Side Bar

I have to do a quick vent (please be advised that when I vent, I use the "f" word).

So, I needed to make plane reservations today for August to fly to Florida for my mom's Ph.D. graduation. Easy peasy.

I tried to do it online using frequent flyer miles but it kept giving me some sort of "fatal error". So, it indicated that I should call Customer Support and they would give me a helping hand.

Ok.

"Hi, my name is Rachel and I would like to book a ticket on Delta from LAX to Ft. Lauderdale." Ok, Rachel - call Delta. "Ok." Here is how it goes:

"Hello, this is Apu, but you can call me Steve. Thank you for calling fucking INDIA. I don't understand English but I can probably figure out Newton's law of relativity. How may I fuck up your reservation today?"

Me: "I would like to book some domestic - in the US that is - travel using miles."

"Steve": "I'm sorry, ma'am. There must be a telephone bad connection because I no understand what you are saying. "

Me: "No. I'm speaking ENGLISH that's the problem."

Me: CLICK.

It really disgusts me that these major AMERICAN companies have outsourced AMERICAN jobs to everywhere else but America. We have a unemployment rate that rivals that of some third world countries and all of our jobs are being sent to a country halfway around the world. Call me crazy, but, when I actually pick up a telephone to call for DOMESTIC reservations, it would be nice to speak to someone who is domestic and doesn't make me repeat myself 12-18 times.

Is this racist? No. I love Indian people. They are a wonderful people and they are taking excellent care of my friend Heather who has been traveling the country for three months. But, I do not want them, or a French, Thai, Russian or any other out-of-country individual taking care of me when I call into an American company for help on domestic issues. It's bad enough that American companies are moving their plants to Mexico to reduce the costs of human resources. But, while their CEOs and CFOs and whatever other COs collect their multi-million dollar paychecks, the quality of service to their customers significantly decreases and the unemployment rate for Americans increases. Funny how they are correlated.

Well, I was finally able to book the reservation online without "Steve". All's well on that field. But, it still leaves me angered and bitter to know that operational cost efficiency has superseded the "cost" of customer service and American jobs.

I'm done venting. I hope no one was offended, because this was just me thinking aloud and everyone is entitled to their own opinion. It's my blog - I'll cry if I want to.

I WANT BEADS

So, the annual Mardi Gras party took place Saturday night with Jill as the guest of honor. After over a week of preparation, the party was a smashing success: beads, boobs, beer, beer bongs, if it starts with a 'b' - it was there.

Apparently, people have difficulty with the whole "RSVP" concept because with only 25 people RSVP'd, close to 50 showed up. The house, which is not large, was packed. And with the retro 90s music playing and the beer bongs a flowin', I felt like I needed to put my sorority letters on and get my fake ID ready. I had instantly transported us all back to our college days. It... was... awesome.

At one point, my roommate and I got a little, well, competitive with the beer bong. I challenged him and his friends to a bong off with me and my friends. Each "team" got to pick two guys and two girls and the total times for each team determined the winners. I was anchor and it was pretty neck and neck. I got down to take the beer bong and as I twisted the lever, the tube broke in half and exploded all over me drenching me with Bud Light. But, like a champ, I plugged the remaining tube with my thumb and took the rest like pro. The crowd went into a uproar and we won based on creative dedication. YESSSSSSS.

Another highlight of the evening was the breaking of the pornata. It's a pinata - but instead of filling it with just candy (like everyone expected), Steph and I crammed it full of candy and sex toys - hence, pornata. When Steph took the final swing, condoms and vibrating things flew everywhere and the looks on everyone's faces was awesome.

50 variety pack condoms and vibrating thingies - $40
Mexican pinata - $8
Candy from the Dollar Store - $3
Looks on party-goers faces when pornata broke - PRICELESS

Overall, I'd say the fiesta was the event of the season. And I'm happy to say that it all came to fruition because of the best little sister in the world. There are so many more stories, but so little room to write. I guess next year, you'll just have to attend for yourself.

YEEEEHAW.

HEEEEEEEEERE'S JILLY

Drum roll please....

Introducing.....the middle child of the family.....my baby sister and partner in surfboard related crime....Miss Jill.

Yes, my friends, a second "Rachel" is invading Southern California this weekend. And with her might come some innocent trouble. (Is "innocent trouble" an oxymoron? O well.) Her timing is impeccable as she is more than enough to distract me from the fatuous irritations of my life (aka: men) for a minimum of a week. Her visit will almost be a break from reality - and not the kind of breaks that will call out the men in the white coats.

We've been planning this for a while (after all, this is her Spring Break) and the activities we have planned will definitely lead to amusing adventures. Tandem bike riding, Disneyland, Hollywood Strip (yes, that includes riding the bull at the SaddleRanch), you name it - we're doing it. Maybe we'll even do the tour of stars' houses and wing a car seat into Britney's front yard. Hmmmmm.

Anyway, wish us luck - should be good times all around. Also, wish the city of LA luck. Just a thought.....

Waiting for the Straw

I had an experience yesterday that actually proved to be quite an eye opening one. It made me ask the question: why do we hold onto hope until that final, often catastrophic, straw breaks our back?

I am often blind to the obvious truth when it comes to relationships. They say that "love is blind" but I disagree. I think love is hopeful and all you see is possibility. Falling out of love is losing the hope and the desire to hold onto someone or something. Unfortunately, it often happens abruptly -when reality becomes clear. Think about the friend that you know has a slimy cheating boyfriend, but, she can't see it until she accidentally walks in on Slimy Steve and his new friend doing the horizontal mambo.

I've seen this happen a couple times in the recent past with my friends (not cheating per se but other bunk situations) and I've had the "pleasure" of experiencing it first hand as well. There have probably been times that my girls wanted to whack me over my dense noggin' with a frying pan to try and knock the rose colored glasses off, but, not until I was presented with a clear cut and overtly upsetting situation was I able to take them off for myself.

So why do we require a blatant and often painful maneuver to see relationships and people for what and who they really are? Is it because we actually do like things in the "grey area" because it preserves hope? Or is it because we are so dedicated to finding love and acceptance in relationships that instead of actively weeding out the garbage we become relationship pack rats and hold onto everything until it is smashed to smithereens or begins to smell?

I don't have the answer - at least not right now. But it's something to ponder.

Stolen Glassware and the Stratosphere

Look, I understand that stealing glassware is just that - stealing. And, at twenty-something, I really should not do it. But sometimes, you see that special glass at a bar and you just have to have it - especially if it is a cool Guiness glass and you're dragging around a giant purse all night and you just paid $8 for that pint of Guiness. Hmmmm. It just all fits together.

But, yes, it's still wrong. So is using those return address labels that charities send you and you don't send them money - but we still do it.

Friday night, K and I decided to "go out for dinner". What started as a mellow, slow evening quickly advanced into a night of craziness - again. We basically struck the entire westside of LA - from Brentwood to Santa Monica - leaving a trail of smacked rears and missing glassware.

But Rachel, how did you get everywhere? Well, my friends, let me tell you. We got everywhere via the best cabby in the whole world - Stratus - or I was calling him - Stratosphere. He drove an immaculate Lincoln Towncar and was a lovely older Greek man - he even laughed at everything that we said (which is always 10 bonus points in my book). Because of this, we hired Stratosphere for the night to drive us from place to place to place - even if it only was a two-block walk at times. He willingly obliged because seeing us sprint in and out of bars must have been rather amusing for him. By the end of the evening K and I had convinced ourselves that Stratosphere was our personal driver. Big ballers - high rollers - yah, that's us. In hindsight, we probably looked absolutely ridiculous jumping in and out of the cab and hauling ass in and out of each bar - we were on a mission, although neither of us could figure out what the mission was after scoring the matching Guiness pints. But we sure did have some fun.

I woke up Saturday morning and rolled over and there was K, sound asleep in her Boston Red Sox baseball cap and fully clothed. I almost lost it. Now that's a sign of a good night.

I'm learning that sometimes, you just need to feed that immature kid in you because even though some would turn their noses up at our recent "antics", it's proven to bring a smile to my face every time. And you know what? That's all that counts.

Tome cuidado Brasil!

I finally took the plunge.

Today I booked a trip to Brazil for my sister and I in June. Scary - the two of us running rampant on a different continent! But, as the "mature" one of the duo, I will make sure that we don't break any major international laws. Minor ones, I can not promise!!

I was going to write today on a totally different topic but now my brain is swimming with visions of nude beaches and gigantic pina coladas and glistening pool boys, so, that's shot.

I will have to bottle my excitement and write more tomorrow.

Today is Tuesday.

Yes. Today is Tuesday. Nothing special about it. Nope. Nadda.

I figure, if I keep telling myself that, then I will be able to stop believing in the Hallmark-ridden day that is "the-day-that-has-no-name".

Honestly, I sometimes wonder what the purpose is, besides guilting people into buying junk for each other at obscenely-bloated prices and making those who don't get junk to feel crappy for themselves (as if general day-to-day media doesn't take care of it well enough on its own). In fact, I believe that bars are also behind the whole thing, because God knows that they are all jam packed with really drunk single people trying to drown in their own pity every time "the-day-that-has-no-name" comes around. But not this girl.

No. I'm rebelling. I am agreeing with "girl" when she said that it's just another day. TODAY IS TUESDAY. I am NOT giving into the morons who invented "the-day-that-has-no-name". I refuse to feel bad about the fact that I'm not in a relationship. In fact, I want a day all to ourselves where it's NOT cool to be in a relationship. I want a day to celebrate being single.

In fact, I am renaming and rededicating "the-day-that-has-no-name" - it is to be called, from this day forward - "Dang It's Sweet to be Single Day" (aka: DISS Day).

And I LOVE DISS Day. On my way home, I'm going to pick up some flowers - for myself. I'm going to go home and cook a bitchin' dinner for myself. I'm going to toast myself with some great wine and then I'm going to watch episode upon episode of "Sex and the City". And, if I were promiscuous (which I'm not), I would even go out, have anonymous sex with a man, leave and giggle about it with the girls - just because I can.

So, to all you lovebirds out there, congratulations and I hope it all works out!! But, enjoy and celebrate each other every other day of the year. Give us today to celebrate what we have - which is a lot.

Cheers to DISS Day and to all the fine ass ladies and gentlemen that can celebrate along with me!!!

Really - Curling?

I have to admit, I'm not a real big fan of the Olympics. It's cool to watch some events here and there, but, overall, to me, it's just not a cool example of what I do with my freetime. I do have a comment, though: what's with curling being a TELEVISED Olympic sport? I always though curling was for old people, but, apparently, that's not so. They have actual teams with warm-up suits and the majority of the team looks to be under 40 - shocking. So then I began to think, "Maybe there's hope for me. Maybe I can be in the Olympics after all!"

I was too lanky for gymnastics. I was too short for volleyball. I can't get off the bunny hill on skis. Way too slow for track and field. Too not butch for hockey. And I wasn't willing to wear those lame-ass spandex glitter suits for iceskating. I had no chance whatsoever of being an Olympic champion.

But last night, while watching a "Law & Order" rerun, I saw a commercial for "live Olympic coverage of the men's and women's curling". Wowsers. How hard can shoving an overgrown puck across the ice with a broom possibly be? Originally an elitist sport for doctors and clergymen (according to the Hamburg Curling Club website), it is now a bonafied Olympic sport. This could be my chance, my friends. My big chance for an Olympic gold. I'll go ahead and put "learn to curl" on my to-do list for 2006. Maybe I'll even double qualify for curling AND bobsleigh (hey, if those dudes from Jamaica can do it surely so can I). Yup, I see stardom and gold in my future. Bet my new curling career will also help with my goal of "shrink that ass".

This is all good.

Well Behaved

So, culturally, I redeemed myself last night. I went to see "The Cherry Orchard" downtown. It was excellent. I did not spank, yell, giggle uncontrollably or wrap myself in precautionary materials. I was a pleasant, intellectual adult. Yawn.

But I forgot to explain why I went to the play last night NOT with EC, as that who was supposed to go with me originally. I did not go with EC because he turned out to be a FREAK.

The following is a "conversation" that we had Sunday night. Background: I called him to confirm that he was still going to be able to attend the play with me (he requested that I get the tickets - which are free for me) since his work schedule has been wacky lately. Here is the honest-to-God way that the "conversation" went down (and I mean downHILL):

R: "So, I wanted to make sure that you are still planning to go to the play with me on Thursday. You didn't make other plans?"

EC: "WHAT IF I DID MAKE OTHER PLANS?! SEE, THIS IS WHY I DIDN'T WANT TO GET INTO A RELATIONSHIP. I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO JUSTIFY MY EVERY ACTION!" (capital letters mean yelling in case you live under a rock)

R: "Wow. Ok, then. I'll make it easy for you."

CLICK. (That's ME hanging up on him.)

Can you say I-S-S-U-E-S?! Wowsers.

When I hung up, I instantly went into head scratching mode. Apparently, his craziness was camouflaged in his normal appearance and demeanor. Or, he didn't take his meds that day. Whatever the reason, I was absolutely flabbergasted; but, to be honest, I just had to laugh because his reaction to a simple and seemingly harmless question was so ridiculous. You would have thought that I dropped the "l" word on him or asked him to come back to Buffalo to meet the parents. No. Apparently, it was the play that broke the freak's back.

So, my loves, another one bites the dust. And I think I'm really more than ok with this one. Can you imagine if I asked him to do something for Valentine's Day? Holy crap. That could have been ugly.

Brief Deep Thought

There's an old folk's home down the street from my office. I was driving by today and I noticed a new sign out front. It says, "First Month's Rent Free". And I had to ask: Is this really a wise business decision? Just a thought. Had to share.

Caution - Rachel Attends Opera

I am going to preface this with: I am immature. I should act my age.

But, damn it. It's fun being immature.

I decided to insert a little culture into my life last night. So, Steph and I trucked downtown to attend the opera. So far so good.

But we got sidetracked. We went down - down to Chinatown - and had some serious Chinese cuisine. Unfortunately, they were short staffed (ha ha - no pun intended) so we had to wait for a while, which made us late to the start of the show, so we had to wait until intermission to take our seats. Luckily, so we weren't too lost, they were showing the opera on the big screen tv that was conveniently placed immediately next to a bar. Somehow we got stuck there and by the time intermission came around, we were a tad tipsy and ready to blow that popstand. Everyone was so stuffy and when Steph bent over and I whacked her on her ass for entertainment purposes only, no one found it funny except us. So we showed ourselves out.

As we were walking to the car, I found an unexpected present for me sitting in a corner next to the car - a whole roll of "CAUTION" tape. And it was all mine. I thought wrapping myself up in it and then wrapping Steph in it and then connecting the two of us with more tape was an excellent way to make an entrance at Sonny McLeans (a total and complete Red Sox bar, mind you). As luck would have it - it was KARAOKE night! NICE. I immediately launched into "I Touch Myself" by the Divynls because that's "our" song (the BBs). Steph refused to back me up at first, but, I eventually persuaded her to shake her groove thing for the audience. At the end of my number, I decided it was a GREAT idea to scream into the microphone "LET'S GO YANKEES". Again, I thought it was hysterical. But from the "boos" that went off in the crowd, I found myself, AGAIN, being one of two people who thought it was funny. To protect me from bodily harm (Red Sox fans are nuts), Steph stole the microphone and pulled me away from the stage.

The night finally drew to a close. I am proud to say that I made it home with all my possessions (except I think I left my tights in Steph's car because I decided that I was not wearing tights to a bar - good call), money still in my pocket, and only one unidentified bruise in the middle of my forearm (I don't know).

How did a night of culture turn into such a night of debauchery? The story of my life.

Superbowl - Spago Style

Late last week I was invited by my girlfriend to attend a Superbowl Party at Spago held by Gene Simmons. Yes. Gene "My Tongue is Freakishly Long and Has Made Me Millions" Simmons. Ok, that sounds interesting. Then she said "Free Food" at Spago (owned and operated by Wolfgang Puck) - yum. Sold.

Wasn't feeling super hot on Sunday, but, I rallied because who passes up Gene Simmons' Super Bowl party? Not this girl. No way. I got myself all "gussied" up - was going for the casual yet classic Hollywood style. I even had my personal makeup artist (Gwen) touch up my lids. I was looking stylin' and ready to roll to the Hollywood party when thump thump thump. The Queen of Flat Tires hit again. Shit. Luckily, I was right around the corner, so I ditched the Stang and rode in environmentally-conscious style in the Prius.

As we entered, out popped Gene himself. Jumping at the photographers and sticking out that tongue of his. It's actually kind of gross in person. And I thought to myself, "Doesn't that get old?" But I answered myself with, "Yah, all the way to the bank."

Inside was a little different than I expected. For whatever reason, we expected to see a lot of hip, young Hollywood. Not...so...much. As my friend Jay coined it, it was the Jew's Jew of Hollywood. With the exception of myself, my friend, some of the waitstaff, a dude from "Boy Meets World", Punky Brewster (aka - Soleil "I Have Giant Cleavage" Moon Frye), and Bill Maher's pornstar girlfriend (no seriously - she wrote a book about it), we were the ONLY people under 60 in the room. There were a ton of faces that I recognized (some more pulled then others), but, was able to identify Penny Marshall (whom I love, and hence the only photo we took all night), Dick Van Patton, Bill Maher (dickhead, fyi), Wolfgang Puck (hello - it is his restaurant) and then I saw her - my celebrity stalker - Judy Tenuta. Yes. Remember how I "ran" into her a couple months ago at Divine Design? There she was again. I've heard of "normal" people stalking celebrities but not celebrities stalking "normals". I steered clear of her - just so she got the hint.

We spent the majority of the evening playing "Name that Procedure" with the women and "Guess His Girlfriend's Age" with the men. So fun. We barely watched any of the game because there were just so many fun distractions. I do need to mention, though, the food and drink were not only free but primo - Wolfie's hamburgers were the best I've ever had (hmmm, that sounded odd).

Unfortunately, the evening had to come to an end. We got in one last glance around the room, a quick giggle and cruised home using .00002 gallons of gas. Good times.

I must say, Hollywood really truly is a whole different world.

Piecemeal

This weekend must be given in piecemeal because it's just too much for any one human being to stomach in a single reading. I would hate to bore everyone to tears, and if I do, sorry. I'm still a little under the weather.

After a raging Friday evening with EC and his friends (that gets to be a whole different story), I got my lazy butt up at the crack of dawn (aka: 8:30 am) Saturday morning to join the BB's + 1 (our other friend) to hit up California Adventure (Disneyland's sister park). A 32-ounce coffee kept my eyes open for the first half of the day and the nauseating rides kept them open for the second half. I was actually really impressed with the park. Short lines - awesome rides (mostly for adults) - and not too expensive. A+ in my book as far as theme parks go. Of course, the last theme park I went to was in high school in Buffalo, but, who's counting.

I was fairly amazed, though, at the Mickey cult action that goes on within the park goers. I remember being in 6th grade and my parents took us to DisneyWORLD (Florida - not California). When we were leaving, my parents bought me ears and a sweatshirt. Makes sense. You purchase when you're at the attraction. Much like purchasing a tee-shirt at a concert. Or a magnet on vacation.

But these people at Disneyland/Cali Adventure were TOTALLY dudded out in Mickey/Goofy/Donald Duck garb BEFORE entering the park. They actually woke up in the morning and dressed themselves in their Mickey garb to, I guess, blend in at the park? Not look like a tourist? Not quite sure. All I know is that we were all in teeshirts and jeans with no Mickey Mouse fanny packs, iron-ons or backpacks and we stood out. But that's ok. We like to stand out.

We had a great time. Made ourselves sick on the rides, drank beer (they serve it at Cali Adventure!), ate giant bad-for-you cheeseburgers, people watched and walked about 6 million miles (which really amazes me because there were a couple groups of young Asian women there in stiletto heels - not a generalization - just an observation - bet they had some serious blisters Saturday night). We even got our pictures taken on two of the rollercoaster rides and the one ride on the Tower of Terror. As always, I figured out where the camera was and had to be a ham. Good times.

Stroke of Genius

During a relatively normal conversation today with a friend of mine (a male at that), I had a stroke of shear genius. I was making a generalization (as I usually do) that there are no men out there that are "grown up and know how to treat a woman". He immediately took offense to this remark, and reminded me that he is a grown up who knows how to treat women, to which I reminded him that he is taken. "They're ALL taken," I whined (hey, I can openly admit that I whine).

He disagreed. "No. They come on the market sometimes."

And it dawned on me.

I have figured out what Los Angeles needs. Ladies, listen up.

A Man Broker. Yes. A Man Broker.

Much like a Real Estate Broker, a Man Broker specializes in screening men and finding the best match possible, but, ONLY deals with men who are "grown up and know how to treat a woman and who are NOT taken".

But Rachel, define "grown up".

Well, to start, he has a j-o-b and a residence. (Hostels, parent's house, hotel, sleeping bag, tent, etc. do not count.) Second, he has to be commitmentphobe free. He needs to be able to say the word 'commitment' and not cry, groan, squirm or run in the opposite direction. Third, he has to be secure enough and willing to purchase feminine needs products for you when you have PMS without wearing a ski mask. Finally, he has to have goals. Yes, goals - beyond going to the Playboy Mansion and the Oakland Raiders winning the Superbowl in his Madden Football video game tournament with his buddies. Finally, he can define AND give real-life examples of the implementation of "romance", "communication" and "respect" within his relationships with females (not including mom). Everything else is negotiable.

Sounds like a lot, I know. But, according to my friend, who falls in this category of "grown up", there are some out there that do, occasionally, come out on the "market".

Here is where the Man Broker (MB) comes into play. It is the job of the MB to find out when such men are on the market and ready to start dating. At this point, the MB alerts the potential daters, makes an appropriate match and we all live happily ever after.

Ahhhhhhh.

If it were only that simple. But I do think I'm onto something here. I know that they have dating services and such, but, I think my MB takes the quality one step further. Kind of like eharmony meets Century 21.

I have to brew over this one for a bit and see where the little wheels iIsn'ty head can take me.

Isn't it a great idea? Or will I get arrested for "tax evasion" like Heidi Fleiss?

P.U.

Warning: DO NOT SPEND TIME IN RIVERSIDE, CA.

It smells like cows and my pores immediately opened up to welcome in all the dust and dirt that is flying around. Had I known that was going to happen I would have brought those facials in a package things with me. I feel like I shoved my face into a sandbox that hasn't been refreshed in years. Ewe.

I had the unpleasure of spending roughly an hour in Riverside (AKA: the "909") today for work purposes. I had never actually stopped there. I've driven by numerous times on the way to Palm Springs, but, stop? No. Until today.

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure a lot of people thoroughly enjoy Riverside and have strong loyalties to it and the school systems probably rock and all that (uh ok). It just plain amazes me that only 45 miles east of downtown Los Angeles, is this whole other world. A world where yellow Mazda Miatas with bumper stickers saying, "My other ride is your girlfriend" exist. And Camaros drive around with "I Love Vagina" stickers. "Where am I?" I thought. "A strange twilight zone where everyone loses their automobile sense of couth and style (but obviously not their sex drives)?"

After completing my assignment I hauled ass like the Mustang has never hauled before to get back to the LA LA Land. Here we just have giant muffler things and hydraulics. But I felt like I was home.

(And by the way, I don't want any smart ass remarks from people who reside/were born in/party/work/raise children/own homes/etc in Riverside. It's my blog and I can write whatever I damn well please. The place smells and the bumper stickers speak for themselves. So there.)

Oops

Spoke too soon. My beauty and brains were not overwhelming. He called. Oops.

Pink Razr Malfunction

It's the damnedest thing.

I got a new hot pink razr cell phone last week and it appears to be malfunctioning.

EC was supposed to call to confirm our attendance at a play tomorrow evening (getting a little culture up in this bitch) but his calls haven't come through. Weird. Maybe I should take it into Tmobile and have Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas check it out.

Or, I can WAKE UP AND SMELL THE STARBUCKS. I jinxed it and no one is buying me a Coke (or anything else for that matter). EC has bonked his dialing karma. He has fallen into the lair of men in the greater Los Angles area that don't call. I called him a "dialer" too soon. I KNEW I shouldn't have taken him to the "man black hole". D'OH.

Perhaps he was intimidated by the pink razr. Perhaps he was in a freak accident that has left his fingers and toes inexplicably temporarily paralyzed. Perhaps his cell phone decided to pick up surfing. Perhaps he has decided that he likes men.

Perhaps it is a hell of a lot more amusing exploring those options than the one that is just plain old reality: My exquisite beauty, quick-witted humor and Einstein-like brains were too overwhelming for him.

That is my story and I'm sticking to it.

My inspirational calendar's saying for February says: "Listen to your heart above all other voices." Does this include the ones in my head? Hmmmm.