Friday, December 19, 2008
My dad called me in a complete twit earlier. He had jetlag and was completely wasted (not drunk wasted- wasted like he was in a circadian rhythm coma). So I sit at my gate for about 30 hours, getting extremely annoyed by the stupid blonde valley girl sitting next to me as she made hand gestures and talked on her cell phone. Idiot face, the person on the phone cannot see your hands.
So my dad calls and says, “I just bought you a ticket on Southwest to Nashville. Flight leaves in an hour!” Keep in mind that there are at least 40 billion people in the airport. I am not checked in. I have no ticket. I have a huge bag, I have been dancing in place for ten minutes so I’m working up a good sweat, and I feel awful after eating my very heavy disgusting breakfast where I had to interact with the 8 Mile cast.
I run out of security, run downstairs, out the front doors of LAX, searching desperately for the Southwest sign. I find it, and there are 4098390482034 people in line. So I ask the stupid idiot woman working there, “My flight leaves in less than an hour- is there any way I can check in now?” She says, “No.” I almost punched her in the throat.
I’m about to puke. I’m sweating. I’m having a panic attack. My phone is ringing. I can’t get to it in time. It’s buried at the bottom of my bag under my laptop, chapstick, a huge book, and 309 other items. My feet are on fire. I have my Alaskan snow boots on and it’s 80 degrees outside, but when I left my house at 4 AM it was 40 degrees. My armpits are wet. I want to puke. Someone will inevitably get shanked in about 3 minutes.
Finally I check in. Next is security. There are 3209028203 people in the security line. I quickly move with the cattle line and they run out of mother effing plastic bins right as I get up to walking through the canopy of violation. I shove all of my stuff on the conveyer belt. Then I get yelled at. And I say “WE NEED SOME MORE PLASTIC BINS. MERRY CHRISTMAS,” at the top of my lungs, in a hateful voice.
So I get in trouble and have to go through security again and I yell, “MY FLIGHT IS LEAVING IN 15 MINUTES. CAN’T SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!?!?!?!”
The guy felt bad for me. So he says, “Ma’am, just take your stuff.” I think he knew I was about to chop his head off. I shove on my snow boots as fast as I can, and RUN like Kevin’s dad in “Home Alone” across the entire dad gum airport. I am sweating, my hair is disgusting, and then I hear them page me. I have never been paged in my life. I was mortified. I was embarrassed. I am just not one of those irresponsible retards who misses her flight.
I shove my way to the front of the line and get my ticket. Thank you, Jesus.
As I start down the jet way thing, I am met by a wonderfully flamboyant African American gay man who is talking to me about getting drunk at the airport and drinking bourbon. We bonded. He said (sassy),
“Girl I don’t drink nothin’ but Maker’s Bourbon! I’m a man’s man. When my bartender axed me if I wanted a double, I just said, BITCH! YOU JUST MAKE DAT UP RIGHT!”
He was holding a little battery-operated cooling fan that looked like a flower. It had little pink foam blades.
I get on this flight and am squished in between two men. They didn’t smell gross, so that was good. The one on my left was weird. He was like 40 and had braces and when he smiled there was spit all stuck in his grill, like a valossa raptor. Sick. The guy to my right was awesome. It was hard for me to understand him a little bit because he was a mumbler, but I did make out a few of his comments. He told me he used to play the trumpet in the circus and he and his friends got kicked out because they’d all start playing jazz and blues whenever they were supposed to play circus songs. I was laughing my head off.
Then my little gay friend across the aisle pulled out some candy from his airport goody bag which was bulging with National Enquirer magazines and candy. He gave the candy to the little boy sitting next to him and said a very enthusiastic and lispy, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
Then my circus trumpeter says, “I think he be like Little Richard. If you know what I mean.”
I just about fell out of my seat I was laughing so hard. Then when I told him I was going into counseling, he said,
“Oh yes. I used to be a psychiatric aid. And you know what? There was this girl who was there. She had 4 personalities. I mean. 4. real. personalities. And you know what? People, they made fun of her. They show nuff did. And you know what? One day she just straight up hurt one of ‘em. Yep. She did. And they was HURT.”
The flight attendants were wearing Santa hats and Christmas apparel and they went through a “Night Before Christmas” routine for the safety information. It was hilarious. “Twas 7 days before Christmas, and all through the plane, everyone was seated, and stored were their trays. Should the lights go out, we’ll help with a smile, for peppermint lights will light up the aisle!”
I think I fell asleep for about 10 minutes and drooled on myself. I am so classy. No wonder my dating record is so awesome.
At the end of the flight we came to a big huge THUMP onto the runway. I think I broke my tail bone. No joke. I heard it crunch. Everyone on the flight screamed bloody murder.
I got off the plane and immediately felt like getting right back on and flying back to LA. Everyone is obese. Like, type 3 obese. And everyone is wearing a Christmas sweater. Mind you, last week I hosted an 80’s tacky Christmas sweater party, but it was in complete jest. EVERYONE here is wearing one. And they mean it. For real.
Also, some country-hick hillbilly keeps making announcements about watching our bags so “we can do our neighborly duties, downnair at the ur-port.”
I might have Nashville more than Memphis. Actually, I know I hate Nash more than Memphis. I mean, at least in Memphis, there’s a little diversity. Everyone here is white, wearing a Christmas sweater, cowboy hat, cowboy boots, a big gaudy cross necklace, and they’re all fat. It’s very weird.
One cool thing that happened today, though, amidst all of the insane crap—my parents got me an Ipod for my birthday. I didn’t really want one- I mean, it wasn’t at the top of my list, but now I really dig it. I know, I know. I was the only person in the united states under the age of 30 without one until November, but cut me some slack. Anyway, so I ran through the airport listening to all kinds of awesome 80’s music, and I felt like I had my own soundtrack. RIGHTEOUS.
Now I am waiting for my parents to come pick me up. Apparently there was bad fog on the interstate and so I have been sitting at the airport for an hour and a half. Sigh. I got to hear a nice all-white Baptist choir earlier. That was enjoyable. They gave me a free CD. I must look pathetic.
I will probably blog a great deal on this vacation because I am experiencing reverse culture shock. I need a healthy way to vent instead of engaging in escape behaviors.
Because my dad is a pilot, people have this dumb idea that I get to ride through security in a golden golf cart and that flight attendants throw rose pedals on the ground as I walk through the airplane. I sit in first class with a mimosa and a plate of caviar and I never have to show anyone my ID. Bulllllll sheeeeeeet. In reality, most of my traveling has been a lot like being one of those low class folks on the Titanic, being shoved around like cattle with the commoners, getting frisked every five seconds by some pervy TSA agent, and having to take my shoes off and on a million times. Not a fan.
I am watching a 200 pound black woman stuff her face full of Burger King French fries at 8:30 in the morning, talk on her cell phone, and pick crap out of her teeth with her long silver fingernails. She is now licking her thumbs. The lady next to her is an 85 year old red headed lady talking at the top of her lungs on her cell phone. She is wearing a full length fur coat. It matches her hair. Maybe her hair is a wig made from the bottom of her coat. Recyclable alterations?
I was at the airport last night and had to deal with all sorts of shenanigans. Last night feels like a million years ago. I see some of the same people who got bumped last night waiting here with me. They got bumped this morning, too. I effing hate getting bumped. First of all, there were about 30 million Asian people with little carts, running around, bumping into me, stopping in the middle of the walkways, and blocking all entrances. Fire hazardous, rude punks. I almost punched one of them. Normally I am pretty understanding about cultural differences, but after driving around in the rain, never finding adequate parking, cutting my date short, rushing around trying to get everything done, I was fed up. Last night I just was not in the mood to be Carl Rogers. Or Mr. Rogers. Mr. Carl Rogers? I had this mentor party the other day, and my mentee’s mom told me that she went on a trip to Singapore a few years ago. She told me that the people over there had never seen a black woman before, so they stared at her everywhere she went. She told me she wanted to scream at someone by the end of her trip. I felt very empathetic all of a sudden.
Last night I waited with the lady who was the guidance counselor in “10 Things I hate about You.” Apparently she has some TV celebrity daughter, too, because people kept coming up and talking to her and telling her how wonderful the “season finale” was and they kept getting their pictures taken with her. I am all of a sudden completely irritated with “famous” people. They are just people who do their jobs. Why is that a big deal? I don’t get it. I saw Scary Spice last week. She was nice. I didn’t go up and throw up all over her and try to kiss her butt, though. I don’t get it. People are just people. Why do we make them more than that? Anyway, despite my night of madness, I did have one perk. Some crazy lady sitting across from me kept saying all kinds of crazy funny stuff. One of her monologues was as follows:
“My husband, he be downstairs. My daughter, she work for da Fed Ex in Muuurmphis. Well, one time I done got on the plane with my son. This here’s my son. Say hello, Josh. Make Diego say hello, too.” (Diego the Latino doll waves hello)
“Well, I had done been on the plane one time and they had pulled me OFF. I mean they pulled me RIGHT OFF. And you know the whole time it was my dumb husband’s fault. He downstairs. I kept sayin to him, I says, ‘We gotsta go! We gotsta go!’ and he did nothin’ but crap around. You know how they do. They just crap around.”
I want to make sure that everyone who reads this knows that this was her exact conversation with me and I am in no way fabricating. She was quite possibly the highlight of my week.
This morning I woke up at 4 AM. I am not even remotely conscious. I got bumped and watched about 10 other paying passengers curse out the gate agent, who was a little Asian woman named Sook. Poor old Sook. Some crazy Mexican lady kept yelling in Sook’s face. Imagine this: two four foot tall women, both from other countries, neither of them can speak English well, both yelling at each other and grabbing each other by the arms in complete frustration. Pushy pushy pushy. I thought I was going to have to referee. Instead I just sat there, watching them, trying to figure out how either of them wasn’t wearing a house arrest anklet.
So, crazy Mexican lady comes and sits down by me after her encounter with Sook. I had no idea what she said. I understood about 5%. She begins to tell me,
“My dwah-ter, she works in da Meemphees. You whaaant, you whaaant coffee?”
I tell her no thanks on the coffee.
“I get for you. I take you for coffee. You whaaant, you whant tea?”
No thanks, Lady. She is wearing platform sneakers and bright blue Princess Diana eyeliner.
“You come whiiiiiith me. We get coffee toghhhhether.”
I have to make a phone call.
I called my mom. Then I decided that I was pretty darn hungry. I ditched Crazy Martinez and went to one of those restaurants in the airport that charges you about 30 dollars for a hamburger that tastes like it’s made out of a skunk.
Of course, I end up sitting in the white trash section. This very homely white family sitting next to me looks like they were in the cast of 8 Mile. This woman is all lumpy and obnoxious and is wearing a scrunchy. A SCRUNCHY. They stopped making those in 1994, so who knows how she got this thing. She has a little raggety kid sitting next to her. He’s about 4. Her other son is about 8 and he’s dressed all trashy, too. The dad is sitting next to the 8 year old and he has a terribly vacant, middle-aged look on his face. You know, that face that says, “Man, when I first married this woman, I had no idea that 10 years later she’d be wearing a scrunchy and have a FUPA (Fat Upper Pubic Area).” Anyway, Dad keeps leaving every few minutes because his wife is such a moron. There’s a baby in a stroller parked next to the table.
The kids are super annoying. Especially at 7 in the morning. Kicking the table, smacking their food, getting their disgusting germs all over the place. I almost got up and threw my scalding coffee on the stupid mom’s face. She kept allowing the little 4 year old boy to be obnoxious. She’s laugh and coo all over him and hug him until his face was purple, but when the 8 year old boy would try to do the same obnoxious stuff, she’d yell at him and show her teeth like a German shepherd. It was apparent that big brother wanted the same love that little brother got, but when he tried the same tactics, he was reprimanded.
HOLY CRAP: NEWS FLASH. I am watching this man board the airplane. He is wearing black sandals with black socks, wearing black jeans, is wearing a Southwestern print Hawaiian style shirt, and this is the best part: HE HAS A SIR-LANCE-A-LOT HAIRCUT THAT IS HAIR SPRAYED LIKE SNAP-ON LEGO HAIR. This is magical. Seriously. His hair is stiff as it can be and looks like he could take it off in one piece. It is like a little mini mullet with bangs. Glorious.
Now, back to the white trash encounter. I heard scrunchy mc scruncherton say this to her son:
“You are getting on my nerves. There is no point in spending thousands of dollars on a vacation if I can’t have fun. You are keeping me from having fun. I can’t handle it. You better start acting right. You know how to act right- you go to school, don’t you? DON’T YOU? You better make sure that mommy starts having fun so that she isn’t wasting all of this money on this vacation.”
Let’s decode the family injunction:
Don’t be a little boy; don’t act like your brother. I don’t love you because you aren’t as cute as your little brother. Little brother is my favorite child. You are a complete doofus and I hate you. Love, Scrunchy Mom.
I hate that crap. You can’t be inconsistent with kids like that. It makes ‘em all crazy when they get older, and they spend their whole lives trying to figure out what’s “wrong” with them. I wanted to just say, “Kid, your mom is a total B-word, and if you just do exactly OPPOSITE of everything she says, you’ll turn out juuuuust fine.”
Plus if you’re such a tight wad that you can’t just enjoy your time together on your family vacation, heck, don’t take a vacation. Stay at home and keep on living your same old white trash life. Eat some ho-hos and watch Mama’s Family all day.
The trailer park family got up and left. I was finally left alone in my immediate section, with an older guy and a young guy sitting to my left a few tables over. They were gawking at me. I gave them a hateful look.
The old guy says to me,
“We weren’t staring at you. I was staring at the picture above your head.”
“Suuuuuuuuuure.” I said.
Then he proceeded to leave his seat, come inspect the picture above my head, and tell me a bunch of weird info about this car that was in the frame, and how there was a movie made about this car, and the plot had to do with the car going across Route 66, and the police chased him all across the U.S., and blah blah blah. When I realized what a dork he was, I also realized that the guy definitely was not lying. He was staring at the car, and not me. Shwew.
So now I’m sitting on the floor of the LAX airport, trying to avoid the crazy Mexican lady who is talking on her cell phone and popping her gum.
There is also this obnoxious red headed two year old running through the airport screaming and acting like a little twit. I want to throw him on the jet way.
I think that I am exhausted. I’m tired as all get out. YIKES! I just saw the scariest woman ever. Her face had so much plastic surgery that it looked like she sucked a balloon over her face and she was inhaling. SCARY SCARY STUFF.
Anyway, I’m exhausted because I got 4 hours of sleep, I just finished finals a week ago, I partied like crazy on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday, and the rest of the week I have been wrapping up work, job hunting, figuring out bills, etc.
I want to be rich so I can buy plane tickets like a normal white American person and not have to ride standby with all of the Titanic cattle.
Maybe there is an upside. Maybe because I have slept so little, I will be able to sleep tonight, for once, without the help of any sleep aids. Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep and I was watching Fight Club on cable. I started watching at the part where Jack says,
“You wake up in LAX, JFK, Dallas Fort Worth. Gain an hour, lose an hour. If you wake up in a different time, in a different place, are you a different person?”
Good question. I have felt all incoherent and weird like that recently because I have slept so little and I’ve been so edgy. It’s rough. Plus my skin is a nightmare. I have the complexion of a brick. I get all stressed and I have constellations all over my face. Rough, rough, rough. The stuff about acne just being an accessory of puberty is a big fat lie.
I think I am going to wrap this up and play with my Ipod.
I’m at a point now where it isn’t even worth trying to go back home. I hate Memphis. My whole life goal has been to escape. Now that I’m out, I really would be fine if I never went back ever again. I miss my sister and my cat. I miss a few of my friends. I do miss the culture sometimes, but right now, this whole ordeal just is not worth it. Gain an hour, lose an hour.
Right now I am listening to this flight attendant tell this mom about this kid who had an asthma attack on the plane. She’s going on and on and on. The kid looks like a fruit cake. He’s standing here in this dorky outfit and he talks like a little goofus. Way to really not live up the “kid with Asthma” stereotype, kid. Apparently this kid had an allergy or something and the mom clearly does NOT CARE but I think that the flight attendant is worried about getting sued, so she keeps talking about how they got a doctor to tend to the kid’s needs and he was very helpful and blablablabbla.
These airport people. They’re crazy.
Last night there was this lady in a full length sweater coat, a long purple and black wig, a big sparkly costume jewelry ring on every finger, big gold-rimmed Elvis glasses on her nose, red lace panty hoes, some black house shoes, and some sort of weird outfit underneath the knit sweater coat. Oh yes, she also had shoulder pads the size of Montana. She’s here again today. And she is wearing bright red lipstick. It matches her lacy panty hose.
My booty is asleep. Time to walk around. If one more nasty disgusting person yawns, coughs, or sneezes without covering his or her mouth, I am going to punch him or her right in the teeth. The end.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
One of my clients killed me tonight. Her handwriting is less than stellar and she often cannot read what she wrote down hours beforehand. Tonight she said,
"Here are some things that the Chinese invented: gun powder, rockets, fire works, and mimes. Mimes? Those little French guys? Everyone hates them."
"Honey... I think you mean mines. As in.. land mines. As in... what blew off Lieutenant Dan's legs in 'Nam."
Then at some point, she pooted.
She was mortified. I laughed. Thank God seventh grade only lasts a year. I can't imagine being stuck in that stage for longer than a year. Ha. Can you imagine pooting in front of your therapist when you are always trying to impress her? Poor sweetheart. It was hysterical, though.
The other night I baby sat some kids to earn a little extra Christmas cash. I hate being broke. Anyway, they were good kids, but at the beginning of the night when they told me their dog "climbed up the ladder onto the roof and ate all of our food and fell onto the ground and its skull cracked open and there was blood and brains everywhere," I knew I'd be dealing with some interesting experiences.
All I know is that I went to the bathroom, left the kids alone for like two minutes, and found them jumping on the bed, buck naked, singing "The Farmer and the Dell" at the top of their lungs. They were also singing along to some creepy kids CD, so there was this deafening chorus of Disney-esque kids singing in the background. Unbelievable.
They also called me Tiffany non stop. Somehow, "Rachel" was far too complicated. Their last babysitter was named Tiffany, so apparently, my name is, also.
I called my grandmother the other night and she told me that "now is the time in my life where I should be getting married." I am really glad that I moved to LA. In the South (I speak for Memphis and Baton Rouge, anyhow), if you're a woman and you aren't married by the time you're 22, you're a haggard old bag of crap who will resort to teaching school, having lots of cats, and watching "MaMa's Family" every day at 4. It's nice, because in LA, you meet people who are well into their 30's who are not married, have never been married, and aren't on the lurch to get married. It's refreshing. People are out doing things with themselves; pursuing education, pursuing jobs, traveling, being creative. It takes a lot of pressure off. I just said, "Thanks, MeMaw. If I meet Mr. Right any time soon, I'll let you know." I highly doubt that Mr. Right will walk along in the near future. Thank God. Other people's obnoxious habits drive me flippin nuts. Cultural differences. Blows my mind.
On Monday I was telling my boss that I suck at multiple choice tests because I always factor in exceptions. I always think, "It's probably A. Unless such-and-such happens, and then the answer is B. But if THIS happened, C could work. It's D. Unless ___ goes down." I just suck at them. I am a global thinker. I imagine the possibilities. I look at things and see what they can become, not what they are. So then she says,
"That's because you're a democrat."
"You're a democrat. You look at all of the options. Republicans are so rigid and believe in one right and one wrong. We aren't like that, we look at all of the options, and that's why we have it so hard."
I hate it when people make assumptions. We all do it, to some degree, but it irritates me. I am far from a democrat. I don't even know what the H I am these days, but democrat, I am not. I am also all about an absolute right and wrong. I have a pretty strong moral compass. I don't believe in situational ethics. Anyway, I just sat there with a blank face. I didn't even care anymore. I get so burned out on people just assuming that I am this or that, but I guess me being so irritated can help me be more sensitive about not making assumptions about others. Aw. Big hug. Life lessons, by Jack Handy.
Ramble ramble ramble. WHY CAN'T I JUST GET TIRED?!
I keep looking on craigslist (my vice) and these ads for insomnia keep popping up. Maybe I should check it out. Kind of like those people who take phin-phin and almost die and wind up driving Bentleys. Or like that guy in office space who got hit by the truck and won all of that cash money in the lawsuit. Actually, it wouldn't be like that at all. But anyway.
I'm gonna go give sleeping the good ole' college try. Might be back to blog again soon if the REM cycle falls through. Ciao for now.
Monday, December 1, 2008
"Where is your four page paper?"
Excuse me? Big red letters in my mind screaming WTF?! Four page paper? Did I just get punked? Ashton Kutcher, please jump out from under my desk with a camera. This is not happening. WHEN THE HELL DID A FOUR PAGE PAPER MAKE ITS WAY ONTO THE SCENE!?!?!?!
So, I am pretty sure that my GPA just got shot to hell and that I might have to check into Alcoholics Anonymous. I might start my bout with alcoholism tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a good day to start drinking. Tonight I am just too unmotivated.
All I wanted to do was come home and cry and drink a gallon of antifreeze. I couldn't cry, though. I am too damn tired. My family was here for the past week over Thanksgiving, and in that time period, somehow it's like I got sucked into this rip-in-time scifi vortex and totally lost track of my regularly scheduled life. I.e., yesterday, I opened my planner and had another WTF?! experience. Finals. Next week. Maybe I should have been a little more ahead on that one. Oh yes, and today I woke up and realized that my rent was due. I need a personal assistant. I'm calling Cousin JoEvelyn to come move in with me. JoEvelyn, my full time p.a.
I shouldn't be typing away about nothing right now. I have forty papers to write and a bunch of anti depressants to snort (I wish). I just can't study anymore right now, though. Just can't do it. This presentation has me so depressed that I can only keep replaying this scene in my mind:
Rachel stands in front of the class and gives her little shpeel. She rocks her section because she's not a slacker. Presentation spirals downward rapidly. Rachel runs through the classroom, clocks every non-participatory group member in the face with brass knuckles, runs for the corner, swings open the door, and starts funneling bourbon.
So right now I have more zits on my face than Oprah has chins. I haven't been this broken out since puberty. Also, I'm down to my last roll of toilet paper, and the thought of going to the grocery store makes me want to puke. AND, I have nothing to eat but frozen Thanksgiving leftovers. Don't get me wrong. This food is freaking good. The only thing is that I haven't been to the gym since Saturday and I don't want to be cramming my face full of casseroles if I'm not working this crap off. I just imagine my arteries being clogged full of mayonnaise. Sick.
The one bit of comic relief of my day came from my third grade client, who proudly told me as I walked in her door,
"I got my wart chopped off my toe today!"
I found this quite hilarious. Something about the complete oblivion that kids portray in the realm of social flirting is awesome to me. Maybe it's because I am sort of like that. I don't really give a crap as to whether or not I'm going to be accepted or rejected by the majority- I'm going to say what I feel like saying.
This is only problematic with men. I have recently reached this verdict. I tell my guy friends that I can't hang out until finals are over, and they flip out. I double book two dates for the same event on accident, they flip out. I try to be logical and explain things in a way that makes sense-- flip out, flip out, flip out. My girl friends are much easier to deal with. I say I can't hang out, they say, cool- call us when you can. Or they say, do I look fat in this? I say yes. Don't buy that. They say, cool, thanks for your honesty. I'm telling you. Life is already difficult. I don't need the additional drama. So I am going to invent a screening instrument that measures the amount of drama that men will bring to my life. If they score a 70 or higher in the passing department, I will schedule limited interactions with them on days when I am feeling generous. If they score below 70, I will pass their information along to some desperate girl in her 40's who is on the prowl for a man and who has no pulse. Some people thrive on that crap.
So. This concludes my venting of the evening. I hope that all people who did not contribute or who acted like complete douche bags in my group get amoebic dysentery during finals, I hope that my face will soon resume to its normal, only partially acne-infested self soon, and I hope that my friends will be low-drama until finals are over so I won't have to shank anyone. The end.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Victor the Mexican man came and put a new window in my SUV yesterday. He had to have been the nicest guy ever. I didn't even bust out my Purell when I shook his hand and saw black crap all underneath his fingernails. It's funny how I've tried to self-counsel. When I walked down to my parking garage and saw the shattered glass everywhere and realized that my whole day was shot, all I could think was, "RayHay, this is not a catastrophe. This is an inconvenience. This is not the end of the world. It is merely an inconvenience." A little rational-emotive-behavior technique, if you will. I heard one of my professors talk about this one time. He said something about realizing what his brain was doing whenever he went through one of those senior moments where he forgot what he was saying while he was saying it. I love to think about stuff like that. It's weird. It's like this creepy out-of-body experience. Why do drugs when you can self-analyze?
I was planning to write about my trip to Vegas, but the slogan "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" should probably also apply to blogging. I would actually like to have a real job one day and I don't need Internet Vegas stories coming back to haunt me. I will quote what my future ex-husband said in an e-mail to me, though. This is how he described me:
You are... the blond bombshell with the quick, analytical mind and even quicker wit.
LOVE IT. This has to be one of the best descriptions of me I've heard yet. The one that took the cake was from my former counseling professor, who said:
Rachel, you're like a kid with roller skates and a rocket pack on.
Not sure what he meant by it, but I think it's dynamite.
So, Hunky McHunkerton who accused me of having a quick mind and quick wit (I'm in love) turned out to be a let down. I met this amazing guy in Vegas. I know, red flag numero uno. The chances of meeting someone decent in Vegas? Numbers are in the negatives. I guess at the end of the day I still believe in people, which normally bites me in the butt. Anyway, I don't want to get into all of the details, but he was completely captivating until I came home and googled him and found out that he was 33 (after he told me he was 28). I did that whole ten-year difference thing once. The guy was completely bonkers. I think I'm going to start cutting off the age at 28. These guys in their thirties are just.. too... I don't know what it is. Honestly, I don't even know why I try this gig anymore. It's exhausting.
There's some ass hole that lives above me who keeps stomping around like freaking Sasquatch. One of these days I am going to walk upstairs, knock on the door, wait for his or her smiling face to open that door, and shank him (or her) right in the intestines. On occasion, I take my mop out of the closet and bang on the ceiling with the handle. Not tonight. My shoulders hurt. All of my cabinets are rattling as this fat ass stomps around his or her apartment. I'm telling you. I'm going to go postal in about five seconds. Four... Three.... Two...
I was working with my student yesterday and we were writing an essay on Africa. Well, she was writing it, I was typing it for her and helping her organize her sentence structure. Anyway, in the middle of our writing session, she sees a grand daddy long legs spider, and she flips out. I told her they don't bite. She's a seventh grade hippie, so instead of squishing it, she picks it up by one leg, puts it in a tissue, and asks me to go with her to her parents' room so we could throw it out the french doors onto the balcony. I escort her, open the doors, and out the little spidy goes. Then I see these two humongous naked-ass pictures on the walls. Really. Really? Yes, really. Her mom is a yoga instructor. There are pictures of naked torsoes doing yoga. That is so flipping weird to me. I grew up somewhere where you just don't display pictures of naked people all over your house. It's just bad manners. My other student's mom has a collage in her office (where we have our sessions) where there are pics of naked kids on the walls. You can see everybody's...business. If you catch my drift.
This is California. People think it's completely okay to be prancing around naked everywhere they go. I went to a Halloween party where I survived about five seconds with my friend. I went to use the restroom and there was a big stack of porno on the back of the toilet. Is it just me, or is it totally tacky to display your porno for all to see? Especially guests. Not a fan.
I just keep thinking how weird it would be to be a little kid and to see pictures of naked people all over the house. I mean, if it's art, I understand. If you have a big oil painting with a big fat naked lady lying on a swing, that doesn't seem so weird. Or if you have a big gaudy statue of a marble torso or something, that seems okay. Only if you're a mobster or from the middle east, of course. But the point is: I find it very odd to have pictures of real live naked people hung all over the place. Weird, weird, weird.
What else.. what else. Oh yeah! I went to Target yesterday and bought some new air fresheners. Oh man. I just realized what I typed. How depressing. I'm writing about air fresheners. My life is over. 24 is quickly approaching. Anyway, I bought some nice cinnamon smells. They smell like Christmas. I don't even really get into Christmas, but my family is coming on Monday (my bday! yay!), and I wanted to have a nice seasonal scent in my house. I forgot that I put these new plug-ins in, so when I came home from class tonight, I was pleasantly surprised to walk into this nice Christmasy aroma.
Oh, man. Class tonight. OK. We took this quiz about Bipolar and manic episodes. One question went a little something like this:
When one has a manic episode, they may experience all of the following except for:
A. Elated mood
C. Sense of hopelessness
D. Sexual Promiscuity
I was confused. I hate multiple choice. I remembered reading about mania and hypersexuality, but not sexual promiscuity. And I didn't think that hopelessness was right. I picked D and wrote a little note about how sexual promiscuity is not the same as hypersexuality.
So we turn in our quizzes, and after some brief discussion (and I got that question wrong, BTW), my Catholic priest prof. says,
"I see a note here about the difference between hypersexuality and promiscuity. Would you please share your thoughts with the class?"
And Rachel takes the stand.
"Yes, that was me. Well, being promiscuous could mean having multiple partners, making wreckless sexual decisions, being sexually irresponsible, etc. But you don't have to be wreckless if you're hypersexual. I mean, you may just want to go buck wild with one partner."
Poor Father. He turned bright red. He couldn't stop laughing for a second, but then he composed himself and got quite serious.
I never know how to handle stuff like this. You know, reading back on this blog makes me realize how incredibly unusual my life is.
Tonight I started thinking about how weird I must appear to other people. I was sitting on my floor filling out a Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator (my score changed one letter this time), eating chunky peanut butter out of the jar, and watching this show where a woman went nuts and chopped her husband to bits with an ax. Then I thought to myself, "Rachel... Maybe all of these douche bags that you go out with aren't the crazy ones. Maybe it's you. You're the one sitting on the floor, filling out personality tests, eating peanut butter from the jar, and watching women chop their husbands' heads off with axes." Le sigh. It is what it is. I'd rather be myself than be a mealy-mouthed mellie. That's for darn sure.
I sure wish that I could sleep. I'm back on Melatonin. I don't like taking meds for things unless I absolutely have to. For some reason, though, my sleep patterns have been very irregular for the past few weeks. It's probably because I get stressed and stay up all night on the weekends. Anyway. I think it's kicking in. Night night, fans. Night night.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I had to deal with all of the drama that goes with a "robbery": police report, talk to the landlord, get the maintenance man to vacuum all the glass up, call the mentor coordinator to let her know why I am not there, e-mail my mentee, call the insurance people, call the Garmin people to see where to get the extras, yada yada yada.
At the conclusion of my post-break-in-tasks, I vacuumed my apartment furiously. I vacuumed so furiously that the handle fell off of my vacuum cleaner.
I now must participate in a class discussion that includes reality therapy, behavior therapy, and a dab of Gestalt. Thank you. That is all.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wait...It just occurred to me that this sounds bad. DISCLAIMER: I am not a porn star. I work in Malibu, and Pam Anderson lives there, which is why I often seer her---just to clear that up.
Let me tell you about my most recent interactions with my funny clients. Last week, I was trying to help my 7th grade client understand fermentation. She didn't get it. We went over this over and over again. Finally, I came up with an analogy.
"Have you ever watched Paris Hilton's 'My new BFF'?"
She loves this show.
"Well, fermentation is like Paris Hilton. No oxygen is used, so Fermentation says to oxygen, 'Sorry, you're not cool enough to be my bff. TTYL!' While this is going on, energy is released. So just think about how Paris Hilton parties all the time, because she has so much energy. And what does Paris like to do the most? She likes to drink! So, during the whole fermentation process, alcohol is created. Got it?"
I am confident that my client is totally going to make an A. Now, a re quiz. I ask her what happens during the fermentation process.
"Um...fermentation gives off energy...And Paris likes to party!"
This confirms why I hated teaching and decided to pursue counseling. You can make analogies in the mental health field that you can apply to life and you aren't punished by a bad grade. The day that my client totally missed my point was the same day that I stepped in a pile of dog dookie. I walked around for half of my day wondering what that terrible sour stench was. I have extreme OCD when it comes to personal hygiene (i.e, I don't kiss boys who don't floss), so I knew that this aroma wasn't coming from me. Until I found it on my shoe.
On Monday, I was working with my third grade client. She was eating those long skinny pretzels that look like cigarettes. I started arranging some of my therapy tools for her, so I was distracted for about ten seconds. I look up and see that she has licked her pretzels and stuck them to her forehead in the shape of a "V." I ask her,
"Why do you have those pretzels on your forehead, honey?"
"I have angry eyebrows!"
Sheer genius. I love kids who think outside the bun...er..box. I would love to say that I am annoyed with all Malibu kids, but I'm not. I get irritated when I'm at Malibu High and I see kids walking around the library with their sunglasses on. I only get irritated because it doesn't make any sense to me, but I guess this is a double standard; because I most definitely bought some outrageous "booots widdda fuuuuur" a few weeks ago, and have been wearing them in the 72 degree weather. There is no difference between wearing sunglasses indoors and wearing snow boots at the beach. Anyway, I love these kids.
I do not, however, love some of the people I deal with at school. I am constantly having to adapt to the weird social norms. The other night, we had a sub come and teach our class, and she asked what time we get out of class. We get out at 9:45 PM. So of course, I tell her we get out at 9. She then says in a very sarcastic, loud, yankee way,
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw, how cuuuuuute."
Ah, the awful Sarah Palin pitch. I can't handle it. Let's discuss something.
1. This woman sunk down to my level of immaturity. This makes me realize that she has an external locus of control, which means that I can get under her skin. Score!
2. Why the EFF would you ask your class what time they get out when you know for damn sure what time you are supposed to get out? Idiot.
3. She was wearing spring apparel in November. Everyone knows you don't wear pastels in November. Also, she was definitely an autumn, so she shouldn't even own pastel clothing. Trash.
4. She went on and on about being a divorcee, single mother, had to put herself through school, blah, blah, blah. Wow, you have it so tough, lady. Maybe we can all pitch in and buy you a Porsche because your life is so freaking hard.
I hear enough sob stories on first dates. I am completely immune to feeling bad for people who clearly do NOT have problems talk like they have problems. We all need a shoulder to cry on, but shoot, there's a time and a place for all of that.
Maybe I'm dealing with my own issues of transference. I once sent an e-mail forward to my ex boyfriend's mom that included these pictures of fat men doing hilarious things. Dancing around, falling off of boats, etc. It was hysterical. I sent it to a bunch of people. The title of the e-mail was "Why women don't get married," or something to that effect. I never thought twice about it. This woman proceeds to call her son and ask all of these questions about why I would send an e-mail about why women don't get married, and why I am even dating him if I am not planning on getting married, and bla, bla, bla. Then she sends me an e-mail, in all caps, (misspellings included) that says,
"I GUESS YOUR NEVER GETTING MARRIED THAN."
What? I read this with sarcastic connotations. Who knows? She might have meant it literally. Anyway, I get really effing irritated when people use extremely sarcastic language. I can handle a little bit here and there, but only if it's carried off in a sanguine, Will Ferrel type of way. If it's presented like, "hey, I'm a pissed off and insecure person, and my passive-aggressive use of sarcasm is really just masking my anger," I just get annoyed. I guess it is what it is. The point is, I almost jumped out of my chair and slapped that substitute woman in her fat face. But I didn't.
I've started picking up on a lot of anger from people that I've gone out with (sorry for ending a sentence with a preposition). As soon as I tell them that I'm pursuing a career in psychotherapy, they unload all of this stuff on me. Maybe this is a good sign? The other day I talked to this guy about how he used to fight people in high school. Then I started noticing these anger patterns in his life. We all have them. It's interesting to see how we manifest them, though. They never go away. They just get shifted around. Good thing old home girl substitute teacher didn't say anything else to me. I might have had to threaten to shank her. Never underestimate the hood-rat-ness of a former Memphian.
I had a beach bonfire this past Saturday. It was awesome. Something about being cold at the beach is magical. That wonderful November smell and huddling around a beach fire with friends. I love L.A. I went to a high school in Redondo Beach the other day to help my teacher friend decorate her classroom. Disney was there with their camera crew filming a TV show. Something incredibly cool and weird is always going on in L.A., and I have become addicted.
I have about 30 things to do for homework, so I better get back to bid-nass. More ramblings later. Peace up, A-town down.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Anyway, after the last guy that I dated, I decided that my pattern of failures might have to do with not really KNOWING the people well before I start dating them. It seems like we (we = people who date) always jump right into the boyfriend/girlfriend thing before establishing a friendship first. What a stupid idea. This is extremely common in Western culture. You meet someone, you go out on one of two dates, BAM! You're dating. You are officially the routine wedding date, funeral date, have your own section under his family's Christmas tree person. Scary stuff. After I realized that this is a really bad idea, I shifted my mindset and my pattern of behavior. I decided that I'm not going to proclaim on facebook that I am in relationship with anyone again until I actually get to know that person on a friend level first. I decided to actually invest some time in the foundation before I hurry on into the "Can you pick me up from the airport?" stage. Thoughts: isn't it stupid to be really good friends with a guy that you'd never date, but give a certain level of intimacy and call someone, whom you just met and hardly know, your boyfriend? This just isn't logical to me.
So, we are back at the serial dating thing. Since I've moved to L.A., I've been on lots of dates. I have not DATED anyone specifically; I've just gone out on dates with interesting people. I see nothing wrong with going to lunch or dinner with a guy to get to know them. It makes sense, right? You go out, share a meal, talk about stuff, and start building the foundation for a friendship. Why does this have to come with all of these weird expectations? Let me tell you about my most recent white trash experience and about how I am getting sorely burned out in my dealings with the opposite sex.
I met this guy last week at a club. Mistake number one. I am seeing this repetitive sequence of white trashiness with boys that I meet at clubs. My dad always says that I'll never meet good people in clubs. I am not a fan of blanket statements, but overall, he's probably got something there. So anyway, home boy seems like a nice person, so at the end of the night, I give him my number. He calls me a few days later and says that he'd like to take me to lunch on Friday. This seems like a good idea to me, because lunch is platonic. Lunch = safe. So we talk for a long while on the phone about various things. He tells me that he's a professional poker player. You've got to be effing kidding me. I have no problems being friends with a pro poker player, but I am in no way interested in dating one. I tell him that I am interested in being friends. He asks me some questions about my upbringing and family and all that and I answer his questions. He says, "I'll call you on Thursday so we can make plans." I say okay.
He calls me last night and repeats himself about forty times, recirculating everything that we'd discussed a few nights ago during our previous phone conversation. I dusted my entire house and windexed everything in my apartment because I was so bored. So then at the end of the conversation, our dialogue was as follows:
Poker Player: Maybe we should just do lunch on Sunday. I mean, there will be a lot of traffic tomorrow.... Ooooh wait. You go to church on Sundays, right?
Me: Yeah, plus I have plans for Sunday afternoon.
Poker Player: I just think that it will take me like half an hour to drive to your area of town, then there will be all this traffic, and if we have lunch... We're talking like, 3 hours of my time, here.
Me: If you don't want to take me to lunch, it's cool, dude. It's not a big deal.
Poker Player: Honestly, I'm just very concerned about our differing cultures.
Poker Player: Your whole Southern thing. I just think we should talk on the phone more before we invest any time in hanging out.
Me: Southern thing? What?
(WTF is going on right now?)
Poker Player: Well, you're just really into your family and into being a Christian and going to church. And I just don't think we should invest any time in this until we talk on the phone more and find out whether or not it makes sense for us to go to lunch.
WARNING: WHITE TRASH, WHITE TRASH, WHITE TRASH, WHITE TRASH!
So, I tell him that I appreciate his honesty, and he says he'll call me on Sunday, and we hang up. I assure you that I will not be answering the phone if his white trash ass calls me on Sunday. First of all, I thought that it was very nice of me to accommodate him for lunch, because I have no intentions of dating a professional poker player. Hello, dumbass. I am in grad school. I don't have time to date people who don't have goals. Secondly, me being from the South has nothing to do with my Christian beliefs. Those aren't congruent. Thirdly, if a guy isn't going to drive and deal with traffic to take me to lunch, he is clearly selfish white trash, and I'm not interested. The end.
So, the whole point of this is to say that I meet a lot of boys who fit this mold. I am getting burned out on boys not opening my door when I'm about to get in the car. Guys, a lesson for you to learn is as follows: if a girl is about to get into your car, open her mother effing door. This applies to platonic friendships, too. You do it because it's courteous, not because you are proposing marriage. It seems like boys in LA are so concerned with their own selfish nonsense that they won't take five seconds to be courteous. My best guy friend called me about a week ago and asked me if I can see myself getting married and settling down in LA. I can see myself in LA forever, but because I meet so many untrained men, I really can't see myself getting married to someone from out here. I guess it's possible, but not probable. Plus, I meet a lot of nomads. These people come out here just to say they lived in LA for a season or two, but they plan to move back to grass roots America so they can actually buy a house and have a family. This is a noble idea, but I immediately write these guys off as prospectives, because I refuse to move to Omaha or Savannah or wherever the crap they plan to move to build their white bread lives, because that isn't what I want for my life.
Sigh. I guess I'm writing this to say that I am a big advocate of categorizing. People always get miffed about labels. It isn't right to judge a person completely by the label that you give them, and I understand that. BUT! I think that it makes sense to put people in different categories so you know the material with which you are working. I mean, if I meet a guy who says that he's a pro poker player, I automatically cast him in the friend lot. Or the white trash lot, apparently. If I meet a guy who opens my door and isn't complaining about traffic to pick me up, I put him in the prospectives category. If I meet a guy who says he's moving back to wherever after a short stent in L.A., he's in the friend zone. If I meet someone who has proper etiquette and a solid education, he's in the prospectives. Despite the category that the guy falls into, I am far from being ready to take on a romantic relationship. That's for dang sure. Are there are any guys in LA who have college degrees, real jobs, manners, and morals?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
I don't even know where to begin. Halloween was always my favorite holiday until I experienced Mardi Gras, which is now my numero uno. Halloween is a very close second place. I love to dress up, I love to go to parties, and I love to see how other people express their creativity with their costumes. Ever since October 1st, people have asked me what my plans were for Halloween. I was invited to several different get-togethers in various areas of town. A party in Hollywood, the pier at Hermosa, house parties in the South Bay, yada yada yada. The consensus was that no matter what I wound up doing on Halloween night, the absolute MUST was to go to the "parade" in West Hollywood.
My dear friend Todd has been my tour guide since I met him about a month ago through his roommate. He's lived here for four years and he knows all of the hidden secrets and not-so-hidden tourist attractions in L.A. He's taken me for a few drives in the mountains and shown me some cool little places that a lot of people don't know about. This works out well, because he likes to be the tour guide, and I hate driving with a vengeance (especially in L.A.), so we make a good team of onlookers. Todd drove me to West Hollywood early- around 6 PM, and already, things were crazy.
Everywhere we went there was a big array of feathers and sparkles and glitter. Everyone was androgynous. I saw some beautiful "women," and I also saw some big meaty hosses. People smelled delicious. Seriously. All of that glamorous eye candy and everyone smelled like designer cologne. It was insane. I got a picture with Elizabeth Taylor. She probably doesn't qualify in the "beautiful women" category, but this picture was hilarious enough to add.
The party was a flop. We showed up without my friend who invited us arriving yet, so we walked in without knowing ANYONE to be bombarded by a Heath-Ledger style Joker, who was already pretty plastered and kept obnoxiously laughing in our faces. There is nothing more disgusting than a thick Budweiser spray of germs in your face. Sick. My friend finally showed up with another of my girl friends and we all took a few pictures. Robin and I decided to leave and meet up with some other friends.
The thing is, when we got to my house to devise a plan, we didn't really want to fight the traffic, fight the crowds, risk getting hit by a drunk driver, or anything else, so we wound up just screwing around at my apartment and not really doing anything. We texted everyone we knew with no luck. We passed out like old ladies at 3 AM. Here we are during our self-portrait session:
The next day was when things got crazy. I woke up sort of early and tried to vacuum up all of my feathers from the night before. My dear friend Miss Bobbi came to visit because she was in L.A. running a race. A special shout out to Miss Bobbi for showing me how to upload pics on my Blog! What would I do without her? She actually got me started blogging. I always thought that blogging was for dorks, but now I'm addicted. I used to think grad school was for dorks, too, but here I am. Yikes. OK, moving on...
Bobbi and I started our "girls' weekend" (I put this in quotations not because we have had gender reassignment surgery, but because I feel like girls' weekends should include a big group of girls. There were only two of us, so I feel like it was a mini-girls' weekend, if such a thing exists) with a shopping trip to the mall. I never go to the mall, so this was fun, though I didn't buy anything. I spend so much money on gas/groceries/eating out that I rarely buy clothes or knick knacks. Next stop: Cabo Cantina, my favorite place in Venice. I always go here because the food and drinks are cheap and because it's right by the beach. Plus, everyone there is young and people are always friendly to each other. This is when things start to get crazy. First of all, some nutcase with an afro approaches Bobbi and asks her if she is Brazilian, because HE is from Brazil. He was actually cute. He had a gap in his front teeth like Madonna. My dad has a gap in his front teeth. I've always been a fan. I had one when I was a kid but it sort of grew together, I guess. Anyway, we got rid of this guy after he gave us this long history about his tattoos and how they were the names of his children and he built the set for Spiderman 3 and he told me I had the brightest eyes he'd ever seen. Not sure what that does to women in Brazil, but that doesn't make me want to give out my phone number. We politely were able to show him that we weren't interested and he walked away.
Next crazy person: we are approached by a guy in full Indian gear. I mean Native American. Whatever. He was wearing a full headdress, a loin cloth, body paint, and moccasins. He also looked like he was about 15 years old. The thing about Cabo is that you never have to leave your table. Crazy people just walk right up to you and start talking. So Mr. Geronimo invites us to a party. Then a lady walks by selling roses. She's always walking around selling roses. I get embarrassed by stuff like that. I don't really like a guy buying me a rose in public because it has this chick-flick connotation. I'm walking around with a rose? Seriously? That seems dumb. Anyway, so Cloud Dancing buys me a rose and then Bobbi and I ditch him and leave. She and I decide to walk around the pier and call some of our mutual friends to tell them that we're hanging out together in L.A.
Next, I see this homeless man. Now, I see homeless people all the time, but ever since I got yelled at by one when I first moved here, I have avoided them like the plague. I have been reading this book recently though. It's called "The Mole People," and it's about homeless people in NYC who live down in the subway tunnels. The book discloses their stories and how they became homeless, etc. It made me realize that these people have history and they get to this place for some reason or another. I looked at my stupid rose and decided that this man could probably use a little brightness in his day, so I gave it to him. He was thrilled. Here he is:
Anyone thinking of Napoleon Dynamite?
"I see you're drinking 1%. Is that ' cause you think you're fat? 'Cause you're not. You could be drinking whole if you wanted to."
Here's a pic of me and Bobbi pretending to be Hollywood socialites:
We met all kinds of interesting people. We met shoe designers for Aldo, professional poker players, people in business, people who did this and that. Of course, they could have all been lying. I make up fake names and stories sometimes when I go out. My sister and I went incognito as "Randy" and "Candy" this past summer.
We concluded the night at a VIP table with Clark Kent & company whom we had met at the beginning of the night. It was nice to end the evening there, because right before that, some stinky guy named Adam kept asking for my number, and his stinkiness was so awful that i kept walking away. Blaaah. The thought of his stench is still lingering in my mind. After being spoiled by the warm vanilla smell of West Hollywood the night before, Adam's man musk was far more abhorrent to me than it probably would have been another time.
As Miss Bobbi and I made our way out of the club, our feet were killing us, and we were stumbling down the street. Some crazy Argentinean guy talked to us for a while. We were also approached by Fred Flintstone who kept trying to lure us onto his party bus. He kept saying, "Let me give you a ride back to South Bay! I'll bring you back to your car tomorrow!" Yeah freaking right. Neither of us were drunk, so we didn't need a driver, and we weren't stupid enough to get on a stranger's bus. We were stupid enough, however, to get in a police car. More to follow on that.
My paranoia made me word-vomit a bunch of shenanigans to the po-lice. We all know what Dr. Dre says about the po-lice.
"Are you guys serial killers dressed up like cops? Can we see some I.D.? Are you just trying to get us in the back seat of your car because we're hot mommas? Your job is to protect and serve, so if we get in that car, you better be gentlemanly and honor your motto!"
We got into the back of the po-lice car and they drove us to our car in the shady lot. It was awesome. I wish I had taken a pic.
10. Go Home, Crash, and Conclude Another Awesome Weekend in L.A.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
If your kid is hungry, take him to McDonald's- don't whip out your boob in the middle of Party City.
I was in line at Party City the other day buying some accessories for my Halloween costume. First of all, the drive to Party City was a complete nightmare for various reasons. Construction kept traffic at a crawl, people were driving like nut cases, there was nowhere to park, etc. Upon my arrival, I see 600 people crammed into this Party City in the hood, and we were all pushing past each other trying to get the last vial of fake blood or the last pair of fishnet hose or what have you. So I'm standing in line with my TWO freaking items, and there are about 20 people in front of me. The line wrapped all the way to the back of the store. I'm standing there with a bunch of slutty hairdressers who are buying hooker apparel for their Halloween costumes and I'm listening them prank call their friends at the salon and asking them stupid questions like,
"Do you do men's butt waxing?"
It was stupid. Anyway, this lady comes up right behind me with her horrible 3-year-old-ish son and her screaming baby. If there's one thing that completely turns me off to the idea of procreation, it's a screaming baby. I have no feelings of sympathy. I just want to take a bottle of Paxil and put in some ear plugs. I just can't handle it. Drives me nuts. I have no mothering feelings when it comes to that high pitched wail. So this mom is a complete ding-dong head, and her horrible toddler from Hell is running all over the store, tearing plastic wrappers off of Halloween costumes and throwing them on the floor. She also put him in charge of pushing the basket. Way to go, Mom. Way to use your noodle. This little Hellian starts bumping me in the butt with the basket. The mom sweet talks to her little crap kid,
"Awwww, honey. Don't push the gir... Oops, I mean.. Lady, with the basket!"
She says this in a baby talk voice. That irritates the ever living crap out of me, too. I feel like people who talk down to their kids pretty much destine their kids to be complete idiots. If you talk to people like HUMAN BEINGS, you will get human behavior. If you talk to kids like little tard pockets, you will get stupid, tard pocket behavior. It's just common sense.
I just about turned around and ripped his obnoxious little head off, but I refrained.
Next thing you know, monster child grabs some M&M candy dispenser, and repeatedly YELLS at the top of his lungs,
"MOOOOOMMY! I WANT THIS!!! CAN I HAVE IT?! BUT I WANT IT! CAN I HAVE IT?"
So, mother with the IQ of an eggplant says to him,
"Is that what you want more than anything in the whoooooooole wide world, sweetheart?"
An emphatic "YES YES YES!" follows.
She puts it in the basket.
This lady needed to be euthanized.
So as the baby is screaming its head off, and I'm picking at my hangnails and biting the insides of my mouth to try and keep from punt kicking the psycho family out into the Party City parking lot, the lady proceeds to abandon her ragamuffin toddler alone with the basket, sits down on a Halloween display (I think a plastic tombstone), and PULLS OUT HER BOOB.
Yanked that thing right out of its holster.
Now, where I come from, if women are in an emergency situation for breast feeding, they at least have a little nursing blanket or something to keep themselves polite and private.
This lady had her baby all up on her teet while her toddler ran wild. In front of everyone. This was NOT okay.
All of a sudden I remembered that line about how white people don't discipline their kids. It made sense to me. I wanted to beat the living daylights out of this complete white trash mother, her horrible toddler, and then I wanted to set fire to Party City. And this is why I need anger management.
So, moving right along.
The other day I went to Trader Joe's because I was having ice cream withdrawal. They didn't have ice cream. They had soy cream. Are you effing kidding me? I bought it because I was desperate enough. It tastes like sawdust and chocolate sprinkles. I'm trying to get used to it. I've been doing cardio for an hour a day every day, so I seem to justify the late night pizza binges and dates with Ben & Jerry. I have to stop this, though. Blah. Just because I have a regular exercise routine doesn't mean that I can eat burritos at 1 AM.
I also had another "L.A." experience when i cashed in a free coupon for "Hollywood Tans." I go to this ridiculously state-of-the-art tanning salon where I had to have my fingerprint scanned in order to "ensure that I am the only person with access to my tans." What the crap? People steal tans? That is retarded. I am not quite vain or rich enough to invest in tanning, but midterms gave me a nice 8th grade spread of zits, so I figured I'd use my free week to clear up. I look like the "Before" picture in a "Proactiv" commercial. That will change soon though, as I bake my ovaries into oblivion.
I went to the 99 cent store the other day to buy some basic stupid stuff. There was this man there who was absolutely livid that his cashier charged him an extra dollar for one of his cleaning products. He started out nicely annoyed, which was okay. Then he proceeded to yell at her and talk to her like she was retarded because she was Asian and clearly didn't speak English well and she had no idea how to clear up the mistake. IT WAS ONE FREAKING DOLLAR. I know that our economy sucks, but shoot. Is it worth having a massive coronary at the dollar store over one dollar? Is it worth assaulting a woman who barely speaks English over A DOLLAR?! People out here are nuts. Our dollar is worth like negative cents now, anyway. I wanted to give him a dollar just to shut the crap up.
I had my own crazy 99-cent-store-man experience the other day. I'm just more subdued when I get pissed off. I had to wait at the doctor's office at LMU for an hour past my appointment. I was pissed. The thing is, if you show up 10 minutes late for your apt., you get charged 25 bucks. Instead of yelling at them, though, I just wrote them a comment card that said:
"My time is just as valuable as yours. If you're going to charge me 25 bucks if I'm late, the least you can do is give me 25 bucks for being a freaking hour late." That irritates the crap out of me. Punctuality is a big thing in my world. It probably shouldn't be, but it is.
Last night my friend Robin and I had an incredibly weird night. We met a bunch of crazy people and wound up hanging out with a small clan of ultimate fighter heavyweight boxer men. They were a-holes. We ditched 'em after about 10 minutes. They were these huge, bulging, incredible hulk-esque guys. In my Lifespan Human Development class that I took last fall, I remember our professor telling us that early maturing males are often more aggressive, more prone to be bullies, etc. These guys seemed like they all went through puberty at like age seven. I think that will be one of my new official screening questions for boys who want to take me out. If they went through puberty before the age of 18, I'll just tell them I'm busy.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
"Tiffany, you are so welcoming and kind. You always invite me to hang out with you. You remind me of someone from the South."
"I am from the South! I'm from San Diego!"
Anyway, Roxy the cat and I have been hanging out at my place for the past day, and I'm not exactly "The Creepy Cat Lady," but I sure have like having this cat purr and cuddle with me when I sleep. I told my sisters that I can probably hold off on having a boyfriend for a couple of years if I can invest in a pet. Last week when I was taking midterms, I got pretty down for the first time since I've moved here. Between my midterms and my raging PMS and insomniac sleep cycle, I was in a pretty crappy mood- but the weekend made up for it- and then Roxy the cat was delivered and has been keeping me company, which has been nice.
My favorite thing about L.A. is that there is always something to do. I felt like in Memphis, I was limited to going to Beale Street and consuming calories through beverages or BBQ. I am not going to be completely critical, because in the summer, there are a lot of fun things to do in Memphis--- i.e., Redbirds games, Jerry's Sno Cones, the Summer Drive-in, the zoo, etc. But out here, there are endless options.
My friends Neely, Christina, and I all went for a night hike at Temescal Canyon on Saturday night. Those of you who know me know that I don't "do" the whole "get grungy with nature" thing. I'd rather have a cocktail by a swimming pool. I'm not really a snob, I just don't like to sweat. I have started going to the gym every day though, so I guess I'm used to it. Anyway, this hike was awesome. It was pitch black, so we had to use our flashlights while we stumbled through the trail and brush up the mountain. We got to a point where we overlooked the city. What a view! We could see the ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier all lit up and tiny. It was incredible. I got a better view the night beforehand, though, so I'll touch on that...
On Friday I hung out with my Manhattan Beach friends. We carved pumpkins. I haven't carved a pumpkin in a long time. The whole process was fun. We got some tumpkins (as my friend Cayce called them) at Trader Joe's, carved them, put tea lights in them, and watched them glow. It made me think of being a little kid. Then we got a complete crap movie through amazon.com or something-- pretty much a garage-mixed horror flick. We wanted to play up the Halloween theme, but it sort of fell flat with "Hell's Gate 11:11." Regardless, it was a blast. At one point during the night, my friend drove us to Palos Verdes to catch the L.A. view at night time. The night was crisp and clear, so the view was amazing. We saw 12 airplanes in the air flying into LAX. You could see lights for miles and miles. I felt like I was at the make out point on "The Wonder Years." I've never been able to see anything like that because the places I've lived have been flat.
So I was freaking out about my grades on my midterms and I made all A's. How typical for me to have a nervous breakdown over nothing. One of my profs had me read my essays to our class because they were so wicked. She even pulled me aside after class and told me how well I did on the test. What the eff? I really thought I bombed it. Thank God He gave me a nice hope chest full of adjectives in my head. If I hadn't been able to fluff up my sentences, I'm not sure that I would have done so well. I'm telling you, I feel like God is the only reason I have any success whatsoever.
Last night my friend took me to a Clippers game. I was supposed to go to dinner with a guy who flaked on me and my friend was supposed to take a friend-girl who flaked on him, so after class we were "date"less. We went to this game at the Staples Center downtown where the Lakers play. It was a blast. We lost, but that's neither here nor there. I also found out that my buddy, who's in two of my classes, shares my faith. That's always cool to find out. I meet a lot of Catholic people, because I attend a Catholic institution, but I don't meet many people who claim their faiths as Christian and can separate their faith from their religion. My buddy explained it as this: "Christian is the noun. Catholic's just the adjective." Cool point of view. Anyway, after the game, we got burritos from some 24 hour Mexican place- and though I consumed more calories than Michael Phelps yesterday, the whole day was awesome.
Unfortunately, I now have to go take a TB test. I'm not a big fan of getting my skin pricked for a stupid reason. I clearly do not have TB (it isn't 1816, foks), so I deem this as unnecessary, but I have to have this for working in LAUSD.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Funny story about one of my little Malibugers. My sweet little third grader is always talking about this obnoxious kid in her class named Paris. Upon finding out that this kid is a boy, I couldn't help but picture this little Peter Pan in the front row sprinkling glitter all over his desk. When I think of Paris, of course I think of that stupid blonde-haired hoe, so I never consider it as a boy's name. Anyway, my little client is always talking about how much she hates Paris- how he pulls her hood over her head whenever she's in class, she's moved desks because he's so annoying, how he stores his sandwich inside of his desk instead of keeping it in his lunchbox like a NORMAL kid, etc. Anyway, being someone who is often studying kids with various disorders/abuse backgrounds/disabilities, I've become hyper sensitive to external and internal factors. In essence, this means that I no longer hear that "Paris is an obnoxious kid." I hear "there are attention-seeking behaviors here that might be symptoms of a greater problem." Now, I don't go around diagnosing everyone that I meet, nor do I jump to conclusions and assume that everyone I know has some sort of presenting issue, but I try to cut people a lot more slack than I did prior to studying the DSM-IV. My response to my little girl was,
"You know, honey...Your mom and dad love you SO much. Your dad just made you your beautiful Halloween costume... Your mom just brought you a glass of water. That's because they LOVE you. Maybe Paris isn't as fortunate at you. Not all kids have such wonderful families. So maybe the reason he acts out is because he isn't happy."
My client says,
"Oh no, no no. That's not it. His dad is famous."
"Oh really? What's his dad do?"
"Well... I can't remember... But his last name is Brosnan."
"YEAH! That's it!"
So apparently, other kids in the Malibu school system happen to think that 007's kid is a little twerp. Now, I have never met little Paris, so he might be fine. Or he might just be a typical 3rd grade boy. I constantly tell my client that sometimes third grade boys will pick on third grade girls because they actually like them but aren't sure how to show it. The point is, these are the people that I work with, and I always get a kick out of it.
I also think that it is funny that to some people, if you have a famous dad, you clearly do not have problems at home.
Last night my friend came over and made my whole week better. Midterms have made me moderately depressed. My friend and I watched "Napoleon Dynamite," and after that, I laughed so hard that I forgot about how much my week sucked. I have missed my family a lot recently. It's critical to have close friends when everything else you know is packed up in a cardboard box in an attic 2000 miles away.
I have felt a little bit overwhelmed and defiant this past week, like I sure as hell can keep up with the rest of the smarty pantses out here, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to prove it to you that I can--- but that attitude has made me tired really quickly. I also got a little note from one of my profs yesterday that told me to "watch it with the humor when discussing such serious topics." Though I understand the point for making sure that humor is used appropriately, I can tell you that I was absolutely careful and tasteful in my application during a presentation that I gave last week. This whole Catholic thing is still pretty foreign to me. My mom told me about the mean nuns that her family dealt with growing up in South Louisiana. The whole smack-your-knuckles-raw-with-a-yard-stick thing. I just thought that was old school. Let me tell you, it's not. Catholics are still pretty disciplined people. They are super stoic. I don't want to make a blanket statement and say that they are ALL like this, but I am seeing it more and more as time goes on. I think it's good to be disciplined and know when to be reverant. HOWEVER.... My theory is this:
John 10:10 - “I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly.” -Jesus
Ok, if my Jesus came to bring me abundant life, then I don't understand why people think we should walk around with such a sense of "seriousness--" making life routine, clock worked, and structured to the point that all we have is traditional and schedule. Being a Christian is the biggest thing in my life. So, if Jesus came here so that I might have an abundant life, and He came to bring me freedom, then dad gummit, I'm going to live that, which means I will still be funny in my presentations. But try not to offend the priests and nuns. Life is short. I want to spend it laughing.
So how about this election? I am so burned out on seeing these idiots on TV. I'm burned out on the whole she-bang. I've always hated the news. Especially those programs where people get on TV and yell over each other and you can't understand what any one person is saying. That drives me nuts. It sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo. So here we are with this life-changing election right around the corner, and people keep hollering at each other and making claims about who's right and who's wrong. Well, I understand the whole democrat thing, though I am not a democrat. We have all of these social problems and ordeals with poor people and bla bla bla. Then there's the whole republican thing, where moral issues are concerned. I think that the republicans and democrats need to have a baby. This party can be called the republicrat party. It will be just like going to Piccadilly Cafeteria. I will pick all of the nice things about each party and put them onto my tray. I will leave the crappy things in their prospective hot plates under their heat lamps. Welcome to the Republicrat party. Our icon is a Pomeranian.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Onto more interesting topics...
I was in Malibu today working with one of my kids. There were ashes flying all through the air because all of California was on fire or something. I wish you could have seen these kids running through the campus with their shirts pulled over their mouths and noses. I live in a methane-infested apartment complex and have never thought twice about how my kids will be born with hooves. These little barbies were flipping out about getting cancer. Not sure if this is a geographical or child-rearing thing, but I thought it was funny and weird. My parents grew up tearing asbestos siding off of their houses while drawing pictures on the pavement with it. Ah, the ongoing nature vs. nurture issue.
I had a great weekend. I didn't feel like I had to put myself under house arrest to study because I go to the gym every day and review my notes. Every effing day. Too bad it didn't pay off on this test I just took. Well, maybe it did. Who knows. To hell with catastrophic thinking. Anyway, I went out with one of my guy friends and a bunch of his buddies on Friday and had a blast. Woke up the next morning and went to mentor orientation not feeling too coherent. Then I had to have my picture taken so my mentee would know what I look like before we start meeting. Wish I had known that prior to rolling out of bed with the previous night's makeup on and feeling like my head was made out of concrete. Anyway, Saturday night I went to my best L.A. friend's party by the beach and had a flipping blast. Crashed some rocket scientist parties and acted a fool. Went to church Sunday morning wearing my party clothes from the night before and stole someone's nasty drink at Starbucks on accident. I was waiting patiently for my non-fat, non-flavor whatever the crap I got, and somehow I walked out with some froo-froo girly drink. I drank it 'cause I needed the caffeine but it sure made me grouchy to have to drink something so sugary. It irritates me when they don't write names on the cups. Grrr.
Today while I was exiting the grocery store/Starbuck's parking lot in Malibu, some crazy, burned out, tan 40-some-odd year old man approached me and said "WAIT! YOU FORGOT SOMETHING!" Me, being the naive and somewhat tard-pocket person that I am, said "What is it?" because I was afraid I'd forgotten my wallet. Anyway, he gave me his card, and said, "You caught my attention in there. I wanted to meet you." Uh. Okay. Then I told him I had to go because I was meeting my client. He asked what I did and I said I worked with LD kids. WHY, RACHEL?! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS TALK TO CRAZY PEOPLE WHEN THEY FIT THE SERIAL RAPIST PROFILE?!?! I always give too much information. I'm my mother's clone. Then he starts going on and on about how I have "such good energy" and I am "so patient" and then he said, "You are a really kind hearted person." Right, dude. Since you know all about me. Then he tells me he's a surf instructor. I might have admired this when I was fourteen. I'm not going out with anybody again unless they have a real career. I'm sick of wasting my time. Don't get me started. He tells me to look at his card when I get in my car. I look at it, and on the back it says "There was just something about you. Aloha. 420. Mike." But I think he spelled "there" like "their," or something stupid like that (the card is out in my car), because immediately I judged his misspelling by him being a pothead. Probably not correlated, but whatever. These people and their weird ass fascination with "energy." I hear people tell me ALL THE TIME that I exude "good energy." What the crap does that even mean? In Memphis I make people want to take naps. In LA I give them good energy. I don't get it. And why do people always talk to me about drugs? 420. Really? I don't feel like I fit the druggie bill. My neighbor started talking to me all about drugs the other day. I DON'T DO DRUGS, PEOPLE! I barely even take Advil. I would rather suck it up and deal with the pain than have medicine head.
So by this point I have like 30 cards from a bunch of creepy Californian men and I'm trying do decide if I should:
A. Get them laminated and make a dress out of them,
B. Start a bonfire on the beach,
C. Be California green and recycle.
Men out here are so freaking weird. I got a card last week from some guy who was driving through my boss's neighborhood and asked me for directions as to how to exit the premises. There's only one main street. Surely he could have come up with a more creative pickup line. I was turned off by the baby seat in the back of his car.
Yesterday I ate delicious sushi after hanging out at the beach. I also ate pancakes after church at a guy's house whom I met on Saturday during the great rocket scientist party of oh ate. Something about living by myself has made me extremely social. I think I spend enough time alone to really appreciate other people when I'm with them. Things to ponder. I just recognized that I made two references to food in this paragraph. I am not that into food. I am no snob when it comes to caloric consumption. I think I like food because of the "sharing a meal" aspect. I enjoy the relational dynamics of eating with other people. I don't really care about the food part.
So I hung out with new friends yesterday and had a lot of fun- HOWEVER COMMA--- there was this completely obnoxious girl with us whom I almost stabbed about four times. I hate obnoxious people. Well, I take that back. I actually love most obnoxious people. I hate self-centered, bratty, high maintenance, stupid people. This girl was super loud, kept saying the same stupid stuff over and over again, was very flirty, and kept rubbing all over every guy around her. She also kept making crude comments. I am the queen of crude comments, but I always pair them with humor. She was just plain gross. Not a big fan of attention-seeking hoes who make crass comments trying to get men all riled up. Especially when these girls are dense and have nothing to contribute to society other than their reproductive organs. Depressing.
People who think they are soooo hot irritate me. I mean, looks only last until you're in your 30's (if you're lucky), then you have to rely on other assets. Blah. Stupid women. Hate 'em.
Well, I guess I better get back to my note cards so I don't flunk out of grad school to become a go go dancer. Wish me luck. One midterm down, two to go...