My gay boyfriend gave me a scented candle for my birthday. A girlfriend also gave me a scented candle. Another girlfriend gave me scented lotion. So maybe it's not just dirty boys who give smelly things. Maybe I'm a really difficult person to get things for. Now that I think about it, of the 8 or so years we were together, I think the ex might have given me something twice. But he always took me out at least. I'm not complaining. Just something to think about with your next girl...
So everybody, come on down when I accidentally burn down my house with all of my scented candles, and remark about how lovely my burnt house smells and how soft my charred skin feels.
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Saturday, November 29, 2003
What is it with boys giving girls bath stuff, toiletries, and other general smelly products as gifts? Not that I'm opposed to them (thank you boys, the gifts are lovely), it's just an odd occurrence I have recently noticed. Between me and another girlfriend, we've had gifts of this nature from five different men this year for our birthdays. While my friend's current beau was smart enough to get her smelly things she'll actually use, a former beau has decided she needs to smell like Liz Clairborne's HAPPY, and trust me, this girl is not that. Talk about snarky, she makes me look like Gidget, but that's why I love her. This year, my favorite boy ever, decided I need to take more baths and smell like 10 different kinds of flowers that are supposed to help me relax. I don't need to relax, why would he think I need to relax???? You would think someone who knows you that well would think of something different. My brother, who doesn't know me at all, so not surprisingly, presented me with body wash that smells like a cross between dime store, and nursing home. But then he laughed and said he got it for his last girlfriend right before they broke up, so he never gave it to her. Hm.
Not that I'm ungrateful, I'm just wondering what motivates men to buy that stuff for women. And considering myself and my aforementioned friend, who happen to be some of the least 'girly' women I know, it's and interesting occurrence that year after year we are presented with such wares as tokens of affection, when we would appreciate more tools or books, or ANYTHING that gives us reason to believe that you've actually been listening to what we say!
Or maybe we're just dirty and stinky.
In that case, okay.
What am I saying? Any gift is a good gift.
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I was driving back from Temecula with my brother (by the way, I pretty much lost the shirt off my back. No, not like that. That would be incest). While I was behind the wheel, he asked me, "Why do you start to break so early before a stop, and why are you so soft while accelerating? It's not like you have a piece of junk car." And I just said back, "So Kali doesn't get thrown around in the back. She doesn't stay in her seatbelt." And he kind of just looked at me a blinked a couple of times. And I just then realized Kali wasn't in the back seat. But I always drive like that. I have my dog in my car so often that I drive as not to make her uncomfortable even when she's not there. She's not very stable and when I turn too quickly, or brake too hard, or accelerate to fast, she flops all around, or hits her head on something (I always hear it, I'm watching the road, not her), and it's really sad, so I drive very carefully. I explained this all to my brother, and while he's not really a dog person, he seemed to accept that explanation, but he then added, "You really need to find yourself a boyfriend." Humpf. That coming from a 35 year old single guy who's still into cars.
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Thursday, November 27, 2003
Okay, so I had to do a LITTLE cooking...Ended up making stuffing, potatoes, and yams for mum's place, then made a pie and a cake for the father's side. Not as bad as I thought. Although big brother was showing off his new gun licenses and acting like an idiot. Everyone was drunk by the time I got to the father's side, and everyone was glued to the TV watching poker. I don't get it, why would anyone want to watch poker on TV? Go figure. After tucking grandma in bed, I went back to mum's to watch the extended version of The Two Towers, friggin' 220 minutes long. But unable to move in my triptophin haze, I sat still through the entire movie. And like a good little dork, I eagerly await the next one. I probably haven't seen a movie in the theater in like, 6 months, so it's time.
So after not being interested in watching poker all night, I think I might go to Temecula with my brother to go gambling. If I win lots of money, I'll post nekkid pictures.
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Wednesday, November 26, 2003
One of the more unfortunate side effects of my period, is excessive gas. I know, charming. Along with the gas is bloating, making my butt cheeks balloon out, leaving less 'open' area in which to silence my indiscretion. In other words, during this time, I have loud farts exploding out of my ass. If I ever suggest we meet somewhere loud, like a rock show, or outdoors and stinky, like the zoo, you know what time it is. You'll have further hints because I'll be crying uncontrollably about something negligible, with a choco-dile in one hand, and something fried in the other.
So today, I happened to be in one of my more gassy states, and the ability to silence them even more uncontrollable. So I spent most of my time at the dog park this morning, doing laps with my dog trying to run away from the sound. Being as it was a dog park, everything smelled poopy, can't say if it was me. Nah, my shit smells like roses. So after doing many of these laps, hunky dog park boy shows up. I see him maybe once a month, both of our schedules are erratic, so we don't see each other during the same times. Trust me, I've looked. And looked. And stayed at the park waaaaay longer than I should have on many occasions. So I'm in a quandary, thinking, "should I go say hi? What about my gas? When will I see him again?" and many other hormonally-driven girlie thoughts that would have made me seem psycho if I voiced them aloud. I just said screw it, if I make a concerted effort not to fart, maybe it will work. So I go over to say hello, pet his kid, and go into my charming rambling mode. After listening to his thanksgiving plans, which I'm not sure exactly what they were, because I was too busy planning our Fall wedding in my head. And after chatting for a while longer, I was telepathically sending him messages to ask me to move in, or at least go out. I guess I was concentrating too hard on sending him the signal that I lost my concentration on keeping my butt cheeks sealed together, because, yes, I let one loose. A doozy too. But at the same time, my dog let one go also (she's very gassy also, although ALL of the time), so there was no passing the blame. I was mortified. After what seemed like an eternity of silence and me wishing it was a dream, he kind of laughs and says, "huh, sychronized, wow." And launched into another story. I am officially in love with this man. What a cool guy, most men I know would point it out and make it a big issue for their entertainment. Not this one, he's above that. Too bad I'm such a dork and he will never ever want me to meet his friends and family. I don't want to introduce him to mine either, but only because I'm embarrassed about them, not the other way around. I need to start looking slutty at the dog park.
Don't worry, I haven't starting writing "Mrs. Jerky *****" all over my folder or anything like that. I can't, I don't know his name.
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As far back as I can remember (at this point, it's about five years at best), Thanksgiving consisted of me cooking for people I generally don't like. I was afraid to be alone, even more afraid to spend it with family, and terrified to spend it with the ex's family. So I would usually accept any invitation handed to me. A hipster thanksgiving? Bring it on! A friend's work Thanksgiving? Woo hoo! So I'd slave over twice as many dishes as I need to prepare, making sure everyone was covered and able to eat. The vegetarians, the vegans, the lactose intolerant, the allergic to gluten, dairy, onions, tomatoes, brewer's yeast, whatever. I made sure they would all be satisfied (gastronomically). And every dish had to rock. The one thing I take most pride (well, besides my sparkling charm and model-like looks of course) is in my cooking. Besides training the ex to sit while peeing, I also gave him the biggest gut that he still can't get rid of. A former vegan, he's now a semi-vegetarian who will eat anything and just pick out the meat. Except for the last time we went out, when he ordered quail because he was curious. Ate the whole damn thing too. If I can't train 'em with my cootchie, I'll get 'em with my cooking (and my witty banter and striking figure). Point being, I put a lot of work into my food, and it doesn't make it to the party unless it's close to perfect (lack of funds make me say 'fuck it' a lot more these days).
This year, I thought I'd buck tradition. I'm not going to cook at all. I'm just going to relax at eat with the people I generally don't like. So HA. This year, I decided to forego the friends and take my chances with the families. I figure I need a reminder of why I don't spend holidays with them. First stop: Mom's place, an intimate affair consisting of crazy, mid-life crisised mother and her two dogs, my obnoxious, Tourette's-like grandmother, alternating between child and crotchety old woman, plus her little rat-dog. Then there's my weirdo, gypsy aunt, who tries to be 'cool', and is seen often dancing to a tune only she hears, and she'll be bringing her two yappy dogs. My other aunt will be elsewhere this year. But my bigot brother will be there, no doubt complaining about the mexicans who live next door to him. I'll stay there maybe an hour or two, before the need to stab someone overwhelms me. Because my older, still single brother will be there, I won't be the only one hearing, "why are you still single? Why don't you have a good job? You really should work out more, you're getting old. Why can't you stop sleeping around?" They always ask that last question, and I can never understand where they got that idea. WHO have they been talking to? Soooo, with my sphincter sufficiently sealed shut, I will head to my father's family dinner, which is a much larger affair, considering he has 7 brothers and sisters who have kids who have kids. My father's side of the family is what I like to call, Asian trash. Unfiltered cigarettes, cheap beer, football, gossipy conversation, and lots of fighting. There are no trailers, but most of them live in the same apartment complex. There are abused wives, (really) bulimic cousins, asexual kids, asexual grown-ups, a man I haven't called 'dad', but rather by his first name, for 20-odd years, slow kids, whipped husbands, men in their late 40's still living with their mothers, alcoholic uncles, and the born-again, bible-thumping, minister-marrying cousin with her 5 kids, Micah, Josiah, Abel, Jerimiah, and something else. Last time I saw them, one of the kids gave me a picture he drew of Jesus being crucified, with blood and hangdog look and everything. Charming. But the food is always good and I usually feel a lot better about myself. There are a couple of normal people that I actually like to hang out with there, so all's not lost. I've come to terms that I'll never have a Norman Rockwell kind of holiday, because all of this is what I'm turning in to.
Anyone want to come over for Thanksgiving?
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Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Must.. have... chicken pot.. pie, and twinkies. UrgGlkach.
Times like this I actually MISS the ex...Go figure.
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Maybe it's because I needed a good meal, maybe it's because I need some money because of the holidays, maybe I needed to get out of the house, maybe it's because I'm a big whore. Whatever the reason, I found myself taking a job as a meat prop yesterday. Most people would call it, being "an extra", the PC crew people call it "background", the pretentious extra's call it "atmosphere" (to which I reply in my newfound geekdom, "so you're a unit of measure for pressure?", because I'm a big dork), any way you slice it, I'm a meat prop. Someone puts me somewhere on set and I stand there. But we eat more than a regular prop and make lots of noise.
In my early morning haze, I did not ask any questions, nor did I get much information from the person who contacted me. I got, "don't shower, don't change, just go. They need you now." So three hours later, I found myself at a studio I've never been to before. Not a good sign. Porn? Worse yet, children's show? After finding my way to the right set, I'm greeted by glaring eyes of meat props that have been there since 7am, most of them non-union, so getting half of what I make. Plus the fact that I get to clock in the same time that they did. Ah, union politics. So essentially, I wasn't going to make any friends. Boo hoo. Then I found out this is a Hallmark movie of the week. My scene: 1967 Maryland. Uh, kudos for production trying to be PC and diverse, but forgive me if I'm wrong, but were there crazy Asians hanging out with the white folk in suburban Maryland? I don't see anything else but white kids and be and one other Asian boy. Okay, whatever, just pay me. Then it hits me, 1967??? Oh no, please don't do it...Yes, they did it. Two showers, four shampoos, and a condition later, and it still looks like roadkill on top of my head. I could be cool and say it's a fuck-knot, but my scowl probably discredits that one. My eyes are rubbed raw from trying to get all of the make-up off. But most disturbing of all, when I was spun around in the make-up chair, done up head to toe, to face the mirror, I saw my mother, in a school picture, circa 1964, EXACTLY. So not only am I turning into my mother as I grow older, I'm her as she was younger. I'm screwed.
To ostracize the others even more, me and three other people get to hang out in a conference-style room with tables and heat and comfy chairs, while the twenty or so others are huddled in a dark, dank corner of the stage with plastic fold out chairs. And because they're on stage they have to be quiet. In the conference room, we play pictionary on the dry erase board.
There was one person I ended up talking to a lot: The perky blonde that everyone hates. You know, that really happy, gorgeous girl with the Midwestern wholesomeness. The other gorgeous girls hate her because she's not slutty gorgeous, but naturally pretty. The bitches hate her because she's nice and kind, the average girls hate her because she gives the average guys the time of day, thus lowering their chances. Me? Well, she really can't touch the Japanatics and geeks, so I'm pretty well covered. Yeah, so we were our own little clique. Of course, since I am anti-social and don't want to be a part of anything, and she's so cute, the director wants us to be front and center of the scene. We can hear the grinding of teeth from the people who actually WANT to do this around us. "Now dance." Uhhhhhh. So we dance. "Don't dance so good, you're at a party, not a recital". Uhhhhhhh. Okay, now do that for two hours. When we're done, the director gives us a hug and cake. I got cake! I'm so glad I did that! No one else got cake, just us! Yay for being surly! Yay for hanging out with the cute blonde!
People often ask me, "Jerky, why do you stoop to being a meat prop? You used to be crew, you used to make fun of those people! Aren't you ashamed?" To which I respond, "No, I make fun of ALL people!" But really, it's not such a bad gig. I'm more ashamed of when I used to smile and nod my head with a fucknut director, or smile and say, "please sir, can I have another?" when a producer takes some of our gear away so he can afford a cappucino machine in the producer's trailer because he doesn't want to walk outside to get his coffee. I see everyone busting their asses while I'm reading, studying, knitting Xmas gifts, or thinking of things to entertain you. And I'm getting paid better than the PA telling me what to do.
And this time, I got cake.
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Sunday, November 23, 2003
I was hanging out last night with Trigger, a recently acquired friend, and found myself being more obsessive-compulsive than I normally am. No reason, just fidgety. I wasn't being obnoxious about it, just a lot of straightening of other peoples things. But that's not the point. The point is if I crossed some kind of boundary this morning. After drinks, a really good show, more drinks, and some Thai food, I ended up sleeping over Trigger's place because I wasn't driving anymore. When I woke up, I desperately wanted to brush my teeth, so I went to the bathroom to do so. I don't know why I didn't notice this before, I had been over on several occasions, but for some reason, I was affected more today to find that the toothpaste was being squeezed from the middle. You know, that haphazard, 'put the whole tube in your fist and bear down' kind of squeeze. I so desperately wanted to flatten from the bottom and roll up, efficiently, with less waste, and a much more attractive state. My way is more space-efficient also. But with me doing that, is it an invasion on someone else's space, like I'm trying to change their ways? Especially since I've only known this person a couple of months? I actually sat there looking at the tube, going back and forth in my head about what I should do. But could I haphazardly squeeze it myself? Would it be possible for me to? I think I stood there thinking about it for a good three minutes, I actually flushed the toilet so it wouldn't seem like I was standing there thinking about the toothpaste. Because what else what I be doing, silent in the bathroom, with no water running? Finally I said screw it, and flattened from the bottom and rolled up, making it all very tidy. I finally got to brush my teeth.
Now I'm trying to remember how long it took to train geek boy to do the toothpaste right. He wasn't very consistent, but he did it most of the time, so I guess I shouldn't complain. But I have to admit, my proudest moment of our 8+ years together, was training him to sit on the loo, for both parties, so there was never the toilet seat issue. And I trained him pretty early on. I wonder if he's still keeping with the routine. It's amazing what boys will do sometimes if they think they're going to get constant pussy.
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Friday, November 21, 2003
I had a sad day today. Not a bad day, or this would be an angry blog, just a sad day. I get them sometime, just a small bump in the hormonal cycle. But while in search for a solution to today's moody blues, I think I found a cure all for all of the world's problems: ABBA. Yes, you heard me right. How can one be sad with the pop stylings of ABBA? How can there be conflict while the harmonizing voices of two lily-white couples waft through the air? How can there be anger and discord with with the ultimate aryan swedish group (is there any other kind?) in satin is crooning about a lonely office worker who turns into a boogie goddess? HOW, I ask you, HOW!!!
If you're feeling down or you're feeling blue, you've just been handed the cure. If your man has decided he's hit his mid-life at 40, don't you fret. If your gal has decided your needs and her needs aren't the same needs, you just let her be. If there are creditors knocking on your door, you invite them in with a smile and say, "here's your bill" as you turn on your stereo. Because honey, let me tell you everything's gonna be all right. Because Mama Mia, Fernando's gonna take a chance on me in Waterloo and lay his hands on me.
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Thursday, November 20, 2003
If you're ever out to intimidate someone, it's best to do a quick check in the mirror before you do your thing. If you have a booger in your nose, your rate of intimidation drops about a hundredfold.
You may have the words, you may have the stance. On any other day, it might just scare the fuck out of someone who can kick your ass back to your mother's womb, but today, it's snot.
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About my arm:
Today, the pain has spread into my shoulder. It hurts to turn my head. People ask how I did it, I have no response. If I were I guy, I could say that I pulled a muscle having a marathon jerk-off session, and all the other guys would slap me on the back and say good show. If I said that now, everyone would just shake their heads and think about their weird cousin to set me up with. But alas, since neither situation is true, I am at a loss for a really good story as to why I have an unbearable amount of pain in my arm/shoulder. I've resigned myself to just sigh and say, "yep, I'm getting old", then start a yarn about "when I was younger". A couple of years ago, It was, "when I was an asshole...", now it's "back in the good ol' days."
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Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Today I left food on my car, twice. The first time, on my way to my "let's everyone make Jerky feel old" class, I put my travel mug and a tupperware of food for lunch (meatloaf, if you have to know.) on the roof of my car before I loaded in all of my "math for retards" and "chemistry for nitwits" books inside. As I was driving away giving my obligatory wave to the neighbor, who seemed to be waving more enthusiastically than usual, the arthritis must not be too bad today, I took a turn and heard a THUNK. Then I ran over something, a pothole? Then I take another turn and I see a gush of coffee cursing down my windshield, followed by my travel mug, which I promptly ran over. Ah, that other thunk must have been my meatloaf. And I think, "Oh well, street cleaning comes tomorrow, they'll take care of it." And I continue on to my local community college. About a quarter through my "math for kids under 20, except for Jerky" class, I was feeling a bit unwell and decided to go home for a nap and some more coffee, since I missed my other cup. The Native American Club was making fresh frybread, so I had to buy some. I was munching until I got to my car, then set my frybread on my hood, so I could keep an eye on it while I loaded the car. I have no idea where my eye wandered, because it took me a good two blocks until I realized the frybread was still on my hood. And not only did I not do anything, I kept driving, wondering if it would stay there because I really wanted it, but I really didn't want to pull over. Then PLOP, it went. And I thought, "damn".
I also pulled something in my arm. The only thing, I did absolutely nothing. I have no idea how. It's not a slept-on-funny kind of hurt, but a hey-this-arm-should-be-in-a-sling-because-it-hurts-with-every-movement kind of hurt. Yes, I'm getting old. Birthday is in two weeks, send gifts, preferably monetary.
But I just might forget it on my car, so send something heavy.
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Thursday, November 13, 2003
I was driving in the rain yesterday. Safely, I might add, not like the other idiot drivers who freak out at any weather changes other than sunny and clear, or the people that turn into morons when the weather turns ("I drive towards the spots that aren't as rainy so my car doesn't get as wet" ?!?!?!?!?). So I was on the freeway ( where else would I be in LA?) and I found myself literally driving through a rainbow. I was in a sunny patch that lasted about 150 yards or so. There was brilliant color everywhere, reflecting off my eggplant-colored car, bouncing off the billboard advertising a local gentleman's club. I wasn't sure if the shimmering cleavage was rainbow or graphics. Intense colored light engulfed me and those around me, making us all little pieces of gold at the end of the rainbow heading North on the 110, our own little patch of wonderment created by nature, as a respite from our otherwise mundane lives. Enveloped by iridescence, I could only scream, "ACK! TOO BRIGHT! CAN'T SEE! AAaahHHAhhaAH! Goddamn rainbow, trying to kill me! I'm trying to drive!" Meanwhile, a rainbow compatriot driving next to me, was intently looking around himself, staring at the color speckling his arm, like a kid tripping on acid for the first time. "Move it bozo! If you want to be a looky loo, pull over fool! I need to get in that lane!" Fazing him from his enchantment, he gave me a look of puzzlement, then glanced around him, ordering me to do the same. I give him a look back of irritation, and he visibly sighed and shook his head.
Which reminds me of another rainbow incident. A couple of years ago, I was traveling around the country with a semi-large group of people, getting around in two cargo vans (because when I travel, I travel in style). It was summer in the Southeast and it was raining crazy hard. The man I was currently in love with at the time was driving the other van and half our group, while I was trying hard not to think evil thoughts of the people I was sharing a van with, and wishing I was anywhere but there. My man calls me on my phone and tells me to look out the window (no, I wasn't driving), and I peek out to see the biggest, most vibrant rainbow I've ever encountered in my entire life, stretching out across the flat vastness that was the South. It looked almost unreal, as if George Lucas stuck out his hand like god, creating a monument of stained glass and light, and said, "this is to make up for the new Star Wars trilogy". I still hadn't said anything, so he said, "do you see the rainbow?" "Uh huh...Is it doing something?" I asked back, not sure if I was missing something. "No! Look at it, it's pretty!" "But it's not really doing anything." "That's not the point, it's beautiful!" "Is that why you called me?" "I'm just trying to share the beauty with you!" "Oh. Uh, okay." I then heard a huge sigh on the other end of the line. "What?" I ask. "Nothing" Another sigh. "Waitaminute, aren't you driving? What the hell are you talking on the phone and staring at rainbows for?!? It's raining! Keep your eyes on the road!" I get another sigh and a click. After I hung up, I remember thinking, "how dangerous! How irresponsible, What was he thinking?" Then it occurred to me that he was being sweet and romantic, but more often than not, sweetness and romance happens to be beyond me, so I just didn't get it. I ruined a touching moment for him and potential brownie points for me. This incident is one of the many reasons we're not together.
That's why I have a dog.
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Wednesday, November 12, 2003
When I don't go to the dog park, I take my dog out around the 'hood. It's not really a 'hood, mind you. It's really as suburban as you can get in LA. Anyway, today was one of the days that we went 'round the 'hood. We took a different route, you know, to break it up a bit, cruise a little. Since the the streets were a little different, the dog has to sniff everything, make sure she's up on all the news. So she has her head down, sniffing sniffing sniffing. Then BOOOIIIING (that's really the sound it made), she rams her head into a pole. Unfazed, she plows on, head down, intent on the smells, then GOOOOONG, right into a fire hydrant. Than one made her eyes cross a bit, and I'm starting to worry. Wobbly, but generally unfettered, she continues to sniff like Robert Downey Jr on the last line available, until a flower petal gets lodged into her nose and she can't get it out. So I have to dig it out of her nostril and I just tug her back to land of familiar scents so she won't cause any more harm to herself.
Because I'm a bad mommy, there was no blood, and self-diagnosed ADD prevents me from being overly concerned, I got to thinking. Which actually isn't too unusual, because that's what unemployed people do, they think. They think about how nice it is to not have to work, but are actually in denial because they don't want to admit how much they really miss eating. But that's not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about how much I'm like my dog, in a figurative sense. How I often go through life with my head down, focused on something small and insignificant, letting the big picture pass me by, then once in a while getting knocked on my ass because I wasn't paying attention. And when I do stop to smell the roses, I over do it so as not to miss out on anything, thus ramming the whole damn flower up my nose, and not really enjoying it. Ah, the things you learn about yourself while observing another species. Then my dog takes a monster dump and I'm forced back into reality and not enough poop bags. Ooo, shiny!
The low blood sugar is making me delirious. Send food! Send Money!
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Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Courtesy of my mother piano_player.wmv (yes, more family values at work). My mother e-mails this to me, followed by a phone call while she was at work. "Did you watch it? Oh my god! I can't stop watching! I can't look away!" The piano music is playing in the background, "I'm mesmerized. Come on , watch it!" All I can do is say, "yes mother, I watched it." She continues on, "He looks like a total idiot and a dufus, and he isn't very good-looking, but look at that penis! Oh my god! Have you ever seen anything like that? Can Trigger do that?" At that point I have to hang up on her. And no, Trigger doesn't do that. I'd have to shoot him and myself to ever be involved with a numbnut like that. The phone started to ring again, and knowing who it was, I let the machine pick it up. "I wasn't done talking! Was that what uber-geek was like? I remember you complaining about his girth, is that what you meant? I can see why you stayed with him so long! I have it on a loop now, and it's making my boss crazy. He's just jealous. You want to go out to dinner tonight?" Pleeeeease tell me I'm adopted. I can't imagine what goes through my mother's head when she watches that, nor do I really want to know, but it can't possibly be the same thing going through my head, which was pretty much, "he'd probably puncture my lung." Followed by a, "ew, he's greasy". My mother's not inexperienced, she's been around the block, but I have to wonder what she's had sometimes. Ew, no. No, I don't have to wonder. In fact it's better that I never wonder that again.
Contrary to popular belief, not all women are eager for a huge schlong. In fact, I have to say, I prefer them not to be. I'm somewhat a petite gal. I can only hold so much. Stuff too much in there and it really limits your range of motion, among other things, to put it delicately. If it don't fit, don't force it. Didn't you learn that from legos and non-barbie clothes on barbies?
Well, if I ever feel like getting ripped in half, maybe I'll go look for that guy.
But what a dufus.
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Monday, November 10, 2003
There's a guy at the dog park who's been asking me out. I find him to me dull and self-absorbed. You know, the kind of guy who you see naked and think, "So that's why you have the big truck". I was talking to my mother about him, wondering how to gently tell him there's no way in hell. Her reply, "Eh, go out with him. Your birthday's coming up, he'll have to get you a gift. You're getting too old to get gifts from people other than really close friends and guys that you're sleeping with. Get what you can." Thanks mom, way to teach me family values.
Don't worry, I won't go out with him. I don't think it would be worth it. He'd probably get me something crappy anyway. See? I'm turning into my mother.
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Friday, November 07, 2003
Part Two: Unfortunate comments I'm thinking, that are said aloud, that usually deny me a second date. (not always a bad thing, mind you)
* I hate kids * That's a really bad comb-over * I will never love anyone as much as I love my dog * Are you retarded or just a spaz? * No really, I absolutely can't stand children * Yaaawwwwwnnn * You don't get out much, do you? * You are so gay * Why are you touching me?? Did I say you could touch me?? Don't touch me! * Yeah, touching story. Waa waa waa, get over it. * I am so much smarter than you * Sometimes, I listen to country music. * In other words, you're a big pussy * You are so not funny * If you turn your head just so, you have an uncanny resemblance to Merle Haggard * Oh my god, I have such a bad case of gas right now!
On the other hand, The Thing to Say That Will Guarantee Another Date: * I am sooooo cheap and easy!
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Things to say to me that will not progress to a second date
* You remind me of my ex-girlfriend * Yo, don't be a playa hayta * I love kids. I want lots of them * You ever think of getting your boobs done? * You're Japanese? Wow, you've got no accent at all! * You're Japanese? I LOVE anime! * You're not Japanese, you have to be Korean. You look so Korean! * Can I read you some of my poetry? * I'm really looking for someone like my mother. * I'm not really a dog person. * I LOVE the smell of patchoulli * This? It's just a cold sore. * Of course my penis has a name. * I really love cartoons. * My favorite artist in the world is Moby. I want to be just like him. * I'm an actor * I want to be a rock star * I'm saving myself for marriage * I can tell YOU don't count calories! * You remind me of this stripper... * I hate fried food * You're a little old to be going back to school aren't you? * Sometimes, when I touch myself...
Just a tip of the iceberg.
Shouldn't be so hard to find a date, right?
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Thursday, November 06, 2003
Another reason to leave California...Maybe I should head to New York.
The CA DMV thought it was okay to renew my grandmother's driver's license. She's 88. Did they forget about what happened in Santa Monica already? Granted, I love my grandmother, I came back to LA to take care of her after her millionth surgery. Yes, I do care for her, but I don't know why she's still alive. Seriously, I don't think she's human anymore. I think about 15 years ago, the pod people took over. Let's take a look shall we?
She recently had a hysterectomy. Before that, she was diagnosed with lung cancer (smoking for 60 years will do that) and had a third of her lung removed. Before that, she was knocked over by a large dog and broke her femur (that's the big thigh bone). She was found the next day by the gardener at the park. Before that, while in a mall parking lot, she put her car in reverse, but the car went forward (yes, the shift was in reverse and the tranny was in drive when they checked the car, and no, she didn't sue), pitching her through the windshield because she thinks seat belts are death traps, resulting in a concussion, a broken wrist and a broken ankle. Before that, she was run over by a speeding taxi. Before that, she was mugged multiple times, once getting hit over the head with a brick. Before that, while working in a Fedco (kind of like the old Woolworth's), some numbnut threw a lit cigarette in a trash can and it caught on fire. While pushing the trash can outside, she also caught on fire. And let's not forget about internment. Since she's Japanese-American, she was shipped off to Minnesota with her kids, losing all of her property and possessions.
So yes, my grandmother is somewhat of an anomaly. I still believe she is a pod person. I don't know what the CA DMV is thinking. She's 88, has 2/3 lung capacity, no uterus, cataracts, is getting hard of hearing, forgets things easily, and drives a monster Volvo with a heavy foot and tends to drive close to the right.
The only thing that's really keeping her alive is spite.
I guess she's going to live forever.
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Tuesday, November 04, 2003
While feeding someone else's cat today, I must have offended it because it took to using my arm as a scratching post. Although I love cats, I happen to be slightly allergic. Slightly, being the key term here, because I heeded no notice until walking through downtown Pasadena for coffee and getting stopped by a cop. Conversation ensues as follows:
Cop: Hey missy, where ya goin' in such a hurry? Me: Must have coffee. No coffee for three days. Head hurts. [note: it's 8am] Cop: Had a big night partying last night, did we? Me: No. A friend came over for dinner and I studied all night. Cop: riiiiiiight. Can I see some ID? Me: Uh, sure. Was I, uh, walking too fast or something? Cop: So you're from San Francisco, huh? Lotsa drugs up there in 'Frisco, I hear. Me: Uh, sure. As with any depressed urban environment, I imagine. Cop: Do you bring a lot of drugs from San Furan-siss-co? Me: [still confused] No. But actually, I've been living in LA for about two years, I just haven't been to the DMV to change my address, and.. Cop: We don't like drugs here in Paassa-denaa, you know. Me: Understandable. Cop: And I see you like to show-off yer drug use to everyone around. [at this point, I look down at what he's staring at, and my arm looks like track mark central. The cat scratches turned to welts and a rash formed around it, making me look like the most lucid, long term heroin user EVER. So of course I can't explain that I was scratched by a cat, I have to burst out laughing. And laughing and laughing and laughing. Mr. Policeman didn't like that and threatened to take me 'downtown'. After pulling myself together and explaining the circumstances in which the track marks appeared, and getting a loooooong lecture about why drugs are bad, I got my coffee and freed myself of the headache. Now, I'm freezing in a tank top, but I'm sporting some cool looking 'track marks'. I want to see if anyone will mess with me.
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Monday, November 03, 2003
I must be getting old.
I was sitting on the couch knitting and watching the food network when I went for a bathroom break. I had skidmarks. I should have been mortified. I've resigned myself to getting old. Then I realized it was on both sides of my pants also. Then I realized I sat on cake. I sat on cake for 2 hours and did not realize it. I was more ashamed of sitting on cake than having skidmarks.
Maybe it's because my cake is now gone.
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One of those days...
I had a wicked early meeting in the Valley (far) to not get a job that I need. Apparently, I don't take anything seriously. So now I can't fly one of my best friends to Vegas from Boston for her birthday. Now she just gets a crappy card. People I don't like have been calling non-stop wanting me to do things for them or needing money. A former co-worker from ages ago e-mailed me wanting to engage in a dalliance. I don't know why he would think I would, considering I used to refer to him as "The Icky guy". My dog ate something foul on her walk and she keeps throwing parts of it up on places like my bed and couch. And boy howdy, does it reek. And the phone's ringing again. Some creditor keeps calling asking for Ms. ****, which I happen NOT to be. The creditor doesn't believe me, and keeps calling, leaving me screaming messages, "I know this is you! You can't hide form us!" And I'm too lazy to do anything about it. A good friend of mine is moving back to Texas, the only person who doesn't think I'm too surly or morbid. Trigger hasn't been coming through with his promises. Today was supposed to be my day to do nothing. To bake cinnamon rolls and watch crappy TV. But now all of this. Sometimes I wish I lived in the woods with just my crap-eating dog and a trashy novel. The more I think about it, I believe Ted Kazinsky wasn't such a bad guy. Just misunderstood.
At least it's raining. I love the rain.
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Saturday, November 01, 2003
I've come to realize I have a huge problem: I'm a bulimic. Oh no, not THAT kind of bulimia, ick gross.
[side note: Although I have to admit, I do recall once, making myself vomit while sober. I was at an uberswank, supercool, rich person's party. No deli tray or Costco cheese platter for this party. No, we're talking food made with real butter, not margarine. No imitation crab meat to be found. Things weren't rolled in tortillas. Remember Martha Stewart when she was still Cape Cod, before she went K-mart? Yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. Of course I'm going to overindulge, when am I going to be on this side of the catering tray again? There was enough food there to feed three times the amount of people there, and when there's food around, I don't stop eating until it's gone, or until it's just the cheese platter left, but again , this wasn't one of those parties. So after about three or four hours of continuous feasting, and about ten, "how many of those have you had so far??", I'm pretty much full beyond comprehension. Uncomfortably full. You know, that feeling like you just ate ten pounds of government cheese, and your ass is screaming, "there's NO WAY that's gonna fit!"? So I just sat still, not moving for fear that I would vomit, not caring that everyone thought I was being snobbish and anti-social rather than my routine anti-social, which usually included a lot more eye-rolling, but in this case, I didn't roll my eyes because movement made me nauseous. Then suddenly, glutton-karma came out in the form of the host...carrying CAKE. Oh sweet Jesus. I can't pass up cake. Who can say no to cake? Not only was it cake, it was fancy-schmancy cake. Betty Crocker and shortening frosting? Not on your life! I had to do it. IT'S CAKE. I did it. I made myself throw up for cake. Oh sweet spongy goodness, mine, all mine. Yes, it was worth it. Did I feel stupid? Well, not at the time, it was cake? But I do admit, I feel ridiculous about it. And what's even more tragic, it's not like I was 20 and didn't know any better, I was at least 27. Tragic, indeed.] I digress.
Yes, back to my bulimia. So we're clear that I'm not physically bulimic, so you can leave the food right there thank you. No, I'm a relationship bulimic. I'll start dating someone, doesn't matter how much I like him, I'll get really into it and make it progress really fast, ostracize my friends so I can spend all of my free time with this guy, shirk responsibilities to fit his schedule, etc. Then I kind of realize what I'm doing and feel guilty, so up he comes like a Lara Flynn Boyle snack...and flush. I will often ignore the huge red flags, the numerous references to his mother in one day, the flashing of the "I'm a psycho" membership card. I usually just wait for the guilt. You'd think I was Catholic. Nope, just Asian.
Nowadays, I try to force the proverbial finger down my throat early. This way he'll come up in one piece. Then I can brush him off and replace him discreetly back on the buffet. Granted, sometimes I don't get to it in time, and he ends up covered in bile, and bitter tasting, but like a fine wine, he'll age out of it and become better tasting. An 'aging' learning experience, so to speak. So now I treat my affliction like a gift to society. I am emotionally aging the boys for all of the women out there. I just got rid of a rocket scientist (really). A bit too bland, and it took too long to prepare. I didn't realize how young he was, so he broke down in my system faster than I thought. I figure, let him marinate for a while, and he'll be tasty and ready to go, and still tender.
Maybe one day I'll be able to keep something down. Something that's not too greasy, not too fatty, that doesn't leave a bad aftertaste. Hopefully, he won't be too fruity, nor too bland. I'd like something bold and meaty, that won't leave a stain if it should fall on my dress. But for now, I'll just enjoy sampling from the chaffing dish of men, keeping the finger ready. Let's see if I can find a swank party again.
