If These Hair Extensions Could Talk

To Inject Or Not To Inject

2011-05-22T23:12:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been playing mediator to an intense internal debate: to inject or not to inject. Let’s not jump to any conclusions here; I’m not talking about injecting anything myself. Should I decide to become a heavy illicit drug user I would definitely snort my heroin or cocaine, because I imagine drugs aren't nearly as enjoyable after having to stick a needle between your toes and risk a gangrene infection, ultimately starring in your own version of Requiem for a Dream? Obviously I have no intentions of becoming an addict to anything other than watching Glee. I don't really have to think about it much since I'm pretty sure that heroin chic look died out somewhere in the mid-90's, along with Pogs, Tamagotchi, and the "Rachel" haircut. Whenever I fear it is reappearing, I remind myself that hipsters also ride fixed gear bikes and therefore have adopted a healthier lifestyle that their predecessors.

My debate is far vainer than drug use. To Botox or not to Botox? This is the question that plagues my late-20's psyche (yes, I'm admitting my age this one time only). Is 27-years-old too young to be injecting poison into my forehead to reduce the deepness of the two lines forming a prominent number "11" between my eyes? Am I succumbing to some SoCal ideal of beauty? Or is it possible that I just am terrible at maintaining my eyebrows and want to draw as little attention to them as possible?

I've been talking about Botox for years to pretty much any audience that will listen and get mixed reviews. Some people are anti-plastic surgery and will complain about a crooked nose or thin lips, but harp on those who choose to do something about their double chin. A co-worker of mine told me all about how she wanted a minor tummy tuck to fix her abdomen after bearing two children, but said she wouldn’t because she didn’t want to “set that kind of example” for her daughter. The comment from said co-worker prompted my next question: why would you tell your four-year-old that you are getting a tummy tuck? The kid has more interest in chasing a balloon around the room or finger painting than any deep debate on altering your looks. Considering the little girl isn’t far beyond the age of knowing the difference between boys and girls, she may freak out thinking that people would possibly lose their belly buttons if you told her you were getting your tummy tucked.

I’m definitely not the kind of person who cares if others nip and tuck away. If you want bigger boobs, then make them as big as your back can handle them. Fuller lips, straighter nose, or higher cheekbones? Go for it! In fact, I love people who get plastic surgery; especially those who have made it so obvious that I can enjoy staring without them getting offended because they don't even try to hide it, but are intensely proud of it. I avidly follow Coco whatever-her-last-name-is who is married to Ice-T on Twitter because I love her postings of Titty Tuesday and Thong Thursday. Nothing transitions me into a better hump day than Coco’s F-cups jammed into a DD bra or makes my Friday Eve more exciting than looking at her ginormous altered ass. No wonder Ice married her; I could balance objects in some spin-off of Jenga on that badunk all day long.

At this point in my life I am only interested in correcting these two little lines between my eyes. Now I surely will tuck and lift and correct anything that happens to me after getting knocked up and popping out a baby, but that is years away and who knows how my body and gravity will react to carrying around a watermelon for nine months. I like my current physique and a healthy diet combined with exercise and the occasional binge drinking session have held it together quite well. Baby Mya will surely do some damage that crunches and Lean Cuisines can’t fix. I've pretty much put it in my future baby budget: crib, stroller, car seat, reconstructive surgery.

Part of me wonders what others think of the idea of a woman in her 20's getting fillers and freezers injected in her face, but part of me doesn't care at all what people think. I think I care mostly out of curiosity so I know who else is injecting. Together we can change the world to be more accepting of young injectors. Most of my close friends and family are against it, but that doesn't come as a surprise. One friend went as far as to say he "likes" my lines so I shouldn't get rid of them, which is utter bullshit because I doubt he even noticed them before I pointed them out. I told him I liked his back hair and I think he got the point.

This whole idea of Botox quickly became less of a debate and more of an obstacle course to get the smooth forehead of my youth. I had a few barriers to break down before actually making a concrete decision. First, I needed to decide on where to go and who to let near my eyes with a syringe full of botulism. The San Diego Reader is packed full of all of these filler and Botox coupons every week, so I knew that there were more places to get smooth skin than places to get fish tacos. Honestly, I don't believe discounted vanity procedures. That's sort of like getting your hair done at a beauty school; you really don't know what you are getting yourself into. I finally found a place someone recommended who looks fantastic with her minimized wrinkles. It took me a while to find someone who was willing to admit to getting Botox, but her perfect forehead and lack of crow’s feet at age 62 wasn’t fooling me. I swear it took 15 years off her, at least.

Second, I needed to fund this endeavor. I quickly learned that one area of Botox is pretty affordable and that wouldn't be an issue, since I have paid upwards of $50 to have someone do my eyebrows well enough that I don't walk out looking like Quasi Moto. I bet it’s pricier in areas of the country that only have one plastic surgeon who actually only went to dental school, but no one seems to know the difference. I also learned I wouldn’t even need to cut coupons for a good deal since a lot of places give referral discounts or first-time customer rates. Once I’m hooked I won’t even care how much damage it does to my bank account, as evidenced by the small fortune I have spent on highlighting my hair since age 16.

The third and final obstacle I needed to overcome, and still have not conquered, is my sincere laziness. I just don't want to waste my afternoon going to a place to get these injections that take less than ten minutes to complete, including checking in and swiping my credit card. It's not even like I do anything important after work most days besides sleep and play Angry Birds, but the thought of driving 20 minutes to get this done makes me feel like I need a nap. I'll hike for 4 hours on the weekend with no complaints and a blissful smile on my face, but forget a five minute drive to Sephora to replace my mascara. You would think I was avoiding getting my kidneys removed with the amount of effort it takes me to get to the mall for beauty supplies. Maybe I’m subconsciously protesting my own desire to look pretty, because I’m even too lazy to order vanity supplies online regardless of free delivery and gift offer incentives.

Ultimately, I think what will keep me away from erasing these distracting lines will be my lack of true inspiration to get to the doctor, a term I use loosely since I don’t think there are any medical requirements to be allowed to stick needles in peoples’ faces. Maybe by the time I make an appointment and get in my car it will be even cheaper and people will be less judgmental of my need for a smooth face. There's something about inching up and soon to be hitting 30 that makes me feel like my friends will be more open to a few adjustments here and there. I mean, you can get extensions if your hair won't grow, you can dye it if you don't like the color, and you can plaster on some fake nails if yours don't grow strong and long enough. A few little pin pricks later and I'll have a wrinkle free face while other people are still spending hours and money on creams and facials that don't do anything. I'll be back to saying I'm 23 and people may actually believe me.

Senior Prom Weekend

2010-09-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

“Mya, I’ve decided we can’t go to the races because I need to get in a long workout and go to the beach to work on my tan. I want to look good for my 20th reunion,” explained Bobby. I rolled my eyes at him, “I don’t see how one day at the gym is going to make a difference, but I won’t argue missing horse races for the beach. You’re going to look like you’re doing well just by showing up with a girlfriend half your age. Maybe we can swing by my 20th kindergarten reunion afterwards. Your old classmates probably all have been through their first divorces by now and have to find babysitters to even go to this thing. I mean, things probably aren’t great for a lot of them. Let me also remind you that you are bald. You can really only look so young without hair.” He was busy ignoring me at this point. “Is Chris going? Can we tell people he got a sex change if he doesn’t go?”

Bobby got a Facebook invite to his 20th high school reunion several months ago and we decided to book our east coast summer visit to include the reunion. I thought it would be a good bit to meet some of the people he grew up with and it was going to be at one of my favorite D.C. venues in Georgetown. I went to college in D.C. and I don’t get to visit very often. The Sequoia on the waterfront brings back many great memories and I figured I may get to see some of my friends for lunch or a drink if we were spending reunion weekend in the District. As our trip approached the venue began to shift closer and closer to Bobby’s hometown and further and further away from the civilization downtown. Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say the venue strayed further from sophistication and closer to red neck. It was certainly disappointing that I wouldn’t get to see any of my friends, but I was ecstatic at the opportunity to see where Bobby grew up.

“No, Chris isn’t going. Tell them whatever you want, but they probably see him on Facebook and know that’s not true. Can you please not make a big deal about your age? I don’t want people to think I have a trophy girlfriend,” Bobby responded. I nearly spit out my drink, “Trophy girlfriend?! That would imply that I’m a gold digger, which would imply that you are rich. We all know that’s not the case. They’ll probably think you gave me herpes and now I’m stuck with you. I’m definitely telling people we met because you and my dad were frat brothers.” I know Bobby can take an age joke, but I wondered if his classmates would have the same winning attitude. I realized that they may not appreciate my sense of humor and decided to go with the more believable notion that we met on Craig’s List under the “Strictly Platonic” classifieds. Perhaps I would throw in that we were in the process of consulting with a psychic about our potential to successfully have the child with gills and webbed feet that I have always dreamed about. Hopefully none of them have read Geek Love, because that would completely give me away.

This trip east was also the first time I got to meet Bobby’s younger brother. Chad is five years younger than Bobby chronologically, but he’s light years ahead in the traditional steps of life. He is married, has three small children, and a house in the suburbs. It’s not 100% Bobby’s fault he’s so far behind though. Southern California is like Never, Never Land. Tinker Bell whisks the Peter Pans of the world off to sunny San Diego post-college, before they have a chance to settle down, so they can never grow up and just playyyyyy! In California years, he is on the right schedule and will probably be ready to settle into marriage and a family sometime in the next decade.

I love being around little kids. I like to think of them as really short people who say funny things and brag about how they can use the toilet by themselves. I respect them for their love of things that light up and sparkle. I came prepared with toys that I liked, hoping to win them over and spend as much time as possible asking them complex questions that they would undeniably force them to make up answers. This is considerably more fun than conversing with the majority of adults. Since Bobby arrived the night before me to his brother’s house I already knew that his niece wasn’t very fond of him. Most children are fascinated by his shiny, hairless head, but I think it scared his niece. I’m with her on this one, it scared the shit out of me when I saw it for the first time too. Since I came prepared with a tiny stuffed dog in a tiny pink purse with a tiny bowl and a tiny brush and a teeny tiny dog treat, just perfect for her 3-year-old tiny hands to carry around, I won her immediate affection. When I asked her why if she didn’t like Uncle Bobby she told me because he wasn’t saying hi to her. I didn’t want to call bullshit on a 3-year-old, but I had seen him say hi to her several times. Oh well, we probably wouldn’t see the little girl for another year. Maybe by then she would forget she was scared of him and would find a TV show starring a funny bald man that she could relate to her Uncle Bobby.

We only spent a few hours with the family before passing out for the night. Bobby and I needed to be up early to get to his friends’ boat for reunion day, and I think everyone can now understand how important schedules are to Bobby. Sleeping in was certainly not allowed, regardless of jetlag. There’s nothing like waking up in a twin bed with a child guardrail, surrounded by Hello Kitty and pink rabbits, next to a grown man who is wearing nothing but his underwear, to make you feel like a pervert. It took me a moment to realize this wasn’t a Michael Jackson inspired nightmare and then another moment to figure out how to maneuver past the child guardrail with my cramped legs from not moving all night long. Mr. Schedule was lecturing me on time management and shooing me out the door while I was trying to enjoy my coffee and admire his sumo wrestler-shaped baby nephew.

We spent the day on a boat in the Potomac with four of Bobby’s old classmates. Our crew consisted of the amazing couple who owned the boat, a drinking light-weight Army captain deemed the “Commander” (a title he made sure we wouldn’t forget), and Bobby’s high school sweetheart. After swimming in the smelly Potomac and eating my weight in jelly beans, I wasn’t feeling very glorious. So in the end, it wasn’t the senior citizens that racked out early. Yours truly was hiding in a cave in the boat by 9:30, cursing myself for drinking so many Red Bulls and vodka, instead of sticking to my normal mixer of ice. I was nauseated, jittery, and in no mood to tell extravagant stories to a group of strangers I would never see again. Bobby’s failing memory didn’t help because he couldn’t remember anyone’s name and as they came up to chat with him, awkwardly looking at me like I was some lost puppy following him around, I would kick him in the shin under the table while giving him a look of desperation wanting an introduction. He would just look at me, confused and giggling like a little girl, before I just gave up and went ahead to introduce myself. I gave up after about 45 minutes of this, accepting that I wasted wearing a new dress that would have been better saved for another night.

The actual reunion was a great disappointment to Bobby, who later crawled in bed and asked if we could go back to San Diego…like that moment…to our lives far, far away from these people. I knew it must have been bad if he preferred our disorganized shoebox condo with a poorly house-trained Chihuahua to summing up the past 20 years in a 2 minute speech with the people he attended his senior prom with so many year ago. I was well rested and ready to head to Philly for the next leg of my trip east, but Bobby was kicking himself for trying to drink like he was 20 years younger. The few hours of sleep he got didn’t compensate for the full day and night of drinking. I drove the car back the next morning for fear that Bobby would get a DUI if pulled over for his utter lack of driving aptitude. We parted ways later that day, more importantly we both parted with Bobby’s high school hometown. There’s nothing wrong with the place, but then again I personally can’t find anything right about any small town.

Happy Birthday, Old Man

2010-08-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

Another year went by as we celebrated my aging lover's birthday. He's getting to the point that not only does he get mixed up about his age, but his parents can't even remember what year he was born anymore. I guess it doesn't really matter once you hit a million anyway. As much as Bobby thinks he is still 25 (much like I do), sometimes his quickly accumulating years is as prominent as if he used a walker or needed Depends.

Birthdays are a time to give gifts to celebrate the people we love, but I hate the deadlines involved with birthday. They stress me out because I like to just buy things for people when I see something and want to give, not when I have a time constraint. Bobby is especially difficult to buy gifts for because he has everything that he wants and needs. He has been single and making plenty of money to afford all of his man toys for a long time now. I try to listen to when he starts talking about some new motorcycle or camera accessory he wants and put that information in my back pocket for later. It's never long before I am back to the drawing board though because he'll just find a way to justify even the most ridiculous items by convincing himself via "Bobby logic" that he needs the item and then he will purchase it on his own. Since I started thinking about birthday ideas two months ago he has accumulated a pile of unused items that would have been great gifts ideas. The pile includes the leather chaps he has yet to wear (regardless of my frequent requests), several never-used camera lenses and filters, and a brand new tent for his birthday camping trip in Catalina. Bear in mind that this is the same man who complained for a week about how I purchased a hand mixer for the kitchen that I use on a regular basis because we don't have room for it, according to him. Yet somehow he feels he can find room for the kayak he keeps threatening to buy.

Bobby left me no choice but to wait until the day before his birthday to shop for him so I could avoid having to return the gifts I knew he would end up buying for himself. I got him a new pair of sunglasses, since his favorite ones were stolen when he left them not once, but twice, in dressing rooms on the same shopping trip, all within the same hour. I also got him a wine aerator in the drinking spirit that I enjoy sharing with everyone with whom I have contact. Finally, I got him a gift card for iTunes and some iPod accessories in a further attempt to get him to actually use the iPod I gave him four months ago. He remains greatly intimidated by the iPod, much like my father is intimidated by texting. In addition, we planned a weekend camping trip to Catalina.

Bobby is incredibly set in his ways and not very flexible, especially when it comes to his "schedule". The schedule always includes work, the gym, various sports events on TV (e.g., Tour de France, football, Olympics) the gym, and the gym. Sometimes the schedule includes meals, errands, and sleep. The schedule never includes cooking, cleaning, calling people back, or closing cabinets and doors. In fact, I regularly have close calls with an open pantry door smacking into my head or nearly tripping over an open dishwasher door. I figure when this finally does happen (which is inevitable at this point) I will be subjected to a battle wound that is to be expected in the land mine that we call home. I know I could nag about this bad habit, but it would be in vain because any bad habits he has at his age are never going to change. It's like trying to tell a 98-year-old conservative southerner that "colored people" is no longer politically correct or at all socially acceptable. I do frequently debate picking up some bad habits of my own in a passive revenge, but I've decided that it would probably take him months to realize that I am purposely shrinking his clothes or leaving lights on. He would probably end up thinking he looked fantastic in tight mid-drifts and appreciate the convenience of never having to turn on the light switch himself. In the time frame it would take him to notice any annoying thing I intentionally started doing, I would get bored of the game plan and stop doing it anyway.

The schedule is a great concept and has worked well for Bobby in the past. Unfortunately, the schedule is based on the lifestyle of a 38-year-old bachelor living alone and straying from the schedule causes him a lot of anxiety. Everything is carefully planned. This transfers into leisure activities as well. The other day I sent him a scandalous text during the work day, to which he responded that sexy time needed to be reserved for Tuesday, Thursday, and the weekend per my new work schedule clashing with his on Mondays and Wednesdays. My bad, I'll tell my libido to take a cold shower.

In the spirit of schedules, Bobby was adamant that the Catalina birthday trip could not be postponed when my car lingered on its death bed and an issue came up at work for him that required him to work on that Saturday. He told me that I would have to figure it out when I asked how he thought I would get to work without a car because vacations cannot be rescheduled in Bobby's world. Mind you, this "vacation" required no booking since we were camping and we only put it on the schedule about ten days before it was to occur. To call him completely inflexible is unfair since the world stops for working out. I'm sure if I had told him that I needed to the gym on Saturday it would have been a more acceptable reason to postpone than if I was in a coma. However, not having a car was certainly not a worthy excuse to stray from the schedule.

This conundrum caused a series of arguments that made me understand why people kill their lovers. I didn't actually want him dead; I just wanted to lock him in a soundproof trunk without a calendar or clock until I figured out my car situation. The irony of the circumstances was that he was unwilling to help me buy a car that weekend before Catalina because he needed to install blinds, something that was already on the schedule. Whoops! I don't know how I forgot to put the car breaking down on the schedule! Imagine if I forgot to include going into labor on the calendar when I have kids someday. He'll probably tell me I should have thought about when the baby was going to come before he synced his phone to the calendar that said he was supposed to be getting his motorcycle serviced during that time slot. After many unacknowledged tears and several futile attempts to convince him that I'm not unreasonable for asking him to help me in the very first time I was ever going to buy a vehicle, I gave up and put on my iPod, something he can't relate to since he still doesn't know how to use the one I gave him, and went on with cleaning and organizing our place, working out, and cooking dinner for myself (but certainly not for him), all while he installed the excessively expensive blinds when we had lived without blinds for nearly eight months at this point.

In the end, Bobby postponed Catalina on his own accord. He then proceeded to become obsessed with looking for a new car for me, another one of his precious personality traits. He gets into research mode and can't stop until he has reached the orgasm of finding the perfect item at the perfect price. This often times drives me crazy because he'll get so compulsively fixated on something that he stays up half the night researching it and whines the next day about how tired he is. This time I was inconceivably appreciative of his OCD and delighted that I could stop complaining and avoiding the overwhelming task. I think this is what my mom meant when she said I should find a partner who compliments my personality.

We haven't made it to Catalina yet and won't for at least another month. Normally this would probably cause Bobby so much stress that his hair would fall out (if he had any), but he has so much on the schedule in the next few weeks that we can't possibly fit it in. Unfortunately, helping me look for a new car has opened Pandora's Box of obsession and Bobby has taken up the new hobby of unremittingly trying to convince me that he needs to trade in his truck and get a Dodge Challenger, but that is another story for another day.

What Do I Have To Do To Get a T-Shirt?

2010-06-09T15:20:00.000-07:00

I’ll never forget the first time I interviewed for a promotions company. “So you are ok with promoting alcohol even though you treat alcoholics for your full time job?” the interviewer asked me. “Well, I drink even though I treat alcoholics. It’s not like I’m actually in the program. Besides, I need to keep my clientele up.” I guess that was the right answer, because the next weekend I started promoting Heineken Premium Light in bars across Philadelphia for twice the money I was being paid to help people stop drinking. By day I spoke of alcohol as the poison of society and held the hands of its victims; by night I handed out free drinks and bribed consumers to buy beverages with branded t-shirts and novelty key chain bottle openers. I lead a double life. I felt like Republican, except I wasn’t cheating on my spouse.

Promotions have saved my ass financially more than once. I have gone through career changes and layoffs, but it remains constant that someone will pay me to flash a winning smile and swear that their merchandise is the best I have ever come by. For as long as products and services are sold, there will be marketing. For as long as marketing exists, there will be tactics for selling that involve attractive women. For as long as I have a pulse under the age of 40, I plan to be attractive enough to promo whore myself out for every marketing company I come across. Regardless of employment, marital, and parental status I will keep open legs and purse strings to any job that pays an unnecessarily ridiculous amount of money for me to look good, answer inconsequential questions, hand out free things, and refer any inquiries more complicated than, “What do I have to do to get a t-shirt?” to the people who actually work a 9-5 job for the company. This isn’t shallow or an “easy way out” tactic, it’s a survival skill.

Many common judgments exist about brand ambassadors (a.k.a. promo models), most of which are myths, but some of which are very, very true.

Myth: All promo models are just a pretty face. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Many of the promo models I know are hard working women working a second job or networking for their careers or just making an extra buck to get ahead of the game. I have met some of my best friends selling my soul to the marketing devils. These ladies and I have something in common; we are hustlers. We fake it until we make it and clench our teeth to a pearly white smile for those dollar signs. Whether it means nicer vacations, paying for graduate school, putting food on the table in tough times, or just using our positions to meet potential clients for our non-fun jobs, we all have an ulterior motive that doesn’t include getting hit on by strangers.

Truth: Promoting kicks ass. Well, not all of the time, but no job is pure awesomeness. When you get down to what we actually do, promo models have it made. Our job requirements are to show up (more or less on time, but almost any excuse is accepted as long as you make an appearance), smile and be friendly to everyone (even if they are such an asshole that there is no possible way that even their own kin would be nice to them), and remember what we are promoting (a task made easier by the supplied uniforms with the product logo printed right under our noses). The rest isn’t very challenging. There are no expectations to know any valuable or crucial details, since we are contracted by marketing agencies and don’t actually work for whatever company we are promoting. Any tasks of surveys, data collection, or consumer education are made simple enough that Sarah Palin could do it without cue cards.

Myth: Anyone can be a promo model. The truth is that pretty much anyone who breathes is capable of being a promo model, but not anyone can actually be a promo model. There are a few simple requirements that weed out the majority of the population. First, you need to be attractive or at least pull off the façade of attractiveness. As shallow and stupid as it sounds, unattractive people do not get hired. Period. Attractiveness has a specific definition for promo model though. You need to either have an awesome body and load on enough make-up to distract the world from your huge nose or you need to have a relatively average body and a face that screams “I belong in a Maybelline commercial next to Heidi Klum.” Either way, you need a nice smile that includes a full set of teeth that had (or look like they had) braces at some point even if they have shifted a little bit. Bigger the boobs and a tiny waist make up ill-defined cheek bones and a lack of skill with make-up. Perfect bone structure makes up for a flat chest and legs that are shorter than your torso. Just remember that companies only supply uniforms in promo girl versions of extra small, small and medium sizes, which translate to mean extra, extra small, extra small, and small real world sizes.

Second, you need to be perky in the worst situations possible. Picture being the only sober person in a dive bar, dressed in booty shorts and a top that hardly covers your tits while frat boys who actually think it’s acceptable to shotgun beers at the bar hit on you and drunk girls who got in with fake i.d.’s all but yack in your handbag. All the while you plaster on a shit-eating grin and answer questions like, “Who invented the body shot?” or “How can I get a t-shirt?”

Third, you need to be able and willing to take orders from a manager/supervisor with the intelligence of goldfish, motivation of a sloth, and leadership ability of an insecure teenage girl. You need to accept that even though they may be an incredible idiot and on something of a power trip because for once in their uninspiring life they get to be the one in charge. You may, and probably do, know a more efficient and effective way to run the promotion, but your job is to smile and do whatever they say. In the end it will have absolutely no impact on your life or career if the promotion goes well or not. You will never be affected by the success or failure of the event and the only thing you need to worry about is making sure you get another booking. The only way to get more bookings is if your minimally competent manager reports to your agency that you did a good job and the only thing that qualifies doing a good job is listening to them teaching you the vital importance of collecting accurate email addresses. It’s probably easier said than done.

Truth: Promotional models are dumb as rocks. This is a true statement in the sense of what it takes to be a successful promo model. Often times the models are actually smart, ambitious, and incredibly competent, but that doesn’t mean they should show it. This is one of the biggest mistakes I see new promo models make. It doesn’t matter if you have your Ph.D. from Harvard in rocket science or you barely graduated high school; you still have to listen to the event manager, smile, look pretty, and not try to be a leader. In fact, I have found that it is better to only give enough information to the booking agents and managers to show them that you are able to successfully breathe and walk at the same time. If they are questioned or find you intimidating then they feel less powerful and intelligent (which they probably are) and they will find any reason to not have to deal with you in the future.

Beyond the realities of being a promo model, there are a few rules that you need to follow. Some are actually written by the marketing company you work for and some are more like tricks of the trade.

1. Wear the uniform that was given to you or mandated for you to wear. This seems really obvious and simple, but I am never surprised to see girls show up wearing the wrong thing and sent home. My friend Jules got in trouble for wearing too long of a skirt to a Captain Morgan promotion. The uniform required knee-high black boots, a short black skirt and branded t-shirt. When she submitted photos from the event she was called out. When she explained that she didn’t own a short black skirt and thought it was classier to wear a knee length one anyway her manager told her she would need to get a shorter skirt. She thought her hooker days were over; think again, Jules.

2. When the cat’s away the mice will play. A lot of promotions don’t have an actually manager present. One of the models, who’s more responsible in theory, is named the team lead and has to submit photos and a recap of the event to the company. These companies aren’t stupid; they know you don’t follow every rule perfectly. They have all sorts of idle threats about reps showing up, but even when it happens the reps often wonder why you aren’t drinking while working instead of getting mad at you for enjoying one of the drinks you are handing out. The golden rule is to not give yourself away in the pictures. Below is an actual email Jules received from her booking agent.

Thanks for sending over the photos. I greatly appreciate both yours and Julie’s energy during the Brownies event and feel that you were perfect for that venue, but I see a few MAJOR violations that we have to make sure don’t happen in the future. In a college environment, it’s extremely important to have high energy and create a buzz. Unfortunately, I think the team was a bit too high energy for what X would view as a legal problem. Attached you will find a photo of the team on the stage pouring a drink in the mouth of a consumer. This could be viewed as X forcing liquor on an unwilling consumer. The quick and simple answer to this in the future is never pouring any product in the mouth of any consumer. Always hand the product to them to give them the option of consuming or rejecting.

The other photo represents X samples distributed on a Finlandia tray. We have to make sure we’re not utilizing competitive POS during our promotions. This is usually not a top of the mind thing for the laymen consumer, but a major bone of contention for top executives from X.

As the manager for our team in PA, it is important that I address and fix these issues as quickly as possible. I really want to make it clear that you we’re not aware of this situation. Moving forward, I will look to you both as Ambassadors to spread to word among your fellow team members. I will purchase a ton of trays and provide one per Sampler that can be used for future events.

Feel free to give me a call if you have any questions or concerns.

Manager

3. Be nice to bartenders and bouncers, not just managers and owners of the accounts. This serves your best interest in the future. Within six months of promoting booze in the Philadelphia market I was able to go out and never wait in another line, pay another cover, or buy my own drinks ever again. I’m not sure if the bartenders and bouncers feel sorry for us, but they hook up promo models nonetheless.

4. Don’t stay and drink at the place you were promoting at in the same night. You need to leave and go somewhere else. People will continue to ask you for free shit even though you aren’t working anymore. Men will use it as a reason to talk to you and since you need to be nice to everyone you will get stuck talking to some weirdo forever. Also, if you get drunk and make an ass out of yourself you will definitely get fired. I knew one marketing company that hired this chick who got wasted after a promo once. They found out the hard way that she was a former stripper when she took off her shirt and puked on the floor. It didn’t go over well for the company with the bar or their client.

5. Get rid of ALL of the swag you were allotted to hand out. It may seem cool to have some extras in the beginning for your friends or the gym, but eventually your friends won’t want anymore Bud Light hats and you will have enough branded items to open your own promo store.

Stayed tuned for the next few days for some of my favorite experiences promo whoring. A little sample of what is to come: two of my promo friends are banned for life from Mission Grill after someone told the manager that they were prostitutes.

Property of {Insert Bike Gang Name Here}

2010-05-27T00:33:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning confirmed what I have suspected for years: I am destined to join a biker gang. For the past several years the majority of men I have dated own motorcycles. This isn’t because I consider two wheels and an engine to be a relationship requirement, but I have coincidentally chosen men who all happen to have bikes. I also coincidentally choose men without hair, regardless for my personal passion for flowing locks; a detail I have never been able to fully explain. I think that maybe I am attracted to the rebel without a cause in guys who own bikes. Since I tend to date men with educations, careers that often involve a desk, and no outward signs of Harley tattoos, it is always a pleasant surprise when a guy tells me that he owns a bike and I can straight away explain my passion for leather chaps and bandanas.

My fascination and fancy for motorcycles began at an early age when I would hear the loud engines roar by our family’s beach house. My mother would roll her eyes and mutter about how obnoxious it was that they took the mufflers out to make their presence known to the world. I didn’t like the noise, but I could respect their blatant cries for attention since, as the second of four children, I could relate to being loud in order to be heard. Although I liked seeing these people on their bikes, I was still intimidated by them. On TV bikers always seemed angry and fond of bar fights. I was too young for bars even though I already had a deep suspicion that drinking establishments would someday be home to me. Our little beach town didn’t really have bars anyway and I had to assume bikers would pick fights on the streets as an alternative, which frightened me. The women seemed particularly scary since they were so few and far between and hardly decipherable from the men anyway. Obviously things weren’t going great for these mamas and I could only guess that they would be angry as a result.

Motorcycles took a seat in the back of my head for some time until I read Hunter S. Thompson’s Hells Angels. HST is my favorite author of all time and a true inspiration to step outside everything we know as comfortable. As a journalist and bingeing enthusiast, he rode with the Hell’s Angels for a year back in the day when they had a particularly bad reputation and then wrote about it in the book. What I gathered was that this group of delinquents rallied in the woods to party for several days at a time with minimal hygiene and maximum toxicity. This doesn’t sound half bad to me. Who needs showers when your body weight is 50% alcohol and your vision is blurred by the eight hits of acid and all of that dust you smoked before breakfast, anyway? Bikers have changed since the 70’s when my hero, HST, got shit kicked by them after a year of studying their habits. One thing hasn’t changed though, the most important thing of all, their style remains completely intact.

Bobby has had bikes since college, which I had some difficulty believing when he told me since he went to college so shortly after the wheel was invented. Last October he bought his newest bike and I love it. Besides the convenience factor of easy parking and legally splitting lanes, I can’t argue with an engine rumbling beneath my peekachoo and how hot I must look when I pull my helmet off and shake my hair out. I have been toying with the idea of getting my motorcycle license for some time and the recent rattling noises of my Taurus are begging me for a secondary mode of transportation. Bobby is also a fan of the idea, except when I ask him to teach me and he realizes that it will require me getting on his motorcycle without him driving and he suddenly is too busy to take me out.

Bobby goes on weekend rides with his homies and I pretend they are cruising around like the old men I used to see in Fourth of July parades during my youth. This isn’t possible since Bobby’s bike is too sporty for cruising and he isn’t a part of an official biker gang, as much as I wish he would join one. On Saturday, I accompanied my lover and several of his friends to my very first bike rally, in honor of a fallen Federal Agent who was killed in the line of duty last year. I was unaware of how many law enforcement officers doubled as scary badass bikers on the weekends, but embraced my new knowledge. I was thrilled, to say the very least, at the opportunity to put together an appropriate outfit for my first bike rally. I managed to get my hands on some knee-high leather boots, which I wore over black leggings. I pulled a billowy leopard print blouse over a skin tight black turtleneck, which peaked out perfectly beneath the amazing denim jacket my old roommate must have held on to for more than a decade. I snapped Bobby’s Jansport fanny pack around my waist to complete the look. Leggings may not be the most practical choice for a long motorcycle ride, but I learned early in life that practicality and style rarely go hand-in-hand when I insisted at the mature age of five that I couldn’t wear a coat over my Halloween costume when I went trick-or-treating, even if it was only 50 degrees out and I was dressed as a flapper.

I went as far as staying in on a Friday night in order to get up at 6am for the bike rally. This, my friends, is true dedication to the cause. Bobby was nervous I wasn’t going to be easy to wake up since it doesn’t usually go over well when he tries to wake me before noon on the weekends and it never goes well when he wakes me before 9am for the gym. He was pleasantly surprised when I popped right up, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and quickly pulled on the outfit I laid out the night before. We were off to meet some of Bobby’s co-workers and friends for breakfast at a shiney diner, reminiscent of the ones off NJ’s highways that brought warm and fuzzy feelings of my heritage. I already had high hopes for this day and the guys’ Evel Knievel inspired outfits only made me more confident.

Pulling up to the rally was like pulling into the gates of heaven on a golden chariot. There were hundreds of motorcycles and their owners in their leather-sporting splendor. It was difficult to contain my excitement and yet I was speechless in the same breath. A surge of questions entered my mind. Why did I not know about these events?! How could I make these people accept me as one of them without owning a motorcycle? Where did they hang out? Was there an unspoken facial hair creativity contest going on? Did these people carefully choose these outfits for today and were so dedicated that they grew in handlebar mustaches for the event? Or did they always rock the goatee and sideburns look? Where could I find a pair of leather chaps? Where have all of these fanny pack owners been my whole life? Most important, how would Bobby take it when I found my soul mate here and left him in the dust driving off into the sunset with a 65-year-old obese man on a Harley? I immediately addressed the latter issue by telling my boyfriend that I would leave him for 90% of the people at this rally, but he didn’t seem very concerned and I have to assume he understood why and would do the same if he was in my shoes.

After registering and a speech by the organizer where he thanked a bunch of people no one knew or cared about…blah blah blah…we set out on our ride through the rolling hills of California. Unfortunately, the rolling hills combined with my early wake-up call resulted in me nearly falling asleep and off the back of the bike several times. The consistent rumble of the engine made me realize why babies fall asleep in cars so easily. I hardly noticed since I often dream of riding in the middle of a herd of motorcycles, making it very difficult for me to decipher if I was asleep or awake anyway. I had a death grip on Bobby’s backpack, but would slowly peel away and jerk awake again. I was scared, but I knew that if I died I would be greeted on the other side by thousands of bikers who would assume that I was one of them and I couldn’t argue with that exit from the world. A quick pit stop to pee and peel off some layers aided me from meeting an early demise, which was for the best because I know my mother wouldn’t be pleased to get a call from Bobby saying I had fallen off the back of his motorcycle and was run over by a sidecar carrying a guy named Buck who was missing several teeth and surely had Hepatitis C from unsanitary needles used for his tattoos.

I got plenty of video footage to keep me in a good mood for the rest of eternity. I had a difficult time coping with the idea that I had to leave my people and go home, but my ass wasn’t in tip-top shape from sitting on the back of Bobby’s bike for four hours. Before heading back, I made sure to have a lengthy conversation about the possibility of Bobby’s friends all buying bikes for their wives and girlfriends so we could ride on the weekends too. I’d be willing to be the only female if necessary though. They had been toying with the idea of forming their own biker gang for a bit and I support this fully. I am even willing to take one for the team and have “Property of ” tattooed on my lower back. It wouldn’t even be much of a sacrifice since I am the one who came up with the idea. Bobby really doesn’t seem like the biker gang type to me because he likes Justin Timberlake too much. I think my best bet is to join a biker gang by myself and tell him that I am going to a book club; I really can’t risk him dampening my image. For now, the search for leather chaps is kicked into high gear and I have begun practicing my saunter. Screw graduate school and a potential “real job”; I belong on Harley with no directions or place to be.

Running Like Crazy

2010-05-13T18:13:00.000-07:00

What kind of person would swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, and round out a nice little afternoon with a marathon? Or how about just a nice 50 or 100-mile run? It seems like recently I have met more and more people who just aren’t satisfied with finishing triathlons, marathons, or century rides as landmark accomplishments in their lives. They need to bring it to the next level and trump the simple people of the world who can barely carve out the time or enthusiasm to train for a half marathon. Some consider these people to be the epitome of a display of dedication and the definition of true athletes. I just consider them excessive.

Let’s delve a little deeper into this topic. I think my recent overexposure to marathon runners and triathletes is 90% me moving to an area of the world that has such beautiful weather that no one ever stays inside and 10% dating a marathon runner and triathlete. In sunny San Diego, gym memberships are drastically cheaper than in north east American cities because their treadmills are in competition with a sunny, moderately temperate boardwalk. People are more likely to spend Saturdays hiking in the glorious weather than hung over watching the Food Network. This is been a welcome change for me, but I still feel a twinge of guilt when I think about how Rachel Ray would probably consider me a traitor. Bobby told me he didn’t run for more than a few miles at a time before moving to San Diego from Northern Virginia, but it’s hard to justify staying indoors when you can be outside on the bay or beach in 70-degree weather every day. Point taken, but the weather hasn’t caused me to overdose in running, so there must be something else going on here.

I think it’s great that some people can focus on and love running so much that they can do it for several hours straight. Honestly, there aren’t a whole lot of things that I have ever done for 3-4 hours straight, except breathing or sleeping. I have an attention span that can only compete with someone who has lost 100% of their short-term memory, so I would more than likely get distracted once taking off on even a 5-mile run. I picture myself, iPod full of my favorite tunes, newly purchased cute running outfit that probably took longer to pick out that the time needed to run 100 miles, and with all of the intensions to get into a state of spiritual bliss enjoying the scenery and fresh air. Then I picture the inevitable reality of being distracted by a homeless man locking his shopping cart to a telephone pole or a delusional elderly person wandering out of the house without pants on. Without any thought at all I would be stopping mid-stride to stare in awe, looking for a bench to sit on in order to watch without being so obvious, all the while cursing myself for not finding a running outfit that has a place to store a camera. It wouldn’t take long for me to forget why I was even wearing sneakers and an obsolete pink sweatband and matching tube socks in the first place. The confusion of my outfit would probably only last a minute or two before some irrelevant memory of a sale on wheat thins at the grocery store would pop into my head and I would decide that my afternoon would be better spent at the petting zoo or the bar. There are so many bars with great outdoor seating on the beach and they practically call out my name when I walk by them. How did I get here, again? Who cares; I just know it’s time for me to move on to the next thing and find a theme appropriate outfit for whatever I settle on doing.

Generally speaking, my train of thought is as broken as most American marriages, which doesn’t say much for anyone. I need to choose athletic activities that hold my attention and don’t involve any sort of cadence. I was a gymnast in my more formative years, a sport that can hold anyone’s attention. The longest any one routine lasts in just over a minute and each skill lasts only a second, which is much more in line with how I function. Obviously, at 5’8”, my days as a gymnast were numbered the second I hit puberty. I later took up track and field, but I never ran distance. I was a sprinter/hurdler, threw javelin, long and high jumped, and pole vaulted. Luckily I was decent enough at each thing to not have to be subjected to only one area of the sport. I may never have been able to practice any one area enough to go to college on an athletic scholarship, but I didn’t care because I would no doubt be bored with track in another year or two anyway. I always wondered how the cross-country runners were able to able to run a whole three miles without going off the track or trail to make wreaths out of dandelions or take a nap. I figured they must know something that I don’t. Maybe they have tricks to keep themselves occupied, like practicing times tables or naming their imaginary children. I wasn’t sure how they did it, but I certainly never felt an urge to find out for myself. Now that I have discovered that people actually train to run 100 miles, those cross-country runners in high school don’t seem so impressive anymore.

Back to the loose minds of people running ultra-marathons and ironman competitions; even if I had a desire and the attention span to run, swim, and bike for an entire day, I don’t have the time. Moreover, I don’t want to have that much time on my hands. You can’t fit much more in the day besides, eating, sleeping, and working if you are training for such an extreme race. Forget reading, following celebrity gossip, or solving world hunger. I don’t see Brad and Angelina doing Ironman’s, after all. You live, breathe, and shit working out. I have known a few people in my life who use excessive running as a means of purging. The girl I used to see in my hometown running when I drove to work, my lunch break, and home all in the same day wasn’t just working out. She didn’t fool me at all. It was as obvious watching someone down epicat and laxatives, without the associated smells that make them so socially unacceptable. I know not everyone who runs marathons has an eating disorder, so please hold the outrage, but I do find them equally as crazy. One family friend of my parents had six children and was such an avid runner that the doctor had to put this plastic thing in her koslopus during the last month of her sixth pregnancy to keep the baby from falling out because she refused to stop running until she was actually spread eagle in the hospital. Really, lady? You’re more concerned about getting those runs in then a baby dropping out of you onto its head? This kid was destined to have a lot of mommy issues, but if I was the kid I’d probably be trying to drop out early too so I wouldn’t have to jounce around all day as my lunatic mother ran for a few hours.

I have always considered myself to be a well-rounded athlete. There were gymnastics days, then field hockey, and track and field. College introduced me to fitness classes and yoga. I was a certified spin instructor, life guard, and personal trainer. I rarely missed a day at the gym and loved the energy it gave me and how great my triceps looked. I also grew fond of ellipticals and Stairmasters at peak gym hours so I could stare at the asses of the people on the machines in front of me. Fitness and working out was always second nature until I moved to Philly in my early twenties and traded my sneakers and spin shoes for cigarettes and booze. I never had an issue staying thin or looking like I hit them gym when the only thing I was hitting was the bottle. In fact, quite the opposite happened and I got pretty sick during the time frame that I wasn’t in the gym. I got so thin that I had to go to a nutritionist for six months to break into an acceptable weight and was still quite slender. Those were the beginning of my modeling days and everyone around me must have assumed that I was running 50 miles in a weekend. Quite the contrary, I was sleeping, smoking packs of cigarettes, sleeping some more, and calling it a day. The weight gain period didn’t even allow me to work out. I was under strict orders to limit any physical exertion in order to pack on pounds. I would set an alarm and wake up in the middle of the night for junk food and chug milkshakes during the day, washing them down with tubs of lard before going back to sleep. Now I have more than gained back the weight I lost, quit smoking, moved to a beautiful place, remained unemployed long enough to have walked to the moon and back, but I still get exhausted just thinking about getting up at 5am to do anything other than run to the bathroom to pee.

I have to draw a few conclusions about people who run ultra marathons or ironman’s or any other excessive amount of exercise that doesn’t hand out a paycheck like the NFL or the NY Yankees. The most obvious is that these people need a plus one, because if you are getting laid on a regular basis, you really don’t have 3-4 hours a day to run; unless your lover is into these races too, in which case congratulations on finding someone as crazy as you. They also couldn’t really like their knees or shins very much. In some cases, they don’t like their vaginas either. They are less than likely to care if their skin looks like leather by the age of 40 from the excessive sun exposure. They definitely can’t be fearful of skin cancer (I can relate to them in this area, but only because of the vanity of my generation). Finally, they are also probably well-suited for such occupations as “sheep counter” or “jack-in-the-box functionality checker” or some other tedious, awful job that requires you to do the same thing over and over for hours on end.

As a supportive girlfriend, I give Bobby the go-ahead to do all of the marathons and Ironman’s and other athletic endeavors that give him the bragging rights he clearly desires. However, I do have some stipulations. He needs to choose races in places that I want to visit, especially if he plans to be gone for 12 straight hours and then recovering for a day after. I need to be able to entertain myself, plus I don’t want to waste plane tickets on going to somewhere lame. Also, if he is going to spend all of that time training, then he needs to be understanding of me spending all of my time reading, watching Glee, tanning, and sleeping. I also don’t want to hear complaints about how he is tired or sore. No shit you’re tired and sore. I predicted as much and he’s the jackass who signed up for this lunacy. Most important, don’t ever expect me to choose watching any race over a Phish festival. Not saying it will happen, but I’m putting it in writing now just to be safe. Finally, since I watched him in the Boston Marathon this year I don’t have to go again next year if it falls on Coachella weekend again. In fact, I reserve the right to be annoyed should he choose Boston over Coachella. Relationships are about compromise; I will watch you run if you listen to music and drink with me. The truth is that I hope the recent trend in extreme races goes out of vogue as quickly as Hammer pants. I speak my piece now, but will stay quiet and hope that they fade out.

Exploring American Apparel

2010-05-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

Another weekend went by and my procrastination, coupled with an eternal love of vodka, overshadowed any hope of being productive, once again. My lover and I always talk big about how we are going to put in a closet system to get our shit off the ground or about how we are going to order a desk so the little Chihuahua that inhabits our condo will no longer be able to pee on the bills and other important papers that we leave laying on the ground. I can’t really fault Mischa for this behavior since I often want to piss on bills too and would probably consider it more seriously if the toilet was twice as high as my head and my other option was to take a shadoobie on the Astroturf next to the sidewalk as hundreds of people milled around me. Instead, there was another weekend where we grit our teeth after discovering more spiteful doggy incontinence and the majority of my clothing remained in its new home in the bed of my boyfriend’s truck. Clearly, organization and moving aren’t my strengths.

What is it that I do, you may wonder, that keeps me from figuring out how to turn on the oven or fold laundry? Well, this weekend my boyfriend and I convinced ourselves that we needed some quality “us” time together just hanging out, since occupying the same bed every night isn’t sufficient. Then there were errands and the gym, of course. Obviously Bobby also needed to go on a motorcycle ride for half of Saturday with his homies, which I support only because he wears a fanny pack on these excursions. To be honest, I would probably support him sleeping with prostitutes if he wore a fanny pack while doing it. Small waist purses are a particular weakness of mine. Clearly I wasn’t going to do anything productive by myself, so I slept half of the day before dragging my ass out of bed. If the dog doesn’t need to go out, no one is making enough noise to wake me up, and Prince isn’t knocking at my door to profess his love for me then I jump at the opportunity to stay snuggled under the covers dreaming of a more productive life.

Saturday afternoon only supplied a limited amount of time before Bobby and I needed to hook up our Belvedere IV’s in preparation to see Chelsea Handler perform stand up. I got the tickets for the event months before and had grown to consider it a more important date than all of the major holidays in the year combined. At a minimum, I considered it more important than Christmas, Flag Day, and Canadian Thanksgiving. There was a brief window of time to make it to the American Apparel flea market sale downtown. Bobby had recently taken a curious interest in becoming a hipster and I just lost my exceptionally lucrative nanny job, so this seemed like a peerless shopping opportunity for us both.

You may wonder why is it that anyone would want to be a hipster. I often wonder the same thing when I contemplate how long it must take to get those tight pants on. In a futile attempt to stay young and hip, Bobby has come to the conclusion that gearless bikes, ridiculous facial hair, unflattering clothes, and immense amounts of irony will qualify him as “rad” or “cool” once again. Luckily he has me around to veto all of his brilliant ideas of what is fresh, therefore keeping him relatively presentable. For someone who claims to have never touched drugs, I ask you, what sober mind decided that handle bar mustaches need to make a comeback? Clearly, someone is spiking his protein shakes with acid. I was quick to remind my delusional mate how stupid he looked with a soul patch in the 90’s, which didn’t help my cause since he is still convinced it was a good look for him. My affinity for fanny packs doesn’t really help my arguments either.

Luckily, my stallion of yester years is in great physical shape, making hipster clothing completely impossible for him to pull off. I immediately told him that his meaty thighs would prevent him from fitting in at an MGMT concert, which was fine with me since I don’t own an outfit that would make me look like an elderly librarian in a Mid-Western town. I backed my position by suggesting he stop working out and adopt anorexia as a method to attain the necessary hipster figure. You can imagine the look of disgust on his face.

The American Apparel sale was the final nail in the coffin, completely crushing Bobby’s dreams of going back in time to relive his life in a way that would put him in a position to be wasting a Vassar education to work as a Barista at a tiny coffee shop in North Park while taking drags off of hand-rolled cigarettes and writing poetry. As he looked around, Bobby quickly discovered the living nightmare that hipsters around the globe are subjected to on a daily basis: there is no way you can know who is a boy or girl without strip searching everyone! Maybe this is a a slight exaggeration, because I suppose if you can see faces then you can tell the gender by the distinctive outdated facial hair or the likelihood that the girls will be wearing a headband with a flower on it. Perhaps the females may also wear something with lace on it, possibly a skirt. However, from the back, all hipsters look completely androgynous based on clothing, haircut, or body type alone. I guess the benefit of this trend in fashion is that even though clothes are completely unflattering, you can always dig through your childhood wardrobe to find the perfect ill-fitting pair of pants. Becoming a hipster is definitely a way to save money in these economic times. You can thank your lucky stars that your mother is a pack rat and held on to those hot mess outfits. And guys, don’t worry if you were into Jenko’s as a youth. Just find your sister’s old duds and you will be all set. It doesn’t really matter if they are girls’ or boys’ clothes anyway, since you will inevitably be pushing your junk to one side and suffocating your balls, lowering the likelihood of you reproducing in the future and saving us from a world of hipster babies (a tip of the hat to you).

Bobby didn’t seethe in disappointment for too long; probably because he was in complete awe and utter fascination by the large room of people all looking through the same clothing racks, regardless of gender. It was like a petting zoo of asymmetrical haircuts, PBR hangovers, and parents’ credit cards used to fund a lack of style. Why do we even bother with cable if there is an American Apparel sale going on down the street? Bobby quickly gave up on finding any clothing that would be of value to his image and took to helping me find the perfect pair of retro terry cloth shorts. What a rockstar boyfriend I have.

I walked out of the store that day with some great finds at next to nothing prices. Beyond the standard plain t-shirts, shorts, and leggings, I hit the jackpot when I found a doggy t-shirt for Mischa that said, “Legalize Gay.” I’m pretty convinced my dog is a lesbian since she regularly sneaks out of our bed under the cloak of nightfall to have a panty party all alone. I wake up to every pair of underwear I own strewn across the floor, crotch licked nearly to disintegration. Bobby is still fast asleep, so I know he didn’t do it; but Mischa is usually hiding under the bed or blankets on some sort of vagina juice high, like a satisfied crack addict. I put the underwear away carefully either up high or in zipped bags, so I honestly don’t know how she gets to it. She must grow opposable thumbs when the sun goes down or maybe she has some sort of psychic powers to move things that are usually out of reach to her. I can’t be certain because she waits until I am asleep to start the panty raid. I can only assume that she likes girls because she never touches Bobby’s underwear and I have tried to set her up with my friends’ male Chihuahua’s, Chancho and Chico, to no avail. When I tell her that Chancho has a crush on her, she just looks at me as though I am suggesting she shack up with manatee. As her mother, I accept her the way she is and was overjoyed to find a shirt for her in support of revoking Prop 8. I am a big advocate of the LGBT organization, regularly donating to the cause. I know that if Mischa could read that she would be proud of her new shirt.

My other fantastic find was a white thong with blue and red writing that reads, “Made in USA” complete with a pair of thigh high tube socks. Although this sounds less than sexy to the average man, my patriotic partner would rather come home to see me laying seductively in camouflage cargos or American flags than lacey lingerie, latex, or leather. I essentially found his birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, and 4th of July gifts in an American Apparel sale bin. Unconventional? Creepy even? Maybe, but considering I find him sexy in a fanny pack I guess this is just another example of how birds of a feather sleep together.

Another Birthday, but Still the Same Age

2010-04-28T10:28:00.001-07:00

It’s no secret that I hate getting older. I don’t like the idea of my boobs sagging, tanned skin looking tacky and leathery instead of sexy and healthy, wrinkles on my face, and the inevitable fact that the waistline of my pants inches closer to my bellybutton with each passing day. I was really quite satisfied when I hit my 23rd birthday a few years ago. I am fond of the number 23 and felt really good about myself. I was ready to call it a day and stay 23 forever, but alas, that isn’t possible. No, no. It seems that no matter how hard I try to ignore my birthday, it still seems to roll around every spring. Even though it isn’t too far in the past, 23 now seems light years away.

I used to hate my birthday even more than I hated actually getting older. I avoided telling people when it falls and still do this to some degree today. I would cry every year and curse Father Time for his consistency in the workplace. Dramatic? Yes, but I doubt anyone would expect less from me. Birthdays haven’t been a very happy occasion for me most years. I had a birthday party when I was seven at a roller rink and none of the kids I invited would skate with me. This tragic episode followed me into adulthood. To this day, I fight tears when telling people why I hate my birthday so much, thinking back to those stupid dipshits with their tube socks and bad haircuts. I don’t even remember why they wouldn’t skate with me. Maybe they were jealous of my impressive skills on eight wheels; I could skate backwards while they kept falling on their asses. Maybe they were pissed that their moms said they had to give me the My Little Ponies or Skip It’s wrapped in pink and yellow birthday wrapping paper instead of keeping these treasures for themselves. It’s a mystery, but a haunting mystery nevertheless.

My unfortunate seventh birthday ended my excitement over getting older. There’s really nothing good about growing up and adding on years, except the party you get once a year. The presents aren’t a bad bit either. I’m pretty sure people give presents on birthdays purely as an act of condolence. Everyone wants to distract you from your impending death. We get one step closer to the end of our lives and deserve presents? It would make more sense for the tradition to be that the birthday girl/boy gives gifts to friends and family to thank these people for putting up them for another year. Sometimes I think that when I become a mother I’ll force my kids to give me gifts on their birthdays as a thank you for carrying them around in my papoose for nine months. Mother’s Day, you ask? One day is not enough thanks for the stretch marks I am sure to endure.

My family couldn’t flat out not acknowledge my birthday, since I have three sisters it seemed a little unfair to give them presents and not me. As I got a little bit older, my parents started replacing my birthday with made up holidays celebrating events that fell around my birthday. I may not have wanted to age, but who was I to argue a cake and presents for Happy Get Your Braces Off Day? This worked out alright, but no one was fooling me. Happy Get Your License Day also signified that I was exactly one year older than I was on Happy Get Your Permit Day and, therefore, one year closer to having grey hair and crow’s feet. In fact, I think I started dying my hair at 16 to avoid the fact that someday I would HAVE to dye it to cover up the greys. I figured that if I was always dying it then no one would ever have to know when it lost pigment. “No one” more specifically refers to me.

When I get past the fact that I am going to age whether I like it or not and I get past the trauma of my girlhood birthday party, I get to the place where I can’t stand that unnecessary attention is put on me one day a year. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my friends and family who want it to be a special day for me, but the point is that it isn’t a special day for me and there is no need to try and make it one. I didn’t accomplish anything by aging. Birthdays aren’t like college graduation or a wedding day or getting a new job. People are giving stuff to congratulate me on the fact that I can still breathe. Then they want to have a party to celebrate the fact that I am still alive. The whole idea makes me uncomfortable. I prefer to give people gifts when it’s not for a specific date or time. I’m not into rules or boundaries, so deadlines really aren’t my thing either. If I want to get a gift for someone, then I do and the surprise generally breeds more satisfaction than the gift itself.

This year came and went, as they always do. My birth year is one more digit further in history than I would like it to be. I am one year old, but certainly no more mature. I spent my birthday this year doing the same things I always do. I went to work, I came home, and everything that typically happens in between. The biggest change in my day was the amount of Facebook postings on my wall from people I never hear from and hardly recognize. I did give myself a get out of jail free card on going to the gym, but that was really because I was lazy and my birthday seemed like a worthy excuse to aid in my fated impending obesity. My lover and I went out to dinner, which wasn’t unusual since we don’t cook. He was as generous and thoughtful as he always is and won enough points for a particular gift in a robin’s egg blue box to keep in my good graces for a long time. With my birthday in the past, I can live out the next 364 days lying about how old I am until next year, when I will do exactly the same thing. At the end of the day at least I can find comfort in the fact that no matter how old I get, my aging lover will always be a lot older.

East Bound and Out

2010-04-26T14:08:00.000-07:00

I took my first trip back east to visit since leaving NJ to seek out new horizons eight months ago. My life has been full of endless changes and adventures. I managed to completely avoid one of the worst east coast winters in years and experience an El Niño winter in southern California. I left New Jersey trailing behind a California surfer that I met in Cabo with a vocabulary of approximately 50 words total, all of which are related to shape and size of waves. I returned to NJ with a new sense of priorities and self, as well as a bald aging lover just days after moving into his downtown condo. My summer tan faded into a sickly pale tone begging for the sun I moved in search of three seasons ago. I packed on a few pounds, more than likely due to my fondness of burritos paired with my new proximity to their origin. Much has changed, but unfortunately my employment status remains relatively intact.

Under the false hopes that I would get a real job and have to work, I put off travel until mid-April when my boyfriend was scheduled to run the Boston Marathon. I had been looking forward to this from the time when I met him, given that training occupied so much of his time and dedication to going out for late night adventures with me. Bobby hasn’t been crazy about training, but there’s nothing that makes me feel like more of a fat ass than him going for a 20-mile run while I sit in front of the TV watching Glee reruns contemplating if noon is too early to start drinking before calling my favorite San Diego girlfriend only to find out that she is on her third mimosa. Coincidentally, she is also a Jersey native. I knew her from high school and besides approving of her fondness of carrying straws in her bag at all times in case the bar will not give her one for drinking her own pitcher of beer, I also love the lack of irony that the person I share the most in common with in Southern California is the one who isn’t from here at all. She is my taste of home away from home, as well as my voice of reason, whatever that means.

Anyway, the trip east was a big deal for me and my man. Bobby was running the famous marathon, but he was also about to be subjected to my entire whack pack family for the first time and then have to introduce me to his own parents while closely watching to make sure I kept it appropriate. I also needed to try and figure out how I was going to fit in the time and make enough space in my stomach to eat at all of my favorite restaurants in a span of less than a week. I knew that this would be a time of challenges that I wasn’t fully prepared to face and to further the pressure, Bobby’s ex-girlfriend was running Boston too. With my luck, I knew I was destined to run into her. More likely she would be running into me since she runs marathons and I don’t run unless being chased. Nevertheless, the thought of seeing the girl that Bobby dumped when he met me made me slightly uneasy.

I don’t hate ex-girlfriends, per say. Not anymore than I hate the far right, Nazi's, or face tattoos anyway. The truth is that they usually aren’t all that bad. I’m obviously always prettier, smarter, and better in bed than them, so I don’t need to feel insecure around them. The further in the past an ex is, the less I care about them and the more likely I am to add them as a Facebook friend rather than just stalking them via the same avenue. The most recent ones do have a tendency to get under my skin though. I don’t like the idea that I may be sleeping in the same bed they once scrumped my man in or that I may come across some of their things that they left lying around. Case in point, when Bobby and I first started dating he had just recently moved into his new place and in unpacked boxes I found framed photos of them. This wasn’t terrible, especially since I met him when he hadn’t fully dumped her. The shitty part was when I generously decided to pick up his clothes off the ground and fold them when he was at work only to discover his ex’s rank thong mixed in the pile. I can’t get mad over this because I didn’t know him when the gross underwear had been left there and he certainly didn’t realize they were in the pile. He’s not an idiot (most of the time) and didn’t do it on purpose. I used this situation to my advantage to get him to allow me to take pictures of him wearing a fanny pack and Speedo that I had also found in the pile. This supplied me with endless ammo and a source for future blackmail if necessary. I like to be prepared and am always looking for ways to entertain myself. Needless to say, I will never again put away his clothes and he will never ask me to repeat the favor.

This particular ex-girlfriend, who we will refer to as K2 for the rest of this blog, moved to Paris for work and was living there at the time Bobby and I met. She was more of a fake girlfriend, since he rarely saw her and when he did it was on vacation. K2 was supposed to return to the US in the January, but had extended her stay indefinitely. When I stepped into the picture and rocked his world, Bobby immediately ended the long distance ridiculousness via Skype.

note: You can laugh; I still do when I picture this debauchery of a break-up. I once asked Bobby if things had gotten more serious between them, did he plan to mail an engagement ring and propose via Skype? Romance story of the 21st century; a girl can dream. This isn't too far off considering she thought that she could just return to Bobby after a lengthy European stay and he would have hidden under a rock for those years to avoid potentially meeting anyone. The reality is that I can't take anyone seriously that thinks the concept of sushi is "gross" based on it being raw fish. She would make a terrible lesbian. Bobby sees the whole situation as relatively absurd too, but isn't jumping to admit it since the whole thing makes his Johnny Jackass nickname even more appropriate.

K2 visited San Diego a few weeks later on a trip she had booked months before and, though he would have much rather avoided seeing her completely, I insisted that Bobby give her closure by meeting her for coffee. I prefer to keep exes in my Roladex, as I consider dating to be a valuable networking technique. I figured she could just go through the general rollercoaster of emotions she missed on out while overseas. Instead of yelling and crying to him like a typical break-up, she had let a single tear drop after a dramatic sigh, whilst casually smoking cigarettes and drinking wine as she stared off at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. I’m sure she was wearing a beret too. At least this is what I imagined she did when he broke the news that his new girlfriend was from NJ.

Even though Boston expected a half a million people to swarm the city for the marathon, I still needed to be prepared should I run into K2. For the weeks leading up to my trip I had run through a million situations in my head of how the encounter would go. I narrowed my introduction down to a few options of wording. I pictured bumping into her accidentally in the convention center when Bobby and I went to pick up his race bib and bag. She would clumsily stumble and he would reach to help her up as she stuttered hello with embarrassment. Bobby would introduce her, “Mya, this is K2. K2, this is my girlfriend Mya.” I would extend my hand and flash a confident smile. “Oh, it’s nice to finally meet you K2. I’ve heard so much about you. I think it is great that you have so much time to run and train for a marathon. I wish I had the time, but I’m too busy being Bobby’s smarter, prettier, and more desirable girlfriend.” My other option was, “It’s great to finally meet you. I wish I had time to run, but I’m too busy walking. On runways, that is, since I’m a model.” Then I would toss my hair and strike a pose. This alternative was later vetoed on account of the bad haircut I got the day I left for my trip, as well as the previously noted extra pounds I was toting in my hips. My shaggy mullet and roots made me look more like Brett Michaels than Heidi Klum. There was always the option of a cheap shot at her great aspiration to be French, despite her true Italian-American heritage. I’d keep that idea in my back pocket in case I looked particularly bloated or my skin broke out the day I met her.

As it turned out, karma was on my side and a volcano erupted in Iceland delaying all flights from Paris from arriving in Boston. Too bad. I’m not sure if I was being rewarded by the gods for my virtuous attitude towards finding the panties or Bobby was being rewarded for putting up with my incessant remarks making fun of him dating someone who actually thought a ten hour time difference was reasonable in a functional relationship. Either way, K2 was the real winner since she completely avoided me and didn’t have to run 26.2 miles after all. Bobby survived my father busting out a butcher knife at the dinner table to measure him, just to make sure he was aware how much taller my family is than him. He also survived the marathon, which was impressive since I don’t think most people prepare for the race with a hangover from meeting their new girlfriend’s family. We returned to San Diego setting sail on the new journey of living together. I doubt we will ever run into K2 in San Diego, but if we do at least my hair will have grown out from this ridiculous ‘do and I will be able to just subtly point out to her that we need to get home to our condo, with our dog, where we live together, happily, ever since he dumped her after meeting me.

Shout Out!

2010-03-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

I want give a shout out to which ever of my manfriend’s buddies found my blog without me giving them the link and then begging them to read it. I don’t know who the genius is yet, but I extend my warmest affection to you for taking the time to dig through the internet to find me, since I know I’m not even Facebook friends with you. I would love to pick your brain and get a few tips on stalking since I thought I had this thing decently protecting my true identity; at least it doesn’t come up in a standard Google search for my name anyway. In case you were wondering, yes, my lover has read these pieces. In fact, I usually email them to him or hold a dramatic reading at home, after some mild bribing with food and/or sex to get him to listen, and then share the feedback my friends have given on whatever embarrassing tidbit I added in about him. If he didn’t read my blog then my fan base would dwindle down to two people: my mother and my dog. Since most people don’t believe my dog can read, it would just be my mother, who is already embarrassed enough of me and would never admit to liking anything I write. I warned my man to leave his self-respect and dignity at the door when he started dating me, so he is aware that any little thing he says or does can easily become the butt of my next joke. He’s accepted this fate, as he is balding and as a result his options for the dating world are becoming more and more limited. Regardless, I just want to say thanks for taking enough interest in Bobby’s love life to send clips about Rambo to everyone that he knows. Whoever you are, I think we are going to get along just fine.

Household Income: Unemployed

2010-03-10T22:51:00.000-08:00

I have a few things I need to get off my chest about this novelty referred to as “employment.” The one year anniversary of when I last held this status is quickly approaching and I am less than pleased with my current standings amongst my peers in household income. For nearly twelve long months I have applied for hundreds of jobs, some which I am considered overqualified for, most which are perfectly in line with my experience and education, and a few that I am completely unqualified for consideration to break of the monotony of applying for jobs within my reach (these may or may not include positions as a plastic surgeon and President of an investment bank). One would think my sparkling personality and radiant looks coupled with a very expensive education and experience in such unique fields as modeling, partying, and psychopharmacological research of addiction comorbidity that employers would be lining up with job offers. Such is not the case and I really just need to vent.

No one needs to tell me that the economy and unemployment rates are in a critical state. I am more than aware considering that since graduation from an esteemed university carrying the highest undergraduate tuition in the country (yes this is a fact), I am still not able to secure a job as a administrative assistant; referring, of course, to the title of a position that actually translates to “glorified secretary.” When my elderly manfriend tells me that he could have thrown a dart at a list of companies that would hire him in a heartbeat as an accountant just after graduating college I want to push him in the ball pit at Chuck E Cheese and hope he lands on a dirty diaper and child vomit. First of all, if I wanted to spend my day contemplating if slitting my wrists was more fun than my job, I would have gone into finance. Second, this isn’t 1852, so the job market isn’t the same as when he was a young buck. Besides, since the wheel was invented, many more people go to college today. I guess that is sort of the point though. Things were going so great for so long that it clearly couldn’t last forever.

I can handle being a part of a generation where androgyny is a dominant fashion statement. I can deal being born in an era when drugs were illegal before I was old enough to spell marijuana, there was war against their use in the form of a useless program we know as D.A.R.E., and getting high rounded out the decade where I have served my 20's by being mixed with household cleaners because the simple plant-derived drugs don't fuck people up enough anymore. I can even tolerate that I was born in a decade forever remembered for neon colors and too much hairspray, but not a whole lot more. What I can’t accept with is that despite these obstacles we have overcome, my cohort regularly hears the words “your position has been terminated” and it has absolutely no connection to performance.

Without actually posting my resume, I will note that there is absolutely no reason that I don’t get call backs and interviews. As I said, I have a great education (or at least an expensive one), with a high GPA (if that even matters), experience in a variety of areas, a history of being a good employee with references to back it, and most of all, I WANT to work. My supplementary, off the records qualifications include me being a completely functional alcoholic, not even the least bit cutting, sarcastic or rude, and an absolute gem to work with. Moreover, I don’t just want to work. No, no. That still isn’t enough to warrant my outrage of not having a job. I NEED to work because I am an adult (it says so on my license) and therefore I need to pay my own bills.

Twelve months, one tequila-induced romance in Cabo, a move across the country, a bazillion applications, one completely bunk employment attempt with a con-man, and several bottles of vodka laced with my own tears later and this chick can’t say much more than my only work colleague shits his pants and chews on his toys. Yes ladies and gentleman, these extensions are yanked every day by a six-month-old baby boy whose parents have the same job that I did exactly twelve months ago. That is what I call irony.

Even though I have accepted that I am destined to never do anything more than change diapers, it still fucks with my head when someone I know who moved out to San Diego three weeks ago and already landed a job. Especially when said person graduated college about five minutes ago and is a teacher securing a job in the middle of the school year. As happy as I am that my friend got a job in these economic times, my congratulations to her come out through frustrated clenched teeth. I can’t help but be convinced that the employment gods are somehow associated with the octomom and I am just shit out of luck for all that trash talk.

*Please note: my boyfriend isn't that old. He's really likeable so I have to find something to make fun of him for. When I find better things to make fun of him for I will stop referring to him as a dinosaur. He laughs when I tease him, so you can too.

Initial Interviews

2010-03-08T16:07:00.000-08:00

The experiences of my dating life have lead to realize that people truly do come in all shapes, sizes, and colors with different backgrounds, goals, and beliefs. Each relationship has given me the opportunity to see what I like and don’t like in a partner and what I want and need in a boyfriend. This is sort of the point of dating, an interviewing process, if you will. With each first date, I get better and better at figuring out the vital questions that will determine if I should even go out for a second date. I consider myself something of a dating recruiter. I give the initial interview and if the candidate seems appropriate I move them forward in the interviewing process.

Much like job searching (another area I am all too familiar with) not every company is a good fit for someone. I am not always a good fit for a guy, but maybe my friend is so I will forward him on in another direction to find a better fit. With this in mind, I have compiled a list of first date questions based on both my friends and my dating experiences that can serve as initial interviewing questions; much like a list of questions used by a headhunter for phone interviews. Not to say the answers to these questions would eliminate a possible future for a candidate; I just want to know these things sooner rather than later.

1. Are you a man and were you born one? You would be surprised how convincing some lesbians are at making themselves appear very masculine. I have seen many women tape down their breasts, done themselves in men’s clothing, use Old Spice, and let their mustaches grow in. I have nothing against lesbians or women who want to look like men, but I am not a lesbian and sometimes I have to clarify. Furthermore, as open-minded as I can be, I draw the line at dating a transgender person. I understand that sometimes nature gets it wrong and a woman is born in a man’s body and vice-versa, but I personally don’t think I could ever participate in any hank panky with a man who probably had bigger ta-ta’s than me at some point. I do know that there is someone out there for everyone though. I mean, after all, enough women wanted Flava Flav that he had his own Bachelor-style reality show. If anyone can find a man with jacked up teeth and a large clock around his neck attractive, then men who were born women can definitely find love.
2. Are you married? Looking for left hand rings isn’t enough these days. There has been more than one occasion that a friend or myself have background checked a man only to find out that there is a Mrs. at home while her hubby is out scum bagging around town. If you are separated, just say it. Don’t just accidentally leave that one out. I once met a man who said he “forgot” he was married. That’s like forgetting to put on clothes before going to work. It’s just not something people forget about.
3. Do you have any children? Don’t read this the wrong way. I love children and I have dated men with children in the past. I understand in our society a lot of relationships don’t work out and there are a lot of single parents. That has never been a deal breaker for me. However, please tell me about the wee ones. There’s nothing worse than finding out the reason he never invites you over is because he is hiding three miniature versions of himself at his house. This will also explain why his ex calls so often and why there are Barbie’s and diapers all over his place and put to rest my questioning if he is a pedophile or has some freaky fetishes.
4. Have you ever been to prison and what for? I’m not talking about the time you got arrested for a drunk in public after too many keg stands at that frat party in college. I’m also not talking about when you had to spend the night in jail after getting busted with some pot at a Phish concert. I am talking about prison; the place that you need to be careful not to drop the soap and will more than likely contract Hepatitis C from getting a ghetto tattoo inked on your arm by a 300 pound man named Tiny. Again, not a deal breaker, but I may want to steer clear if you are a convicted murderer or rapist.
5. Are you a US citizen? I am not even close to kidding when I say that I have not one, but seven friends, who have been either suckered into marrying someone for citizenship or who have been paid to marry someone for citizenship. Sometimes we fall in love with foreigners and want them to stick around, but I need to know in advance if you plan on manipulating me to avoid going back to your homeland. Also, we need to discuss the going rate of a green card before I elope with someone who doesn’t even speak enough English to say “I do.”
6. Have any of your exes attempted to kill you or any of the women you dated after them? No one likes to have to deal with exes, but some of the crazies out there really deserve an Oscar for their portrayal of most fucked up human alive. If I need to be concerned that your ex is going to knife me or try to run me off the highway with her car, then you should probably let me know. A good determinant of how violent she can be is if she has ever tried to kill you. Knives going through your bedroom door are not normal reactions to you not taking the garbage out. I’m pretty sure she is going to go ape shit when she finds out you have taken on a new lover.
7. Are you missing any vital reproductive organs? The first time you are intimate with a new partner can be a little bit scary. There is a lot to think about…what does he like? Does he find me sexy? What is he packing down there? Then when he drops his knickers and you find out he isn’t packing a full package things can get weird. Note: I love nicknames. You will be referred to as Uni-Ball for the rest of your life should I find out that you don’t have two. Some say I’m mean, I think I’m honest.
8. Are you straight? Wow. Well there’s a story for this issue. I once was dating a guy for a while and right as we were about to get down and dirty he stopped me. He looked me in the eyes and said, “There’s something I need to tell you first.” I was sure he was going to said he had herpes or the HIV or some other non-returnable STD that would surely cut this relationship off. I was wrong. He told me he was bisexual. I looked at him and thought about this for a moment and followed up with the obvious question: top or bottom. Well, Mr. ACDC didn’t like that question and started to cry. I should have gotten rid of him then for being a total pussy, but since he said he liked vagina more I figured I should be open-minded. When things didn’t work out between us, he began hitting on my gay roommate to piss me off. Sometimes I didn’t even really think the guy was bi, just trying to have some normalcy in his life and hopes for having a wife and kids someday. My roommate didn’t act on it, but I was angry nonetheless. I did the obviously logical thing and hooked up with his roommate. Mya:1, Gay Ex-Boyfriend: 0.
9. Have you ever had a meth addiction? I’m pretty understanding about drug addictions, but meth? Unless you grew up in a trailer park in the middle of South Dakota, I’d like to think you could at least come up with a designer drug habit or even just some alcoholism. Who smokes household cleaning products and cold medicine? Have some class and cut up some cocaine on the back of a toilet seat in an after hours club for crying out loud. You meth heads from wealthy, upper middle class suburbs should be ashamed of yourselves.
10. Are you employed with a job considered legal in the US? I’m past the point in my life that dealing drugs and pimping out prostitutes are acceptable occupations. If we lived in Amsterdam I would probably march to a different tune, but I’d like to be able to tell my parents what my man does for a living rather than alleging that he’s a trust fund baby.
11. Do you have any incurable diseases? Herpes, HIV, Hepatitis C are not gifts, though they do keep giving. Enough said.
12. Have you ever been arrested for stalking, breaking and entering, or had a restraining order issued against you? I feel that this behavior is a strong predictor of future incidences of the same issues. As much as I love being call incessantly when I don’t answer, as I have said many times before, I would prefer that you not collect my used tissues and photos of me sleeping to use in your shrine.
13. Are you a swinger? A good friend of mine once dated a guy for close to a year when she found out that he likes to switch things up. And by things, I mean partners. Some people are ok with this, but it takes two to tango…or maybe four in this case. I’m not sure, but what I am sure is that I was taught to share as a child too and I still don’t want to share cock.
14. Is your mother actually your sister? This is less of a problem for me now that I moved to San Diego. I find when you live in close proximity to West Virginia; you run the risk that home life is a little bit closer than comfortable. This rule also applies to polygamous households. If you have three moms and you don’t know which uterus you appeared from, then I’m not really interested in pursuing a relationship. In-laws are tricky enough; I don’t need that many mother-in-laws to tell me how I’m raising my children the wrong way.
15. If I Google you, will you come up on the sex offender list? I am obsessed with Google. If we are friends, dating, or even if I just know your name at all, you can rest assure that I have internet stalked you. I like finding things out about people this way, because if you find it on the internet it must be true. However, if you appear on Megan’s List, you will not end up on Mya’s List. Please stay locked up in your basement where you belong.
16. Do you own a fanny pack? If you don’t then I doubt our relationship could survive. The same goes for liking Prince. This is for the obvious reason that you will need to understand that I will leave you for Prince in a heartbeat and I need your support on that. Then when I marry Prince you can carry useful objects in the fanny pack at the wedding, such as the rings and a camera.
17. Is there anyone on earth currently pregnant with your child? If so, are you currently living with her? If there is then you have more important things to do than date me, like taking care of the pregnant woman that you live with. I only bring this question up because it legitimately became an issue for one of my friends. As the story unraveled, the guy was not only married, with two children, living with his wife that he was supposedly divorcing, but she was seven months preggo with their third child. Total normal situation, right?
18. Is that your real hair? Hair can be sexy, but hair plugs and toupees are not an acceptable substitution for an otherwise bald head.
19. Do you have any fetishes that are considered abnormal by the general population? This includes, but is not limited to, furies, bestiality, and incest. I like gold jewelry, not gold showers.
20. Are you a human? This is to rule out that I am dating Tom Cruise in disguise.

Should things not work out with my aging lover and I actually decide to partake in speed dating, like I have always dreamed, I will have to squeeze these twenty questions out in a short eight minute session. I figure if I can get through ten of them without an answer that disqualifies a guy then I am probably going to be willing to extend our relationship past those eight minutes. Since I am happy in my current relationship, I extend my list to my female counterparts as a guideline for dating. Happy interviewing!

Rambo

2010-02-05T14:19:00.000-08:00

Nothing about men ceases to amaze me. Just when I start to believe that there is some sanity in our world and I have met someone who sweeps me off my feet and is everything I ever dreamed of, he will undoubtedly do something so ridiculous that I will again question why humankind needs men for anything more than sperm donation. Yet again, I kissed a frog and he turned into an idiot instead Prince (which would have been amazing).

Not unlike many men I have met, my current boyfriend thinks that his penis is a separate member of society, equipped with a personality, likes, dislikes, and of course, a name. At first I was confused when he referred to a so-called “Little Bobby”, but my confusion quickly turned to repulsion as I realized he was referring to a body part generally considered private. I’m not repulsed by penises, per say, but the name Bobby rings and air of children and the idea that my 37-year-old manfriend named his grown-up body part Little Bobby resonated an uncomfortably icky feeling of pedophilia. Obviously, I had to put this flame out at once before either I became uncomfortable with him being naked, or my friends got wind of this and never let me live it down.

In a futile attempt to quash this foolishness, I quickly told my aging lover to stop this name calling at once. This is where I made my first mistake. The older and more experienced with men I get, the more I realize how similar they are to small children and puppies. If you pay attention to the things you don’t want them to do they just keep doing them. They are like puppies; simply in need of positive reinforcement of good behaviors and complete disregard to the bad behaviors.

My disapproving reaction to the name Little Bobby didn’t stop my man from naming his penis, but instead encouraged him to spark a debate of whether or not his member was a separate person with a mind of its own. As ridiculous as I think it is for him to insist that his genitals are a separate entity altogether, I couldn’t convince him otherwise. He told me to come up with a name. Laughing hysterically I told him to at least choose something less juvenile. I said to pick something manly, like Rambo. Well that opened a whole new door to hell that I was unaware existed up to this point. Let’s just say that now my aging lover doesn’t only consider his penis to have a brain, but it now has a personality. When I make fun of my boyfriend for naming below the belt, he informs me that, “Rambo doesn’t care what you think because he’s a warrior.” Awesome.

Home Invasion

2010-02-05T10:26:00.000-08:00

It is no secret that my laptop and I have been on the outs for some time now. I always thought one day my lappy would go peacefully in its sleep; I would turn it off and it would never wake back up again. My PC was already on life support, since the battery was shot a long time ago. The power supply cord became something of a life-line or oxygen supply. Viruses plagued it for the past year and my hopes for any sort recovery were waning. I saw my computer buzzing and awake for the last time on Sunday afternoon. Just like that, it was gone. Literally.

My neighborhood sits on the border of the hood. Not like there are gun shots ringing out every five minutes, not usually anyway, but it’s more of a transitional neighborhood. I live just north of El Cajon Blvd. in San Diego, which I consider to be comparable to 8 Mile in Detroit. Sometimes I think Eminem will breeze by my home to visit his trailer on the other side of the tracks. This has yet to happen, but I do see some tweeker meth heads wandering over to the convenience store on the north side of El Cajon to get a fresh forty ounce in a paper bag at 8 am. If you continue north of my block you will find yourself in a lovely family neighborhood with expensive houses and white picket fences. The two blocks between where I live and where the vehicle of choice is a luxury car differ by about 200-300K. This isn’t particularly unusual in a city and definitely not unusual for my choice of living locations. I have never felt unsafe in my home, but I certainly wouldn’t wander around at night alone.

The characters in my hood are all friendly enough. There isn’t anyone I would invite over for a dinner party or meet after work for drinks. Then again, I don’t think many of them work. Not in the traditional sense anyway. I do, however, exchange polite acknowledgements when I’m out with the dogs or walking to and from my car. There are several people who I consider to be self-elected neighborhood watch committee. They may not do anything about suspicious activity, but they definitely are outside enough to witness should anything usual happen.

Across the street is a Vietnamese couple who speak very little, if any, English. My lack of employment since moving to San Diego has supplied me copious hours of people watching time to learn about my neighbors without actually having to speak to them. The Vietnamese wife isn’t outside much, but her husband is permanently posted on the sidewalk in front of their house chain smoking. Occasionally he moves his minivan, manufactured circa 1992, to and from its parking space to a better one. Every so often I have tried to watch him to see if he does anything besides suck down one cancer stick after the next. These stake outs have ended in me either getting bored or falling asleep. My conclusion is that the Vietnamese man across the street is intently watching over the block for suspicious activity. Or at least I thought so, until last Sunday.

About a half a block north of my house is a small apartment building of fairly low income housing. This is home of the Mikes. The Mikes are “cousins”, or so they say. I actually think they are strictly business partners who pose as family members. I’m also not completely convinced Mike is either of their names. Regardless, they always say hi, though they refer to me as George Washington, my alma mater and, not coincidentally, the words printed on the ass of a pair of shorts I was wearing once when I walked by with the dogs one afternoon. Although I don’t want to sit in front of the Mikes’ apartment building smoking blunts and drinking forties, I do like to maintain an affable relationship with them should I someday decide to film a documentary on ways of the street life. Though I can’t be certain, I find the title “Friendly Neighborhood Drug Dealers” to be appropriate for the Mikes. It is possible they are trust fund babies living off of old family money, spending their days being visited by a myriad of ever changing acquaintances while drinking cheap brews because they just prefer Ice House and Old English to more posh brands. I try not to judge. The point is that if something goes down in the neighborhood, the Mikes know about it. They know everyone that lives on the block, their general schedule, and what kind of car they drive. Once I left my car lights on only to get a prompt knock at my door from one of the Mikes who was concerned my battery would die. That practically defines good neighbor. I really don’t care how the Mikes fund their lifestyles as long as they are watching the block.

This rundown of the characters in my hood brings me to the topic at hand. My roommate and I were robbed last Sunday morning-ish. Both of us being a little scatter-brained, we didn’t realize that our stuff was missing until late in the afternoon. By that time, my computer had likely secured a retirement home to spend its last days of life somewhere in Mexico; wiped clean of my old college papers and folders of photographs, sipping margaritas and watching the sunset over Tijuana. At least I hope that’s what happened. The alternative of my laptop being deemed worthless and chopped into pieces and thrown into a garbage bin with other worthless items is about as depressing as Jessica Simpson’s love life. As my computer enjoys a final permanent vacation, free of my frustrated hands tearing letters off the keyboard when they get jammed and my incessant, vulgar and abusive language directed at its uselessness, I sit here contemplating the idea of how karma just bit me in the ass for not appreciating my HP.

The robbery was just another example of how my excessive drinking habits impact my life. Another typical Saturday night at the bar left me nursing a hangover Sunday morning. After an hour of moaning in bed about how much my head hurt, I convinced my aging lover to mobilize down the street to get me Advil. I heard him in the living room talking to my roommate for a few minutes before I stumbled out to remind him that he didn’t get up for a morning chat and to continue his journey to the corner store. That took up most of my energy, so I took a little rest on the sofa to whine to my roommate about my hangover. She didn’t seem to care much and was about to leave for the gym. The thought of physically activity at this point was enough to put me over the edge. I headed back to the safety of my bed, far away from treadmills and aerobics classes.

The rest of the morning is a blur, but from what we have been able to piece together my boyfriend returned with Advil, roommate left for the gym, a random guy came in the front door and grabbed our laptops, the dogs started barking, our visitor continued into my roommate’s bedroom where he emptied her gym bag to store his new treasures, then he finished off his morning errands by taking her ipod and a digital camera. While the robber had an eventful and successful Sunday morning, I successfully brought drinking to a new level. I was actually so hung over that I didn’t notice I was being robbed in the middle of the day while in my own home. During this time frame I was texting a friend to inform him I would not be making it to brunch that morning in fear of vomiting on the table. I know karma can be a bitch, but I don’t think skipping Hash House brunch and being robbed are a fair karma tradeoff.

Now we will fast forward to the evening. After my roommate finally told me her work computer was stolen and I noticed my archaic lappy was gone too, we called the police. Shortly after, a few officers showed up at our house. Much top my disappointment, they didn’t even dust for fingerprints. I was hoping for crime scene tape, forensic photographers, Lenny Brisco, and a full scale investigation comparable to what I have watched so many times on Law and Order. The officers asked us if we were aware that we lived in a bad neighborhood. No shit Sherlock. If we didn’t think anything of the fact we regularly see drug busts on our block and hear choppers overhead blasting warnings of criminals on the loose, then we were definitely made aware of the shade factor when someone walked into our home in broad daylight and snagged our swag.

The police did about as much as the Mikes, who when questioned said they were not around that day. My roommate intercepted them on their way home from the liquor store after refreshing their beverages. I can’t imagine what the Mikes were doing on a Sunday afternoon that tore them away from their post in front of the apartment building. I don’t think they typically go to church or a stroll in the park, but I don’t like to make assumptions about peoples’ personal lives. My mother suggested that they could be the thieves, but that seems unlikely since the Mikes business is booming as far as I can tell. We wanted to question the Vietnamese chain smoker, but he doesn’t speak any English. His smiles and waves don’t add much to our investigation, so we decided to leave him out to avoid any confusion.

On a positive note, the police did inform us of a neighborhood super hero named Mr. Xtreme. He could have been a little more creative with the name, but I like his enthusiasm for fighting crime. Mr. Xtreme can be found on You Tube and even wears an embroidered cape. Although he can’t fly or read minds, he can distract criminals with his absurdity. I respect him for his efforts and am debating submitting an application as his assistant. I could be Fanny Pack Girl and keep my supplies for fighting corruption and evil doings in an easily accessible pack on my fanny. This job may interfere with my drinking habits, so I may save a hero career path for a time in my life that is more conducive to responsibility.

Overall, I can’t say I am too upset about my laptop being stolen, with the exception of the disappointment I endured to lose three months worth of writing that I had yet to back up. I nanny a five-month-old boy to earn some consistent cash and his parents lent me a computer while I figure out what to do next. It has a photo of the couple in the hospital with their newborn as the screen background. This has given me a new source of entertainment when people ask about the family in the photo. I like to tell them that I just found the picture on the internet and thought it looked like a nice picture to look at and dream about my own future family. This laptop is already exceeding my expectations; crushing all of my optimistic beliefs that my old PC wasn’t a complete hunk of shit. I now lay my missing PC to rest with a few final words.

Dear Laptop,

We went through a lot together. Though I did talk a lot of smack about you, I do appreciate all you did for me over the years. I hope you enjoy your retirement in Mexico. Tonight, I will pour out some of my vodka for you, my homie. I wish you the best, but I sort of pity the idiot who stole you because you are more trouble than you are worth.

With Love,
Mya

Computer Woes

2009-12-28T22:32:00.000-08:00

My computer and I have been together for a very long time; since spring of 2002 exactly. We have had our ups and downs, but I really do love my archaic HP laptop. Lately though, I have been thinking it may be time for us to go our separate ways. Actually, the truth is that I have been plotting a break-up for some time now. The first thing I plan to do with any extra money beyond rent is to get a new laptop.

There are a number of reasons for this divorce, though I do anticipate tears when the relationship finally does end. My PC has traveled with me to the faraway lands of Australia, New Zealand, and Bora Bora. It moved through several apartments in various cities and time zones, provided a safe home for my stories and photos, and helped me stay in touch with friends and family over the years. The truth is I love it, despite the time I ripped off the “L” key because it was stuck. Sometimes love hurts. The problem is my PC has a major infidelity issue that has caused it more STD’s than a hooker without condoms.

Please to try to hold the “you’re-watching-too-much-porn” comments and come up with a better joke. My PC’s issues run deeper than penetration. Its issues have been ongoing for years and are not all even related to viruses. In 2005, I realized it no longer played DVD’s. The warning bubbles told me it had changed time zones too many times and I needed to purchase a $30 program to get it to function again. Why can’t I switch time zones and still be able to watch DVD’s in China, England, and Nigeria? I never even physically switched the time on the computer. Don’t bother thinking you could have fixed it. My father has been fixing all broken electronic and mechanical things in my life since the time of Light Brights and he finally acknowledged it as a lost cause. This event was the first of many signs that my PC and I are not going to end things smoothly.

When my dad has too much to do or I don’t feel like dealing with him, one of my friends in Philly always fixed the general virus issues in exchange for me doing dishes or laundry. Unfortunately, he didn’t move west with me and so I am stuck trying to figure this out on my own. I decided it was time for me to be a grown-up and solve this dilemma. After hours of complaining to anyone who would listen, which left me talking endlessly to my dog, I Googled my PC’s current virus of choice and got a set of instructions for removal. I can’t say enough that I am ever thankful that there are people out in cyber world who feel so strongly about computers and helping the computer illiterate, like myself, that they have blogs set up to combat viruses five minutes after they infest. I thought I had a new antibiotic resistant swine flu, but someone (a 12-year-old computer whiz) had already cracked the case. Nonetheless, with printed instructions in hand I still couldn’t get PCSpyware2010 to leave me alone.

As opposed as I am to anything but free spyware programs, I finally caved and purchased the newest version of Norton. Even though I dropped $40 on something I know one of my friends, or my father, could have fixed, I still felt a huge relief knowing my PC would be back to normal functioning. Closely following all instructions, I removed other free anti-virus and spyware programs from my computer and was ready to install my new panacea. Hold up! It refused to install! I tried several times and completely convinced myself I must have done something wrong. After cursing myself for never paying attention and assuming one of my nerdy friends or dad would fix everything, I called Norton.

It wasn’t long before a tech was logged on to my computer from virus-prevention headquarters, which I assume is located near somewhere very important like NASA or CIA headquarters. I hate it when people log on to my computer from other places; especially when they are complete strangers. I feel like they are judging my choice in screen savers or wallpaper. Sometimes I even think they can see me, regardless of the fact I don’t have a webcam. Anyway, the tech got to the bottom of why Norton wouldn’t install properly: I had a virus. Well, no shit Sherlock! Why do you think I spent $40 on your fucking anti-virus program?! Fully outraged, I asked to speak to Norton, himself. Instead the lovely tech transferred me to another lovely tech who was supposed to help me solve the problem so I could properly install Norton.

It took me a grand total of three seconds to realize where this was going. They wanted another $100 out of me to remove the virus that prevented me from installing the virus-protection program. I am no expert, but I am a smart woman. If I can figure out how to finagle my way out of speeding tickets and never pay for drinks at the bar, then I am pretty sure I can figure out how to fix this on my own for free. At any rate, my computer is from the stone-age, so there is little chance it is even worth the $140 that I was about to spend. Not to mention, the people out in cyber-space offering ways to fix the problem are 12 years old! I would feel better paying a 12-year-old $100 to fix my computer than a college graduate who works for this so-called Norton guy. At least I know that some day that child will contribute to society. Who knows? Maybe they will invent something remarkable, like a time machine or one of those air skateboards from Back To The Future. I have high hopes for these kids based on the fact they can trouble-shoot a computer virus that I spend 20 hours unsuccessfully trying to fix.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this whole situation is that it wasn’t a rocket scientist that put PCSpyware2010 and MemTurbo out there in internet world. No, no my friends. It was probably some loser kid, with no friends, and bad acne that decided to make my life hell. I really want to meet one of these fuckers so I can ask them why they don’t suck it up like every other awkward teenager instead of being a total buzz kill. Can’t they just dye their hair green and give other kids wedgies or something? I want them come out from hiding behind their computer screens and I’ll tell them how I really feel face-to-face. After a little bit of tough love, I will assure them that even though they are assholes, someday they can work for the Department of Defense. Or they could at least work for Norton, removing viruses from regular peoples PC’s, like myself.

For the most part, I was able to remove PCSpyware2010. Not completely, but almost. A few weeks later I decided to re-install the free version of AVG, the program I had used prior to purchasing Norton (which, by the way, still isn’t installed on my computer). AVG was updated enough to kick PCSpyware2010, but not before my computer slutted out again with the wrong crowd and picked up another computer STD, MemTurbo. It was like trading in gonorrhea for Chlamydia, but luckily both are curable. The only problem now is that MemTurbo prevents AVG from doing its job and from uninstalling AVG to work on virus removal. Basically, I’m fucked.

You know what the worst part is? It’s not that I spent $40 on a program designed to fix these things and it won’t install because the computer is still infected. I feel like a doctor is saying you can’t get Guardisil because you already have genital warts, even though Guardisil protects against other strains of HPV in addition to the one that gave you warts. The worst part isn’t even that my inconvenience was likely caused by teenage angst, resulting from the jocks picking on some nerdy kid with greasy hair. None of that compares with the true tragedy. The worst part of my situation is that I will spend the last days of a beautiful relationship with computer angry at it.

Kittens in a Cougar Lair

2009-12-08T23:03:00.000-08:00

I am one of millions of women who have lived their dating years in an era where boyfriends and husbands twice my age are perfectly acceptable; possibly even considered cliché or passé. Men frequently rob the cradle on the dating scene, trading in women their own age for the newer, improved model. With degree in hand, post-college years I have spent aching for the company of a man who has moved on from his days of beer pong and graphic tees to the high life of city lounges and sports jackets. Naturally, men mature at a more relaxed pace than women, leaving me to the 30 plus crowd for potential boyfriends.

I find that older men possess a lot of qualities I find incredibly desirable. For example, with age comes a more solid career, which typically goes hand-in-hand with a loftier paycheck. Not only does the older man not hesitate to pick up the bill, but he often drives a nice car, owns his home, and understands that yes, my affection can be bought. Furthermore, he is more experienced in bed and understands women’s needs, as he has been at this game for quite some time. Though these qualities are appealing, an interesting dichotomy occurs in dating men over 30. I am forced to ask myself, why is it that this charming, handsome, successful, 35-year-old man has not been snatched up by my competition? There is no way, by any stretch of the imagination that these men have been hiding in caves until our first date. The answer is very obvious: baggage. Thirty-something’s have baggage. Whether it is an ex-wife (or three), a child, or an accident that lead to a 10-year coma, there is always something strange going on with these men. Even so, striving for any relationship that makes sense to me, I have ignored baby mama drama and ex-wives threatening me in hopes that the pay-off will be worthwhile.

Like most things in life, dating do’s and don’ts are constantly changing. A new era began with the uproar of the Cougar. This ferocious creature is a complete role reversal, daring to do what no one has done before: older women dating younger men. The idea seemed pretty absurd to me initially, but it has grown on me over time and I consider it to be an appealing novelty. I made an important decision on my 25th birthday: I needed to be a cougar.

I certainly can’t take full credit for this decision. In fact, the whole idea came to me when I realized that several of my friends had already decided to ditch their older boyfriends. Besides the obvious annoyance of baggage, somewhere in their 30’s men seem to lose their ability to sail at full mast on a regular basis. This is simply unacceptable. If they want to date a woman 10 years their junior, then they need to keep up. I actually think it should be a requirement for all men over 35 to keep a stock of Viagra if they intend to date women who are still in their child-bearing years.

Tiffany was the first to take the plunge. She exchanged her 42-year-old real estate developer and restaurant owner for a 22-year-old busboy. Extreme? Absolutely. I would expect nothing less from her. Next was Julie. She traded in her 38-year-old car dealership owner for a 23-year-old mortgage loan officer. Not only did these young bucks have stamina, but they worshipped the ground that Tiffany and Julie even debated walking on. I needed one of these ASAP. I went ahead and cut my lease short on my 36-year-old real estate developer/high-school teacher and traded in for a 23-year-old financial advisor.

I already know the thoughts going through the readers’ minds. I am only 25, so can I really call myself a cougar for dating a 23-year old? The answer is yes; I can do this because I don’t normally date men my age. In my own world, I wouldn’t have dated someone who is 23 unless I was still 16. I was dealing with a huge difference in male profiling. This guy could go at any moment; the last one was missing part of his team. I tend to like to live in extremes too.

So there we were, three sexually satisfied and dually adored women with men who would normally not have a shot in the dark at a date with any of us. It seemed to me that the dating standard was certainly dated and this new innovative thinking was the way of the future. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that I was on the forefront of a new epoch. It wouldn’t be long before I was in history books and giving seminars to desperate women in need of direction in the cruel world of singledom. Just when it seems that things in my life hit a brilliant apex, they crash down around me. This was no different.

My young buck had a problem. I’m not a gold digger by any stretch of the imagination, but chivalry is not dead. Furthermore, being frugal is completely acceptable in these economic times, but being cheap is just sinful. I have a simple rule: for the first several dates the man should pick up the bill. I thoroughly believe that my company is priceless, so taking out that credit card should not take a second thought. However, and I stress this point, I do not expect a trip on a private jet to box seats at the opera. Take me to McDonalds for all I care, but please don’t expect me to take out my wallet. Let’s just say baby was cheap.

He was beyond cheap. I understand that he was fresh out of college and not making a ton of money. I won’t hold that against him. I also won’t hold it against him that his parents were completely loaded and would have given him any money without even asking if it was for rent or beer. In fact, I thought it was admirable that he didn’t milk mommy and daddy’s money and paid his own way. This was a boy who was on his way to manhood.

My respect for not accepting checks from the parental quickly changed when I realized that he wasn’t just hiding his wallet on dates because of a cash flow issue. Turns out he had graciously accepted a brand new luxury care from mom and pops, including fully paid insurance and they threw him on the family cell phone plan for good measure. None of these things would have bothered me if he had been honest about them and if he hadn’t been so miserly with me. I didn’t even like the neighborhood he lived in and I loathed the bars he and his friends frequented. Yet, I went to these shitty post-college meathead congregations AND I paid my own cover. I put my foot down when he asked me to grab him a drink after I paid for his cover too.

I have had complete strangers buy me in on a round of shots; this guy couldn’t handle the $5 it cost to get me into the bar that I wouldn’t be caught dead in? Luckily, no one I know or anyone of importance goes to such establishments, so I was never in any real danger of being seen there. If I had seen someone I recognized I can guarantee they would have ducked for cover, not exchange acknowledgments, and the event would die with the closing of our tabs. I tried to pay cash at these places because even credit cards can be traced to prove you were there on purpose on a Saturday night. It’s embarrassing enough to know you are at these places, but for others to know? However, I was safe because by telling others in my social circle that you ran into me hobnobbing with a group of fake id’s and faker tans, you admit that you were there too. It becomes a secret both parties take to the grave.

In my determination to succeed as a cougar I needed to stick this out longer. The fresh meat was good for a few things, as long as I could avoid being seen in public with him. He was hot, had a great body, and granted my demands. It was the first time in this boy’s life that the woman he was seeing was not groveling over his chiseled bone structure and great ass, willing to forego being treated like shit in order to be his fucking prom date. Oh, sorry, frat formal date is more appropriate. Baby knew that I held the reins since I was confident and knew my value. He knew I could drop his ass in a heartbeat for an older, richer, more successful and seasoned version of himself. For the most part he held up his end, but the cheapness was killing me. It needed to stop.

The breaking point was the sheet and towel incident. Without disclosing too much detail, it is a known fact that a woman experiences a natural letting of blood about once a month. Though not as openly discussed, most couples don’t mind a little mess. Just put a towel down. In a heated moment the towel sometimes moves, flow levels change and what have you. It turned out to be a bit messier than anticipated, looking more like the aftermath of a murder movie than a romantic comedy. Quick to react I stripped the bed and saved the day, threw those threads in the wash, and problem solved. At least I thought it was solved.

Next day through some texting conversation, the youngen suggested I get him new towels. Excuse me? If I remember correctly the towels were fine. In fact, the linens and towels were probably much cleaner than they had been since mommy last visited town. This was beyond anything I could have anticipated. I didn’t see it coming at all; less predictable than the Apocalypse. My obvious irritation translated into him trying to play it off as a joke. News flash: people don’t joke about buying new towels. It’s less funny than joking about a filing cabinet. I was done.

I decided it was best to ignore him forever. Later that day I popped online and he tried to start up a chat. This is easy, I thought to myself. I told him I was not interested in seeing him anymore (though in my head booty calls didn’t count). I cut to the chase when asked why, “Because you are cheap and it’s as much a deal breaker as not believing in oral or disliking Prince.” Frankly, I don’t think any further word exchange was necessary, but he wanted to dig his grave deeper. Even looking past the fucking towels I informed him that I don’t hang out in Manayunk, I don’t like bars that resemble frat houses, I don’t want to meet anyone’s frat brothers, and I was taking my cute, refined ass back to Center City to get hammered and make mistakes at classier places to uphold the facade that I was a legitimate adult. He relented when he realized nothing he could say or do would make him seem anything less than the guy who dodges only tips 15% pre-tax for a fantastic server.

Looking back, I think the end of my cougar days began with Tiffany’s break-up. Something about the busboy’s credit going south when he tried to take her on the vacations she became accustomed to with her previous suitors. Julie really had it rough. Her man, her boy, lived with his parents in the house he grew up in. Nothing like realizing you are looking at baseball and football wallpaper while getting it doggy-style to ruin the mood and reality to smack your ass back into your gold-digging ways. Mine had to go because he never picked up the check. It just wasn’t going to work with him not paying for my cocktails, fine dining, and an occasional trip to the spa. Though he did look fantastic naked and had a full head of hair, I decided that life without baggage can be a little too dull for my taste anyway. Luckily I was able to dust off my shovel and hop back on the gold digger bar crawl without anyone noticing that I was missing for a month. My vibrator being my primary source of sexual satisfaction isn’t the worst thing in the world. I have firmly decided that this kitten will not be visiting the cougar lair for a long time. I’ll leave the young ones for the real cougars to whip into shape.

Now Accepting Applications

2009-11-30T23:49:00.000-08:00

I’ve always had a thing for stalkers; men who think that even if a woman NEVER answers her phone and NEVER responds to emails or texts, but still think maybe this time will be it. Maybe today will be the magical day that hell freezes over and she will suddenly look down at her ringing phone and think to herself, “Wow! I’ve been completely neglecting my friendship with him! I’m going to pick up and go out with him and marry him and have a bunch of his babies.” She will wonder why she hadn’t returned any of those incessant calls where the guy always leaves his number five times, just in case her caller I.D. doesn’t work and just in case it never worked the 18 other times he called that day and the hundreds of texts he left in the weeks, months, and years prior. And just like that, his prayers will be answered. That woman who he met for five minutes at the grocery store while she was in line innocently buying an EPT and Plan B, or the one who hesitated while handing him a business card at a work event for getting the mentally ill jobs in the functional world, or the woman who was politely reminded by her mother that her number wasn’t actually 867-5309 will finally come to grips with the inevitable truth; they will live happily ever after. I really love these men.

Most women find these men annoying and obnoxious. They may even pick up just to tell the guy he’s dreaming and to go to hell. Some women won’t even give their numbers out in the first place. They will vaguely mention a boyfriend or recent divorce and manage to work around exchanging any communicational tool at all to avoid awkwardly dealing with said creeper. Some women pity such men. They feel bad and to a degree try to justify how strange and socially awkward the guy is by telling their friends (and themselves) that he is just a lonely man who wants a friend. We all know this is bullshit and they will, in due course, probably make up a lie about how they met someone or magically got married in Vegas one weekend or discovered God and became a nun. A handful of women will just ignore the calls, delete the messages, and roll their eyes, not giving it much more consideration than if it was a wrong number dialing in. Then there are women like me. The ones who love these men for all that they are and appreciate them.

I have a natural affinity towards a man with such diligence and persistence that regardless of how many times he is shot down, he gets right back up and tries again. Stalkers are today’s equivalent to knights in shining armor only no one is giving them credit. No one said the guy who cut through growing thorn bushes and forests and fought off a dragon to get to Sleeping Beauty was creepy. Everyone from age two and up seems to think that the fact a guy meets a woman once when they are babies and then he goes to such extremes that he could die, and some of his homeboys actually do die, to get to the mystical woman of his dreams. Moreover, he’s really putting all his eggs in one basket with the idea that she will be flattered and marry him, rather than be skived out and run the other way. It was true dedication on Sir Stalker’s part and it worked out; so why would the guy in the line at the grocery store think any different?
Growing up, my mother told me to marry a man who loved me more than I love him and to always have one-upped him in several areas. When I look for the new love interests, I prefer to be the better looking, smarter, funnier, and more popular one of the pair. Obviously, I don’t usually win on being the more modest one, but I don’t mind if wins that round anyway. This tactic is completely functional since most men get “bored” and eventually their love dwindles. Instead of bringing flowers home and planning sporadic dates, they bring home a six pack and their bros to take over the TV to watch Sports Center, in complete disregard for the fact that there is a new episode of Glee on. It’s not that they don’t love you, it just gets comfortable. My theory is that if the prior description applies to the average couple, then a stalker will eventually dumb down to the level of flowers and dates, rather than excessive calls and binoculars through windows. I’d like to claim I came up with all of this on my own, but obviously Shakespeare and the people writing fairy tales considered this scheme long before I was even born.

Currently, I have no active stalkers. I have had some amazing ones in the past. (After I finish I will follow this up with a poem one guy wrote for me after we met one time. He was pretty much my hero after that incident.) Some women just have a natural talent for attracting these guys. They are the stalker magnets of the world. I wish I knew their secrets. I think they wish they knew them too so they could stop whatever they are doing that collects their whack pack of followers. Maybe they have a sixth sense or intense pheromones or they are hiding some fairy dust I just don’t know about. My roommate is one of these gifted women. I don’t think she fully appreciated the fortuity of her position until she met me to encourage these non-relationships. She even has one stalker who lives three times zones away that she met ONE time for about five minutes who still calls on their “anniversary” (the day they met three years ago)and every holiday (including flag day) and other specials days, like the ones that end in “day.” Her newest addition left a seven minute voicemail for her when he knew she was on a road trip with her boyfriend. Seven minutes! That’s longer than most men I know last in bed, much less in conversation. Mind you it was a voicemail, so it doesn’t qualify as a conversation. More of a monologue…

Anyway, after realizing that without even trying my roommate was able to nail down two men, lock and key, in a matter of minutes, I must be doing something wrong if I have no stalkers of my own. I needed to solve this problem ASAP. Since I look for jobs on Craig’s List, I’m sure stalkers look for stalkee’s there. Logically I put a post. Under the “Wanted” section I titled it “Stalker,” since that is what I want. The text read as follows:
I am in the market for a new stalker. Mine has decided to take a break to pursue other things.

Qualifications:

call at least 3 times a day and leave messages regardless of me never answering, text at least 10 times a day (preferably with pictures of flowers and/or other romantic inanimate objects), preferably over the age of 45 though not required, has Facebook, his hobbies must include me, me, and me and calling and texting me and me, disregards if I tell him I have a boyfriend/husband/am a lesbian/in a polygamist marriage/am the Octomom. Most importantly, doesn't give up. Ever.

If you fit the requirements please send a resume and references. Thanks!

I got a few responses, but no one worth interviewing, before my post was flagged and taken down. I can only assume it was flagged due to miscategorization. I’m headed back to the drawing board.

My roommate is against me telling stalkers where we live, but how else are they going to build a tree house out back to hang out in 24/7? Sometimes I think she is just unreasonable. I think I may be able to sway her eventually since I have gotten her to appreciate the men who flock to her without her even acknowledging their existence. In fact, she even called one today! It was 12:30AM his time and he happily picked up to chat. She hardly said anything and he just rolled with it all. She also is into the idea of going to a very special stalker’s DJ event on Wednesday (details to follow). My hope in opening her eyes to the benefits of stalkers that she will give me joint custody of one of hers, since I apparently don’t have whatever qualifications there are to attract such men and Craig’s List is not allowing me to take applications.

In conclusion, here is a poem that one of my stalkers from 2006 wrote to me in its original text, except my name has been changed

Mya Wanna Weary Wander

mya ana, mya ana
we just met but still i'm gonna
go ahead and holla-rama
all about your impact; stronger
than most i've met, full of force
life living a blessing, a gift, your eyes
reveal loss and yearning
love and learning
lest you wonder why we met
zest we plunder high we get
all asunder striving wet
pick a person; shower them
with nowness, with loudness of soul
The oldness of coal burns dinosaurs
walking before us, faster and stronger,
dumber and just as happy, their bones a
testament to the end. So send me your
flowered speech, your laugh and
howling screech, unsaid, says more than
words in beds. your lords are dead, but life
lies ahead. all green and red and
blue are you? Tis true i too
but stop not for lowdowns, plow forth
for showdowns are for the birds
as are sundowns for us, and ups
in the morning, the light shone through your window
surprisingly, as it will again and again
if when we're lost again in a night
to hold each other tight and test
the gummyness of breath, if when then?
then not now, for where are you now but not here?
mya ana mya ana
mya wanna weary wander?

Week of Left Coast Firsts: Break-ups, Thanksgiving, and Rain

2009-11-28T12:26:00.000-08:00

You could call the past week a series of somewhat epic events in my life. I have a new affinity for the word “epic”, but it’s sort of like how a lot of words are no longer used correctly in the English language. Other words include drama, bro, and bitches. These words can now be used with the definitions of things of minor annoyance; a verb describing a group of males spending time together; and a term of endearment amongst female friends, respectively. I still can’t call my female friends my bitches without laughing. However, I am excellent at overusing epic to describe events that are far less than comparative to The Odyssey and nowhere near worthy of a poem that is about 1,000 pages long.

Getting back to the past week’s epic events, there were a number of first-time events for me on the left coast. I had my first break-up, which was quite devastating. Though it began somewhat mature, it ended in me verbally castrating my ex at least 20 times, yelling things like, “Be a man and come get your shit,” and,”Strap on a pair and come have a conversation instead of being a pussy over the phone.” I am not proud of myself, but my break-ups tend to run the same way: I begin stating what is wrong in a calm and collected manner, they stay level-headed through out the conversation, then I lose it like Carrie on prom night. This particular break-up, like many in the past, was my idea. I’m not going to stay in a relationship when I feel he’s just not that into me. I read the book and I’ve watched a lot of chick flicks. I consider myself some sort of guru on determining if a man likes me enough to warrant continuing the relationship. My love of spending time with him and his love of spending time without me was really getting in the way of us growing as a couple. Honestly, I really cared for this man. I met him on an epic vacation in Cabo. The steamy love affair on foreign soil paired with my incredibly poor impulse control led me to move to San Diego. I wouldn’t say I moved here for him, because if he lived in Kentucky I wouldn’t be there right now. Nevertheless, he played a big role in my relocation and helped me out a lot when I got here. Deep down I still want it to work, but it would take a move of epic and godly proportions on his part for me to be willing to give the relationship another shot. I'm sure it was all for the best, since everything happens for a reason. Watch out San Diego, these hair extensions are single.

Since my first west coast break-up was a week before Thanksgiving, I had my first west coast Thanksgiving without family or a significant other. My roommate has a long running tradition of having a potluck Friend-Family Thanksgiving dinner the weekend before actual Thanksgiving. We invited our friends and celebrate before everyone goes home to wherever to celebrate with family. In the end, I only had two friends attend because my ex got all of the friends in our divorce. He definitely got the better end of the deal because all I got was his sander and saw horses, which I have absolutely no use for. Then again, it’s only fair that he gets to keep his own friends since he’s known some of them for almost 20 years and I just met them four months ago.

At first I thought only my roommate’s friends would be at the party, but after much incessant begging my two friends, Jessi and Ted, came over too. Ted didn’t take as much convincing, but Jessi had suffered a recent break-up herself and wasn’t totally into the idea unless drowned in Vicodin. Thanksgiving without my family meant I actually had to cook. It is understood in my family that I don’t do anything I don’t want to do; I’m just a brat. I pretend to not know how to do things to get out of it. I discovered a vital trick that if you mess something up once in the kitchen or with driving directions people will never ask you to try it again. It doesn't work as well with cleaning and taking out the trash though. While my siblings get assigned to different dishes they consider their specialties, I get assigned to my specialty of refreshing drinks and opening bottles of wine. I managed to suck it up and impress everyone with my turkey balls. Iknow, everything ends up being phallic in my life. Overall, our Friend-Family Thanksgiving was a success. Regardless, the idea of spending real Thanksgiving alone made me picture myself in a catatonic state on the couch watching Law and Order reruns while drinking wine and eating cookie dough from the package, interrupted by occasional outbursts of tears and senseless orations to my dog about how none of my relationships work and giving an occasional thanks for alcohol and anti-depressants.

Since my one option seemed less than appealing, I decided it was best to invite myself somewhere. Luckily my roommate has very nice friends who bring you in with open arms and I am missing a filter and assume everyone wants to hang out with me, so this wasn’t very hard. Her friend with two first names (I know it’s totally weird) generously consented to bring me along for his Thanksgiving with several members of the Border Patrol, for whom he works. My job was to make yams, which I don’t eat and had no intentions of tasting for the first time. Contrary to what most people in my life believe, I can cook. The food I prepared was accepted as edible.

The benefits of Thanksgiving with a group of strangers are boundless. Even if my friend with two first names was embarrassed by me he could easily pull the pity card and his nice friends would be ok with it; act like I was some lost puppy that followed him home. Dinner was at a nice couples’ house that had a two-year-old daughter, so luckily I would have someone I could relate to and talk with if all else failed. Unfortunately, when I tried to join her at her plastic child table I discovered much to my dismay that my ass would more than likely break the chair if I put my full weight on it. I threw that game plan out the window and studied the room for other options. Luckily, I spotted a dog. Now, we’re talking. I quickly came to find that Coco worked for the government’s Border Patrol. Well, isn’t that just fantastic? The dog has a job and I don’t. I immediately despised Coco and dropped the idea of hanging out with anything on all fours.

Realizing I was going to need to try and befriend some adults, I began listening to the men in the room talk about work stories. They kept referencing chasing aliens in dark canyons and over mountains. One guy mentioned Batman and I knew this was my kind of job. My heart sank as they explained that aliens were the illegal kind that tried to get over the border without a green card and Batman was code for something else, not the Dark Knight himself and certainly without a Batmobile. I disregarded their explanations completely and continued to picture them wearing suits like Will Smith in Men in Black running towards Martians with light sabers, calling Batman and Spiderman for back up. Their stories eventually changed to some of the urban legends of the area, like the woman without a face who cries, “Ayuda me” to other Martians in the forest. I felt like I was on an episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark, except everyone had already been through puberty. One guy from Puerto Rico via Minnesota, told me about the chocarrero, which looks something like a gremlin and sucks goats and small children dry of their blood Much like vampires, but with an extra fang. I thought this was a good time to start referencing the Twilight series and initiate a debate of if Edward or Jacob was better for Bella. Apparently there is no best time to discuss emo teen vampire movies with a group of adult men who don’t have pre-teen daughters. My mistake.

Overall dinner was great and Thanksgiving was as much of a success as it could have been considering the situation. People in San Diego are much friendlier than people back east. I am still suspicious of this phenomenon, but I am growing more accustomed to it. On the other hand, I have completely grown accustomed to the constant sunshine here. Today I experienced my first San Diego rain. I would hardly even call it rain since I doubt the total accumulation could have been more than a half inch. Regardless, it was epic. Apparently this is considered a rain storm by SoCal standards. I scarcely even got outside to touch the rain and make sure it wasn’t a figment of my imagination before the precipitation completely stopped. I drove to the beach with a book and the intentions of perching up overlooking the cove, reading with coffee in hand. The rain stopped by the time I got there, but the scene was something I imagined while reading And Then There Were None. I decided I should head back before anyone should poisin me or push me over the edge of the cliff. I’m currently trying to convince myself that the rain was representative of epic new beginnings, washing away my recent heartbreak. It’s going to take about a year’s worth of San Diego rain storms to produce enough water wash much of anything though. I guess I’ll stick to drinking wine and watching Twilight, making anguished statements while shaking my fist at the TV that Edward would never have done this to Bella. Jacob wouldn’t have either and he’s B Team.

Good Luck, Bad Luck

2009-11-23T18:57:00.000-08:00

At some point in your life a bird shit on you and someone told you it was good luck (it very well could have been me). Or maybe you broke a mirror and insisted that you must be doomed for seven years. Black cats somehow house the souls of horrible people such as serial killers and DMV or post office employees; God Bless You is a requirement for sneezing, even if you are an atheist; and a rabbit’s foot, preferably dyed some hideous color of pink or green, brings luck. Well my friends, I’m here to tell you a little something about superstitions.

My brother-in-law’s family is Portuguese and fairly traditional. His father is one of three sons and probably the most traditional one. The Portuguese are known to be a superstitious group. One day his son, the younger brother of my brother-in-law, brought home a black cat as a new pet. Not only was the kitty not welcome in the house, but his brother wasn’t either until he got rid of it. Papa Portugal avoided the thing like I continue to avoid growing up. Apparently the whole family found this hilarious, but he stood by his beliefs. Looking further into this superstition, I discovered that this hatred of black cats goes back to the Middle Ages when it was believed that black cats carried the souls of demons and would eventually turn into witches. I don’t know exactly who decided this, but I assume it was probably the same person who decided that Africans should be put on boats and sold in America as slaves. I’m willing to bet this person wasn’t a fan of dark colors and more than likely wore spring colors year-round. Personally, I don’t discriminate against cats for the color of their fur. I just hate all of them. They don’t do much except aggravate my allergies and hide. Then when they aren’t hiding, they are rubbing all their shit up all over me, which again aggravates my allergies. I especially don’t understand people who have outdoor cats. That’s like me feeding the squirrels in my yard and then naming them and claiming they love me in the same way my dog does. It’s just ludicrous.

Let’s move on to the rabbit’s foot. I had a few of these growing up and looking back I am not only disgusted with myself for liking them, but with my mom for allowing me to carry a dead rodent-like animal’s foot around on a keychain. Furthermore, as I grew up and took art history classes I found out that rabbits are a symbol for fertility. You know that saying, “They were going at it like rabbits”? Well, there you go. Do you think that Hugh Heffner just arbitrarily chose a bunny for Playboy? And yes, this is also why the Easter Bunny exists. I find it creepy that a bunny hides eggs to begin with, but now that I know what he’s really up to my disapproval reached a new high. I want to be clear, when I was about five years old my mom allowed me to have a dead animal’s foot on a keychain that represents sex. I really question her parenting skills. My kids are getting condoms and birth control, end of story.

About the whole bird shitting equals good luck thing. I think it’s a load of shit, pun intended. Birds are rodents of the sky and the only reason I even like them is because I envy that they get to fly. I also like how owls look on jewelry, but that’s all I got on the benefits of birds. I even Googled the whole urban legend and didn’t find any sort of origins to support the theory. Though I did find a ton of stories from people about how a bird shit on them and they instantly met Johnny Depp, who got down on one knee to propose, then they found Atlantis, discovered the cure for cancer, and cracked the code on how to make world peace. I guess that’s luck, or maybe its coincidence. I’m not one to judge someone’s interpretation of luck. However, last time a bird shit on me I had to throw away the shirt because I couldn’t get the stain out. I didn’t consider that to be very lucky. I may have felt different about the situation if the bird shit out a nugget of gold or maybe a new Mercedes, but it didn’t. Furthermore, if bird shit is as amazing as people seem to think it is, then why hasn’t someone started collecting and bottling it and selling it next to the rabbit feet?

Moving on to God Bless You. I am an atheist and I say it too after people sneeze. Not because I think there is actually a God to bless people when they spit their nasty phlegm (I know how to spell phlegm without spell check. Thanks GWU!) all over me, but it’s along the same lines as all my other WASPy ideals like Thank You letters, not arguing in front of children or guests, and knowing the appropriate use of each utensil in formal place settings. It’s my way of saying, “Bummer that something up your nose is making you gross. I’ll acknowledge this so that you remember to wash your hands before you touch me, which I hope you don’t intend to do either way. I also hope I don’t catch whatever you have that made you sneeze.” God Bless You is shorter than what I want to say and it is considered polite. This saying actually comes from a lot of places. During the Black Plague people were sneezing left and right because they were sick. They usually died shortly after obvious sneezing fits because they had the plague and that’s how it worked. Everyone asked God to bless that person since they knew the sneezer was shit out of luck anyway. It was a nice thing to do and since everyone was getting the plague maybe God would spare them if they told him to bless the sneezers. Before the plague, people thought you sneezed out evil spirits. In saying God Bless You, they were just following up and telling you they had your back, since you got rid of the spirits. Eventually, people thought you sneezed out your soul and a simple God Bless You put that sucker right back in where it belonged. When people question why I am an atheist, I can’t help but wonder what logical human thinks asking God to bless you will just put your soul back inside you when all it took was a little dust to prompt it to fly out of your mouth and nose. I’m not trying to preach my beliefs; that’s just some food for thought.

Here’s a good one: breaking mirrors brings seven years of bad luck. First of all, how did we choose seven? Thirteen was chosen as a day associated with bad luck because Judas was the 13th guest at Christ’s last supper and he’s also Christ’s betrayer. Since Christ died on a Friday, Friday the 13th is still considered a bad day. So I get that 13 can be connected to bad luck, but what about seven? Then on the opposite end of the spectrum, seven is a lucky number. I happen to know for a fact seven is a lucky number because I was born on the seventh so it only makes sense that it’s a lucky number. The deal is that a mirror reflects you and your soul, so breaking it hurts your soul somehow. I wouldn’t call breaking anything lucky, so saying that breaking a mirror is unlucky is stating the obvious. There are a lot of other things on the list of stuff I don’t want to break that I put above mirrors. Examples include condoms, full bottle of wine, and any of my bones. I don’t see how mirrors and luck are related, but I didn’t make these up either. If I made up superstitions they would be a lot better than the ones that exist.

I’m not a superstitious person and never have been. I used to tell my carpenter ex-boyfriend to knock on wood and he told me if he did he would probably end up getting hurt. Plus, he knocked on wood all day long in some form and he didn’t seem to be super lucky. Unless you count him landing me, a fine gem of a lady. I essentially only believe superstitions when they work in my favor. Even then I don’t actually believe them; I just claim to in order to start conversation. You will never see me run from a black cat, avoid walking under a ladder, or carrying around dead animal feet. I respect people who do all of these things though, because they give me something to talk about.

Blogger Random Questions

2009-11-19T23:27:00.000-08:00

I was filling out my profile on Blogger, you know, to let my seven blog followers know a bit more about me. There’s a part at the end of the profile for a “random question.” I went through about eight questions before I decided whoever came up with the questions should be fired and replaced with the person who produces the commentary when you are typing on Yahoo Chat. That person is very clever; Blogger random question person is not. Here are some questions they asked and my answers. I figured my followers would get to know me better if I didn’t answer only one shitty question.

1. You've been invited to a fancy ball but the only thing you have to wear is an orange wooly jumper. What shoes do you wear? My Kate Spade silver stilettos, obviously. We all know since I’m going to a fancy ball I’ll surely pick up some rich man and I’ll lose that jumper so fast that I won’t even have a chance to lose my dignity first. In my Kate Spade’s, I will at least know that my legs look great.

2. Do you believe that forks are evolved from spoons? No. That’s fucking stupid.

3. All of the phone numbers have fallen out of your address book. Whose number do you look for first and why? Why do you think I have an address book? Do you think I have a time machine that I use to get them? Do people still use paper address books? Since this question came from Blogger, I can safely assume the internet was invented when the question was developed. Don’t people save addresses and phone numbers on their computers or blackberrys now? To everyone who still owns a paper address book, did you miss the memo about going green?

4. Oscillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal: I don’t have a plan for the canal. By the way, thanks for forgetting that both words in Panama Canal need to be capitalized since it’s a proper noun, dumbass. Frankly, this question makes me feel awkward. I don’t know you Blogger Random Question Writer. I don’t want to oscillate any of your shit.

5. You get to ride the big roller coaster three times in a row. What will keep your dad from taking a bite out of your candy apple? Was this question meant for a 6 year old with their first blog? I can’t imagine anyone else being able to come up with a healthy, appropriate answer. First, my dad would be on the rollercoaster with me. He loves that shit. Second, my two front teeth are bonded so that apple could ruin them and I would have to move down south to pull off the hot redneck chick look until I could afford to fix them. Third, if we set all that aside and just answer the question: I would tell my dad I have herpes.

6. If you were a wrestler, what would be your finishing move? Winning, duh. I don’t think anyone admits their finishing move is getting pinned.

7. You've broken up with your old band and are about to release your first solo album. Please write the liner notes: How does it feel to be lose, chumps? I win!

8. You've written a hit musical! How will you avoid having fame go to your head? Ok, let’s get this straight…I wrote a hit musical and I’ll be famous by what standard? I don’t know who wrote just about any hit musical and I definitely wouldn’t recognize them on the streets. Maybe I would brag about it to a few people just to boost my own confidence that I did write a hit musical and no one even knows I was the writer. Then I will offer an autograph, which I will force them to take even if they plan to throw it out. This is actually a great idea. Maybe I will pretend I wrote a musical this weekend at the bar.

9. Why don't you ever wear a scarf? It doesn't need to be cold outside for your neck to feel naked. I do wear scarves dipshit. My neck doesn’t ever feel naked, nor does my boobies or butt. I feel naked, ME, not the specific body part since it doesn’t have its own set of emotions.

10. That can't really be a fish you're standing on, can it? Let’s get real, they nailed the randomness factor, but who would be typing their Blogger profile standing at all? I usually sit or lay down when I type. I’ll assume they meant “sitting on.” In which case, please don’t reference my vagina as a fish.

Wow, that hurt my feelings to know someone gets paid for that because I’m really confident that I could do a lot better.

How I Meet My Friends

2009-11-17T17:30:00.000-08:00

Most people I know are completely incapable of remaining friends with someone they dated post break-up. Incapable is a mild portrayal of the actual behavior and attitude. It’s often more that in the presence of an ex, people have some sort primal urge to go all Kill Bill on their ass. Then they remember that the actual violence would land them strapped down for a lethal injection and rethink it all. How people really feel about their exes is more like wishing upon a star that the former lover is given a long, miserable, and lonely life; hopefully with herpes. This phenomenon results from the almost completely reliable root that most relationships don’t end with rainbows and hugs.

Like most commonalities in life, my stance on exes doesn’t exactly fit the mold. In fact, some of my best friends started out as love interests. I find it fascinating that people hate their exes so much because I genuinely really love almost all of mine. After all, I dated each of them for a reason. It's almost embarrassing to me to loathe someone whom I have allowed to touch my boobs, hold my hand in public, and on some occasions even spooned. That’s like admitting I didn’t look cool wearing three of layers of neon tube socks over my pants and dreaming of the day I could be just like Kelly Kapowski. The truth is I looked really fucking cool, but times changed and so have I and so did Kelly Kapowski. It’s a natural progression.

In a lot of ways I’m very feminine. I have a vagina and breasts and I get a little PMSy certain times of the month. I like wearing make-up and getting attention from men. I enjoy shopping and sales and a new shade of nail polish here and there. On the contrary, I’ve got a much more typically male sense of humor. I’m pretty crude, lack a verbal filter, and can throw out and take insults without crying or thinking whoever insulted me is a bitch and shit talking them behind their back. I prefer hanging out with groups of guys to groups of girls because there is usually less drama and more drinking involved. When my guy friends ask me to bring hot friends it is always a challenge because I don’t have a ton of girlfriends. More than likely they have usually met all my girlfriends. Do not read this the wrong way, I absolutely have female friends and they are remarkable women who inspire me and we have a lot of fun together. I’m generalizing by saying I prefer hanging out with dudes, but three numbers in my top five for my cell phone plans are guys. It’s just a fact.

There are other women like me and I tend to get along with them very well. However, I find it interesting that nearly every woman I meet out at parties or bars likes to claim they don’t have a lot of girlfriends because girls are catty and these women think they are somehow super special and because hang out with all guys. These same women are usually at the bar or out with an all female group on a Girls’ Night, a concept I have never fully understood. Why do they want to hang out with only girls? It makes since from a strategic standpoint. It’s hard to get guys to buy you drinks when your boyfriend is standing next to you, but if you have a boyfriend then don’t you want to hang out with him too? Isn’t that what they are for? When I have a boyfriend I usually like him enough to want to go out with him. Anyway, it’s been my experience that women like to brag about only having guy friends. It’s like some sort of contest of who can relate to men the most and who has the most friends with penises. Sometimes I think that maybe these women know about some secret competition I am not privy to where there is a prize for having the least amount of chick friends (or at least keeping those friendships hidden) and the most amount of dude friends. Then I ponder what the prize could be to make so many women interested in this mystical contest. The only logical prize would be the equivalent of a map leading to the Fountain of Youth or unicorn semen, which I imagine is some sort of panacea if it does exist.

Anyway, what most women who claim to have no girlfriends forget is that in order to hang with the guys you need to possess a number of qualities that are not nearly as glamorous when you break it down. First, you need to hot. It’s not a complete requirement, but it helps. When you break it down, these guys started talking to you for one reason or another, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t that they read your mind about how much you like sports. This quality serves other purposes. Being attractive to guy friends allows them the fantasy that someday you may hook up with them and therefore you serve some sort of purpose; regardless of how boring you are to hang out with. Second, you need to have a grasp of topics that men can relate to and they want to discuss. Conversation topics do not include the steaming hot actors you wish would bone you or the guy you are currently dating. Exceptions to this rule are few and far between, so they are not even worth discussing. To expand on the phrase “they want to discuss,” I don’t actually mean have a long dialogue and intricate debates. Eventually it’s all just chatter and gibberish. I understand this aspect so much that I openly tell my guy friends that I don’t care if they listen to me or not when I’m talking. It’s just my way of exercising my vocal chords and they can tune in and out as they please, but don’t fucking interrupt my monologue. Third, you need to know that there is no fluff. Get ready to be ripped into for everything you do and get insults ready to throw back. My guy friends have asked me if I shop at the tranny shoe store because I have big feet, pointed out pimples I tried to cover with make-up, told me that my fat ass is weighing down the car when it bottoms out because they drove over a bump, asked me what corner I'm working when I clearly spent a lot of time getting ready to go out on a Saturday night. If you take any of it personally you will inevitably get burned. Just get ready to fire back about how they haven't gotten laid in six months or ask them if it hurt of tickled when the hair on their head shifted to their back. Finally, see the first point, because most women miss it the first time around.

Bringing this full circle, I am friends with most of my exes. Not usually the day after we break up, but a few months later seems to be a fair time frame. The way I see it is that I liked these people for a reason. That is why I agreed to date them in the first place. There is no real reason that I shouldn’t like the person just because we didn’t work out in the romantic long run. The initial space post break up is very functional because it provides a buffer to get over the situation. Even if I dumped them, it still sucks to see them flirting with some other chick. I like to take some space and then when I see the ex trying to work his magic on another woman I am able to just smugly think to myself that I am way hotter than her, definitely smarter and funnier, probably better in bed, and obviously all the dating moves he makes from this time forward will not add up to what he had with me. Some may call me cocky, but it works 99% of the time. My arrogance is a survival skill. Besides, I try to find a new love interest before I open the door for friendship with an ex. Rebounds are an excellent coping skill for a failed relationship. They don't fix it, but act as a temporary band-aid.

There are a lot of benefits to being friends with your exes. As a female friend, they come to you for advice on their new relationships. You can then make sure they know the things they did wrong with you. This serves two purposes: you get to vent about the things that pissed you off and maybe this time they won’t fuck it up with the next one. In the end, you don’t waste tears of frustration, anger, and hurt feelings. You just get it off your chest to their face in a "helping" way. Plus you get to see a less hot woman than yourself walking down the aisle with your ex; the one you perfected for future use to womankind. It’s a win/win since he was no good for you anyway.

Exes as friends also serve as future friends with benefits. As long as you have successfully separated all emotional ties, you can get down and dirty with an ex during dry spells of your own sex life. Though, I don’t recommend this anyone who is not a seasoned pro at the friend-ex thing. Things may even be better between the sheets since you are less likely to care what he thinks since you are not dating him anymore. Plus, you don’t add to your number of partners, which a lot of people care about. I can't relate to these people, but I know they exist. It’s like they are counting scars. Some people think copious amounts of battle wounds are individual victories and some find them awkward and embarrassing. I say, to each their own. Regardless, you won’t have any more scars than you started with.

A confidence booster, person to vent to, advisor, and with sex benefits? Who wouldn’t want all of these qualities in a friend? Sometimes, as I gaze across the table at a man on the first date I think to myself, “This probably won’t work, but you are good looking enough, entertaining, and would probably be a great friend.” I’m not trying to wifey up anytime soon, so I usually give it a go and hope for the best. It’s not that I don’t want a loving, supportive, long term, monogamous relationship, because that all really does sound fantastic. I go into each first date and each relationships with high hopes, an open heart and an open mind, but, truth be told, I just end up having a lot of guy friends. This is how I meet my friends.

Since When Was 30-Something Midlife?

2009-11-13T15:21:00.001-08:00

Last night my roommate got home from a vacation to the mid west with her boyfriend and his family. She generously handed her glossy copy of Marie Claire over to me; a mindless form of airplane literature that goes well with iPods and naps. I prefer gossip magazines myself. They prove to be even more thoughtless and only require reading short captions about celebrity sightings over entire two page articles about how to please your man or how to create a new fall look with your last season’s sweaters by calling it vintage. She opened it to an article titled, “The New Male Midlife Crisis” and told me it was an interesting article. Maybe I knew someone like that; maybe every 30-something I know is that guy.

The article outlined the obvious societal changes facing men and women today that have altered our roles in the workplace, relationships, families, and households in general. Basically, this isn’t 1952. Women work as executives and doctors, not just secretaries and housewives. The thing is, I don’t even want to say JUST secretaries and housewives, because I actually think those are great jobs. As someone who is currently unemployed, I would be ecstatic to be hired as a secretary (I think they are called administrative assistants these days). Also, being a housewife is way harder than most jobs. They don’t get breaks, overtime, paid vacations, holidays off, or 401k options. Yet housewives play the role of therapist, accountant, mom, taxi driver, coach, teacher, chefs, and every other job imaginable. I just think about how much they do and I know even more I don’t want kids until I’m 40 because I don’t want to work 168 hour weeks now, or maybe ever. I’m stressed out enough about my elevens setting in between my eyes and saving up for Botox. I don’t even want to think about what a baby will do to my ass.

Anyway, not only do women have different roles in the workplace and are just as educated as their counterparts, but the pay scale is slowly evening out. Women don’t just have the same opportunities, but they can also get paid the same as men. What a novel idea… The article also discussed how more frequently couples have babies later because of advances in medicine and how the hell can you have a baby when you are the CEO of a company, hosting a huge charity ball, getting drinks with the girls, globe hopping in South America and Europe, and working out? Not to mention finding time to read Marie Claire to learn how to please your man and make last season’s sweaters work. Since there aren’t kiddos involved who really needs marriage? I mean, no one cares anymore that you live with your boyfriend or girlfriend. In fact, everyone is all hyped up on gay marriage, while it’s totally fine for single people and gay couples to adopt. Hell, I don’t care! If gay couples want to get married they can take my slot in the marriage books because I don’t intend to jump off that bridge anytime soon. I even have friends who had planned pregnancies with their boyfriends, but marriage was too scary for them. A baby is 18 years, marriage could mean life. It’s like a murderer preferring 25 years instead of a life sentence. They are both a really long time in my book.

So we come to this so-called “new midlife crisis” that men are experiencing. Ohhhh, the poor men. They always seem to get the shit end of the deal, right? Marie Claire ponders that men are still commitment-phobic when they already have all they could ask for in life. They have a girlfriend who has lived with them for four years and they don’t want to get married, but they will still get engaged or married. Or maybe they get married at they realize that they don’t want kids or to buy a house because that is too much commitment. Whatever each situation may be, the point is men are still afraid to commit. They have the “perfect” woman at their fingertips. She couldn’t do more and be any better. In fact, she’s so good that she admits her flaws and apologizes in advance and doesn’t try to change her man’s flaws. She’s almost too good. She’s forgiving and flexible, she makes a good living, she contributes to the relationship and to society, she is this picture of perfection, yet not scary at all.

Nothing about this article was news to me, as I’m sure it isn’t to most people. People are always going to try to be perfect and others will always find something wrong. Women will always complain that men don’t want to commit. Times will change and the variable will change, but midlife crises are inevitable because someone came up with that term and we need to use it on a daily basis as a result. The part I don’t get about this article and men and their so-called midlife crises is that how the hell do you have mid-life crisis in your 30’s? How did it get EARLIER that the former classic mid-life crisis, which was around 45 years old when men ditched their families for a younger woman or bought some ridiculous sports car and just became that old dude in the flashy car trying to look young.

In caveman time, the midlife crisis would have occurred roughly around the age of 15, being that the human lifespan was only to about 30. Men would say to their wives, “I’ve had it with this dull life! You and the children who survived childbirth are on your own. I traded all the goats and I got myself a WHEEL and I’m going to impress all of the 9-year-old bitches out there and just you wait. You’re going to regret complaining that I’m not smart enough to make fire!” Then they would go and find impress those young ladies with their wheels, while their wives figured out how to make fire themselves and became the CEO’s of Fortune 500 companies. This trend has continued on through present time where men march their proud asses to the dealership and trade in their sensible mini-van for a sweet ride to impress the younger ladies.

I think, as usual, I have a lot of points. First, Marie Claire has neglected to address the fact that sometimes I can’t even tell if modern men are gay or straight when so many men are metro sexual. Second, how are they even deciphering men versus women with this new hipster movement? I can’t even tell which is the man or woman in the relationship based on clothed appearance alone. Third, how can we call this a midlife crisis if it’s really only about a third of the way into a man’s life? And finally, I really don’t find it an issue that men aren’t willing to commit. I think a lot of women aren’t ready to commit, they just like pretty dresses and weddings. Besides, is a man doesn’t want to get married or buy a house or have kids after you have invested years of backbreaking energy into him, then you are the dumbass who wasted your time and he is going to be prime meat for the next hungry feline out there. Maybe she will even be the one he is going to be ready to make commitments with and it sucks for you that putting in all that energy for nothing.

Moral of the story, this article wasn’t unlike every other piece of literature I’ve read on men in Marie Claire. It stated a lot of obvious things with no real solutions. I’m not about to give relationship advise, because I haven’t sustained one longer than a few months since turning 21. I will say this: women should probably just omit the word “commit” from their vocabularies. It’s like mentioning Voldemort to wizards. It’s just a bad idea and they get all uncomfortable and tell you to stop as if it’s going to make their ears bleed. Furthermore, there will always be midlife crises, but can we at least get the correct age range? It was a good read, for those who like being versed in obvious trends. I guess the article served its purpose. Like most women’s magazine articles, it was relatable. Ladies, all of us are dealing with these guys. Keep drinking cosmos and analyzing it with your girlfriends and the guys will continue drinking beer and playing Xbox.

Wes Mantooth

2009-11-11T10:53:00.000-08:00

Since I moved to San Diego, I find myself quoting Anchorman more than I used to on the right coast, if that's even possible. On Halloween this year I picked up some east coasters from the airport and they were wearing their Halloween costumes on the plane. I thought I was picking up Steve and Pete, but Brick Tamland and Brian Fantana burst through the crowd at the terminal, thrilled to be back in the whale's vagina. They looked like they stepped off the movie set, with appropriate facial hair and all.

One the ways I judge if I am going to like someone is if they like Anchorman. Liking the movie isn't enough though. Potential friends need to recognize and react to arbitrary movie quotes. People may qualify as a potential BEST friend if they do the same for Elf, but I'm not going there today.

In college, I was required to take a few English courses as part of core curriculum. I signed up for an American short story class without much thought, because I really didn't care about English at that point in my life. I wanted to minimize my reading list since my psychology courses required a ton of reading and writing. Much to my surprise, the first day of class lead to an endless amount of entertainment. My professor handed out the syllabus and introduced himself: Wes Mantooth. I tried to suppress my laughter and looked around depressed to see that no one else seemed to care, or even notice, that Ron Burgundy's arch nemesis was our English professor. I officially knew I wasn’t going to be friends with anyone in that class.

I liked Wes Mantooth. Mostly because of his name, which I used in full even though he said calling him Wes was fine. I tried Professor Mantooth, Wes Mantooth, Dr. Mantooth. I finally had to call him Wes after he corrected me so many times, explaining he didn’t want the formality of anything more than his first name. I don’t even think he realized how important his full name was to my ability to stay interested in the class. Once, he was editing a paper for me and I asked if he had seen Anchorman. I was shocked to hear he hadn’t. I told him he shared a name with Vince Vaughn’s character. Can you believe NO ONE ever told him about this vital detail about his name?!It was a true abomination and frankly, cruel, that no one informed him of his fame.

I also liked Wes Mantooth because he didn’t blink. He was very tall and skinny and had big protruding eyes that never blinked. Ever. I bet he kicked every other kid’s ass at staring contests. I had two goals in that English class: participate once during each class to maintain full participation points and win a staring contest with Wes Mantooth. I succeeded at one of my goals. I did get full participation points. I never won a staring contest though. He didn’t even know we were having one and he won. That’s how good Wes Mantooth was at not blinking. Now when I watch Anchorman I think of my English professor and how funny it would be if Vince Vaughn didn’t blink the entire movie.

Legal Matters of Etiquitte

2009-11-10T20:58:00.000-08:00

I met Michael through a series of interesting events that led to a series of bizarre encounters and complete impudence. I suppose that I should begin at the most judicious point, this being my first dialogue with his former girlfriend. According to later conversation with Michael, the official relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Lauren, ended three years prior. However, relations and regular contact with her did not end until a particular fall out when I, quite unpredictably, became involved with Michael.

Laura was a woman with a mission: destroy Michael’s secret dream of becoming a photographer and embarrass him to the point that no model would want to work with him. A certain networking website of photographers, models, make-up artists, designers, and stylists exists to connect these people and find new talent, as well as portfolio building projects. Michael, with his dream and no prior experience, used the website to collect a series of AIM screen names of models in his area, whom he planned to approach at a later date, initiating his future as a photographer. He was not member of the website since he had no work to showcase and did not contact these models for fear of rejection in a world of beautiful people without even owning a decent camera or any lighting equipment.

One evening I was contacted by Michael via AIM; not an unusual event by any means in the complicated world of photography of models and a culture relying on the blind communication of the World Wide Web. Hiding behind a computer screen, one is whoever they wish to be or whoever they may be in reality. A message from Michael appeared on my screen and a chat series began. In my experience of networking in this fashion I am either approached by strange perversions or serious inquiries of work and test shoots. This particular conversation was a fascinating combination of both worlds. It began with a series of questions assuming we had previous contact (absolutely not) and turned into a “let me show you a photo of my penis” proposition. At this point conversations cease, as I am not interested in the size, shape, or any other detail of a man’s penis in the professional world. Shortly thereafter Michael admits that he is actually Laura hacking into Michael’s AIM world in an attempt to somehow embarrass the completely inexperienced, shy aspiration to be the next notable glamour photographer in the cut-throat scene of photographers trained in the specialty with years of experience and impressive equipment to produce perfection. Laura openly told me her master plan to destroy these goals to shame Michael as a photographer and belittle his manhood. I had to respect her honesty, but that was really all I could respect.

I continued with this conversation purely for entertainment value on this boring Tuesday afternoon. Eventually I had enough and moved on to a more productive project. The next day the same person contacted me, or so I thought. This time is was a real Michael attempting to save face. I had already brushed off the incident from the day before and moved onto the next thing. Basically, I could not care less about his artistic ambitions or the size of his penis. I felt bad for the poor fool for being dumb enough to not change passwords frequently, especially after a break up with a crazy ex-girlfriend. We chatted for a bit; an attempt on my part to show him that he need not fuss or lose sleep over something so ridiculous. I’ve always had a soft spot for people’s insecurities. I came to find out he was a lawyer in the area and I questioned his dating such a young, immature woman (this is a difficult proposition of wording choice since Laura functioned on the level of a middle school aged child). By the end of our chat I came to discover we had a common friend, a former co-worker of mine. I feel no need to meet men in the dating world via the internet, but if he was able to produce my phone number through our common acquaintance I told him I would be willing to meet for drinks.

Sure enough, Michael got my number. I have to give him some credit for that, though I think it may be one of the Bar requirements to have the ability to get a simple phone number. We set a date for drinks, possibly dinner if things were going well. I need to prelude the rest of this story with the unavoidable fact that at the time I was completely broke and having trouble affording groceries on top of my rent for my apartment. I actually survived starvation by lining up dates every day of the week for dinner. Yes, I used men for food. In my defense I didn’t use them for vacations or designer clothes. Well, not yet anyway.

My Wednesday night date started off well enough. He was cute, friendly, intelligent and a gentleman. We went for drinks at a bar near my apartment. After a few (or five) cocktails Captain Inappriate began to surface. In discussing his current position at a law firm, he informed me he made a whopping 85k a year. He was quite proud of this fact since he was the first in his south Philly born and bred family to even go to college, much less graduate school. I politely kept my lips sealed while thinking to myself that this was unimpressive considering he went to an excellent law school and was working on his PhD in law as well. I knew schmucks with half his brains and an eighth of his education making more money. Then again, I wasn’t one to speak since I was a starving model, no pun intended, who was setting up dates Sunday through Thursday to keep my tiny frame from emaciating further. The pennies I made went straight into the apartment I couldn’t afford. This lead to the next bit of conversation that made me wonder if this guy was raised in a barn. He asked me how much money I made. A few cocktails deep, I had to refrain from hitting him if I was going g to make it through dinner. I told him that was information I did not care to share with someone I had just met. He immediately apologized and I felt, for a brief moment, that maybe it was the lager talking and not him. No, no ladies, he topped that one within 7 seconds flat by asking if I was a trust fund baby. Through clenched teeth I told him that I worked very hard and did not take hand outs from my family (only free dinners from hopeless men who asked me out, but that was different) and regardless, who asks that?

Moving on, literally, Michael and I left the bar for one of my favorite restaurants in the neighborhood a few blocks over. I probably ordered close to three dinners and five appetizers, in addition to a few more vodka on the rocks and glasses of water (I really didn’t need a hangover before the weekend) and ate every bite. Sea deep in liquids, I needed to use the ladies’ room. Besides having to piss like a racehorse, in standard dating etiquette I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any shit in my teeth and reapply lip gloss. On my journey back to the table I contemplated ordering another meal to go. I plopped back into my seat and smiled as I reached for my water. Michael smiled back and said, “Stick out your tongue.” A little buzzed, I stuck out my tongue quickly like a four-year-old, making a silly face as I started to laugh. “No, stick out your tongue far, like this,” he said as he demonstrated a face that looked similar to the one I make when the doctor sticks that popsicle stick in my mouth. Snap back to reality, why in fuck’s sake should I stick out my tongue like that?! You are a lawyer, correct? Not checking my glands for swelling, are you? I ask the obvious. His response is as immediate as my leg flying up when the doctor hits my knee for reflexes, “I dated two different girls who were bulimic. The back of your tongue gets white after you purge.”

Look here buddy, I am a skinny girl, yes, but I am certainly not throwing up this meal in which I fought off the urge to call you an ignorant son-of-a-bitch at least twenty seven times. Those calories need to last me through another long day tomorrow until eight thirty at night when the next guy takes me out. Who knows? He may even have the decency to not accuse me of vomiting on the first date.

Being relatively quick-witted, I snapped back, “Your tongue also gets white from smoking and I am a smoker, if you don’t remember from your bitching about how gross it is that I smoke. It also gets white when you are dehydrated, like when you have to drown out the fucking annoying voice of the loser you somehow ended up suffering through hours of a date with. It also gets white from other things.” Other things? You are not making a case with comments like that! I stood up, grabbed my bag, and stormed out of the restaurant before the table was even cleared. Walking as fast as possible in my strappy four-inch heels, so focused on not tripping, I neglected to reroute back to my apartment so that dickhead wouldn’t know how to catch up (or find his car). He came running, apologizing, trying his best to explain how traumatic it was to have girlfriends who were bulimic. Seriously dumbass, you’ve known me for, what, a few hours, and you are accusing me of puking up the meal I busted my ass sitting through this miserable night for?! Eyes straight ahead, I politely (as hard as it was) told him I was just tired and wanted to go home.

Puppy dog continued his begging up to my complex, where I stopped short to utter a quick thanks for nothing before booking it upstairs. I left him standing in awe, as shocking as it is to think this man was in awe at the situation. Luckily I spotted a few friends from my development to grant immediate satisfaction of spilling my story. They were torn between laughing and looks of disgust mixed with amazement.

As appalling as this date was, I think we can all agree that some people just can’t function normally in society. The most amazing part of this story to me was that the next day he emailed me. Not just a simple apology, but asking for a second chance, or maybe to just be friends. The humanitarian in me came out again; I responded short and to the point: I have enough friends and you suck.

How I Learned to Pinch, When I Got Pinched

2009-11-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

This is a little hiatus from the Nancy Drew series. It will be completed this week. I feel bombarded with the whole unemployed thing again. In combination with, what is no doubt, swine flu, I picked out this older piece to post to keep it rolling. The humour will be back soon, but it's important to me as a writer to not always write in the same voice with the same topics. Enjoy!

Remember when you were little and someone pinched you really hard? Not just with their fingers, but as little girls my sisters and I pinched and bit and slapped. Punching was for boys. Somehow it felt like we would get in more trouble if we punched or broke things, so we pinched and bit and slapped. Slapping left hand marks sometimes; especially from my older sister, Sarah. It hurt, but not for long. It stung and I cried a lot, then I slapped her back. The hand prints went away. Bite marks stayed a little longer. My younger sisters, the twins, would bite each other a lot. Even as toddlers it became their way of fighting. I remember, or maybe I only remember from the stories, that one time my mom bit each of my little sisters. I don’t even think it was hard. It was one of those things that later she regretted, but was so frustrated at the time and it seemed like the best way to teach them how much it hurt. Today authorities would probably take away her kids, but that was the 80’s and it was still ok for kids to trick-or-treat after dark. For some reason I always thought pinching was the worst. Not finger pinches, but the deep, hard ones with fingernails and twisting. It was so precise, so calculated in one small portion of skin that it is hard to think of anything but that trivial amount of tissue that burned and seared, hitting this nerve that traveled through every piece of me. Up my arm, to my spine, into my brain, and out my mouth; screaming for my mom to save me from my sister’s lethal clench of tiny fingers. It didn’t hurt for long once she released, but I swear there is a perfect amount of tender child’s skin pressed hatefully between the thumb and middle fingernail that is like nothing else I can describe.

Today, my heart was pinched like I had stolen my sister’s Jem Doll and she was out for the kill. I am pretty confident, based on past experiences, that when the grip loosens from the prying hand, that it will hurt a little longer, but it won’t scar. I don’t know; maybe this isn’t a pinch at all. Maybe it’s some sort of formal wound that will never heal or at least leave marks to prove its burning score. I can’t tell you yet, because I’m still catching my breath from the whole casualty. It is still incandescent with heated emotion.

The irony of this, of course, is not that my heart is broken. After all, I am a female, and ergo I get emotional. The irony of this is not that I relocated three time zones with the anticipation of this being IT. The irony is not that I have turned down other men who would appreciate me much more than him. The irony is not even that he was without a female companion for several years and I am a catch. None of this is ironic. In all seriousness, from the bottom of my heart, the only irony that exists is that for years I have worked on a book defining my dating experiences and playing therapist to my friends through countless romances and heartbreaks and life successes with partners. Still, after all of this, my strong-I’m-woman-hear-me-roar proclivity got hit by an earthquake capable of tsunami-ing my life. The earthquake’s name is Shane. He is a yacht carpenter.

Being Nancy Drew on Halloween - Part 3

2009-11-04T12:25:00.000-08:00

My first day of work was a bit unusual. I know this may come as a shock. Adam made sure to let me know why he hired me: I seemed smart, I was nice to look at (helllloooooo HR if this were a legit professional setting), and I am Irish and from NJ. He insisted I have an “Irish-Jersey” accent. I don’t even know what that means. It’s like him claiming Connie Chung has a Taiwanese-Washington, DC accent. It’s just stupid.

My accent is fairly non-denominational, much like a newscaster, such as Connie Chung. Sure, when I’ve had a few cocktails my Jersey comes out a little bit, but it’s not even genuine Jersey. I was born in Connecticut and that is where my parents were raised. We moved to Virginia, where I lived for the stretch of years I learned to speak. Finally, we ended up on the western side of New Jersey when I was about nine years old, where very few people have Jersey accents. As for an Irish accent, that’s even more ludicrous. It’s fairly obvious I am of Irish decent to some degree. I have light hair, light eyes, freckles and fair skin. I know for sure that my dad’s mother is full-blooded Irish, but his father is Polish and neither one of them spoke with as much as a hint of an accent to identify their heritage. My mother’s family is clearly of Irish-English background when looking at the family tree of last names, but they practically rode the May Flower to the US and, if anything, have hints of southern accents from where they were raised. I’ve mainly been exposed to Irish accents on TV and in movies and can’t even fake a good one. Bottom line: I don’t have an Irish-Jersey accent because they don’t exist anyway. Adam will still insist that I have one though. He also enjoys referencing my Irish heritage as if it has any impact on me. I don’t even know what general area of the country my grandmother’s family is from. I certainly know nothing of customs, accents, or anything else. As far as I am concerned, I am a purebred Caucasian-American mutt.

Adam’s favorite part of my Irish heritage is that, apparently, the Irish are strong-willed with a mouth on them and put up a fight. I think he is confusing his childhood in Britain being next to Ireland and the last 10 years he spent in NYC next to Jersey. He’s pretty delusional, so this is probably the most logical explanation. He also made sure, during all this bullshit talk of me being Irish, to let me know he prefers Irish girls with dark hair. Well thank GOD. He seemed to think my blonde tresses would be devastated by this preference. I simply sighed and said it would never work between us.

Here was the real kicker and most torturous part of a day in the life working with Adam. When I first arrived to his swank Little Italy apartment, the same one he was evicted from a week later, the TV guy came to hook up the cable. Bear in mind, the phone still wasn’t hooked up, there was no fax/printer/copier at all (an essential piece of doing business), and my “office area” was an empty room with piles of paper on the floor and no desk, chair, or even lamp. I spent my days sitting at the kitchen island, my back to the TV. He asked me what I wanted to watch and I told him I wasn’t big on TV. I prefer reading and writing and music. He said he didn’t watch TV either, except Fox News. Fantastic. Not only does this guy have a severe God-complex, but he also qualifies conservative extremists sitting in what looks like a news room sharing uninformed opinions to be actual news. Adam swore I would be a Republican by the end of knowing him. I can proudly say that he was wrong. Fox News makes my ears bleed, but in this situation it made for some interesting Adam monologues. They would have been better accompanied by interpretive dances, but I just had to use my imagination for that part. My favorite political conversations were when he told me that he thought only educated people should be allowed to vote. I quickly reminded him that he only went to school through age 16 and he was not technically considered educated. His response was that he was educated on politics, to which I rebutted that Fox News was not a satellite educational program from a university. He also loved telling me that he should be President. I reminded him, ever so politely, that one of the only requirements of being a US President is that you are a US citizen. He informed me that there had been another British US President, named George Washington. That statement didn’t even warrant a response because I just don’t have the time or patience for dumbasses.

Before I began working, I told my new employer that I had a commitment in LA on Thursday of my first week of work that I would not be adjusting and would need to leave early that day to get on the road. The rest of my plans could be adjusted, as sad as it made me to adjust them. Since I moved to San Diego I had two weeks of packed of plans at the end of October. As the new kid in town, my social life has been subpar since I moved here. I was so excited for these two weeks that I must have told my boyfriend and roommate at least three times a day that I would be busy the last two weekends in October and to count me out for plans. Neither seemed to care since they hadn’t planned that far in advance, but I was determined to sound important and popular. Adam was fine with me taking off early on Thursday and I told him that I needed to leave by 1PM at the very latest since in the three short days I worked with him I discovered that he forgot about that whole “spring forward” time change in April and was habitually late for everything. Besides, my life meant nothing to him. Making sure I could leave in time to beat LA traffic was not only low on his list of priorities, but it wasn’t on the list at all. I didn’t really need to head out until 2PM, but I was counting on him going over and thinking a quick apology and reminder that he owned me would suffice for inconveniencing me. He proudly offered his extreme generosity and announced that I could leave at noon. Wow, Adam Cohen, a regular Mother Theresa. I didn’t get out until 1:30.

En route to LA, escaping this bizarre world I entered a few days prior, I could hardly control my excitement. I was going to see my good friend from back east and go to my very first Hollywood movie premiere with her and her husband. It was for Saw VI. I missed Saw II-V on account that I couldn’t sleep for three days after seeing the first one. Nonetheless, I was overwhelmed with excitement to see my friend and hug the life out of her, put on a cute dress, and pray that some unknowing paparazzi would mistake me for Heidi Klum. It could happen, you never know. Celebrity sightings at Hollywood premieres are as common as STD’s amongst college students. I was bound to have one by the end of the night. Much to my delight, I saw the football coach from Glee! My friend asked if I wanted to get a picture with him. Clearly she didn’t fully understand my love for Glee. I didn’t want a picture with him; I wanted to be his friend. This was going to take more a better strategy than acting star struck and asking for a photo. I half forgot to turn my phone on after the movie. I turned it off because regardless of how many Treos and Centros I’ve owned, I cannot figure out how to silence the fucker without it still vibrating. Just as I was brainstorming a plan of attack in Operation Make Glee Football Coach My Fiend, as my friends reapplied their lipstick in the bathroom after the premiere, my phone alerted me to some new texts. Adam was letting me know that I didn’t need to work on Friday and to enjoy the long weekend. It was odd, considering we really had a lot to do. Still I wasn’t going to argue seeing as now I didn’t need to get up early to trek two hours back to San Diego for work in the morning.

No good things come free. Adam wanted to meet on Saturday to discuss a game plan for the next week. Fantastic, give me a long weekend and make me meet your annoying ass on a Saturday at 2PM during prime beach tanning time on one of the last nice weekends of the season. Of course, we met at Starbucks. Adam doesn’t even drink coffee; he just likes the idea of Starbucks. I think he gets high off paying $4 for shitty coffee for me and tea for him, then complaining about it, when there are hundreds of mom and pop coffee shops all over the city with better prices and fresher brews. Late as always, talking fast about himself, with some work-related topics in between. This man was determined to make me earn those pennies. Blah, blah, blah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, me, me, me…get to the fucking point! I want to get to the beach before the sun goes down. He handed his old laptop off to me and sent me on my way, asking me to do work that evening and Sunday. Yeah right buddy, I think this is the sort of time my phone goes dead for several days.

Being Nancy Drew on Halloween - Part 2

2009-11-02T17:48:00.000-08:00

To some degree I began to feel sorry for Adam fairly quickly after I met him. He was set to pay me a meager $500 per week and the anticipated commission of 3% of his net on his auction earnings. Needless to say, we never got to the auction point. I don't even know if the auction will ever happen, though I sincerely hope it does for the sake of the other people he dragged into this delusional plan. My experiences and predictions lean towards him not getting that far though. Based on the fact he bounced checks to everyone under the sun and couldn't manage to produce $1000 he owed me until I was on his back for nearly three full days about it really made me question his financial stability. Let's get back on track here...

Adam hired me the morning after I met him. Not immediately the moment we met, because he needed to consider the fact I actually expected to get paid. For some odd reason he thought I may be willing to work on 100% commission for a completely new concept in real estate, when I don't even know anything about real estate to start. I didn't know him and I didn't know anyone who really knew much about him at all. I knew this much: Adam Cohen agreed to pay me $500 per week and I needed money to pay rent. The rest mattered very little to me, since I saw no future for myself in real estate and I just wanted to get by until I found something in my career realm.

Ultimately, I'm not really sure what I did for an entire two weeks. The whole work day seemed to fly by with a lot of talking and very little progress. It was like for every step forward business-wise, I took five steps back. Actually, he took five steps back. In two weeks time, his company dropped one real estate broker and postponed an auction indefinitely on the east coast. Next, the west coast broker dropped his company and referenced that they may reconsider in the New Year pending other circumstances. Then he was evicted from his apartment for bouncing checks; his business partner decided to not move forward with the project for unspecified reasons; and the mortgage company and title firms that displayed their names on his website all asked to be taken off or were taken off by his permission for various reasons.

The brutal reality is that I spent the majority of my work time listening to Adam talk about himself. I quickly learned about his parents, his ex-wife, his best friend, his cat, his sleeping patterns, what he liked to eat, what kind of women he was attracted to, how much he liked chocolate, and how Americans are fat, but he didn't identify as a Brit anymore, how he likes no one, but gives himself fully to the people he loves...I knew more about Adam's life in two weeks than I know about most people’s lives after knowing them for several years. I certainly knew more about his personal life than any past employer by a long shot. The strangest part is that, literally, NOTHING he said was ever consistent except the fact that none of it was the full truth and very little of it was about real estate or my job. He loved the sound of his own voice more than Paris Hilton loves attention. I think I could actually smell his arrogance when he walked in the room. It smelled like Starbucks sweetened black tea and imaginary dollar bills.

As a student at heart, I requested literature to go home and learn about real estate. How could I do a good job if I didn't even understand the basics? As I've said before, I'm young and single in a volatile economy. I am the prime example of someone who doesn't own a home and isn't even close to it. Real estate has never interested me much either. It’s not that I never plan to own, but I like my current mobility and limited responsibilities. I'm more interested in politics, reading and writing, the ocean, my dog, nice handbags, and making sure I make it home in time for Glee on Wednesday nights. However, knowledge is powerful and I like to understand the business I am in so that I can maximize my potential. Adam never helped me to grow as an employee. He preferred to pay me to listen to him, but instead of getting $150 an hour, like most therapists, I got $100 a day.

Let me paint you a picture, because I think it's important to put a face to the con man. Adam is about 5'7", dark-blondish hair, 35 years old, but could pass for a few more, Jewish and sort of always poking fun at himself for it, typically dressed like a New Yorker in a black suit with black shirt and tie, with a tribal tattoo on his left bicep. I know about the tattoo from working in a more casual setting where he wore a t-shirt. I asked him if it was one of those spring break mistakes and he told me he got it last year. I told him a tramp stamp would have been more fitting.

Let's just say I wasn't surprised when pay day came and he had a long list of excuses of why he didn't have my money....

Being Nancy Drew on Halloween - Part 1

2009-10-31T09:16:00.000-07:00

I moved to San Diego on August 5, 2009. I landed somewhat of steady employment on October 19, 2009. Two weeks of work, changes of plans every day for two weeks to satisfy my employer’s needs, and many phone calls and Google searches later I found my true calling, as Nancy Drew on Halloween.

I love stalking. Not in the creepy, binoculars through the window sort of stalking. I love to look people up on the internet using my favorite private eye websites and public records. Standard Google and Facebook are fun too, but I like to get creative and really get to the bottom of people. My usual point of interest is the guy I happen to be dating. Sometimes you can find out they are married or have kids or have been convicted crimes or, at the very least, have some outstanding parking violations. Some people are very difficult to search though. The John Browns, Megan Smiths, and Adam Cohens of the world require more basic information, such as middle names or birth places. A somewhat ambiguous Adam Cohen entered my life with my first job in San Diego.

Adam is one of those fast-talking New Yorkers, who is actually a transplant from London. He’s sort of the used cars salesman of real estate; always cutting corners with cost and trying to pawn expenses off on everyone, a total swindler. He speaks with the confidence of someone who actually took over the world. He is so extreme that I swear if you look up “narcissist” in the dictionary there are no words, just a photograph of Adam Cohen, life guru and epitome of human perfection. Honestly, when I met him I just sensed an extreme Napoleon complex, but not half of what I was in store for in the weeks to come. Once I referred to him as Napoleon to his face and, though it didn’t shake him or offend him coming from his employee, he told me he wasn’t that short. Clearly, the man doesn’t think very far outside of the box, or outside of his immediate personal views. Upon closer analysis, Mr. Cohen rarely thinks at all.

To make a long connection short, I was introduced to Adam via a friend. Said friend was working as an Executive Assistant in a large real estate brokerage, which was partnering with Adam for a home auction. My friend hardly knew Adam; she knew she needed to get him off her ass because she had enough to do and he kept trying to use her as his own personal assistant. She graciously thought of me and how I needed a job and cash fast. I “interviewed” that evening. Interview is a term that is as about as loose as Octomom’s clothes after giving birth to that herd. My interview consisted of Adam rudely speaking on the phone for the first half hour as I patiently sat outside the café, followed by a grueling two hour tutorial of his history as the most brilliant human alive today, likely ever. I’m pretty sure he never even asked my last name and he definitely didn’t even glance at my resume.

Cell Phones and Fanny Packs

2009-10-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

I recall an all-too-recent Saturday morning when I woke up spooning my best girlfriend with a ferocious hangover, last night’s make-up caked into my pores, craving greasy food, and willing to punch babies for a cup of coffee. Assessing that my state of existence resembled Britney Spears’s life circa 2007, I also realized that I lost my credit card, new lip gloss, dignity, and standards. For a moment I thought I lost my red sequined fanny pack, but luckily it was exactly where it belonged, clasped snugly around my waist.

The night wasn’t a complete failure of human nature. I seriously gained a new prized possession. As it turned out, I didn’t lose the lip gloss; I traded it for a ring-pop. According to my friend, I had insisted that it matched my outfit.

I would have called this night a success if I was in college and it was my 21st birthday, but something about being classified as a grown-up turns poor decisions from funny stories into my own personal reality television show.
Sometimes I wish I had my own imaginary time machine…

Based exclusively on my rumpled walk of shame gear (I prefer stride of pride, as a modern woman), I could only imagine the treasures bound to appear in my call logs and texts when I finally found my phone in the refrigerator. This is clearly a logical place to put a mobile and a further explanation to my state of mind the previous evening.

Plugging in my dead phone, I discovered I had a few new texts. This is not particularly unusual for a Saturday morning post-bar-bender with my friends downtown. Unfortunately, the fact that one of them said, “ur cutie an i want to go for drinks even tho u didnt invent the protractor” from someone listed in my contacts as “Gherkin”, was not particularly unusual either. More and more I hear debates of whether sexting in middle and high schools should be considered some sort of child pornography and how we, as a society, can “combat” this vulgar epidemic. Frankly, I would rather find out that my teenager sent a few texts about blow jobs to her boyfriend than know that my adult (25-years-old to be exact) child (emphasis on the word child) tried to convince a man she invented a mathematical angle-measuring device and somehow concluded that he should be compared to a small, pickled fruit when recording his phone number into her phone. Though I do not have children at this time, I can accept that my views may change when I become a parent. Even so, many people who know me would argue I am not the best choice for reproducing and have sound reasons to back that stance.

Going back to the topic of texting and mobile phones, I am currently a Verizon subscriber, and have been for the better part of a decade. Consistently, for the past 6 months my bill has been $170, give or take some change. My Centro provides me with unlimited internet, texting, and minutes. I pay a small additional fee for phone insurance, should I just so happen to drop my phone in the toilet, run over it with a shopping cart, or even generously barter it to a homeless man in exchange for a ride on the handlebars of his bicycle to a bar when my stiletto heel broke off. My Centro is equipped with a rubber case that resembles a pink condom. It not only jazzes my mobile up so I can find it easily in my over-sized handbag full of useless things, but also provides protection for the frequent falls it takes from my clumsy hands. I think this phone cover is probably far more valuable than the phone insurance, but that is a different story all together. Beyond that, I am not particularly impressed with my Centro or Verizon.

Thus, I began my never ending quest to research what deals my peers are getting in mobile services. I get envious of the food people order at restaurants; phone coverage is opening new doors in envy and a far more logical inquisition when first meeting someone than my typical, “What are you getting for an appetizer?”
One of my most recent conversations went something like this, “Hi, I’m Mary.” He responded by shaking my hand, “Nice to meet you, Mary. I’m Dan.” Hyped on this new phone bill thing, my instinctual reaction was, “So Alex, what do you pay for your phone bill and what does it cover?” He wasn’t concerned with my invasion of his personal expenses, but annoyed that I didn’t remember his name 5 seconds post-introduction. I told him he looked like an Alex and pressed on about the phone situation. Side note: you can imagine how awkward I must be on one-night stands. Again, Alex/Dan was getting a much better deal than me. I figured it was time to get off my lazy ass and have words with the Verizon people.

I trotted down to the nearest Verizon location, pink condom-covered Centro in hand, and boldly told the greeter that I felt violated every time I received my bill. Unsure how to respond, he forwarded me on to Customer Service. This whole sequence of events was essentially useless, unless you count the part where the IT woman was laughing at the Customer Service Rep for not understanding the simple request that I wanted to find out how to lower my monthly mobile bill. He acted like I was asking him to explain how the cell phone was invented. Really, I just wanted to rid the icky feeling I got that Verizon was raping me every month. I left the store with the same disappointment I get from a guy lasting under a minute in bed and not even getting me off first. Though I have strong loyalties to Verizon, I decided that maybe it is time for a divorce. Though AT&T doesn’t offer much better deals, the new IPhone seems like a worthwhile investment; particularly if some very specific applications can be added to aide in me making better decisions without having to be adopt sobriety as an option.

I do not know much about the IPhone, though I am quite sure the applications that I will require have not yet been invented. I will suggest them here and maybe someone will catch on. First, I feel that the IPhone should have an application that does not allow you to text without breathalyzing after 9PM. Although this may have a negative effect on my funny stories, I think it may be better for humankind if drunks could not incoherently try to contact people outside of a 5 foot radius. Case in point, I once texted my mother at 3 AM wearing a blond wig and sequined hat saying that I was now a tranny. Another time, I texted my mother a photo on Halloween of a friend dressed as a McPoyle from It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, in all his tighty whitey and bathrobe glory. My mom isn’t the kind of woman who finds this amusing, so I still haven’t quite determined why she is the only person I think needs to receive said photos. The breathalyzer would not prevent all phone calls from being made, but only to specific numbers, such as 911, would go through. I have been touch-and-go on this idea, since I am pretty convinced that if I was only allowed to call 911 when drunk, I would more than likely to decide that the McDonalds drive-through not being open late-night is an emergency and a perfectly logical and tangible use of 911. This could open new doors of drunken disorder. I will reconsider this thought after the texting breathalyzer is put in place. Start slow.

Second, I think there should be a pregnancy test application on the IPhone. Based on my call log and texting, the morning after embarrassment factor is about as free-flowing as the morning after pill is free-flowing in my life. I’m beginning to think vending machine owners would cash out in a serious way if they put Plan B and condoms instead of chips and sodas in those things. Maybe I will write a letter to Planned Parenthood suggesting this idea. After all, I am a feminist and philanthropist at heart. This application would also save money on pregnancy tests and the nasty looks from pharmacists that see you purchasing them along with several tubes of lube, batteries, and Happy Father’s Day cards (foresight is key; not that I know from personal experience).

Third, a background checking application should be added to the IPhone. I would be sold on this application alone. Peace out Verizon, sign me up AT&T! I have spent many a weekday, pretending to work, while actually stalking potential dates and boyfriends to see if they turn up on Megan’s List, have hidden marriages and/or children, and any major convictions or jail time. Positives on any of these fronts doesn’t mean an immediate deletion from my phone, but new considerations need to be taken in select cases. The ones who don’t even get a single hit on a Google search are actually the ones I am most concerned about. I worry if they even exist and realistically, how fun could these losers actually be? Perhaps they are using an alias, or better (maybe worse), a figment of my imagination. This application would keep me focused on what I should be doing at work, like Twittering and browsing the Missed Connections on Craigslist. Efficiency is key in these economic times, most employers would agree.

This blog may be as disorganized and ridiculous as Paula Abdul’s life, but I think there are some very clear themes. First and foremost, it may be time to act my age. Don’t judge me, I will consult my therapist on that one. More importantly, in an age of such extreme advances in technology, I am sure that there is a way to cut down my completely unreasonable mobile bill (suggestions are welcome). Furthermore, IPhones have changed the cell phone industry and created an amazing bandwagon, decorated with bright colors and apples, with attractive silhouettes of people rocking out to itunes on that same bandwagon. If a company can transform a generation from hating Apple computers to practically having their products surgically attached to consumers’ hands, then I truly believe my simple application suggestions are dreams that can easily become a reality. I wouldn’t even touch on the price of the services if I was guaranteed access to a breathalyzer, pregnancy test, and background checking applications. Case closed, Apple wins again. I can safely review this rant in just a few words: until technology catches up with the drinking habits of young people, do not just appoint a DD for the night. None of us want to get in a drunk driving accident, but it’s arguably just as important to appoint someone to take away your phone at the point that you will surely embarrass yourself beyond your immediate physical proximity. Friends don’t let friends text drunk, or dial drunk, or wear red sequined fanny packs for that matter. Maybe I just need new friends.

The New Oregon Trail

2009-10-22T09:57:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend brought a certain comedian to my attention. He once did a stand-up routine about moving across country and the whole commentary lightened the severity of making a bold move from east to west coast. I find it difficult to even call the move bold, to be quite honest. I left Jersey for sunny San Diego with a one-way ticket, my Chihuahua in tow, two over stuffed suitcases, and a fantasy that the economy would be more forgiving and allow me employment on the laid back, sunny, chilled out west coast versus the cut throat, fast-paced, I-want-it-done-yesterday northeast America where I was born and raised. Even the concept of not finding a job wasn’t too foreboding. I’d definitely rather be strapped for cash, ogling hot surfers while honing my golden tan than sitting in my parents’ house, staring miserably at the bottom of an empty bottle, watching Law and Order marathons on TBS in all of my pasty, pale magnificence.

My entire generation is overly familiar with the computer game, Oregon Trail. This was in the days of Hot Dog Stand and Tetris, before companies added that totally unnecessary third dimension to video games. This was when Mac was Apple and consumed the computer rooms of schools across America, before they took a nose dive, revamped their image and introduced the world to the IPod. Up, down, left, right, and the space bar are really all I can handle with games anyway. After middle school my gaming days were over. At the time, there wasn’t even really internet. I mean, it existed, but it was more of something I considered along the same technological advances as the Star Trek Voyager. To this day I am perfectly content naming my Oregon Trail family, purchasing supplies at the one store in existence, making vital decisions about fording the river, and choosing if one of my kids needs to take one for the team and die from dysentery or typhoid fever to make better time getting to the west coast. I have a tendency to name the people on my wagon after ex-boyfriends and pray that they get bitten by a snake and I won’t mind sacrificing them. As usual, I’m getting off track…

Basically, today we decide we are moving across the country, or even the world for that matter, and we jump on an airplane at 500 mph zipping over mountains, rivers, and oceans to the final destination. No one seems to think anything of this phenomenon. Back in the day of the Oregon Trail expeditions, people had one putrid smelling outfit made of ugly calico or flannel and bathed about twice a year. Astonishingly, regardless of all modern advances, these people still exist today to some degree. The only differences are that they smoke a lot of weed, listen to Phish, and we now refer to them as wookies, or dirty hippies. Anyway, long before cars and airplanes, people started across the country and 2 years later ended up at the final destination minus a few and plus a few people, wagon hardly in one piece. They hunted several rabbits, deer, and sometimes bison on a good day. They also caulked their wagon and floated several rivers. On occasion they purchased axels at town general stores that all looked the same. Of course, I know all of these facts from playing Oregon Trail. Let’s face it, this was some scary shit. The major, and most important, difference between moving from east to west coast today is that we are not scared. Come on now, you’re getting in a plane going 500 mph. And that is some fucking crazy, scary shit, my friends.

Maybe you are wondering (if you cared enough to continue reading) what I am doing here in San Diego. The truth is, not much. I went to Mexico in June and did the obvious: combined tequila with life planning. The final result was a new-aged Oregon Trail adventure. I didn’t get dysentery, but I did get a migraine and my IBS kicked in on the flight. Too much information? I’m just trying to put things in perspective. I signed a short-term lease with hopes that it will be enough time to find a job and I’ll be able to truly make the west coast my home (help in the job search is welcomed by the way).

San Diego is mostly what I expected it to be. It is nothing shy of gorgeous, sunny, and very clean. I can’t say I miss the east coast yet because I’ve only been here a few short weeks. I’m still learning how to get around and awkwardly approaching strangers hoping to make new friends. Luckily, I have my youth and a vagina on my side and people (mostly men) are willing to talk to me. The Mexican food here is definitely better, but I expected that from the sheer proximity. Frankly, I’m not willing to try cheese steaks west of Philly because it would unquestionably be a huge disappointment.

Besides differences in food, which I notice first and foremost, the people here are different. They are friendlier and they expect you to be friendly in return. I’m a nice person for the most part, but I don’t walk around with a stupid grin on my face 24/7 saying hi to every stranger I accidentally make eye-contact with. This one guy actually asked me why I looked so unhappy while waiting for a drink at the bar last weekend. Well for starters, I was unhappy that my glass was empty and the service was slow, but I wasn’t going to tell him that because it was too obvious and not worthy of explanation. I replied simply that I wasn’t unhappy. Short-statured and curly-haired Captain Obvious pressed on, asking where I was from. One word: Jersey. After a moment, this sunk in and he felt an undying need to report back to all of his friends behind him that the girl in front of him was from New Jersey, like I was some sort of rare endangered species. I thought this was particularly dense of him since Jersey is so overpopulated that I doubt you can enter a bar anywhere in the US without someone from NJ in it. I’m not sure if it was the drunk or the Jersey in me, but a huge smile spread over my mouth as I spit out, “Exit 11, where are you from Frodo?” There was a brief pause and look of confusion before the smile dropped off his face. Truth be told, I’m not even from anywhere near the Turnpike or the Parkway, but I could tell this wasn’t the way to make friends in San Diego. It turns out there is a lot of truth to the saying, “You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take the Jersey out of the girl.” People here either find me incredibly funny or incredibly inappropriate. Regardless, they seldom understand my sarcasm and are always a few steps behind my references and they usually take my jokes too seriously.

So far, so good, but I don’t know how long it will take me to adjust. I’m learning that even around people my own age I have to put on my verbal filter. Apparently swearing every other word isn’t acceptable. I feel like I am as careful as I would be meeting a boyfriend’s parents for the first time or while babysitting a 5 year-old. My words also come out faster than people here, so I’m somehow deemed a “fast talker”, which I am definitely not compared to most of my friends back east. I try to keep my speech pace up to the speed of my thoughts. I guess everyone here is just permanently stoned, so they don’t think very fast and therefore they don’t need to speak very fast either. It’s not just speech either, everything is slower. I can get used to shortened days at work when the surf is good and I can get used to slower talkers, but I can’t get used to someone who takes 10 minutes to pour me a cup of coffee. The coffee is already made and you can’t grab a cup and fucking pour it? I’m not even talking lattes here; I drink black coffee, no sweeteners. It’s almost impossible to screw up and it shouldn’t ever take more than 10 seconds. The people I meet here tell me to calm down all the time. I really think they should look up “calm” in the dictionary, because last I checked thinking the slow Starbucks worker is fucking annoying and staying calm are two completely different things in my eyes. No one has even seen my Jersey road rage yet.

Overall, I’m into this move. Sadly, I didn’t get to hunt bison or ford any rivers during my journey. It was a relatively uneventful plane ride, until I think about just how fast we were going. Still trying to make friends, but I’ve only stayed in one weekend night so far…downing a bottle of wine by 6pm and watching Garden State, misty-eyed. As the events unravel I’ll continue writing. Phish Festival is coming up in October and I have tickets. Maybe I will see some of those Oregon Trailers on the left coast after all.

Hello World

2009-10-21T20:56:00.000-07:00

Bits and pieces of my life are interesting, but not much more. I suppose interest is in the eye of the beholder though, because I began writing my silly “Happy Monday” emails years ago and my friends enjoyed them. I blasted out events to a handful of people, knowing Mondays are the dreaded day and maybe a little reminder of the debauchery of the weekend past would make the work week more bearable. Or at least Monday from 9AM until 9:15AM. What exactly is my purpose? That is still to be determined. What I can tell you is this: I am 25 years old, single in the legal sense, a disorganized perfectionist, appreciative of irony, but not in the Alanis Morissette fashion, and just moved three time zones away from my family and friends. I’m not quite unique and certainly not striving to be distinctive from others. In the same breath, I have had some pretty common and standard experiences that have resulted in atypical perspectives and convictions. I am the epitome of normalcy, approaching life in a ready-fire-aim manner. The only thing that truly sets me apart from every other 20-something is that I know that I am every other 20-something; but I write knowing that we all dream or do or live this same stereotype and I can still feel unique. Most of all, I can still laugh.