Don't Make Me Go Back

I want to preface this by saying that Southern California was witnessed yet another tragedy yesterday - another postal shooting. It is a true tragedy and I recognize this completely. But I had an experience today that made me think: "Why are there never any DMV shootings?" Because if there is a place that is going to send someone crazy it's that joint.

I went to the DMV for the first time in years today. Because of the internet, I haven't had to enter a dmv since registering in California in 2000. Unfortunately, to get an ID card, you have to physically be present - AND get another picture (which I wasn't expecting - that should be a hot one). Like a good little girl, I made an "appointment" online two weeks ago so that I didn't, according to the website, "have to wait in line". Uh huh. My "appointment" was for 10:30 - a time where most people are at work - or so I thought.

As I pulled up to the dmv, which is only about a half mile from my work, I noticed a line of cars waiting for parking, which immediately sends my nostrils into flare-up mode. Come on people - don't wait for the closest spot. Keep moving until you find a spot and WALK. The 8 calories you will burn will not kill you. Well, there were no spots. Ironic. You're at the DEPARTMENT OF MOTOR VEHICLES and there's no parking. After 10 minutes I landed a spot. Blood pressure check - medium to high.

There were two entrances to the building. One had an open door. I saw what looked like a classroom with people seating for rows and rows all facing one direction. "That must be the room where you take your driving test." WRONG. That's the place that you sit if you want to do ANYTHING at the DMV. You sit there. And you wait. And you stare wide-eyed at the monitor in the center of this abyss to announce your letter and number combination. I was F042.

As I sat there, looking around, I realized that only at the DMV is everyone on a level playing field. It doesn't matter if you're a crack addict or the Dali Lhama. If you want something from the DMV, your ass is going to wait. No special treatment for anyone and it creates an environment that is not only a thing of interest but also a thing that reality TV was invented for!

I sat between a not-so-small woman in hot pink spandex carrying a Cabbage Patch Kid and a business man having a very obvious extra-marital affair. (People have a tendency to forget that when they speak on their cell phones, others can hear.) I squirmed in my chair for what felt like a lifetime (25 minutes - my wait was short - I had an "appointment") trying to avoid the blank stare of the creepy Cabbage Patch Kid carried by a grown woman and the pig in a suit.

Finally the monitor released me from my own personal hell and allowed me literally run to Window 22 where I was photographed and fingerprinted and forced to actually pay them for the experience.

I ran for my life out the door hoping to never see the inside of a dmv again.

Beyond a reality tv show, it could also be a great new torture tactic for captured spies or war criminals. Please don't ever make me go back.

CSI Venice

I often forget how, not so long ago, Venice, California wasn't exactly the peach of real estate. With a long history of gang violence and drugs, the area was only recently (and continues to be) an area of "transition" (this means - rich people buy up all the land and rebuild their $2 million homes next to a crack house and raise the real estate prices to a universe that I can not afford - this includes the crack house).

Anywho, I've never felt scared or hesitant to walk around my neighborhood alone - day or night. For the most part, my friendly "mobile neighbors" keep an eye out for me. If anyone tries to mess with me they run them over with their shopping cart.

But last night I was treated to some old school Venice action. It's called a gang shootout. Now the kicker is, I didn't even know what was happening until I left the house to go to dinner and there were SWAT trucks, at least 50 LAPD/FBI/DEA cars/trucks/K9s and crime scene tape EVERYWHERE ("Weird," I thought, "How did I manage to miss this?"). I also didn't know that the crime scene tape prevented me from walking across the street to get out of my house until a friendly officer gave me a gentle reminder that "what the hell did I think I was doing" was not correct. The tape is there for everyone. Even the people just trying to get to dinner. I couldn't quite figure out why the tape was in front of my house when the "incident" was a block down the street. But, apparently, they have reasons to what they do and I don't need to understand. I just need to get my "skinny little ass" back into my house....and starve, apparently.

But I couldn't do that. Now I had to know what happened because inquiring minds want to know why I can't go to dinner and why the ghetto bird is making my dog bark incessantly.

So I thought the best thing to do is sneak out and go harass the local media. They always know. They have police scanners and stuff. So I went up to a gentleman who seemed pleasant and was just standing there holding a camera. He didn't look engaged or busy, so approaching him seemed to be a logical move. Unfortunately for me, he had other ideas. He followed the nice policeman's lead and told me in as crude and crass means as possible to dismiss myself from his presence. I replied with two words that were not "Hello cameraman" and a gentle hand signal. Fight fire with fire.

Next option was to ask the mobile neighbors (mb's) if they were abreast of the situation. One lady told me that Iraq was attacking the 700 block of Rose (because God knows that's strategic brilliance), another mb let me know that I was a pretty lady and needed to do something to him (ewe), a third mb just stared at me, and FINALLY I found the mb with the ins. Gang shooting. Or a hostage situation. OR a riot. Wow. That was helpful.

My final option was to ask the original friendly officer as "head of my neighborhood watch organization" I needed to know what to tell "my people". Again, he reminded me that if I didn't get back in my house that I was going to take a nap in the back of his squad car. Fine. I took the hint.

Bottom line? I never found out what it was. The whole procession lasted for a solid three hours. But the most bizarre thing is there was ZERO information on the news, internet, newspaper today. It was as if it never happened. Can you smell cover up? Conspiracy? Spaceship crash? I do and I will not rest until I find out why yellow tape was hanging from my gate. This is my promise to you. (But it won't be tonight because I have places to go and people to see.)

Breast Friends?

Apparently, there is a new trend in baby showers that I was not aware of. In the one or two baby showers I've attended in the past (I think it was my mom's showers for my bro and sis), people bought presents for the baby like blankets and toys and outfits and rattles and stuff. But, with two upcoming baby showers on my near horizon, I am quickly being pulled into the baby showers of the 2000s.

Since the invention of the Internet, a lot has changed. Email, blogs (yah!), online porn, and gift registries. Basically, gift registries, in my opinion, have taken the fun out of buying gifts. They have gift registries for everything: engagements, birthdays, weddings, funerals (kidding) and, of course, babies. I'm a pro at the wedding/engagement registries since those have pretty much ruled my vacation schedule for the past 3 years, but, the baby one was a new one.

I started shopping yesterday for two of the showers I need to attend. And I was a little bummed that there wasn't one single rattle on either of the registries. (Do they even still sell old-school rattles or have they been replaced with robot rattles?) In fact, both to-be mommies, have taken a very responsible and practical approach to the registries.

I got to choose from burping napkins, changing tables, strollers, crib sheets, nursing stools (?) and breast friends. Yes, Breast Friends. Apparently, new moms don't need to hold the baby's head anymore when the breastfeed. This new apparatus does it for you. You supply boob and it does the rest of the work for you. So, even though I did purchase that (I mean, who could resist bringing the Breast Friend to a shower?!) I really wanted to get a bunch of giant teddy bears and Big Bird lamps and pink jumpers. But, instead, I get to bring the Breast Friend. AND, by the way, who knew breast pumps cost $300? Um, ask your husband - bet he'd do it for free. Just a thought.

Poor kids. They'll all be very well fed and burping into 600 threadcount burpclothes, but, they will be incredibly bored without rattles.

Path of Least Expectations

I'm stunned. I'm astonished. I'm whatever other word you can think of that is a synonym for shocked.

EC knows how to use the phone....on a regular basis!

Yes indeedy, the boy (sorry - man) has managed to call me everyday since our meet n' bowl. I'm not talking creepy stalker calling with heavy breathing into the phone, but, cool 'hey how are you, how was your day' calling. What do they call that? Mmmmmmmm, mature? He definitely doesn't seem scared to reach out and touch someone - and I mean that in the AT&T commercial way, not the you-are-a-big-fat-perv way.

I'll tell you - it's the little things that make me happy.

It's incredible how my last two relationships have led me down the path of least expectations. I see this happen to a lot of women in their late 20s and 30s (not to mention 40s, 50, and so on - but once you hit 70 it's ok to just look for a man who's breathing on his own). We get treated like garbage so long that when a guy comes along that actually respects us for the kick-ass women that we are, we are flabbergasted. All of those expectations that we started off with in our late teens and early 20s have gone bye-bye and we are just thrilled to find a man who can get his digits to hit "Rachel Call" on his cell phone at times other than 2:15 am.

I've often wondered how women end up settling. I've been fortunate thus far that all my closest friends have actually married men who are good for them, but, I've also seen the women who end up with a D- when they are an absolute A+. And I could never figure it out.

I guess it ties back to the whole concept that I talked about a couple weeks ago about how women's self-worth is often based on men. And although I feel it's a crock of crap that we do accept that, it does enable women to settle.

Now PLEASE don't get me wrong. I'm absolutely NOT saying that EC is "settle" material. (He appears to be just the opposite from the little I know of him.) I'm just making a point that something as normal and should-be expected as calling on a regular basis is actually pleasantly surprising to me right now.

The path of least expectations has led me here and hopefully, at some point, EC or some other man will continue to surprise me (and I will continue to understand that as a kick-ass chick I deserve to be treated as such) and will put me back on the path of the expectations that I started this whole dating odyssey with.

But for now, I'm going to sit back and watch the cell say, "EC Calling".

Cut & Run

Sometimes I wish I could be one of those bad-ass chicks who don’t give a flying bird terd about anything but themselves. The world is their oyster and if you’re not on the ride with them you might as well not even exist. It’s so simple.

But, that obviously is not in my character. And to be honest, I remind myself that it’s probably a pretty empty existence.

Believe it or not, my parents not only raised me with morals (yes, I said the “m” word) but also with a strong belief in empathy. And although, at times, it’s been a great trait to possess, sometimes it also kicks me in the ass – hard and with heels. I would never classify myself as a push-over because that, too, is not in my nature. I’ll be more than happy to tell you where to shove it, but, sometimes I definitely have the tendency to focus more on resolving other people’s problems and issues then my own. (And yes, I am laying on a leather couch right now.)

So with that in mind, I realized that sometimes, in relationships, it's better to just cut and run. For the past two weeks since Screamoff 2006, I've been receiving random phonecalls from Charlie, but, of course, none requesting that we sit down and discuss the situation like adults. God forbid we do that. Instead, he enjoys calling to say that he's "not doing well". Um, thanks. What f-ing point does calling to say "I'm not doing well" have besides, of course, doing the finger dance. NO FINGER DANCE (see prior blogs). Not this time.

Now, after two weeks of crying into my Special K, occupying the crud out of myself, making out with a cute new boy, etc, he thinks that I'll turn my focus back on him and his mysterious illnesses. Everytime he calls it's a total and utter buzzkill. And it's a cycle of selfishness that can't seem to be broken. But the worst part is, I admit that I worry. Blech.

I sit back and watch friends go through it. They talk and talk and talk and revisit the breakup, but nothing gets resolved and nothing ever changes. And I see the pain and distress it causes. So why bother? If action (not just words) isn't taken within the first week, what's the point? Life is too short. No one is going to change - move on.

So, I offer my own solution - one that may only work for me (so kids, don't try this at home - I am a professional breaker-upper with ample adult supervision). And that is CUT AND RUN. Charlie and I made the "cut" over two weeks ago, and now, after the healing process has begun and the one week "calm down" period has been and gone, I will continue to run - in the opposite direction. That is forward, not backward.

Think about it. Is there really anything left to say that could/would be constructive or advantageous in any way, shape or form to me? Spending time rehashing over a broken relationship just doesn't seem like what I need. And guess what? I'm the boss of me.

In the words of Matchbox 20: "It's not enough just to be sorry. Don't think that I could take another talk about it."

Now where's that EC?

Hot Distractions

I am a firm believer of taking time to wallow and then hopping right back on that bucking bronco we call dating. On the inside, I am a true romantic and I don't think that spending time sobbing over a bad relationship is going to help you in the long run of finding that person that really will blow up your skirt. (No pun intended.)

So, the BB's and I went out Friday night with the company of our honorary male member of the BB's (even though he hasn't recently gone through a breakup - we thought we'd let him look like a pimp for the night with three hot chicks on his arm). We whooped it up at Bubba Gump's on the Santa Monica pier, where we ate gross food and drank lots of good beer and even convinced the wait staff that it was Gwen's birthday so that they would sing to her and get a free dessert (that's how we roll). Here you can see Gwen feeding the cherry from the free dessert to our waitor, Blaine or Blair or Buffy or something. Good times.

Next Steph and Matt abandoned Gwen and I to pursue other interests (besides going to the Main Street bars) so then there were two. We ended up at an Irish bar where we proceeded to run around the bar pinching guy's butts as a competition of who could get away with the most. When we were confronted, we pretended to be from Sweden and didn't speako englisho. It worked on a bunch of people, but, then we were confronted by, who I would like to call, Eye Candy (EC) and his brother. The Swedish act didn't fly - dang. We were captured. We had been called out.

Luckily, EC and bro were funny as all hell, so, we all decided, just moments after meeting, to hit the bowling lanes for some midnight bowling. Yah, you heard me. Bowling. And it was crazy fun. It was all pimped out with blacklights and flourescent balls and good music (none of the Johnny Cash crap - sorry). After wowing the audience with a strike on my first throw, I proceeded to slip and fall twice which is always cool when you're hanging out with EC. But Gwen took the biggest header. Somehow, the stars all aligned, and her ball got stuck in the gutter right at the end of the lane so the whole thing was jammed. In all our brilliance, we decided it best that she run down the lane to the end and pry the ball out of the gutter. BAD IDEA. When she got down to the end, she slipped and fell and at that very moment the pin arranger thingy decided to come down and clomp her on the leg. It left a nasty bruise, but, made for a great memory. An added bonus for the bowling - did you know that now, when you rent shoes, you get a free pair of brand new socks - and you get to keep them?! Sweetness. Gwen and I wore our new socks home - bruises and all - it was quite the fashion statement.

Now, I'm sure at this point you're asking: RACHEL, DID YOU GET HIS PHONE NUMBER?? And the answer is no... He got mine! And, for some weird strange reason, he USED it. Unbelievable, I know. But, again, that's how I roll. (Quite literally I guess.) But, before I get too ahead of myself, let's just see what transpires.

All I know is this: watch out LA, Rachel's baaaack.

Keeping It Real

I've decided, to prevent myself from continuing to cry into my Special K, that I am going to take a new tactic - I'm going to keep myself reeeeeeaaaallllly busy. I've read a number of articles and self-help books as of late and the message is all the same - stay busy - it prevents you from thinking about what a douchebag your ex is.

SO, I've embarked on a number of missions (to supplement the ongoing "shrink my ass" mission). First of all, I've accepted a position with my friend at a local playhouse to bartend a couple hours a week - getting paid to help people get drunk is always good times (unless they are alcoholics, then I am not a supporter). Not only will it keep some of my evenings occupied but I'm sure it will also provide hours of blog entertainment because wasted people at plays are funny.

Second, I am pursuing bellydancing lessons. Granted, I attempted this one time before and then threw out my back like an old person, but, now that I'm healed I'm giving it 110%. I wonder if I need to buy my finger snappy thingies and some scarves. The only scarf I own that isn't knit is a Chanel one and I don't think that's the look I'm going for in bellydancing. Not so authentic. I attempted to convince some of my girlfriends to embarrass themselves with me, but, so far, I've only duped one into it. Dang.

Finally, I've decided to go to the naked spa at least once every other week. I feel that time naked in a sauna is important in the broken-heart-healing process. (That wasn't in any of the articles or books, but, I have strong feelings towards the healing potential of steaming nudity.) I just wish there was a naked spa closer to me. By the time I get home from that joint, I'm pissed off again due to traffic. Maybe I can get some Enya or something on my iPod to listen to. Hmmmm.

Wish me luck on my new endeavors. And please deal with me when I bitch and complain that I'm too busy. :) See? I know me.

Survival of the Stupidest

It's good to see that according to the poll, I'm not crazy. Now we should just check with my shrink.

Now, onto a serious subject.

Sometimes it truly amazes me how stupid people can be. Now I'm sure we've all seen the Darwin Awards and I get quite a bit of amusement seeing the really stupid people killing themselves off. But there is another strain of stupid people. They are the everyday stupid people that blend in with the rest of us. They are not putting rockets on the back of the snowmobiles or saddling up a crocodile. They aren't brazen. They are just around. And it is these people who drive me up a friggen wall! And living in LA I am subjected to more than my fair share because when they founded Hollywood, they made boobs a must and brains optional.

Let me give you an example from today. I was at the ATM trying to quickly deposit a check. I love ATMs because they allow me to avoid the lines inside with the people who try and deposit a bag of unrolled coins into their accounts. There was a girl about my age in front of me. Fairly attractive, I'll give her that and her grapefruits were definitely courtesy of some Bev Hills plastic surgeon, but she was really struggling. The first time she put her ATM card in upside down I just figured she wasn't paying attention. The second time she attempted it the SAME WAY I thought, "Ok, she's just having a rough day." But, when she tried for the THIRD TIME to put her card in upside down I had to say something. I walked up to her, flipped it over and shoved it into the card slot. And the frightening thing? She looked at me like I was going to rip her off. Yes, I go rob ATM users in a long grey wool skirt, black 4" heel boots and a black cardigan. That's my normal "robbery" attire. She then proceeded to read every single screen WITH HER FINGER (and I'm not talking Braille, here people) and was honestly baffled by the questions.

As I was sitting there tapping my toe to convey the irritation she was presenting into my day, I began to seriously wonder: "How does this woman make it through the day without falling into a manhole or better yet, how did she ever figure out how to put the shower curtain on the rings? Her floor must get wet all the time." (Let's all hope she has doors instead.)

I honestly wonder how it is that these people can survive, when, I'm a fairly intelligent, educated individual and I am often challenged by day-to-day activities such as changing the filter in my Pur faucet system and trying to figure out how to keep "Candy Shop" by Fifty Cent from playing as my ring tone whenever K calls in the middle of a meeting.

It truly is one of life's big mysteries.

I would like, as a blog research experiment, to follow around a person, like ATM girl, for a whole day and document their survival techniques. Unfortunately, I would probably shove a fork into my eye after a very short period of time with this individual, and, because I've already worn a patch once in 2006, I prefer to keep both orbs in tact and just ponder on my own the awesome power that keeps these people alive and in one piece.

New Poll

I got in a vicious argument today with a friend of mine (although not for long due to his butthead comments) regarding the photograph you see here.

In this photo you see my dog, Cameron, AT HOME in a sweater that his Aunt Angie bought him for Christmas. Now, I do NOT take him out in public dressed in a sweater AND he actually likes wearing it at home because it keeps him warm and toasty. And when the thermometer drops to a nippy 60 degrees what is a dog to do?
What is so wrong with this? It's not like I put a leather motorcycle jacket and sunglasses on him. I also didn't put him in something pink or shiny. He is comfortable enough with his sexuality to rock the sweater at home while relaxing with a good lamb chop.

I see no harm.

So, now that I have explained the new poll you see on the right-hand side, I ask you, my friends, to vote how you truly feel.

And if it turns out that it is crazy to put him in a soft, cozy sweater in the comfort of his own home, then I pledge to you that I will rip it away from him and banish it from his sweet little life forever.

And if you vote that it ISN'T crazy, then my friend will have to post a naked picture of his best friend. (Somehow I feel like someone's getting the short end of the stick. Ewe. No pun intended.)

It's your call.

Ahhhhh - Spagasm

Due to the onslaught of annoying relationship drama in my life lately, I decided, as I mentioned last week to treat myself like royalty - and that I did. Although due to unplanned rain on Saturday, we did not get to go to Disneyland, Sunday, E and I spent six solid hours at the best place on earth - the Olympic Spa in Koreatown. http://www.olympicspala.com/aboutspa.htm

You may have seen a writeup on it in Vogue, Allure or LA Magazine or, if you're not cool like me, maybe you haven't. Anywho, it's the bomb. With a capital "B". But, since I'd never been there before, I didn't quite know what to expect. And E was a spa virgin so she really didn't know what to expect. But we got to see EXACTLY what to expect the second we walked in. Naked naked naked. Women of all sizes, ages, races, you name it, were naked. I would say about 100. All naked. Now don't get me wrong, I've been to spas before where you jacuzzi naked, sauna naked, etc., but, nothing as naked as this. But, I have to admit, after the initial shock of it all it was almost freeing. Now, I'm not going to run off and join a nudist colony or anything because I love clothes but it was nice to not feel self-conscious or feel the need to constantly suck in. Completely non-sexual. Everyone just let it all hang out - and in some ways - more then I needed to see, but, to each their own. (I do want to say one thing - if a place has waxing services available - take advantage of them. Ok, that's the only "constructive" thing I'll say.)

The experience was incredible. We spent the whole day in steam rooms, oxygen/jasmine rock saunas, hot tubs, mugwort tubs, you name it. We also both got the "Body Bliss" treatment that consisted of a full body scrub (and when I say "full", I mean everything but the inner who-ha), facial rub and mask, a full hair wash and condition, and a one-hour deep tissue massage. But it was a little different then I was used to.

1.) You were in a corner of the spa room (where everyone was in the tubs and pools, etc) which was quartered off with four tables. A naked chick was on each table being rubbed, scrubbed and cleansed by a small, older Asian women in black bikinis. (We're not talking swimsuit models, here, boys. But man these woman could kick your ass, and so sweet and professional.) You are buck naked on a table for all to see. Luckily, you have a hot towel over your eyes the whole time so you don't feel like you're on display. And to be honest, no one's watching anyway. (They're too busy being naked themselves.)

2.) After each part of the treatment, you were literally rinsed off with buckets of warm water. Hence, why they wear bikinis - water's flying everywhere. At one point, I had to go shower off the jojoba body scrub in the shower and when I came back, I evidently hadn't rinsed well enough, so, I had to assume the leap frog position next to my table (naked) as my therapist poured more buckets over my not-well-rinsed head. That was interesting. (E rinsed well and didn't have to experience that.) I felt like I was bowing to Buddha or something.

3.) They don't speak English well (understatement), so, really the only thing they say to you is: "You ok?" and "Turn over" and "On your side". After the first couple "flippings", she just smacked my leg and that, apparently, meant "turn your skinny ass over". And I did.

4.) There was no towel on the table, which is a laminate of sorts. (I did see them sanitize them, though, so no worries.) But because of this, after some of the massage oil in on you, the flipping gets a bit dangerous. Luckily, Hong (my woman) held onto me and prevented me from flopping onto the floor like a klutzy ass. At one point, because I still have a hot towel on my eyes (so I'm blind), I had to sit up and then she used the slipperiness of the oil/table combo and twirled my naked ass (literally) around so my head was on the opposite side of the table to get my hairwash. It was like a naked ballet.

5.) At the end, she stood me up, dressed me in my robe, looked me straight in the eye, smiled and said, "You have a wonderful day" and sent me on my now semi-naked way. Like I was being dismissed from class - but in a really sweet and genuine way.

I have to say, all "craziness" aside, it was one of the most relaxing, professional and comfortable massages I've ever had. A true "spagasm". And believe me, I'm a spa "ho" - my other addiction next to shoes is spas. So, this is a big thing to say. In the end, my neck was kink-free, my skin was glowing and soft as a baby's ass (without diaper rash of course), and I felt as though I had treated myself like royalty as I had promised myself.

And E? She, too, survived and experienced her first "spagasm". I reminded her, though, that when she goes to a fancy spa, the massage therapists, are NOT allowed to body scrub or massage your derriere crack. Anywhere outside the Olympic Spa in Koreatown that is called misconduct.

Overall grade? A++++++++. But, sorry guys, it's women only.

Friday the 13th My Ass

The dreaded day has come. Luckily, I think I managed to get all my crap luck out prior to Friday the 13th. But, I'm not going to answer the phone if I'm home alone or walk around in my skimpy pajamas outside if I hear a strange noise. I saw "Scream" (1-3). I even considered not driving today, but, I made it to work in one piece. Phew.

I was wondering this morning on my walk: who the hell was the brainiac that thought of Friday the 13th as unlucky hence creating mental mayhem among humans. I googled it and here's what I found, and when I read it, I almost fell off my chair. It said:

"Sources suggest the number 13 was purposely vilified by the founders of patriarchal religions in the early days of western civilization because it represented femininity. Thirteen had been revered in prehistoric goddess-worshiping cultures, allegedly, because it corresponded to the number of lunar (menstrual) cycles in a year (13 x 28 = 364 days). The "Earth Mother of Laussel," for example, a 27,000-year-old carving found near the Lascaux caves in France often cited as an icon of matriarchal spirituality, depicts a female figure holding a crescent-shaped horn bearing 13 notches. According to this theory, as the solar calendar triumphed over the lunar with the rise of male-dominated civilization, so did the number 12 over the number 13."

And why Friday?

"Sources say that the sixth day of the week is unlucky because Eve tempted Adam with the apple on a Friday."

So, Friday the 13th is unlucky because of women? VOMIT. Why do women get the blame for everything?! Adam didn't have to eat the damn apple. Men DO have the ability to say "no" you know. And, the number 13 is unlucky because of PMS? Please. If it wasn't for our "lunar cycles" none of us would be here. And you know what? Sometimes, when I get my period I think I'm the luckiest woman alive.

So there. I've debunked the legend of Friday the 13th as being unlucky. No Friday can ever be unlucky. It's the beginning of the weekend - you survived another work week. And to all the men out there that are thinking of also blaming hurricanes, earthquakes, skunked beer, Carson Palmer's season-ending injury, and anything else "unlucky" on women - you can all remind yourselves that the luckiest thing in the world for men is getting laid. And without us, you don't get that.

I need to go play in traffic now and put my theory to the test.

BBs Take The Lobster

So, last night me and the BBs (breakup buddies) decided to treat ourselves to a kick-ass dinner at a restaurant in Santa Monica that we've all been dying to try and as part of the pact, there was to be NO mention of the "men" - they didn't exist at all. As luck would have it, I also received my quarterly shipment of reserve wine from my favorite winery in the whole wide world - Eberle. That was a good combination because I am a big fan of the corkage fee. We had $80 worth of wine which would have cost us $300+ in the restaurant. It's like a built in coupon of sorts.

Anywhosits, we got all dolled up Steph wore her booby shirt, I wore a hot little backless number and Gwen sported the sexy sophisticated look with some rockin' shoes. We were three hot mammas out on the town. Who needs stupid boys anyway.

From the moment we pulled in, we were turning heads. Now, I'll tell myself it was due to our serious hotness but the reality is, you can take the girl out of a dive bar but not the dive bar out of the girl.

Once we were seated in the hip and crowded establishment, we met with our waitress who immediately thought we were nuts because we had all looked up the menu during the day online and the menu they actually had at the restaurant was completely different. So, while I bitched that they didn't have the entree I had my heart set on, the other two bitched about the lack of a hearts of palm salad. (I don't even know what a heart of palm is - but apparently, it's good.) We also knocked her potential tip down significantly by bringing our own wine - no servers like the "built in coupon". Then we opted for tap water instead of bottled water, because our focus was on drinking the wine and as long as you put lemon slices in the tap water, you can't taste the disgusting organisms and mercury that are probably floating around in there. THEN we asked her a zillion and a half questions about the items actually on the menu. Finally, we opted for a shrimp dish, a lobster dish, and a yellowfin tuna dish. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

The drinking continued at a steady pace and before we knew it, we were cackling hysterically and talking loudly - mostly about things that are completely inappropriate to the snob-heads that dine in fancy establishment. The two old men seated at the table next to us gave us the stink eye every few seconds. I just winked back. And the man on the other table couldn't stop staring longingly at Gwen - while seated with his wife - pig.

By the end of bottle #2, we were conversing with the whole wait staff and doing cheers to our newly single status. At one point I walked to the ladies room and the manager yelled across the room: "HEY! IT'S THE NEWLY SINGLE GIRL!" Awesome. I love hearing that ricochet off the walls while I'm dining.

By the dessert and port wine we were pretty out of control. Still cackling and yacking up a storm. For some reason I thought it would be amusing if I flashed Gwen by pulling my shirt down to reveal lefty while still sitting at the table. After she almost spit out her beverage, I realized that the small asian man seated across the room had been privy to the show and looked like he had just seen a ghost. Oops. That just made me laugh harder. I enjoy scaring the international visitors. They have to go home with some kind of story.

We finally completed our dinner and it was time for us to battle at the valet and go home - full and rather tipsy. As I plopped myself down in the backseat I was blessed with the onset of hiccups and proceeded to serenade the girls all the way home with the sweet sounds of too much wine.

It just goes to show that even when life feels shitty, as long as you keep a smile on your face, good friends around you, and a healthy stock of wine, life is good. That and a little risque flashing makes life worth living - at least that's what the small asian man is thinking. :)

Stuart Rachel Smalley

Sometimes, I get really aggravated with the female population.

I understand that women are genetically more emotional then men. Fine. But why is it that everytime we, as women, go through a breakup or some sort of male-related rejection, our self-worth and self-image takes a real dive. And I'm talking about a Greg-Louganis-bash-your-head-on-the-diving-board dive. We look miserable, feel miserable and think we're the ugliest, fattest people on the face of the earth. All because one man didn't love us for the kick-ass chicks that we are.

Why does a woman's self-worth get defined through men?

Think about it. We base our self-worth on a species that not only finds constant entertainment in farts and boobs, but they are also incapable of asking directions, watch intelligent movies and god forbid they pick their dirty underwear off the bedroom floor.

How does it happen? I am the same person I was two days ago. I look exactly the same (eyes a tad puffy, but, nothing some cucumbers and a day at the spa can't help), I sound the same, I walk the same - I am the same; I just have one less person in my life. But for some reason, I feel like I've gained 500 lbs, hate my hair, think one leg is longer then the other so I walk with a limp and I can't stop staring at the scar on my right shin. And I'm not the only one. My other two "breakup buddies" are doing the same thing to themselves. It's really rather disgusting and completely irrational. Shame on us.

My self-worth is NOT going to be defined by a person who pees standing up. We don't need their approval or anyone else's approval to define who we are and what we are. Because? Let's all say it together now: WE ARE WOMEN. HEAR US ROAR. (I really love that saying, as you can tell.)

The harsh truth is that men, for once, have the right idea. They could honestly give a rat's ass about how we feel about them. Their self-worth and self-love is all theirs. In their eyes, they are all god's gifts to women and they are completely in love with themselves. If we reject them, it's our loss in their eyes. It's so simple, yet, we, as a gender, continue to focus completely on the love and acceptance of the men in our lives. (Well, except maybe lesbians - I don't think they care what men think about them. And I'm not sure about bi-sexuals. I'm still a little blurry on them.) And it needs to stop. We need to take a hint from the farting, belching, ESPN-watching, stripclub going-toers people that we know as men.

So, I'm pledging to you, and dur, myself, that I'm not going to allow that to happen. Not this time. I'm going to pamper the hell out of myself and treat myself like royalty and make sure that my self-worth goes up v. down. Because, really, I'm pretty damn cute, smart and gosh darn it, people like me.

I'm taking a stand. I'm joining the lesbians (in thought - not literally). I am not going to allow myself to take a punch in the gut from someone who grows back hair. Not this time. And hopefully, my breakup buddies and the rest of the female gender will follow in my stiletto steps. We owe it to ourselves.

Now excuse me while I go and look in the mirror and do self-affirmations.

Misery Loves Company

Well, it's official. I am back on the market again - and this time it's a permanent separation from Charlie. After Screamoff 2006 last night (which I will spare you the gory details of) we have decided to go our own separate ways. Unfortunately, living in the same tiny area of LA, and hanging with the same people, "separate" is few and far between.

I often question why the people we are always hurt the most by the people we love. Isn't that back asswards? Shouldn't we get hurt by the people we hate the most? Why do we drive on parkways and park in driveways? Those are all questions that will forever go unanswered. True wonders of the world.

I come to you with my quick wit and humor, but, it's actually quite painful. If I had balls, and somebody kicked me in them, it would probably feel like this. But I don't. So, my scratched cornea healed just in time to swell up from the tears of love (puke).

Love hurts. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. If it's meant to be, it will be. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. C'est la vie. Live and learn. Weird. I read somewhere that cliches make you feel better. Or maybe it was shoes make you feel better.

But, like I said, misery LOVES company. As fate would have it, two of my best friends have also been put "back on the market" in the past week. Although I would never wish this on my worst enemy (ok, maybe Angelina Jolie), it's somewhat comforting being able to wallow together. But it does confirm my original belief that all men in the greater Venice Beach/Marina del Rey area SUCK. It's like the area is a man black hole. They go in men, but never come out men.

Last night, post Screamfest 2006, the three of us met up for margaritas and wallowed. It struck me as completely and utterly ridiculous that three, successful, funny, intelligent, attractive women were sitting around literally crying into our margaritas because we all felt the effects of the man black hole. With over 45 years of collective dating experience between the three of us, we have yet to find men that will love and respect us for who we are - genuinely and completely. It's like there's this overwhelming untapped female resource out there that men are just too blind or stupid to see. But as we sat there I had to ask - where are the three men we are looking for? Where are they crying into their margaritas? Or maybe they aren't out there. Maybe I'm searching for the male-margarita-crier-inner that isn't really there.

Steph responded to me that we have to maintain hope. No matter how much it hurts, it is that hope that keeps us from not giving up (or killing the men who put us through this). My margarita man will find me.

Since we were sharing an inspirational moment, I told them about a dream I had the other night because at first I just thought I was tripping on my sleeping pill, but, it really had a cool message.

I dreamt that I was on an airplane getting ready to take off. I was so excited to go where I was going - an adventure. Almost immediately after we took off, I heard the engines shut down. For a moment everything went still. Then I thought over and over in my head, "I'm going to die." I really felt like I was going to die. But the plane began to glide and we were over the freeway. We were falling but not fast. We ended up sliding down a hill on the side of the freeway that was covered in flowers - as far as I could see. The plane slid to a stop and I stepped out. "I'm not going to die after all" is what I began thinking. I stepped out of the plane and woke up.

I kid you not, this was my dream. And I didn't think much about it until last night after Screamfest 2006. But, as I shared with them, I found meaning in it.

Sometimes when you think you're going to die, life throws you another chance filled with ease and beauty.

So, another one bites the dust (throw in one more cliche). I'm going to go home tonight and wallow with a bubble bath, some wine, and a lot of angry chick music (i.e., Tori Amos, Avril Lavingne, Alannis Morrisette, Kelly Clarkson, etc). Then tomorrow I'm going to get up, hang out with my fellow wallowers, put our pieces back together and figure out a new path. We are women - hear us roar.

I just hope you can all wish us some luck.

Bloody Mary Mayday

Note: When you drink too many bloody marys you end up like this. Yes, this is a real picture and I would like to thank my family for documenting it for me. NOT.

To ease the pain of one-eyed willie and celebrate USCs downfall, I decided to treat us to some serious homemade bloody marys. They were delicious and I was fine. Really. I was just tired. I always sleep like that.

During the game, my sister and I crashed a party of old people watching the Rose Bowl in the adjoining building. One dude had just gotten a knee replacement, so, of course the party was raging. Sis and I stayed a matter of minutes, then asked where the restroom was and busted out into a mad sprint back to our own building. Jealous old southern women with bad haircuts are not fun to be around when you are enjoying bloody marys.

I haven't suffered from any new injuries today - still nursing my old wounds, although, I think I'll be back to two eyes again tomorrow. I think I'll be staying away from the bloody marys tonight to ensure speedy eyeball recovery.

Tonight is the night Sis and I steal the surfboard. It's calling our name. It will be ours.

One Eyed Grace

I must say that for someone that can run a 100-yard sprint in 4" heels, I am a world-class klutz. In the past 24 hours in Florida, I've managed to fall on my head, scratch my cornea AND throw out my back - way hot, eh? Oh, and this is me sober. Hence, my nickname - Grace.

Yesterday the fam and I decided to go parasailing. We had to go two at a time and Mom wasn't up to the challenge, so, my sister and I went up together. After I screamed bloody murder, convinced myself that my harness was going to break when we were 800 feet in the air, and made my hands turn purple from gripping the parachute so tight, I was able to enjoy the view for a good, solid, 6-7 minutes before I was brought back down to safety - or so I thought. As a joke, my sister and I decided to pose in front of the "Clothing Optional" sign on the boat while two other suckers got sucked into the air. But for some reason, while trying to pose "sexy" in front of the sign, I took a tumble off the front of the boat and fell head first into a sea of life vests. After flopping around like a fish on the floor of the boat for a few I was able to get in a good chuckle with the rest of my family and beg for a beer.

After surviving the parasail and the tumble we walked back to the condo, where, the whole way, my eye was watering and I kept rubbing it because it's only natural to rub your eye when it waters - genius. While rubbing, I must have managed to scratch the crap out of my cornea. I am now writing to you with a patch over my right eye. Awesome.

Finally, to add insult to injury - quite literally - I threw out my back while laughing hysterically at my mom who, for such a brilliant woman, can really make some fizzy-head comments. Because I was sworn to secrecy not to tell you what she said, I'll just leave it at the idea that you can not laugh hysterically while carrying a case of beer. When you leave over to keep from peeing your pants, you throw out your back.

So here I sit. I'm a cyclops with a goose egg on my noggen and I walk like an old lady. H-O-T. BUT, I spent the day relaxing by the pool to the sounds of the waves hitting the shore with a GIANT Bacardi and Diet Coke for the pain. What were all of you doing?

Tonight my sister, brother and I are going to try and steal the surfboard at the restaurant we ate at last night. This condo needs some decoration. Let's pray I don't break any bones!

GO TEXAS!

2006 Florida Style

Greetings my wee ones. Happy 2006 to all!

I am coming to you via satellite (or wireless internet) from Myfamilyfest 2006 in Clearwater Beach, Florida. The whole Rachel's family is here and I'm not sure if this tiny little peninsula can handle it.

As always, it was an adventure for me to even get here on time. Like usual, my alarm clock decided to futz out on me the one morning I have an early-morning flight so, I woke up 15 minutes after I was supposed to be gone. And that time was already only allowing myself less then an hour to check in. But I love my sleep - apparently, more then I should have last night. But with some peddle to the medal and batting of the eyelashes I managed to make it to the gate right at final boarding call. Nice.

To make things even better, when I got to my seat I saw that Hulk Hogan was directly behind me. Yes. Hulk Hogan. Under normal circumstances, I would think that was kind of funny. But I was 1.) Without coffee 2.) Sweating profusely from being "that" person hauling ass through the airport with bags flying and 3.) There is already limited leg room on a plane. Now there was no way in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that I was going to able to recline. (PS: Swearing less was one of my resolutions for the new year.) And, obviously, whomever engineered airplane seats had a cardboard box for a spine, because the natural posture of the seats is obnoxiously upright for a human being. I suppose they just want us to be really straight up when we crash.

With the help of 3 bloody marys and the in-seat entertainment, I was able to deal with the lack of recline ability for more then half of the journey.

But then it began. The kicking. And let's remember. This isn't just any kicking. This is the Hulk Hogan's kicking. GOOD TIMES. Under normal circumstances, I would turn around and give "the look" (you've seen it before during seat kicking at any public event or plane ride), but I had more sense then to ever, ever give Hulk Hogan "the look" (and that was probably wise as his wife could most definitely kick my a-s-s thrice over).

When I arrived in Tampa, my driver picked me up inside the terminal and we kept our fingers crossed together that my luggage came with me. When the luggage lottery came up with my number, we popped into the sleek Florida SUV and off we went. After driving into two wrong developments, we finally figured out the correct complex and I was met by the smiling, slightly tipsy beautiful faces of my family.

And to add the cherry to the sundae, my buckeyes kicked the snot out of the Fighting Irish.

All is good in the world.

Tomorrow's entry might have a few misspellings and probably won't make any sense. But, hey, I'm on vacation and you punks are lucky for me to remember you. ;)

So, ta ta for now.

Kisses!