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.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Testing testing 1-2-3
Hello? Hello? Is this thing on??
You hate me, don't you? My complete lack of blogging manners has really caused a, how you say, shit storm amongst my readers. You just can't let me go....
But alas, I can not let you go either.
So, I'm returning - with a twist.
I'm returning with the warning that my life may be too boring for you now. No more blind dates, no more "Who the hell is that next to me?!" moments, etc. I highly doubt that hearing about the "just do the damn dishes" argument will really get you moving. But being in a relationship presents its own mysteries. So, I will do my best to remain entertaining and allow you a glimpse into life as it is....
With that in mind, it also creates a greater ability for me to talk about other people and some of my observations.
So, although the content may change a smidge, the sheer glee and laughter that I enrich your lives with will remain the same.
But, I suppose you want the Reader's Digest version of what's been going on in the life that is Rachel.
#1 - The pink bike died. I was cruising down the bike path one day not noticing that after leaving pinky in the rain for months ALL the spokes were rusted out. All of a sudden like a mini-machine gun, I heard "pop pop pop" then "boom". Wheels collapsed. Pinky and rider go boom and that was the end of pinky the bike.
#2 - Living in Brentwood. BRENTWOOD SUCKS. No wonder OJ went nuts. Don't move there, don't visit, don't even glance at it on a map. You will be instantly assaulted by collagen, saline, and a rife side of BITCH and attitude. I miss Venice.
#3 - Still living with my "delivered to my door Aussie", Oz. We cook dinners together, fight over the remote (and other things, don't worry), and drive each other utterly crazy. But I still love the guy. Isn't domesticity grand?
#4 - Cameron is still the cutest dog in history. Period.
#5 - Went down under (as in the continent, you pervs) to meet Oz's family and friends. AMAZING country and really amazing beer (don't EVER say "Fosters" is beer - they hate that shit like we hate PBR). In fact, so amazing, I may end up there some day.....
#6 - Totaled my car in a head-on collision when a guy with miniature arms (we called him "celery stalks" ran a red light and plowed into me). When no one came to help me, (they just looked and drove off) a homeless man pulled me out of my car. Gotta love LA compassion. I was fine, although when accosted by celery stalks in the middle of the street, I thought I had a major head injury. Doctors said I was fine (many a person beg to differ), and now I drive a Volvo (with a dual turbo engine, of course).
So that's about it in a nutshell. If you feel that I didn't cover the past 7 months adequately, I'm sure that you'll let me know.
Love me later!
PS: I'm a total nerd. I saw "Transformers" last night and freakin' loved it. Shia LaBeouf is my new Hollywood crush. So move over George Eads (from CSI), Shia's moving in on your lady....
I’ve been trying to figure out how to update you after two months and keep it brief. For someone who can talk the ear off a corn, that’s quite challenging feat.
So here it goes.
When we last left our dear heroine, she (me in case you’re a little slow and can’t tell that I’m speaking in third person for effect) had just met a stunningly handsome and charming man from down under. Remember that little “trick” I taught you about putting out an ad for a “roommate”? Well, I got more than I bargained for.
After a whirlwind and incredible couple weeks of “dating” (that is, spending virtually every waking (and um non-waking) and non-working moment together, we decided that the “roommate” idea was actually a good idea – we were just going to put our own twist on it.
So, yes, this 20-something (who is now also a full year older officially), is also a cohabitating, domesticated little ball of vomit-inducing happiness.
Gag, right?
Well, so be it.
Don’t’ get me wrong. I’m Rachel. Things don’t just “happen” and life is all butterflies and rainbows. There have been plenty of “rachillemas”. After all, living with someone right off the bat, who has been born and raised for 30 years in a different country, takes a little, um, adjusting.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) for you, my dear readers, you won’t be privy to the rachillemas thus far. But, be prepared, I’m sure that they will not be in short supply.
We always complain that it’s so incredibly difficult to meet awesome men – particularly in LA LA Land. Well, ladies, I have found the answer. We will never be shortchanged on wonderful men again. Let me tell you a story……
After giving the roommate the boot, I of course, need to find a new one. Late last week I put an ad on Craigslist to see what the world churned out at me. I structured the ad in such a way that I was very specific as to what I’m looking for in a male roommate (I generally only live with dudes – two girls would be estrogen overload in my house): fun, respectful, non-constant-drug user, dog lover, witty, active, employed, etc. After sending the ad into cyberspace, I started to realize that the specifics I placed in the ad are eerily close to what my desires are for a man (except I left out attractive because that’s just snobby and I could care less about that in a roommate).
The usual list of suspects began to pop up and then I received a diamond in the rough – 30 year-old, construction management professional, fresh from Australia. Hmmmmmm. I
called him to set up a time for him to see the house – the second he answered the phone I knew I was in trouble. It’s those damn accents!! Well, it’s just a voice, I thought. There are plenty of super unattractive radio personalities with great voices. Uh huh – yup.
I was solid in that belief until I answered the door. HELLO. Tall, dark hair, bright blue eyes, dammit. We ended up hanging out and chatting for about four hours. At the end of the evening I broke it to him (we shall call him Oz) that I didn’t think the roommate thing was going to work. At first he looked stunned and confused. Then the light went on and he smiled. “In that case, I guess I have to take you to dinner this week so this meeting wasn’t in vain.” Smart boy we have from down under.
I then came into the office this morning to receive another email from a potential roommate – 28-year-old Malibu native, new lawyer who surfs. It doesn’t suck to be me. S o, ladies, this is the answer. When you feel that all quality men have fallen off the face of the earth, just put an ad for a “roommate” online! They literally begin to bang down your door. Yes, a little deceptive but, hey, kudos for creativity, yes?
And as an added bonus today, I have the quote of the year: “Men are like fine wine; It's our job to stomp on them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something you would like to have dinner with.” Ahh yes, ladies.
Why don’t you dance and enjoy yourself at concerts anymore?
Did I miss the memo?
Apparently so.
We’ve been hitting a bunch of concerts lately – this week Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and Snow Patrol. And as I mentioned in my blog last week, no one moves! I thought maybe it was just a one-off but this week it was the same story.
Fine. I can understand Petty – he’s old and his fans may be slightly sedated by age. But, Snow Patrol was my final straw (ha ha - that's their most recent album - nice Rach).
SP played at The Wiltern – it was a two-night show and we went the second night. If anyone had the right to suck it would be the band, but, it was the total opposite. We had second-hand seats so we were seated in the balcony (aka – morgue).
If you’re not familiar with SP or their music, let me just say that they’re not even close to being a sit-in-your-seat-Yanni-Enya kind of band – particularly if you LIKE them and you’re not DECEASED.
The minute the band opened we expected everyone to jump up and start jamming. Not so much. Asses planted. Well, except Lyn who just basically said “F it” and got up and danced her little brains out. It’s at that point that the looks began. The “sit her down we’re sipping our Ensure and trying to enjoy the nifty concert” looks. Unreal.
Literally. She was the ONLY one in a balcony of approximately 1000 people who was standing. And, with me doing to seat dancing (afraid of getting belted by the angry boring people around us), we were the only two people even moving. It was as if the rest of the people in the “morgue” were just paper cut outs. Pissed off paper cut outs.
Finally, halfway through, and close to two fist fights later, to prevent bodily injury, we moved to the staircase where the ushers were nice enough to let us dance away in the corner until the end.
Honestly, people, what’s up? What happened to the days when you moshed and danced your brains out? Has everyone morphed into boring people overly concerned with what people will think? Have aliens abducted your every ability to enjoy music? I hope not. Because that would really suck for the rest of you.
I had to fly out to Boston this past weekend to accept an award on behalf of my firm. What I thought was going to be a quick get-in get-out vanilla trip actually turned to anything but.
Perhaps it was the New Moon or the fact that it was the first day of fall. But something was definitely out of sorts. (Perhaps it was my new shampoo - Herbal Essences - you've seen the commercials.)
My flight was delayed out of LAX for about 4 hours. No bueno, if you ask me. But, I took advantage of it and slurped down a bloody Mary (maybe two) and watched some college football. Now I thought I looked like ass that particular morning (waking up at 5am on a Saturday can do that to a girl). Jeans, pigtails and a boring top – but, apparently I had some sort of mojo working because in that four-hour period, dudes were coming out of the woodwork - buying me drinks, striking up conversations – it was like a single’s bar but I was the only chick there. Rad. Love them odds.
Just prior to boarding, an extremely handsome guy approached me and started up a conversation. Somehow, within a few minutes of talking we got on the subject of yoga, and the next thing I know, he says, “I can put my legs behind my ears.”
Check please.
He invited me to sit with him on the plane, but, I was in first class and he was in coach, so, I told him I’d come and visit with him. But I didn’t. I was tired and enjoying the almost-full reclining abilities.
When we got to Boston (4 hours late of course), I went to the baggage claim to pick up my tiny 2-lb bag (but I had to check it because I can’t travel without my hairgel). The bags went round and round and round and round. I just stood there, hopelessly expecting my bag to come out of the fry-guyesque hanging door things on the carousel. No go. As I stood there, just staring, legs-behind-the-ears guy approached me again. Even though I had stood him up on the flight, he stayed with me until I filed my claim.
I was told by the baggage peeps that I would have to wait until 1-2am to get my bag. Freakin’ great. The awards breakfast was an hour away in Newport, Rhode Island and started at 9am. Fabulous. Score one for United Airlines losing my bag on a direct, 4-hour delayed flight.
Luckily, the hottie contortionist was still there with me and asked me to join him and his friends for dinner to waste some time before I had to pick up my “delayed” bag. Of course I accepted the invite. (THE GUY CAN PUT HIS LEGS BEHIND HIS EARS AND HE’S HOT.) So dinner turned to pool at a billiards hall to late night chow at IHOP. FINALLY, my bag was ready and I could pick it up – oh, but it was now 4am.
Off I went to pick up the bag and trek high on caffeine to Newport (safety first folks). I got to my hotel at almost 7am – just in time to shower, change and book it to the awards ceremony. No sleepy for Rachel. But thank god I did receive the bag, otherwise, I would have had to sport smoky, sweaty garb to the very nice awards brunch. That would have been sweet. Great for business.
I thanked our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and the Westside homies when I accepted the award and off I went.
I trudged back to Boston after the ceremony to check out a building that we designed (and won the award). Halfway there, Mr. Contortionist called me and asked if I wanted to meet for a late lunch in Beantown before my scheduled flight. Hell, why not? I hadn’t slept in 31 hours – bring it.
Long story short (ha ha) and sans details - after the awards brunch (and yes, prior to the call from Mr. C), I decided to stay in Boston an extra night and have dinner with an associate architect there (actual business my friends). He ended up bailing, so I stayed and hung with Mr. C and his friends again and got an hour of sleep before my 6:30am flight back to LA, WHICH was also delayed but came complete with my bag. Bonus.
I had received advice from eatinfrontofyou (my occasional guest blogger) prior to my trip to go to Boston, have a great time, rock it with no strings, and book it back. So I did. And it felt great (minus the exhaustion). I took off without giving Mr. C my phone number, figuring we’d always have Boston. It was empowering. It was ego-boosting.
It bombed.
He “tracked me down” yesterday and called - so much for anonymity. Don’t worry, I’m not going to be totally closed-minded – if he wanted to and spent the time to track me down, perhaps it’s worth keeping in contact. Right?
In any case, it was an interesting experiment. Perhaps there is quite a bit of validity behind the idea that when a woman knows what she wants, there is a vibe that is emitted – a don’t-try-to-resist-me-come-hither vibe – a vibe of confidence that men find terribly attractive. Now, this isn’t to say that I need to make it a part of my normal routine to semi-anonymously conquer and roll, but, perhaps I do need to understand exactly what it is that I want, be confident in that desire, and let it work its way into my life. And enjoy all the steps leading to it.
Amazing how so much reflection and adventure could come out of a nightmare, 27-hour cross-country business trip.
Last night we attended a killer concert at the Roxy in Hollywood. We saw Matt Nathanson and Carbon Leaf. And if you ever get the chance to see either of these bands, do it – they kick ass. I even found the lead singer of Carbon Leaf’s what I assume to be drug-induced love affair with his mic stand thoroughly amusing.
Unfortunately for the bands, the crowd was a little, how do you say, BORING. The three of us could not figure out why (because we so were not), with two rockin’ bands in a tiny venue, the rest of the crowd wasn’t, oh I don’t know – MOVING. It was as if someone had passed out some of the People’s Temple Kool-aid to all the attendees with the exception of us. They just stood there – staring at these guys who were rocking out like mad. I wanted to personally walk around and smack everyone into oblivion – or at least wake them up.
But instead, we, as Irene Cara once said, heard the music, closed our eyes, felt the rhythm, and danced for our lives. Ok, maybe not that ridiculous, but we definitely had a brilliant time. Too bad for the other duds.
As we exited the bar to head to the car (sweet – rhyming), Lyn disappeared into the side lot where, apparently the bands were packing up their stuff. Rad, I thought. I’ll go visit with them too. But I was stopped. By a pimp. Wearing a cow pelt. With only 4-5 teeth.Awesome. His name was BJ (oh – shocking) and he was a genuine pimp.
He was extremely flattering regarding my back side. My friend Erin asked him if he wanted to hire me. He agreed. I spit out my Diet Coke. He then proceeded to tell me to turn around and let him smack my ass with his leather whip. Had there not been 9 gillion people standing around me, I wouldn’t have obliged, but, I knew it was all in good fun, and hell, I’ll give BJ and cracking he’ll always remember. But I wasn’t stopping there – I needed to show BJ that I was a real woman – not a woman he could control.
I turned his ass around and smacked him right back. Erin then took her own turn. Damn straight, that’s how we roll.
Meanwhile, Lyn was making friends with the band.
Ahhhhhh, another lovely evening in LA LA Land. Here’s the links for Matt Nathanson and Carbon Leaf, just in case you feel so inclined.
My girlfriend decided at work today to put a bowl of candy at the corner of her cubicle – “hottie bait”. And wouldn’t you know it, along came a hottie.
They engaged in witty banter and flirtatious bouts of conversation for a bit.
“Cool guy, “ she thinks.
And then Hiroshima.
“Hey, you’re a woman. What do you think I should get my wife for our anniversary?” He asks.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH.
Needle off the record.
Why do men insist on dropping the bomb (aka: use of the words girlfriend, fiancée or wife – sure, or baby’s momma) when it’s not necessary? (Hi – I just met you – haven’t even had a chance to get a full body checkout – I don’t care if you’re involved yet. Jesus, give me a moment.) It wasn’t as if they were rolling around doing some heavy petting in her cubicle or what have you. They were engaging in harmless flirting. Adults do that sometimes.
But if it’s harmless for the man, why do they always, as Snoop Dogg once said, have to drop it like it’s hot?
It is this woman’s belief that the “I’ve gotta woman-bomb” is dropped whenever a man who is in a relationship feels a possible mutual attraction to a woman other than his own b&c (ball and chain). It’s as if they need an audible reminder for themselves that they are a taken man. Fine, do what you need to do. But, why does it have to be something that makes a seemingly fun and relaxed situation instantly awkward for everyone involved? Way to go, boner. No more candy for you.
Women are, for the most part, situation-appropriate with the bomb dropping. For the most part, women will drop the “I’ve gotta man-bomb” only when they are being pursued heavily by a man who they are absolutely not interested in OR in a situation where the issue of seeing each other further is approached. Example, “Hey, can I get your number?” Girl replies, “I can’t. I have a boyfriend.” I’ve also known women to use the bomb during an obnoxious, guaranteed fruitless pursuit by a drunken slobbering douchebag at a bar. But I digress…
This women-drop-bombs-in-situation-apt-moments and men-just-detonate-at-inappropriate-moments dichotomy is just one of the many reasons that male-female relationships are so difficult. At what point are you gents going to learn? Think… before…. speak…..
I made my first movie debut this weekend as "Extra #4" in a movie that I have no clue what it's about, what the title is or, really anything about it. It's definitely not porn, which is good. Mom requested that I steer clear of the porn. Noted.
Actually, my role was pretty intense. I had to gather in a group and stare, disgustedly, at a semi-naked (it's not porn, remember) body in an alley. I worked on my look of disgust for a couple days - smelling rotten eggs and such. But nothing could prepare me for the people surrounding me.
First, there was Lyn. She insisted on wearing an atrocious blonde mullet wig (minus most of the party in the back) for the scene. Unfortunately, for my professional acting self, she stood right next to me staring at me. I couldn't hold it together. There were words like "merkin" being used behind me describing the head-topping atrocity that she elected to rock. And there it was, in all it's horrid entanglement in my face.
Second, the additional 12 people, which consisted of 98% of my friends (our friend is the producer), knew that there was going to be no sound. So, they took it upon themselves to say the raunchiest, most obnoxious and hysterically funny stuff to test the strength of the rest of us. I'll tell you, acting is seriously cut-throat.
Due to the fact that I had a "merkin" in my face (wow - that's an interesting statement) and Dane Cook wannabe's surrounding me, I spent the majority of my acting debut hiding my face behind Kirsten because I was afraid the director was going to yell at me for laughing at a dead body. My acting debut was a total flop.
I think I managed to pull myself together towards the end of the scene. I made a couple choice disgusted and "how awful" faces but then lost it again when the cameraman did a total crotch shot of the crowd. Um, I suppose it might be "artsy"....but, it was a total crotch shot.
I suppose this is my cue to give up on an acting career. Perhaps this girl was just never meant to have an E! True Hollywood Story about her. It's a shame too, because, and I might be biased here, I think it would be thoroughly entertaining. A little weak in the drug addictions, but, I can work on that.
Excuse me - I have to go work on my keeping a straight face moves. Because I truly suck at them. And so does Kirsten.
Have you felt a little breeze going up your skirt?
Hell hath frozen over.
This girl is on the wagon.
Now before you completely lose consciousness from the shock, it's only temporary. I actually started a week and a half ago, but, it's been semi-smooth sailing since. I'm planning on carrying it out another week or two, at least until the Tom Petty and Snow Patrol concerts at the end of the month (WAHOO).
Still stunned, my wide-eyed friends? Let me stun you even further. I even made it through the Ohio State - Texas game without a frosty beverage. "Holy crap." That's what you're thinking. I know it.
Now, what prompted me to do this? Well, first of all, it's healthy, my peeps. Just because I have an obsession with cheeseburgers and fries doesn't mean I don't like to keep it healthy once in a while. But, above everything, I got a little incentive from a friend. He was told by his doctor that he needs to quit drinking due to some crazy stuff going on in his liver (no worries - he's fine). After two months, without changing anything in his life other than jumping on the wagon, he'd lost 20 lbs. I didn't believe him, because I'm convinced it's because his wife makes him eat jello for lunch, but, he insisted. 20lbs. Impressive.
So I thought I'd try it. Summer is technically over and I've had enough creative biking (AKA: biking incidents) to last me a lifetime so what did I have to lose?
And so far it's good stuff. All jello aside, I've lost 4 lbs and have had zero, count them, ZERO creative biking. Although, I do find myself at times, after a hard day in the office, staring longingly at the killer bottles of wine I have chillin' on my bar, but I resist, tell them I'll see them later and grab some refreshing h2o.
"Rachel, does this mean that you're going to be boring now?"
Of course not my loves, and actually, life has been a little on the yawn side of town lately, so, perhaps this will actually jump-start my zest and zeal for a little action and attraction.
And I must mention the fact that I actually discovered I'm pretty damn close to millionaire status when I'm not raging around town buying everyone and their half-brother a drink. Ok, maybe not a millionaire, but, there are definitely quite a few more benjamins hanging out in my bank account than before. A benjamin party. I likey.
So that's that. A small twist in the life of Rachel. But sometimes, it's good to change it up.
Anyone want to jump on with me? Yah, didn't think so. ;)
I woke up with a start – it was so early. Who was calling before 6am?
Marine Matt answered the phone, jumped out of bed and immediately turned on the television. No words were spoken on his behalf.
There is was. At first I couldn’t, in my half-slumber, comprehend what it was. Smoke was billowing out of a building. I scrambled out of bed to get a closer look and turn up the volume. Matt was already on the phone to someone. I was listening to the reporter. A plane had flown into the World Trade Center? I still didn’t understand. How does a plane hit a building? It was chaos. People running, staring, screaming, pointing.
Within minutes we saw it. It was a second one. We watched, helpless and terrified. It wasn’t really happening. It couldn’t be. I felt the blood drain from my face and a nauseous feeling in my stomach. Matt yelled something – I think – I couldn’t hear him really, with all of my senses magnetized to what was appearing before me, 3,000 miles away, on a television. We both slumped onto the ground beside the bed. We stayed there for a while – I remember sobbing, feeling this overwhelming sense of sadness knowing what we had just witnessed. There was so much smoke. The looks on the people’s faces – ones coming out of the buildings, ones going into the buildings, ones on the ground looking up – always up. Did they know, in those moments, that it was going to be the last time they would look upwards and see the broken jewel?
I must have sat there for a while, because when I reached for Matt, I realized that he was actually standing on the other side of me now. I looked up –I saw panic. I think I knew then, that nothing would be the same. A lot of people were talking on the television. The chaos on the streets had invaded the television screens. To this day, I don’t remember what they were saying or even who was saying what. Something about more planes. It was the images. But then they were talking louder. There was movement on the television. Where were they now? There’s another building. More smoke. Another gaping hole. What is that? “Dear God, it’s D.C. “ Where was Matt? How was this happening? “Those people. All those people.” I heard my own voice. Matt was standing beside me. This time he was fully dressed in his fatigues. I had seen him in those almost every other day, but, it wasn’t until that morning that I really saw him.
My phone rings. It’s my Mom. Was I awake? Did I have my tv on? I tell her I’m leaving San Diego and heading back up to LA for work. I’ll call her when I get to work. I tell her I love her and hang up. Never before had I so desperately wanted to be with her.
I turn around. Someone is screaming on the television. Something is crumpling into an enormous plume of dust. It can’t be the building. Buildings don’t just fall. Who is that yelling? It’s me. It took less than a few seconds and now all I see is paper. The image of paper fluttering to the ground. Paper that symbolizes years of work, people’s lives, people’s deaths. All that in the fluttering paper. I remember getting on the freeway and driving by Camp Pendleton where Matt was stationed at the time. Things were incredibly busy for so early. The day prior we had been on base and everything seemed so calm – but not that morning. Life had changed literally over night.
After clearing the base, which spans about 20 miles of north-bound freeway in which I didn’t receive a cell signal, there were already three voicemails waiting for me. Two were from my father begging me not to go to work. “There are missing airplanes and they are heading for the west coast. Please, Rachel, don’t go to work. Go home.” Heading into my office, which was on the 30th floor of a downtown highrise, I realized that in the 20-some-odd years that I had been alive, I had never heard the sort of panic and genuine fear in my father’s voice as I did in those two voicemails. The third voicemail was Matt, also asking me to not go into work. Without another thought, I changed my path.
Moments later the second tower fell. I remember looking around at the people on the freeway with me – tears rolling down so many of the faces. Faces of complete strangers, but, somehow I felt their pain. There were people parked on the side of the road – heads on the steering wheel – bodies shaking with sobs. Not once that morning, in rush-hour Los Angeles traffic, did I hear a single horn or see an aggressive driver. It was as if we were all mourning together – not only as Americans, but as human beings.
By the time I got home, the fourth plane had given up its fight over Pennsylvania. I spent the rest of the day, like so many people around the country, watching the television as news unfolded and cried. The sorrow and fear almost palpable.
Life as we knew it had changed.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.” That day, we faced fear in the face. And the thing we didn’t know if we could do or not? Survive.
There is no doubt that the images and sounds from that day will haunt for a lifetime. At the same time, I wish that some of the brilliance in human nature that surfaced that day and the days immediately following to be resurrected. For a brief moment, we looked at each other, truly, as human beings. The racial and socio-economic walls were translucent. We were reminded through the tragedy that we are, at the core, always connected. I was driving into work today and I heard a bazillion car horns, middle fingers extended and people cutting off people on the roads.
In so many detailed ways we remember, but, in some more important ways we have forgotten. To honor those lost, we, at the very least should try and remember the simple yet powerful union that connects us all. In the days that followed September 11, 2001, I heard a young rabbi say the following, “It will take time and energy to be healed from this most tragic community wound. For the families of the victims there will be only grief and despair. For us as a community there can be healing... by helping those who suffer and are in pain.”
I re-read my second to last blog. No one has asked me when I'm due. It's happened to people I know and I was using it as an example. I'm still slim and trim - well, a little more junk in the trunk but nothing baby-looking. ;)
I think that the creators of iPods and iTunes are going to take over the world.
I read an article in one of my trillion magazines today that the newest addition of the iPod plug-in family is the iBuzz vibrator.
Yep. You heard me.
And I quote, “Plug the iBuzz vibrator into your iPod and let it pulsate to your favorite tunes. The louder you crank it up the more intense the vibration.”
I have solved all of society's problems with rudeness and ignorance.
The government needs to issue “punch passes”.
Punch passes?
Yes. In times of inane stupidity and/or irritation, the pass would entitle you to a free punch on the person of your choice.
Much like a “get out of jail free” card, the “punch passes” would be strictly rationed and only to be used in extreme annoyance. And I’m not talking Ivander Holyfield-esque punches - solid enough to knock some sense into the punchee but not significant enough to leave permanent damage (unless it’s for the greater good).
“But Rachel, why so angry?” You ask.
Well, my dears, there are some seriously ignorant and obnoxiously stupid individuals floating around out there. But, generally, I’m surrounded by intelligent, decent people who just do extremely stupid things at times – your writer included. And when those stupidity attacks present themselves, something should be done to knock those individuals back into the land of the normal. And the solution? Punch passes. If each person were issued 5 passes per year, that would be equal to (according to the most recent census) 1,478,670,670 (295,734,134 x 5) acts of senseless stupidity met with consequence in the United States alone. (I know, I’m getting a little advanced on the math, but, hey, that’s how I roll.) Not only would it be a measure of consequence, but, damn, it would feel good to crack the crap out of the woman who just asked me when I’m due when I’m not even preggos. Most likely, she would avoid that behavior in the future. Yes, punch passes = deterrent.
I know what you’re thinking – if deterrents worked on humans, then why are jails still meeting capacity? The punch passes aren’t meant to deter people from illegal behaviors, because, let’s be honest, you could issue me a billion punch passes and I’ll still be damned if I’m go up to a serial rapist and crack him a good one. Nope. Not gonna happen. All I want to do is put an end to the senseless stupidity that sends our blood pressure through the roof, and, quite frankly, is causing me to eat more.
Try it.
The next time you have a run-in with such a person (perhaps a gentleman smacks you disrespectfully on the ass as you pass by – and he’s NOT hot), stop and visualize a swift punch to whichever body part you select (below the belt not recommended as that can cause permanent damage to the baby making parts), their startled yet enlightened look of "oh shit, I shouldn't have done that", and the handing over of the punch pass as you walk away feeling relieved and rid of all irritation.
I must apologize for my weak blogging skills as of late. But, really, it’s not all my fault. I’ve tried to post a couple times and farkin’ blogger.com has been misbehaving and either a) gives me the crap “cannot find server” line or b) waits until I’m done writing and deletes it all without publishing like the little bitch that it is. ARGH. But I’m not a hater – total lover here. You just had to wait with baited breath for me to get my fanny in a solid spot to update you on the saga that is my life. (Don’t get too excited, this girl’s been in the slow lane as of late.)
I had to travel to South Florida (Lauderdale/Miami) last week to attend my mother’s PhD commencement ceremony (little Miss Smarty Skirt). And while we were down there, we were pursued by Ernesto – you know, Hurricane/Tropical Storm/Tropical Depression Ernesto. Figures. Due to the fact that he was supposed to hit the Southern Florida coast a year to the day that Katrina plunked into N.O., they (nutty Floridians) were a little quick on the draw evacuating peeps out of the area. I preferred to just sit and blow around the beach, but, traveling with the parental and the grandparental units (aka: Worry Wort Central), we, instead, sat glued to the Weather Channel eating pistachios, drove around looking for a gas station with gas and evacuated when told. Luckily, it came after the ceremony, so, we were able to cheer on Dr. Mom before the rental (and grand rentals) switched into panic mode. I, of course, laid lazily on the beach chair sipping Coronas and yelping at the hot men as they cruised by. I live on the edge.
After returning to LA, I had to flip around (not literally, I’m no gumby) and fly to Phoenix for work. I was sent out to preview a new project in downtown Phoenix. And, guess what? Apparently, Phoenix is where all the hot men have been hiding! I should have known – they have golf. Luckily, I wore a sweet pair of violet pumps with a hot yet professional black dress number so I was dressed to impress. I was boring holes into one young lad’s head during one of the meetings until I realized that he was not on my team. Yah, awesome. He told me my shoes were absolutely adorable. Game over. Now, the shoes were great until about 1pm when, after walking in them in 110-degree heat, the blisters began to appear. I immediately b-lined it into the ladies’ room where, THANK GOD, someone had the foresight to have a Costco-size box of band-aids awaiting my ripped-to-shreds feet. I wrapped my tootsies like yesterday’s leftovers and hauled it back to the airport. BTW: I looked pretty sweet rolling through security with my 687,000 bandaids. So much so that the TSA dude asked me what my deal was. YAY!
After that I slept for about three days straight. TECHNICALLY I came to work, but, I’m getting super rad at looking awake when really the brain is flipped to the “off” position. But don’t tell anyone – it’s my prized talent.
And now we come to the looooooooooong weekend. My preliminary goal was to take it easy – actually take a breather from the “venice lifestyle” that is bar, bike, bar, bike, bar, bike, sleep, lather and repeat. I managed to nail that goal – um, until Friday. Whoops. I spent the remainder of the weekend sipping ales at the beach and bumping my bike into tourists (hey – I’m a local – stay out of my way). Saturday, I attempted to return back to the goal by watching the Ohio State season opener – key word being “attempt”. Freakin’ California ABC took it upon themselves to televise the Oregon v. Stanford game (YAWN) in lieu of the #1 ranked Ohio State Buckeyes season opener. So there I sat, dumbfounded, wondering why California always has to be different. Son of a bitch hippies.
In between bike and bar and sometimes during, the girls and I hashed over the fact that it’s time to ditch the “meet a guy at a bar” efforts and try more mature, intellectual and sober venues. It took us 4.2 seconds to figure that out. But then we would just sit there, staring at each other wondering what other venues there are. The online dating didn’t work. Myspace didn’t work. Speed dating was an absolute disaster and a half (that was back in my pre-blog days – holy story for another day). Arranged marriages are out. None of us go to church. We were stumped. We decided that would be our next challenge to come up with some new and fun places to meet quality men. I repeat QUALITY M-E-N. (I decided to ditch the “mature” aspect, because, really, do I want to do that?) So, I’m starting a running list and your suggestions are greatly appreciated. Please keep in mind who you’re dealing with, so, for example, “political debates” or “NASCAR” are out. K?
And now here I am. Back to work, daydreaming about hotties in Phoenix (the non-gay ones, hopefully). I even got to meet Lt. Zulu from Star Trek at my other job last night – seriously - who could ask for more??
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.
