Sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to update my Facebook status with "I'm fucking Matt Damon." ...it's just never not funny.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Tater Tot Hot Dish
I have to admit, I'm a little bit of a food snob. ...I judge everything else, why the hell would I not judge food, too? To acquire the knowledge and wherewithal to become a foodie is a lot of work, especially for one from humble beginnings like myself. True, I grew up on a farm...but we produced subsidy crops like corn and soybeans -- not food that was actually edible. Yeah, I realize you can eat corn and soybeans, but not what we grew (which goes to a larger issue addressed in documentaries such as King Corn, Food Inc., etc. and I'm gonna defer to those and get off this train).
So coming from a farm that does not produce edible food does not help one become a gourmet. And growing up in the 1980s didn't help. As a child, I had a diet that consisted primarily of fruit roll-ups, hostess products in a variety of forms, (I was an especially big fan of the pink marshmallow covered snowballs.) and bologna on white bread...with whole milk. But of course the staple of a proper Midwestern diet is the casserole. I'm not entirely certain of the origin of the casserole, but I do know I have experienced it in almost every variety. I suppose during the Great Depression, mixing half a leftover can of tuna with noodles and cream of mushroom soup was a really swell idea, but apparently it did not occur to anyone else that due to the fact we are no longer starving, we could knock that shit off. Seriously...Knock. It. Off.
After working largely with New Englanders for some time, I was overjoyed to come home to a work-office where the majority of people hailed from the Midwest - specifically Michigan. I could throw around terms such as Vernors, Michiana, and euchre (if you don't know, it's a soft drink, a place and a card game) without explanation. I was comfortable with others who experienced tornado drills in elementary school, knew how to pronounce the word "Ypsilanti," could show where they grew up on their right hand, and really didn't see the big deal if you were given Canadian coins as change.
One of the upstanding humans I met on the job hailed from Flint. My friend Erik and I didn't have a lot of common ground when we first met. He went to Michigan; I cheer for the Irish. He believes in pleated pants. I clearly do not (that one actually ended in violence...which was my own fault...I should have known better than to mess with someone from Flint). But where we did reach a quorum was with the casserole discussion. After major holidays, we would come back to work armed with horror stories from family dinners. ...I believe the discussion specifically began with the statement, "Who's the fucktard that decided to add marshmallows to jello?" (which stems from the more obvious question, "who's the asshole that invented jello?") and from there took on a life of its own. This spiraled into a conspiracy of hijacking our next pot luck party so as to serve only casseroles. There were multiple discussions regarding what dishes would be supplied. What casserole was the best? The worst? The most common? The nastiest?
Erik's favorite was Tater Tot Hot Dish. Tater Tot Hot Dish consists of ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, cream of celery soup (who knew they made that?), french onions and, of course, tater tots. And I believe this was followed closely by Taco Pie -- which is Pillsbury crescent rolls smoothed into a pie crust and filled with ground beef, shredded cheddar, and crumbled nacho chips. ...so, OK, those are not too bad. Naturally I had to kick it up a notch...or twelve. I threatened to serve not only a main dish, but a dessert. The main dish was a treat (and by "treat" I mean "crap") that my grandmother (from Toledo) served us as children. It was called Hollywood Chicken and was neither from Hollywood nor made from chicken. It consisted of ground beef (do you notice a theme?), layered with a can of condensed chicken noodle soup and finally topped with crumbled potato chips. It tasted like salt...which is fine if you're a deer. My follow up and piece de resistance was the Coca Cola Salad. (...yeah, I realize that entire phrase is an oxymoron). Coca Cola Salad is some type of red jello prepared with coke instead of water. But wait! You then add walnuts (which suck) and shredded coconut and congeal. (...and vomit.)
We never did sabotage the office pot luck, but the exercise of bitching about the food messes to which we were subjected as children was definitely a bonding experience. In fact, I still affectionately refer to Erik as my work-husband. The road from Hollywood Chicken to snottie girl insisting on Oregon pinots had been a long one. But as we come to the end of another year and reflect (...and think about our inevitable demise according to the Mayan calendar) it's nice to look back at how far we've come: (...and to judge others. That's fun too.) Erik and his beautiful wife are both excellent chefs. And I'm not so bad; I certainly know my way around a wine cellar. So hopefully...hopefully...the next generation will never be subjected to Hollywood Chicken...or iceberg lettuce.
So coming from a farm that does not produce edible food does not help one become a gourmet. And growing up in the 1980s didn't help. As a child, I had a diet that consisted primarily of fruit roll-ups, hostess products in a variety of forms, (I was an especially big fan of the pink marshmallow covered snowballs.) and bologna on white bread...with whole milk. But of course the staple of a proper Midwestern diet is the casserole. I'm not entirely certain of the origin of the casserole, but I do know I have experienced it in almost every variety. I suppose during the Great Depression, mixing half a leftover can of tuna with noodles and cream of mushroom soup was a really swell idea, but apparently it did not occur to anyone else that due to the fact we are no longer starving, we could knock that shit off. Seriously...Knock. It. Off.
After working largely with New Englanders for some time, I was overjoyed to come home to a work-office where the majority of people hailed from the Midwest - specifically Michigan. I could throw around terms such as Vernors, Michiana, and euchre (if you don't know, it's a soft drink, a place and a card game) without explanation. I was comfortable with others who experienced tornado drills in elementary school, knew how to pronounce the word "Ypsilanti," could show where they grew up on their right hand, and really didn't see the big deal if you were given Canadian coins as change.
One of the upstanding humans I met on the job hailed from Flint. My friend Erik and I didn't have a lot of common ground when we first met. He went to Michigan; I cheer for the Irish. He believes in pleated pants. I clearly do not (that one actually ended in violence...which was my own fault...I should have known better than to mess with someone from Flint). But where we did reach a quorum was with the casserole discussion. After major holidays, we would come back to work armed with horror stories from family dinners. ...I believe the discussion specifically began with the statement, "Who's the fucktard that decided to add marshmallows to jello?" (which stems from the more obvious question, "who's the asshole that invented jello?") and from there took on a life of its own. This spiraled into a conspiracy of hijacking our next pot luck party so as to serve only casseroles. There were multiple discussions regarding what dishes would be supplied. What casserole was the best? The worst? The most common? The nastiest?
Erik's favorite was Tater Tot Hot Dish. Tater Tot Hot Dish consists of ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, cream of celery soup (who knew they made that?), french onions and, of course, tater tots. And I believe this was followed closely by Taco Pie -- which is Pillsbury crescent rolls smoothed into a pie crust and filled with ground beef, shredded cheddar, and crumbled nacho chips. ...so, OK, those are not too bad. Naturally I had to kick it up a notch...or twelve. I threatened to serve not only a main dish, but a dessert. The main dish was a treat (and by "treat" I mean "crap") that my grandmother (from Toledo) served us as children. It was called Hollywood Chicken and was neither from Hollywood nor made from chicken. It consisted of ground beef (do you notice a theme?), layered with a can of condensed chicken noodle soup and finally topped with crumbled potato chips. It tasted like salt...which is fine if you're a deer. My follow up and piece de resistance was the Coca Cola Salad. (...yeah, I realize that entire phrase is an oxymoron). Coca Cola Salad is some type of red jello prepared with coke instead of water. But wait! You then add walnuts (which suck) and shredded coconut and congeal. (...and vomit.)
We never did sabotage the office pot luck, but the exercise of bitching about the food messes to which we were subjected as children was definitely a bonding experience. In fact, I still affectionately refer to Erik as my work-husband. The road from Hollywood Chicken to snottie girl insisting on Oregon pinots had been a long one. But as we come to the end of another year and reflect (...and think about our inevitable demise according to the Mayan calendar) it's nice to look back at how far we've come: (...and to judge others. That's fun too.) Erik and his beautiful wife are both excellent chefs. And I'm not so bad; I certainly know my way around a wine cellar. So hopefully...hopefully...the next generation will never be subjected to Hollywood Chicken...or iceberg lettuce.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Pushing Karma
If you want something you've never had, you've got to do something you've never done. ...how about if I don't want to be an after-thought to the opposite sex? How would that look? How about like this:
I met a boy at a bar (of course I did), and allow me to cut to the chase: we had several dates, said things, did things, revealed things that let me to believe he would be a semi-permanent fixture -- OK, fine. I slept with him...and he disappeared. ...Not a word....crickets. Until Sunday...exactly one month later (one. entire. month.), when he texts me out of the blue like nothing happened. ...like we saw each other yesterday. And feel free to call me naive, but I did not think humans behaved in this manner beyond the age of 22. But once again, San Diego has proven me dead wrong. In the land of eternal summer, men -- like the seasons -- don't seem to evolve, and 36 is the new 23. ...or 14 in this case.
I predicted this would happen. Maybe it was an observation or something the man-child had said in passing, but even after his lapse and my rants and tears, I had the distinct feeling that he would contact me again. And I predicted that I would not respond - which is usually fine. ...Lotta frogs out there, par for the course.... Except in this case, I really did like the boy -- and as stated earlier, I was semi-invested in more than a three date minimum relationship. So not only was I was hurt one month ago when he didn't call, but the hurt resurfaced like a freshly opened wound at his reemergence. I bitched to a couple friends who gave me the standard, "what an ass." But truth was, I felt victimized. I hate that word, and I definitely hate that feeling. I felt powerless -- sure, I'm not responding and cutting off the arm...but I've cut off the arm... and that wound does not easily heal.
I saw my friend Aimee later that day, and told her about man-child. After she rolled her eyes, she said, "You should have him meet you out and stand him up."
...huh.
I had never thought of that before. That's pretty goddamn brilliant. What would happen if I did that? I'm a nice girl, I don't really do things like that. Is that behavior morally justifiable? ...just the thought of it felt empowering. And in that moment, I realized that I don't have to take crap lying down. We teach children "do onto others" -- why not man-child? So I sent him a text...like not a goddamn thing was wrong. After some back and forth, we decided to meet up last night. (He lives about 20 miles north of the city, so I made sure to pick a location downtown. Where parking is especially difficult.)
We were supposed to meet at 7pm. About 7:15, I get a "hey, where are you?" text. At 7:30, I get a "did I get the time wrong?" That was followed by a nastygram. And finally, silence. This morning, I sent him the following: "Know for the next woman you date, you should call the day after you have sex. And you should also open the car door." ...jackass.
I don't know if I would call this vengeance. Or even karma. I prefer to look at it as a teaching tool. After all, training works with dogs...but then again, I know my dog is a lot smarter than this guy.
I met a boy at a bar (of course I did), and allow me to cut to the chase: we had several dates, said things, did things, revealed things that let me to believe he would be a semi-permanent fixture -- OK, fine. I slept with him...and he disappeared. ...Not a word....crickets. Until Sunday...exactly one month later (one. entire. month.), when he texts me out of the blue like nothing happened. ...like we saw each other yesterday. And feel free to call me naive, but I did not think humans behaved in this manner beyond the age of 22. But once again, San Diego has proven me dead wrong. In the land of eternal summer, men -- like the seasons -- don't seem to evolve, and 36 is the new 23. ...or 14 in this case.
I predicted this would happen. Maybe it was an observation or something the man-child had said in passing, but even after his lapse and my rants and tears, I had the distinct feeling that he would contact me again. And I predicted that I would not respond - which is usually fine. ...Lotta frogs out there, par for the course.... Except in this case, I really did like the boy -- and as stated earlier, I was semi-invested in more than a three date minimum relationship. So not only was I was hurt one month ago when he didn't call, but the hurt resurfaced like a freshly opened wound at his reemergence. I bitched to a couple friends who gave me the standard, "what an ass." But truth was, I felt victimized. I hate that word, and I definitely hate that feeling. I felt powerless -- sure, I'm not responding and cutting off the arm...but I've cut off the arm... and that wound does not easily heal.
I saw my friend Aimee later that day, and told her about man-child. After she rolled her eyes, she said, "You should have him meet you out and stand him up."
...huh.
I had never thought of that before. That's pretty goddamn brilliant. What would happen if I did that? I'm a nice girl, I don't really do things like that. Is that behavior morally justifiable? ...just the thought of it felt empowering. And in that moment, I realized that I don't have to take crap lying down. We teach children "do onto others" -- why not man-child? So I sent him a text...like not a goddamn thing was wrong. After some back and forth, we decided to meet up last night. (He lives about 20 miles north of the city, so I made sure to pick a location downtown. Where parking is especially difficult.)
We were supposed to meet at 7pm. About 7:15, I get a "hey, where are you?" text. At 7:30, I get a "did I get the time wrong?" That was followed by a nastygram. And finally, silence. This morning, I sent him the following: "Know for the next woman you date, you should call the day after you have sex. And you should also open the car door." ...jackass.
I don't know if I would call this vengeance. Or even karma. I prefer to look at it as a teaching tool. After all, training works with dogs...but then again, I know my dog is a lot smarter than this guy.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Obviously
My work computer broke while making a presentation yesterday. It literally snaped in half -- the screen of my laptop detaching from the keyboard. Luckily my competitor was there to see the incident, and he took advantage of the opportunity to show off his shiny, silvery new mac notebook and question my company's profitability, as it seemed they could not supply their employees with working laptops.
...what a stupid thing to say to a woman with mafia connections...
...what a stupid thing to say to a woman with mafia connections...
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Boob Job and a Lobotomy
I think a boob job and lobotomy would improve my dating life ten-fold.
I've always considered myself liberal, but I'll grant you -- there are some very traditional and very sexist beliefs that I hold close to the chest. Maybe I've read The Rules one too many times, but most of this is common curtesy:
1) Open the fucking door. If you are a man, open the door. Open the car door, open the front door, step aside and open the door to the restaurant and allow me to enter first. This is not only polite, but where I come from expected.
I've heard the excuse that feminists today will turn around and mouth "I can do it myself!" and this will intimidate the male species and hence no more door opening. Boys, if this happens to you, please stop dating her. She has something to prove and you will not be able to fill that void. (How do I know? I used to be her.)
2) If you ask a girl out, you pay. This is not only chivalrous, but also practical. Women still make 75 cents on the dollar and are unable to contribute to their 401k when they take time off during their childbearing years, so seriously -- suck it up and buy me a burger. Of course, I'll politely offer to pay, and of course you should decline my offer and insist. This is called the dance. Learn it.
A friend (who is not dating as far as I can tell) protested this truth when explained to him and asked, "well what if she orders the most expensive thing off the menu? What if she keeps ordering expensive shit?" ...well then, don't ask her out again, rocket scientist. Why you datin' a gold digger anyways?
3) If we have a nice time...call the next day. Yeah, really. I don't think you're cooler if you wait a week. It makes me feel like an after-thought or Plan B. And I will not be returning your phone call when you make me feel like second place.
4) If you're intimidated by the fact that I'm smart, athletic, hilarious...whatever...then don't ask me out. I understand the veiled comments that run along the lines of "Oh, don't you know how to do...blah?" or "You've never...blah? I can't believe you've never done that." Or this is my favorite -- when I mention an accomplishment and you start to compete with me. "Yeah? -- well I did ...blah blah blah." You're trying to cut me down to make yourself feel better. But here's the thing about smart women-- when you cut me, I don't want to make you feel better about yourself. ...I want to go home.
Don't get me wrong. There's not a day that doesn't pass where I don't realize how lucky I am. I'm intelligent, accomplished, funny and I have a great ass. I'm not perfect. (I never prayed as a little girl, "Dear God, please make me flat-chested and nearsighted.") But seriously, do I really have to deal with THIS. ...I'm never going to win dating at this rate.
I've always considered myself liberal, but I'll grant you -- there are some very traditional and very sexist beliefs that I hold close to the chest. Maybe I've read The Rules one too many times, but most of this is common curtesy:
1) Open the fucking door. If you are a man, open the door. Open the car door, open the front door, step aside and open the door to the restaurant and allow me to enter first. This is not only polite, but where I come from expected.
I've heard the excuse that feminists today will turn around and mouth "I can do it myself!" and this will intimidate the male species and hence no more door opening. Boys, if this happens to you, please stop dating her. She has something to prove and you will not be able to fill that void. (How do I know? I used to be her.)
2) If you ask a girl out, you pay. This is not only chivalrous, but also practical. Women still make 75 cents on the dollar and are unable to contribute to their 401k when they take time off during their childbearing years, so seriously -- suck it up and buy me a burger. Of course, I'll politely offer to pay, and of course you should decline my offer and insist. This is called the dance. Learn it.
A friend (who is not dating as far as I can tell) protested this truth when explained to him and asked, "well what if she orders the most expensive thing off the menu? What if she keeps ordering expensive shit?" ...well then, don't ask her out again, rocket scientist. Why you datin' a gold digger anyways?
3) If we have a nice time...call the next day. Yeah, really. I don't think you're cooler if you wait a week. It makes me feel like an after-thought or Plan B. And I will not be returning your phone call when you make me feel like second place.
4) If you're intimidated by the fact that I'm smart, athletic, hilarious...whatever...then don't ask me out. I understand the veiled comments that run along the lines of "Oh, don't you know how to do...blah?" or "You've never...blah? I can't believe you've never done that." Or this is my favorite -- when I mention an accomplishment and you start to compete with me. "Yeah? -- well I did ...blah blah blah." You're trying to cut me down to make yourself feel better. But here's the thing about smart women-- when you cut me, I don't want to make you feel better about yourself. ...I want to go home.
Don't get me wrong. There's not a day that doesn't pass where I don't realize how lucky I am. I'm intelligent, accomplished, funny and I have a great ass. I'm not perfect. (I never prayed as a little girl, "Dear God, please make me flat-chested and nearsighted.") But seriously, do I really have to deal with THIS. ...I'm never going to win dating at this rate.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
All's Quiet on the Western Front
I think I'm depressed. Despite all the sunshine, and ocean, and palm trees, my head is not in a good space. It's static...and that has started to become more problematic. I think the cobwebs started developing when I stopped exercising regularly. I caught bronchitis at the end of July. Then I went to DC -- in August. The month everyone else runs screaming from the swampy, stagnet heat, I returned to finalize my divorce. And Murphy and his fucking law bitch-slapped me that very day.
About an hour after finalizing my divorce (which was very humiliating, BTW. ...nothing like stating for the record, "Yes your honor, it is correct that I failed at my marriage." For an over-achiever, publically stating you failed at anything is a worst nightmare.), my officially-ex-husband called to let me know that my sweet little coonhound, Kiera, had a tumor wrapped around her heart. It was pushing up against her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe. ...the whole little world I had built for myself crumbled down in that one moment. The last thing that tied me to DC, to my ex, to the adult life I had carefully and strategically built for myself ...was shot between the eyes at point-blank range. And I had pulled the trigger -- for the divorce part. Not the dog part. ...but the dog part screamed at me, "You want out?! I'll take you out!"
So the day of my divorce, I sat with my dying dog, in my former home, with my ex-husband, on the couch I bought during law school. The symbolism was lost on no one. It was comfortable, familiar, and very fucking weird all at the same time. I flew home to San Diego the next day, and once my girlfriend had deposited me at my house (after removing the vodka, razor blades and copy of Marley and Me) I sat on my floor and cried. Uncontrollably. The kind of crying where you're hot and your head hurts because it is such a physically draining process. And then I began bargaining with God. To bargain with the universe is a very humbling experience. It was the process of throwing away all of my power -- all of my fictional power -- with both hands and screaming, "Please!" Please save my dog. Because if she could just hang on and be OK...maybe so could I.
If you have never had a dog, I know you think I'm way over the top. But if you have had a dog, you understand that there is no other kind of unconditional love in the world. My dog was there when I learned my mother had stage 4 cancer. She was with me when I was sick....when I fucked up and felt ashamed. When I could not face another day, my dog would jump up next to me and give me a look that read, "I know." And she would stay. When no one else on the planet could possibly understand the pain, grief, lonelinesss -- fill in the blank here -- she did. And she physically stayed by my side. Despite the fact that I now live 3,000 miles away, I could not bear the idea of having that unconditional love disappear from this world.
Here is the good news: Kiera is going to be ok. Yes, bargaining with the universe worked. (I'm not sure what I owe...minor detail there....) Four days later a CT scan showed that the tumor was on her lung and not her heart. This meant that the tumor was operable. They cut it out...and it wasn't even cancer. It was benign. So she's going to (knock on wood) be fine. ...I wish I could say the same for me.
Here is the bad news: I'm still not ok. Yes, I'm thrilled that the doctors saved my baby's life, but I can't shake my funk. I'm not taking care of myself. I'm not exercising. I'm making bad decisions. My judgement is clouded. I'm indecisive. I've not been investing in me...the last six weeks has consisted of phoning it in. ...And I like the slightly neurotic part of my brain that keeps me on task. It keeps me energized and accomplishing -- and I have no idea where it has gone. But right now I am at a loss for direction or motivation.
It seems pretty ridiculous that I can't just look around and enjoy the moment. I have built a great life for myself -- I live in the perfect climate, in a home I own and love. I have a job I love. I have wonderful friends and a beach at my beckon call. But the new life that I have built is lonely. It's husband free. It's dog free. It's even roommate free. Don't get me wrong -- I do hate people and I am annoyed by their stupidity...and messes...and I so appreciate having the toliet seat down.... But what I've started to figure out, is that in this lifetime we have the choice of being lonely or annoyed.
And I guess I pick annoyed.
About an hour after finalizing my divorce (which was very humiliating, BTW. ...nothing like stating for the record, "Yes your honor, it is correct that I failed at my marriage." For an over-achiever, publically stating you failed at anything is a worst nightmare.), my officially-ex-husband called to let me know that my sweet little coonhound, Kiera, had a tumor wrapped around her heart. It was pushing up against her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe. ...the whole little world I had built for myself crumbled down in that one moment. The last thing that tied me to DC, to my ex, to the adult life I had carefully and strategically built for myself ...was shot between the eyes at point-blank range. And I had pulled the trigger -- for the divorce part. Not the dog part. ...but the dog part screamed at me, "You want out?! I'll take you out!"
So the day of my divorce, I sat with my dying dog, in my former home, with my ex-husband, on the couch I bought during law school. The symbolism was lost on no one. It was comfortable, familiar, and very fucking weird all at the same time. I flew home to San Diego the next day, and once my girlfriend had deposited me at my house (after removing the vodka, razor blades and copy of Marley and Me) I sat on my floor and cried. Uncontrollably. The kind of crying where you're hot and your head hurts because it is such a physically draining process. And then I began bargaining with God. To bargain with the universe is a very humbling experience. It was the process of throwing away all of my power -- all of my fictional power -- with both hands and screaming, "Please!" Please save my dog. Because if she could just hang on and be OK...maybe so could I.
If you have never had a dog, I know you think I'm way over the top. But if you have had a dog, you understand that there is no other kind of unconditional love in the world. My dog was there when I learned my mother had stage 4 cancer. She was with me when I was sick....when I fucked up and felt ashamed. When I could not face another day, my dog would jump up next to me and give me a look that read, "I know." And she would stay. When no one else on the planet could possibly understand the pain, grief, lonelinesss -- fill in the blank here -- she did. And she physically stayed by my side. Despite the fact that I now live 3,000 miles away, I could not bear the idea of having that unconditional love disappear from this world.
Here is the good news: Kiera is going to be ok. Yes, bargaining with the universe worked. (I'm not sure what I owe...minor detail there....) Four days later a CT scan showed that the tumor was on her lung and not her heart. This meant that the tumor was operable. They cut it out...and it wasn't even cancer. It was benign. So she's going to (knock on wood) be fine. ...I wish I could say the same for me.
Here is the bad news: I'm still not ok. Yes, I'm thrilled that the doctors saved my baby's life, but I can't shake my funk. I'm not taking care of myself. I'm not exercising. I'm making bad decisions. My judgement is clouded. I'm indecisive. I've not been investing in me...the last six weeks has consisted of phoning it in. ...And I like the slightly neurotic part of my brain that keeps me on task. It keeps me energized and accomplishing -- and I have no idea where it has gone. But right now I am at a loss for direction or motivation.
It seems pretty ridiculous that I can't just look around and enjoy the moment. I have built a great life for myself -- I live in the perfect climate, in a home I own and love. I have a job I love. I have wonderful friends and a beach at my beckon call. But the new life that I have built is lonely. It's husband free. It's dog free. It's even roommate free. Don't get me wrong -- I do hate people and I am annoyed by their stupidity...and messes...and I so appreciate having the toliet seat down.... But what I've started to figure out, is that in this lifetime we have the choice of being lonely or annoyed.
And I guess I pick annoyed.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
"Whoa! Watch out!" Says That Girl -- I mean, that bird
As I reflect on my summer, I realize how little I did. Yeah, yeah-- I ran a few races, got a divorce, turned a year older... But honestly, it's nothing that I feel very "wow" about. The "wowest" couple of things that happened recently were not related to me at all. One - and if you've been dead for the past couple of months this might be news to you - is the honey badger video. ...god, I love this thing! I continue to watch the honey badger in times of great distress, anxiety or boredom (which is approximately six times a day). And it continues to provide me with more comfort than is reasonable for a woman of my age or education.
At first, I thought the honey badger video was ridiculous -- but then I found myself watching it over and over. ...and it grew on me. Soon, I was quoting the video. When a lady in a crazy-hurry almost ran me over with her luggage while chugging through the airport, rather than using plain English, I shouted (...granted, somewhat passive aggressively), "Whoa! Watch out! says that bird." (...she didn't get it.) And now I'm using honey badger jargon daily. Example: "yeah, I'm really kinda honey badger about the situation." Translation: I really don't give a shit. (Sounds more lady-like than swearing, right?)
The other thing I did this summer was memorize the soundtrack to Wicked (which has annoyed the hell out of my neighbors). Yeah... I channeled my inner Gleek like never before. Now - again- if you've been dead, Wicked is the story of The Wizard of Oz as told by the Wicked Witch of the West. I saw the show last month and it's rocked my world. I've found it very relatible. Good girl is very misunderstood. While trying to do the right thing, she realizes the government is corrupt and takes off on her own...towards the Western sky. ...um, yeah...I feel that.
And so my endless summer days have consisted of toggeling between the Wicked soundtrack and the honey badger video. ...did I just write that? ("Did that really just happen?") ...Damn, I need to get a life.Saturday, July 30, 2011
Muggles
Just a word of advice for the masses:
If you have a friend who has never previously read a Harry Potter book...or seen a movie in the Harry Potter series...please don't bring him to the 8th and final movie. Events could seem rather confusing.
If you have a friend who has never previously read a Harry Potter book...or seen a movie in the Harry Potter series...please don't bring him to the 8th and final movie. Events could seem rather confusing.
For example, it's Lord Voldemort, not Lord Baltimore. No one goes back to Maryland at the end of the movie. ...Ron did not cockblock Harry from Hermione ...and try explaining polyjuice potion, the unforgivable curses, horcruxes, and the patronus charm...let alone how Hagrid's parents mated and he came to be.... Just sayin'.
And, BTW, a very Happy Birthday to Harry himself who turns 46 tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Selma and Patty
For many months I put off the inevitable trip to the California DMV. According to my sources, California government is slow, expensive, and painful to endure. ...HA! I see your DMV and raise you mine. California, BTW, is a model of efficiency: I was able to make an appointment. I was told which documents I needed. They got my address right. And no one referred to me as a "skinny white bitch."
Perhaps you already know the motto that graces the license plates for the District of Columbia: TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION. (...we all thought about the "My Mayor is a Crackhead" motto, but opted no). Yes, despite the Revolutionary War, all DC residents pay federal taxes without a voting member in Congress. (...and no one's bitter). But in addition, our public services in the nation's capital -- all of them -- water, electric, police, courts, schools, meter maids, and ESPECIALLY the DMV -- absolutely suck.
Until a few years ago, there was only one DMV location in all of Washington-- and there is still only one location for all residents to have their car inspected. ONE. For everybody. I (and others because I was never there alone) would get up at 4:30 AM in order to be in line by 5 AM in anticipation of the inspection station's 5:30 AM open. (This reduces wait time from all day to two hours..for a ten minute inspection.) The employees are bitter and mean. They did everything they could to fuck you. ...and we all know damn well that you don't need anybody working against you at the DVM.
The worst car inspection I ever experienced was (and I would like to distinguish this from the "worst driver's license renewal" story) during the summer of 2007. Because I am one with the Irish, and Murphy's Law is always present in my life, I was the victim of a hit-and-run about two weeks before our renewal was up. I was making a left off Rock Creek Parkway by the Watergate and the light turned yellow. So I stopped. The guy behind me did not. He must have been going fairly fast, as the impact knocked all the change out of my cupholder and gave me whiplash. Once the light changed again, I went through it and pulled into the Exxon on the corner...and watched the asshole in his 1989 civic shitbox peel on down the road. I checked the back of my car ...and honestly I could not tell that I had been hit. At the time, I drove a Jetta, and believe me, she was a city car. The Jetta had been parked on the DC streets around my crowded neighborhood, where you had to compete for parking. And one of the tricks I learned as a DC resident was the art of parallel parking. If you gave me enough time, I could squeeze a six-foot car into a five-foot spot. Of course, to make an omelet you've got to break some eggs, and bumpers were tweaked along the way. But hey -- rubbin's racin'.
Because the bumper already looked like an art deco tile compilation of chipped paint, I just went about my day and forgot about the accident... other than bitching to a friend here or there. Fast forward to the weekend. My husband opens the trunk of the car, and it expels a very loud popping noise (...yeah, that's probably never good). Apparently the damage - on the passenger's side to my defense - was quite extensive. The impact had crunched the body of the vehicle and a metal clump formed over the rear passenger tire weld. It was so bad, we couldn't get the trunk closed again...so bad, that the insurance company declared it a total loss. But unfortunately, we were not in car-buying mode. I mean, seriously -- why would I buy a new car and park it on the street? So it can be side-swiped? No thanks.
We opted to fix the car on our own, and a mechanic was able to restore the body to a reasonable degree. However (and this is a big "however"), we still needed to make it through DMV inspection. (At the one inspection station. For all residents.) This would be tough; inspectors were known to fail your vehicle for the most minor of infraction. But, praise be to Allah, we received a "pass" from our inspector. We were completing paperwork, when another employee made a point to cross the room and point out some minor damage to the passenger side mirror. He turned to our inspector and said, "You can fail them for that." ...My husband came ungodly close to hitting him (as did I).
Obtaining a DC license is equally fun. I was issued my previous driver's license in 2002, immediately following the bar exam. ...I don't know why that fact is relevant, other than to interject that I was absolutely fucking exhausted...and no longer able to focus on details. So when the DMV cut this license, they cut it wrong -- and under the "expiration date," one could not make out the "7" in 2007. No one - including myself - noticed this until about a year later. I was walking into a bar in Adams Morgan, when the bouncer pointed it out to me. He let me pass, as he was also a DC resident and had seen this mistake quite frequently. I incorrectly made the assumption that I would get the same "pass" elsewhere. I was wrong.
As panic of 9/11 tightened its grip (this was circa 2002), and security was stepped up in full force around the country, I was stopped everywhere. At airport security (never in DC...just when I tried to return to DC), in bars, and even at concerts. My husband became increasingly annoyed and begged me to just go to the DMV and get a new license. ....instead, I began carrying my passport. I simply refused to go to the DMV -- it was the last item on my list of choices. ...stranded in Phoenix International Airport....trip to the DMV. I'll take "stranded in Phoenix" for a thousand, Alex.
When the license inevitably did expire, I thought I would take advantage of the new DMV branch that had recently opened in Georgetown. I assumed that the upscale location would be less crowded, more efficient, and easier overall. Again, I was proven very wrong. I stood in line for seven -- count them with me - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, SEVEN -- hours. Within those seven hours, I asked two things of the DMV: 1) renew the license (hopefully so all could read the expiration date); and 2) change my address. And I possessed accompanying documents to verify the address change.
By the time I left seven hours later, I was exhausted, had low blood sugar, and all but ran screaming from the place. I checked to make sure you could see the expiration date, walked to my car (where I had naturally received a parking ticket) and drove home. Then and only then did I realized that the new license still had my old address. ...I have never felt so defeated in my entire life. I debated living with the mistake, but then my resolve kicked in. I had done everything right, dammit! I had the right documents, I filled out the correct paperwork, and they were going to change my goddamn license!
The next morning, I returned to Georgetown and to my relief the line was much shorter. (Of course, so was my temperament.) When I made it to the counter and explained the situation, the clerk looked at me as though I was not speaking English, and referred me to some random place in the cube-farm near the back. The woman who occupied said cube was on the phone with a girlfriend and none too excited to see me. I definitely was bothering her. And as a result, she was determined not to help me. I explained the situation - I had been here yesterday to renew the license and change the address, and the latter change had not been instated. Selma informed me that wasn't her problem. I would need to get a number in order to repeat yesterday's process, and I would also need to pay the license fee again. "No. I need to speak with a manager," I replied. After a sigh, an eye roll and a "skinny white bitch" under her breath, she referred me back to the counter into the arms of English-As-A-Second-Language.
Clearly, this was unacceptable. I was either going to start screaming or cut somebody. So I opted for the former. I quickly buckled down into fight-or-flight mode and started waiving my arms at the only competent looking human behind the counter. "Excuse me!" I yelled to a larger man directing things. Luckily, I had found the problem-solver. Hallelujah! After a few minutes, the address was updated, sans fees. I stood in line to have a license remade, and when I got to the front, the employee -- ironically -- could not have been more pleasant. "Would you like to have your picture retaken?" he asked.
"No. I don't need anything to help me remember this day."
Monday, July 11, 2011
I Want My Two Dollars
Nothing is more powerful than having someone you love deeply make you feel like a complete asshole. My ex-husband still has the power to do this. And while I realize that I allow him that power, it hurts nonetheless.
I'm not actually sure why I'm so upset. Today we had yet another discussion about the final separation of bank accounts, insurance, tax returns and settlement payments. Yesterday, there was some confusion about a withdrawal I made and I accepted the mistake -- and I profusely apologized. Lord knows a math whiz I am not, and when ex called to let me know I made an excessive withdrawal because I failed to calculate my share of our state income tax return ...well, I took that statement as gospel. But when I awoke as 3:42 AM running the calculations over in my head yet again, I knew I had gotten the number correct. This morning I whipped out the calculator, wrote an email about how I arrived at the number, and left a voicemail to boot.
The return phone call from my ex was full of overtones and meant to induce guilt. He would concede that my calculations were correct, but he wanted me to know that he had spent "thousands" on insurance since our separation -- and if I thought that was fair, I could go ahead and cut the check. And I assume another part of the overtone included the fact that he made more money than me, so an even split -- calculated along with the cost of carrying my ass on the auto and health insurance for a number of months -- was not his definition of "even."
This made me feel horrible. Selfish. It made me cry. But as my bff pointed out, it's not possible to rationalize with someone who is angry. Anger is a great debilitating power. And what I failed to consider immediately was that I had carried a lot, too. ...And a lot of what I carried was not tangible. I paid for our couples therapy for years. Five years to be exact. So while the ex was complaining about a couple hundred dollars a month for 9 months, I was carrying a couple hundred bucks a week for five years. And since I made about $40,000 less than him, I allowed myself to accumulate several thousand dollars worth of credit card debt. While we were married, I contributed a significantly larger percentage of my income towards our mortgage. I bought all the groceries. I cooked. I did the laundry. I cleaned the kitchen. I bathed the dog. And I did not point out all of these minor daily accomplishments. I simply did them. Because that's how you behave when you love someone with your entire being. You don't keep score.
So I guess that this overwhelming sadness I feel comes from the realization that: 1) he did keep score; and 2) despite my best efforts for so long, my contribution was not enough for him. And that translates to the fact that I am not enough. ...I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not generous enough. I'm not accomplished enough.... I am not good enough. This is an easy conclusion to reach when you deal with someone who knows which button to push -- and the "you're the one who gave up on us" button is the exact place to push if you would like to elicit a self-loathing reaction.
From a rational perspective, the leap from "he's angry" to "I'm not good enough" is a big one. But I'll venture to guess that I'm not the only person to leap over the same gorge of self beratement. So what are these mind-games with myself all about? ...I don't have an answer. But I do know one thing -- I would never let a friend of mind speak this way to herself. And therefore the negative-self talk needs to end.
I'm not actually sure why I'm so upset. Today we had yet another discussion about the final separation of bank accounts, insurance, tax returns and settlement payments. Yesterday, there was some confusion about a withdrawal I made and I accepted the mistake -- and I profusely apologized. Lord knows a math whiz I am not, and when ex called to let me know I made an excessive withdrawal because I failed to calculate my share of our state income tax return ...well, I took that statement as gospel. But when I awoke as 3:42 AM running the calculations over in my head yet again, I knew I had gotten the number correct. This morning I whipped out the calculator, wrote an email about how I arrived at the number, and left a voicemail to boot.
The return phone call from my ex was full of overtones and meant to induce guilt. He would concede that my calculations were correct, but he wanted me to know that he had spent "thousands" on insurance since our separation -- and if I thought that was fair, I could go ahead and cut the check. And I assume another part of the overtone included the fact that he made more money than me, so an even split -- calculated along with the cost of carrying my ass on the auto and health insurance for a number of months -- was not his definition of "even."
This made me feel horrible. Selfish. It made me cry. But as my bff pointed out, it's not possible to rationalize with someone who is angry. Anger is a great debilitating power. And what I failed to consider immediately was that I had carried a lot, too. ...And a lot of what I carried was not tangible. I paid for our couples therapy for years. Five years to be exact. So while the ex was complaining about a couple hundred dollars a month for 9 months, I was carrying a couple hundred bucks a week for five years. And since I made about $40,000 less than him, I allowed myself to accumulate several thousand dollars worth of credit card debt. While we were married, I contributed a significantly larger percentage of my income towards our mortgage. I bought all the groceries. I cooked. I did the laundry. I cleaned the kitchen. I bathed the dog. And I did not point out all of these minor daily accomplishments. I simply did them. Because that's how you behave when you love someone with your entire being. You don't keep score.
So I guess that this overwhelming sadness I feel comes from the realization that: 1) he did keep score; and 2) despite my best efforts for so long, my contribution was not enough for him. And that translates to the fact that I am not enough. ...I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not generous enough. I'm not accomplished enough.... I am not good enough. This is an easy conclusion to reach when you deal with someone who knows which button to push -- and the "you're the one who gave up on us" button is the exact place to push if you would like to elicit a self-loathing reaction.
From a rational perspective, the leap from "he's angry" to "I'm not good enough" is a big one. But I'll venture to guess that I'm not the only person to leap over the same gorge of self beratement. So what are these mind-games with myself all about? ...I don't have an answer. But I do know one thing -- I would never let a friend of mind speak this way to herself. And therefore the negative-self talk needs to end.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Apocolypse Now
My FABULOUS gay friend Michael just confessed that he wore pleated pants the other day. ...I think I see the four horsemen coming now....
Friday, June 24, 2011
Italia My Ass
It's summer in San Diego -- not that I would know.... Honestly, it's not different from January. The temperature is the same, the humidity level never changes, and it's still a little dark most mornings. In June that's because of the marine layer; in January it's because the sun's not out yet. Overall, I have a hard time distinguishing from month to month. But it is summer, and many of my friends and colleagues are traveling -- on vacation, teaching and studying abroad. Due to the massive expense of moving and divorcing, a vacation is not on my list. And I've had to make due with remembering happier (and more financially stable) times.
After my first year of law school, I decided to spend the summer abroad. My university hosted a comparative law program which traveled to London, Belgium, Paris, and Geneva. I looked into the program... and I wanted to kill myself. London's dirty. The French hate Americans. Geneva is too expensive... and what could possibly be more boring that Brussels? (…like I'd be comfortable in a country that considers mayo a condiment for french fries). I'm dynamic -- I live on the edge, baby! And I wanted to travel to a country that was full of life -- full of passion. A passion for food, a passion for love, a passion for wine. And another university has a program in Italy...and that was definitely where I belonged. So I planned to study in Italy for six weeks and then meet my boyfriend (who became the husband, who became the ex) in Spain for another two weeks. It would the perfect summer of me!
Now prior to this endeavor, I had not spent time abroad, and full disclosure - I was nervous. I did not want to be considered an "ugly American." So I spent ample time and energy devising a method for "blending" and molding myself into the model Italian citizen -- at least my perception of one. I left my Gap wardrobe stateside in favor of skirts, dresses and slacks. No tacky tennis shoes for me - oh, hell no! -- I would tour in leather sandals and flats. No one was going to mistake me for an obnoxious American. ...And believe me, no Italian did.
Here's what I failed to realize: I had an Italian grandmother. I have dark hair, dark eyes and a Roman nose. No doubt, I look Italian. (Having grown up outside of South Bend, Indiana where everyone is either of German or Polish decent, I failed to realize that my mutt-like heritage could be categorized... as Italian of all things...). So factor that with the wardrobe and the results were as follows: 1) I have never been yelled at as extensively as I was in Italy; and 2) I have never been less sexually attractive to a collective group of males (we'll come back to this in a minute).
Because I looked and dressed Italian, others assumed I spoke Italian. And when people spoke to me and I did not reply but for the East Coast "Why are you talking to me?" look on my face, they started screaming. And waving their arms (Italians really do live up to their stereotypes). ...I had not counted on this downside to the assimilation process. Another Italian stereotype which remains true is the fact that Italian men LOVE American women. Why? Because we're easy. We don't live with our parents (read: sex). We don't look onto the Vatican daily to be reminded that, "thou shall not have premarital sex." We can be quickly identified by our denim and khaki wardrobes. We travel in packs. And we're loud. So that makes us easy prey. ...with the exception of me. Oh no, I had to be different. I went on a different law school program by myself. I decided to forgo denim. And as a result, I received negative -- not a single cat-call -- none, nada, nothing as far as male attention was concerned. Between the yelling and the conclusion that I held no allure to the opposite sex (who were supposed to follow me home confessing their love), my self-esteem took a nose-dive.
Needless to say, I was happy when the end of the program came. For the last night, our group was treated to a fantastic, true Italian dinner experience at a resort overlooking the hills of Florence. And when I say “hills,” I mean hills. Lots and lots of hills. Like, really, really hilly. And as previously discussed (see “The Subaru (Part 1)”), hills and girls raised on the flats of Indiana don't always go well together. Especially not on a bus. We drove into the pines of Florence, along winding roads, steep upgrades, and twisty bends. Prior to our dinner arrival, I began to feel nauseous. I turned to my seatmate Mandy and told her I was going to be sick. Because she was a great friend -- and had some self interest in not being vomited on -- she jumped up before the bus came to a complete stop, told the other passengers to remain seated, and allowed me to hop off first. I exited the bus and made my way to a cement bench. I sat - and immediately jumped the hell up with a scream. It felt like something had stuck me right in the ass! Why? Because something had stung me...directly in the ass. I turned, looked down, and realized to my horror that I had sat -- and been stung in my right check -- by a bee. The cherry on top? I'm allergic. …so here I am in a remote Italian village, without an epipen …surrounded by yellers.... But, hey -- at least I wasn't car sick anymore.
My father is deathly allergic to bees. Doctors have told him the results of bee stings are cumulative. Translation: the allergic reaction becomes worse the more times you are stung. And since my reactions had been cumulatively worse as well, I was pretty freaked. Luckily, there was a doctor on our program who explained several factors: 1) my allergy is considered "level 2." If my throat did not close up immediately, I was out of the woods as far as the death card; 2) I could still have a "local reaction" -- swelling, itching, redness...and that could take up to 24 hours to set in. And finally, 3) bee allergies were not hereditary (I still call bullshit on that one), so the fact that my father had violent reactions did not mean I would. So after our 6 hour dinner (no joke), I went home, packed, and caught an early flight to meet boyfriend in Barcelona (Bar-th-e-lona...it's not Sesame Street Spanish, kids).
Boyfriend and his sister had both previously lived in Barcelona and they were both back for the summer visiting friends and host families. Boyfriend met me at the airport with flowers (heart!). Between my love sickness for him and the Italian yellers, I had never been so happy to see anyone. Barcelona is a beautiful city – one of my favorites. It's on the water, the architecture is modern and unique, the streets are wide, and the people are gorgeous. (And it was a relief to be in the company of people who did not insist on screaming at me constantly). Boyfriend and I spent the afternoon by the water, and as the sun began to set, we strolled up Las Ramblas. …And I began experiencing a sensation I'd never felt before. I’m not speaking of love…not contentment. I’m speaking about my ass. My right ass check began to itch...but it felt like the itchy part had separated from my actual ass. "Something's wrong," I told boyfriend. We booked it back to our hotel and boyfriend lifted my skirt to see what I could not. He screamed, "Oh Jesus!" just as his sister entered our suite. Her usually calm features shot up in alarm.
"What the hell happened?" I told them about the bus ride, the bee...and the miraculous 24 hour-to-the-minute timing of the reaction.
"Is it that bad?" I asked. The two of them parted and allowed me to make my way to the bathroom and a full-length mirror. I had never - nor have I since - seen anything like this. My right ass check has grown another ass check all its own. The tiniest pin-prick of a bee string present when I left Florence that morning has morphed into a red, lumpy, swollen entity -- at the time I thought it was a sign of the apocalypse. ...JLo clearly had nothing on me.
As previously mentioned, boyfriend and his sister had lived in Spain and both were fluent in Spanish. However, only boyfriend's sister spoke Catalan, which as you may know is the language spoken in Barcelona. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I frankly can't get into the whole Spain and Franco and the many sub-cultures and regional dialects. ...just refer to the Protestant/Catholic thing in Ireland. Or the American Civil War -- it's like that... close enough). So off to the drugstore we went for some benedryl and an ass-shrinking miracle. Here's what I didn't know about the pharmacy in Spain: you have to actually talk to the pharmacist. This fact presented a multitude of problems: 1) I'm from the East Coast and I hate people. I especially hate talking to them; 2) this incident was highly embarrassing and I wanted to share it with approximately no one; and 3) I don't know how to say "my ass-check exploded" in Catalan.
Boyfriend's sister took action and went directly to the pharmacist as we entered the store. They talked for a while and all I understood was "la crema" - which I assumed meant cream. As they continued to talk, the pharmacist came around from behind the counter, gave me a pitiful look, and without warning whipped me around and lifted my skirt. In the middle of the drugstore. For all to see. Her reaction also resembled something similar to, "Oh Jesus!" (but again -- I'm not sure how to say that in Catalan). …After we retreated with medication and some type of ass cream, I took several benedryl, drank a pitcher of sangria, and passed out at the dinner table.
Luckily, all's well that ends well. Within a day I was again down to one ass (believe me, one is all you need). But I learned several valuable lessons that day -- and that entire trip: 1) know the culture; 2) know the language; and 3) don’t let your ass explode in a foreign country.
After my first year of law school, I decided to spend the summer abroad. My university hosted a comparative law program which traveled to London, Belgium, Paris, and Geneva. I looked into the program... and I wanted to kill myself. London's dirty. The French hate Americans. Geneva is too expensive... and what could possibly be more boring that Brussels? (…like I'd be comfortable in a country that considers mayo a condiment for french fries). I'm dynamic -- I live on the edge, baby! And I wanted to travel to a country that was full of life -- full of passion. A passion for food, a passion for love, a passion for wine. And another university has a program in Italy...and that was definitely where I belonged. So I planned to study in Italy for six weeks and then meet my boyfriend (who became the husband, who became the ex) in Spain for another two weeks. It would the perfect summer of me!
Now prior to this endeavor, I had not spent time abroad, and full disclosure - I was nervous. I did not want to be considered an "ugly American." So I spent ample time and energy devising a method for "blending" and molding myself into the model Italian citizen -- at least my perception of one. I left my Gap wardrobe stateside in favor of skirts, dresses and slacks. No tacky tennis shoes for me - oh, hell no! -- I would tour in leather sandals and flats. No one was going to mistake me for an obnoxious American. ...And believe me, no Italian did.
Here's what I failed to realize: I had an Italian grandmother. I have dark hair, dark eyes and a Roman nose. No doubt, I look Italian. (Having grown up outside of South Bend, Indiana where everyone is either of German or Polish decent, I failed to realize that my mutt-like heritage could be categorized... as Italian of all things...). So factor that with the wardrobe and the results were as follows: 1) I have never been yelled at as extensively as I was in Italy; and 2) I have never been less sexually attractive to a collective group of males (we'll come back to this in a minute).
Because I looked and dressed Italian, others assumed I spoke Italian. And when people spoke to me and I did not reply but for the East Coast "Why are you talking to me?" look on my face, they started screaming. And waving their arms (Italians really do live up to their stereotypes). ...I had not counted on this downside to the assimilation process. Another Italian stereotype which remains true is the fact that Italian men LOVE American women. Why? Because we're easy. We don't live with our parents (read: sex). We don't look onto the Vatican daily to be reminded that, "thou shall not have premarital sex." We can be quickly identified by our denim and khaki wardrobes. We travel in packs. And we're loud. So that makes us easy prey. ...with the exception of me. Oh no, I had to be different. I went on a different law school program by myself. I decided to forgo denim. And as a result, I received negative -- not a single cat-call -- none, nada, nothing as far as male attention was concerned. Between the yelling and the conclusion that I held no allure to the opposite sex (who were supposed to follow me home confessing their love), my self-esteem took a nose-dive.
Needless to say, I was happy when the end of the program came. For the last night, our group was treated to a fantastic, true Italian dinner experience at a resort overlooking the hills of Florence. And when I say “hills,” I mean hills. Lots and lots of hills. Like, really, really hilly. And as previously discussed (see “The Subaru (Part 1)”), hills and girls raised on the flats of Indiana don't always go well together. Especially not on a bus. We drove into the pines of Florence, along winding roads, steep upgrades, and twisty bends. Prior to our dinner arrival, I began to feel nauseous. I turned to my seatmate Mandy and told her I was going to be sick. Because she was a great friend -- and had some self interest in not being vomited on -- she jumped up before the bus came to a complete stop, told the other passengers to remain seated, and allowed me to hop off first. I exited the bus and made my way to a cement bench. I sat - and immediately jumped the hell up with a scream. It felt like something had stuck me right in the ass! Why? Because something had stung me...directly in the ass. I turned, looked down, and realized to my horror that I had sat -- and been stung in my right check -- by a bee. The cherry on top? I'm allergic. …so here I am in a remote Italian village, without an epipen …surrounded by yellers.... But, hey -- at least I wasn't car sick anymore.
My father is deathly allergic to bees. Doctors have told him the results of bee stings are cumulative. Translation: the allergic reaction becomes worse the more times you are stung. And since my reactions had been cumulatively worse as well, I was pretty freaked. Luckily, there was a doctor on our program who explained several factors: 1) my allergy is considered "level 2." If my throat did not close up immediately, I was out of the woods as far as the death card; 2) I could still have a "local reaction" -- swelling, itching, redness...and that could take up to 24 hours to set in. And finally, 3) bee allergies were not hereditary (I still call bullshit on that one), so the fact that my father had violent reactions did not mean I would. So after our 6 hour dinner (no joke), I went home, packed, and caught an early flight to meet boyfriend in Barcelona (Bar-th-e-lona...it's not Sesame Street Spanish, kids).
Boyfriend and his sister had both previously lived in Barcelona and they were both back for the summer visiting friends and host families. Boyfriend met me at the airport with flowers (heart!). Between my love sickness for him and the Italian yellers, I had never been so happy to see anyone. Barcelona is a beautiful city – one of my favorites. It's on the water, the architecture is modern and unique, the streets are wide, and the people are gorgeous. (And it was a relief to be in the company of people who did not insist on screaming at me constantly). Boyfriend and I spent the afternoon by the water, and as the sun began to set, we strolled up Las Ramblas. …And I began experiencing a sensation I'd never felt before. I’m not speaking of love…not contentment. I’m speaking about my ass. My right ass check began to itch...but it felt like the itchy part had separated from my actual ass. "Something's wrong," I told boyfriend. We booked it back to our hotel and boyfriend lifted my skirt to see what I could not. He screamed, "Oh Jesus!" just as his sister entered our suite. Her usually calm features shot up in alarm.
"What the hell happened?" I told them about the bus ride, the bee...and the miraculous 24 hour-to-the-minute timing of the reaction.
"Is it that bad?" I asked. The two of them parted and allowed me to make my way to the bathroom and a full-length mirror. I had never - nor have I since - seen anything like this. My right ass check has grown another ass check all its own. The tiniest pin-prick of a bee string present when I left Florence that morning has morphed into a red, lumpy, swollen entity -- at the time I thought it was a sign of the apocalypse. ...JLo clearly had nothing on me.
As previously mentioned, boyfriend and his sister had lived in Spain and both were fluent in Spanish. However, only boyfriend's sister spoke Catalan, which as you may know is the language spoken in Barcelona. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I frankly can't get into the whole Spain and Franco and the many sub-cultures and regional dialects. ...just refer to the Protestant/Catholic thing in Ireland. Or the American Civil War -- it's like that... close enough). So off to the drugstore we went for some benedryl and an ass-shrinking miracle. Here's what I didn't know about the pharmacy in Spain: you have to actually talk to the pharmacist. This fact presented a multitude of problems: 1) I'm from the East Coast and I hate people. I especially hate talking to them; 2) this incident was highly embarrassing and I wanted to share it with approximately no one; and 3) I don't know how to say "my ass-check exploded" in Catalan.
Boyfriend's sister took action and went directly to the pharmacist as we entered the store. They talked for a while and all I understood was "la crema" - which I assumed meant cream. As they continued to talk, the pharmacist came around from behind the counter, gave me a pitiful look, and without warning whipped me around and lifted my skirt. In the middle of the drugstore. For all to see. Her reaction also resembled something similar to, "Oh Jesus!" (but again -- I'm not sure how to say that in Catalan). …After we retreated with medication and some type of ass cream, I took several benedryl, drank a pitcher of sangria, and passed out at the dinner table.
Luckily, all's well that ends well. Within a day I was again down to one ass (believe me, one is all you need). But I learned several valuable lessons that day -- and that entire trip: 1) know the culture; 2) know the language; and 3) don’t let your ass explode in a foreign country.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Joke's on Me
After the whole Phone Sex Aaron debacle, I told a friend of mine that I was done dating for a while. In fact, I vowed to take the whole summer off from the dating scene. I decided that after August, we could reinvest some time in the great saga that is dating in Southern California.
So what happened? It's raining men. No kidding -- I've got three marines, two Massholes, an encore performance from an overly emotional 27 year old who I fondly refer to as "Feelings," and an electrical engineer that I call Skippy. So let that be a lesson to us all. Tell the universe what you want and exactly the opposite happens.
...Hey God...I want to be poor.
So what happened? It's raining men. No kidding -- I've got three marines, two Massholes, an encore performance from an overly emotional 27 year old who I fondly refer to as "Feelings," and an electrical engineer that I call Skippy. So let that be a lesson to us all. Tell the universe what you want and exactly the opposite happens.
...Hey God...I want to be poor.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Phone Sex Aaron
...yeah this one's pretty good.
I met a boy online (and yes, it was after I started lying about my age). When I first met Aaron, I was thrilled -- he was attractive, he was getting an advanced degree and he was within my age range... of course this was all before I realized he lived in the Bay Area. Which as you may know is eight hours due north of San Diego. ...so not incredibly conducive to a relationship....
However, we talked on the phone and we had real chemistry -- and that is rare my friend...really, really rare.... Unfortunately, after our first fight about religion (which naturally, I won) the conversation turned to the old, "what are you wearing" and digressed from there. Hence, Phone Sex Aaron he became. It would have been extremely easy to walk away from the situation considering: 1) Aaron lives eight hours due north (did I mention that?); 2) I had never met him; and 3) our relationship now consisted of phone sex and not much else. ...actually not anything else.
I did consider walking away numerous times. Deleting his number, not answering the phone... Why didn't I? Because Aaron...is kinda crazy. And despite the fact that I'm a grown-up (well...kinda), there is still a part of me that likes the dangerous, rebel type. Aaron's not quite that...he's more the crazy red-head from Wedding Crashers. The second time we talked he told me he loved me (to which I -- being a romantic -- laughed and said, "um...no... you don't.") Last month he asked me if I wanted to go to Vegas and elope. I responded, "oh sure," ...and then he named a specific day. That scared the hell of of me...but was also intriguing. We would talk in explicit details about our wildest fantasies. But in addition to the crazy, Aaron made me feel safe when discussing taboo subjects (like sex). ...crazy, safe, and chemistry. Yeah, despite the relationship's obvious limitations, I was digging this guy.
So Sunday morning when Aaron told me he had two whole days off from his latest medical rotation and asked if I want to come visit, I spontaneously said "sure." Because, yeah -- I'm a little bat-shit crazy myself. And you know what goes well with phone sex? Actual sex. So I hopped in the Subaru and away I went. For eight hours. Due north. ...And of course I got lost in Oakland (which I do not recommend).
I arrived about 10:30 PM. Aaron and I had been speaking for several months and had discussed our first meeting numerous times. ...And this was not it. Instead of passionate kisses and a clingy embrace, I got the "friend hug" - you know, the one arm over the shoulder, the other arm under. I instantly wanted to touch him, to be close to him. And he...not so much. Not a touch of the arm, not a brush of the hair. After all of the fantasies, the explicit sexual details about what we would do to one another, I expected nothing less than to have my clothes ripped off in the entry way of his home. But here we were in the kitchen, with Aaron not touching me. ...making polite conversation like I was his neighbor borrowing a cup of sugar rather than bat-shit crazy phone sex girl standing there in boots and a mini-skirt.
At bedtime, the situation digressed even further. Phone Sex Aaron was not into actual sex...which was kinda the opposite of what I had in mind. ...like after all these months, we're gonna discuss the IMF? And let this be a lesson to the masses (because apparently it was news to Aaron): when you have phone sex with a girl for months, and then invite her to drive for eight hours in order to spend 24 with you...well, she's probably going to have some expectations. I was not entirely sure what was going through the boy's mind, but it appeared now that he had me there, he didn't quite know what to do with me. So he asked that we do ...nothing. I laid wide awake most of the night, and in the morning I thought it might be helpful to explain why I was there...that I date other people and I don't have the heat or chemistry or energy - whatever - that I had with him. And I wanted to explore it. He told me to slow down.
Yet 30 minutes later Aaron does a 180. Suddenly (very suddenly) we are in the heat of the moment and he has some super-kinky expectations that I am not ready for -- and I relay this to him. Now I was the one asking to slow down. And he was not having it -- he informed me of such when I went to kiss him. He continued to inform me he merely wanted to be friends. (not sure what that friendship would be based upon?). At this point I was sure Ashton Kutcher would pop out of somewhere. But it got worse -- Aaron asked me to get dressed so we could go to breakfast because he had things to do the rest of the day. ...he was supposed to be doing me the rest of the day... I was pissed. And confused. And hurt. So I got up, got my shit and drove home. Eight hours. At 8:30 in the morning. 16 hours in the car...for less than 10 hours with my man.
The entire situation leaves me wondering...what the fuck was that? ...seriously...W.T.F....
But rather than question what I cannot change, I want to try a different approach. So allow me to channel Oprah (miss you already) and tell the universe (or cyberspace) what it is that I do want. Well, (a) someone who wants to have sex with me; (b) someone capable of communicating like an adult. That's not too much to ask -- so here's some too much --
1) I want a boy from the Midwest (like yours truly) -- one specifically from a state that begins in a vowel (so that's Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, or Iowa. If that does not come to fruition, we'll expand to the tundra states of Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan -- but no U.P.ers. I've had enough with bat-shit crazy.) A farm boy-- like The Princess Bride. Find me Wesley. ...because with California men, I feel like I am through the looking glass, people. 2) While you're at it, find me Jim Halpert. I want someone hilarious (nothing is funnier than a stapler in jello), who puts me and our relationship first -- before his mountain bike, baseball team, porn addiction, surfboard - fill in the blank here. I'm done wasting time looking backwards. And I'm also done with bat-shit crazy. So this time I'm asking the universe...conspire in my favor....
I met a boy online (and yes, it was after I started lying about my age). When I first met Aaron, I was thrilled -- he was attractive, he was getting an advanced degree and he was within my age range... of course this was all before I realized he lived in the Bay Area. Which as you may know is eight hours due north of San Diego. ...so not incredibly conducive to a relationship....
However, we talked on the phone and we had real chemistry -- and that is rare my friend...really, really rare.... Unfortunately, after our first fight about religion (which naturally, I won) the conversation turned to the old, "what are you wearing" and digressed from there. Hence, Phone Sex Aaron he became. It would have been extremely easy to walk away from the situation considering: 1) Aaron lives eight hours due north (did I mention that?); 2) I had never met him; and 3) our relationship now consisted of phone sex and not much else. ...actually not anything else.
I did consider walking away numerous times. Deleting his number, not answering the phone... Why didn't I? Because Aaron...is kinda crazy. And despite the fact that I'm a grown-up (well...kinda), there is still a part of me that likes the dangerous, rebel type. Aaron's not quite that...he's more the crazy red-head from Wedding Crashers. The second time we talked he told me he loved me (to which I -- being a romantic -- laughed and said, "um...no... you don't.") Last month he asked me if I wanted to go to Vegas and elope. I responded, "oh sure," ...and then he named a specific day. That scared the hell of of me...but was also intriguing. We would talk in explicit details about our wildest fantasies. But in addition to the crazy, Aaron made me feel safe when discussing taboo subjects (like sex). ...crazy, safe, and chemistry. Yeah, despite the relationship's obvious limitations, I was digging this guy.
So Sunday morning when Aaron told me he had two whole days off from his latest medical rotation and asked if I want to come visit, I spontaneously said "sure." Because, yeah -- I'm a little bat-shit crazy myself. And you know what goes well with phone sex? Actual sex. So I hopped in the Subaru and away I went. For eight hours. Due north. ...And of course I got lost in Oakland (which I do not recommend).
I arrived about 10:30 PM. Aaron and I had been speaking for several months and had discussed our first meeting numerous times. ...And this was not it. Instead of passionate kisses and a clingy embrace, I got the "friend hug" - you know, the one arm over the shoulder, the other arm under. I instantly wanted to touch him, to be close to him. And he...not so much. Not a touch of the arm, not a brush of the hair. After all of the fantasies, the explicit sexual details about what we would do to one another, I expected nothing less than to have my clothes ripped off in the entry way of his home. But here we were in the kitchen, with Aaron not touching me. ...making polite conversation like I was his neighbor borrowing a cup of sugar rather than bat-shit crazy phone sex girl standing there in boots and a mini-skirt.
At bedtime, the situation digressed even further. Phone Sex Aaron was not into actual sex...which was kinda the opposite of what I had in mind. ...like after all these months, we're gonna discuss the IMF? And let this be a lesson to the masses (because apparently it was news to Aaron): when you have phone sex with a girl for months, and then invite her to drive for eight hours in order to spend 24 with you...well, she's probably going to have some expectations. I was not entirely sure what was going through the boy's mind, but it appeared now that he had me there, he didn't quite know what to do with me. So he asked that we do ...nothing. I laid wide awake most of the night, and in the morning I thought it might be helpful to explain why I was there...that I date other people and I don't have the heat or chemistry or energy - whatever - that I had with him. And I wanted to explore it. He told me to slow down.
Yet 30 minutes later Aaron does a 180. Suddenly (very suddenly) we are in the heat of the moment and he has some super-kinky expectations that I am not ready for -- and I relay this to him. Now I was the one asking to slow down. And he was not having it -- he informed me of such when I went to kiss him. He continued to inform me he merely wanted to be friends. (not sure what that friendship would be based upon?). At this point I was sure Ashton Kutcher would pop out of somewhere. But it got worse -- Aaron asked me to get dressed so we could go to breakfast because he had things to do the rest of the day. ...he was supposed to be doing me the rest of the day... I was pissed. And confused. And hurt. So I got up, got my shit and drove home. Eight hours. At 8:30 in the morning. 16 hours in the car...for less than 10 hours with my man.
The entire situation leaves me wondering...what the fuck was that? ...seriously...W.T.F....
But rather than question what I cannot change, I want to try a different approach. So allow me to channel Oprah (miss you already) and tell the universe (or cyberspace) what it is that I do want. Well, (a) someone who wants to have sex with me; (b) someone capable of communicating like an adult. That's not too much to ask -- so here's some too much --
1) I want a boy from the Midwest (like yours truly) -- one specifically from a state that begins in a vowel (so that's Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, or Iowa. If that does not come to fruition, we'll expand to the tundra states of Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan -- but no U.P.ers. I've had enough with bat-shit crazy.) A farm boy-- like The Princess Bride. Find me Wesley. ...because with California men, I feel like I am through the looking glass, people. 2) While you're at it, find me Jim Halpert. I want someone hilarious (nothing is funnier than a stapler in jello), who puts me and our relationship first -- before his mountain bike, baseball team, porn addiction, surfboard - fill in the blank here. I'm done wasting time looking backwards. And I'm also done with bat-shit crazy. So this time I'm asking the universe...conspire in my favor....
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Halloween
My birthday is July 31. And I have lived thirty-some-odd years without realizing that in all likelihood, I was conceived on Halloween. ...until today when a friend pointed it out. And now that holiday is sooo ruined....
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Rapture
Because my mother was raised Southern Baptist, I have been hearing about the "End of Days" for quite some time. So the recent hype about May 21 being the end of the world didn't really phase me. But logistically, I do have some questions. First and foremost: if the Rapture is on Saturday, can I not pay the cable bill? Can I stop training for this damn marathon to which I committed myself (and am vastly unprepared)? ...honestly, I don't believe this is the end but it does beg the question, "what if it were?" Of course the usual answers come to mind: stop working, surf, spend time with those I love, tell those I don't how I actually feel (and there are a couple of people I'm gunnin' for on that one)... but if there were some specifics to check off the list...
1) I'd call the guy to whom I lost my virginity and apologize...because I became one super-crazy bitch. But in real life, you don't call your ex and say, "hey, I'm sorry I was crazy." ...that makes you look more crazy.
2) Have sex with reckless abandon -- and when interviewing potential partners, my first question would be, "How big is your penis?" Because I know my gender has said otherwise...but yes, it really does matter.
3) Drugs. Lots of drugs. On the beach. In Costa Rica.
4) I would walk around the streets and start singing random showtunes, as though I was actually in a musical. This was always my sister's dream, but since it's the end of the world I thought I would steal it from her.
5) I would go to the zoo and set all the animals free. Don't get me wrong; I love the zoo. Animals fascinate me (especially the naked mole rats...what the hell are those things?) and I appreciate those who study and care for them. I appreciate the opportunity to observe them. But when I do go to the zoo, I feel a little dirty. Because I know it's wrong and I wouldn't want it to be me in those cages.
6) I would eat everything not nailed down. To excess. ...especially fish tacos.
7) I would drive like speed racer. I love driving fast! ... I'm always scared of getting a ticket (and I would probably feel guilty about the accidentally killing someone part, too). But if Jesus comes on Saturday, what do I fucking care about a ticket? ...I would see if I could get from here to LA in half an hour or less.
8) I would go to Mexico -- that's playin' with fire, kids. Ever since I landed in San Diego, I have been warned not to go to Mexico -- I'll be raped, beheaded, sold to the Russian mafia, forced to have sex with barnyard animals, what-have-you. It's so taboo that I want to know what the big deal is.
9) Have a "Rapture Bar Crawl" and make t-shirts. Oh wait...I am doing that.
...a perfect "Number 10" is not coming to mind. Probably because I know this is not the end and we have a long way to go. It does give me pause to look at the taboo things in life and wonder, "what if." I probably won't eat more or drive faster. But you might see me on a street corner near you (probably Saturday after bar crawl) bustin' out in showtunes.
1) I'd call the guy to whom I lost my virginity and apologize...because I became one super-crazy bitch. But in real life, you don't call your ex and say, "hey, I'm sorry I was crazy." ...that makes you look more crazy.
2) Have sex with reckless abandon -- and when interviewing potential partners, my first question would be, "How big is your penis?" Because I know my gender has said otherwise...but yes, it really does matter.
3) Drugs. Lots of drugs. On the beach. In Costa Rica.
4) I would walk around the streets and start singing random showtunes, as though I was actually in a musical. This was always my sister's dream, but since it's the end of the world I thought I would steal it from her.
5) I would go to the zoo and set all the animals free. Don't get me wrong; I love the zoo. Animals fascinate me (especially the naked mole rats...what the hell are those things?) and I appreciate those who study and care for them. I appreciate the opportunity to observe them. But when I do go to the zoo, I feel a little dirty. Because I know it's wrong and I wouldn't want it to be me in those cages.
6) I would eat everything not nailed down. To excess. ...especially fish tacos.
7) I would drive like speed racer. I love driving fast! ... I'm always scared of getting a ticket (and I would probably feel guilty about the accidentally killing someone part, too). But if Jesus comes on Saturday, what do I fucking care about a ticket? ...I would see if I could get from here to LA in half an hour or less.
8) I would go to Mexico -- that's playin' with fire, kids. Ever since I landed in San Diego, I have been warned not to go to Mexico -- I'll be raped, beheaded, sold to the Russian mafia, forced to have sex with barnyard animals, what-have-you. It's so taboo that I want to know what the big deal is.
9) Have a "Rapture Bar Crawl" and make t-shirts. Oh wait...I am doing that.
...a perfect "Number 10" is not coming to mind. Probably because I know this is not the end and we have a long way to go. It does give me pause to look at the taboo things in life and wonder, "what if." I probably won't eat more or drive faster. But you might see me on a street corner near you (probably Saturday after bar crawl) bustin' out in showtunes.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Narnia
How is it every time I run through Balboa Park - no matter which path I take -- I end up on the golf course? It's not statistically possible that this happen every single time...
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Kiera Isabelle, the Urban Coonhound
Early in life, the majority of us are asked to select -- or sometimes dictated -- a team. I'm a Cubs fan. Notre Dame football. And most importantly, I'm a dog person. I grew up with dogs; which means that as an adult, I had no illusions about the amount of work involved in being a "puppy parent."
Being an excellent attorney, my dog came into my life as a result of careful negotiations. When my then in-the-process-of-moving-in boyfriend (who later became the husband and then the ex) first introduced the idea of adopting a dog, I was vehemently opposed. But I never have been attracted to idiots (OK, maybe once) and boyfriend (unfortunately for me) was also an excellent negotiator. Our first live-in fight was a knock-down-drag-out over this ugly (I mean, REALLY mother-fuckin' ugly) chair that he wanted to bring into my condo. I was sooo determined to keep that ugly-ass piece of furniture in his group house where it belonged, that when he said, "Fine. Then I want a dog. " I responded, "OK." And a puppy parent I became.
A month later I was in a barn outside of Richmond, Virginia picking out a six-week-old red-bone coon hound. We were there at 8:30 AM (which means we left DC at 6:20 AM. On a Sunday.), the very first to arrive. We wanted a girl and all the female puppies were placed inside a kiddie swimming pool for our choosing. Boyfriend let me pick out our puppy prodigy while he attended to paperwork. As is always the case, someone peed in the pool. So I picked the little dog farthest from the puddle (I saw this as a sign of intelligence -- smart creatures don't frolic in their own urine), and that is how Kiera (Kiera Isabelle with a hyphenated last name. Because I'm a yuppie.) became mine.
I was studying for the bar exam at this point, and therefore home during the day. Hence, I became the designated doggie caregiver. The first couple of days involved sleep-deprivation, puddles, and holding Kiera's ears back so they didn't flop in her water bowl when she drank. Being an urban coon hound in a loft condo had its challenges. Coon hounds (as you may already know) are hunting dogs; they track scents, point in the direction of the prey, and even have webbing between their toes to swim through bodies of water while staying on the trail. And as you may also know, very little hunting happens in a third floor walk-up. The first time Kiera pointed and barked, it was at a FedEx truck.
Because hounds are hunters and expected to stay on the trail, they don't always follow commands. At first, I thought Kiera was simply not a good listener. Turns out that Kiera (just like boyfriend) was far from stupid. I swear sometimes, I could see her thinking. A couple of times I gave her a command and she rolled her eyes at me (another time she actually flipped me off). But when Kiera wanted attention, it had to be RIGHT NOW. When I was studying to take the bar exam, this was not a request I could consistently accommodate (especially when answering timed practice questions). If I ignored her whines, howls, or more formal requests for attention, she would bark. I would look at her. She'd squat - and piss. Right in from of me. ...a vindictive pisser. I spoke with my wise sister about this issue. She explained to me that dogs always seek an alpha. Boyfriend had been selected for that role. "Well, what does she think I am then?" I asked. My sister paused, and then whispered, "Girl... you just another dog."
The love affair between Kiera and boyfriend was mutual. He did not go anywhere without her -- and that included travel to far away states like Texas and Florida for family holidays. Kiera reduced me to my weakest moment on one of these trips. Not a lot of hotels welcome dogs. And the ones that do, traditionally have not met my cleanliness standards. Oprah I am not and we couldn't exactly afford the Ritz. When returning to DC one Christmas, we stopped at a particularly nasty hotel in small town, SC. I was not in the best frame of mind. I was sad about leaving my family, and I was sad about the weather becoming colder as we continued to creep North.
Boyfriend knew this and promised me a lovely dinner. He checked us into the hotel, and asked the clerk, what was the nicest restaurant in town? She highly recommended the Cracker Barrel. After dinner, we walked into our room which was caked in fur (Oprah so would not have tolerated this). I pulled back the sheets and discovered human hair. I wanted to leave, but instead I put on every article of clothing so that no skin could touch the sheets. We crawled into bed and Kiera hopped in with us. I was shaking like Rain Man over the human hair incident and debating sleeping in the car . Boyfriend turned on a JLo movie to calm me. (HUGE JLo fan. Always makes me feel better.) The whole family was in bed watching television, when quite suddenly Kiera jumped up from her spot in the middle and hopped off the bed.
This was extremely odd behavior, even from my crazy coon hound. I looked at her and called her as boyfriend exclaimed, "Oh god." ...Kiera had apparently pissed in the bed. Dogs pee when they smell another dog's urine. Which she had apparently done. In our hotel bed. So with that knowledge, I put on my flip-flops, showered (with the shoes on) and drove us the fuck home.
Kiera now lives with her father. I miss her everyday. Despite the fact that I was never viewed as the alpha, Kiera constantly showed me unconditional love. ...And I guess you never forget your first real love.
Being an excellent attorney, my dog came into my life as a result of careful negotiations. When my then in-the-process-of-moving-in boyfriend (who later became the husband and then the ex) first introduced the idea of adopting a dog, I was vehemently opposed. But I never have been attracted to idiots (OK, maybe once) and boyfriend (unfortunately for me) was also an excellent negotiator. Our first live-in fight was a knock-down-drag-out over this ugly (I mean, REALLY mother-fuckin' ugly) chair that he wanted to bring into my condo. I was sooo determined to keep that ugly-ass piece of furniture in his group house where it belonged, that when he said, "Fine. Then I want a dog. " I responded, "OK." And a puppy parent I became.
A month later I was in a barn outside of Richmond, Virginia picking out a six-week-old red-bone coon hound. We were there at 8:30 AM (which means we left DC at 6:20 AM. On a Sunday.), the very first to arrive. We wanted a girl and all the female puppies were placed inside a kiddie swimming pool for our choosing. Boyfriend let me pick out our puppy prodigy while he attended to paperwork. As is always the case, someone peed in the pool. So I picked the little dog farthest from the puddle (I saw this as a sign of intelligence -- smart creatures don't frolic in their own urine), and that is how Kiera (Kiera Isabelle with a hyphenated last name. Because I'm a yuppie.) became mine.
I was studying for the bar exam at this point, and therefore home during the day. Hence, I became the designated doggie caregiver. The first couple of days involved sleep-deprivation, puddles, and holding Kiera's ears back so they didn't flop in her water bowl when she drank. Being an urban coon hound in a loft condo had its challenges. Coon hounds (as you may already know) are hunting dogs; they track scents, point in the direction of the prey, and even have webbing between their toes to swim through bodies of water while staying on the trail. And as you may also know, very little hunting happens in a third floor walk-up. The first time Kiera pointed and barked, it was at a FedEx truck.
Because hounds are hunters and expected to stay on the trail, they don't always follow commands. At first, I thought Kiera was simply not a good listener. Turns out that Kiera (just like boyfriend) was far from stupid. I swear sometimes, I could see her thinking. A couple of times I gave her a command and she rolled her eyes at me (another time she actually flipped me off). But when Kiera wanted attention, it had to be RIGHT NOW. When I was studying to take the bar exam, this was not a request I could consistently accommodate (especially when answering timed practice questions). If I ignored her whines, howls, or more formal requests for attention, she would bark. I would look at her. She'd squat - and piss. Right in from of me. ...a vindictive pisser. I spoke with my wise sister about this issue. She explained to me that dogs always seek an alpha. Boyfriend had been selected for that role. "Well, what does she think I am then?" I asked. My sister paused, and then whispered, "Girl... you just another dog."
The love affair between Kiera and boyfriend was mutual. He did not go anywhere without her -- and that included travel to far away states like Texas and Florida for family holidays. Kiera reduced me to my weakest moment on one of these trips. Not a lot of hotels welcome dogs. And the ones that do, traditionally have not met my cleanliness standards. Oprah I am not and we couldn't exactly afford the Ritz. When returning to DC one Christmas, we stopped at a particularly nasty hotel in small town, SC. I was not in the best frame of mind. I was sad about leaving my family, and I was sad about the weather becoming colder as we continued to creep North.
Boyfriend knew this and promised me a lovely dinner. He checked us into the hotel, and asked the clerk, what was the nicest restaurant in town? She highly recommended the Cracker Barrel. After dinner, we walked into our room which was caked in fur (Oprah so would not have tolerated this). I pulled back the sheets and discovered human hair. I wanted to leave, but instead I put on every article of clothing so that no skin could touch the sheets. We crawled into bed and Kiera hopped in with us. I was shaking like Rain Man over the human hair incident and debating sleeping in the car . Boyfriend turned on a JLo movie to calm me. (HUGE JLo fan. Always makes me feel better.) The whole family was in bed watching television, when quite suddenly Kiera jumped up from her spot in the middle and hopped off the bed.
This was extremely odd behavior, even from my crazy coon hound. I looked at her and called her as boyfriend exclaimed, "Oh god." ...Kiera had apparently pissed in the bed. Dogs pee when they smell another dog's urine. Which she had apparently done. In our hotel bed. So with that knowledge, I put on my flip-flops, showered (with the shoes on) and drove us the fuck home.
Kiera now lives with her father. I miss her everyday. Despite the fact that I was never viewed as the alpha, Kiera constantly showed me unconditional love. ...And I guess you never forget your first real love.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Subaru (Part 1)
Do you know why I went to law school? To fight against injustice. Mainly injustice against myself.... Because some crazy shit happens to me. I haven't shared my joyful car-crushing experience from last fall, but it came back to literally bite me in the ass today -- and I could not be more pissed. Or more ready to sue somebody....
I left Washington DC on a Friday. I said good-bye to my house, my hometown of 17 years, and my dog. As I saddled up the Subaru Forrester (please refer to my February 17th post regarding lesbians) and made my way out of our nation's capital, some "check engine" light appeared on the dashboard . Dashboard lights (despite what Meatloaf sang) are always bad news, and since I had barely began step 1 of a 3000 mile journey, I took the car to Fitzgerald Subaru in Rockville, Maryland where I had the vehicle serviced about a week earlier. My husband (now the ex) talked to the service technician while I ran to Dunkin' Donuts (best. coffee. ever.) to grab breakfast. We waited the fifteen minutes that our service technician said the diagnostic would take. Then 30. Then 45. ...At this point, a small man stepped out of the garage and motioned for my husband to follow him. (This was simultaneously annoying and a relief -- I mean, I frankly found it very sexist that the gentleman would look to my husband since it's MY car... but since I don't care to be bothered with details -- details such as how the car actually works and why it is not now working -- I decided to stand down.) About 5 minutes later, my husband comes out of the same garage door and makes the same "follow-me" motion that the technician had made minutes earlier. Now I'm annoyed. Because obviously this problem did not go away (just make it go away!) and we would have to engage in a discussion (I hate discussing). Which would probably cost more money.
When I entered the garage I discovered that the problem had in fact increased exponentially. My mountain bike (which my friends fondly referred to as "The Tank" because of it's substantial weight and ability to handle an impact) was piled in a shredded heavy-metal heap...because it had apparently hit the side of the building. Here is the critical exchange that occurred while I foraged for sustenance at Double D: 1) Husband asked technician if he should take our bikes off the top of the car; 2) Technician said "no," the bay of the garage opens high enough to allow bike passage; 3) Technician proceeds to slam bikes into the side of the building without further lifting the garage bay. We later learned that this was only the second-stupidest thing that this technician ever did. Apparently the first was to leave a kayak strapped to the top of a vehicle while he ran it through a car wash. The kayak hit the top wash racks with such force that it shot out the back of the automated laundry like a cannon, and landed smack in the windshield of a new impreza hatchback. ...so we're not saving lives at Fitzgerald's of Rockville.
Once the 3000 mile journey was complete and I was left to my own devices in San Diego, I took the car to be repaired and was given a rental car. It was some craptacular box on wheels from Enterprise, and I didn't bitch because I was told it would only be a week. Or two. Or three...and then four. Unfortunately, I had to do my job, despite the fact that others apparently were not doing theirs. I am in the business of sales, and part of that business includes the shlepping of products and promotional items from one location to another. One rainy Thursday, while shlepping to a client in a particularly San Fransisco-esk neighborhood, I had trouble finding parking, so rounded the corner and parked on a hill. A steep hill. Steep, really...really steep. And as I was retrieving packages from the back seat, boxcar Willy jolted. Paused. ...and then moved with ensuing force down the hill, crashing into the intersection and a stop sign.
A couple of points here: 1) I'm from Indiana and we don't have hills there; you can see all the way to Iowa. I didn't know the rule about turning the wheels in - or out (details) -- when you park on a hill. Of course, everyone was eager to share that nugget of information after the fact when it was oh-so-helpful. ...thanks team; 2) I did in fact have the parking break on. As previously mentioned, I do not conform to preconceived gender stereotypes, and prior to purchasing the subaru, I drove a vehicle with standard transmission. I also drove farm equipment. Therefore, it is ingrained in me to always, always use the parking break. But despite doing the right thing, the accident was assigned to me-- not Enterprise Car Rental (I'd like to pick you up, bitch) -- and a $500 deposit was swept out of my bank account.
Since the time of that incident, the price of gas has crept up at a consistently alarming pace. In California, the price is steady at about $4.25 per gallon. This fact led me to take the car for an appraisal today (price of gas added to 22.5 miles per gallon equals me without money), where I learned that my $19,000 blue book value car would garner me a whooping $11k. Because it has been in a major accident. ...Caused by Subaru. ...is that just me? Or does anyone else see the irony here?
...and that fucking "check engine" light never did go off.
I left Washington DC on a Friday. I said good-bye to my house, my hometown of 17 years, and my dog. As I saddled up the Subaru Forrester (please refer to my February 17th post regarding lesbians) and made my way out of our nation's capital, some "check engine" light appeared on the dashboard . Dashboard lights (despite what Meatloaf sang) are always bad news, and since I had barely began step 1 of a 3000 mile journey, I took the car to Fitzgerald Subaru in Rockville, Maryland where I had the vehicle serviced about a week earlier. My husband (now the ex) talked to the service technician while I ran to Dunkin' Donuts (best. coffee. ever.) to grab breakfast. We waited the fifteen minutes that our service technician said the diagnostic would take. Then 30. Then 45. ...At this point, a small man stepped out of the garage and motioned for my husband to follow him. (This was simultaneously annoying and a relief -- I mean, I frankly found it very sexist that the gentleman would look to my husband since it's MY car... but since I don't care to be bothered with details -- details such as how the car actually works and why it is not now working -- I decided to stand down.) About 5 minutes later, my husband comes out of the same garage door and makes the same "follow-me" motion that the technician had made minutes earlier. Now I'm annoyed. Because obviously this problem did not go away (just make it go away!) and we would have to engage in a discussion (I hate discussing). Which would probably cost more money.
When I entered the garage I discovered that the problem had in fact increased exponentially. My mountain bike (which my friends fondly referred to as "The Tank" because of it's substantial weight and ability to handle an impact) was piled in a shredded heavy-metal heap...because it had apparently hit the side of the building. Here is the critical exchange that occurred while I foraged for sustenance at Double D: 1) Husband asked technician if he should take our bikes off the top of the car; 2) Technician said "no," the bay of the garage opens high enough to allow bike passage; 3) Technician proceeds to slam bikes into the side of the building without further lifting the garage bay. We later learned that this was only the second-stupidest thing that this technician ever did. Apparently the first was to leave a kayak strapped to the top of a vehicle while he ran it through a car wash. The kayak hit the top wash racks with such force that it shot out the back of the automated laundry like a cannon, and landed smack in the windshield of a new impreza hatchback. ...so we're not saving lives at Fitzgerald's of Rockville.
Once the 3000 mile journey was complete and I was left to my own devices in San Diego, I took the car to be repaired and was given a rental car. It was some craptacular box on wheels from Enterprise, and I didn't bitch because I was told it would only be a week. Or two. Or three...and then four. Unfortunately, I had to do my job, despite the fact that others apparently were not doing theirs. I am in the business of sales, and part of that business includes the shlepping of products and promotional items from one location to another. One rainy Thursday, while shlepping to a client in a particularly San Fransisco-esk neighborhood, I had trouble finding parking, so rounded the corner and parked on a hill. A steep hill. Steep, really...really steep. And as I was retrieving packages from the back seat, boxcar Willy jolted. Paused. ...and then moved with ensuing force down the hill, crashing into the intersection and a stop sign.
A couple of points here: 1) I'm from Indiana and we don't have hills there; you can see all the way to Iowa. I didn't know the rule about turning the wheels in - or out (details) -- when you park on a hill. Of course, everyone was eager to share that nugget of information after the fact when it was oh-so-helpful. ...thanks team; 2) I did in fact have the parking break on. As previously mentioned, I do not conform to preconceived gender stereotypes, and prior to purchasing the subaru, I drove a vehicle with standard transmission. I also drove farm equipment. Therefore, it is ingrained in me to always, always use the parking break. But despite doing the right thing, the accident was assigned to me-- not Enterprise Car Rental (I'd like to pick you up, bitch) -- and a $500 deposit was swept out of my bank account.
Since the time of that incident, the price of gas has crept up at a consistently alarming pace. In California, the price is steady at about $4.25 per gallon. This fact led me to take the car for an appraisal today (price of gas added to 22.5 miles per gallon equals me without money), where I learned that my $19,000 blue book value car would garner me a whooping $11k. Because it has been in a major accident. ...Caused by Subaru. ...is that just me? Or does anyone else see the irony here?
...and that fucking "check engine" light never did go off.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
RepriMANded
There are many things I like about being single. Dating is not one of them.
On Thursday I had a blind date. ...with a gay man. And this fact still remains unbeknownst to said date. How is it that I've realized this truth and he still has not? Well, (a) I was a theatre major and have had romantic relationships with many a gay man; and (b) men don't reach their mid-forties having never been married for nothing. In fact, I've begun to assume anyone single and super-hot over the age of thirty is gay. This theory has only failed me once so far (and yes, it was with new-boyfriend...who is still sooo not-my-boyfriend). So although my date was lovely, polite, and extremely well-dressed (as most gay men are), I made a point of mentioning that I had to work over the weekend, which I assumed went a long way in implying that I was not interested.
...Apparently not.
On Friday, I received a text inviting me to some event at the convention center. And I never wrote back. Yes, I realize it was childish to ignore the text, but I was having a day where the emotional baggage quota was at an all-time high, so it was easier to ignore than either (1) tell the truth and worry about hurting someone's feelings, or (2) compile a creative-yet-suitable lie...I didn't have it in me.
Saturday, I receive a nasty-gram -- yes, a nasty-gram -- that stated as follows: "I assume since I never heard from you that you are not interested in getting together. Next time, a simple 'no thank you' will do." ...huh. A couple thoughts came to mind. The first of which, was "go fuck yourself." Yeah, it's immature, but my first reaction was to smack back twice as hard. I wanted to write, "I'm in the hospital" or "My father died." ...who the fuck do you think you are, assuming that I'm free and sitting around waiting for you to call? The second thought -- slightly more zen -- was, "I don't have to care." Not "I don't care." Because I'm a sensitive girl. I try to hide it and play tough, little-miss-independent, but I take events such as this very personally. I want to please; but I realized I had a choice. I could choose to feel responsible for this other individual's emotions, or I could choose to let it go.
This thought process may sounds quite elementary, but to me it was revolutionary. During this lifetime I have cared about pleasing my parents. My teachers. My friends, my roommates, my employer, my clients, my colleagues, and most recently my spouse. I've even worried about what my dog thought of me. I remember when I worked at the big evil law firm, there was a quick turnaround on a particular document production. For about a week I slept under my desk, returning home only to shower and change. One morning, I stepped out of the shower to find my four month old red bone coon hound lying on the bathroom floor, looking up at me with the saddest of eyes as only a hound-dog can do. To say I felt guilty was the understatement of the year.
In addition to the crazy-intense document review, I was scheduled to head up to NYC for more big law firm fun. It was not a trip to which I was looking forward, but it was important to my position and possible advancement with Dewey Cheetem. New associates did not say "no" to such opportunities. ...but I did. At that moment, seeing my rapidly growing puppy laying on the floor waiting for me because she missed me and this was the only moment in which she had the opportunity to be close to me, I snapped my priorities into place. I made the decision to skip NYC and put her first.
This weekend was a little more difficult because it was me I had to decide to place first. And rather than worry about pleasing another person or whether I live up to his predetermined expectations, for the first time in a long while -- possibly ever -- I said "no" to another in lieu of myself. I'd love to conclude "it was easy" -- but I can't. It was extremely hard and is still eating at me. I'm upset that I hurt someone's feelings (self-involved though he may be) and I'm upset that I did not live up to his needs. ...I'm proud of the decision...but I sure as hell hope this gets easier.
On Thursday I had a blind date. ...with a gay man. And this fact still remains unbeknownst to said date. How is it that I've realized this truth and he still has not? Well, (a) I was a theatre major and have had romantic relationships with many a gay man; and (b) men don't reach their mid-forties having never been married for nothing. In fact, I've begun to assume anyone single and super-hot over the age of thirty is gay. This theory has only failed me once so far (and yes, it was with new-boyfriend...who is still sooo not-my-boyfriend). So although my date was lovely, polite, and extremely well-dressed (as most gay men are), I made a point of mentioning that I had to work over the weekend, which I assumed went a long way in implying that I was not interested.
...Apparently not.
On Friday, I received a text inviting me to some event at the convention center. And I never wrote back. Yes, I realize it was childish to ignore the text, but I was having a day where the emotional baggage quota was at an all-time high, so it was easier to ignore than either (1) tell the truth and worry about hurting someone's feelings, or (2) compile a creative-yet-suitable lie...I didn't have it in me.
Saturday, I receive a nasty-gram -- yes, a nasty-gram -- that stated as follows: "I assume since I never heard from you that you are not interested in getting together. Next time, a simple 'no thank you' will do." ...huh. A couple thoughts came to mind. The first of which, was "go fuck yourself." Yeah, it's immature, but my first reaction was to smack back twice as hard. I wanted to write, "I'm in the hospital" or "My father died." ...who the fuck do you think you are, assuming that I'm free and sitting around waiting for you to call? The second thought -- slightly more zen -- was, "I don't have to care." Not "I don't care." Because I'm a sensitive girl. I try to hide it and play tough, little-miss-independent, but I take events such as this very personally. I want to please; but I realized I had a choice. I could choose to feel responsible for this other individual's emotions, or I could choose to let it go.
This thought process may sounds quite elementary, but to me it was revolutionary. During this lifetime I have cared about pleasing my parents. My teachers. My friends, my roommates, my employer, my clients, my colleagues, and most recently my spouse. I've even worried about what my dog thought of me. I remember when I worked at the big evil law firm, there was a quick turnaround on a particular document production. For about a week I slept under my desk, returning home only to shower and change. One morning, I stepped out of the shower to find my four month old red bone coon hound lying on the bathroom floor, looking up at me with the saddest of eyes as only a hound-dog can do. To say I felt guilty was the understatement of the year.
In addition to the crazy-intense document review, I was scheduled to head up to NYC for more big law firm fun. It was not a trip to which I was looking forward, but it was important to my position and possible advancement with Dewey Cheetem. New associates did not say "no" to such opportunities. ...but I did. At that moment, seeing my rapidly growing puppy laying on the floor waiting for me because she missed me and this was the only moment in which she had the opportunity to be close to me, I snapped my priorities into place. I made the decision to skip NYC and put her first.
This weekend was a little more difficult because it was me I had to decide to place first. And rather than worry about pleasing another person or whether I live up to his predetermined expectations, for the first time in a long while -- possibly ever -- I said "no" to another in lieu of myself. I'd love to conclude "it was easy" -- but I can't. It was extremely hard and is still eating at me. I'm upset that I hurt someone's feelings (self-involved though he may be) and I'm upset that I did not live up to his needs. ...I'm proud of the decision...but I sure as hell hope this gets easier.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Mission Accomplished
A public "thank you" to food poisoning. I officially weigh the correct weight as stated on my driver's license. I so win....
Friday, April 1, 2011
Classy
The Cadillac margartia is the gift that keeps on giving. And I need to write about my evening so I shame myself into not repeating it.
We last left our hero dealing with a mortgage. The situation reached critical mass yesterday (which was incidentally Cesar Chavez Day) when Nora the loan officer called me (no exaggeration) eight times regarding a 401k statement. Apparently the first 14 copies of the documentation she needed were not sufficient and she needed a 15th. I, of course, was speaking at a conference and unavailable to readily fulfill her every need. My stomach was in knots attempting to deal with her and meet my impending closing deadline ... all while staring down the fucking barrel of a socialist bank holiday.
At about 4pm I head to the rooftop bar with a colleague. While searching for a seat and debating whether to sit in the sun or shade, a skater-boy offers me his chair. So I accept. And kick back two very strong margaritas. Incidentally, we all have our flirt-with-but-don't-marry types -- and tattooed, skater-punks happen to be mine. (As are bartenders. If he had been the bartender, I probably would have had sex with him right on the spot.)
As you can imagine, the rest of this ends pretty badly. Specifically, it ends with me making out with the skater-punk at the bar. In front of co-workers. I then proceed to call two other co-workers who I assumed were dying to talk to me. (They weren't.) I then called new-boy that I'm seeing (who also -- not dying to talk to me. Really. Because after six or so times, he picked up the phone and said, "please stop calling me.") I then proceed to lose my wallet. In my own car. Which I don't realize until I go back into the hotel to look for it and involve all of hotel security.
All of this would have been par for the course if I were in college. But I'm not. I am a professional grown up who (let's recap): 1) committed PDA; 2) harassed co-workers. And hotel security; and 3) annoyed the hell out of newest-boyfriend. ...and likely ruined that avenue for ever having sex again.
Obviously this is Cesar Chavez's fault. And the bank's. Please just allow economic recovery to happen without excessively rigid loan standards. The world would be a classier place.
We last left our hero dealing with a mortgage. The situation reached critical mass yesterday (which was incidentally Cesar Chavez Day) when Nora the loan officer called me (no exaggeration) eight times regarding a 401k statement. Apparently the first 14 copies of the documentation she needed were not sufficient and she needed a 15th. I, of course, was speaking at a conference and unavailable to readily fulfill her every need. My stomach was in knots attempting to deal with her and meet my impending closing deadline ... all while staring down the fucking barrel of a socialist bank holiday.
At about 4pm I head to the rooftop bar with a colleague. While searching for a seat and debating whether to sit in the sun or shade, a skater-boy offers me his chair. So I accept. And kick back two very strong margaritas. Incidentally, we all have our flirt-with-but-don't-marry types -- and tattooed, skater-punks happen to be mine. (As are bartenders. If he had been the bartender, I probably would have had sex with him right on the spot.)
As you can imagine, the rest of this ends pretty badly. Specifically, it ends with me making out with the skater-punk at the bar. In front of co-workers. I then proceed to call two other co-workers who I assumed were dying to talk to me. (They weren't.) I then called new-boy that I'm seeing (who also -- not dying to talk to me. Really. Because after six or so times, he picked up the phone and said, "please stop calling me.") I then proceed to lose my wallet. In my own car. Which I don't realize until I go back into the hotel to look for it and involve all of hotel security.
All of this would have been par for the course if I were in college. But I'm not. I am a professional grown up who (let's recap): 1) committed PDA; 2) harassed co-workers. And hotel security; and 3) annoyed the hell out of newest-boyfriend. ...and likely ruined that avenue for ever having sex again.
Obviously this is Cesar Chavez's fault. And the bank's. Please just allow economic recovery to happen without excessively rigid loan standards. The world would be a classier place.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Protect and Defend
When I was younger, I was a kickin' feminist. Here's an early example: after I saw Top Gun, I decided I wanted to be a fighter pilot. When I told my dad, he informed me that I could not be a pilot. And as you might expect, I went from zero to 60: "Why? Because I'm a girl? That's so sexist! I can do anything I want -- and I can do it better than any boy!" He remained unfazed by my rant and calmly responded, "No. Because you're nearsighted."
...Oh.
I have always been fiercely independent. (If I ever ask for your help, it's mission critical. And it took a lot -- like "natural disaster" a lot -- for me to even ask.) I was the only girl in my old office that changed the water cooler. I'm the kid who would take out the trash. I would change the oil in the car (yes, I can do that), and multiple other tasks that -- as my friend Joanne would say -- were not within my stereotypical gender role. Apparently lots of women want to be rescued. I'm not sure if that comes from Cinderella princess stories that are shoved down our throats as children or from hormones...but it's always been a difficult concept for me to understand. I was taught to take care of myself. I've actually been accused of being too independent. My response? ...no such thing.
But moving cross-country and getting a divorce at the same time took a toll on me last fall. (And I don't recommend this type of multi-tasking, just fyi.) I cried a lot. After a particularly difficult conversation with my ex, I hung up the phone choking on sobs. When I looked up, Toby --who is my roommate's dog-- was at my side. Toby, as it turns out, is a protector. He did not leave my side for the next month. When I cried, Toby was there. I retreated to my room, Toby came with me. I went outside for some air, Toby was by my side. I'd never experienced that. The only thing he wanted was for me to be ok. No questions asked. Nothing expected in return. To need help -- and not have to ask for help -- was ...nice. And new to me.
In February, my friend Ryan (who you'll remember is HUGE in Pittsburgh's gay community) came for a visit. It was the most fortuitous social visit I have ever received. In the midst of his visit, I was battling with a mortgage broker who (in a nutshell) was attempting to take advantage of me. Let me back up a moment and explain. I'm a smart girl. But I'm also lazy. And I believe that we should all do what we're good at. Numbers, as it turns out, are not my thing. Yeah, I made "A's" in math, but it takes more effort for me than other subjects.* And when people start explaining things like prime rates and HUD 1 forms, I automatically tune out. ( ...I assume this is an instinctual response. Mother Nature knows I need to save my limited energy for other matters. Like ...shoes...stupid movie quotes. You know, worthwhile things.)
*The age-old joke that lawyers are bad at math is actually not a joke. I considered pursuing a Masters in Women's Studies until I realized I would have to take the GRE and endure numbers and equations again. The LSAT incidentally has no math. Hence, I became an attorney.
Ryan happens to flip houses, and he understands HUD 1 forms and mortgage brokers (-- and the fancy commissions they make when they don't explain options and attempt to take advantage of others). As I reviewed and signed various forms, I began asking Ryan questions. He paused. He looked at the forms. He asked questions of me. He took my blackberry and asked questions of the broker. And when the two of us went to drop off the signed paperwork, and I received a veiled reply to "my" questions from said broker, Ryan took charge of the situation. We were literally in the lobby, about to drop off the forms that would determine my mortgage interest rate, my monthly housing payments, and hence my financial future. Ryan looked at the response. He looked at the forms. He declared, "We're leaving." And off we went. I tottled after him in my four inch heels...obedient, yet clueless .
Ryan took me to a local credit union. We sat down with Alicia the mortgage specialist, and the two of them -- in sum -- saved my financial life. Ryan took care of everything. He knew what to ask. He knew what to look for. When my debt to god-knows-what ratio was too high, he flipped Alicia's computer screen around and discovered a couple of egregious errors in my credit report (incidentally, my student loan payment is not $3,000 a month) . He added "points" so that my closing costs matched the seller's contribution. And most importantly, he lowered my interest rate by three entire points. Three. Entire. Points. Perhaps you don't understand the magnitude of this. Interest rates fluctuate by an eighth of a point at a time. He brought that number down 24 times. Allow me to channel Anchorman -- this was a really big deal.
My heart all but exploded with gratitude. (At one point during the process, I turned to Ryan and said, "If you weren't gay, I would totally have sex with you right now." Alicia laughed. Ryan politely requested that I keep my female parts to myself.) I had not ever experienced such heroic behavior. Ryan not only took control of the situation, but he also completely alleviated the problem. I had such love and admiration for him in that moment. I felt so completely cared for...like a womb of (financial) safety.
I don't know what this means for my future as a feminist. Any day now, they might knock on the door and revoke my card. Then again, maybe this is a sign of maturity -- to be able to give up control and trust someone with your whole (again, financial) being. I'm not changing my stance on being independent. I don't NEED to be rescued. But I've decided that sometimes...just sometimes... I would like to be.
...Oh.
I have always been fiercely independent. (If I ever ask for your help, it's mission critical. And it took a lot -- like "natural disaster" a lot -- for me to even ask.) I was the only girl in my old office that changed the water cooler. I'm the kid who would take out the trash. I would change the oil in the car (yes, I can do that), and multiple other tasks that -- as my friend Joanne would say -- were not within my stereotypical gender role. Apparently lots of women want to be rescued. I'm not sure if that comes from Cinderella princess stories that are shoved down our throats as children or from hormones...but it's always been a difficult concept for me to understand. I was taught to take care of myself. I've actually been accused of being too independent. My response? ...no such thing.
But moving cross-country and getting a divorce at the same time took a toll on me last fall. (And I don't recommend this type of multi-tasking, just fyi.) I cried a lot. After a particularly difficult conversation with my ex, I hung up the phone choking on sobs. When I looked up, Toby --who is my roommate's dog-- was at my side. Toby, as it turns out, is a protector. He did not leave my side for the next month. When I cried, Toby was there. I retreated to my room, Toby came with me. I went outside for some air, Toby was by my side. I'd never experienced that. The only thing he wanted was for me to be ok. No questions asked. Nothing expected in return. To need help -- and not have to ask for help -- was ...nice. And new to me.
In February, my friend Ryan (who you'll remember is HUGE in Pittsburgh's gay community) came for a visit. It was the most fortuitous social visit I have ever received. In the midst of his visit, I was battling with a mortgage broker who (in a nutshell) was attempting to take advantage of me. Let me back up a moment and explain. I'm a smart girl. But I'm also lazy. And I believe that we should all do what we're good at. Numbers, as it turns out, are not my thing. Yeah, I made "A's" in math, but it takes more effort for me than other subjects.* And when people start explaining things like prime rates and HUD 1 forms, I automatically tune out. ( ...I assume this is an instinctual response. Mother Nature knows I need to save my limited energy for other matters. Like ...shoes...stupid movie quotes. You know, worthwhile things.)
*The age-old joke that lawyers are bad at math is actually not a joke. I considered pursuing a Masters in Women's Studies until I realized I would have to take the GRE and endure numbers and equations again. The LSAT incidentally has no math. Hence, I became an attorney.
Ryan happens to flip houses, and he understands HUD 1 forms and mortgage brokers (-- and the fancy commissions they make when they don't explain options and attempt to take advantage of others). As I reviewed and signed various forms, I began asking Ryan questions. He paused. He looked at the forms. He asked questions of me. He took my blackberry and asked questions of the broker. And when the two of us went to drop off the signed paperwork, and I received a veiled reply to "my" questions from said broker, Ryan took charge of the situation. We were literally in the lobby, about to drop off the forms that would determine my mortgage interest rate, my monthly housing payments, and hence my financial future. Ryan looked at the response. He looked at the forms. He declared, "We're leaving." And off we went. I tottled after him in my four inch heels...obedient, yet clueless .
Ryan took me to a local credit union. We sat down with Alicia the mortgage specialist, and the two of them -- in sum -- saved my financial life. Ryan took care of everything. He knew what to ask. He knew what to look for. When my debt to god-knows-what ratio was too high, he flipped Alicia's computer screen around and discovered a couple of egregious errors in my credit report (incidentally, my student loan payment is not $3,000 a month) . He added "points" so that my closing costs matched the seller's contribution. And most importantly, he lowered my interest rate by three entire points. Three. Entire. Points. Perhaps you don't understand the magnitude of this. Interest rates fluctuate by an eighth of a point at a time. He brought that number down 24 times. Allow me to channel Anchorman -- this was a really big deal.
My heart all but exploded with gratitude. (At one point during the process, I turned to Ryan and said, "If you weren't gay, I would totally have sex with you right now." Alicia laughed. Ryan politely requested that I keep my female parts to myself.) I had not ever experienced such heroic behavior. Ryan not only took control of the situation, but he also completely alleviated the problem. I had such love and admiration for him in that moment. I felt so completely cared for...like a womb of (financial) safety.
I don't know what this means for my future as a feminist. Any day now, they might knock on the door and revoke my card. Then again, maybe this is a sign of maturity -- to be able to give up control and trust someone with your whole (again, financial) being. I'm not changing my stance on being independent. I don't NEED to be rescued. But I've decided that sometimes...just sometimes... I would like to be.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Unfunded Mandates
I hate driving. And I've never driven as much as I have since moving to Southern California. If I had any other choice -- a train, a bus, a dog-sled -- I would take it. But in SoCal, the car is king. So I drive. Unfortunately, so does everyone else. And that sad fact confirms my belief that a driver's license should be way, way harder to obtain....
Driving was not mandated on the East Coast. In DC, I had ample alternatives for transportation. True, I complained about each and every one - but at least they were there. Everyone I've ever met has been impressed with the metro (our version of the subway) in DC. The carpeted, color-coded metro system was pure bliss when I first arrived in our nation's capitol. Granted, because all city stops are underground, I didn't know where the hell I was or how I got there for my first three years (much like the Floo Network in the wizarding world ...). But it took me where I needed to go. I didn't worry about gas prices. Or car insurance. Or parking.
Of course the problem with public transportation is that anyone can take it. And who did I hate the most? Not the bureaucrats dressed entirely in tan with their lanyards and work badges on after hours (how super-swell that you work for the Chamber of Commerce). Not the tourists either. It was the interns. More specifically, the summer interns. Interns and tourists are both necessary evils in the nation's capital. Here's the difference: tourists know they're not important. Interns don't.
I loved overhearing (and by "overhearing" I mean "making fun of") metro conversations between 19-year-olds discussing how the Senator was relying on them to report back from such-and-such hearing and it was vital that the memo be finished tonight. Or how intern #2 had spent all day researching a constituent issue in the Library of Congress and had brought home multiple documents to read in order to properly inform this constituent about why we have daylight savings time. But the item that annoyed me the most, was that all these interns were in my way. Not figuratively -- literally. In the fucking way.
During summer months, interns stood all over the escalators rather than standing to the right and walking on the left -- which is the #1 Rule that must be obeyed in order for a civilized society to function. (Rule #2 is do not leave your window air conditioner on the porch or the neighborhood crack whore will steal it. Learned that one the hard way...). In addition, these interns refused to move to the center of the car, crowding the doors of the train so no one else could exit or enter. They also reeked from the repulsive stench of stale beer because they were all so hungover from the night before. So even when I was able to push my way through the masses into the inner sanctity of the car, I threw up in my mouth a little.... (BTW, I never behaved that way when I was 19. I was an angel.)
All those years of bitching...I never realized that the alternative was to sit in traffic day and night on "the" 5 or "the" 15. And now I know why the "the" is used before naming the interstate on the west coast and not the east -- because the fucking interstate is "the" only way to get anywhere. ...how I long for an intern to vomit on my shoes in an enclosed underground space....
The bus was yet another safe alternative in DC -- no, really. The schedule was not always reliable, but it made life very simple. Hell, even the tourist contraptions were a mode of transport for my friends and me. All my friend Brendan wanted for his 30th birthday was to do a bar crawl via the "Old Town Trolley." We hopped on. We hopped off. We drank. We hopped on again. Both the driver and the tourists were super-annoyed at the end of the day -- although I think that was less because of our obnoxious-drunken behavior, and more because our buddy Chris passed out spread-eagle in the back of the tram...and unfortunately for all involved, he was free-balling that day.... But yet again -- how I long to hang in a tourist contraption with my free-balling friend rather than face another commute on the 5.
Marathon driving is now my reality. I'm not happy about it. It's definitely a deterrent at times. I have a lot fewer people to make fun of on my daily commute...but until I figure out the Floo Network for myself, I guess I'll just keep bitching.
Driving was not mandated on the East Coast. In DC, I had ample alternatives for transportation. True, I complained about each and every one - but at least they were there. Everyone I've ever met has been impressed with the metro (our version of the subway) in DC. The carpeted, color-coded metro system was pure bliss when I first arrived in our nation's capitol. Granted, because all city stops are underground, I didn't know where the hell I was or how I got there for my first three years (much like the Floo Network in the wizarding world ...). But it took me where I needed to go. I didn't worry about gas prices. Or car insurance. Or parking.
Of course the problem with public transportation is that anyone can take it. And who did I hate the most? Not the bureaucrats dressed entirely in tan with their lanyards and work badges on after hours (how super-swell that you work for the Chamber of Commerce). Not the tourists either. It was the interns. More specifically, the summer interns. Interns and tourists are both necessary evils in the nation's capital. Here's the difference: tourists know they're not important. Interns don't.
I loved overhearing (and by "overhearing" I mean "making fun of") metro conversations between 19-year-olds discussing how the Senator was relying on them to report back from such-and-such hearing and it was vital that the memo be finished tonight. Or how intern #2 had spent all day researching a constituent issue in the Library of Congress and had brought home multiple documents to read in order to properly inform this constituent about why we have daylight savings time. But the item that annoyed me the most, was that all these interns were in my way. Not figuratively -- literally. In the fucking way.
During summer months, interns stood all over the escalators rather than standing to the right and walking on the left -- which is the #1 Rule that must be obeyed in order for a civilized society to function. (Rule #2 is do not leave your window air conditioner on the porch or the neighborhood crack whore will steal it. Learned that one the hard way...). In addition, these interns refused to move to the center of the car, crowding the doors of the train so no one else could exit or enter. They also reeked from the repulsive stench of stale beer because they were all so hungover from the night before. So even when I was able to push my way through the masses into the inner sanctity of the car, I threw up in my mouth a little.... (BTW, I never behaved that way when I was 19. I was an angel.)
All those years of bitching...I never realized that the alternative was to sit in traffic day and night on "the" 5 or "the" 15. And now I know why the "the" is used before naming the interstate on the west coast and not the east -- because the fucking interstate is "the" only way to get anywhere. ...how I long for an intern to vomit on my shoes in an enclosed underground space....
The bus was yet another safe alternative in DC -- no, really. The schedule was not always reliable, but it made life very simple. Hell, even the tourist contraptions were a mode of transport for my friends and me. All my friend Brendan wanted for his 30th birthday was to do a bar crawl via the "Old Town Trolley." We hopped on. We hopped off. We drank. We hopped on again. Both the driver and the tourists were super-annoyed at the end of the day -- although I think that was less because of our obnoxious-drunken behavior, and more because our buddy Chris passed out spread-eagle in the back of the tram...and unfortunately for all involved, he was free-balling that day.... But yet again -- how I long to hang in a tourist contraption with my free-balling friend rather than face another commute on the 5.
Marathon driving is now my reality. I'm not happy about it. It's definitely a deterrent at times. I have a lot fewer people to make fun of on my daily commute...but until I figure out the Floo Network for myself, I guess I'll just keep bitching.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Who Knew?
...not much I can add as far as smart-ass wit...it stands alone...
http://www.aftertherapturepetcare.com/
http://www.aftertherapturepetcare.com/
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Bringin' Sexy Back
At the gym today, I saw a female (FEMALE) wearing zubazs. Please stop the planet, I would like to get off now.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Why Lying Works
So, per a discussion with another divorc-ing friend, I changed my online dating profile -- and by "change" I mean lie. ...like I'm now five years yonger and I've never been married. My girlfriend Michelle told me that her brother's current girlfriend said she was four years younger in her online dating profile -- and later had to admit that minor detail to the boy (8th grade...12th grade...both graduation years).
Since Michelle and I were 1) out for drinks; and 2) the story was proof positive that lying was an effective tool in the art of seduction, we came home and changed my dating profile. And you know what the sad thing is... it worked. I immediately received several messages from attractive (really attractive) men in my own age range. Previously, men my own age were not interested (see my eariler post on the expiration date of women). Instead, I received messages from men who should be asking out my mother not me (and I wish I was exagerrating on that one).
Could someone explain why the hell this is? If you're in your mid-thirties, why are you dating a 23 year old? Or the better question, why do you insist on only dating 23 year olds, rather than an individual within a five year age range on either side? It tells me you are not serious about being in a relationship, and therefore should not be paying money to be online. It also tells me you're kinda creepy and definitely a douche.
Full disclosure, I have not gone out with any of these boys. I'm not a very good liar (despite the law degree) and do not want to explain the broad-brush logic that altered my age from Nixon-era to Carter-era. Besides, if he wasn't interested prior to my crafty math skills, we're not gonna get along. ...Because creepy and douchy are both deal-breakers in my world.
Since Michelle and I were 1) out for drinks; and 2) the story was proof positive that lying was an effective tool in the art of seduction, we came home and changed my dating profile. And you know what the sad thing is... it worked. I immediately received several messages from attractive (really attractive) men in my own age range. Previously, men my own age were not interested (see my eariler post on the expiration date of women). Instead, I received messages from men who should be asking out my mother not me (and I wish I was exagerrating on that one).
Could someone explain why the hell this is? If you're in your mid-thirties, why are you dating a 23 year old? Or the better question, why do you insist on only dating 23 year olds, rather than an individual within a five year age range on either side? It tells me you are not serious about being in a relationship, and therefore should not be paying money to be online. It also tells me you're kinda creepy and definitely a douche.
Full disclosure, I have not gone out with any of these boys. I'm not a very good liar (despite the law degree) and do not want to explain the broad-brush logic that altered my age from Nixon-era to Carter-era. Besides, if he wasn't interested prior to my crafty math skills, we're not gonna get along. ...Because creepy and douchy are both deal-breakers in my world.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
...Switch
As previously mentioned (and common sense dictates), moving to a new city and meeting people is not easy. (Unless you're in college. Then it's awesome.) But after the most recent, I am beginning to question my karma in this genre.
Admittedly, I can be overly dramatic sometimes (shut up). I recently called my bff in Indiana complaining about my woe-is-me social life. She gave me an inspiring pep talk (which is why she's my bff). "You need to meet some people who surf or bike... or a running club...join a club; you'll find your people and find your niche." She was right. I had an invitation from a colleague to join his running club; another friend encouraged me to join the local triathlon club. Both good ideas; but without explicit detail (such as, "meet me here at x time"...or better yet, "I'll pick you up at xpm.") I lack the follow-through. And since no one else follows through either (see my February 5th post on flaky California), I rather spend the evening watching reruns of Glee. ...because honestly, I'm exhausted.
In a new town, everything is a chore. Example: I need to go to the dry cleaner - I have to (a) go online to research; (b) locate a reliable dry cleaner; (c) find directions to reliable dry cleaner; (d) complete the task by driving to said dry cleaner and dropping off clothes. ...You really start to appreciate all those little things you were able to do on auto-pilot in your previous life.
I was discussing my transition to SoCal with a colleague who mentioned how his wife had a lot of luck meeting people through meetup.com. I took his advice and went onto the website... and more of the same occurred. Example #2: "Let's go Mountain Biking." I have to figure out where said mountain biking location is; I have to look up directions; I have to load my 40 pound mountain bike on my car; I have to actually find said location, unload bike, and THEN - and only then do I meet new people (on my best behavior), and try not to make an ass out of myself with my sub-part skills while riding a new course.... Fuck it, I'll stay in with Finn.
Then low-and-behold...I find an all-female surf club. This alleviates a big fear of mine: being judged. Women are more encouraging and less competitive when it comes to outdoor activities. Someone might actually teach me and give me advice to improve my skills. (It also alleviates my fear of drowning. Because if other people are around who know me (or at least know of my existence), they will be less likely to let me drown...or surf into a rock... and then drown.) I fill out the sign-up form, explain that I'm new in town, I've surfed a couple times, and I want to make friends and improve my skills in a non-competitive environment.
A few days pass and I receive a confirmation email that my membership is approved (hurray!). I open the email which gives some basics about my new super-cool surfer girl friends. The headline reads (and I swear to god, I'm not kidding), "Welcome to the Lesbian Community."
...definitely think karma might be telling me a few things there....
Admittedly, I can be overly dramatic sometimes (shut up). I recently called my bff in Indiana complaining about my woe-is-me social life. She gave me an inspiring pep talk (which is why she's my bff). "You need to meet some people who surf or bike... or a running club...join a club; you'll find your people and find your niche." She was right. I had an invitation from a colleague to join his running club; another friend encouraged me to join the local triathlon club. Both good ideas; but without explicit detail (such as, "meet me here at x time"...or better yet, "I'll pick you up at xpm.") I lack the follow-through. And since no one else follows through either (see my February 5th post on flaky California), I rather spend the evening watching reruns of Glee. ...because honestly, I'm exhausted.
In a new town, everything is a chore. Example: I need to go to the dry cleaner - I have to (a) go online to research; (b) locate a reliable dry cleaner; (c) find directions to reliable dry cleaner; (d) complete the task by driving to said dry cleaner and dropping off clothes. ...You really start to appreciate all those little things you were able to do on auto-pilot in your previous life.
I was discussing my transition to SoCal with a colleague who mentioned how his wife had a lot of luck meeting people through meetup.com. I took his advice and went onto the website... and more of the same occurred. Example #2: "Let's go Mountain Biking." I have to figure out where said mountain biking location is; I have to look up directions; I have to load my 40 pound mountain bike on my car; I have to actually find said location, unload bike, and THEN - and only then do I meet new people (on my best behavior), and try not to make an ass out of myself with my sub-part skills while riding a new course.... Fuck it, I'll stay in with Finn.
Then low-and-behold...I find an all-female surf club. This alleviates a big fear of mine: being judged. Women are more encouraging and less competitive when it comes to outdoor activities. Someone might actually teach me and give me advice to improve my skills. (It also alleviates my fear of drowning. Because if other people are around who know me (or at least know of my existence), they will be less likely to let me drown...or surf into a rock... and then drown.) I fill out the sign-up form, explain that I'm new in town, I've surfed a couple times, and I want to make friends and improve my skills in a non-competitive environment.
A few days pass and I receive a confirmation email that my membership is approved (hurray!). I open the email which gives some basics about my new super-cool surfer girl friends. The headline reads (and I swear to god, I'm not kidding), "Welcome to the Lesbian Community."
...definitely think karma might be telling me a few things there....
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Careful What You Wish For, Eygpt
I’m a fairly ignorant American when it comes to international affairs. The Kardashians, I could tell you about; Armenia itself – not so much. And, yes, I realize I should renew my subscription to “The Economist,” but the best I’ve done recently is turn on CNN every few days or so. During the last three-plus weeks, I’ve been provided with “ blah, blah, blah, Egypt, blah blah protest” …but no one took the time to back up and explain:
(a) what was happening;
(b) why it was happening; and
(c) why I should care.
So I didn’t care. However, when a (blonde) colleague turned to me a week or so ago and asked me why the Egyptians were mad at Anderson Cooper, I started digging a little deeper. (not because of this colleague’s ignorance, mind you...but because Anderson Cooper is hot.)
This is what I’ve caught: the Egyptians have had a dictator, not a president. Hosni Mubarak first took office under emergency law when Anwar Sadat was assonated on October 6, 1981. At that time, the premise was to prevent the Muslim Brotherhood from overtaking the Egyptian government (I’m not sure why that would have been bad, especially when the Muslim Brotherhood is now to be a “major political force” in the new Egypt). That lasted 28 years. The people felt repressed; they protested peacefully (with the exception of the Anderson Cooper thing) for 18 days and now Mubarak is to be replaced with a high military council.
….And scene. Right? …didn’t think so.
Although the Egyptian people are overjoyed, and we as democratic citizens of the world are grateful that good has triumphed over evil, I have to pause. …could someone explain to me what a “high military council” is? Who makes up this so-called council – besides the Minister of Defense Mohammed Hussein Tantawi (who is not photogenic by the way, and does not instill a lot of confidence in me personally)? …and why am I associating “military council” with “dictatorship” – which happens to be the same reign that oppressed the Egyptian people up until yesterday. Call me a pessimist, but I’ll need some additional details before signing off on this one.
The other question I have is whether democracy will actually work in the Middle East. If Mubarak’s 28 stronghold can collapse in 18 days, what will happen with other governments in the region? Will those currently in power grant concessions to their people, or will their grip on political authority only become stronger? Twenty-eight years and 19 days later, I’m still confused.
To the Egyptian people, congratulations. You have effected significant change, and that is rare and notable. For myself, I still have more questions than answers: Is Egypt truly free? Will democracy prevail in the Middle East? Did the U.S. occupation of Iraq have a significant impact on Mubarak’s fall? And if so, what is the U.S.’s responsibility on this world stage? For now, I suppose I’ll stay tuned.
Egypt – If I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open. Anderson – I’m glad you’re safe. And still pretty.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
To Be or Not to Be
People in California are flaky. And non-committal. And this week I've reached my limit.
A couple weeks back, a friend and I were talking about boxing. I mentioned how I took a class once a week on the east coast and was missing it. Because said friend has guest passes to his crazy boxing/marital arts gym (one of the five gyms he's a member of...because all people do here is workout), he mentions that I should go check it out with him sometime. He offers, right? So you'd think that because an offer was made ...and I accepted said offer...and I follow up -- three times --that eventually he would take me to the fucking gym. You'd be wrong.
Example #2: I meet a boy online. I chat with online-boy. We start texting. We start talking. He even offers to pick me up from the airport...in LA (which is not close, and no, I will not do that for you). But after six weeks, has he asked me out? Clearly, the answer is no.
Between these incidents (and trying to survive on one income in a state with a 9.3 percent income tax (fucking socialists)), I'm starting to question this move to the Golden State (...golden...because they take all my gold). How is it possible that I'll meet people and make friends when I can't get the few people I know to follow through?
My frustration led me to ask another DC transplant where all the bitchy East Coasters hang out. His answer...they go home.
A couple weeks back, a friend and I were talking about boxing. I mentioned how I took a class once a week on the east coast and was missing it. Because said friend has guest passes to his crazy boxing/marital arts gym (one of the five gyms he's a member of...because all people do here is workout), he mentions that I should go check it out with him sometime. He offers, right? So you'd think that because an offer was made ...and I accepted said offer...and I follow up -- three times --that eventually he would take me to the fucking gym. You'd be wrong.
Example #2: I meet a boy online. I chat with online-boy. We start texting. We start talking. He even offers to pick me up from the airport...in LA (which is not close, and no, I will not do that for you). But after six weeks, has he asked me out? Clearly, the answer is no.
Between these incidents (and trying to survive on one income in a state with a 9.3 percent income tax (fucking socialists)), I'm starting to question this move to the Golden State (...golden...because they take all my gold). How is it possible that I'll meet people and make friends when I can't get the few people I know to follow through?
My frustration led me to ask another DC transplant where all the bitchy East Coasters hang out. His answer...they go home.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Expiration Date
I had lunch with co-workers recently and learned the following: Men don't want to date women older than themselves, because women "expire." Stay with me... apparently women -- like an IRS audits -- have a statute of limitations, because there are only so many years that we are actually available for childbearing purposes. ... I am assuming (according to this 26 year old) that my pro-creation skills are more valuable than all my other talents combined. And I wish I knew that years ago, because I certainly would not have bothered going to law school.
Offensive as the phrasing of this may be, I do get the point. And I'm quite concerned about it (which you probably picked up on since I'm writing about it). I'm not getting younger. I am getting divorced. And the combination worries me...not because I want to be in a relationship or have a baby...but because the possibility could be taken away.
Then again, if the alternative to being alone is dating some kid born during Regan's second term with little tact...well, I think we all know my answer to that choice... I'll channel Nancy and just say no.
Offensive as the phrasing of this may be, I do get the point. And I'm quite concerned about it (which you probably picked up on since I'm writing about it). I'm not getting younger. I am getting divorced. And the combination worries me...not because I want to be in a relationship or have a baby...but because the possibility could be taken away.
Then again, if the alternative to being alone is dating some kid born during Regan's second term with little tact...well, I think we all know my answer to that choice... I'll channel Nancy and just say no.
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