Spilled Perfume

Let It Not be the Worst

2008-08-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

Even though they've faded, and in some cases even stopped altogether...I can still hear the voices that moved me out here. You think it's ridiculous that five little blogs can be the reason anyone picks it up, sells all their belongings for a whopping $700, and moves across the country to a city where they only know two souls. And vaguely at that. Ridiculous, but true.

Greek Tragedy
Manhattan Transfer
This Fish Needs a Bicycle
The Daily Dump
Jason Mulgrew

I loved the voice they gave New York. It was a New York I needed to experience for myself. Even more I loved the voice they inspired me to give myself. Although, I wish I could pretend it had been a voice that was a few shades happier.

I had every intention of moving out here and becoming the next Carrie Bradshaw. Only better. Writing 500 words a week and bounding across the city in my $800 hot pink and fringed stilettos to meet the Mr Right of Tonight. I knew every last detail of her was a massive lie. But I wanted to prove it could be true. So bad I thought maybe I actually could. At least for a year or two before I moved back to Seattle to find myself a man and settle down. The first step in realizing that dream would have been to keep writing.

My boyfriend. Yeah boyfriend. I know...it's still weird for me too. Would cringe. I'm not sure he ever realized how much I wanted to be her. But better. Cooler and more real. And without the horse face.

In the end I got a little more than I bargained for. Some seriously chronic knee pain. A new ACL, a permanent limp, and $15,000 in medical bills. I got some business casual flats, a few suits, and a corporate, such a corporate job. Let it not be the last, but please let it be the worst job I will ever have. I got a chinchilla. Vinny. He is my pet and I love him. I got a shitty ass apartment I can't afford in a hot ass part of the city that I can no longer imagine my life without. And I got a boyfriend. A 6'9" boyfriend, which is especially ironic because I now have hordes of high heels that I will probably never, ever wear again packed away under my bed. And under my desk. And in the living room closet.

And despite all this, somewhere along the line I ran out of things to write about. I'd like to think it's not because I ran out of things to complain about. Or laugh about. But it might be just that. It's pretty amazing how two knee surgeries, four months in a chair on your parents farm, a stack of bills, and a fifth floor walk up in the heart of the city can steal your sense of humor. And it's pretty amazing how some great friends and a boyfriend who surprises you with squishables, a new laptop, and no fear of committment will take away your will to complain.

Lately, I've been waiting and hoping and wishing I would find some other way to inspire myself and get this thing up and running again. But today, as I was walking home from Pizza Gruppo. (Ps..if you've never been, you need to go. now), the Red Hot Chili Peppers "Tell Me Baby" spelled it out for me. A

Tell Me Baby
What's Your Story
Where You Come From
And Where You Wanna Go This Time

My theme song, when I arrived in March of 2006, is no longer applicable. I was from somewhere and I was going somewhere.

But now.

There is no where else to go. I'm home. I'm grown up. I can't broadcast my drunken debacles to the world anymore. And really there aren't that many of them to broadcast these days. I don't get bloody noses when I make out with boys. I don't bum cigarettes from bums or burn my eyebrows off for that matter. No one has to pick me up from happy hour to make sure I get home in time for the OC..or Gossip Girl. Because I can just hop on the subway. Neither I, nor my friends, get kicked out of bars. I can't even remember the last time I showed up at work still drunk. Or even had the desire too.

I'm not going anywhere, you already know where I'm from. And my tragic love story has already been written, complete with happy ending.

You want the guts and glory of how two people ended up here. I've already given you my side and sadly, I don't know how to write anyone's else side. Unless things go drastically wrong in the next few months, I don't plan on being back. Just wanted to make it official.

What were they Thinking?

2006-12-01T10:13:00.000-08:00

Clearly, they weren't. As if they ever had a fighting chance of competing against television's latest All Star.

And I have to admit that even I, a die-hard OC fan since the first episode, haven't been able to bring myself to choose the OC over Grey's these days. But I didn't realize the damage had gone this far.

From what I've seen when checking in on the OC during Grey's commercial breaks, so far this season has been smokin' hot! But blame the Seattle-ite in me; I just can't seem to quit Grey's even though I abhor Meredith's annoyingly neurotic, depressed, and whiny narrations. Or maybe I'm still just feeling hurt and betrayed after getting burned on the much anticipated but highly diaspointing first half of the OC's second season. I've always been a hard sell on the second chances.

But still, it makes me a little nostalgic for the good ole' days. The days when I would call up the roomie and beg her to pretty please (panic oozing out through my slurred words) come pick me up from Happy Hour ten minutes before the OC started so I wouldn't miss a single scene. Or the day I stalked Adam Brody through Barnes and Nobles feigning interest in the same boring autobiographies he was perusing, and blowing off both my good friend and an appointment to view what probably would have been my dream apartment. Or the time I spotted Adam Brody reading a book at a table outside Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and forced my then-boyfriend to turn the car around and buy me a coffee so we could "sit outside in the sun and enjoy the lovely view on Sunset Boulevard for a few minutes". Or the glory of Thursday mornings, when confused OC viewers would come to me for clarification on last night's episodes. Or the hour long debriefings I would give my carpool buddy before I turned him into a die-hard fan as well. (Although, I've always had a sneaking suspicion he only started watching as an attempt to get me to shut the hell up).

I loved those Sunny So. Cal days. I even miss them a little. So starting today, I'll be making it a point to start checking in on a regular basis. Because it would be this year’s greatest trajesty if the OC were canceled. And I'm really not ready to say good-bye to a show that has brought so much joy into my life. So let's all Save the OC. Pretty please?

Life's A Shitshow

2006-11-28T21:05:00.000-08:00

You're coming. You're going. You're laughing. You're crying. You're up and then down. Today work's great. Tomorrow it will suck. The moments of doubt get bigger and badder. Did you do the right thing? Did you buy the right shoes? Did you just make the biggest mistake of your life?

And you don't know. You never know if you're headed in the right direction. Until you find yourself standing in the middle of a bar holding your fourth glass of vin-o on what was supposed to be a "two drink maximum Tuesday night" and smiling at two of your best friends while they chat about something important and you pretend to listen because you can't hear over the music and kind of don't really care what they're saying right now anyways. You throw a cold shoulder to the dudes that try to intrude because you can...and because tonight it's not about them. It's about three girls who don't get together nearly as often as they should; enjoying each other's company. Laughing and cheering each other through another tough Tuesday. Trading stories, laughing about the mistakes they've made, and making plans for the future that will undoubtably make that list grow even larger.

For me, it was about the feeling of peace that comes with knowing that for today, for right now; I was in the right place at the right time. And that even though most of the time I feel like I'm walking blind, somehow I made it to the the next check point. I am where I need to be. And everything is as it should be. Even if most of the time my life just feels like one, big, giant shitshow.

You Didn't Hear it Here First

2006-11-15T10:28:00.000-08:00

...and you rarely ever will. This blog owner is way too lazy to be scouring the city looking for cool bars. I would much prefer to let someone else do the work for me, so I can skip straight to the fun without wasting my precious time in crap-ass clubs. And so, this is where I'll be pretty much every Wednesday until my team refuses to let me play anymore. I've never had a problem with free pizza or jumping on bandwagons.

So far, I'm a disgraceful 0 for 48 as far as the triva goes. Being from Seattle and having actually lived through the era o' grunge that put Seattle on the map, one might think I would have known the answer to at least one of six questions falling into the Seattle music category. But nope. Not a single one. But really, just because the younger sister of one of Death Cab for Cutie's members lived two doors down from me Freshmen year of college doesn't mean I should know the names of all the band members...especially not her older brother. How could anyone hold that against me?

Ok, so I really, really suck at the trivia part. But I'm pretty sure that's why they have video games, too. If all else fails, I may just end up quitting trivia all together and focusing my energies on getting the highest Touch a Slut score instead. I've found that I'm much more talented in that arena anyways. Ya' know..cuz I'm such a "classy girl".

Oh. A Hunting We Will Go.

2006-10-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

No. No rifles are involved. (I'm soo not the gun type.) But we will be at The Hunt. Tomorrow, I will be donning my wellies, braving the rainstorms, and getting up earlier than I do on any weekday morning so I can start in with the cocktails before I would normally have my first cup of coffee and stand around watching horses run in circles all day. I'm doing this because it has been the most talked about event in my circle of friends since I moved here last March. And I'm even getting kind of excited; despite my general dislike of all things horsey. But that's mostly due to a traumatic three months of living with a slightly crazed, very horse-obsessed girl my freshmen year of college, who adorned the room with horse figurines, posters, candles, plates, first place jumping ribbons, and even slightly resembled a horse herself. And I really try hard not to let that experience influence any of my decisions involving horse-related activities these days.

So far, it's been described to me as..."The Social Event of the Fall" and "Quite Possibly the Funnest Day of the Year." But I was sold when it was compared to a day of Bing-o at the Trop..."if not equal in levels of in-appropriateness then at least in terms of inconsequential fun and energy levels." Well, there was that, and I also found out we have to communicate via walky talkies because there's no cell phone service. Awesome!

And the Trop. A bar in a small beach town in Jersey where flocks of shore house patrons flood every Sunday between Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends to play Bing-o and listen to a 60+ year old man shouting out Bing-o numbers and dirty jokes about Dirty Vulcans. There are costumes, annoying props (i.e. whistles, helmets, feathers, boas, pom poms), applie pie shots, a line out the door at 10 in the morning, and no words that come even close to describing the glorious-ness of the Trop. For those of you that don’t know the story, this is where I spent my last day of summer. Without a doubt, the single best day of my summer, if not my entire life. I shared half a globe full of beer with strangers, and then watched a boy clear a runway space on the dance floor, make a slip 'n' slide with what was left of his pitcher of beer, and slide on his belly into the feet of the bouncer. And that was just what happened before noon.

So...A hunting I will go tomorrow. And if it's half as fun as the Trop, it will totally be worth the wind, rain, and early morning wake-up call. I have very high hopes.

There's only an I in my compromise

2006-10-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

I promised my 20's to myself. There was plenty of time in my 30's for compromising. For my family, my friends, my career, and maybe even for a boy (he'd have to be pretty damn good, but by 30 I might be willing to consider). But the 20's were going to be all about me. Following my every last whim. And if you wanted me, you could just follow my whims as well. Because in my 20's, there would be no compromise.

I called home today. To tell my mom I had fought and scrapped and begged and won, and I would be home on Dec 22nd for an entire week (and if you've ever worked in retail, you know getting the week after Christmas off is no small feat). And she wasn't excited. The woman who has been sending me 10 job apps a week for positions in Seattle for the past four years wasn't excited that I was coming home on the 22nd of December...for an entire week. What?

She wanted to know if I could stay with a friend in Seattle (two hours away from her) until Sunday. What? What?

This un-enthusiasm was most unusual from the woman who if she had her way would have me still living in my high school bedroom. So, I started digging. And as it turns out, there's a surgery. A minor cosmetic surgery on the 22nd. And she's only told a few people. And the few people she's told have been most unsupportive. Aside from my father, who told her she should do what makes her happy becuause he will always love her (aww...if only we were all that lucky). And a neighbor, whom I believe offered up a holler and a high five. Others offered, hems and haws and what ifs and scarring issues.

And I told her, "Mom. Stop being silly. You deserve this, you've wanted it for years, you are in a lot of pain and this will make it stop, who cares about the scarring because the only person who sees your ta-tas anymore is Dad, and I can't believe you just made me go there." She was shocked by my reaction. She told me about the negative feedback others were giving her. And how she stopped telling people. I said, "I don't know a girl in the world who lopped their big ole' titties off and regretted it. They only thing they regretted was waiting so long to do it in the first place."

Then we hung up. And then, I started crying.

Because my 20's have been..still are...all about me.

But I know, there are only two reasons I have that luxury. And a life without those two is not really a life at all. And what if they don't know that? Because I don't tell them, and it's hard to communicate through the three hour time difference, and because my mother wasn't even going to tell me she was having surgery...blah, blah, blah. She was too busying worrying about how my dad would be able to drive her home after and still make it up to Seattle in time to pick me up at the airport.

And I know it's standard procedure, and it's been done millions of times. But what if? And it would take me six hours of flying and two hours of driving to get there. Or worse, what if I'm on the way...already flying...and no one can get a hold of me because I've been on a plane for six hours. I don't like that my mother, my life, will be in surgery while I'm stuck in a plane.

And these are the times, I seriously start to wonder about this whole compromising thing. And if maybe, I should give it a try without the I.

On Bleach and Barnacles

2006-10-16T19:29:00.000-07:00

I woke up screaming for help and gasping for breath on Friday morning. Terrified.

I was running as fast as I could but moving in slow motion. The homeless, shirtless man with moldy barnacles swinging from his chest, however, was moving along at full speed. He was a mere fingertip's length away from snatching me up and throwing me into what I can only now assume would have been a dirty, disease infested, moldy world when I was finally able to wake myself up with a high pitched yell for "Help!"

So, when I got to work I did what any mid-20's girl (literally shuddering at the word mid-20's, but I've been feeling like it's finally time to accept things as they are) whose only interest in a higher faith involves tarot card readings and timely sales at the shoe store underneath her apartment would do. I googled a dream interpretator. Actually, first I mass emailed five of my closest friends to gather and discuss opinions on the dream. But feeling unsatisfied with the responses, and slightly overshadowed by someone else's dramatics from the previous evening, I opted for Google instead. And according to Dream Moods, "To dream that you are being chased, signifies that you are avoiding a situation that you do not think is conquerable. It is often a metaphor for some form of insecurity." And then I found..."To see mold in your dream, indicates that something in your life has been ignored or is no longer of any use."

So, since I still believed my bathroom was of some use to me. I was only left to assume the "moldy, barnacles chasing me on the chest of a homeless man" dream had something to do with the undesirable state of my bathroom, my own insecurities in my ability to properly clean anything, and a cleaning job that at this point was borderlining insurmountable.

But running being one of my least favorite activities even if it is only in my dreams, I was determined not to re-live the terrifying nightmare. So, I took a deep breath, bought myself a bottle of bleach, a pair of rubber gloves, and some vin-o, and then tackled the impossible. After turning my bathroom from the lair of some hairy beast back into my own bathroom, I was on such a high I thought I might tackle the bedroom next. Maybe it was time to reclaim my bed that some months ago began doubling as a spare closet, leaving me only a tiny little corner on the upper left hand side to curl up in at night. And after cleaning for six straight hours this weekend....

I am proud to announce my dreams have been free of hairy chested homeless men covered in moldy barnacles for at least three nights now.

All the Wrong Places

2006-10-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

The whisperings have begun. It’s early, yes. But it’s a day that requires thinking ahead. There are weekend getaways to be planned, plane tickets to be purchased, and party options to pick from. With so many choices, what's a girl to do?

I had a best friend. She might have been a sister. It was a thin, wavering line. And New Year's Eve was her day. A holiday we both hated equally. Her; because most would forget it was her day in all of the excitement. Me; because it was just another overpriced, over-hyped Hallmark Holiday where I would find myself drunkenly weaving thru crowds of strangers wondering which lucky random would get to slap the pity peck on my cheek this year. No matter what choice I made, it was generally wrong. It's a holiday that rarely lives up to the hype.

But she was born into it, and the day belonged to her. And so the day, eight years and a lifetime ago, when she confessed to me that she ended up alone and crying every single year on her birthday, was the day it was done being about me and my misery. Being fresh out of high school, one could blame the tears on the hormones. But hormones or not, I would never again have a choice to make. We would be the party, and wherever she wanted to be was where I was going. My friends don't wind up alone and crying on their birthdays. As best friend, I would do whatever I could to keep the tears from falling. Driving to her later turned into flying to her, buying presents, baking (or more likely buying) cakes. Even being sick was no excuse to stay at home moping. If I had anything to do with it (and I generally did), there would at least be a dinner and drinks.

In more recent years, it became less about the birthday or the new year and more about the bubbly. A celebration with loved ones. Tears became a moot point. But in my heart, I always knew we weren’t celebrating the New Year or even the Last Year. We were celebrating my best friend’s birthday.

And this year, sans best friend, the choice is once again mine to make. And I am once again at a complete loss. There will be no invite to the party I would have picked, but the options are still endless. I could stay in Seattle, fly back to New York. LA, Vermont, Miami, Vegas. What is this girl to do? Flip a coin, I guess. It will still be the wrong choice. It always is.

The Fall Starts Here

2006-09-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

We aren't the kind of girls who peaked in high school. Ewww. But we are the kind of girls who peaked at 1:00 pm on a Saturday afternoon.

And by peaked, I mean reached the highest level of intoxication one can reach without passing out, barfing, or....gasp....not being fun anymore. All of that would start several short hours later. The green jello shots were pretty good. The red were better. Allegedly, the orange were unbearably good. I never made it to orange. Shockingly, I refrained myself...or maybe we just ran out before I could get my hands on one. But I do know all three colors were inappropriate at noon on a Saturday as a pre-funk to an all day bar crawl. The summer was finally over. Labor Day had come and gone. We were done spending weekends at the Jersey Shore with our lunatical beach house roomies. And Team Diaster was bound and determined to start the fall off right and welcome ourselves back to the city we love and had missed dearly during the last three months. The players...

Team Disaster:

Butterscotch: One of the self appointed co-captains. Rightfully appointed because despite her domestic disabilities, she successfully ironed letters onto five t-shirts the night before the crawl in an effort to promote team unity and get us more attention from cute boys. Nicknamed Butterscotch because she lives in a world of false reality where people transport themselves from one vacation spot to the next using using butterscotch slides or unicorns. She would later be caught sucking face behind the beer pong table by the Paparazzi.

Lone Ranger: Nicknamed because of her tendency to wander off by her lonesome self whenever large amounts of alcohol are involved. This would later become even more appropriate when she pulled the Irish Goodbye only a few hours into the crawl. She blamed the bad Thai. But I blame the 12 jellow shots. She nearly became the Lone Rager when her N fell off during an incident involving a bottle of water, a butcher's knife, and a karate chop to the beer I was innocently holding in my hand behind her. But thanks to Butterscotch and a borrowed iron, she still remains our Lone Ranger.

Skinny Dipper (a.k.a Paparazzi): Sporting a shirt with the wrong name because of a small mishap between Butterscotch, myself, and the iron. (Hey, we wouldn't be Team Disaster if we were perfect.) More appropriately called Paparazzi because of her ability to document our most obscene moments on film without getting caught. Luckily for us, she was slightly inhibited in her picture taking this weekend. Her camera had been mildly injured in a Limbo line the previous weekend. Regardless, she did manage some great shots of a certain someone standing behind the beer pong table. And it should be noted that Paparazzi, along with Dirty Bird, were the last ones standng. After four bars (only three of which were on the list) and 12 hours straight hours of drinking. And by standing, I mean holding each other up.

Dirty Bird: Another self proclaimed captain of Team Disaster due to her phenomenal spelling skills (spelling bee champ in 4th grade) which came in especially handy during the t-shirt making process. Nicknamed Dirty Bird because she finds showering a bit of a necessary nuisance, and is scorned by others for washing her hair only once or maybe twice a week. After standing strong with Skinny Dipper for twelve hours, she found herself taking the train home by herself. Luckily for her, a perfect stranger gave up his seat and forced her to sit down in the crowded subway car after she fell on top of the passenger standing behind her. As a general rule, she proably shouldn't be allowed in bars without supervision.

Skinny Dipper (the real Skinny Dipper): Nicknamed because of her love for jumping in the ocean after bar closing time. Also known for rallying the troops in times of need and coining the phrase, "All Star Weekend." Of which, we've had an impressive amount lately. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to make it to the crawl until minutes before Paparazzi and Dirty Bird declared themselves done, and stumbled out of the bar and into the street. Probably for the best, since Paparazzi was wearing the Skinny Dipper's team t-shirt.

And that is how we welcomed the Fall Back.

Google It

2006-08-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

Go to Google. And type in the word Failure.

Not that I'm big on politics, but I can't say I disagree much.

Because livin' and learnin' would make me one boring Person

2006-08-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

It's not like it's the first time I've done something like this.

I know now what I should have done last night. Gone home, straight home. After work. Showered, washed the hair, straightened the hair, (putting in the extra effort to make it straight because the curling iron was forgotten at the beach house last weekend), and bought some toothpaste so I wouldn't be the girl brushing her teeth in the bathroom at work this morning. In a fit of motivation, I had even deemed last night laundry night.

But at the first whisperings of a rendezvous at one of my favorite bars, all former plans were forgotten and troops were rallied. Having decided earlier this week that I'm not drinking enough on the weeknights anymore (clearly a sign that I'm becoming delusional), I saw an opportunity and seized it like the rock star I wish I was. The first bad idea of last night. Second would be switching from wine to vodka at some point, and number three would be not eating dinner.

We started here with an open bar stocked full of cheap wine and beer. By the way, if Hottie Chef Dave Lieberman can't convince me to cook, I doubt anyone can. With a section appropriately titled Happy Hour (my most favorite hour ever), he has written the only cookbook I have ever encountered worth owning. However, he was not amused by my flirtations, and I can only assume the boy is married. Eventually I migrated onto the usual dive bar watering hole, which is where it all ended. Or began, depending on your point of view. Eh, Details, I say. But I suppose it actually ended with me waking up fully clothed in my bed this morning using a copy of Bazaar magazine for a pillow when I should have been on the bus to work.

And the only thing I'm rockin' today is five days worth of grease in my hair and yesterday's makeup.

The Only Slouch Here is in my New Boots

2006-08-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

Where exactly have I been these past four blogless months? Well...I've been Boy Crazy. A place I seem to be visiting a little too often since moving to the East Coast.

The problem is is this. I don't do girlfriend. Or significant other..and I'm not even that good at dating. Girlfriend fits me about as well as that old purple sweatshirt in the back of my closet. Which doesn't really. Fit that is. It's just not my style and the color is all wrong. Why on earth I've been trying to force the outfit for the past four months I have no idea. Even with a fab tan, the color is just not working. Neither is the two am text message I got last Saturday night from the latest Boy Toy telling me he doesn't want to see me anymore. Seriously, who does that? I actually think my inner Carrie Bradshaw would have been happier getting a post-it note on the mirror. At least, I could have turned it into a better joke.

Of course, after this weekend he might be re-thinking his two am text...as well as the website he made of himself in high school. Very seriously, who does this? And leaves it online for 7 years? Even if I didn't have a motive, it's too good not to share. With our entire summer beach house. Consider it done, the posters have already made.

But after that I'm going on sabatical. No boys allowed. No crushes, no dating, no showing the new girl around her new city. No more needing, hoping, wanting, waiting, or worrying the wrong comment will be the end of it all. I need to do this on my own for a while. There will be more writing (yes blogging too), more independence, more exploring the city on my own, more of me. Single Me because Single-Me is so, so, so much happier than Always-Has-A-Different-Non-Commital-Boy-Lurking-In-The-Background-Me. Single Me sees the first star in the sky at night and can't even think of a wish to make because she already has everything she wants. There will be more confidence. The feisty kind I used to be full of. I'm pulling out the high heels and straightening up the slouch. Today, I'm wearing flats because they're trendy, not because the cute boy waiting around the corner is on the verge of being shorter than me.

I'm coming back now, I promise. I'm coming back with stories about my crazy new life, my fabulous friends, and how I'm afraid to go to the bathroom at work because I am the only person in the office who can't figure out how to crack the new combination lock and let herself back inside.

It's My Party...

2006-06-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

Just another day. Except this day comes with a built in excuse for letting people remind me that I'm now one year older than I was on this day last year. That I'm one day closer to the foreboding 30 than I was yesterday. And that my fondness for younger boys is only getting that much more innapropriate.

"Happy Birthday."

Was all the email said. My first birthday wish of the day. One short sentence echoing through the caverns of a two week silence between myself and the boy I used to date. Nothing else. None of the how are yous? Any big plans tonight? Hope you have a great day! comments that generally accompany birthday emails. Just a Big, Blah "Happy Birthday" on this Big, Blah, Rainy day. Should there be more? I used to think so. Are we talking about the boy or the birthday? Even I'm not sure right now.

But I do know I made it. Through another fabulous year. The heart's still pumping and the liver's still working. And for that I am thankful. Oh so thankful..especially for the liver given all the abuse she's suffered lately.

So Happy Fucking Birthday to me!! Fill your silence with that...and in case you were wondering, I will be out celebrating tonight. Celebrating my birthday, celebrating my fabulous life, celebrating my fabulous friends, oogling (although maybe not touching anymore) all the fresh-faced 22 year old boys just out of college, and putting my trusty old liver to work.

So, I guess we were talking about the boy because from everyone and everything else I expect more. Much more. And so far, I have not been disapointed. Cheers to me!

Domestically Disabled

2006-06-02T08:47:00.000-07:00

Despite having never made an apple pie in my life, I'm pretty confident I can still bake a better pie than most people. Despite not having actually baked anything from scratch since high school (and yes, that's nearly ten years ago now), I still consider myself a champion among bakers. Apparently, I'm so confident I was willing to enter myself in an apple pie bake-off with one of my beach house roomies last weekend.

Of course, entirely forgetting about the bet makes winning fairly difficult, so when P called me last night to brag about the beautifully bronzed apple pie he had just pulled out of the oven, it took me a minute to put the puzzle together. P bakes? And why do I care that he just made an apple pie? Right. The infamous apple pie bake-off in Manasquan tonight at six pm sharp. And ps..no cheating on the crust.

So with Betty Crocker Cookbook in hand and Secret Weapon by my side (and by Secret Weapon, I mean "friend who is extra-ordinarily talented at navigating around a kitchen and concocting remarkable feasts and has a mom with a secret crust recipe and swears on her life not to tell anyone she helped me even though it's a giant hit to her pride") I braved the monsoon, and hightailed it over to the market to buy myself a pie baking starter kit.

"Spare no expense," I ranted as we loaded the cart with Crisco and the fattiest butter we could find. "One and a half liters of vodka and a couple of unnaturally large egos are at stake here". I was just about ready to run into the stockroom myself and procure the missing rolling pin, when the clerk suggested checking RiteAid instead. Crisis averted. They had one left.

In high school, box mix was not baking. I laughed at your box mix. But over the last ten years, my domestic abilities have probably deteriorated to a state more unhealthy than my liver. I'm really hoping baking is kind of like learning to ride a bike, and the fact that until last night I hadn't set foot in a grocery store since I left LA is inconsequential.

But if all else fails, we're breaking out the Suprise Attack: A'la mode. I will be drunk on free vodka by seven pm tonight. Cheers!

The Way We Rolled

2006-06-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

At the ripe old age of 25, I really didn't think I'd still be bumming rides from my friend's parents (especially since I've had a valid driver's license for nearly ten years now). But when cabs are scarce at two in the afternoon in Manasquan and $2 beers are calling my name at the Parker House, I'm pretty much willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. So, when one of my new weekend beach house roomies offered to call up his dear old Dad who only lives ten minutes away and see if he would shuttle us over in the mini-van, I immediately volunteered myself as a rider. And thanks to Mr. W, eight lucky riders (including myself) made it over with a solid five hours left of happy hour specials.

Come to think of it, I really didn't think I'd be sharing a beach house with 40 other people, double and triple fisting cheap beer, or taking shots out of an ice luge at this age either.

It's ok, you can be jealous I get to spend every weekend for the rest of the summer drinking myself into oblivion at night, recovering on the beach during the day, and barbequing with my 40 beach house roommates out at the Jersey shore. In fact, I'm a little jealous of myself right now.

Life: As I now know it

2006-05-12T11:16:00.000-07:00

Probably, it was one of the easiest things I've ever done. It being moving my life to the other side of the good ole US of A. People keep telling me they wish they had my kind of guts, the kind that let you just pick up and leave. But the hardest part wasn't the leaving, it was the staying. The four and a half months of staying when I impatiently waited to start the life waiting for me in NY and finished tying up loose ends in LA. Four and a half months full of tears, ruined friendships, self-medicating, twiddling my thumbs, and sleeping on an air mattress. As much as I joked around about the "Big Move", there was no anxiety. Never once did I panic. I knew once I had a beach house everything else would fall into place. And the actual move. Cake. Pack a few suitcases, buy a plane ticket. Sleep most of the way, so you'll be ready for martinis when you land. Have a friend forward your resume onto her HR dept. And if you're really lucky, she'll even find you an apartment. Almost too easy. I'm still holding my breath, waiting for the bottom to drop. For a wave of homesickness to rain on or maybe even ruin my parade. But I don't think it's coming. Because for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I am home.

So, Ari...you want to know how I'm doing. Fabulous, babe. Same as always, but even more so this time around.

Apartment - Lovely. Perfect. The three floor walk up is the only reason I'm willing to squeeze my ass into a bikini come Memorial Day weekend. That's a good thing.

Neighborhood - I've been told it has more bars in a square mile than anywhere else in the country. I believe it. And you can imagine the nice, big crowd of boys those kind of bar numbers can draw. Oh, and the shoe store underneath the apartment might be my version of heaven.

Bars/Clubs - Awesome. I was part of a $14,000 bar tab a few weeks ago. Not in the sense that I paid for any of it, but I did help polish off a few bottles of Cristal and a whole lotta vodka.

Friends - Quite possibly even more fabulous than me..well, maybe equally fab since I'm pretty hard to beat.

Boys - Ummmm...good. Much better than good. That's all you get.

Job - Worse than good. But probably more about not wanting to work at all than not wanting to do what I do. And hey, even I can't have it all.

Of course, it can't be all good all the time. There was the one time I overflowed the dishwasher by using Palm Olive. It kind of hurts to type right now because I'm pretty sure I sprained my index finger trying to squeeze into my favorite jeans the other day. Obviously, the private pilates lessons that cost more than my rent every month are not paying off all that much. Once, I accidentally wore someone else's coat home from the bar. Thus, losing the brand new coat I bought specifically for the move east in a record three days. Then there was the time I tripped a little on my way to work when the point of my shoe got caught in the cuff of my pants and severely bruised the palms of both my hands trying not to faceplant in front of my office.

But for the most part, things have a way of working themselves out. The coat I took from the bar ended up being a friend's. Luckily, it was one of my smarter friend's because she realized what I had done, grabbed mine, and we happily exchanged properties the following day. Maintenance came and flushed out the dishwasher with a few or 8 gallons of water, and gave me a quick lesson on proper and improper dishwasher soap usage. And I'm switching over to the much cheapter, group pilates lessons next month so I won't feel as bad about not being able to zip my favorite jeans.

But there are some things, like tripping in front of your office, that just plain suck. But it could have been worse. A lot worse. I might have actually face planted landing in a yoga-esque pose...in a mud puddle...in the middle of the busiest street in Hoboken...on a wet and stormy night, ending up with muddy gravel in my hair and a bruised chin, right Sarah? Or are you still only answering to Puddle Jumper?

Random, I know. But that's my life now.

You'd think there'd be more to my life...

2006-04-25T11:12:00.000-07:00

...especially considering I just moved across the country. But today, there's not.

I've heard admitting to yourself that you have a problem is half the battle. So, I figure blogging about it to the entire world (read the six people that still check this on a semi-regular basis) should put me at least three quarters of the way to a win.

A few days ago, I actually developed a formula for my shoe spending habits. If I continue buying shoes at the same rate I have been for the past four weeks, I could potentially add a little over 70 pairs of shoes to my wardrobe by this time next year.

This weekend, I actually purchased a lip gloss so I could get the free lip gloss that came as a "gift with purchase."

Obsess Compulse much?

Coming Soon...

2006-03-21T22:36:00.000-08:00

Fabuolous, exciting, wonderfully written blog posts.

...As soon as I sober up long enough to write something.

Check It

2006-03-15T13:09:00.000-08:00

And look who finally has an East Coast Address!

A special shout out to the three Lah-ovely Ladies who welcomed me into the city with loving arms full of martinis just three short hours after I stepped off the plane last night even though it was a school night.

Stay tuned. More stories to come, I'm sure.

Hypothetically Speaking, Of Course

2006-02-22T08:47:00.000-08:00

Let’s just say you’re ex-boyfriend confessed to you he still loved you and had been waiting for you to come back to him for the past two years on New Year’s Eve. And pretend that he started calling you, hanging out with you, cooking for you, and fucking you. And pretend you asked him if he was dating anyone else and he looked you in the eye and said no. Twice. And then pretend you start to wonder why you broke up with him in the first place because he really was one of the best things that ever happened to you. Then, let’s just say he stops calling you, won’t return your calls, won’t return your emails, and won’t even give you an explanation as to why you suddenly just don’t exist. All because his girlfriend from out of town is visiting.

You could immediately delete him from your phone, rip the $80 t-shirt he left at your house to shreds, burn any and all pics of him still laying around, erase him from your heart, and focus on the job interview you have in New York on Friday instead. But he probably wouldn't know you ruined his favorite shirt because he probably doesn't remember where he left it. And even if he did, it wouldn't cause enough hurt.

You could lay on the floor of your room sobbing uncontrollably, feeling sorry for yourself, and choking down Xanax. Wondering who you can trust, if you can't trust the most caring, generous, kind, loyal person you've ever known. Because when is it really ever as easy as a deep breath and a sigh of relief. Who were we kidding with that? But you know he's not worth your tears anymore.

....Or you could hack the password for his myspace account, read all of the emails he sent to his precious bi-sexual go-go dancing slut in Seattle, make a rough timeline of all the days he was simultaneously screwing you but telling the go-go dancer he loves her, find her email address buried in amidst the pile of barf-inducing love letters talking about how they prefer tangerines over peanut butter and what spiritually connected soul mates they are, email her the timeline you put together along with a letter about how he denied having a girlfriend to you on Jan 28th even though they’d been together since Jan 10th, hope that you just might be able to ruin “the best thing that’s ever happened to him,” and pray to your favorite god that he doesn’t figure out you know his password to myspace so you can still have a front row seat when she shatters his heart into a million tiny pieces.

I suppose you could do all three. But that’s just crazy talk. I suppose.

Besides, the lying sack of shit still wouldn't be in enough pain. Thoughts please? Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Much Ado About Nothing

2006-02-14T22:40:00.000-08:00

Whether it’s a lovey-dovey couple succombing to the pressure or a group of jaded singles attempting to drown sorrows and defy the entire purpose of the day. Acknowledgement only adds power, so I generally don’t. To me, it’s always just another day. Single or not makes no difference. But around 4 this afternoon, I started feeling a little queasy. Actually, a lot queasy. Too many candy hearts and chocolate covered peanuts. The sickly, sweet smell of rose scented air was giving me a pounding headache.

I will never understand why couples need a nationally declared holiday to help them express their love for each other. Someday, I am going to make one lucky man very, very Happy. So, lest we ever forget my preferred method of “Celebrating” the day, I’ve written a letter to my future husband….

Dear Future Love of My Life,

I promise to never, ever, ever pout and pick fights because you forgot Valentine’s Day. In fact, this whole arrangement is probably going to run a lot smoother if we just don’t go there. Please try to refrain from showing more enthusiasm for the day than I do (which would be none). It’s perfectly acceptable not to be excited. Feel free to send flowers and chocolates, take me to fancy restaurants, buy me sparkly jewelry, and whisk me away on weekend getaways anytime you please. I will love you for it, but will never expect it, or coerce you into showering me with material gifts. Do any of the things listed above on the one day a year when you are practically legally required to think of me, and you’ll need to start forgetting we ever met. Eating my heart out at a fancy restaurant where I’m surrounded by couples wining and dining each other because they feel obligated to spend time together makes even the most expensive glass of wine taste like the Franzia in our fridge. Don’t waste your money or my time. I don’t need another Teddy Bear. I threw all mine away when I was five. And, to be honest, ever since the Build-A-Bear store started stocking dead Teddy carcasses, I’ve found Teddy Bears to be unbearably creepy. Last, if you ever send a dozen roses filled with baby’s breathe, you will need to start looking for a very, very good divorce lawyer. I refuse to let my life become a rose filled cliché.

I love you to the ends of the earth. (On everyday but February 14th)

PS….I really prefer salty over sweet, tulips are my favorite flower, and I’m willing to travel almost anywhere. Although I’m generally most happy with sand in my feet, saltwater in my hair, and a margarita in my hand. But I’m sure you already knew this.

Everything Goes

2006-02-12T23:16:00.000-08:00

I was feeling pretty exhilarated after a long day of Garage Sale-ing my life away. And relieved because the only thing left to move would be a closet full of clothes. Until I realized, I'd just sold nearly everything I owned for a whopping $700. I don't even think I could apply for life insurance with that. Net worth = $700? Actually...$700, plus the measuring cup, the two half-empty bottles of perfume, the double-wide beach towel, and the stapler I couldn't bear to part with.
_________________________________________

I had paused at the measuring cup. The measuring cup I stole out of Mom's kitchen cabinet the same day she brought it home nearly six years ago. After a few months, I finally 'fessed up because she was still worrying about being old, senile, and losing things. She was just relieved I wanted to cook something. I took a second to catch my breath, and tried to figure out where it should go. Back to mom? New York? Both options seemed silly. Mom and New York have more than enough measuring cups.

The kitchen was starting to overwhelm, so I headed off to the bathroom.

I picked up two half-empty bottles of Victoria's Secret body spray that had been moved through four different apartments without being used once. As I reached for the garbage bag, I closed my eyes and sprayed with the right hand. I watched myself enter the bar that just happened to be two floors below our dorm room. I smiled to myself remembering how excited we were to find a school with a bar on campus. Sand was still stuck to my skin, and my hair had the perfect beach wave that can only be created after a long day of playing near the saltwater on a far, off Australian shore. When I reached the bar, the bartender winked and handed me the usual. The $2 glass of house wine. It had been four, short months of heaven on earth. I opened my eyes and spritzed with the left hand. It was a place where too many kisses were still not enough. A place where even in the face of irrational, crazy, and just plain bitchy, love always came back for more. A place where I never had to feel alone.

I put the bottles back down on the counter and walked out, blinking back tears.

In the hall closet, I grabbed an armload of extra towels and threw them into the box labeled Garage Sale. The pink and white striped double-wide beach towel missed and fell on the floor. Double-wide in anticipation of all the picnics at the beach I was planning with my lover. Never mind that I hadn't had one at the time of purchase. Towards the end we spent more time at the pool than at the beach. Just me and my towel. I could still smell the Maui Brownie suntan lotion that had spilled on it during the last trip back from Hawaii.

My left eye was starting to twitch a little, so I moved into the bedroom.

I grabbed the safest thing I saw. The Stapler. Surely I could sell this. We’d been together since high school, but there was no memory attached. No story to tell. But call me Milton , I just couldn't part with my trusty old stapler. Because the best memories are still waiting to be made.

So, I threw the measuring cup, the perfumes, the towels, and the Stapler in a box addressed to New York. And then I used the $700 to pay half of the first month's rent on my new apartment on the East Coast.

We are the Ab Masters

2006-02-08T11:47:00.000-08:00

I’m not even going to pretend Tony Little's Ab Workout is a good idea at 2 in the morning after a night full of Vodka sodas. Unless maybe you’re trying to go the “Sober Yourself Up by Way of Bulimia” route. But we did the crunches anyways. Mainly because the Miller Lite Girl'snew uniform shows a little more midriff than any normal girl is comfortable putting out there. And when I’m that drunk, almost anything is a great idea.

But do you know what is an even worse idea than drunk crunching at 2 in the morning?

Pseudo-Hitting on me in a pathetic attempt to get my friend’s number. Not Ok. Not ever Ok. Especially not two times in the same night. Next time, grow a fucking set and go straight to the source. Because pseudo-hitting on me only pisses me off, and makes you look like a no-balls, piece of chicken shit, wimp. And then you’re screwed….and not in the way you’re hoping.

And just in case you still don’t get it. Which you probably don’t if you were thick-headed enough to attempt it in the first place. This is why it doesn’t work….

1. I’m confident enough with myself to play the role of “Hot Girl’s Friend” once in a while. I don’t need my ego stroked. It’s big enough already. Besides, I probably don’t believe you. My palm reader told me I was very intuitive about people and their motives.

2. Chances are good you started boring me before you even said Hello. Stop wasting my time because I’d rather be talking to one of the cute, confident boys in the room. Also, if I’m bored I’m not putting in a good work for you when she gets back from the bathroom.

3. I’m not going to cock-block you. My friends are perfectly capable of doing this on their own. You don’t need to get into my good graces to get in good with my friends. You need to worry about getting into hers.

Are we clear?

Squatting

2006-01-30T22:33:00.000-08:00

One upon a time my roommate gave a dollar to a homeless man on the streets of Santa Monica. A couple of hours later, as she sat at a sidewalk café eating her lunch, she watched the same homeless trudge by, tin can in hand. Then, she watched him drive away in his brand new BMW.

I've seen men begging for money wearing more expensive clothes than I have ever owned. Brand new Sean John track suits and bright white Nikes. They pedal their bikes by my car when I'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic while pulling a shopping cart stuffed full of black plastic garbage bags behind. I've never seen another city where the homeless are able to accumulate so much stuff. I've even seen a seven foot tall, pink and blue checkered, stuffed bunny rabbit tied to the front of a shopping cart.

As far as being homeless, there are worse places to be than LA. The weather, the posessions, the BMWs. The Beverly Hills housewives handing out last seasons Juicy Couture velour suits and Ugg Boots. I've always found it a small source of comfort that the homeless standard of living here is probably much higher than anywhere else in the US. (You know, just in case) Probably much higher than..oh, let's say New York. Where I'm guessing it's hard to accumulate a shopping cart full of possessions because they would melt in the snow, and there are too many people on the street anyways for anyone to be pushing a shopping cart around.

So, let's have a quick recap shall we?

All of my furniture has been liquidated except the aero bed, the computer desk, and the fridge. Everything I own can now fit in the back of my car. My apartment must be vacated in 30 days, which is roughly the same time I officially join the ranks of the unemployed.

In six short weeks, I'm moving my life to New York. Where I am yet to find a job or an apartment. And I just spent the bulk of my "Untouchable Until You Land in New York" Savings on a beach house at the shore so I can play in the sun every weekend.

Clearly, it's all about the priorities around here. I wonder how hard it will be to find a stoop large enough for a queen size aero bed....

A Balancing Act

2006-01-18T23:27:00.000-08:00

They tell us "We despise our enemies for possessing the qualities we dislike in ourselves." Does this also mean we love our friends for possessing the qualities we are wanting? In some cases, it would appear to be true.

Looking back, the irony becomes a little clearer. The people I have allowed to burrow the deepest into my soul have been irresponsible, unmotivated, and co-dependent. Traveling, but not caring if they were following the beaten path. Loyal to the end in words, but not in actions. Their most defining characteristics. Unable to perform the day-to-day tasks required of any human living in this world; demanding constant attention and care taking until gradually the relationship has transformed from a bond between equals to that of a mother and her child. Growing until it becomes filled with resentment because I never wanted children to care for. Because I am still learning how to care for myself. And because a girl who has been described as "fiercely independent" even by near strangers does not simply wake up one day and accept co-dependency as a way of life.

But I wanted to learn the lifestyle. How to live life for today instead of next year. Maybe even how to put off today what can be done tomorrow..or never. How to have more trust in the hand that will steady me when I stumble. How to step off the beaten path, and let myself get lost once in a while. They were my teachers. I chose them because I wanted to be them. Nothing more than my own act of selfishness. Making me no better, but certainly no worse than they were.

What hurts the most is not the loss of a friendship that has lasted nearly a decade. What hurts the most is the lack of pain accompanying the loss. What should be pain is instead relief; the stress, the worry, the pain. All gone. Finally free to breathe. Grateful for what I have learned and what I have left to learn. Relieved because it's not my problem anymore. But a decade of friendship cannot be simplified down to a learning experience and a sigh of relief. There should be more.

There should have been balance. A way to live for today and tomorrow. A way to free the spirit and still have goals. A way for the actions to be the words. A way to get what I have given.

Against The Odds

2006-01-09T23:52:00.000-08:00

I’ve always been more for the blondes and the odds. As in the theory. “Blondes have more fun.” At least this blonde does. The odds are too. More fun. I tried the brunette thing for a while in college. 2002. I studied harder, worked longer hours, joined the gym, ate healthier, remembered to buy toothpaste before I ran out, and actually managed to earn myself a college degree. I know it works for some. But I nearly died of boredom. By 2003, I was back to blonde living my version of the dream life in Sunny So. Cal. So maybe it was the kind of life that ends in skin cancer, but it’s gotta be the best way to go. No?

I vowed to stay blonde, but the numbers just wouldn't co-operate. 2004 was a toughie. A long distance love gone wrong. Followed by six months of trying to de-tangle two lives stuck tighter together than the hair of a second grade girl when her Juicy Fruit gum gets tangled in it. But 2005 was a thing of beauty. Chock full of vacations, shopping, vin-o, poolside margaritas, the best kind of new friends, and blogging, of course. Helping me take procrastinating at work to a whole new level.

So, the odds. We like them. Age, Year, Date. Give it to me in odds. They have more spirit. Against the Odds. The Odds Are. Always ready for the next adventure. They do all the gambling. Place your bets. I'll take those odds. They know how to take the risks. I was 22 the first time I lied about my age. I didn’t care if I was 21 or 23 as long as it wasn’t the dreaded Even. 22. It was too librarian-ish…and not in the hot, sexy, innocent librarian way. She would have been 23.

So, for 2006. I was pretty much expecting the year of the Evens to start off something like this.

A nearly missed flight leaving at 5:30 am to Seattle. Boarded just in time to hear about the mechanical issues that should take just a few minutes to clear up. Make that two and a half hours plus a few minutes.

A hotel room booked for the wrong nights so the occupants would have to switch rooms at 11:00 am on Jan 1st.

Ten minutes from the final countdown sans any cute boy of my own, yet surrounded by four lovey-dovey couples all waiting for an excuse to start making out.

Graciously receiving a Pity Peck on the cheek from someone who meant well.

Too wasted for anyone's good, puking my guts out in a hotel room while simultaneously crying hysterically because of the embarrassment of the Pity Peck, and re-iterating all the reasons for the break-up of 2002 to the Ex while he attempts to profess his undying love.

Listening to Best Friend tell me “You’re Hard to Love.” Because really, at this point nothing could possibly make the night any better than hearing about how difficult I am. And that maybe I should have stayed with the Ex because there's a good chance no one else will ever stick around.

And I can't say I was disappointed. Give or take a few dramas, that's pretty much how we started 2006. Against all the odds, though, I'm actually looking forward to 2006. New city, new adventures. At the very least, it's bound to be a good story.

Although, as an added precaution I’m thinking of paying a visit to my hairdresser. Maybe just a touch more blonde to get the year started right. Wish it was that easy to change the Odds.

Spreading the Holiday Cheer

2005-12-23T09:18:00.000-08:00

I haven't actually won anything in a raffle since the 4th grade...a VHS copy of Benji the Hunted that I never even took out of the package. So, I'm convinced the $150 Crate and Barrel gift certificate I won. In a raffle. Yesterday at work must have been a small Christmas miracle. As were the scarf, the Starbucks gift card, the first season of Scrubs on DVD, the Cinnamon Buns shower gel, the Cinnamon Buns lip gloss, and the Kiehl's Lip Balm (count it, that's two lip glosses) I found piled onto my desk from my loving friends and co-workers when I got to work yesterday morning.

I made the call. I needed money, but I wanted stuff. And clearly, someone had at least one ear open. I may not have the money. But at least two of life's little necessities are now covered. If nothing else, we will have beautifully expensive wine glasses to drink from, and lips that are properly glossed. And isn't that why we have the Holidays? So we can get what we want. Not what we need.

My Life In VISA

2005-12-21T13:46:00.000-08:00

One might assume that a girl who graduated college with a major in Finance and a minor in Accounting would keep her own personal finances impeccably organized. One might be very, very wrong.

It's probably a good thing my company stock options are worthless because I'm not even sure I would know what to do with them if they weren't. The collective total available left to spend on my credit cards (that would be 3) is $84.31, and I'm not really sure if my employer contributes to 401K's. Not that I ever bothered starting one. Last night, upon discovering a four hundred dollar error made by my personal accountant (read...myself), I realized I only had $78.56 to last until next Friday.

Thank god for the Coinstar at Ralph's. I emerged from the grocery store at least two pounds lighter in change and $13 dollar bills richer. If my life were a VISA (fitting, right?) commercial, I imagine it would read something like this.

Filling gas tank for morning commute - $34.86

Christmas Cards sent to relatives in desperate hopes of getting one in return...preferably with $20 tucked inside - $11.03

Lip Gloss bought on lunch break in an attempt to absolve bad mood and salvage the rest of the day after the morning commute took twice as long as normal causing me to miss the 8:30 meeting I spent hours preparing for yesterday - $4.87

Knowing my parents are arriving in LA on Friday to keep me from starving to death - Priceless

But hey, at least I opted for the $4.50 tube of lip gloss instead of the pack of three for $16.50. Even though it had three new and improved versions in three different shades of my all time favorite lip gloss ever. And as a girl who carries no less than seven glosses in her purse at one time, that's a damn big sacrifice. At least college wasn't totally pointless.

And yes, this is a hint for those of you looking for last minute gift ideas. They come in a tin like this.

Why The Sunday Was Invented

2005-12-19T12:48:00.000-08:00

The Sunday was invented..

...for turning off the alarms and sleeping until noon

...for three hour brunches with All-You-Can-Drink Mimosas and Bloody Marys
...for finding and finishing the joint you started, couldn't finish, and then misplaced two months ago

...for playing Old School Original Nintendo Super Mario Brothers

...for two hour naps

...for spending an entire day being utterly worthless and lazy with best friends

I soo don't do the Horror Movie Thing

2005-12-13T13:52:00.000-08:00

Am I the only one who thinks Garth Brooks looks alarmingly like a child molester? I can't even imagine why Wal-Mart has chosen him as the new face of their family. He scares me almost as much as the bikers I keep seeing on the road with these ugly masks. Which are "I'm locking my car doors, avoiding eye contact, shaking in my seat, stuck in a B-rated nightmare of a horror movie, afraid you're going to break in my windows and brutally murder me" Scary.

In The Glove Box

2005-11-20T23:05:00.000-08:00

“A bottle of cologne.” Was his answer. Interesting because the only thing I knew about him was that wifey worked at home. I was picturing lipstick on a starched white collar, and a forlorn (because forlorn made it sound more dramatic) wife sobbing by the laundry room sink trying to scrub out the stain. At the same time, listening to her husband leave a voice mail about working late. Again. Forget for a minute that nobody at my work even owns a starched white collar-ed shirt. Remember for a minute my Drama Queen tendencies. All rumors aside, I wouldn't really judge a guy by his glovebox alone.

What’s in my Glove Box?

1. Car registration - Three years later I still have Washington plates. Huge, Huge Ticket. I know.

2. Proof of Insurance – Even though I'm pretty sure my insurance will instantly drop me once they find out I live in Cali.

3. The manual for my car....which I've never touched.

4. A flashlight. For emergencies.

5. And a miniature bottle of Vodka. For emergencies.

But maybe you can judge this girl by her glovebox. Just a little.

Gone.

2005-11-17T23:07:00.000-08:00

Not Forgotten. (View group photos, second pic from left if you can't tell).

Loving that I still represent a company that won't let me work for them.

Don't Look Crazy in the Eye

2005-11-14T23:54:00.000-08:00

...Is the only advice I gave my best friend when she moved down here a year ago. Leave the crazies alone, and you'll be safe. Look one in the eye, and you’re Eff-ed.

What advice can I give her now? Don’t look at me. You might catch the crazy.

I hadn't even been there. Yet I spent nine hours one day looking at apartments. Checking out the job market. Blue Booking my car to see what kind of profit I could make if I placed a classified. Time-lining the next two months of my life. When to quit the job. When to start looking for a new one. When to get all my worldly possessions either sold or back up to Mom and Dad's in Seattle. When to sublet my apartment. When to find a new place to live.

Sometimes, I think my therapist might be crazier than me. Yes, I have a head doctor. I used to have two. But that’s another story for another day. I told her my plan. Told her I thought I was going crazy. I just wanted to get up and go. Leave all my friends, my family, my whole life behind, and start over. On the other side of the country. In a city I'd never even visited. She told me I’d be crazy if I stayed.

I told her I needed a week. Let me get there first, and we’ll see how I like it. But I’d never been to LA, when I decided I belonged here. I just knew I needed to go. And now, something’s pulling me East.

I'm moving to New York. And I’m crazy scared. No, crazy excited. Scared...excited....crazy. Whatevs, I'm going. As soon as I find a job, of course. Crazy..yes. Completely insane..not quite yet.

Pass Me Another Cold One

2005-11-09T22:59:00.000-08:00

The Miller Lite Girl

I couldn’t be prouder if I owned the only strip joint in town with a Size Triple D, Triple Titty-ed Stripper. One of my best girls, Jenn, was just bestowed with the Honor of…(are you even ready for this?)

Top Miller Lite Spokes Model in her Region!!

I always knew you’d go far babe. I, of course, am still eternally grateful to you and your bucket for saving my life. Where would I be now without the bucket? Probably still standing knee deep in that nasty-ass, bacteria infested lake. And the fabulous prize. OMG!! I mean, what else could you ask for, really? A, as in just one, ticket to a Hockey Game. Dates are so over-rated these days anyways. It’s all about embracing our Independence. Just ask Beyonce’s Children. They knew. You are going to have so much fun at the game. By yourself!

But most importantly, thanks for giving the chics of Apartment 105 yet another excuse to celebrate. Meet us at the bar after the Hockey game, babe. We’ll buy you a drink.

Of course it can’t be all about you. So we’ll also be celebrating Megan’s demotion. Less responsibility, same pay. Work it, girl!

And the fact that I will no longer be allowed to proudly stand by your side, head held high, helping you serve our country; one beer at a time. Because I got fired. Yep..Once upon a time, I was a Miller Lite Girl. And then, I got fired.

Envisage

2005-11-07T23:09:00.000-08:00

One hour. five minutes. Two seconds. All in a moment’s time. The moment when the life you knew becomes unrecognizable. Beyond unacceptable. Because of a gesture, an expression, an accident, a group of words. Given in a language only the soul can understand. An idea so simple, so true, and yet somehow completely unrealized, squeezing tighter and tighter around the heart until it is embraced by the soul or the body’s last breath is denied. A moment so powerful it will unlock a door that had never existed. The whisper from the stranger who already knew you better than you knew yourself.

She would have given him the world, but didn't know how. He showed it to her instead. A comment made in passing; a chain of words already forgotten.

Halfway thru the door, she looked back and smiled. A smile full of tears. Then she started running. Running because there was nothing else to take. Nothing left to give. Nothing but a small piece of her heart he didn't need. Leaving a tiny, aching hole his presence could have filled. A small price to pay for the gift of the world. In his gift to her, she would find something else to fill the void. She knew it. She hoped it.

The Friendship Test

2005-11-07T22:57:00.000-08:00

“Hard to believe it’s been almost two years. I feel like I just saw you last week.”

She tried to claim it’s the test of a true friendship. When two years ago feels like it just happened yesterday. But I have to disagree.

A true friend would offer to shop Stella's new line for you when you’re stuck sitting at a desk, staring at a computer on the other side of the country even though you haven’t seen each other in two years. And that’s exactly what she did. Well, D’uh.

No More Carbs

2005-11-02T21:52:00.000-08:00

"Destination please?"

"Ummm..JFK, I think." I handed over my ID.

"Checking any baggage today?" The Delta rep looked at me expectantly.

"Just the one bag," As I heaved, ho-ed, and pulled my suitcase onto the scale.

"Ma'am, this bag is 6 pounds over the weight limit. Would you like to remove something or pay the $25 charge?"

"Ummm..are you sure? I'm only going for three nights. How can my suitcase weight 56 pounds? Maybe the scale's broken." I argued back, still cringing a little (Ok, still cringing a lot) over the use of the word ma'am.

"No, I don't think that's the problem. Will you be paying cash or credit?"

So, it's official. We are both starting new diets on Monday. And by we, I am referring to myself and my suitcase.

Dirty Sweats and a Sweet Tooth

2005-11-01T22:21:00.000-08:00

Throw on the sweats you slept in all weekend. Pull the wine glasses out of the dishwasher, and scrub away yesterday’s dried red wine. Open a fresh bottle or two. Laugh with your girl friends about how much work it is to dig the slightly less stale, almost edible chips out from the bottom of the bag. Flip between Carrie tripping on the runway and Rachel flirting her way out of a speeding ticket. Head back into the kitchen for the Phish Food ice cream.

Is there any better way to de-stress after working ten hours on a Tuesday? Don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.

Nothing Else To Do

2005-10-29T02:03:00.000-07:00

For those of you that were worried, I did manage to make it safely to New York. Here's a quick recap of the happenings so far.

1. Yes. Everyone was right. The boys are cuter here, and the cute boys are much more plentiful. I have a theory about this already. I think it's mainly attributable to the fact that boys are more visible due to the whole no cars thing.

2. I completely forgot that in some areas of the country, people actually buy scarves and wear them out of necessity. Not just because they are a cute accessory.

3. I miss having seasons.

4. New York might be my favorite place ever!!

5. I am deliriously tired because it it 5:09 in the morning and I've managed to get myself locked out of my hotel room. I haven't slept in almost 48 hours minus the two hour nap this afternoon and the couple hours of restless sleep on the plane ride over.

A Serious Case of Hump Day A.D.D.

2005-10-26T15:09:00.000-07:00

**I downloaded DARE by the Gorillaz, and then I heard it twice on MTV the next day. By next week it will probably be in Full Blown Overplay, and I'll be sick of it.

**My hair is ultra greasy because I jumped out of the shower mid-wash when I noticed a spider on the ceiling over my head. I was too scared to finish showering.

**I may have found the Best Happy Hour of all time. Huge Statement. Cha Cha Cha, with $10 pitchers of Sangria and $3 Mango and Goat Cheese Quesadillas all night long on Mondays.

**Even though a relative of mine had Alzheimer's for years, I always thought the Z was pronounced as a T. I just found out I was wrong this week.

**When there are four consecutive, empty stalls in the bathroom, it is un-necessarily awkward of you to enter the stall right next to mine.

**Starting next week, I'm cutting out all pop and limiting myself to one cup of coffee a day because I'm afraid my teeth are turning yellow pre-maturely.

And this is just where my mind's been in the last five minutes. I'm ADD-ing all over the place today, but mostly I'm just sitting around dreaming about being in New York. I leave tomorrow night, so if you have any last minute suggestions throw 'em at me.

I Need a Milk Man

2005-10-24T22:11:00.000-07:00

She flipped open the lid and answered her cell phone, "Hello?"

"Hi. How's it going?"

"Ummm...good"

"You don't know who this is, do you?"

"Ummm...no"

"It's your Milk Man"

I really wish I was making this up, but I promise I'm not. And yes, I am slightly jealous that I don't get Late Night Booty Calls from the Bald, Tatted Out, Two-Time Daddy that delivers the milk to the coffee shop. Maybe I should switch careers, no?

Mama Bear's in the House

2005-10-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

I don't know how she knew I needed her when she lives in Seattle, and I haven't talked to her in weeks. But somehow, she read my mind. Right. Actually she was here on business last night. And as soon as I found out yesterday, I threw together my overnight bag, grabbed an extra pair of shoes, and schlepped out to her hotel.

Mama Bear. The nickname, because even in college she had the Supernatural, Care-taking, Make everything right again, Bring you chicken soup when your sick, Powers that usually only real Mama's have. She doesn't want kids anymore...it might have something to do with being the caretaker for 20 some underachieving borderline alkies when we were all in our early 20's that turned her off to the idea. I'm just sayin'.

All the words I hadn't been able to speak all week flowed like the Pinot we were drinking. And even though I was probably boring the hell out of her, she never once interrupted. She even pretended to be interested by peppering the one-sided conversation with a question here or there. This morning, I slapped a little of her perfume on my wrist so I could smell her hugs all day.

When I got to work this morning, my co-worker asked how I was.

"I'm not really sure. Crazy, I think. Emotionally Train wrecked, without a doubt."

"Well, at least it looks like the health kick you've been on is paying off. You look really skinny."

I laughed, "See that's the good thing about not being able to eat because of the broken heart and all. I must have lost at least five pounds of chub. It might even be the Best Diet Ever."

That's right. Look whose back with a horrendously bad joke . On that note, I'm going to grab breakfast. I'm starving.

Nothing left to give

2005-10-19T22:47:00.000-07:00

What we had both promised to not do. I did. Now, I can’t stop.

To my friends, my family, my strangers. Everything’s fine. Posting the pieces of stories I started months ago, instead of the story about me in Today. Hiding behind pinched smiles and the happy scraps of my life. This was never supposed to be a blog about boys. This blog was supposed to validate how fabulous my life is. If this story even made it to the posting boards, I was going to lie. Claim it happened years ago.

But I think it’s time to cut the bullshit. It didn’t happen three years ago, it happened three days ago.

We started it all with a “No Bullshit” Rule. We didn’t want the games others played. We needed honesty and attraction. And we had both. And then I did something I hardly ever do. Something I don’t do well. I chic-ed out. Ended a game neither one of us even knew we had started playing. Eventually, I would have called bullshit on myself. If I’d had the chance, maybe we both would have won. But he called me out before I could. Before I even realized I’d broken our Only rule.

And now. I’m stuck trying to autopilot my way thru the week. Turn off the alarm. Throw on yesterday’s dirty jeans. I haven’t showered since Sunday. Pretend I’m working. Pretend the numbers in front of me are more than incomprehensible, blurry squiqqles. I hear voices, but I can’t understand what they say. Constantly press the sharp edge of a ruler against my skin because I need to make sure I still have feelings. I don’t think I do. Think about buying a new pairs of shoes on my lunch break, but I can’t get excited about wearing them. So what’s the point. Drive home. Hide under the covers.

When I speak, the crystal clarity of my voice surprises me. How the voice of such a weakened body can sound so strong. So normal.

I thought I needed a doctor. I wanted antibiotics, stitches, pills, needles. Anything to make the hurt stop. Something snapped in my chest. The pain was worse the next morning. Chest pains so bad I still have trouble catching my breath. Not being able to breathe makes me dizzy. My appetite is gone. Co-workers are watching, so I force down half a sandwich for lunch. It comes back up when no one is looking. I don’t eat dinner. Every muscle hurts when I move. But it doesn’t matter. I’m too exhausted too move. Too tired to sleep.

But even the best doctor can’t heal a heart broken this badly. I tried to prevent it from happening. That’s why I stopped wearing my heart on my sleeve. That’s how we….No. That’s how I. Got here.

It wasn’t because we were too young. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. But it was still too young for the two of us. We were reading the same book; we were even reading the same chapter. But I saw us wishing for different endings, and I stopped reading. Afraid I wouldn’t get my ending. He saw me pause, and turned to read me instead. I closed the cover before he could finish the first sentence. We walked to the car in silence. An empty peck on the lips he hadn’t been able to stop sucking two hours ago. The sound of the snap in my chest was hidden by the slam of the car door. And I didn’t have enough energy left to cry out for the pain. I’m not sure he would have cared if I had.

Sometimes it is what it is. No jokes. No games. No bullshit. I just can’t.

Once upon a time, I was Queen for a Month

2005-10-18T20:10:00.000-07:00

Queen of a Puke Palace...anyways. Thanks to everyone who volunteered clean-up suggestions. We've been barf-free for several solid weeks now.

It was an open bar stocked full of Grey Goose and Grey Goose only. A cheaper bottle and the next day's hangover may have been the death of me.

We were all trainwrecked (biggest understatement of the year). Our friendship had been aging like a fine wine for the last seven years. Sheer happenstance and five of us had managed to land ourselves in the same city that particular weekend. Celebrating the success of the one I had always worried about the most. Because he made it. And he will continue to make it. Hell, probably more than the rest of us combined. So, celebrate we did.

We watched the Fashion show. Shots in one hand..double and even triple fisting it at some points. Made fun of the uglies (ahem Real World Trishelle, get a new skirt). Danced for hours, fought a little, pouted a little, shed a few tears. Over IHop at three am, some of us started planning our futures in New York. Others could be heard professing a "love to the ends of the earth" to anyone within hugging distance. Except me. She loved me "beyond the ends of the earth." Because that's how good we are.

I stumbled around my apt the next morning touching up last night's make-up, searching for a rubberband to hold my greasy hair out of my face, and tripping over the bodies passed out everywhere. And trying to figure out why the entire apartment smelled like barf. Apparently, it was because one person was barfing in my bathroom, one person was barfing in the roomie's bathroom, and the next best thing was the kitchen sink.

I would gladly take a day full of the world's worst hangover and a kitchen reeking of barf for the chance to do it all over again.

My kind of Forever

2005-10-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

Marriage is a word I can’t even comprehend right now. Hell, I can hardly pronounce it without choking. Forever is, well…forever. A long-ass time. In my world, you’re lucky if you last two weeks. Spare me the “You just have to find the right guy” Pep Talk. I know. Someday, I probably will. There’s an even bigger chance I won’t. OK. I’m not worried about it. Most of the time.

But to each his own and clearly my plan to avoid any future wedding obligations didn’t pan out so well. I got the call yesterday, “We’re engaged. Please be in my wedding.”

”Well, duh. Of course I will. I’d be honored.” It was a no-brainer.

If we’d had a Greek System at our school, I would have pledged my life to the 7th Floor Girls. The 6th Floor boys would have been our Fraternity counterpart. Welcome to the 6th and 7th floors of the Mathes Hall Dormitory. Notorious for abusing alcohol and wreaking havoc even before we came along. It’s still a mystery to us. How all the campus alkies landed on the same two floors year after year. But we did. And we continued the tradition. We bonded over books, booze, bathrooms, and stink bombs. A group consisting of 20ish, 19-year olds trying to figure out what the hell they wanted to be when they grew up. OK. That’s a lie. We were more concerned about who would be able to buy us enough Natty Ice and Keystone to keep us hammered through the weekend. Four years later, most of us graduated and we all went our separate ways. Seattle, Los Angeles, Washington DC, Pennsylvania, Hawaii, Europe. Seven years later, and the reunions are becoming fewer and further between. The distance is growing, but when we’re together the space never seems to be any bigger.

They’ve loved me unconditionally through the worst and the best. And at my worst, they find my best. Which is why for this group of friends, the answer will always be “I do”.

I do and I will for the rest of my life.

Updated : Best Week Ever...or not

2005-10-06T23:06:00.000-07:00

I just booked my ticket to New York!! I'm way, way, way more excited about this than about the holes developing in my favorite jeans.

I've never been to New York, but I've been having an urge to move there lately. But I thought maybe I should check it out before I move my entire life to the other side of the country.

I'll be there the last weekend of the month...Halloween weekend. If anyone has any suggestions on things I absolutely have to see or do, send me an email or shoot me a comment. Pretty, pretty please with your favorite cocktail on top?

Best Week Ever...or not

2005-10-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

Today, I realized my most favorite pair of jeans is starting to get the dirty, worn, holy, frayed edged look that is so fashionable right now. And I'm stoked about it!! I've spent a shitload more money on several other pairs of "Ripped Before They're Worn" jeans that I don't love nearly as much.

This is the single most exciting event of my week so far..possibly even this month.

Regular posting should resume soon. (I hope)

Does this even work anymore?

2005-10-02T23:04:00.000-07:00

"I thought I had mono for six months. Turned out I was just bored." Someone quoted this to me a couple of weeks ago, and it's been echoing around in my head ever since. Wayne's World, right? Tell me if I'm wrong.

Bored. Uninspired. Writer Blocked. Exhausted. And I've got nothing. On Saturday, I slept until noon and then I moved out to the couch where I continued napping until 6:30. That's PM. And it wasn't because of the hangover. But I promise I'm working on some new stuff, and I should be posting regularly again soon.

Also, on a side note. If anyone still reads this and happens to know how to rid a kitchen sink of the smell of barf...I would really appreciate the advice. We've tried bleach, softscrub, and lemons. But I think it's still lingering.

So, we need the movie and we need to de-smell the kitchen sink. Anyone?

You are what you Wear

2005-09-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

Trust. Can be found on a purple sweatshirt. Sprawled across the chest and down one sleeve in gold lettering. Trust. Trust what? Trust me? Trust you? Have Trust? Trust nothing. A purple sweatshirt is hard to pull off.

Try them on, and pick the best fit. The words we are. Describe someone in one word. No editing allowed. Genuine, Caring, Loving, Loyal, Independent quickly surpassed by Fiercely-Independent, True was the politically correct term for blunt or brutally honest, Diva, Brave, Jaded, Low-Tolerance, Insensitive, Passionate, Impatient. Strong. Some of them were even worn well.

Vulnerable didn’t come in the right size. Asking for a hand to hold because it’s wanted, not because it’s needed. Trusting the hand will stay when it's finally needed. Getting picked up at the airport when the shuttle would have been more convenient for everyone but you. Vulnerable was the most expensive with the worst fit. The sleeves too long, the shoulders too broad. Toss it in the Goodwill Pile, and hope it looks better on the next person.

I know where home is, and I know where the heart is. But I can’t find the key. It’s made out of trust.

A Prayer For You Even Now

2005-09-07T00:15:00.000-07:00

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a sky painted in vivid hues of pink, orange, and yellow. The tip of a bright orange sun splashed in the waves of a crystal blue ocean. We walked hand in hand down the corridor back to my hotel room watching the sun rise. Picture perfect. In one fluid movement, he pecked me on the cheek, pulled me close, and took a deep breath. Inhaling me into him. There would be no phone calls. No letters. No plans to visit each other. No promises left un-made. My first Summer Fling.

A thirteen-year old girl in cut-offs and a gray t-shirt sneaking out of her hotel room in Cancun, in search of one last adventure. A story to tell on the first day of High School. A fourteen-year old boy with curly brown hair, wearing an MTV shirt and khaki shorts. He lounged under a palm tree by the pool, surrounded by a circle of friends and a layer of laughter.

When we strolled past the second time, he waved us over. We swapped stories by the pool, told jokes on the beach, played Hide ‘N' Go Seek in the light of the moon. Hiding from security behind a table, he leaned in and kissed me. A warm blend of salty sea air, coconut lotion, and Coppertone Sunscreen. If there were kisses before this, I chose to forget. This was the first kiss. The first time I would have returned the kiss forever.

The friends disappeared one by one, eventually leaving just the two of us. We borrowed a boat and sailed to France. When the sun finally started to rise we raced back to the hotel, back to reality. Back to bed before my parents woke up. He left on a homebound flight to New Orleans a few hours later.

For years, I scanned the crowd of MTV’s Spring Break Cancun. MTV because of his shirt. Cancun because he vacationed there every year. Hoping to catch a glimpse. Just curious.

And now, twelve years later I have no idea where he lives, what he does, or even who he is anymore. But I find myself praying he is safe and out of harm’s way along with all of his family and friends.

I pray for everyone touched by this tragedy. Hoping they have the ability to find some sense of safety and security in the hearts of those doing all they can to lend a hand.

Give me a better word then...

2005-09-05T21:35:00.000-07:00

Trajesty: Something of a cross between a travesty and a tragedy.

I honestly thought it was a word until about two weeks ago when I used it in front of someone slightly smarter than me. Example: It was the summer’s greatest Trajesty when I was shipped a pair of hideously ugly, black and white and green polka dot Sling backs in lieu of the purple metallic, distressed Ballet flats I had actually ordered.

But really, it’s neither here nor there because in my book summer ends when the sun goes down on Labor Day. And since it’s Labor Day and the sun just went down, I won’t need my beloved purple metallic distressed flats anymore. Sad.

I spent the weekend being Oh-So-LA in an effort to stave off the “Day After Christmas” type feelings of disappointment the end of my favorite season always brings. Nights involving too many fruity cocktails. Hours and hours tanning, reading magazines, and recovering poolside. A birthday party. Ripping huge holes in my heels by wearing my babies out dancing for the first time. Most importantly…Back-to-School shopping with money I don’t really have. (I didn't feel I should be deprived just because I'm not actually going Back To School.) And a first pass at assembling my 2006 Fall Shoe Collection. Peek-a-Boo Espadrille Wedges. Apple Print Ballet Flats. And a pair of Bronze Cowboy Boots I probably can’t wear, but Could Not live without.

The end of a four-day weekend just long enough to take the Summer out in style.

How Not To Hit on a Chick

2005-08-27T18:32:00.000-07:00

I've heard it twice now. The three little words I wasn't expecting for at least another ten years...minimum.

I'll be the first to admit. I've always preferred them
young. A more recent encounter prompted my friend to return home from shopping one day proudly thrusting a t-shirt at me, "I thought this might be helpful." Written across the chest in red block letters...Must be over 21 to enjoy this ride. Hint. Hint.

So, it wasn't any big surprise when the guy chatting me up at the bar turned out to be 23. We exchanged the relevant info (read..my age, 25), and he looked at me, eyes wide open in shock.

"Really? You look good.........FOR YOUR AGE."
"What?" I snapped around, sat up a little straighter, certain I had misunderstood. So, I heard it again.
"You look good for your age. I had you pegged as 22, maybe even 21," he tried to explain it away. But the damage was already done.

And that, is how I got over "preferring them young." I much rather "prefer" to look good. Period.

Sometimes the frog is just a frog

2005-08-24T23:24:00.000-07:00

The endings are written before the beginning has even begun. Choose Your Own Adventure and wishful think the way to a Fairy Tale Ending. Pick the frog that will turn into the Prince. Happily Ever After. If it wasn’t the chosen ending, the story never really happened in the first place. The Control Freak’s Guide to Life. Dealing by Denial.

But we’re over it. We’re laughing at our mistakes now. Fairy Tales are Fake.

There was the time driving back up from San Diego. I had already formed the first sentence in my head.
As I pulled the car into the parking garage, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. We had made it all the way home and back this time without incident…free of any emergency barf stops at a bathroom in Compton, nobody accidentally backing into a car, and then flooring it to get away from the scene of the crime because the witnesses were screaming at us to leave before we got shot.
Not that I’m admitting my guilt here. But on the drive home, I was planning it as a hook for the story about the trip to San Diego when my car lurched forward a foot or so, and I heard metal crunch metal. We got Rear-ended. PS…Karma is a bitch. I’m just sayin’.

So, of course, my Inner Control Freak had already started recapping the wedding on the plane ride over. The story would have been about the success of my second appearance as a bridesmaid. Panic-attack free. How I had calmly stood and watched two of my best friends’ commit their entire remaining lives to each other with a smile on my face and a feeling of peace in my heart. How mature I’d become since my first appearance as a bridesmaid two years ago; when I’d stood at the altar gasping for air and choking back the vomit rapidly rising in my throat. Forever is a long time. I can’t even commit to a Friday night.

But that was the Fairy Tale Ending. The adventure I would have chosen. And it would have been boring.

Instead, the hot flashes started the second I walked down the aisle. By the time the kiss came, I was dizzy and seeing nothing but black spots. As I swayed my way to the first row of chairs, sat down, lowered my head between my knees, and gasped for air, the minister pronounced two of my best friends chained together for life. I sat in my chair with my head lowered, afraid I would pass out if I moved, until most of the guests had filed their way down to the reception area.

Years ago, I would have been mortified. Embarrassed to tell the story. Maybe even fought back a tear or two when the teasing started. But now, my Control Freak and I can laugh. I get the same response every time the story is re-lived, “Of course, you would have to find a way to make it all about you.”

“Nah, I was just trying to relieve myself of any future bridesmaid duties. Think it worked?”

Spin Cycle

2005-08-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

I could have shed a tear today when I looked down and saw the pile of sand that had fallen out of my flip-flop into a pile on my chair. I looked at the scars on my knuckles from rafting and snorkeling in the ocean, and the three different bar stamps I had never really tried that hard to scrub off my wrists.

The week was a blur before the first night was over. Never really sure if the sun was rising or setting. I had no idea if we were coming or going. Not that any of us ever cared.

Rinse and Repeat.

Bars and beer until sunrise, two or three hours of sleep, rafts floating in the ocean, Mai Tai’s with colors matching the Sunset, Naptime, a quick shower, and then start it all over with the bars and the beer.

Rinse and Repeat. Make sure all the sand comes out in the wash.

Throw in a moonlit walk on the beach or two, a drunken search party leading to a minor altercation with the cops, barbecue’s, some live music, a little karaoke, a moonlit serenade, a hat from the local pizza boy handed over as a souvenir to remember one night, more than a few glasses of pineapple and passion fruit wine, and a week’s worth of the ugliest hook-ups any of us could ever hope to forget.

There wasn’t enough Maui to handle the four of us. By the end of the week, we were avoiding half the boys on the island. Bird Man, The Brothers, Irish Guy, Pizza Boy, Bug Eyes. Not an easy task when the town only has three half-empty bars.

We figured it was probably almost time to dry out.

Instead, we moved the party over to Waikiki. Rinse and Repeat. More rafting, sleeping, eating, drinking….

The Miller Lite Girl, had never planned on coming home anyways. It was no surprise when she stayed. Midway thru the final day, The Barfer, decided to extend her stay for an extra week. We, the Unlucky Ones, packed our bags and boarded a jet plane headed for LAX yesterday afternoon. Duty Called. And for once, I chose Responsibility Road. But only because I had too. Had I left my parents with my car payment, my loan payment, and a lease on an apartment two states away from their hometown, they would have found me eventually. Shoved sand in my mouth until I choked to death, drowned me in the saltwater, and then buried me alive.

So yesterday, out of necessity, I threw my clothes in the dryer. Packed them up, and headed for home, back to a life I wasn’t really missing. Big Sigh. Deep Breath.

Gone....

2005-08-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

To Maui. Back in ten days.

How would your friends describe you?

2005-08-08T20:53:00.000-07:00

Of course, we would have to end up back here eventually. The Dead End. But this time down the path, I’m not crying and I know exactly what I want. It doesn’t mean I’m not immobilized by fear. My legs stuck in a sea of quicksand. Terrified of asking the wrong questions. Speaking it out loud. Shouting to the world exactly what I want.

Afraid it won’t happen. Afraid it will. Afraid I might have everything to lose if it does. Afraid I’ll realize it was never the life I really needed. Understanding without a doubt. Choosing not to jump will be the death of my heart and soul. Knowing I could still end up broken beyond repair in the jump. Not knowing if my security blanket is strong enough to heal a hurt like that.

In a job interview, someone asked, “In one word, how would your friends describe you?” Young, taken by surprise, and unprepared for the question, I panicked and answered without pause, “Impatient.”

Miraculously, I still landed the job. Ask me that question again, and I’ll give you the truth. No bullshit. No hesitations.

In a word, “Strong.” So they tell me. They envy my strength. A recurring theme repeated so often, I’m almost starting to believe it myself.

Panic Mode

2005-07-28T02:05:00.000-07:00

Megan sat on the edge of my bed drinking a giant redbull vodka and watching me order another pair of metallic shoes...because apparently seven pairs of metallic shoes is not enough for one person.

So far tonight, we have killed a bottle of wine, relaxed in the hot tub, and paraded around the apartment in our sweats and the fabulous new shoes purchased specifically for this weekend's events. We spent a few minutes comparing whose hair was more mermaid-esque. We've spent a few hours playing on myspace and texting friends. Now, we're blogging.

What we have not done is pack. What Megan has not done is finish her next week's schedule so her employees know when to show up for work. And we have to be at the airport in less than five hours because we are both flying to Montana to be bridesmaids in a wedding this weekend.

Yes. Apartment 105 has just entered Disaster Recovery Mode.

Oh..and now apparently, we both need to straighten our hair sometime before we get on the plane. We may not have clothes for the weekend, and we'll probably forget our bridesmaid dresses at this rate. But as Megan so eloquently put it, "If I've done nothing else right today, at least I got my fucking eyebrows waxed."

Help Wanted

2005-07-27T15:44:00.000-07:00

Seeking any and all persons Mastered in the Art of Google Searching.

Are you bored at work again? Twiddling your thumbs looking for ways to look busy while accomplishing virtually nothing? Would you prefer to cause extreme embarrassment to those around you rather than do something good for humanity?

We, here at Spilled Perfumes, are accepting applicants of all ages, races, religions, and shoe sizes to help us conduct a search. No skills needed, except the ability to google search (read: stalk) people on the Internet. Possible perks include getting caught by your boss at work with a naked picture of my skinny neighbor on your screen.

If interested, please email me at alecia.spilledperfume@gmail.com for details.

**Note We are an equal opportunity employer. However, if you have a mullet the response time will be considerably quicker. (I'm just sayin')
____________________________________________

Ok. So, here's the real deal. Last night, in a fit of stupidity, I agreed to a bet. Now I need to find an extremely obscure picture of my neigbor that can only be found online by the middle of September. Otherwise, I am going to find myself in...a...uh..compromising situation. If you're interested in helping me maintain my last sliver of dignity (and if you read this regularly, you should know I'm barely hanging on by a thread), please help me.

Danger! Rough Waters Ahead

2005-07-26T22:38:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning out my inbox today, and found the following two emails. Both sent to me within the last month.

This is the first sentence of one from my boss to me.....

Hi there!
I hope you had a great B-day and aren't too hung over! :) When you get a chance, can you type up an email....

This one is from the guy I carpool with...

So my co-workers want to go to Happy Hour for margaritas tonight. The CFO asked if I was up for it. I said, "Well it depends if my carpool buddy would want to go."
"Who do you carpool with?"
"Alecia - she works in the front of the office."
"Oh - does Alecia not drink?"
"WHAT?! That's like asking if fish swim, Mr. CFO!"
So the CFO thinks you're an alcoholic. Sorry.

Add these comments to the emails. My friend J (on a daily basis), "You look like a Train Wreck. Where'd you go last nite, and how much did you drink?" And my boss's boss, "You're gonna have to stop smoking so much weed" when I show up for work without a voice.

And I'm pretty sure I'm not giving out the incredibly responsible, well organized, super professional vibe I had originally thought. If you don't hear from me for a while...just assume there was some kind of intervention, and I wound up in rehab.

Kidding, rehab will have too wait for at least another month because I've got big plans ahead. I'll be in Montana starting Thursday for a long weekend of wedding, then a work trip to Vegas next weekend. Then, I leave for a much needed Hawaiin vacation in 16 days.

The point of all this...Limited Internet Access. I'll try to post, but it all depends on whether or not I can find a computer, and whether or not I'm coherent enough to type.

If Tomorrow Never Comes

2005-07-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

A smile slowly crept across my face as I climbed the faux marble staircase to the door of my apartment. I tried to hide the limp caused by dancing on four inch stilettos all night because I knew someone was watching me walk away. As I turned the key in the lock, I heard the engine start. Just before the door clicked shut, I heard the car pull away. I never turned to wave.

In all the times I'd climbed that staircase, he was the only one who stayed long enough to make sure I made it to the top. Waited to make sure I had my keys, and wasn't kidnapped between the the car and the apartment. The first to care if I made it home safely.

I stood inside the door and slid my shoes off, picked them up. Swinging them on two fingers, I floated down the hallway. The dancing, the talking, the kissing, the caring. All the innocent firsts, and the inherent hope that comes with them. For tonight, I would cherish the care.

Tomorrow, there would be plenty of time to worry about whose heart would inevitably be broken.

Canon Balls

2005-07-17T22:55:00.000-07:00

I sat in my lounge chair listening to music, and pretending to read my book. Instead watching the girl drop her backpack, strip down to her bathing suit, start running, and Cannon Ball into the pool. Upon emerging, she looked around to see who had been watching before realizing she had no towel.

I’m more of the wade in using the steps, gasp a little when the cold water rushes over my belly, and scream a little when the cold water hits my shoulders Kind of Girl. I’ve never been a fan of the Cannon Ball. But watching her impulsive jump, I began to wonder how different my life would be if I preferred the Cannon Ball to the Slow Wade.

Would I live in the same places I have lived? Dated the same people I have dated? Picked the same major, same career? Would I have chosen different vacations…different friends? Would I be sitting by a different pool with a different book in my hand? Would I even have a book in my hand?

Much, much later that night (or very early the next morning, depending on what time of day you consider three am), I found myself standing at the edge of a pool for the second time that day. I watched everyone around me strip down, get a running start, and jump for it. I thought about it for a split second, and then stripped down to my boy shorts and bright yellow bra, sat down on the edge, and slid myself into the pool.

As I floated around on a pink plastic raft, I realized the results were all the same. I still wound up soaking wet, and paddling like crazy to keep my head above water. Just because I preferred to enter the water without an audience didn't mean I was afraid to get wet.

Wishing on a Star

2005-07-13T00:19:00.000-07:00

If I were twelve years old with a subscription to Teen magazine, I would have submitted it as my most embarrassing moment. I would have leaned out my window and wished upon a star, waiting for it to show up in high gloss.
____________

After finding ourselves without a plan on a Friday night, the roomy and I grabbed a bottle of vin-o and headed out to the hot tub. Looking forward to a weekend of R&R, we sank into the bubbles. Vin-o in one hand. Cigi in the other. Letting our tired bodies de-tense. A few minutes in, I found myself sitting up a little straighter, my heart beating a little quicker, my body tensing up like it was Monday morning. The Neighbor Cutie had arrived….

A few more glasses of wine and a movie later, I found myself standing on the balcony knee deep in his saliva. When the security guard started yelling, we moved it to the bedroom. Which is right around the same time, my nose started bleeding profusely.

Yep, I’m hot like that.

What would you think of a girl who only kept a bottle of wine and a stale loaf of bread in the fridge? A girl who made fun of fatties (which I immediately tried to retract even thought it was too late), and lived in an apartment dirtier than a pig pen? A girl who had a wine glass in one hand 95% of the time you saw her? A girl whose nose randomly dropped blood at three in the morning?

Hmmm..coke much? No. No. I would never. Not that he would have believed me at that point.

So, what did we learn this weekend?

“Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy.” And a pimp, I am not.

All I want for Breakfast

2005-07-07T22:27:00.000-07:00

Coffee is weak sauce. The boys were throwing back Jager bombs and blasting Rancid when we pulled up......at 6:30 in the morning.

I still wasn't entirely sure I'd made the right choice when I'd started out on my excursion at midnight the previous evening. My head was stuffy, my body hurt, and my throat was aching. But I like to think I’m Tuff, and pouting thru a weekend of being sick at the Lake sounded much better then the alternative. Being murdered in my sleep for bailing at the last minute. So I threw a few bathing suits in a backpack, grabbed the case of beer, and headed out.

Next stop. Lake Havasu. If we left at midnight, we'd hit no traffic and have the boat on the water by 7. Drunk by 10. Nearly drowned to death by 10:30. Plan perfectly executed. Picture four heavily tatted Capital T-uff boys hysterically throwing water on each other in an attempt to bail a quickly sinking boat. Screaming at the girls to find the “Fucking Miller Lite Bucket”. Picture four girls screaming hysterically and running around in circles. On the back end of a boat tilted into the water at a perfect 45-degree angle. Picture the fifth girl. panic- shitting-her-pants because her voice is gone, and no one will hear her cries for help when the boat goes down. Picture the Titanic sinking in the middle of a not very wide, probably not very deep, extremely calm lake. Complete Chaos. I salute you Captain Morgan. Job well done.

I would also like to applaud the sheer genius of the person who thought to bring the “Fucking Miller Lite Bucket” so we could throw ice and beer in it, and carry it around with us wherever we couldn’t carry the ice chests. Thank you for saving my life.

The rest of the weekend went fairly smoothly. And by smoothly, I mean we only lost one side panel, one seat cushion, one doorknob, one propeller (I think that’s what the spinny things on the motors are, right?), a couple of plugs, and the boat started about 40% of the time. The axel didn’t snap until we’d hauled the boat 300 miles home, and were trying to park it on the lawn.

I might have been slightly more worried about our safety if I hadn’t been with a cop, a corrections officer, and an EMT from Compton. But just so we're clear. Next time, should I be worried when the Ship Captain insists we need a welder before it’s safe to take the boat on the water, but we end up on the boat in the water without ever welding anything?

Tomorrow for breakfast, I’ll take two sugars in my coffee and a side of toast please.

Hi, I'm the Creepy Mute Friend

2005-07-05T20:20:00.000-07:00

I have re-remembered and committed to memory the reasons why I don’t ever give out personal information regarding my free time to work superiors…especially when it involves a three day Holiday weekend. Because a.) if I call in sick to work on Monday, they will think I am lying and hung over and b.) if I come into work without a voice they will assume the reason I can’t talk is because I spent the entire weekend partying on a boat in Lake Havasu. Either way, they will be annoyed because I'm not functioning well enough to do my job.

To those of you waiting on a returned phone call. I promise I’m not screening. I promise I am not kidnapped…or dying in a ditch somewhere. For any of the people thinking I ignored them when they gave me the courtesy, “How was your weekend?” as they passed by today. I was really only avoiding about half of you.

I even tried to return a few phone calls. To no avail, I screamed until I nearly passed out. ”I can’t hear you. Alecia, are you there? You’re breaking up. Call me when you have all your bars.” Click. That’s all I got. So, I quit.

I morphed into the Creepy Mute Friend when my voice box went MIA three days ago. Unable to participate in conversations, unable to use my cell, and unable to utter an audible word, there was nothing left for me to do but stand around throwing back beers with an idiotic grin pasted on my face. My friends nodded in confused compassion whenever I opened my mouth to speak. I could see them desperately trying to understand what the hell I was talking about, eyes darting back and forth looking for the nearest escape route the entire time.

Hopefully, soon, I will be returning calls and re-joining the land of conversations not including maniacal hand gestures, pens and note cards, and a voice worse than a twelve year old boy going thru puberty. Any ideas on how to make it happen? Obviously, I’m all ears.

“Can you hear me now?” “Can You hear me now?” “Can you hear me Now?”
Where’s Verizon when you really need them?

Place Your Bets

2005-06-30T23:43:00.000-07:00

What was I really expecting?

Balloons. Streamers. Glitter. Pin the Tail on the Donkey. An egg toss. Party favors. A butterfly shaped birthday cake. A surprise party. Flowers. Oh. Yes. I. Was. That’s what I’ve been trained to expect since before I was old enough to remember. When I ran behind my dad sucking on an Otter Pop while he pushed the lawnmower. Pink streamers in my perfectly curled, blonde pigtails blowing behind me in the wind. My pink striped Osh Kosh Short-alls and pink saltwater sandals waiting on my bed. Waiting for me to slip them on once the first car pulled into the driveway.

June 28th. The Day of ME.

I woke up early for the meeting with the boss. Early and Grouchy…already determined to have a bad day. We’re not talking about how the boss didn’t even show.

I refused to let bagels and cream cheese, two birthday cakes, and a Starbucks gift card dissuade me from pouting like a baby who had just lost her favorite pacifier. After a handful of phone calls (even some from the ghosts of years and years past whose birthdays I had started forgetting five years ago), emails, Hallmark cards, and two horrendous renditions of Happy Birthday…I begged myself out of work two hours early. Claiming a surprise dinner party organized by my friend. If I heard the words Happy Birthday one more time, I was going to cry. I was probably going to cry anyways.

I thought being called “Ma’am” was the last straw. But really, it was not getting carded at the grocery store….a well known chain that always, always, always cards.

I walked into my empty apartment and broke the seal of the Old Maid (Fitting, right?) Wine bottle flown back from Europe for me two years ago and kicked the Pity Party into high gear. Thank you Dad for a lesson well learned.

I thought about the best birthday ever. 21. When a bar packed full of all my best friends convinced a bar full of randoms to sing Happy Birthday to me while I chugged cheap beer out of a $2 pitcher. I thought about the worst birthday ever. 22. When my brother called me at 11:55 pm…when my Dad called two minutes later and whispered Happy Birthday in a groggy voice. When my mom (read the woman who gave birth to me) forgot to call.

I checked the mail and found a picture of my friends and me. Celebrating my birthday party at the Race Track three short days ago. I thought about $1 beers and $1 hot dogs, and how my cheeks had hurt from laughing so hard. The shirts we made specifically for the night. “Place Your Bets,” “Feelin’ Lucky?,” and “Hot to Trot.” I had a flashback of Taylor Dayne calling out to the two girls who were "interpretive dancing." I guess our rendition of Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion Dance was only recognizable to a select few.

“Love will lead you back”

When I was running through the yard sucking on an Otter Pop with windblown pigtails flying behind me, my dad ran over a bee’s nest. Mom slapped on some baking soda paste, and pushed me back outside. And miraculously, the pain was gone.
Anyways, who exactly was I expecting flowers from? The boyfriend I don’t have. I swear. Sometimes, I am such a Drama Queen.

Pass the Advil, Please

2005-06-22T23:15:00.000-07:00

She looked at me expectantly…waiting for a reaction that was not going to come. She continued beaming and moved in for The Congratulatory Hug. A split second before she wrapped her arms around me, I saw her nose start to wrinkle, and a look of disgust pass over her face like a rain cloud. I choked back the vomit rising in my throat, frantically tried to breathe thru my noise, and attempted to reciprocate the hug without raising my arms too high. All in an attempt to keep the stench of alcohol that was already secreting from my pores from getting any worse. Most awkward hug ever.

The next thing I knew, I was the center of attention and the party was at my desk. People were hugging me, trying to high five me, yelling words of congratulations in my direction.

I could only focus on making the room stop spinning, keeping the In N Out burger I’d eaten for lunch in my stomach, and where I could find the nearest bottle of Gatorade. I’d finally managed to sober myself up around noon, after polishing off a bottle of vodka and getting two hours of sleep the night before. I showed up too work still too wasted to do much of anything except say “No” whenever I was asked a question.

After lunch, I got called in for a meeting. Fairly sure, I was about to be “Let Go”, I started making a mental list of all the things at my desk I couldn’t leave without. In a state somewhere between still drunk and massively hung over, I managed to remind myself to grab my purse in case I wanted to hit up the bars over the weekend. So, imagine my surprise when I heard these five little words instead, “We want to promote you.”

“Cool. I’d like to get promoted. What do I need to do? What kind of time line are we looking at?”

They stared at me like I was the Village Idiot, “Just keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll announce it in about five minutes.”

I would never say I’ve lived a charmed life. But if you asked me, I just might have to describe it as semi-charmed.

The Newest Addition to My Family

2005-06-14T23:23:00.000-07:00

When I got home today, I was nearly blinded for life by the light glaring off of my new babies. A moment of sheer panic. What had I done? I felt sure I was about to be laughed right out of West Hollywood. Until I remembered my favorite fantasy, starring me as an 80's Prom Queen. If only I had been old enough to be in high school during the 80's. I may even try to pass them off as vintage.

I think I'm falling in love. Welcome home, girls.

You've Been MySpaced

2005-06-12T23:05:00.000-07:00

I’ve sat down at my computer no less than a dozen times to write something fabulous, inspired, or entertaining over the past week. But everytime I do, something distracts me. One of my ideas was a story about why I'm sooo Anti-Friendster, Myspace, Match.com, and all of the other million and a half tools available online to help the socially challenged meet each other. Too each his own, but it’s not for me.

For one thing, I don’t trust most people. Especially when I can't see them.

For another thing, there’s way too much bad stigma attached to the sentence, “We met online.” Plus, I think it sounds tacky and desperate.

But my biggest objection is this. Meeting people online takes all the fun out of fate. Maybe I am a hopeless romantic, but I still believe that someday I’ll meet someone (or maybe I’ve already met him), and I’ll know. Just by seeing his smile, or shaking his hand, or watching him walk towards me. Maybe I won’t know that we’ll go on a few dates, fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. But I will know there’s a connection. Even if it has a bunk fuse. I can't feel that online.

Or maybe I’ll meet someone, and I won’t know anything. Maybe I’ll have to meet them three or four times before I realize we’re attached by an invisible string. Or maybe I’ll know them for years before I suddenly know the connection was there all along. Again, things I can't feel online.

I believe we all cross, uncross, and re-cross paths for a reason. I believe there is some sense of pre-ordained organization, and at some point I will meet the people I’m supposed to meet in my seemingly random life. And as hard as it is to understand, there is a reason many people no longer have a supporting role in the story of my life. Some reasons known. Many of them still a mystery.

All that being said, I’m my own worst hypocrite..again. Last week, in a moment of peer pressure and weakness, I signed myself up for myspace. And if myspace were crack, I would be in desperate need of an intervention and a treatment facility. For the past week, it has consumed a majority of my free time. My roommate and I have spent hours sitting around the computer searching for the ghosts haunting our past, present, and hopefully our future. We started out ok. Only looking for old friends we'd lost touch with, but remembered fondly. But as our obsession grew, we myspaced anyone and everyone we could remember. We searched old friends, enemies, acquaintances, co-workers, crushes, etc. If we’ve ever met you, we’ve probably myspaced you..attempting to change our own fate on more than one occasion along the way.

So, that’s my lame excuse for my long absence from the real world. It was fun for a while, but I’m done with it. Partly because I’ve already myspaced every one I know. Mostly because if you’re not already in my address book, there's a probably a good reason. I'll leave my profile up for a while because I'm always looking to meet cool new people, and you never know where they might be hiding. But if we're going to become friends, I'd really prefer to bond over cocktails, not chat rooms. I need face time because I'm not toasting to a story that starts with, “I spent hours sitting in my room by myself searching for you online…”

The Long and Short of It

2005-06-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

She takes a bathroom break before every meeting. Gets out of the car to pee at every stop. She picks an outfit the night before. Lays out fresh panties. A fresh towel. Brushes her hair 100 times in the shower. Drinks three glasses of milk. Monthly bills are automatically deducted. She doesn’t run out of checks.

She is a No Shoes Allowed Policy.

She’s never late to work. Never misses a deadline. Goes to the dentist every six months. The Ob-Gyn once a year. She makes To Do lists. One for work. One for home. One for her husband. One for her co-workers. One for the books she wants to read. One for the movies she wants to watch. She plans every minute of her month. Of her week. Of her day. She knows if it’s not on her calendar, it’s not going to happen.

She mails in the Warranty Card.

She judges others. She judges me. For being disorganized. For being spontaneous. For not having a plan etched in stone. For not knowing my future like the back of my hand. For asking to stop at the next rest area.

Her “friends” would describe her as an acquaintance. She will passive aggressive her way right over you with a smile on her face. She claims Passion for her job. Her house. Her Dogs. Her life. She is living a dream. But it’s the wrong one. She’s comfortable, bored, unfulfilled.

She’ll drive us all Nails on a Chalkboard Crazy.

------------------------

In two sentences.

I despise in her all of the anal retentive traits I’ve tried so hard to stifle in myself that, although slightly muted, have persevered.

I despise her for showing me a future so easily attainable, yet only imaginable in my worst nightmare

------------------------

In the long run, which one will leave the larger scar? The dream forbidden from being, left to fester under the skin…or the dream carried in on a silver platter that later has to be thrown out with the trash.

It's a Blog Read Blog World

2005-05-25T20:37:00.000-07:00

Back in the day…and by this I mean before I had ever experienced the horrors of working nine to five. Or in my case nine to seven. Anyways, back in the day I dreamt of being a CEO. Of running a magnificent, successful, publicly traded corporation. Of a gorgeous, oversized, mahogany desk in a corner office with a view…with a view of water. Of my own personal secretary bringing me coffee and magazines. Of a company credit card purchasing my lunchtime cocktails.

With age comes wisdom. And I’ve realized I no longer desire that title. Actually, I would gladly take the title, the office, the paycheck, the power, and the company car. But I would not take the kind of stress inherently found in that title. (On a side note, even if I did still want that job, I’m probably not even smart enough, since I’m not even sure if I just used the word inherently properly.) I’ve come to an understanding with myself, that I will never have enough drive or ambition to earn the title. CEO. Forget about it. Simply by choosing a career…any career, I have chosen the wrong one.

What I want is this. All you-can-buy-shopping. Long hours of sun-bathing. Lunches with my friends. Trips to exotic locations where both the sun and the shopping are Hotter than Paris Hilton. A house-cleaner, a personal trainer, a chef. And an Ipod.

Clearly, this Love is for sale.

And now I’m about to sell myself out a little. So, you need to help me do that by checking out Jason Mulgrew's site. Besides the fact that he’s funny as shit (ironically, one of the only things he talks about), he’s going to link me to his site only if I direct people to him. I’m willing to do this because he gets a shitload (worst pun ever intended..in fact, so bad I’m not even sure it is a pun) of traffic, and I want some of it. And well…as you’ve probably already guessed….

In my warped version of reality….It’s All About Me.

Seriously, check it out. I’m done for today, and I know you’re looking for another reason not to go back to work. Or you wouldn’t still be reading this.

Hump'd Out...

2005-05-24T22:34:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last two days sludging in traffic for two hours trying to get to and from work, slouching over my keyboard willing my hands and brain to work faster and think quicker, and watching all the projects on my To Do List sprout out babies and then grandbabies...all in need of immediate attention, of course.

Settle. Deep, Cleansing Breath. Settle. This is my Dream Job. This is my Dream Job? Deep Breath. Big Sigh.

Happy Hump Day to me! Thank you for falling on a Tuesday instead of a Wednesday this week.
I made it. If I'd had the energy and no nine o'clock meeting in the morning, I would have rounded up a friend or two for a cocktails and some serious celebrating.
As it is, I barely have enough strength to crawl across the floor and into my bed.

In my circle of friends, Hump Day, is practically a National Holiday. I'd always assumed everyone celebrated making it over the hump.

On Wednesday mornings, the email chains would start. My friends and I; cheerleading each other thru the week. Happy Hump..You're almost there.

Then after lunch, we'd change the Subject Line. Happy Hump...it's all downhill from here.

An hour before quitting time...Meet me at our favorite Happy Hour after work. It's practically Thirsty Thursday anyways.

One time my friend, Erin, was in the elevator with a complete and total stranger on a Wednesday afternoon.

Ever friendly, she asked him how his day was?
He replied, "Well, I'm glad it's almost over."
She looked at him knowingly, "Awww...Hump Day."
He stared at her with a blank expression, while she backed red-faced out of the elevator.

Clearly, Hump Day is not yet a National Holiday. Whatevs, I'm too exhausted too care right now. Sweet Cocktail Dreams to me.

A Quarter for My Thoughts

2005-05-20T02:44:00.000-07:00

That's right. I upped my price....

Dena said, “For someone who aspires to be a pothead, I don’t see a lot of action.”
I said, “Ok. Light it up.”

I said, “ In fifth grade I had a crush on this boy. His Dad owned the roller skating rink.”
My best friend said, “What’d his Dad have to do with anything?”
“I wanted free Roller Skating.”
“Do you think we’re born as gold diggers, or is it an acquired trait? Did you get free skating?”
"Well, I gave him a note with a Yes Box and a No Box. He must have checked No because I don't remember holding his hand, and I always had to pay for my roller skate rentals."

Dee said, “You need to know you’re too beautiful too be sitting here by yourself. What are you…a Cancer?
I stared at him, “Yeah?”
Dee said, “You're smile is inviting, but you're confidence is intimidating. But if he can’t approach you he ain’t strong enough for you. You need to know that.”
I said, “Baby trust me, I know.”
“Well, you needed to hear it.”
“I know that, too. Have you thought about starting a 1-800 line?”

I said, “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it for you. I am Fabulous.”
Megan said, “This place brings out your Feisty. I like your Feisty.”
I said, “I know. I blame the Vodka.”

He said, “What’s that smell?”
I laughed and said, “Well, I only wash my hair a couple of times a week but I just keep adding product. The more flammable, the easier it is to style.”
He looked at me with a strange smile, “No, I meant you smell good.”
“Oh, that’s my DKNY."

On the way to the car, I thought to myself, “I am easily amused, but not easily impressed.”

Tonight, I was a little impressed. I hope he calls.

The Other Woman

2005-05-17T22:35:00.000-07:00

Packed away in a tattered old box, in the darkest corner of a closet in a house I still call home is a raggedy green and white striped blanket with holey satin trimmed edges. Even though I haven’t slept with it, touched it, or even looked at since I was ten, it still comforts me to know it’s hidden away in a place where it can’t be found on trash day.

Since the day I packed away my security blanket, I’ve made myself a new one, a much stronger version. This time around, I used my friends and family as thread, weaving them tightly together. I double and triple checked for weak seams, re-enforced them, and then I checked again. I never planned on using it, but just in case I ever fell, I wanted something soft to land on.

After four unreturned phone calls, I was more than worried. An unreturned phone call from this kid meant one of two things….something really bad had happened or he had a new girlfriend. I’m the one that screens phone calls. He’s the one waiting by the phone for you…for anyone to call.

I had prepared myself for the worst. Something really bad had happened. I hadn’t heard from him in three weeks and he was in trouble. If I knew one thing about him, there was always some kind of trouble.

I had also prepared myself for a new girlfriend. After all, I had cheated on him. I had broken up with him. I was the one who couldn’t handle the restraints of a serious relationship. I had practically thrown him into the arms of another girl, begging him to ask her or anyone out on a date. But I had always known that he would be there…waiting to fix me when my life fell apart. And I would always do the same for him. Even after it was over, he was one of my strongest threads.

With all the naivety only the First Love allows, I honestly thought we were finally done throwing punches the day we broke up.

Get it out now if you need to. Gasp, choke, cough…Judge me, hate me. I am a hypocrite. I cheated, just like I always swore I never would.

The truth was, it was over long before I cheated. But neither one of us had the courage to admit it.

The truth was…still is, I should have told him there was someone else even though I didn’t even know who it was yet.

The truth is, I still don’t know if I did the right or wrong thing by not telling him when I landed in the arms of a nobody else. I honestly thought I was making it easier on him. He’d always had trust issues; I didn’t want to make it worse.

The truth is, I’ve already hated myself enough for all of us. But that’s not enough.

Honestly, how could we not be friends? We had been solid friends before and during…thru college, thru a year of the long distance thing, thru the suicide of a friend thing, thru the family death thing, thru the almost moving in together thing, thru the “I can’t imagine my life without you” thing, thru the “I freaked out because he couldn’t be the last person I ever slept with” thing. All of our friends were friends. All of our friends are still friends. We’re in the same wedding this summer.

But he had a Rachel. So, it was different for him. He’d had other people. We both knew they didn’t fit, but I still hated when she called…even though she was pregnant, engaged to someone else, and crazy. It wasn’t because I was jealous. I just hated that one time before we were “officially” together, he had chosen her over me. I just couldn’t understand that because I’d never had to make that choice.

And now I’m the Rachel. Telling myself I was worried, I called from a calling card so my name wouldn’t show on the Caller ID. And big surprise, he answered. He was surprised to hear from me. He’d “forgotten” to call me back. He’d been “busy” with school.

Bullshit. I taught you that trick…how to screen calls..how to make excuses without hurting feelings.

I tried to play if off like a joke. I told him I was worried. Flirtingly asked if he had a new girlfriend. When he paused, my heart stopped for a second. He said he did. I said, “Well, I don’t want to force you to talk to me.” And he answered, “Ok.”

And then he hung up.

It took me a few minutes for the pain to set in; for me to realize I had just turned into “The Rachel.” An un-pregnant, unengaged Rachel. Crazy? That part's up for discussion. But still, I was the unwanted call from the Ex. The Other Woman. Causing tension in a happy place. “What the hell is she calling for?”

Like any healthy relationship, we had taken turns breaking each other’s hearts. But he’d saved the worst for last. He’d waited until I wasn’t looking and then blindsided me, ripping my stomach in half when he did it.

Thank god for BFF’s. She fished me out of the duvet and kept me from drowning with promises of wine and chocolate. She promised to join me in the boycott, even though we knew he wasn’t going to be calling anytime soon.

I live my life knowing that the only person I can count on is myself. But I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’ll never need to ask for help.

I know what my trusty old security blanket would look like if I dug it out from the tattered box in the darkest corner of my childhood closet. Torn to shreds by 15 years of moth bites…deteriorated to nothing. I’d rather not know that it’s full of holes. For me, ignorance has always been bliss.

It's Been a Long Time Coming...

2005-05-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

80 degree weather.

Mustard Stain on my cargo shorts. Plastic cup of beer in one hand and a Dodger dog in the other. Slurred, lazy conversation with a long lost friend. Plans for a pub crawl.

Drunk by three. Napping by five.

Greasy food and gossip in the dusky warmth of a summer evening. Plans for a bbq at the beach.

Drunk blogging and Drunk Dialing on a Sunday evening and nothing ahead but endless days of sunbathing, drinking, shopping, bbq-ing, and bar hopping.

All hopes of a promotion gone with the winter monsoons.

Summer has officially begun. Let’s get it started!!

South Of Seattle

2005-05-10T23:36:00.000-07:00

Contrary to what many of you have either assumed or been led to believe (and when I say “led to believe”, I am admitting that I lied to many of you), I did not grow up in a big city. I didn’t even grow up in a suburb of a big city. Not even close. I grew up in a town so small, I’m not even sure it qualifies as a town….I guess you could say I grew up on a farm because we lived on 60 acres of land even though we never really had a garden or any of the typical farm animals.

Some interesting facts about my hometown and me….

1. For the 18 years I lived there, we had one (count it..one) Stop Light.
2. The year I moved away to college, a left turn lane and left turn signal were finally added to the one and only Stop Light.
3. Until four years after I graduated, the only fast food restaurant we had was Dairy Queen. (Thus, explaining my fondness of Blizzards.)
4. There were supposed to be 109 people in my graduating class. (That means, there were only about 450 students in my entire high school…yep, do the math baby)
5. Don’t quote me, but I believe only 89 of us actually graduated.
6. One of my best friends married her second cousin shortly after high school. There were no blood ties. I’ve left it at that. You should, too.
7. Of the 89 of us who actually graduated high school, about 10 moved away and went to a four year university.
8. Of those ten, five managed to avoid returning to the homeland, settling down, and sprouting out babies.
9. The ones that never left are already married, divorced, and barely making enough to pay child support.
10. Both of my parents taught at my high school. (Which actually wasn’t as bad as it sounds since everybody knows everything about everybody anyways. Most of the teachers loved me, and let me do whatever I wanted.)
11. Are you starting to get the picture that life in my hometown revolved around the High School?…Good. Think of the movie Varsity Blues. Now you’re there.
12. I was a snob. I hated 99% of the people I went to school with, and they probably hated me too. I had two best friends, and we were bitches…except one of my best friends was a guy. Not sure what you call a male bitch.
13. Mudding (i.e. driving your big rig jacked up truck around in the mud at dangerously high speeds) was a favorite past time.
14. Many of my childhood friends lived in a Trailer Park. Yes, there was more than one Trailer Park to choose from. (Most of these friends disappeared before we reached Middle School)
15. There was a lot of trash around. And by trash…I mean White Trash.
16. Even though both of my parents are teachers (i.e. exact opposite of wealthy), all of my friends thought I was a spoiled brat and my parents were rich. Mainly due to the fact that we had dirt bikes, a pool, and could afford at least one vacation (outside of the state) every summer.
17. One time, a semi-cute boy tried to impress me by showing me his new gun rack. Know your audience, fellas. Please.
18. When I was five we tried to raise cows. We stopped because I named them, befriended them, and went into hysterics when it was time to butcher them.
19. I once raised a pig for a school project. His name was Herman, and I was devastated when the butcher came to take care of him.
20. My Dad owns a John Deere tractor. I still don’t really think he understands why offering to let me drive his baby Deere is not a good way to bribe me into doing something.
21. Carhart, Hanes, and Champion were practically considered Couture.
22. Because there is nothing else to do, drugs and alcohol are a huge problem. An average of one kid a year dies from a drug/drinking related accident.
23. I know (actually…knew) a lot of people addicted to Meth, and several more people in jail for running Meth labs.
24. My Junior Year Homecoming date had to cancel on me the night before the dance because he shot his eye out with a bebe gun. I swear this on my favorite pair of Rock and Republic jeans.

I won’t say I will Never go back there. It’s not my favorite place to go, but I enjoy visiting my parents. But there are no bars, so there’s nothing to do at night. And even if there were a cool bar, I don’t have any friends that would meet up with me for drinks. And even if I did have a cool bar and friends, I wouldn’t be able to call them to make plans because there’s no cell phone reception. Despite all this, visiting my hometown is not as hellish as it’s sounds. And I mean this in the nicest way possible. I think it’s a lot like how checking into rehab would feel. But with only minor-ly irritating with drawl syndromes. I try to schedule a trip home whenever I’m spiraling out of control and need to detoxify.

I won’t say I will Never live there again. Because every time I say “I’ll never do something, I wind up doing just that something. Kind of like how I swore I would never live in Los Angeles. But I would avoid it at nearly any cost.

So, there it is. And there I was. A Big City Girl trying to make it in a Small Town World. I’ve spent the past seven years trying to deny the existence of the first 18 years of my life.
I tell people I grew up in Seattle. When they ask where exactly? I shrug..”Just South.” Yup, just one and a half hours and a whole world South of Seattle.

Actual Vs. Forecast

2005-05-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

Forecast....
1. Buy Mother's Day Present
2. Watch OC
3. Eat Lean Cuisine
4. Cardio - 40 minutes
5. Weights - 20 minutes
6. Pack for weekend excursion
7. Ligths out by 11:00 pm

Actual.
1. Bought Mother's Day Present...and really cool ring for myself
2. Watched OC, while drinking bottle of wine. So far, so good....although, not sure how working out is an option anymore
3. Ate Greasy Chinese Food...so we'll start the diet tomorrow
4. Screwdrivers...only to celebrate the rarity of 05/05/05
5. Continued celebrating 05/05/05 at Nobar
6. Twisted ankle stumbling out of bar at two in the morning

So much for the forecast...I was never any good at planning.

Vegas-Opoly

2005-05-02T20:57:00.000-07:00

Winner: Player who grabs the largest handful of $100 bills being thrown from the roof of the Hard Rock Hotel on Saturday night. Bonus points awarded to anyone able to uncover any details about the un-announced and un-promoted event.

Players:
Lindsey: a.k.a. “The Angelina Diva” Fashion mags are her bible. Waiting in lines and paying for anything are against her Style worshipping religion. Always knows the hottest spots and how to get in quickly. Name-drops, flirts, complains, whines, and bitches shamelessly until getting what she needs. An absolutely essential part of any Vegas vacation.

Jenn: “The Vegas Nazi” Refuses to return to the hotel until the sun is rising. Refuses to let anyone else return to the hotel until she does. Does not allow food breaks until at least an hour before sunrise due to her firm belief that any intoxicated person will pass out for the remainder of the night immediately after food consumption. Willing to risk breaking an ankle while stumbling around Vegas on a broken stiletto in order to comply with her own rules. Willing to use physical force on anyone else attempting to break her rules at any time.

Megan and Alecia: “The Entourage” Two easy going, laid back, alternatively cute, rock star wannabe’s. The "entourage" can generally be found sitting at the bar drinking Vodka Redbulls and chain smoking while others around them plan, organize, and execute the next course of action. Willing to do almost anything and go almost anywhere as long as it involves long hours of drinking, dancing, young hotties, and bald hotties. Can almost always be counted on to “Get Sidetracked”, and subsequently lost (both together and independently of one another) for long periods of time, much to the frustration of anyone else traveling with them. Ask either one what they are looking for, and the answer is always the same. Trouble.

Much to the dismay of everyone involved, there were no winners this weekend. Upon arriving in Vegas, the “Players” immediately became too intoxicated and unmotivated to search for any details regarding exactly when and where the money would appear. In a fit of laziness, they decided to buy lottery tickets instead. Better luck next time.

Despite the absence of a winner in this weekend’s game, there were several moments worthy of celebrating. All Stars, MVP’s, and Honorable Mentions will be announced tomorrow after the judges have deliberated (and by deliberate I mean fully recovered from yesterday's hangover).

What Happens In Vegas...

2005-04-28T15:49:00.000-07:00

Probably gets blogged about.

T minus 16 hours until my Vegas vacation begins. Must. Focus. On. Work. But I've completely lost every last ounce of concentration I ever posessed. Not that I had much to begin with.
I generally don't blog at work, but I've given up even attempting to look productive at this point.

What I've accomplished today.

1. Booked a hotel for this weekend
2. Found a place open till 8 pm, so I can my oil changed before tomorrow morning (After much discussion, it was decided that we don't mind if my car blows up in Vegas or on the way back, but making it over early enough to catch some rays before we catch the clubs is non-negotiable.)
3. Pre-ordered the new Harry Potter book coming in July
4. Shared Vegas war stories with an old friend...he admits to being blacked out, but not to being had by hookers

And most importantly..
5. Realized that Lifesavers are no longer sold on the counter of every convenience store in America. And I'm not even sure you can buy them at grocery stores. (Lifesaver Books do not count) I'll be researching this upon my return from Sin City and let you know what I find out.

Rock Climbing

2005-04-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that the closer one is to the top of the ladder, the more one is paid, and the less work one actually does to earn said paycheck.

My suspicions were partially confirmed today when I received a larger raise than I did last year for working shorter hours, spending more time playing on the internet, and accomplishing significantly less on a daily basis.

Unlike many people I know, I’ve always adapted easily to high altitudes.

Happy Birthday to Someone Special...I think

2005-04-25T23:34:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that I spend nine hours a day crunching, memorizing, and spitting out numbers, I’m appallingly horrible at remembering dates….especially birth dates.

A month after my ex-boyfriend of two years and I had called it quits, he called because he just happened to be at a restaurant nearby and wanted me to meet up with him and some friends. I begged out of it, citing a cold and bad med head or some equally unbelievable excuse. About a week prior to the call, my best friend and I had found our selves in a friendly argument over the day of my ex’s birthday. She insisted it was that day. The day he had called to see if I wanted to hang out with him and some friends. I swore on my life it was one month after that day. About two months after he called, I finally put two and two (or in this case one and one...one being the argument and the other one being the phone call) together. I had forgotten my ex-boyfriend’s birthday. No present, no card, and no acknowledgement.

Live and Learn, right? Not soo much. A couple months later, I set my alarm a little earlier than usual so I could be the first to sing Happy Birthday to my friend, L, on her big day. I left her the best rendition of Happy Birthday my raspy voice would allow at 7 am. Laughing hysterically, she called me back five minutes later, “I won’t hold it against you, but my birthday was yesterday.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t really surprised when I got a text message at three in the morning on Saturday reading, “It’s My Birthday.” Well, of course it’s your birthday, but who the hell are you?

Since I’m the only person in the world without the ability to text message, I didn’t get a sender name or number. I ran thru the birth dates of all immediate friends and family, and I’m relatively sure I didn’t forget anyone Significant. (By significant, I mean anyone likely to spend money on me throughout the course of the next year.)

So, either it’s a Fringe Friend or Lawyer Boy. And based on a conversation I vaguely remember, I have a nagging suspicion it was Lawyer Boy. But what I can’t understand is why someone smart enough to be in law school thinks I would care whether or not it was his birthday after not one…but unreturned phone calls. I’m not bitter; I just don’t get the logic. And believe it or not, Philosophy was one of my best subjects. Which leads me to believe I forgot someone’s birthday….again.

And if I really did forget someone’s birthday, and the someone whose birthday I forgot happens to be reading this, and there’s a chance this someone will want to buy me something in the near future…say on June 28th, I apologize.

I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. Please forgive me. I hope you had the best birthday ever. Hugs and Kisses. I love you.

Note*** In an effort to prevent anyone the embarrasment of forgetting my birthday, I will be sending out reminders periodically between now and June 28th. Since the 28th is a Tuesday, the party will be on the previous Saturday. June 25th. (Helpful Hint…You may want to mark those dates on the calendar.) Also, just an FYI. I fully support celebrating the “Birthday Week” as well as the “Birthday Month.”

For anyone out of town, I suggest booking flights soon as I suspect there will be a significant increase in air traffic that particular weekend due to the birthday party of someone extremely Significant.

She's not the Marrying Type

2005-04-22T01:02:00.000-07:00

I learned that I’m not the “Marrying Type.” Considering we were sitting next to the world’s Most Boring Bachelor party, I suppose the conversation wasn’t too out of context. The typical “forever is a long time” conversation lasted about a minute when Ronnie pointed to the two girls sitting on either side of me and said, “You’re the Marrying Type.” He pointed at me, “You. Are not.” I was almost offended, but he was too right. I just didn’t realize there was such a huge cross thru the heart I wear on my sleeve.

I learned that I’m willing to date a boy who owns jean shorts if this is the only flaw. Values, morals, motivation, and appearance are non-negotiables…but I’m willing to help him shop. Considering I’ve dumped many boys for lesser flaws, (i.e. bad laugh, bad car, bad taste in beer, bad hair) I think this is a step in the right direction.

I learned that I’m Lipstick. As in Lipstick Lesbian as opposed to Flannel Lesbian.
I wasn’t sure what I was putting out there, because I’ve had no less than five same-sex propositions in the last few months. Tonight, I learned that it’s a cross between my "Strong Persona" and "Lipstick Looks" that drives the ladies wild. I guess it’s good to know I have options should I ever get tired of playing with fire.

I learned that I can have fun at a bar even when I’m not completely trashed.

All in all, way too much soul searching for just another Thursday night at Nobar.

M.F.E.O.

2005-04-15T16:22:00.000-07:00

Clearly, things (things being potential boyfriends, dates, or even one night stands at this point) are more desperate than I thought for the Hotties of Apartment 105.

As if it’s not bad enough that my best friend has started dabbling in the world of Little People, now my co-workers are trying to set me up with gay men.

To be honest, the newest member of the Finance team did nothing for me. It probably took me about a week or so to even notice we had a new employee. It probably took me another week or so to notice the frenzied group of girls stalking him around the office….whispering, staring, smiling flirtatiously, desperately trying to get noticed. Like I said, he really wasn’t my type. He had a saggy butt. Really, I only decided to show a little interest because

a.) I was bored
b.) The only time I enjoy going to work is when I have a Work Crush
c.) He was the most normal looking guy in the office
d.) I’m always looking to accumulate items others want, but can’t have

He sat directly next to my dear friend Jennie. And since Jennie already had a man, she jumped onto the conclusion that we were (and I quote) MFEO.

Made. For. Each. Other. I guess I missed that lesson in fourth grade because I had to ask. Jennie went into matchmaker mode, and I went into 8 Mile fantasy mode. You know the part…Brit, Em, lots of metal, and dangerous machines. Ok, so we don’t exactly have steel and massive machines to play in at work, but whatevs. I’m sure we could have figured out something equally dangerous.

Jennie started making excuses for me to come visit her so he could “notice” me, and sending him on VIP errands past my desk so I could “notice” him. Last I’d heard, things were coming along smoothly and a lunch date was on the way. So, I was dreaming my day away 8 Mile style, when I received the following email from Jennnie today.

“Are you still here?” (This has become our office code for, “I have some bad news…get ready.”)

“Yeup, I’m still here. Hit me.”

“Well. We’ve run into a slight glitch….Apparently, he only dates men.”

Perfect. My friends now think that my perfect match is a gay boy.
This does not bode well for my 8 Mile Fantasy.

Smoking Really Is Harmful to Your Health

2005-04-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between the day I graduated high school and today, I lost Myself. Until I graduated High School I was the typical first-born child. The Homework done early, Straight A, Super dependable, Ultra responsible, Plays by the rules, Balances the checkbook down to the penny kind of Girl. I was the caretaker. I wouldn’t even let myself dream about smoking a cigarette because smoking causes cancer.

Today, I need a caretaker of my own. The only thing consistent in my life is that it’s consistently chaotic. My little brother is worried about me. Last time I saw him, he told me I should start thinking about finding a husband and settling down before it’s too late. My parents aren’t even a little excited when my name shows up on Caller ID. They know I’m calling because I just bounced another check. Even worse, I’ve lost every last ounce of willpower I used to have.

I can’t say no to a cute boy. I can’t say no to a new pair of shoes. I can’t say no to a cocktail. And I really can’t say no to a cigarette when it’s being offered.

But I’m seriously trying to quit. Not because the Surgeon General told me it causes lung cancer. I know skin cancer will kill me first. I’m trying to quit because I’m afraid of being burned to death. Seriously.

A few weeks ago, I bummed a cigi and a light off of a bum. (A fairly desperate and ugly act in and of itself.) The tip of my hair got caught in the lighter, and the next thing I knew I was missing all of the eyelashes on my right eye and part of my eyebrow. For some reason, I couldn’t feel the pain at the time, but when I woke up the next morning my eyelid was puffy and nearly swollen shut.

Last night, a friend was lighting my cigarette. Again, a rather large chunk of hair fell into the crossfire and went up in flames. At least this time, we managed to extinguish the fire before anyone (anyone being me) was seriously injured. The only permanent damage was the stench of burnt hair that followed me around the rest of the night.

Apparently, the Suregeon General is onto something. Smoking really might be harmful to my health. Either I need to quit smoking or stop putting so many flammable products in my hair.

Wrapped in Cashmere

2005-03-30T00:06:00.000-08:00

With a slight breeze winding down thru the crowd and causing us to sway with the beat of the drums, we all screamed the words to the song at the top of our lungs. I knew the words so well, they didn’t register until later that night, but subconsciously I was singing along with Dave Matthews and the rest of the crowd….

“When I’m walking by the water, Splish Splash, me and you takin a bath
When I’m walking by the water, come up through my toes…
To my ankles, to my head, to my soul
And I’m blown away; I can’t believe that we would lie in our graves,
Wondering if we had spent our living days well”

But at the time, it wasn’t the words. It was the five-minute instrumental break that engulfed me into a cashmere bodysuit and muted life’s harsh realities. Life in a cashmere bodysuit was effortless, soft, easy, peaceful, and safe.

Every muscle in my body was alive and focused on the music. The mutual love of a band playing it’s heart out for the fans, and the fans singing, dancing, and cheering their hearts out for the band. The lazy energy of the crowd filled the warm summer night, and caused the pale moon to glow a little brighter. For five short minutes, everything was perfect.

Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the full moon, maybe it was the energy in the crowd, or maybe it was the weed I had smoked before the show. But regardless of the reason why, there was almost nothing I would have traded for this moment. Not the knee surgeries, the years of therapy, the disappointments, the fights, or any of the broken hearts. I realized that in order to truly appreciate the views from the top, once in a while I would have to dig myself out of rock bottom. I knew that all the “wrong” choices I had thought I made were the “right” choices in disguise because they had led me to a place where imperfection was more beautiful than perfection.

I wanted to stay there forever, but eventually the music started to die. So, I took a deep breath, let the last note soak through my soul, tied a red string around one finger, and crossed the other ones that I wouldn’t lose the string in my pocket. This was a moment I needed to remember for a while….at least until I find the next one.

I wish I could gift wrap my life in cashmere and send it to myself as a present.

The Best Kind of Mistake

2005-03-25T00:07:00.000-08:00

I want to write something fabulous and hilarious and maybe even insightful. I really do.
But I've got nothing. I’m exhausted from moving and too wasted too think of anything even remotely intelligent right now.

I promise I will be back in full effect shortly. But until then I want to leave you with the best quote ever……Actually, I don’t care about leaving you with anything, I just want to make sure I never forget it.

“I made a mistake....A Naked Mistake.”

Because obviously if it wasn’t a naked mistake, it wasn't a mistake worth mentioning.

I Heart the OC. I Heart Julie Cooper.

**Note. I am not jumping on the OC bandwagon because I am the original OC fanatic. I was obsessed with the show before Marissa was an addict and before anyone knew that Seth’s real name was Adam Brody.

Moving Day

2005-03-13T22:58:00.000-08:00

Exactly five more days until the big move.

I'm fairly worried about my stamina because yesterday I carried three empty boxes up ten steps and was so breathless by the time I reached the top that I had a mini-heart attack.

In an effort to lesson the excruciating pain that trudging up and down stairs with full boxes, beds, tvs, and everything else I own will surely bring next week, I decided to hit the gym hard on Saturday morning and get myself in shape. This left me too sore too move off of my couch all day today. As a result I have only managed to pack two boxes so far, and have completely given up on all hopes of getting in shape by next Friday.

The one saving grace of this whole debacle is that everything I own will probably fit into less than 20 boxes. Great for Moving Day. But an extremely depressing thought as I have just realized that I own absolutely nothing of real value unless we start digging into my wardrobe. I highly doubt that even my irresistible charm could help me convince the bank to use my wardrobe as a mortgage in the event that I ever needed a large loan.

I Heart Moving. Wish me luck!

What Dramas May Come

2005-03-10T21:43:00.000-08:00

Me and my girls at our favorite Happy Hour spot.

This was taken several short hours before the one in the middle projectile vomited all over my favorite t-shirt (thank god she was wearing it and not me) and the Ghetto girl in the bathroom. Ghetto girl was getting ready to kick the shit out of all three of us when Security came and kicked us all out of the Martini Bar (Apparently, martini bars don't appreciate a good cat fight). However, I was more than relieved when Security showed up since I was fairly sure Ghetto girl had enough ghetto under her belt to take on all three of us at once, as well as anyone else stupid enough to be standing around. Megan (far left) and I threw the Barfer in a cab with a set of apartment keys, and snuck back into the bar in search of more trouble.

Later that night, the two of us found ourselves at a house party....complete with kegs, red plastic cups, fire dancers, and two boys fist fighting over who had the better agency (only in Hollywood). I do remember being pleasantly surprised to find out that people still have keggers after college. But in hindsight I'm thinking we may have actually been at a college party, especially given my recent infatuation with young boys. Like a moth to a flame, my friends. I just can't help myself. Anyways, I know it was a great night and I would love to tell you more stories, but I was eight hours deep in margaritas and martinis at this point. Honestly, I can't believe I pieced this much of it together.

Note** The Barfer, who claimed she had a two day hangover after our excursion, is coming to visit again at the end of April. We are anxiously awaiting her arrival, and I will try to remain coherent enough to remember more details.

Anything Can Happen

2005-03-10T00:42:00.000-08:00

Maybe Tomorrow...

I won’t be hung over when I wake up
I’ll wake up in my own bed
I’ll move to Hawaii
I’ll wake up early enough to take a shower before I go to work
I’ll be inspired
I’ll meet the man I’m going to marry
I’ll have the best sex of my life
I’ll plan a trip to Thailand, Fiji, Australia, or Europe
I’ll get a “Real Job”
I’ll learn how to kick box and belly dance
I’ll start acting my own age
I’ll even start a 401K
I won’t have to ask my parents to fill my bank account
I’ll see Justin Timberlake….and we’ll make out
I’ll have a torrid love affair with a hot foreigner
I’ll be a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding
I’ll be jealous of my own life again
I’ll have another one night stand, and then I won’t care when he doesn’t call
I’ll go country line dancing, and get kicked off the floor for not knowing the program
I’ll play Bingo, and line up troll dolls for good luck
I’ll talk to my gay best friend for hours about nothing but clothes we can’t afford that we’re going to buy anyways, and which celebrity is dating which celebrity
I’ll get enough courage to finally sing karaoke in front of randoms
I’ll fantasize about my future life, which includes a gigantic walk in closet, a house with a view of the ocean, and a library full of hardback books
I’ll finally outgrow my obsession with boy bands
I’ll find one thing that I’m insanely passionate about
I’ll get in my car and drive with no destination
I’ll make a new friend
I’ll buy a new White Jeep Wrangler
I’ll try out for Wheel of Fortune
I’ll forget about the destination and enjoy the bumpy ride
I’ll call my mom/dad/brother/best friend for no reason and tell her/him that I love her
I’ll give blood
I’ll embrace my Buddha belly
I’ll laugh so hard my tummy hurts for two days
I’ll stop smoking (everything)
I’ll figure out how to download music onto my IPOD. Oh, first I’ll buy one
I’ll learn how to change my own oil
I’ll think about how dirty my apartment is, but I'll be too busy doing something fabulous that I won’t have time to clean it
l'll find a hot guy to change my spark plugs
I’ll throw away a gorgeous boy’s number….because I already know he’s a wast of my time
I’ll call in sick too work because I had too many margaritas last night
I’ll talk to the ugly boy who’s hitting me…because looks aren’t always everything
I’ll wear a side pony and start a new trend
I’ll bring back the high five
I’ll paint a picture…even if I’m the only one who appreciates it
I’ll drunk dial the boy I never had the courage to call when I was sober
I’ll ask the cute boy at my work out on a “Real Date”
I’ll volunteer
I’ll sign up for a class and learn something new
I’ll find a Sugar Daddy

Tomorrow may be the best or the worst day of my life….but if nothing else, it is another day and another story to tell when I am a 65 year old wino regaling people with the war stories of my life. Today, I am only 24 years old. I know that I will make a few good decisions, and a shit load of bad ones. But they all mine to make. Tomorrow, I can do whatever I want. I can move to Hawaii, or I can clean my apartment. Right now, I am not sober, my hair reeks of stale smoke, and the chances of me making it to work on time in the morning are extremely slim. The only decision I'm making right now is this. Should I set the alarm early enough to take a shower or let myself sleep in for an extra 20 minutes?

You Got Gangked

2005-03-08T21:52:00.000-08:00

Finally, a street that was livable. An Oasis in the middle of our Desert. With oversized Palm trees lining both sides of the wide winding street, it was our perfect LA cliché…and exactly what we needed. Walking down the street, we almost felt hopeful again.

Let’s preface. Our place had already been rented, leaving us less than two weeks to find an apartment, sign a lease, and be moved….completely moved. After two weeks of searching, we had finally accepted that our versions of affordable and our versions of livable were irreconcilable. We were desperate and dejected. I would have moved into a cardboard box on Skid Row before signing myself up to live in any of the dumpsters we’d viewed so far.

So, you can imagine our surprise when we found ourselves walking a newly tiled entryway up to the front door of an impeccably clean, secured access building, and buzzing the clearly labeled button for the manager’s office. We started salivating and pawing at the glass like rabid dogs when we got a peek of the Spanish style pool and hot tub thru the entry. At this point, we would have signed the lease before we had even seen the apartment.

But sadly, our euphoric state didn’t last for more than a second because we soon saw the apartment manager trot by with Flannel Girl….clutching what appeared to be an application in her hands. The manager let us in, and told us what we already knew. Flannel Girl wanted the apartment. She just needed a minute to check with her roommate, who was in Vegas for the weekend.

Fuck Fate. This was an act of desperation. We turned on our Cute Girl charm and convinced the manager to show us the place since we had already driven all the way over (all three long blocks of the way over.) Flannel Girl came, too, for a second showing. But she should have saved her energy. We rushed the door, eagerly taking in the new carpets, fireplace, balcony, and all of the pretty, sparkling appliances. Before the four of us had even made it into the living room, I turned to the manager and whispered, “We want it. What can we do?”

“I have to give it to the first one to get me the deposit. Money order or cashier’s check only.” She answered.

Then, she leaned over, smiled indulgently at us, and whispered. “There’s a grocery store around the corner where you can get one.”

We were out the door before she had even finished her sentence. Megan and her 3 inch heels and me and my flips half sprinted, half loped the block and a half to the grocery store; only to find that the only manager in the store who could write us a money order was on break. Patience is not our virtue. Less than five minutes later, we skipped back out the doors and down the street with a money order tucked safely into my wallet.

While we were gone Flannel Girl had finally decided she wanted the apartment. We looked at her, gave her a pitying smile, and slapped the money order down on the manager’s desk. Then, we asked our new landlord if we could see our new home again.

A little too early for cocktails even by our standards, we opted for our second favorite past time as a celebration. A few new shirts, a new pair of shoes, and a few hours later, we moved the celebration onto Happy Hour.

Maybe the Flannel shirt would have won ten years ago in Seattle, but it didn’t have a chance in hell last Friday morning.

And All the Other Times

2005-03-04T21:11:00.000-08:00

We've already covered how every great once in a while my life scares me into a state of paralysis. Now, we need to discuss how the rest of the time and most of the time I love my life in a "Till Death Do I Part" kind of way.

Today my life was so Fabulous, I was almost jealous of myself.

I would write more, but I'm on my way out to yet another gay bar. Sounds bad, but it's actually a glorious thing since it's been proven on more than one occasion that I can get more free drinks at a gay bar than I can anywhere else, and I just spent my last $50 at Happy Hour.

Leave the Shallow's Alone

2005-03-02T21:50:00.000-08:00

Ok, here’s a thing I don’t get. Maybe not soo surprising, since I don’t really get most things...but here we go.

I’ve been working hard all week. I’ve been looking forward to the season premiere of ANTM and a few glasses of wine all week. America’s Next Top Model…But if you needed that explanation, you really shouldn’t be reading this.

So, we’re drinking wine, we’re waiting for the Thai delivery man, and we’re intently trashing every one of the 35 finalist in an effort to boost our egos because we both know Tyra would never. Not ever. Fly us out to Los Angeles for the final cut. When….

The God Damn TV screen turns black in the middle of Lady Cat’s audition and words start flashing across the top….Child abducted in the Hollywood area at 8:10 pm. If you have any info, please call something, something number. Then, we see it in Spanish. Then, we see it in English. Then Spanish. Then English. And finally, Tyra is back….looking even manlier and more Drag Queenish than she did five minutes ago.

I really do appreciate the effort to find a missing child, and God help her make it home safely. But let’s be honest. Do you really think that anyone sitting at home on a Wednesday obsessing over the season premiere of ANTM has any info about a kidnapped child. Maybe, just maybe, we should be focusing our efforts elsewhere.

In All Honesty

2005-02-28T22:31:00.000-08:00

Let’s get back to honest. Heartbreakingly, gut-wrenchingly, sobbing into your pillow, mascara smeared all over your face Honest….for just a second. Most of the time, I couldn’t tell you where I just came from; let alone where I’m heading. I have no idea if I’ll find a green light or a dead end around the next corner. Most of the time, this is why I love my life. Most of the time, I’ll run head on into the bright, yellow Dead End sign with an idiotic grin and a laugh, and then turn around and skip down the other road. But every once in a while the bright, yellow Dead End sign scares the hell out of me. Not wanting to waste any more time on my journey to Real Life, I am paralyzed with fear. Should I take a right or a left at the next fork in the road?

We have so many options available; places to live, careers to work, and people to meet. How do you know when you’ve found the life where you want to spend the rest of your days? Do we “date” different lifestyles like we “date” different men?…hoping to find the one that fits, the one that will last forever, the one that will erase all of our doubts about something bigger and better waiting around the corner. I’ve never felt a certainty like that in life or in love, and it’s hard for me to believe in the possibility.

When will I know if So Cal has more to offer than just skin cancer?

Playing With Fire

2005-02-20T22:04:00.000-08:00

Seeing one of my old flames last weekend got me thinking about all of the fires I’ve built up and burnt out in the last year. Most of them went down in an undetectable blaze of glory noted only by myself and possibly one or two others who just happened to be standing close enough to get hit by a spark. This must be why Smokey the Bear warned us not to play with matches when we were five years old.

Rebound Boy – The result of a two-year relationship finally gone too wrong. Freshly single and new to the world of playing with matches, Rebound Boy never stood a chance.

The Unmentionable Boys – A string of boys so unremarkable, I have already forgotten the names. Could have been three, could have been four. I can’t be bothered to remember or remark.

Operation Black Hawk Down Boy – The Josh Hartnett look-a-like who abruptly and without reason disappeared from my life. As a girl who neither accepts nor acknowledges Rejection, I coerced my girls into helping me devise a plan to find him again. Operation Black Hawk Down (so named because of his striking resemblance to Josh from the movie Black Hawk Down) was ultimately declared a failure. Thankfully, the only casualty of the attack was my Pride, which had only been hanging on by a thread anyhow.

Cocaine Boy – Mid-dinner, he informed me that he was once was so strung out he took a cab from Tijuana to Los Angeles. The last thing he remembered about the trip was standing on the street attempting to buy cocaine. Some hours later, he awoke bruised and bloodied in the backseat of a cab, while the cabbie waited for him to pay the $300 fare.

Goth Boy – Bad clothes

Band Boy – Bad tattoos

Tom Cruise Boy – Yet another movie star look-a-like. So, maybe I am still a little obsessed with celebrities. Also, my first unsuccessful attempt at robbing the cradle.

Criminal Boy – Trying to remain positive, I chose to ignore the comment about Liquid Latex. But the comment starting with, “Back when I was in jail….” killed whatever dying sparks we had between us. In case you’re interested, the rest of the comment was something, something, drug lord something.

Baby Boy – The second unsuccessful attempt to rob the cradle.

Foreign Boy – What can I say? The Australian accent will get me everytime.

Porsche Boy – There was a direct correlation between the size of the boy and the cost of the car. I'm not sure if this is a universal truth or not, but it was all too true in this case. The more expensive the car….the smaller the boy (both literally and figuratively).

Curtain Boy – The last time I saw him, we were both being escorted out of the bar by the bouncer who found us “hiding” in the curtains.

Working Boy – So involved in his career, he didn’t have five extra minutes to enjoy a cup of coffee in front of the fire with me.

Lawyer Boy – The jury’s still out, but my Intuition is telling me to brace myself for no less than second-degree burns. Although as far as robbing the cradle goes…the third time might be a charm.

With a list like this, it’s almost tempting to heed Smokey’s advice and put down the matchbook. But like a pyromaniac, I am decidedly addicted to the danger of it all. Hoping to find infinite beauty within an uncontrollable flame. But until I can figure out how to build the perfect fire, I will happily settle for mini-sparks, dying embers, first, second, and third degree burns. Bring it on boys. I'm ready to go down in flames.

It's a Beautiful Night

2005-02-18T21:49:00.000-08:00

I thought Random Acts of Kindness were just another Urban Myth in this self-obsessed, shallow city of Los Angeles. The chance of witnessing one about as likely as me finding the love of my life in some hipster West Hollywood bar and living happily ever after. Maybe both things are possible in another city, but not here….Not even if hell froze over.

So, imagine my total shock when I found myself the recipient of a Random Act of Kindness just two short hours ago.

I was standing in line waiting to buy a bottle of Sailor Jerry (similar to the Captain, but a little feistier) when the guy behind me asked if he could cut in line because he was in a hurry and wanted to use his friends BevMo card. Having nowhere important to be in the next five minutes, I smiled and stepped back one space. After watching the guy and his friend frantically search their pockets and wallets in search of the tiny little BevMo card that probably wouldn’t save them more than a couple of dollars, I offered mine up for their usage.

They insisted on paying for the Sailor, and then sent me on my way. I really can’t think of any act kinder than buying my alcohol.

Daddy's Girl

2005-02-17T23:43:00.000-08:00

I’m sure I learned a lot from my Dad, but there are two lessons that stick out more vividly than any of the others.

Lesson #1 –

Don’t waste time worrying about things that can’t change. Deal with it, and move on.

This was learned when I was about twelve years old, and I told my mom I felt sorry for her on the way to school. “Why?” She asked.

“Because your hair is frizzy.”

I choked on my seatbelt and nearly got whiplash as my Dad slammed on the brakes, perched the car in the ditch on the side of the road, and turned around to start yelling. I braced myself for a spanking, but thankfully it never came. Before you start judging my parents for using corporal punishment, let me reassure that I rarely ever got smacked, and if I did…I deserved it. I probably deserved a lot worse most of the time.

I don’t even really remember what my Dad said, but I’m sure it was something insightful about not stressing out about things that can't be changed. Find a way over, around, or through the issue, and forget about it.

But I will never forget The Look. It was more along the lines of, “I didn’t realize my daughter was so stupid we should have signed her up for the special Ed classes.” To this day, I would still rather be smacked, grounded for life, and tied to a chair than get one of Dad’s “You Disappointed Me” looks.

I was devastated, immediately started crying, and told my mom she had the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen.

Of course now that I’m older I know what frizz is, and I realize that she does not have frizzy hair. She had 80’s hair, which she was kind enough to share with me. I think it will come in extremely handy when I move to Nashville and become a cowgirl.

Regardless, lesson learned. “There’s no point wasting time worrying over things that can’t be changed. Deal with it and move on.”

Lesson #2 – A bottle of wine will solve almost any problem.

He started doling out this advice the day I turned 21. The only time it didn’t work was the day I called my Dad hysterically crying because I had an infection in my throat, and I hadn't been able to eat, sleep, or swallow in three days because my throat was swollen shut.

This might explain a lot about me.

There will be no drunk dialing until after dark!

2005-02-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

This was my response when Heather slurred out, “Should I call him?” at 3 in the afternoon on a Saturday.

This is generally how I do San Diego. This is also why I generally try to avoid it.

My best friend, Megan, was headed down for the weekend, and I was ecstatic that I had absolutely no plans and nothing to do for once. I was half-sleeping on the couch Friday night dreaming about all the glorious things I was going to accomplish over the weekend….clean the apartment, buy some groceries, pay some bills, wash last weekend’s barf off of my favorite t-shirt (not my barf, nor was I wearing it), return neglected phone calls, learn how to add pics to my blog, get waxed, organize my life, and delete Lawyer Boy’s number from my phone (too much lag time between calls). It was a beautiful dream, until my roommate walked in the door, practically held a gun to my head, and forced me to drive down to San Diego with her. Ok, that’s a lie. After the short five-minute dream about my productive weekend, I was already going stir crazy.

Forty-five minutes later, I was showered, packed, and eating yesterday’s cold pizza in the car en route to San Diego. Two hours and a monsoon later, we arrived at Heather and Alison’s apartment in SD, only to have shots of Tequila poured down our throats and a cab waiting to take us down to MoonDoggies. It’s all kind of a blur after the cab ride, but I’m sure it was a blast. I mean, how could anyone not have fun at a place called MoonDoggies?

Saturday morning our fear of being swept away by the monsooning and flooding outside was finally overcome by our cravings for a sizzling plate of greasy bacon. So, Heather, Alison, me, and my flip-flops ventured out in search of Mimosas and eggs. At this point, Megan was still MIA. Having been given only thirty minutes to shower and pack the previous night, I hadn’t had the foresight to bring any shoes other than my trusty flips. You will need to know this because I blame the flips for most of the subsequent events.

Because of the flips, I found myself standing ankle deep in the middle of the massive street river I was trying to jump over. Because of the wet flips, I then found myself standing on the yellow lines in the middle of the street flailing my arms around like I had dementia, half dancing, half hopping on one foot, and shouting at the car that almost ran over me, and actually did run over my flip when the flip slipped off my foot. Heather later described me as a “Crazed Reindeer caught in headlights” when I looked up to find both her and Alison hysterically laughing and “The Hookup From One Year Past” yelling at me out of his car window. Of course he would be driving by at that exact moment on his way to the exact same restaurant we were headed to. His exact words were, “Are you Hammered?” Slightly flustered, but more indignant, I answered, “No, No I am not. Do I look like the kind of person that would already be wasted at 11 in the morning?” Apparently, the answer to that question is not as obvious as I thought.

Megan thinks it’s a sign that I keep seeing him everywhere, but it feels more like punishment to me.

Five minutes later, we found ourselves waiting for a table at the bar with cocktails in hand. It was at this point that we decided our theme for the day would be “Why Not?” What else did we have to do?

“Want a Mimosa or three with breakfast?” Why Not?
Back at Heather and Alison’s, “Want some wine?” Why Not?
Running a little low on options, it turned into “Want a Brass Monkey?” “Oooh…what’s that?” “A forty with OJ.” Sounds nasty, but Why Not?

It was shortly after this that my roommate (she’d been off with “Boy” since last night) walked in to find the three of us sitting on the couch reading my stories. As she should have been, she was incredibly impressed that we had managed to start slurring our words at two in the afternoon. A slightly jealous Megan and the “Boy” went off to have some alone time, and we went back to work.

“Wanna go shopping?” Why Not?
“Wanna bey thet shert?” Why Not?
“How bat the shoes?” Why Not?
This is also about the time we had to start managing the urge to drunk dial. “Should I call Chris?” “Absolutely Not…But should I call Jake?” “No, no, no! Everyone wait until after Happy Hour at least.” Please note this is the only time during the day that a question was answered with anything other then “Why Not?” It’s very reassuring to know that my common sense remains impeccable even after consuming large amounts of alcohol.

“Mmmm, Happy Hour…margaritas, chips, and salsa?” Why Not?
“Pacific Beach….Longboards….Gringo’s?” The questions were endless. And so were the Why Nots?

Really, I don’t think anything else too exciting happened. The last thing I remember is leaving an incoherent three part message for Lawyer Boy, whose number I will be deleting from my phone as soon as I call and apologize tomorrow. I was still hung over when I got to work on Monday, and I must be getting a cold because my nose and the right side of my eye have been dripping fluids all day. Probably from running around in a monsoon wearing flip-flops all day. Like I said, it’s reassuring to know that my common sense is so impeccable.
I would really love to show you the pics from the weekend, but I obviously didn’t get around to learning how to post them. Maybe next weekend.

Here We Go Again

2005-02-10T21:18:00.000-08:00

I just called Lawyer Boy Back. I got voice mail. I am giving him 20 minutes to return my call. That would be 9:40.

Name one thing that takes longer than 20 minutes.
Shower…nope.
Phone call…nope.
Masturbating…nope.
What other excuse is there for not answering your phone?

A Day in the Life

2005-02-10T21:05:00.000-08:00

Incoming Call: Weird that it’s an unknown. For a fleeting moment, I hope it’s Lawyer Boy from last weekend….until I remind myself that I officially stopped hoping he would call last night at 8.

“I’m starving, and we have absolutely noooooooo food in the house. Wanna order in?” My roomie whines into my ear.
“Yeah sure, Oh my god. Are you hung over? I’ve been sooooo hung over all day. I could hardly eat lunch. I was so worthless I might as well have called in sick again”
“Me too! I still feel like shit. What should we order?”
“Umm, Bossanova.”
“Yeah, but do they have pizza, I need pizza.”
“The pizza’s great, you pick the toppings, shall I pick up some wine on the way home?”
“Yeah, I could totally go for a glass of vino.”

There’s my answer. Next time my mom calls wanting to know why her Super Genius Baby Girl has been working at her first Real Job for over a year and a half and hasn’t been able to get herself promoted, I know what to tell her.

Yesterday I took a “Mental Health Day” so I could go shopping and take my best friend out to lunch on her break. Being fully aware of my lack of talent in the acting department, I thought I could “fake getting over sick” today by coming into work hung over. (I always think it’s a bit suspect when someone calls in sick on Wednesday and is back to being perky on Thursday). The problem is that being hung over at work all day completely offset all the benefits of the “Mental Health Day”. Now I’m back where I started, needing another day to regroup. A girl whose ready for a promotion would have known that the better and more obvious solution was to simply play hooky two days in a row.

This is why I haven’t been promoted.

I am bored. I am uninspired. I need to find a new job. When I’m bored, I start drinking too much. As soon as I decide what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll start looking.

Oh…and Lawyer Boy just called.

Of all the Crazy Cabbies

2005-02-10T01:55:00.000-08:00

The Bandit – Being wasted, this is all I remember. “Do you believe in God…Don’t use that tone with me!! Do you believe in God?” Me saying…”What the fuck kind of tone should I give you, we need to be going in the opposite direction, take a left at the next street. Oh, ok…or not.” One of my less intoxicated friends…”Uh…I think we should get out. Now!” A short hike back up to Sunset Boulevard, a call to Checker Cab, and we were safely home.
**Note to self – Unless you can see a visible permit, do not get in.

The Tea Drinker – I should have known something was wrong when he bought us Klondike bars at the 7-11 at two in the morning. When we stopped at my apt, he pulled into the parking lot, put it in park, and asked if he could come up for a cup of tea.

The Scholar - While the boys were in the gas station buying cigis, he wanted to know if we liked poetry. “Of course,” the girls answered in unison, not wanting to seem less scholarly than our Cabbie. (Because apparently, the fact that we were sitting in a cab at 4 in the afternoon, all too wasted to drive ourselves anywhere, didn’t make us appear scholarly enough.) He smiled, flipped on the hydraulics, and we bumped the rest of the way to the party blasting Snoop Dogg.

The Cabbie we never had – So it probably wasn’t PC to make a Fat Joke when we drove by him sitting on the trunk of his cab. Twenty minutes later, the Karma Cops are pounding down my door, while the cabbie wheezes us out as the ones who ran away without paying the fare. Right. Because I can drive myself in my car and be your passenger at the same time.

The Bandit Cabbie (Again) – Never having been the kind of girl to learn from the mistakes I make after throwing back a few cocktails, I found myself in yet another permit-less cab. We made it approximately two blocks before the cops pulled us over and hauled our cabbie away in handcuffs. The cop was nice enough to try and flag down another cab with his mag-lite, but what kinda cabbie is gonna pull over for a cop?

At least I never had the Masturbating Cabbie….you’d have to ask my best friend about that one.

Trying to Take the Good with the Bad

2005-02-02T23:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve been trying for almost two years to reach that point where Our Song doesn’t make me want to curl up in a ball and cry until every pore in my body bleeds tears, but instead represents the love and fun and laughter we shared together.

It was seven pm on a weeknight when my boyfriend called. In the split second pause before either one of us said a word, I could hear the tears in his eyes and my bedroom started spinning. We never talked before nine on a weeknight because that’s when he got home from work. The long distance thing was tough, but nothing compared to what we were about to encounter.

I think in months and seasons, not dates, and this month is always a little tougher. Spring is just around the corner, but the winter nights still feel endless. I always associate this time of year with death.

But regardless of the month or the season, The Song always gets to me no matter what time of year. Our house on Franklin Street. It was the beginning of our Senior year of college, and me and three of my best friends were moving into our new home. With four more of our friends living a block up the street, we already knew the year wouldn’t be anything less than Fabulous. (And we weren’t disappointed) Before we even brought in the furniture, we had plugged in the CD player, so we could blast Jack Johnson on repeat. When we found out he was playing at a small club in Seattle, my three roomies and I bought tickets.

Our first bonding experience as roommates. The four of us road tripped it down to S-town where we fell in love with Jack all over again. But track #5 was the one we waited for all night, the one we played over and over again on the way to the show. When he finally played it, we elbowed our way in a little closer to the stage, hugged each other, and held hands.

Less than a year after I moved out of the house on Franklin Street, my boyfriend called with the news. It’s not the kind of call you can anticipate. You can foresee the call when you’re grandpa is dying of cancer, nobody expects a call about a twenty-three year old boy who took his own life.

The worst part was his mom asking for answers we could never give. We spent everyday with him, so we should have known. Hindsight is 20/20, I guess. If we could have gathered everyone in the room together just one week earlier instead of one week later, could we have changed the ending?

I’d like to know that Our Song is his way of reminding the three of us that he’s happier now than he ever could have been here. That’s he watching and laughing and crying along with us everyday. I’d like to know that, but I’m not quite there yet.