Brutus the Nudist and Christmas Smells

I am realizing the extent of my OCD as I sit at my computer and type with my hands hovering above the keyboard because the thought of tainting the glass on my desk with my palm prints sends chills up my spine. Do I have serious problems? Clearly.

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
B. Irritability
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.

I hope that whomever broke into my car gets hit by a Mac truck.

Someone broke into my car today. I walked down to my parking garage so that I could drive to mentor my student at Westchester High School. Glass everywhere. In the seat. On the pavement. They stole my GPS dock and my GPS charger. And my cup of parking change. Rat bastards. I hope every one of them gets the clap.


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.

I want to punt kick substitute teachers into the Atlantic Ocean.

Today I woke up to a text message from my older sister. She rode the elevator with Senator McCain this morning. She then sends me an e-mail describing her awkward senate encounter. I wasn't sure which was funnier: the thick-aired elevator interaction, or the hilarity of Sarah seeing McCain and Hillary Clinton at her job, while I see Pamela Anderson at mine.
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.

At Least Half of the Boys in L.A. are White Trash.

I had never considered myself a serial dater until one of my younger sister's friends accused me of being one. When I was younger, I maintained a relationship that lasted three years, and as dysfunctional as it was, I felt as if the endurance alone spoke volumes for my levels of commitment and loyalty. I learned, eventually, that long term does not equal healthy. After that ordeal, I jumped right into a 9 month relationship with a guy who was ten years older than me. This relationship should have been a simple rebound, but it turned into this dramatic "let's get married" type of thing that was completely ridiculous. This guy is the only one that I straight up have to lie about when people ask me if we dated because he was about as smart as a jellyfish and he was bonkers. I normally answer these did-you-date-so-and-so questions with a clueless, "Who?" and drop the subject.

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.

Me: Huh?

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?

Here's an overview of last weekend:

1. Halloween.

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.

2. 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.

3. House Party.

After mustering about all that we could in West Hollywood, Todd brought me home so I could prepare for my next stop: a house party. My friend Robin came over and we got all glammed up. I was supposed to be a flamingo. I had this grandiose idea in my mind that didn't really play out in real life. I made a long black and pink sparkly beak, but it made my face hot, so I never wore it. I just wore my pink feathery outfit and big fake eyelashes. I sort of looked like Madeline Kahn in "Blazing Saddles." Not really so scandalous, because all of my questionable parts were covered, but I walked around in high heels and feathers and sort of felt like I should be singing songs about needing a gentleman in a saloon.

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:

4. A Visit from Miss Bobbi.

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...

5. Cabo Cantina.

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:

6. Next Stop: Hollywood.

It should be noted that I am not much of a go-outer these days. I love to go to a dive bar, eat some guacamole, watch a football game, go to the beach, etc. My life is stressful enough, so I like to enjoy the "chill" activities that L.A. has to offer. I don't really like all of the hype that comes with going to the clubs. I love to dance, but it isn't always worth dealing with the sleazy rich guys, lack of parking, feet-crippling high heels, bla bla bla. But, Miss Bobbi and I really wanted to go dance, so we got all hooched up and made our way to Hollywood.

7. Le Deux.

Le Deux is the big fancy-pants place that is very status-conscious, which is funny to me, because clubs in MEMPHIS have a lot more to offer, I think, but it's got a reputation, so we decided to make our way there. Parking sucked. We parked a few blocks away in a shady lot and somehow found our way in a big crowd of people. Clark Kent rallied us in and we made our way to the door. Some Boston Red Sox guy gave a little whisper to the bouncer, and just like that, we were inside. We danced with all kinds of people in costume. It was crazy. Then I became even more aware of how much guys are lacking in "game" these days. When someone offered to buy us drinks, and I said diet coke, this is what home boy replied:

"Why you gettin' diet coke? You think you's fat? You ain't fat. You's perfect. You ain't gotta drink no Diet Coke."

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.

We were eventually approached by some crazy guy with an accent who called us v-words. Now, I know a lot of parents make it a requirement for their children to use medical terminology for their private parts instead of using nicknames, which is fine, I guess. I will still never be a fan of the v-word. So this white-trash foreigner says something about the v-word, and we were appalled. But then...

8. Credit Cards Save Us.

Just as we are telling home boy that he's white trash for saying the v-word in front of two ladies, we are saved by two guys dressed up like credit cards. These guys had the banter of the Mac vs. PC commercials. Hilarious. So they were wearing "American Distress" credit card outfits and they protected us from the creepers. They also accused me of looking like Jenny McCarthy. I have actually heard that on numerous occasions before, so I wasn't too offended.

9. The Cop Car.

As Bobbi and I parted ways with all of our fans, we were stumbling down the street in agony because of our shoes. I guess the cops thought that we were wasted because it would have been physically impossible to pass the straight-line test. So these cops pull up the curb and yell,

"Hey! Are you ladies all right? Do you need a ride?"

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.