night about the internet, we heard a crashing sound that came from the kitchen that seemed to go on for hours. It was just smashing sound after smashing sound. What I thought was the liquor cabinet emptying its contents onto the floor (because I had just pulled out a TERRIBLE bottle of '97 Cab), actually turned out to be every plate and bowl J-Rod owned smashed to bits on the floor. My first thought was "Phew. I didn't do that." Then I was drawn to the absolutely hysterical reaction that J-Rod gave. "Huh. That's interesting." I couldn't stop laughing for about 30 minutes. I believe his cleaning lady will be fired, but, his sense of humor never wavered and I love that. It was as if J-Rod wanted that to happen so I could laugh harder than I have in a very long time. J-Rod = awesome.
Ex. #2: Drinking Bacardi and Diet Coke at the beach. What started off as a very slow weekend (due to $600 Manolo Blahnik purchase) came to a hysterically crashing end on Saturday when me and four of my girls decided to hit the beach (in the fog, mind you) and drink Bacardi and Diet Coke while heckling all the passers-by. We even coined a new term. You know those bike strollers that attach to the adult bike and you cart your kid around? We've now termed them "strap-ons". I think it's a completely appropriate term. Although, some of the parents that we were screaming "NICE STRAP-ON" were not pleased. As IF the 2-year old will know what that means. Hello? You're riding your bike in Venice next to men in thong bikinis - deal with the heckling. We had such a great time, I ended up crying at one point because I was laughing so hard. I LOVE that my friends not only GET my humor but they PERPETUATE it. What more could a girl ask for? (Except some much-needed ibuprofen the following morning.)
Well, I'll tell you what else a girl could ask for....
And you may want to take a seat for this one. I've conceded to the fact that I am going to marry Boot Scoot. Not today, not this weekend in Vegas, not even next year. But, it will happen. I just know it. He came back from London yesterday (I picked him up at the airport) and as soon as I saw him, I felt like a little girl again, sans braces, 80s bangs and nerd glasses. What I thought would be a semi-awkward moment wasn't awkward in the least. It was out of a movie perfect. And, bonus, he brought me presents. I'm not talking a shot glass or a bumper sticker, but, actual well thought-out, sweet-as-can-be presents. It seems as if I've actually met my match.
Now, some of you may be thinking, "Easy there, Charlotte (hello? character from Sex In the City)." But I've always heard people say "You just know." So, I'm saying, "I know." Now, although I threatened my mom that I was going to marry him in Vegas this weekend, I promise you that will not happen. My last name is not Spears. Plus, it's girl's weekend so boys are out of the question!!
So, I must say, after the consistent, festering piles of shit and bad luck I've had to scoop myself out of lately, it appears that the horseshoe (see? shoe.) may have actually found it's way to me - even if just for a little while. So, I'll walk around with this lame-ass smile from ear-to-ear until someone knocks it off my face.
I've intentionally been avoiding the subject of my dating life recently due to some major changes.....and, I didn't want to jinx anything. (And no, I'm NOT pregnant.) But, I've decided to come out with it. I've been seeing Boot Scoot for about a month now and although it's been a busy month with traveling and such, we're having a great time.
It's bizarre, though, because he doesn't appear to be what I call a "fixer upper", or FU (funny how that works out, eh?). Now, an FU can be described as a man (or woman if you're a gay chick or a straight dude) who has more then minor issues with emotions, maturity, finances, etc. Once you start dating them, you suffer through all their "issues" and slowly help to fix them. Once they are back on their feet and the man you always wanted them to be, they dump you on your ass and move onto the next girl who gets a perfect specimen of a man. And you're left with jackshit.
And, let's be honest, (and who knows what this says about me) I've really only dated FUs in the recent years. I've had: the broke and (bonus) in major debt (ex: running from the repo man as he rolls up to take back the car); the psycho-paranoid-jealous (ex: checking my phone records from a war zone in Afghanistan to see who I was calling); the alcoholic (this does not require additional commentary); and the perpetual fraternity boy at 28 (ex: has the entire movie of "Old School" memorized - and not just the really funny parts). Wow - I'm so proud. So is my Dad.
Just a few months ago I was thinking to myself, "Why am I the dumb chick who fixes the men? Why can't I be a smart chick who swoops in and snags the recently-fixed-by-other-dumb-chicks?" (And no, I'm not looking for comments from the peanut gallery on this one. It's a rhetorical question being used for effect.)
Is this a cycle of human suffering and gaining that has been going on since the beginning of time? Did the first cavewoman take in the first caveman after he was mauled by a woolly mammoth and after nursing him back to hairy health, did he leave her for the woman two caves down? I think so. But, on a positive note, I think karma has a role to play in it all. It's like: Buy 4 FU's Get 1 Non-FU Free.
So, maybe this time, I get one that, dare I say, doesn't need fixing - an actual NON-FU!! [NOTE: This is NOT to say that he is perfect in any way, shape or form, he is still a man.] I say this because he invited me yesterday to go with him on a 4-day Mexican cruise - his treat. Being the gentleman that he is, he even offered to get me my own stateroom. This is probably the most generous thing any man (immediate family excluded) has ever done for me, and it feels kind of great being spoiled. I think I could get used to it.
But, this doesn't mean the saga has ended. Oh no, it's only just beginning.
There is a special group of people that live in Venice/Santa Monica that I like to call the "dog people". They are similar to the children of the corn except, as far as I can tell, they don't kill people.
Until I had Cameron I didn't even know that this close-knit population even existed. But, they do. These are the people whose daily schedules are dictated by their pooches and they seem rather protective of their special club. I walk Cameron every morning at 7am (except weekends when I'm still recovering form the night before) and we generally hit the same route (I know where all the trash cans are so I don't have to carry around a bag of smelly shit with me the whole time). And after the first couple days, I realized that I was seeing the same people and the same dogs almost everyday.
But for the first week, when we'd approach one of the dog people, they would cross the street to avoid us. I double checked to make sure I was walking a miniature marshmallow and not a killer Doberman but, apparently, Cam is scarier looking then I thought. The dog people would greet each other and hang out in groups, just staring at us as we walked by. I think I even saw them do a secret handshake a couple times, but I'm not sure. I felt like I was back in Junior High wearing the imitation Converse sneakers.
But, off we'd trot, telling ourselves that we didn't want to be one of "Them". But, inside, we were dying to be. Finally, this week a gaggle of the female dog people (all with tiny dogs) remained on our side of the street. It was like an old western standoff. We walked closer, not budging this time. No one was crossing the street and we were just eyeballing each other down. As we got closer, the female dog people pulled their midget dogs closer sensing the lust for blood in Cameron's eyes (not). Then it happened. The dogs all started wagging their tails and the circle of dog people opened and I was let in. It was like being invited to sit with the cool kids at lunch. We were IN.
Apparently, there is no dress code with the dog people. They have no quams about wearing their bathrobes, pajama bottoms, curlers, etc. while taking their dogs out. So, I looked a little out of place with my matching workout outfit and designer sunglasses and lipgloss. (HEY! I thought I lived in LA?!) Tomorrow, I am thinking about chucking the workout outfits and just go out in my Carebear pajamas. I don't want the reputation within the dog people circle as the "pretentious one". Hell no. That's not how I want to roll.
Now when we walk, I feel like a diva. I just walk around shouting things like, "Hey girl!" "Hey you!" "Call me, baby!" It's good stuff. I haven't been taught the secret handshake yet, but, to be honest, when you are hanging with a bunch of people whose sole mission is to pick up dog crap, you probably want to keep the physical contact down to a minimum. Just because they dogs smell each other's butts, doesn't mean I'm down with it.
Have you spotted the dog people in your neighborhood?Beware - they are out there.
My friend Angie and I were talking today, and she posed the question: "What if men got PMS?" And I actually had to stop and think about it, because I really am fed up with the men in my life asking me "Oh, is it THAT time again?" everytime I bitch or snap. I am a WOMAN. I ALWAYS bitch and snap. And when it IS that time, the smartest thing for you to do, would to NEVER EVER ask that question to my face. And don't make the hand gestures either when you think I'm not looking. Pointing to your crotch and making the coo-coo signal only means that your penis is the size of a bird's.
So, here's some food for thought for the day: What IF men really got PMS?
The world would be a whole different place.
First of all, there would be functioning tampon machines in EVERY restroom and those little vending machines in bars. We would also be able to run to the restroom without shoving the tampon into our sleeve or back of our pants to conceal it from co-workers. In fact, co-workers would just whip them to us.
"Cramps" would be a valid excuse to call in sick. In fact, I believe if men had PMS, every employee would get off 3 days a month to sniffle and whine at home about cramps, since it's a proven fact that men have less tolerance for pain than women. Instead of "Hungry Man" TV dinners, they would introduce "Bloated Man" TV dinners with diuretic-and-aspirin-infused Salisbury steaks.
Midol would have it's own line of alcoholic beverages, like, Midolweiser; and sports would see such events as the Playtex Bowl and the Stayfree 500. Derek Jeter would be selling tampons and John Elway would be schlepping maxipads. The industry would explode. Those "Mr. Wingman" commercials would be yanked off the air because they would cause men to burst out crying instead of laughing.
And, you KNOW that, eventually, men would brag about their PMS experiences. "Dude, my flow was heavier than yours," and "I can retain twice as much water as you can." PMS could actually become a competitive sport.
There would also be an incredible drop in population growth, as men would finally understand the true meaning of "I have a headache" and "I feel fat and bloated. I don't feel sexy." Beds would have the option of separating into two separate beds for "that time" because men would just want to ball up into the fetal position and grasp the concept of "get away from me".
These are just some examples of how the world would change. Also, according to a vast number of Republicans, since women can't be president because of their "emotional times", politics would be changed forever. Does this mean that men and women (in their eyes) would finally be on the same playing field? Or do they just think that the world would come to an end due to a PMS'ing president being exposed to one of those Hallmark movies and pressing the "end of the world" nuclear buttons? Hmmmm, interesting. I see some flaws in their theories, but, who am I to say?
So, the next time someone asks you if "Is it that time of the month again?" instead of bitch slapping them, just start to think how the world would be if men got PMS. It'll hopefully make you laugh and keep you out of jail for domestic abuse.......
When the words "girl's night out" is ever brought up in conversation, do it. It always ends up being t-r-o-u-b-l-e. For whatever reason, when girls go out in larger groups (4 or more), they become extremely obnoxious and VERY brazen. It's no-holds-bars and to be honest, those are ALWAYS the greatest times. And when it's girl's night, all women regress back to age 16 - and it shows.
One of those nights occurred on Friday night. It had been a long week for me and the girls and we were ready to let loose. And, we did.... a lot. Because we ALWAYS hang out at "the square" - a local area of Venice where everyone knows your name, we decided to change it up a bit and head down to Santa Monica to see what those men were all about. See, Santa Monica men are different than Venice men. Santa Monica men are, for the most part, foreign and employed. This is versus Venice men, who, are good ole' American boys who, well, don't really care much for the long-term career track. We started at my place for some nice wine and conversation. That quickly turned into shots and more shots. Oops. Here is the "before" picture.
Now, being responsible adults, we called cabs and were whisked away 10 blocks to "Main Street". We hit two Irish pubs and threw lots of ice at strange British men (who we insisted were Irish) and scared away quite a few other men. At this point, I'm pretty sure that we were at about a 6 on the drunk n' rowdy scale. I even whipped out my best banana clip impression for the camera when I should have just been taking a nice picture with my girls. But, after wine and beer and all that good stuff, it doesn't quite happen like that. You remember banana clips.....the picture of me illustrating those bad boys should bring a tear of remembrance to your eye.
So after screaming, yelling, ice throwing and a little innocent flirting, we couldn't help ourselves and we ended up on "the square". As me, Norm, Cliff, Frazier, Sam and Woody cruised into the bar we were met by loads of our friends. At this point, the out-of-control factor gets bumped up to about a 9. Shots were flying. We were laughing and I'm pretty sure the bartender wanted to kill us. Thank god we know him, because when you know someone, "kill you" = "finds you funny". Or so we tell ourselves.
Now, when it's girl's night out, you can't just go home when the bars close. No way. You go to one of your houses and continue the party. (That ALWAYS seems like a great idea until the next morning.) So, off we skipped hand-in-hand to Ca's house, where K cooked up a plethora of grilled cheese while I decided to go to sleep in her bed. While I slept, they participated in some creative endeavors - such as phallic drawing on our guy friend's arm, and shaving one armpit of our same guy friend (but leaving the other one hairy as all hell). He is a glutton for punishment and girls on girl's night pray on that like flies on shit.
When I woke up, about 3 hours later, with my eyes stuck together and mascara down by my waist, I was refreshed and ready for a new day - in my bed. And that's exactly what I did. It was only then that I learned to thank my lucky stars that my friends didn't try any creative endeavors on me. I would NOT have been happy if I woke up with "BALLS" written on my forehead or something.
I'll tell you, though. Girl's night is by FAR the best therapy out there. So, because of that, we have decided to elongate girl's night out and take it on the road - to Vegas. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the girl's of the Westside are taking over Vegas in less then two weeks. Hold onto your hats, my friends, that's going to be one to remember.
f brilliance, love, laughter, and great character. And I am thoroughly blessed to have had all this time with him and to share all the great memories we have - just him and I. I love him through and through and only wish now that he be at peace and comfortable. And when the "Big Man" (or "Big Woman" as I pointed out) is ready for him to end his journey here, that he will start a new journey that will last forever.
