Sneak a peek into the life of a single, 20-something female who is not in the entertainment industry and who does not have fake breasts. Yes, we do exist. What you are about to read is based on fact and is not for the weak of stomach. You have been warned.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Putty People
I was watching the movie "Elizabethtown" last night. Although Kirsten Dunst's character made me want to poke my eyes out with a fork, there was a concept raised that I found interesting both personally and socially.
One of the characters defines themself as "a substitute person" - impossible to forget, but hard to remember. A person who willingly and wholy fills in the blanks that others leave. I prefer to refer to someone as a "putty person", since "substitute" implies "sub", "below", "less than". People in those roles aren't less than people - they simply serve a role as a filler.
I thought about it for a bit. And then I deliberated about my roll in other's lives, particularly in relationships. Verdict?
Oh shit. I'm a putty person.
Now, this isn't like when you see the commercials for Restless Leg Syndrome and then are convinced that you have that ailment to go with the Panic Disorder brought on by the Paxil commercial. I really think that I've served as a putty person for the better percentage of my relationships.
Let's think about it. I go for workaholics, alcoholics, freakaholics, xboxaholics, any -aholic (how come "alcoholic" isn't "alcohalic"?) you can think of. And really, -aholics find plenty of space in their life for whatever it is that they are addicted to, and only have time and emotional energy for putty people - which is where I come in.
And that's NO BUENO, my little friends. No bueno whatsoever.
Now, no worries, I'm not about to bust out the littlest violin and cry myself to sleep, because I think this is positive - this is an epiphany. If anything, all my -aholics have taught me that recognizing the issue is the first step to recovery (or something like that). I don't WANT to be just filler. I don't DESERVE to be just filler. Hell no, we won't go.
It's time to quit emptying my efforts into men (well, boys, in my opinion) who enable me to be such. Peace out putty people seekers, this girl is through with you.
(And thank you Cameron Crowe for enlightening me. But, next time, please make a better movie for me to receive my message through, because "Elizabethtown" sucked.)
Picture it: Friday night. I make it to the beach bar just in time for the sunset. So what do I do? I invite Hercules to join - who doesn't like a frosty cocktail while watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean? Apparently Hercules.
The response I got from him (via text message mind you - extra bonus): "It's an Xbox night for me."
Um. WTF?
I'm going to throw this out there because that's what I do: I've heard of some lame excuses in my dating years and but this one takes the taco. As a 34-year-old man, he would have been better off saying he was washing his hair or clipping his fingernails. Dumping by Xbox. Who does that?!
Some of you might say, "Well, Rachel, social morons might do that or people who aren't as stunningly suave like you." But, my friends, the bottom line is that this girl has hit a new low in her dating career. Social goob or not, he passed up some Rachel love for Sonic the F-ing Hedgehog (sorry, I don't play xbox so I have no clue what games are presently "cool" - and I use "cool" loosely - very very very loosely).
Well kids, back to the drawing board. This time with an additional prerequisite - no xbox for the future Mr. Rachel.
PS: Thanks to modern technology, the above picture is a real-time image of me flabbergasted at the text message and K laughing hysterically at it. GOOD TIMES!! LOL.
I hate technology sometimes. I just did a whole blog and then Mr. Internet Server decided to wipe it clean - hats off to you, dumb ass. So, now you get the abbreviated version because I have short term memory loss and a severe lack of patience.
Blog Take 2.
I was sitting here minding my own business overanalyzing Hercules' issues (ha ha) when an email popped up from a guy that I met in Canada over 4 years ago while attending my little brother's hockey tournament. We kept in touch for a while, but, to be honest, he was a little too young and naive for me, as he was only about 22 at the time. So this email came from him all the way from Afghanistan where he is now serving in the Canadian Army (no smart remarks, people). Of all the people in the world to think about, our little Captain (or whatever he is) thought about Rachel. Apparently, heat-induced delirium causes men to remember yours truly.
After the initial giggle at such a random email, I began to think about how and why situations such as this happen. Why is it that we can not see or communicate with someone for years (or sometimes for older people, decades) and then all of a sudden, BAM, there they are in an instant? What are the reasons behind it? It is pure curiosity? Guilt? Boredom? And is it worth the energy of pursuit to reboot a relationship that so easily fell by the wayside?
I've had it happen to me a number of times in my 20-something years and the majority of the time it's a pretty fluff effort; we do the token catch up (basically a pissing match) and then go about our separate lives and forget about each other once again. Big whoop. Only a few daytime minutes wasted. But a couple of times, a long-lost person (platonic or otherwise) has been reintroduced into my life and has led to fulfilling relationships that are sure to last a very long time: timing being the numero uno reason for falling out of contact. So, basically, it's a crap shoot. BUT, in this girl's opinion, it's one that really has no negative ramifications. If it ends up as fluff, no harm no foul; but if it ends up as a functional and enriching relationship than bonus for you.
Now, in the current scenario, I'm sure our little Canadian friend is just bored and hot and lonely and was running through his old email book and found little 'ole me, but, who knows, right? At the very least, I'm sure the kid will have some interesting stories to share throughout his duration of fighting the war on terror (ewe - just channeled George W. there for a second). And a little attention from a hot little stud never hurt the female ego either!!
Yesterday, as most of you know, was Easter. A day of rejoicing and a lot of eating, and, well, Easter Egg Hunts.
The rest of the orphans and myself all gaggled together to have our own Easter celebration. But, apparently, it's just not possible for us to get together as a group and partake in good clean fun. I'm not saying that it's dirty, I'm just saying that the Pope may not exactly have approved.
Steph invited about 20 or so of us over to her house for a feast. Apparently, as the token Catholic, I was asked to plan the drunken Easter egg hunt. Coolio. No problem. 100 plastic eggs, some candy, naked men playing cards and condoms later we had our hunt.
The hunt took place in the shared courtyard of Steph's apartment complex. Luckily, her management company hadn't mowed the lawn in what seemed to be months, so really all I had to do was stand in one place and chuck the eggs to "hide" them. When the "kids" were released it was absolute mayhem. I have never in my life seen a bunch of 20 and 30-somethings run around desperately hunting for plastic eggs - now I have.
When they were finished collecting the hidden eggs, I split them into two teams and that is when the drinking (and stripping) began. Each team had to put their naked men playing cards together and give me the best hand of 7. The losing team, in consequence, had to chug a pitcher of beer. That was interesting as the pitcher was too big to fit in anyone's mouth adequately, so the whole team proceeded to drench themselves in beer. The two people who found the two golden eggs were then asked politely to do a team shot of tequila. Unfortunately for the beer pitcher team, they also had a golden egg. Finally, the "crazy" eggs as we called them (eggs with drawings on them) were the strip eggs. Each person who collected the "crazy" eggs had to remove an article of clothing per crazy egg. Let's just say this: I saw a man in his grey "tighty whiteys" that I could have lived without seeing. But it was hysterical nonetheless.
I know what you're thinking. "Rachel, that is the most sacrilegious thing I've ever heard. I'm disgusted." But, really, the meaning behind holidays is not the events that you partake in, but the people you spend them with and with the exception of my own family, I wouldn't have wanted to spend the holiday with anyone but this clan of hairdos.
Although, I think I'm becoming a tad predictable, because when I called my grandparents house, where my immediate family was celebrating, my grandmother asked, "Are you drunk yet?" Lovely.
Last night's festivities included the Dodgers v. Giants game at Dodger Stadium with Hercules. What was supposed to be a romantic evening under the stars watching America's favorite past time in box seats ended up having a, er, slight deviation.
All week the weather in LA has been beautiful - sunny, 75, gorgeous. But yesterday, seeing as it was the first time in a long while that I had confirmed plans for an outdoor activity, it poured rain. Not good when attempting "hot" hair and makeup.
We arrived the the stadium early as we were both craving Dodgers dogs and we wanted plenty of time to settle in our seats and be well-equipped with bad beer and Dodger dogs before the first pitch was thrown. But, due to mother earth's opposing plans, the game started two hours late. And being the troopers were are, we stayed the whole time. It stopped raining a couple times and each time we walked to our seats, wiped them off with the excess stacks of napkins that I took from the condiment stations and within 2 minutes it would start pouring again. We couldn't help but laugh (and thank god I wore waterproof mascara).
Now you can just imagine that when the game finally started, almost three hours after the legal sale of beer began in the stadium, the remaining patrons were, let's just say, quite vocal. Their obnoxiousness made better with the fact that Barry Bonds was playing (and yes, the token blow-up pill bottle was tossed around the stadium).
We made it until the 8th inning (which came up on midnight) and then decided to listen to the rest of the game from the comfort of the Audi - complete with heated seats.
I have to admit though, that even though the weather didn't necessarily cooperate with us, we managed to laugh the entire evening - at and with each other. (He found it particularly amusing when I was trying to maintain my balance on wet concrete floors in Dior leather boots - but I did.)
I still feel a bit like he doesn't quite know what to do with me. I'm sure part of that is, well, no one usually does and also his whole desire to eventually move to Phoenix. And as for that, I've decided to go for it. Until he determines a finite date of moving (or decides to boot me to the curb), I'm going to give it a chance. He makes me smile - a lot. What happens will happen. But for right now, I'm enjoying him and the time we spend together. Can you really blame a girl?
So I'm back to full vision and sans patch. Although I really felt that the pirate look was working for me - I like to see my world through both of the eyes that God gave me. If somehow one gets poked out in a freak accident, I will be open to rocking the patch again... I promise.
So, you're all pestering me....."What's the deal with Hercules?!"
Well, my little friends, I didn't want to jinx it, but, our date last week went awesome. The Cirque du Soleil show, "Quidam", was weirder than a six legged cat, but, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as well as the company. He really is quite impressive. How I "passed him over" last year is beyond me. I guess timing is key. Speaking of which.....
I don't have a lot of new information to discuss as far as Hercules because he is slightly "MIO" (Missing in Office) at the present moment. As he so sweetly explained to me, due to a continuance that didn't get granted (oh, by the way, he's a lawyer), he had to lock himself in his office for some time to give himself carpal tunnel syndrome and blurry vision cramming four months of work into two weeks. My reaction? Priceless: "Um, ok."
I am such a whiz with words.
Now, have no worries, this sassy lassy has since seen him in person and, in my Rachelesque way (eeks), explained to him that although work is a priority (and a big one at that), he needs to maintain communication with me at some level and buy me presents. He laughed which I think is a good sign (as he gets my humor) and has maintained communication through his pile of depositions and whatever other crap lawyers look at. But where the hell are my presents?!
Hopefully, we will be taking "the next step" this weekend - yes, meeting the friends. (As if we need another reason to party, Steph is organizing an Easter party. My job for the day is to plan out the adult Easter egg hunt - oh this could be fun.) He was officially sent the Evite, so, we'll see if he can shovel his way out of his office to do some Easter egg shots. Because let's face it - a relationship can't really go anywhere until blessings are given by the girlfriends - it's a rule. A very important one at that.
So, keep your fingers crossed, your fingers out of your eyes and your drinks in Easter eggs.
I never cease to amaze myself. Really and truly. I had what can be considered a string of "weird" luck this past weekend - a giant IRS bill to pay, broken digital camera, missing house/work keys, etc. But to top it all off, I spent the majority of the weekend as a wannabe pirate. Yes, you heard me right. A pirate - argh mateys.
After sleeping in my contacts Friday night (don't ask) I proceeded to rub my eyes and scratch the crap out of my cornea. I am actually surprised that it is even still attached. As I couldn’t find any of my friends, I had to drive, one-eyed to the urgent care in Bev Hills where they put some weird gooey gunk in my eye and then topped it off with a PATCH. I specifically requested a pink one, but, they did not have that. Bastards.
So, off I went in my white pirate-patch. Can you say HOT?! Because I can.
On my way home, I had sketchy depth perception so I banged into a curb trying to make a right hand turn at 30 mph and got a flat tire. The AAA guy did everything in his power to not laugh at me but it was no use. I allowed him to point and laugh for a solid 10 minutes, thus embracing the feeling of utter humiliation. The laughing man, who was about 70 and 450 lbs then offered to put the car on his truck and tow me and my car home for free because he felt so bad for me, which the remaining 3 tires greatly appreciated. Unfortunately for me, he reaked of pachoulie so I gagged the entire way home. I am happy to report, though, that the patch has been removed and I am now simply sporting the nerd glasses. Lasik, here I come.
Someone send me a rabbit's foot or something - Rach needs a change of luck!
So tonight is date #4 with Hercules. Although we've kept minimal contact over the past two weeks, he still insisted that we go to see Cirque du Soleil in Long Beach. I was perfectly content to sell the tickets on eBay, but, I really do enjoy watching people in spandex outfits defy the laws of gravity on all sorts of props.
Should be an interesting evening. I've already changed my outfit twice and now I think I look like I'm ready to go salsa dancing - in Pradas, of course. Whatevs. Maybe I should have gone for more of a "Phoenix" look - ha ha. Although, not really sure what that would consist of - shorts and a tank top? Probably not appropriate for tonight's venue, but, hey, something to consider if there are additional dates.
Which brings up a valid concern. Is the "premature verbal ejaculation" that happened on our last date going to be the elephant in the room for the duration of the evening? As I am attempting "time release", I am not going to bring it up and I doubt after the last debacle that he will either. Will we approach it as a "mulligan" or will it cause an awkward silence buffered only by the people flying from side to side on leather trapeze? If that's the case maybe I can just catch a ride home with one of the performers. Or do they live in those tents?
So Steph and I attended this fashion sample sale in Hollywood yesterday morning. Unfortunately, with the time change, some of the vendors got to the event late so the VIP Hour that we spent extra benjamins on was pretty much spent waiting outside at Hollywood & Highland with 300 angry women with their wallets popping out of their Gucci and Prada purses. Luckily, the free champagne was flowing by the time we made it inside. Otherwise, they could have had a serious situation on their hands. Don't mess with women and bargain shopping. Time is of the essence.
Oh, and don't mess with a woman on a quest for her free gift bag either. After we our own wallets in the ICU and drank some free champagne, we decided to blow that popsicle stand and go be tourists for a day in Hollywood. But on our way out we needed to collect our free gift bags full of about, oh, $45 in product. Directly behind us, a woman (well, I saw her up close - I'm pretty sure she was a he but whatevs) became absolutely irrate that she might not get her giftbag because a rumor had started that they were running out. She immediately went into hytsterics, pushing and yelling and threatening. Her voice dropped six octaves and her eyes, I SWEAR, turned a reddish hue - I was half expecting her head to spin around. After shoving Steph and I aside, she got her free magazine and body scrub in a bag and was on her way... and so were we.
We then trotted immediately into a Hollywood souvenir shop where for $14 we landed a pair of giant yellow pineapple sunglasses and a pair of martini sunglasses. We wore them all around Hollywood Boulevard, including the infamous Pig-N-Whistle, enjoying our time as tourists. We got quite a few compliments on the glasses but really just enjoyed our time pretending to be from Idaho and erasing our run-in with the gift bag princess. And pineapple sunglasses never go out of style....
