Me Love Me Long Time

I accepted the invitation to house/dogsit this week (starting yesterday) at the house of a friend's family. They have a beautiful home in Culver City with all the amenities (including A/C which has been an absolute commodity lately out here in HELL). At first, I thought it was going to be a total boredomfest stuck "ALL" the way out in Culver City (5 miles from the beach), but, it has been a absolute 180-degree turn from my "normal" life and, amazingly, an absolute relief.

I think it's interesting sometimes how we get so accustomed to the way our lives run rampant that we don't realize how absolutely insane and at times unhealthy it can be, and living in Venice Beach in my 20s during the summer definitely falls into that category.

I get so caught up in living "the life" that I have a tendency to forget that once in a while it is good for my sweet little brain to take some time to decompress, process and jog the self-reflection neurons. In essence, whack me out of the surreal life that we call "normal". And when you are moving 24-7 in 8 zillion directions, that's just not possible. I needed to take this opportunity to ctl + alt + delete and reboot.

I spent the entire day today cooking, watching flicks ("Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" is AWESOME, just fyi), taking nappy poos, and basically using the time to myself to get a little piece and quiet and holy crap - what a welcome break. I almost forgot how fun I am to hang out with!

Don't get me wrong, I love my friends more than anyone I know - we ALWAYS have a kick-ass time no matter what we do, but, with the bong-gurgling, ass-glued-to-the-couch roommate, his ever-present shrill-voiced girlfriend and the non-stop social agenda lately (price of a social butterfly), I've had ZILCHO time to myself. And you know what? I needed it. I even took a bubble bath with wine, candles and some adult alternative tunes - most romance I've had in what seems like a millennium - and by far the least amount of drama. It was some serious Rachel Time.

Plato (the philosopher, not the odd-textured non-toxic shit you played with as a kid) said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." (I remember this from Philosophy 101 in college - there's $100k well spent.) And he hit the nail on the head - when given the time to examine and analyze the status of my life, I've come up with some necessary measures that will be implemented over the course of the next few months.

What are they? Well, as always, you will just have to wait and see.....

I Wanna Plane, Daddy! And I Want It NOW!

Sometimes it takes a little push to remind me that we live in LA. Living on the beach, you have a tendency to get sidetracked from the Hollywood bullshit that most people associate with LA-la land. People at the beach are cool with flip flops and beer and it's nearly impossible to tell the people with money and the people without because really, no one gives a hoot.

But, we got our shove this weekend. And it made me want to race home, strip off my clothes and bathe myself with steel wool to get the "eau du soulessness" off of me.

We rocked the engagement party for our girlfriend and her fiance. It was a great evening and for a group that you rarely see out in anything but jeans and teeshirts, we were all glamming it up for the occasion in sundresses and stiletto heels. Our theory was that why should we waste the glam at our normal hangouts post-party when we were right down the street from the Viceroy - glam central in Santa Monica. As Hollywood as you can get without being in Hollywood. It's what the Hollywood considers "going to the beach".

So off we went. As soon as we entered I knew we should just turn around and walk back out. I turned to Lyn and said that God help all the men in the joint if a fire started because all their heads would go up in flames from the abundance of hair gel that solidified their matching "wave" hairdos. (You know the "wave" - flat all around and then spiked up 85,000" in the front - I consider it the male bangs of the 2000s.)

We did a quick spin around the place to see what was cookin and then after that we were more than ready for a drink. As we stood at the bar waiting patiently for a bartender to notice us, we couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Wavehead #1 and Little Blonde Dummy #1 standing next to us. (We couldn't help but overhear because Wavehead #1 apparently had a megaphone implanted into his body along with his presumed calf and chin implants.)

Here is what transpired:

WH #1: "Dude, I so want a plane. Seriously, I'm going to buy a plane and you can be my pilot. I'm getting a plane."

LBD #1: "Hee hee." Hair twirl, hair twirl. "Well, my brother is coming out to visit and you can ask him to fly it." Hair twirl, hair twirl.

WH #1: "DUDE. Seriously. I'm going to buy a plane."

Bartender to WH #1: "Bro, do you even know how to fly a plane?" Eyeroll.

WH #1: "Dude. She's going to be my pilot! I'm so buying a plane. And when you're brother comes out, we totally have to hang. We can take my new Ferrari out."

LBD #1: "Hee hee." Hair twirl, hair twirl.

Rachel to Lyn and random people standing next to us: "I'm going to shove me finger down my throat and vomit. Get me the f*#@ out of this place. That guy is a walking headache just screaming for a punch in his plane-buying ugly-ass face. I'm over it."

And leave we did. In all of our hotness. This was not the place for us.

It was almost as if the obnoxious vanity and soulessness had begun to consume my inner being and my buzz. We immediately raced to the Irish pub down the street where we happily consumed pints of Harp, continued to look hot and laughed hysterically and in disbelief over the fact that not only do people live their lives in that manner but also that they congregate en masse and in doing so, live on a completely different planet than us. They are people that need a wakeup call and a nice dose of "who the F*#@ gives a shit". And, ladies and gentlemen, you KNOW that I am more than happy to be the one to give it to them.

I love you beach. I will never leave you again.

"Import It and Enjoy It"

One of my girlfriends has been out of town for a while and was catching up on the Rachel blogness today when she came across the picture of the hottie from Brazil. (Mmmmmm, tasty. Thanks for the reminder.)

Anywhonuts, she was absolutely flabbergasted that I didn't retain the contact information for Mr. Brazil. As I explained to her, I had his address and email but lost it during the horrendous travel escapade home. Technically I could find him if I wanted but it just seems like a lot of work for what would end up being very little payoff. And I'm an efficient gal, so, I'll chalk it up to a loss.

"NO," she said. "Import it and enjoy it."

MEH?

She went on to explain that the "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" vacation "hook ups", per se, can be extended beyond the initial vacation era simply by inviting the foreign man to your city of residence for a "visit". Now, as she mentioned, this is ONLY reserved for the ultra hot and/or ultra fun foreign men and there are rules:

1. You never pay for his trip to the US - EVER. If he's from a third world country, then you're shit out of luck.
2. Keep the visits brief (4 full days max).
3. Minimize activities that require a ton of verbal communication because chances are, he doesn't speak a whole lotta English.
4. And never let the conversation flow to the whole green card marriage tip - no way.

She brings up a good point - the international booty call - import it, enjoy it and send it home. Very no-strings attached.

But call me old fashioned or boring (ha ha yah right) but, really, isn't it just easier to find a local superstar that doesn't need to exchange currency to take you out to dinner?

I'll take my Brazilian hotties when in Brazil. But when in LA I will stick to the domestic ones, no matter how much they drive me nutty.

Pet Cotton Candy

I was going to f- with your heads and tell you that this is Cameron and I couldn't resist coloring him pink (since as we all know that's my fav color), but, I didn't want any threatening phonecalls from the humane society or PETA so I'll just subject you to a dog that all the other dog's laugh at.

Don't even get me started on my take of the owner.

PS: Rest assured, Cameron is chillin' with an Ohio State Buckeyes collar on and he's a sweet shade of dirty white.

I've Never Seen Anything Like It

Lyn and I had to go to the Dollar Store today to purchase some cups and junk for Saturday's festivities.

While we were wandering around aimlessly in the Mecca of all Dollar Stores in all the land, we stumbled into a section I'd never seen before - the BOOZE section.

Yes. You heard me right. The Dollar Store sells BOOZE. Wine, beer, malt liquor, sangria, etc. We were stunned. We stood there staring blankly at what we thought was a joke. We'd never seen such a sight.

I looked around desperately for the keg section as I'm going to be forced to pay $100 for a keg of Bud Light - blech. But, no luck. Dammit.

Now, because I am a wine snob, I bought one bottle just to say I tried wine from the Dollar Store. But I piled quite a few of the sangria "juice boxes" into our cart and left the malt liquor for the local less-than-fortunate drinkers.

We agreed to do a blind taste test this weekend on some unwitting soiree attendees. "Well, hello! May I get you a glass of wine? No. You stay there. I'll get it for you...."

Perhaps I could open up the cheapest bar in the universe and serve only beverages purchased from the Dollar Store. Hmmmmm.......

Desperate Non-Wives?

My boss unwittingly said something interesting today that I found incredibly relevant to the blog. We were talking about the fact that I don't have the second job for the money - it's really just to keep me out of trouble and for every night I work, it's a night that I don't go out, which saves me about $50 million minimum per night (feels that way at least).

He was flabbergasted at the amount that I threw out (I think I actually said $50) saying that he can't believe how much money "singles" spend on "entertainment" (not including strippers, I reminded him). He used a restaurant that my friends and I frequent often as an example and described it as "a parade of beautiful young women wearing really tight jeans who consistently spend $50-100 on 'wine and a heavy snack'".

I applauded him for admitting that he notices the women in tight jeans, but then he made a statement that made me do an immediate head scratch and knife-out-of-the-back removal. "It's amazing, single women put off such a completely different vibe than married women. They seem to have something to prove."

Heh? Put the brakes on there, bub.

There are definitely plenty of women out there (particularly in LA) that put off the "PICK ME PICK ME" vibe. But, it's a generalization that single women bear, and, to be beratingly blunt of my own gender, it's just as true for married women (out here at least - in fact I've seen a HELL of a lot more tight jeans and plastic surgery on married women than singles - sorry, it's true).

So what is it? Do single women (or women in general) have something to prove? And if so - what are we proving and to whom?

I thought long and hard (ha ha) about this (during a "CSI" marathon - damn that George Eads is fine). My internal debate lasted throughout four episodes, and here is what I concluded. And ladies, some of you are not going to like this one bit - too bad.

In my 20-something years, I have noticed an overwhelming trend that is often taboo to speak about. Women (SINGLE AND MARRIED AND DIVORCED AND GAY AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN) are competitive by nature. They are competitive with each other, end of story.

Perhaps it started in the caveman days when woman's sole reason for living was to pop out mini cavemen and applaud man for discovering fire - our lives as a gender revolved around luring and sustaining a man (actually kind of sounds like all of history up until the 60s - puke). If Joe the Caveman picked another cavewoman over you, you would be banished to picking fruit or some crap (I never claimed to be an expert in caveperson sociology). Other women stood in the way of you being acknowledged as a productive, valuable human being. A woman had to stave off the other bitches who = COMPETITION.

Unfortunately, this was absorbed into our very beings enabling women to continue to consciously or unconsciously look at other women as competition. Think back to middle school when the "she-said" friend wars persisted. Or in high school when boyfriend drama was actually considered an extracurricular activity. And even now when you're out at dinner and a gorgeous supermodelesque gazelle cruises by and your man's mouth drops open and small amounts of drool fall out. Even if you're not a jealous woman, a little flicker of competition is ignited. We may get older and develop our female-to-female relationships (most of my closest relationships are with women), but, at times, we are out to prove to OTHER WOMEN that we are hot to trot and a being to be reckoned with.

So that's that. I am going against the grain and conceding to one aspect of my boss' male egocentric statement - we are to prove something - our innate (and the more I think about it vomit-inducing) desire to prove our validity as females within the species. We (all women - not just the single ones) wear the tight jeans and the Manolos and the boob shirts for other women - not for the men.

I wish I could say that I'm different but some of the most ego-boosting moments in my life have been when I receive a legitimate compliment from another woman. It's amazing how much further a female stranger's compliment goes than that of a male's- like King Kong telling Godzilla that he's a bad ass fighter...

So cheers to the ladies - our love/hate relationship will continue on and let's also continue to look cute for each other - drives the men wild. ;)

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm"

I stopped into the Dollar Store yesterday and in the checkout aisle there were condoms and pregnancy tests for sale - for $1 (duh). What's wrong with this picture?

Northern Exposure

You know that you have close girlfriends when you have a wardrobe malfunction in front of one of their fiancees and everyone just laughs hysterically.

Yah - that's me. That's how I roll.

While at the beach on Saturday, we decided to go frolicking in the ocean. Women never like to miss a golden opportunity to look hot. It was myself, two of my girlfriends and the token fiancee. I tried to strike into my sexy mode by jumping like a mermaid into an oncoming wave. My thought was that I would come out of the mermaid dive after the wave passed and run my fingers through my wet glistening hair, like a scene out of The Blue Lagoon. Unfortunately, this is me we're talking about so when I came up for air, I couldn't open my eyes for fear of popping out a contact, so the first 5-10 seconds was spent rubbing my eyes in lieu of looking hot and sexy.

It wasn't until I heard my girlfriends and the fiancee screaming with laughter and the words "Your tit's hanging out!" between the fits that I realized that my sexy mermaid dive went awry and the right side of my bikini top was being worn around my neck - full on northern exposure.

I'm as smooth as a gravel walkway.

Now, some girls will get bent out of shape when certain areas of another female's body are exposed to their fiancee or boyfriend's view. But not my friend. I'm pretty sure I heard her yell at the top of her lungs, "Hey Ross! Rachel's boob is hanging out!" Awesome. You gotta love women with confidence - makes awkward situations much less awkward.

I have to decided to hang up the quest for mermaid sexiness and tighten my bikini tops. Because really, that's the only lesson that can come from this. That and spf the hell out of seemingly unexposed body parts. Because you never know when one will want to come out and party.

PS: After the great Boob Incident of 2006, we got 86'd from the OCEAN because the lifeguard saw us drinking alcohol. Honestly, who has ever been 86'd from an entire ocean besides us?

I have nothing to say but "Holy shit - our world is coming to an end with people like this in existence." See for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qv0CIdvEnMY&search=pickles

Office Karma

Why is it that I've done three things this morning and they've all ended up with me huffing and puffing?

1. Go to drink giant mug of joe (was up until 3am after scaring myself silly watching "The Exorcism of Emily Rose") and there's no coffee left in the carafe thingy. How hard is it to make more if you take the last of it? Someday I will post a camera in the kitchen to see who does that and then I'm going to beat them silly with the empty coffee carafe.

2. Tried to be productive and make a copy of a very important document (I just wanted to see if I could make a copy of my face without smushing it against the glass) and of COURSE not only was there a paper jam, but, there was also no paper. Again - people - why leave a paper jam? It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Do it again and I'll make you a human paper jam.

3. Needed to print out some additional important documents (directions to the pub crawl tomorrow) and the son of a bitch was out of paper too! Amazingly, after I walked my lazy ass all the way to the back of the office to collect a ream of papier and brought it to the printer and shoved it in, about 900 additional documents came printing out (OTHER PEOPLE'S DOCUMENTS) before mine. Apparently, all these people were waiting for some sucker to come and reload the paper because they were too busy DRINKING THEIR COFFEE. Replenish the paper or I will cover you in paper cuts.

I was raised that when you use the last of something - you replace it. If you take the last square of t.p. - you walk downstairs and retrieve a new roll. If you borrow someone's car you don't return it on empty (unless it's your parents and you're broke then it's ok to leave it because they love you). If you drink the last beer, you race at full speed to the store and replenish immediately. It's common sense. It's common courtesy.

Because it's Friday, I'll give my officemates a 'mulligan'. But, I warn you - if the paper/coffee/paper jam bandits continue to strike, I will be forced to plot my revenge. And my revenge can be messy.

OVER IT

My girlfriend and I were talking at lunch today about the fact that we're "O-V-E-R" the men of Los Angeles. I respect the fact that there must be some really fabu ones out there, but, apparently, we don't hang out in the same places. In the past two weeks, her, I, and two of our other girlfriends have been shafted by LA men.

Don't worry, I'm not super bothered by it - you grow calluses after a while - but it is definitely something interesting to bitch about. (Hey, if I'm gonna bitch, it better be interesting.)

Here are two prove-our-point stories and out of respect for my friends, I will not use their real names.

Friend #1: We shall call her Wanda. Wanda was dating a seemingly decent guy for about a month. He went out of town and came back on the 4th. He called to see her and see him she did. She fell asleep watching a movie with him at his house and at midnight he woke her up. At first she thought he was just going to gently tuck her into bed, but, then he shoved her into her sweatshirt, plopped her on her bike, gave her a pat on the ass and sent her on her way. Oh yah, this was after he casually mentioned to her that he's moving to the east coast in a month. DOUCHEBAG. She flicked her off as she drove away. Nice, that's why we love her.

Friend #2: We shall call her Marge. Marge was also dating a seemingly dreamy mcdreamy guy for about a month. He called her regularly and they began doing "couple" things. Last week they made plans to attend an art opening and concert together. It was his idea. The afternoon of the opening/concert she still hadn't heard a word from him. She texted him with "Are we still going tonight?" and he ultimately responded with, "I'm staying in to do my expenses." And that was the last she heard from him. BALLSACK. She told him to bite wood. That's why we love her.

And as an added bonus, a guy I've had my eye on called me "dude" on the phone the other day. I sent him a picture of the streaker at Wimbledon and he scolded me because he was at work and everyone saw him looking at it - yah so? I put up with a lot from people, but, when I'm dating or getting to know someone (male) and he calls me "dude"? I'm out like trout.

And that is why, for the time being, we are O-V-E-R them. You gotta love us Venice girls and the crap we pick up - without them, I'd have little to talk about.

PS: And how about that sweet naked cartwheel?

DING - You Are Now Free to Wear Bad Fashion

The pink beach cruiser got it's share of wear and tear this weekend for sure. With a four-day break spent 95% at the beach, not only does the bike need a tuneup but so does my liver.

The 4th of July is a time to recognize our independence from the Brits by drinking an inordinate amount of liquor, blowing shit up and eating food that you normally wouldn't (i.e., hot dogs). It is also an incredible time to sit on the boardwalk and truly appreciate the melting pot that is the United States of these Americas - in other words, sit and people watch and play the "ding" game.

The "ding" game is pretty much an express ticket to hell. If I weren't as confident that I've been secretly "ding'd" a time or two by strangers on the boardwalk I probably wouldn't play it (or at least not admit to it). The basic premise is to sit and watch people wander by (89.76% of them tourists) and when something is really absurd or horrible to look at you "ding" them. I requested that we actually use a bell like they use at the front desk of hotels, but, I was quickly nixed due to the inhumane essence of the idea. After you sit there for a while dinging and complimenting (it's not all negative, you know - some people get the thumbs up as well).

After a while, I starting wondering why people's friends allowed them to walk out in public in some of the attire that was sported. For example, a woman of no particular race or ethnicity (we like to keep it PC here) walked by and received "ding of the day". She weighed in at about 5'1" and 350 lbs (conservatively) and felt that it was not only fashionable but appropriate for her to wear a white, skin tight, semi-transparent terry cloth (I think), strapless stretch jumpsuit. She was with other people who were all reasonably clothed. It truly befuddled me. When she walked out of the house that morning, why didn't anyone say to her, "Betty, we love you very much and you are beautiful. But, maybe you should put something on that isn't so see-through"???

I know for a fact that if I am wearing something that makes me look like a load of crapola, my friends wouldn't hesitate for a millisecond to tell me to turn my buttocks around and go change. And for that, I get minimal dings. And for that, I love them.

The same rings true (ha ha - pun intended) for the man wearing the hat with hair, the woman wearing shorts 10 sizes too small causing her to have two sets of hips, and the 12-year-old girl wearing what appeared to be nothing more than a paperclip. We are all beautiful in our own light, as long as the light is appropriately covered.

Lesson for the weekend? Friends don't let friends get ding'd.

Links for Laughs

People really never cease to amaze me. Check these out....
http://www.overheardintheoffice.com/
http://www.overheardatthebeach.com/