Traveling like a Slattery Sucks.

I have been bumped twice in the past 8 hours.

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.

Stupid idiot.

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.

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake.

Right now my insomnia is kicking my butt big time. I haven't even tried to go to sleep yet. I get more frustrated lying in bed thinking about stupid things than I do staying awake and piddling, so here I am, blogging away. I feel like I have not recovered after finals. I turned in my last paper early just because my hair kept falling out in big chunks and I was afraid that my heart might stop beating in my sleep. What did I do today? I worked my arss off. I didn't even get that awesome post-finals recovery day where you sleep in until 1PM and eat Chunky Monkey out of the carton and watch cartoons until you are finally motivated enough to put on some deodorant.

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."

I said,

"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."

What?

"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.

I am only blogging because I am really mad, and if I don't vent constructively, I'll probably walk up to the next innocent bystander that I see and break his or her jaw without batting an eyelash. I had a group presentation tonight that was an utter failure. Two people in my group really got on my nerves. Both were passive aggressive, ignorant, and lazy. Our presentation was a complete disgrace. I don't do half-ass work. I just don't. I do everything above and beyond because I'm at least half crazy and because I'm a workaholic. This presentation looked like a bunch of strangers met on eharmony, crapped out a PowerPoint, and attempted to make each of their topics mesh. It was a train wreck. Only a few of us took this presentation seriously. I spent ten mother effing hours integrating all of the slides to make this PowerPoint cohesive yesterday. Then, after our Rainman-esque presentation, after two of the members got into a fight in front of the WHOLE flipping class, and the group activity went to hell, our teacher approached us with,

"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.

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?