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.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Who Needs Free Will...
I had a great dinner last night with one of my girlfriends at my favorite restaurant: Chaya Venice. I found it interesting, though, that the focus of our conversation was almost completely on why we (women) stay in relationships that, well, basically suck.
I know it seems kind of deep for the blog, but, bear with me - it needs to be explored.
Out of my group of friends (be it high school, college, present, etc), I can honestly sit back and say (in so many words) to a number of them, "What the hell are you thinking? That guy sucks - you deserve someone better." And, as you all know, my friends can TOTALLY say the same. Unfortunately, as we discussed last night, there's this thing called free will that, with friends, challenges us every day.
See, because we are supposed to be adults, we are also supposed to be able to make our own positive, healthy decisions. We accept the opinions and feedback of those we trust, but in the end, it's our choice. We lay in the bed we make or whatever that saying is. And for the most part, women suck at it.
I have beautiful, talented, smart, funny, amazing friends and sometimes, with some of them (yes, some of them have found their Prince Charming), I want to shake the crap our of them (with nothing but love, of course) and tell them what to do. I want to make their decisions for them and believe you me, the feeling is mutual. There's a great "Friends" episode where Monica decides that she needs to make all of Rachel's (ironic, eh?) life decisions for her. For comedic purposes, the plan backfires, but, if you think about it, it really is a great concept.
Why can't I designate one or a small group of my friends to make all of my love life decisions? I would make the initial "selection" but then my friends would have the say. Granted, it wouldn't be as exciting for you all, but, my dating life would be much easier, healthier, and more "on point". All of ours would. It could possibly be a dating utopia. Picture it: Your friend's lame-ass boyfriend is caught making out with another chick. You tell her to leave him and she does. Wham bam thank you ma'am. Drama is over - she heals and moves on. Easy peasy.
Ahhhhh, the simplicity of it all.
But, since we can't make decisions for our friends and vice versa, we will continue to be blinded by love and lust and crap like that and will do things that make our friends want to beat us. Maybe some day all our decisions will align and we'll live happily ever after. Until then, I'll elect to wear padding so the beatings don't hurt too much.
I've done it. I've managed to get myself 86'd from a bar. This is not only unbelievable, but, also rather humiliating that it's happened at 28, not, um, 19. And it's not just any bar, but the bar that K and Charlie work at - our local "Cheers". And all it took was a whole lot of sangria, heightened holiday emotions, a couple broken glasses and a missed smack. Or as I've begun to refer to it: the tantrum heard around the world. Target: Charlie.
There's definitely no real justification for my behavior. I'm apparently 28 going on 4. I gave the "I was possessed by the devil" excise a try with no avail. "I had an epileptic seizure" also didn't fly. Neither did "That was my twin sister - I was at church". So all I was stuck with was "I was belligerent. Merry Christmas." Ahhhhh, being a belligerent drunk is always so humbling - although I've always found it kind of amusing when others do it. Guess karma is reminding me whose ass she can kick - mine.
So I call "MULLIGAN". I would like to take my Christmas Eve behavior and cash it in as my 20's mulligan. (For those of you that live under a rock, the definition is: "A golf shot not tallied against the score, granted after a poor shot.") I believe that it be necessary to have one Mulligan per decade - kind of a "get out of jail free" card (don't worry - I didn't get arrested - I don't think). Since, after all, we are human, we're allowed to make mistakes once in a while (yes, even those of us who try and be perfect). Unfortunately, my mistake was at the sacrifice of 4 innocent pint glasses, may they rest in peace (and pieces).
A few lessons have been learned here. 1.) Don't let friends drink sangria on an empty stomach; 2.) Bars should serve all drinks in plastic cups; 3.) If you're gonna make a complete ass out of yourself, at least do it in some sweet shoes - perhaps people will remember your shoes and not your drunken tantrums; and finally, 4.) If you don't laugh at yourself, you WILL cry and that makes your mascara smear and you look like a crack head, so, just laugh.
Why do people breast feed their children after they grow teeth? Why is this acceptable behavior? Doesn’t it hurt?
Not only is the idea creepy, but, it’s also extremely disturbing when it is done in a public space. I have two words: CHILD ABUSE.
Prior to my retinas being burned out due to the disgusting image of a 4-year old sucking on his mother’s hippy boob on a bench outside of Trader Joe’s, I was merely a young lassy on a quest for some $2 double-gold winning Shiraz (for those of you who don’t live in California, you might not get that – too bad) and some brandy for this weekend’s sangria.
I was literally stopped dead in my tracks like a deer in headlights. The woman was not hurting for money, as indicated by her Hermes bag. Yet, apparently, she can not afford to buy milk or, hell, even a breast pump. And the worst part? THE KID WAS WEARING A SANTA HAT. Can you say EGGNOG BUZZ KILL?
I’m all about the natural “beauty” of breastfeeding - as long as the child can not hold silverware on his own. How do you pack a lunch for your kid if he’s still breastfeeding? And I’m serious: At what point does it become categorized as sexual abuse?
I know this isn’t the most festive entry, but, it really bothered me and I hope that that if I can prevent just one inappropriate breastfeeding (IB), my holiday spirit of good doing will be quenched. So, my friends, if you know anyone who does this, stop them. I’ve dated a few guys that most likely suffered from IB due to their tell-tale behaviors of staring at every other woman’s breasts, oral fixations and weird no-boundary, Angelia-Jolie-brother-esque relationships with their mothers. And, my loves, I do not wish that upon anyone – except maybe Lindsay Lohan because she really bugs me.
Now I must go stare at the Christmas tree for a few hours and down some eggnog to get the sugar plums dancing in my head again.
That is the question this time of year – particularly when you’re in the early dating stages of a relationship (i.e., those who haven’t had the “us” talk yet). Luckily, for me, this is Charlie and my second Christmas “together” so I know for a fact I have to buy – ahhh, for once, no dilemma for me.
But I was reminded of this dating torture last night when I was playing swap-the-gifts with K. She has recently started semi-dating this dude – I say “semi-dating” because he lives 2 hours away so it’s hard to be full-on dating someone when you’re in different counties/zip codes/area codes. Anywho, when he came up this week on his way back to the east coast for and remarked, “Oh shoot. I was going to bring you a card, but I forgot.”
Her internal remark? “Oh shoot. What the hell was I going to do with a card, you moron?”
Then she realized that during her holiday shopping binge, it hadn’t even crossed her mind to buy him anything. Why is that? We can share a bed but when it comes to Christmas, that’s just too intimate?
Who decides when it and what is appropriate for gifts given over the holidays for the “in the grey” couples? You don’t want to be the girl (ahem) who goes all out for your first Christmas “together” only to have it reciprocated with nothing, nada, bupkus. That just sucks.
I wanted to explore this concept overall, and there was nothing I could find online, so I got various opinions from people I know on what constitutes the unsaid rules of dating gifts. After completing my research, here is what I found as the general rule-of-thumb top 5 hints (mom – these were not all from my brain, so don’t give me a hard time):
1. Always get a little something for the other person...that way, if they don’t get you anything, you can milk the guilt for an upgrade in the New Year. And if they do, you’re in the clear.
2. Dating gifts should NOT be too personable. You don’t know someone that well yet (you’re still “just dating”), so, for example, if you take the chance to buy someone something to wear and it’s too small, they will be forced to become bulimic since you have set unachievable standards for them in month two. If it is too small, they will become obsessed why their “bits” are too small. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
3. You obligate people to wear or display the shit you buy them for the duration of dating, especially if they do not reciprocate with a present. They must maintain this until they give you something – no matter how much they hate it.
4. Do not spend too much on a dating gift. Because then you will expect the same. And if you don’t get it, you just gave up your “pants” in the relationship. You have become their bitch.
5. If you have seen the other person naked and/or they have seen you naked more than once and sober, you are obligated to swap gifts at Christmas. If neither of the above apply, and you are not a born-again Christian, then spend your money on your friends.
6. Acceptable gifts: anything edible (really, anything.), DVDs, CDs, iTunes gift certificate, porn (ha ha – kidding. Kinda.), booze, bar paraphernalia, concert tickets, spa accessories, bongs (wow - I'm on a roll), stationary, books, etc.
7. Gifts to STAY AWAY from: appliances, clothing, anything that can be construed as jewelry, photographs, anything monographed, anything that is living, office supplies, beanie babies, creepy santa clowns covered in peppermints (still freaky), snow globes, crabs (sorry - had to say it), Nutraslim, etc.
I hope this helps some of you who are suffering with this dilemma and if not, tough shit.
I want to preface this rambling with this: Christmas is for love, giving, remembering, and all that jazz. Like Linus in Charlie Brown’s Christmas, I understand and appreciate the meaning and history of Christmas. But, as Rachel, I can’t help but bring up the issue of Business Holiday Gifts and the companies that send them – this is for the benefit of all those out there.
I’ve been in the business of gift giving for quite a while. I’ve learned over the years, that the key to good business gift giving is to offer up something unique yet useful. Unfortunately, not everyone has been privy to this information, as our table in the middle of the office proves.
Let me give a current example: I’m wondering who was at work one day and thought, “Hey, you know, instead of sending our clients nice gifts for the holiday season, let’s send them something REALLY tacky and REALLY creepy – just to set us apart from all the people sending those nice wine gift baskets…. Hmmmmm, I got it! Let’s send a Styrofoam clown/Santa/dragqueen with Italian color balloons and little peppermints stapled all over his body! It’s perfect!”
Um, no it’s not.
And who the hell approved it?! Not sure who is worse – the idea proprietor or the idea signer-offer. Both should get their corporate gift-giving privileges revoked – for good.
We’ve received it all – giant chunks of chocolate in unrecognizable shapes, sausage baskets, popcorn bins, the creepy Santa – you name it, we got it.
What ever happened to coffee mugs and gift certificates and wine? Is there a conspiracy to make office workers fat (and slightly creeped out) with bad gifts?
But I’m taking a stand. I’ve decided that next year, our office is going to send out TrimSpa or arm weights with a little note that says, “Remember us when you’re fat and bloated from all the weird, crappy, useless presents those other firms sent you. Happy Holidays!”
Sorry about being a little MIA lately. Friday, after our office holiday party, I was a little hungover and trying to justify why I was doing the running man and the pull-your-leg-behind-you dance in front of the entire office. I said one word: "SANGRIA." After that, I've been on a serious deadline. You know, work stuff. But, who needs to talk about that, right?
I did have the chance to pull myself away Sunday night and attend a Toys-4-Tots event put on by the Stuntman's Association. Charlie took me as his date. I asked him before we left if I should pad myself and make my entrance by doing a double tuck triple axel no whammy roundoff. He said "no" and apparently did not find it funny. But I did. And really, that's all that matters.
The party was held at a club on Hollywood Boulevard, which, of course, took us 20 minutes and equally as many trips around the same block to find. Come on people, put SIGNS on the door. I'm not psychic - I can't find your establishment if it's not labeled. It may be cool, but, how cool can it be if no one can find it? Anywho, we finally found it and I passed on the double axel mountain-repelling triple handspring tai kwan do entrance. Everyone was really in shape, but, I guess you have to be when you're jumping off of buildings and kicking Agent Smith's ass in the Matrix. They raked in a ton of toys for the cause which was, of course, the purpose. Dur.
As with most charity events, the highlight for the evening was the entertainment and the RAFFLE. Hell ya, raffles. Love me some raffles. And the crowned jewel for this raffle? A dog grooming appointment with a Hollywood groomer. Oh, it was going to be mine. Granted, I was in a room full of people who could kick my ass in their sleep, but, I was going to have it. I waited so patiently through all the magazine subscriptions and health insurance vouchers and then the moment came. As he called out the number that wasn't even close to either of my tickets, I felt my world falling around me. (Ok, a little dramatic.) But no one answered. So he called out another number, that, again, was no where close to mine. But the guy in front of me won. He went up and asked loudly, "Um, what did I win?" When Santa told him, he said, "But I don't have a dog!" I had to take fate into my own hands. I ran up on stage and yelled "I DO!" Before yanking it out of his hand, I remembered my manners and asked with puppy dog eyes (no pun intended), "Can I have it?" With hundreds of eyes on us (remember, we're ON STAGE), including the deer in headlights look on Charlie's face, he was forced to give it to me - or he was going to look like an ass (of course I didn't). IT WAS MINE!! (Insert evil laugh here.)
Cameron was going to get a Hollywood grooming. He was going to be a moviestar. Ahhhh, glory.
But I called this morning and the lady grooms in East Bum *$#*@, WAY north of Venice. I hadn't even heard of the town she said. So, seeing as I am in the Christmas spirit and hate driving on the 405, I offered to donate it - perhaps it's God's way of saying, "No more stealing people's raffle prizes, Rachel." Dang.
So, Cameron will continue to get his haircut in Culver City. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps this Hollywood groomer would have given him bangs or feathered sides. Ewey.
I have also learned my lesson: Stick to ye prize that thou wins in raffle and steal no other.
This past Sunday, my most awesomest friend, Mr. Jay Gibson (he wanted a serious shout out - and deserves it) made his television premier - and it wasn't on WB or the Discovery Health Channel. His television premier was on "Extreme Makeover - Home Edition" - seen here with the host of the show, Sears spokeman and megaphone-weilding motivational speaker, Ty Pennington. For those of you that live under a rock, and never have seen the show - get out more. He was selected as the Project Manager due to his serious management skills and astonishing good looks. As an added bonus he even got placement on Page 37 of last week's TV Guide (yes - the new, FULL SIZE edition). I am honored and pleased to have his cell AND home numbers in my phonebook and for those of you who want autographed photos, send $150 in Neiman Marcus gift certificates and I'll see to it that he makes one out to you personally - but these are not to be sold on Ebay - he's too hot for Ebay. I feel that a star is born......watch out Hollywood - Jaybird's on the loose!
I'm feeling a little "under the weather" today, so, I'll spare you my whining and complaining about how I don't feel well. (For those of you who get the pleasure of seeing me in person - I won't spare you - bring me soup.) But I will throw out one deep thought for the day.
Who was it that woke up one morning and said to themself, "Hey, you know what will look really hot? I think I'm going to put on my Los Angeles Clippers sleeveless mesh jersey with a sweet tee-shirt underneath. I think the ladies will go wild."
I swear, living here makes me want to throw up during basketball season (maybe that's why I don't physically feel well) since we don't just have one professional basketball team but TWO - lucky us. Let's talk about the great jersey debate. If you decide to attend a game in person, fine. Knock your socks off. Wear your favorite player's jersey. But for God's sake, it should not be a staple in your wardrobe. You can not wear it to the mall. You can not wear it grocery shopping. You can not wear it at a restaurant (unless it's Ponderosa because I guarantee you won't be the only one wearing one). You CAN wear it to the gym - if you insist and you don't have fat rolls hanging out of the area that lacks sleeves.
Look people. Just say "no". Do you think Shaq rolls around with his jersey? No. It's made to be worn on the court and that's it. End of story. If you want to show team spirit, get a big foam finger or perhaps, I don't know, A HAT. But PLEASE send the sleeveless jerseys to wherever the zuba balloon pants went to.
All we wanted to do last night was see some dudes prance around in crazy makeup and awesome costumes and just be glamorous. We also wanted the $2 margaritas and mai tais, but, that was just collateral damage.
We were thinking last week: "Hmmmmm. Where can we take a 5-month preggo lady on her birthday? Somewhere she won't feel fat or out of place....Hmmmmm." DRAG SHOW! So, after some researching and asking around we came up with the perfect place in West Hollywood. Because I'm dissing the joint and want free stuff out of their "mess up" last night, I won't disclose their name. (Let's just say it rhymes with "Hickys" - except, with an "M".) We gathered up the usual suspects and dragged their butts out of the comfort of Venice/Marina del Rey and off to where "the stars dine" - the Formosa Cafe. The food there rocks my world, and it's always entertaining to play "name that headshot". We got a little confused with one headshot in particular. Who we originally identified as "Olivia Newton John" was really Julie from the "Love Boat" (I have no idea what her actual name is). We also found it mildly ironic that Laura Flynn Boyle's heashot was in the restaurant. I mean, does LRB even eat? After dinner we drove "all the way" into the heart of West Hollywood to go to the-bar-that-shall-not-be-named only to find a sign posted on the window that said, "Closed for a private party." I almost kicked some pretty drag queen ass. Instead, we accepted defeat - made a pact that we would return the following Monday and headed back to home.
As my little head lay on my soft 600-thread sheet-clad pillow, I had visions of drag queens dancing in my head. Unfortunately, it's going to have to wait until next week. Bitches.
'Tis the season for a little culture up in this bitch. That's my motto. For a group of girls that rarely venture outside of the greater Venice/Marina del Rey area, we took an oath last week that we would do at LEAST one new thing every week.
Unfortunately for you guys, I am too lazy to use my internet at home on the weekends so you have some catching up to do with this girl.
Thursdayy was an elegant evening at the Disney Concert Hall with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. The place is an amazing venue and for $10 a ticket, you can't go wrong. The evening was complete with old men falling asleep, recorders (yes, the kind you played "Hot Crossed Buns" on in elementary school) and tuba tampons (they put this thing in the tuba to muffle the sound, and I couldn't help myself but to tag it a tuba tampon - doubt that's the technical name for it - if you know a tubaist, please let me know). All in all, good times. And you walk away feeling enriched with culture. Ahhhhhhhh.
Friday night I had to put on my toothy and charming face and some sweet duds as I was invited to a client's holiday party in Bev Hills. Can you say "open bar" and "yummy free food"? Because I can. Although the majority of the attendees were nipped and tucked and peroxided (except for my table which was obviously the 'cool table'), the free flowing wine and purple hooter shots more than made up for it. We made good friends with Ming, the bartender and in return, Ming got Stacey, myself and some additional co-workers rather intoxicated at our client's expense. (Hey, what's the holiday season for? Giving. We were giving Ming business.) From there we stumbled down to the Venice square where I proceeded to get my face slammed in a restroom door by a very impolite female co-pee-er. I was not a happy camper. When the urge came over me to hit her back in the face with the door, I knew my evening had come to an end. I dismissed myself and called Mr. Taxi to take my toothy, charming and tipsy butt home. (Don't drink and drive, kids.)
I was rudely awakened early Saturday morning by K with the reminder that we had to go to some charity something or other in Hollywood - and we had to look nice. Awesome. I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and got ready, not really knowing what I was getting myself into. We ended up at a very interesting event to help Hurricane Katrina survivors at, you guessed it, the Magic Castle. (Huh? you say) The Magic Castle (http://www.magiccastle.com) is the official "home of the academy of arts" and it is an elite club and actual castle in Hollywood. I had never seen an actual magic trick in person (my elementary school magic kit does not count) so it ended up being quite interesting. As an added bonus, we got to see George Castanza (aka: Jason Alexander) and some dude from the show "Crossing Jordan". The magicians were all different. But my favorite was this dude, Jason Latimer. He reminded me of a young version of what's-his-bucket in Vegas - Danny Gans. Equally as much makeup and equally as well-choreographed. He shock his groove thing like a Polaroid picture through the whole performance. Engaging, really. I gave him a couple shout outs. We completed the afternoon by actively stalking Jason Alexander for K's stepfather, with no avail. Instead, we got lost in the castle and got trampled by old people racing to the next "up close and personal" magic show. I sincerely think that the Magic Castle needed to help make some dang manners appear. (Do old people get ruder with age or is it just me?) Like Lucky Charms, I definitely felt magically delicious as we bid adieu to the M.C. Now, who else (besides the people I was with) can say they spent Saturday afternoon watching magic shows for charity. I'm willing to bet not very many.
I had the unfortunate pleasure yesterday of reading an article on MSN called: "Why I hate the Holidays" (http://msn.match.com/msn/article.aspx?articleid=5381&menuid=6&lid=429). I was so furious by the end of the article that I couldn't help but bring it up to all of you today. Apparently, it is written by the most insecure, whiny and pathetic woman in the world, aka: Anna David. This "Hollywood-based sex and relationship columnist" should be forced to live on an deserted island by herself with no outside contact to the rest of the world so that she doesn't ruin any one else's life. She should be ashamed and let me give you a quick review of why SHE SUCKS. (You may want to read the article first before I get into it. Put your barf bag within reach.)
Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to respond to her, point for point (Anna will be in brown, like crap, and I will, as always respond in purple) and explain why her thinking is completely needy, neurotic and, a disgrace to the female species. Hold onto your hats, people. Little Anna is about to get herself a serious Rachel ass-kicking.
1.There's no one to assure me that I'm not fat after I inhale the entire plate of chocolate chip cookies/box of truffles/foil-wrapped Santa.YOU ARE FAT. You are FAT FAT FAT and you're not going to find a single person (male or female) that will assure you that you're not. Get outside and off your fat ass, yowhinyey piece of garbage.
2. Since I have no date for the office Christmas party, I get stuck talking to the most socially awkward person there. The reason you have no date is because you are apparently talking to yourself. Get out there, you freak. Hire a date, I don't care, just stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get drunk, make an ass out of yourself, dance like Elaine in Seinfeld and I guarantee you'll have a good time date or no date. Dates are overrated, anyway - they keep you from hitting on the hottie bartenders.
3. The long lines and bumper-to-bumper traffic feel like a whole lot more work than they did when I had a boyfriend. Two words: ONLINE SHOPPING. Or, God forbid, you go shopping with friends and be social. PS: No wonder you're single - you make your boyfriends scarves. What are you, their mom? Freak.
4. My Âholiday spirit runs unfettered. What "holiday spirit"? You obviously don't have any. The holidays are the best time of the year with FAMILY AND FRIENDS (remember them you pathetic piece of trash?). Men just sit around, fart and drink beer at the holidays. They don't give a crap about your cookies - and by the way, you think those "several hundred winks and leers" were at you, but, they weren't. I was standing behind you with my girlfriends toasting good times with some seriously spiked eggnog. They were winking at us, not you.
5. Having to answer the infamous ÂWho are you seeing now? queries from random relatives. They are referring to which shrink you are seeing. They know no man wants to see you on a personal level. You are D-E-S-P-E-R-A-T-E. They may be "random relatives" but they're not dumb.
6. New YearÂs Eve. Midnight. Who the hell actually remembers midnight on New Year's Eve? Start drinking early and you won't have to fret. Kiss you girlfriend for god's sake. Do that, and you might actually have a male date next time.
This article was truly eye opening for me. It actually had the opposite effect on me than I think Little Miss Desperation wanted it to have. It made me feel great that I am not a pathetic, pessimistic, boring, inswiny, whiny, neurotic FREAK (ok, maybe neurotic, but, in a fun way). I'm disgusted that this woman writes for publications like Playboy and Razor. There is nothing about her attitude that any decent man would find even remotely appealing - unless of course, you live in the 1950s. I wonder why she didn't tell us to don poodle skirts too, while we were at it.
If anyone knows, MISS (most likely permanently) Anna David, tell her to quit giving strong, single females a bad name and switch shrinks, get out there, stop eating bon bons by the box and cause some trouble. For the love of God.
PS: I copied the MSN Dating and Personals editorial department with this. Hopefully it'll knock some sense into them and make them more responsible for the crap that they publish.
I've been hit on by lots of different people in my time. That doesn't make me a hottie - it just makes me female. It's a fact. Females get hit on 86% more then men (ok - I made that up, but, I bet I'm close). Anyway, back to the point at hand. I've been hit on by a variety of men (and women) in my time, but, I'm pretty sure that this morning took the taco.
My new thing lately is to stroll Cameron down by the ocean because now that all the crazy tourists have gone home, I can walk him down there without being trampled. Plus, it's a longer walk then our usual, and I'm kicking it up a notch to get rid of the giant ass (in case you forgot). Anywhosits, every morning has been pretty normal. A bunch of people running, rollerblading, the usual. I get heckled by some homeless individuals, but, that's just par for the course. But this morning was a whole different course.
Immediately upon hitting the beach area, I was accosted by a flock of seagulls (not the 80s music group). After dodging the flying toilets, as I like to call them, and the "birds" moment had passed, I counted my blessings that both Cameron and I made it out "poop free".
We continued along on our stroll and as we approached the boardwalk, I felt like someone was approaching us from behind. Figuring that it was just a dork-walker (those power walkers) or such, I pulled it over to let them pass. But when I did I heard a booming voice from above, and it wasn't God. "You walk down here often?" is what I heard. When I turned around and looked up I realized that it was really happening. I was being hit on by a man in stilts. YES. STILTS. He was actually quite normal looking and was casually sipping on a cup of Starbucks coffee, but he was wearing STILTS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THE MAN WAS HITTING ON ME WEARING STILTS AT 6:30 IN THE MORNING?! I turned UP to him and said, "Yes I do. Do you ever wear regular shoes?" He looked at me rather curiously - like he didn't know what I was talking about. Then he said it, "Well, maybe we could have coffee." Silence. How the hell do you respond to something like that? What I wanted to say was, "Sure. Let me run home and throw on my stilts and we'll do coffee." Unfortunately what came out was, "That's sweet, but I'm late for work. Enjoy your walk....thing." Unbelievable.
When we finally hit our street, and I thought we were in the clear from circus freaks and such I heard, "Hare Krishna pretty lady!!" (Should have saw it coming. After all, I was walking by the HK temple.) The friendly greeting then became a serenade. By three of them. I HAD THREE HARE KRISHNAS SERENADING ME IN THEIR PINK ROBES. Oh my God. (No pun intended.) I quickly threw a smile and began to sprint home and out of Wonderland.
All I needed to complete my morning was the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat. Good grief. As I've said, so many times before: ONLY IN LA.
Let me tell you why some men are morons (and here I may or may not be referring to BS - ok, I am):
1. They underestimate the female brain (specifically, Rachel's brain). 2. They say shit they don't mean because they're too damn wimpy to say the truth ("I'm so busy with work that I just don't think I can have a full-time relationship until things there settle down.") 3. They forget your birthday, only to call two days later and say, "Sorry I'm a day late." 4. They continue to call and email even after you have decided to not see each other anymore (I call this the Finger Dance, which I'll explain in a moment). 5. THEY GO BACK ON MATCH.COM WHERE WE MET IN THE FIRST PLACE.
Ahem.
One of the most discouraging moments in our dating lives is when we meet a "great" guy and after some time, they prove themselves to be "just like the rest of them". Now, in no way am I saying ALL guys are like this, but, I know for a fact, every single woman has said at some point or another - "I just really thought he was different." I just happened to say it on my BLOG. BS (amazing how that was his nickname from the get-go - I should have taken that as a hint) is one such person.
The other day, AFTER he began emailing me and calling me again, I decided to see if he had put himself back on match.com - call it a hunch. Sure enough, I signed on as a guest (since I've retired from there) and there he was. Boot Scootin' his way into the hearts of other So Cal sweethearts with his sweet profile and dashing good looks. I had to laugh. How could he even think for a moment that I wasn't going to find out? Mr. I-Have-No-Time really should have been Mr. I'm-Going-To-Look-For-Something-Better. Unbelievable. Hey, at least I got a cruise out of the situation.
My favorite part of the situation is the Finger Dance. This is when a guy continues to keep his finger on your pulse because he doesn't want to totally break free in case there isn't something better out there. So he'll call/email/text you sporadically just to let you know that he's still thinking of you and give you a hint that you shouldn't be looking elsewhere (even though he is - hello? match.com). Some women fall for it, thinking, "he's just confused - he'll come around - I mean, he's still thinking of me". NO. I used to think that way too, but, now I just find it amusing and to be honest, d-e-s-p-e-r-a-t-e. Finger Dance = BAD. Don't condone it - don't do it. It's lame and I rate it an F-. Just never underestimate the brain of a female. We're paranoid, neurotic and lack certain boundaries - we're going to figure you out.
So, as we all knew a couple months ago (but it just continues to get verification), he wasn't the kind of guy I thought he was. He wasn't "different".
And as a sidenote, to add insult to injury, I got the "I want you back" speech from Midget Matt this past weekend. I mean, come on....two years later? It never ceases to amaze me - when it rains, it pours - the finger dances just keep on coming....
Last night my non-straight friend and I attended this charity event called "Divine Design" to support Project Angel Food (www.divinedesign.org) which, basically, is a shopping event where the money goes to support this fantastic charity. The smartest thing they did last night was host an open bar. It's amazing how much more you spend after a couple glasses of wine. Oops. They also provided entertainment with an act from Cirque du Soleil's "Zumanity" where we were given the opportunity to watch 400 lb. twin women juggle and whip gay men in thongs (ALL of them were wearing thongs - talk about large asses - holy cow). But, the event itself was entertaining enough.
One of the best things about living in LA is seeing not the "A" list celebs but the washed-up, has been celebs. They're the most fun. While we were browsing and taking in the amazing "people watching" we bumped into Judy Tenuta - she was (and I guess still is) a stand-up comedian back in the early 90s. I wouldn't have recognized her if I hit her with my car, but, J recognized her immediately. They actually had a strange past together and she was baffled at the details he recited of a conversation they had 13 years ago - so was I. She looked decent. Definite plastic surgery victim but very sweet and maybe a tad bummed we didn't ask for a picture or autograph. But, there's no getting cash for that on Ebay.
After I had a little chuckle, we headed over to the bar (again) (don't worry - big ass Rachel stayed away from the dessert table - didn't eat a single one). Now, keep in mind that the bars were all manned (literally) by these amazingly handsome men, who, I come to find out, are from a group called www.beautifulbartenders.com. And beautiful they were. Of course, being the giant flirts that J and I are, we had to get a little in. The first thing out of J's mouth at the bar was, "Excuse me, bro, if we were walking down the street, who would you check out first - me or her?" I almost peed my pants. The bartender just smiled and plead the fifth - didn't want to lose out on any potential tips - smart lad. But by the end of the evening, he had asked for my digits (STRAIGHT) and, duh, of course I gave them to him - even just as an ego boost to myself. (SEE? The diet's working already!) I'm not telling which one of the "models" he is, but, you all can take a guess by looking at the website....yummmmmy. ;)
So, at the end of the evening, I walked out with a large chunk missing out of my checking account (at least it was for a good cause), a visual burned into my brain of 400 lb. women in leather thongs, a giggle from running into a past-celeb, and, of course, a boosted ego from knowing that my shrinking ass is getting looks from beautiful bartenders -amen to that.
PS: My favorite purchase was a tank top that reads, "Will Work for Shoes". It is my mantra.
There comes a time in every woman's life where she realizes that her ass is beginning to make it's move into a totally separate zip code. And guess what? Mine has begun it's migration and I need to stop it dead. Dead in its tracks - or, dead in my pants. It happened this morning when I tried to put on a skirt that I wore just a few months ago and, uh-oh, it wouldn't button. I tried to blame it on the commercial dryers that I use at the homeless-people-steal-my-underwear-Laundromat, but when I took a glance at my profile in the mirror, I knew I had my extra junk in the trunk to blame.
As a naturally-slim person, I never dreamed that the day would come where I would eat a pint of icecream and then the next day, I'd see it somewhere in my mid-region. But it has. And it's torture. I love french fries. I love cheeseburgers. I love Cheetoes. I love everything that is bad for me and my ass. (Except pate - that stuff is nasty.)
So I've begun. I am officially on a - dum da da dum - DIET. And none of that Anna Nicole crap. I'm on a eat healthy, lose a few lbs, gave some muscle tone, get off my growing ass diet. After all, who in LA wants to date Miss Big Ass when they can have Miss Perfect Ass? Sure, I'm smarter, funnier, wittier, etc., but, as they said in Nip/Tuck this week: Who wants Flabby Abby when they can have Perfect Pam? I know, I know, it's personality - ok, well, you try and land a date in LA with only personality. Plus, this is also for me. I'm broke and can't be buying a whole new wardrobe because my ass doesn't fit in my pants. Nope. (Sorry, Jill, it's just not going to happen.)
My friend Will wanted me to post my weight and keep track that way. Um, hell no. Do I look like Bridget Jones? Weight has little to do with it - I want inches, baby. Inches. And like Britney Spears' career, I want them to go buh bye.
I may need some moral support, though. When the cheeseburgers, margaritas and fries call my name I need to know that you're going to be there. When pints of icecream beacon to me, I need to know you're going to be there. Maybe not physically, because I have a small house, but in spirit. I need spirit support, whatever the hell that is.
I'll keep you updated on the process, although, I give myself two weeks before I say "f this" and buy new pants.
But, in the meantime, keep your fingers crossed - we're sending this fat back where it came from. Peace out, ass.
NOTE: THAT IS NOT ME IN THE PICTURE. I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE A POINT.
I had a great dinner last night with one of my girlfriends at my favorite restaurant: Chaya Venice. I found it interesting, though, that the focus of our conversation was almost completely on why we (women) stay in relationships that, well, basically suck.
