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.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Bumper Stickers and Late School Nights
So, I really have to ask myself sometimes, "What the hell is wrong with people?" I walked out to my car last night and in front of me, was a parked car with a license plate frame that read, and I quote: "I LOVE BIG TITS!"
At what point, did this individual ever think to himself, "Hey, that's awesome - that will totally get me chicks with big hooters. That's immediately going on my Honda Element."
It took all the power in my body to keep me from scribbling on a piece of paper and leaving on his windshield, "Whomever drives this car so obviously also loves small penises!" But I didn't. I was running late and didn't have a pen. But, I was tempted for sure.
Off I went with my mind at ease knowing that Mr. Element driver loves large breasts. Lyn and I were rockin' the Mayan Theatre (please refer to an entry from October of last year where I got kicked out of the establishment for running around the catwalks hunting down a microphone to "get the party started" - that's where we were) to see Toad the Wet Sprocket and Matt Nathanson (yes, I know Toad is very 90s, but, they put on a great show). Matt Nathanson opened and I'll tell ya, he's got some serious talent - I'd definitely recommend him. He's also hot which never hurt. (Weird - I have something with hot men and guitars lately.)
Unfortunately, the bartender made our drinks all booze with a splash of mixer so by the end of the show, I had the stupid idea to scoot over to the Standard hotel and continue the evening. BAD IDEA. Not only did I end up spending way too much money, get irritated by a girl on crazy ass drugs who was making out with the sculptured shrubbery, and get hit on by a guy who, within two sentences told me he lived in LA and then said he lived in Europe - MORON, but I also got home too late for a school night. They should make shock collars for humans for when we make poor intoxicated decisions. Honestly, I would be significantly richer and well-rested. But no, no shock collar for me - not yet at least.
By the time we returned home, Big Tit man had departed. I was totally bummed because I was ready and willing to drop him a line. No shock needed there. Perhaps I'll be so lucky as to have a "next time"....
So, I managed, after a decade of having cell phones, to lose my cell phone and it totally sucks. I was truely in love with my hot pink motorola razr.
I was taking a cab home Friday night and in between giving a good tip and sharing my Cheetos with the cabby, my phone dropped onto the seat - never to be seen again.
It sucks, I'm in mourning. But, I sucked it up and got a silver razr now. No where near as cute and cool as the hot pink one, but, so is life.
So if any of you happen to see a cabby chilling with a hot pink razr, go ape-shit on his ass and reclaim my cute phone. Thanks!
PS: Yes, that was the excitement for the weekend for me! Well, that and Gwen and I almost got arrested for having a dog on the Venice boardwalk during day-time hours. Yah, LAPD has nothing better to do. Awesome.
While I was home a couple weeks ago, we stopped by an elderly friend of the family's home. He was terribly ill and my mom, being the living saint that she is, wanted to stop and visit and bring him some fresh cut flowers. I hadn't seen him in years and years, and it was nice to see him once again - such a sweet man. As we were getting ready to leave, he said, "Rachel, how old are you now? And are you unmarried?"
When I told him, he looked confused and said, "What is wrong with you women these days? Why aren't any of you married? I have a 25-year-old granddaughter and she isn't married either! Pfft."
I bantered back with a light-hearted, "Because, Cal, there aren't any men left out there worth marrying any more!"
He laughed, but, still looked confused (I'm going with confused here with hopes that it wasn't a look of utter disgust). And as I hugged him goodbye, he whispered through his nose tube, "Honey, go find yourself a husband." Argh.
Unfortunately, Cal passed away a few days ago and will be missed terribly.
My mom informed me of his passing and wanted me to understand that he had one final wish- apparently, Cal took it upon himself in his dying days to come up with an easy, cupidesque solution to my spinsterism. He requested that my mother make sure that I met his grandson, a twenty-something "golf course landscaper who went to college" who lives in Erie, Pennsylvania. Yup - three timezones away. Oh ok, I'll get right on that.
Great. A dying man had nothing more pressing to think about than my lovelife (or in his eyes, lack thereof).
Now, with initial flattery aside (I am proud to know that Cal thought of me in his final days), let's focus on one thing - old people don't get it. They don't get that the days of pinning, going steady, poodle skirts and white picket fences are over. They have since been replaced with the complexities of technology, careers, $2,600 rent for studio apartments, casual sex and Manolo Blahniks (had to throw something awesome in there).
I'm not saying that "happily ever after" is over, but, it sure is a hell of a lot harder to find (in your 20s) than before.
What I wish I had time to explain to Cal (and oldies around the world who harass the crap out of their grandchildren) is that the weeding-out process of "selecting" a partner has been severely delayed for a large number of people (such as I) due to all of modern life's intricacies - particularly in major cities (although his "old fart" grandson is striking out in Erie, PA too). Women, and men alike, strive for more than the '67 Chevy and the 2.5 rugrats. In 2002, women made up over 55% of the college population - that's 55% fewer women in their mid and late 20s at home making Rice Krispy Treats and ironing pleats in their husbands' polyester pants (yay!). In turn, we, as a collective society, smack our marriage snooze alarms.
Hey - I didn't make the rules - I just live them.
I just wonder, at what age will we start (if ever) harassing our children and grandchildren to get married? If 40 is the new 20 as they say, this whole rite of passage may just become extinct - and if that's the case - what will I think about on my deathbed? Oh. Manolos. Ahhhhhh.
It is an immense relief to know that I’m not the only person in the greater LA area that has bizarre luck in relationships. This is not to say that I wish any sort of freaks on my friends but, sometimes it’s reassuring to be reminded that when the circus sideshows broke free, they weren’t all magically magnetized to just me.
Nope. I share the wealth.
Seeing as I was down and out in headcold land all last week and most of this weekend, I wasn’t in my tip-top, extrovert, smack-it-up-flip-it-rub-it-down shape. This allowed me to ride the bench and be, predominantly, an observer to the dating freakshow.
First of all, men do some stupid shit. If you recall a few weeks ago, I got my feathers ruffled because the term “dude” was used to refer to me by a person I’ve seen naked. Bogus. Well, in line with that, was an “episode” that I witnessed yesterday. Enter Friend A and Guy A whom she dated for a couple months earlier this year. Since they parted ways, they have not run into each other – until this weekend. Luckily, I was perched at the top floor of a bar and could see the whole thing through binoculars (yes, they keep binoculars on the bar). Friend A walks up to seemingly, partially-normal Guy A. She smiles and says “Hi, how are you.” Guy A extends his hand for a shake.
I almost dropped the binoculars. A handshake. A mother-farkin’ nice-doing-business-with-you handshake. The look on her face was priceless. She walked back upstairs to me with the look permanently pressed on her face and she says, “I have heard him make weird noises naked and I get a handshake. Awesome.” I almost fell off my stool.
It gets better.
Let me tell you about Friend B. Friend B just had a first date (and I use that term loosely) with Guy B. They decide to go to a Dodger game. When he picks her up, his buddy is in the car with him and that forces Friend B to ride bitch in the backseat. Kick ass start. At the end of the date, she, again rode bitch home, and as Guy B pulled up in front of Friend B’s house, he threw his hand back and asked for a high five. I repeat. A HIGH FIVE. And to add insult to injury, he didn’t even turn around to give his feebleminded attempt at an adult adieu. Just a backwards high-five as a “sayonara sucker”. Unbelievable. (It’s at that point on the “date” that you close the car door just enough so it appears completely shut - until they pull away and then it flies open and cracks into something. Oopsy!)
So why do we bother? Why do we insist on putting ourselves out there time after time? Are we sadistic gluttons for punishment? Do we do it to continue to entertain our friends? Or maybe just our blog readers?
Stumbled into a bar on Sunday afternoon at the lake in Chautaqua and had the drunken pleasure of rockin' out to a great "new" (new to me, not the "scene") artist with the fam. Check him out - he's awesome. And for those of you in LA - let's harrass the crap out of him and get him west of the Mississippi. www.jacksonrohm.comOh, and ladies? He's a hottie bo bottie.
Well, I have recovered from the great potato incident of 2006 and I am jet setting to good ole' Buffalo, New York tonight for the weekend to spend some time at the lakehouse with the family - gorging ourselves on wings and beer. Should be good times. I attempted to shove the beer bong into my suitcase with no avail so we will have to be creative.
There is no internet at the lake as mom and dad like as little interaction with the "real" world when they are there, so, I will be MIA for a few days.
But I think you'll be just fine. I should have a fun story to share when I get back.....
[This entry is full of useless information. You can elect to either a) continue reading and fall into my realm of stupidity for today or b) close you browser and read about world events or something smart. You choose.]
My office generally has snacks galore laying around - cheezits, snackwells, wheat thins, crap, crap, crap. It's good and I love it and so does everyone else. That's why all the snacks are gone in t-minus 4 days 3 hours and 21 minutes. We are now on week two with no snacks and I was dying.
We must have had red potatoes at an office bbq a few weeks ago because I discovered a bag of them on top of the frig during my daily pillage for snacks. YUM. I decided my snack was going to be two little red potatoes baked (in the micro of course) with a little sour cream.
Sounds simple.
It wasn't.
Round 1: I wash and poke holes into two little red potatoes. I plop them on a paper towel and turn them on for 6 minutes to bake. I return 6 minutes later and, oh my god, potato carnage. Exploded potatoes covered the microwave. Oops. Potatoes - 1 Rachel - 0.
Round 2: Again I wash, poke and place two new potatoes into microwave and put on for 3 minutes. I get distracted and return half an hour later to find they have gone missing. Dammit. Potatoes - 2 Rachel - 0.
Round 3: WASH, POKE AND F-ING PLACE two MORE potatoes into microwave and put on for 4 minutes. I stand and stare at them as they bake in the paper towel. BUT I FORGOT TO DRY THEM SO WHEN THEY FINISH THE PAPER TOWEL HAS COOKED INTO THE SKIN OF THE POTATOES. AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Potatoes - 3 Rachel - BIG FAT 0.
Round 4: You get the drift. In they go. 4 minutes on a microwavable plate (that bitch ain't melting). DING! Snack time! I open, burn my hand on the plate (who cares just give me the dang tots) and look at my sweet sweet potatoes. They have a slight resemblance to raisins (cooked them too long again) but nothing a little smashing can't help. I smash, butter and enjoy some chewy potato lovin'. Final score: Potatoes - 3 Rachel - 1.
God help me - and my potatoes.
Wow, my love life really has hit a low hasn't it? I'm writing about potatoes! HA! Luckily, I'm heading back east this weekend for a change of pace - it appears that I may need it!
Just when I thought that I was one of the only women left in the "I date super freaks" category, I was forwarded the following blog address that gives a "play by play" of another poor woman's priceless experience with a super freak (UBER cheap) member of the opposite sex. If nothing else, I felt a hell of a lot better in my recent dates - at least none of mine ended in threats of legal summons..... enjoy. And then just ask yourself, "Why?" http://prdifferently.typepad.com/my_weblog/2006/07/how_not_to_act_.html(You want to read the entry titled "How Not to Act on J-Date".)
