Buzz Killers

I went to get my passport renewed today. Things got a little uncomfortable. Mostly because I’m fairly certain the woman behind the counter was actually trying to not like me. I also may have brought a touch too much perk to the occasion. 

Which reminded me of this special little story:

One time, I was at dinner with ilivedwithironyandsurvived and her all-business-all-day father (ABADF), when I decided to cut the pre-meal-arrival silence with a few anecdotes from my errand-filled day. As I trotted them through a play-by-play of my adventures, from grocery store to post office with a quick pop into the bank and a stop at the shoe repair, ABADF…just…stared. Body unmoving, expression quizzical. 

…Right.

I decided to shake that off and forge ahead, attention obviously now focused toward the other side of the table. At the close of my rapturous tales, ilivedwithironyandsurvived and I were doubled up with laughter when ABADF raised his palm just slightly to halt the amusement. Amusement immediately complied. There was a lengthy pause as he considered his words. My eyes widened in anxious anticipation, ilivedwithironyandsurvived's found themselves staring down at a suddenly enthralling plate setting. SOMUCHQUIET.

And then he spoke. Slowly and carefully.

ABADF: So you really enjoy that, huh? 

Apparently, my good-natured glee had sort of bubbled out along with my words.

Me: What do you mean?

ABADF: Those mundane tasks. Those endlessly annoying things people actually pay other people to do for them. You enjoy…that.

Silence. Another lengthy pause. I swallowed loudly.

Me: I mean, it sounds less entertaining when you put it like that, but kind of, I guess.

I then attempted to explain how I love the fact that you never know exactly what you’re going to get in those places - how it’s sort of a smorgasbord of characters, personalities and personal histories, and how that can lead to really interesting interactions/or hilarious stories. And then I floundered for a few minutes at the end, just for good measure.

ABADF nodded to himself for a moment, chewing on my earnest zeal while frowning into his chin.

…

ABADF: Fascinating.

…

I didn’t share any more stories that night.

High on Housewifery

Upon absorbing the fact that my entire purchase consists of Adderall and cleaning supplies:

Me: I have a really big night ahead of me. Pretty excited. 

The pharmacist's fingers stop doing whatever it is that they do on that little machine of his.

Moment of eye contact. Longer moment of silence.

...

Me: I'm just kidding. I just realized this totally looks like the Desperate Housewives thing where she gets all cracked out on her kid's Adderall and cleans everything in sight and, like, bakes lots of cookies and stuff. 

Awkward laughter on my end. Another lengthy moment of deep, deep silence on his. Uncomfortable shifting from all three people in line behind me. 

...

Pharmacist: Do you have a Rewards card with us?

...

Yes I do. Thank you so much for asking.

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I Love Barcelona

Outside Faith & Flower, following a lovely birthday dinner, I was introduced to an equally lovely 7’ tall man. If the events that followed are any indication, 30 is going to be very similar to 29.

Him: Hi, my name is Pau.

Her: (Leaning in slash up to hear because she’s deaf. Especially when slight accents are involved.) Paul?

Him: Pau. Uh, P-A-U.

Silence. HER is obviously still confused. Because she’s an idiot.

Him: It’s Spanish - I’m from Barcelona.

…

Her: Ahhhh - love Barcelona!!*

…

…

…

And he thought he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. 

He can’t, by the way. We all went around the corner to Honeycut, where every man proceeded to chat him up, leading him to call it a night. THANKS, GUYS. It’s April - isn’t the madness supposed to be over by now? 

…

…

…

*HER has never actually been to Barcelona. But huge fan of the Lakers! Huge. 

M-I-C-K-E-WHY

Yesterday, as our adventure-filled day at Disneyland came to a close, imsecretlystraightforirony and I decided we needed to indulge in a little midnight snack of lactose and hot fudge. He would be sharing his with his boyfriend, while my fat-attack would be more of a solo venture, so to speak.

For those of you who have not attempted to order an ice cream sundae from the Dreyer’s-hosted Gibson Girl Ice Cream Parlor, there are three options…all of which are the same size. And let’s just say, the bicycles aren’t the only things built for two in that magically mousey world. 

I told the guy behind the counter that mine was for me and my homies. Because I’d be pouring a little out….

…

He gave me this face in return:

…

…

…

Oh boy. Giggle giggle?

Neighborhood Whore Watch

There are precious few constants in my life. One such gem is the unceasing fear that I will be murdered. Seriously. Un. Ceasing.

As a child, one of my chores was to lug the trashcans back up to the house from their please-pick-up-slash-dump-our-pounds-of-refuse position on the sidewalk. In short, Tuesdays served as a weekly helping of severe petrification. I would crack open the back door of our house, scan the yard for strangers, then take off in a full sprint down the driveway - ears pricked and peripheral vision in full effect. Once in reach of the trashcans, I would deliver a solid kick to each. Why? To see if anyone was hiding in them, waiting to jump out and stab me. Duh. 

I check beneath my car and in my back seat before getting behind the wheel…I check behind the shower curtain whenever I enter a bathroom…I have been known to walk home with 911 already dialed into my BlackBerry, just in case of unexpected emergency.

Point being, I don’t need to be convinced that rapists and murderers walk the same streets as my adorable little (for my height) feet. I’m already a true believer. Unfortunately, our nightly news is full of heartless souls who seem to have nothing better to do than to terrify our nation’s adult children with stories of tragic deaths and warnings of impending doom. Shortly after moving into my new apartment, it was reported that - not two blocks from my happy Beverly Hills home - a young woman was pulled into a construction zone, raped, and murdered. Right. So I won’t be sleeping for the next seven months or so. Also, where’s my mace?

Apparently, the powers that be didn’t feel like this was quite enough of a heads up.

A few days later, as I was walking down Robertson Blvd., a middle-aged woman waved to get my attention. Thinking she needed directions or something of the sort, I paused and removed my headphones.

Random Woman: ”A good girlfriend of mine just told me there’s a rapist around here. He just raped someone last week!”

Me: ”OMG, I heard about that! So scary!”

Random Woman: ”Oh. (pause) Well. (pause) Because you’re dressed a little….” (Full, slow-motion down and up scan of my general person.)

And then she walked away.

…

It’s always nice to know your neighbors care?

My 'asking for it' ensemble can be seen (sort of) in the photo above. I’m on the right. Also, I hate people.

Amish Living

A new friend and I casually sort of planned a low-key evening of Orphan Black and cocktails. What could possibly go awry?

...

I assumed said low-key evening would be taking place at his…place, as I swear I mentioned on our initial outing that I am not the proud owner of a television.

Then I got this text: “What’s you adresssss (sic). I’m leaving hereeeee.” (We’ll go ahead and ignore the grammar on that one for now. Because I’m feeling friendly. And I have another story to tell.)

F. He’s coming over here. 

Me: "Ummmm I don’t have a television."

Him: "We can just drink. Let’s never leave your couch."

Too soon to tell him I don’t have one of those either?

Spoiler alert: He found out. 

Not. Awkward. At. All. 

Rejection in the Third Degree

Last Saturday, my besties and I stormed the Ace Hotel late night, after an evening of in-house capers with Palm Spring’s Finest. Proper noun. (You don’t want to know.)

As I danced my medium-sized heart out with the most amazing gays you will ever meet, I was rudely interrupted by an overly drunk, underly coherent soul. I attempted congeniality, as someone in our group pronounced Awkward Drunk Guy a friend of a few of our own from LA. This is how that worked out:

ADG: “This is so crazy.”

Me: “What’s so crazy?”

ADG: “This.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

ADG: “It’s just…you know…crazy.”

…

Me: “Ok.”

…

Scintillating.

Luckily, the aforementioned gays are equipped with excellent swoop-and-rescue skills. Let the revelry resume!

Unfortunately, ADG was not at a point in his night to be picking up on not-so-subtle social cues. As my fav fellow frolicker made all attempts to twirl me out of reach, ADG trailed my beat-friendly footsteps around the dance floor, occasionally capturing me in brief moments of conversational nothingness.

All in all, a slightly hilarious scene, which we proceeded to rehash the next day, as we sweat out our hangovers poolside.

…And then one amongst our crew (we shall call him DD for the purposes of this post)proceeded to rehash the whole thing once again upon his return to LA. With ADG. I love full circles. Here’s how that exchange went down:

DD: heyyyyyyyyy

ADG: hey! that was funny
i hope i didnt do anything too embarassing (sic)

DD: you were creeping on that girl
it was a topic of conversation the next day

ADG: i was creeping on everything

DD: ha
why were you there?

ADG: for a wedding
why were YOU there?

DD: friend’s birthday

ADG: oh fun times
i only hit on that girl
b/c everyone else seemed gay
and she talked to me

…

And here I thought it was my good looks and charming personality. 

Chalk. Win. Meh. 

Anyone Up for a Threesome?

If you ever find yourself at Lion Pub in San Francisco: DO order the spectacularly fresh ‘n pulpy greyhound. DON’T stay for the conversation.

Creeper: You should come back with Mitch* and I.

Me: Why?

Creeper: Because we could offer an experience you’ve never had?

Me: Oh really. What kind of experience could you offer?

Creeper: Whatever fantasy you wanted. We just wouldn’t do each other in the butt.

…

Welp. There goes that dream.

Spoiler Alert: I don’t go home with them in the end.

*Names have been changed to keep things less confusing. Except Creeper. That one’s real.

Missed Connections

I dropped by ShoeDazzle’s Santa Monica showroom earlier today, to interview their newly minted Chief Stylist, Rachel Zoe. 

While I waited for The Hollywood Reporter’s representative to finish up her line of questioning, I kicked back on the couch next to a couple of friendly faces.

They immediately complimented me on my shoes. I immediately loved them. (It doesn’t take much to get on my good side.)

I explained that, while the shoes themselves were branded by rival e-commerce site,ShoeMint, I had painted the flowers on them. They responded with the appropriate level of interest, before introducing themselves as Brian and Mira.

Brian: You could make a living off of that.

Me: Ugh, I would love to make a living off of it.  I could paint shoes all day long.

Brian: Which publication are you with?

Me: FabFitFun

[insert brief dialogue regarding target demos, etc]

Me: You guys are at ShoeDazzle?

They nod.

I get called up to the director’s chair, and gawkily extricate my 5’11” limbs and 5” heels from the low-sitting loveseat.

Brian: (to Mira) She’s really tall.

So I’ve heard.

Ten minutes later, I was walking out the door, internally rehashing the first part of our conversation.  (I’ve been trying to figure out how, exactly, to make a living off of my penchant for arts, crafts & shoes for quite awhile now, so it’s nice to have an unsolicited vote of confidence from a stranger.)

In the parking lot, I paused to check the audio on my interview recording.  Rachel’s voice pervaded my Prius, “I really admired what Brian Lee, as the CEO, has been doing here – and his wife, Mira.”

Brian and Mira. Right.  Brian, the CEO of ShoeDazzle, and his wife, Mira.

“You guys are at ShoeDazzle?”

…

I’m an idiot. 

Also - BLee, can we chat a bit more about my future career in shoe decoration? Thanks.

Sidenote: If anyone would like to buy the above-pictured shoes, they’re available for sale on Etsy. Size 8. $150. Get in there.

I'm a Blogger

The scene: A half-way to grown up house party The crowd: Writer-types & the masochistic girls who date them

Dude: So what do you do?

Dude is 5’8”-ish, awkwardly pompous & an oddly sallow shade of pale.

Deep breath. In the interest of pandering to the over-literate-under-original masses, I reply.

Me: I’m a writer

Skepticism. Bemused left eyebrow. Strange twitchy flare in the nostril region.

Dude: Oh, really? What are you working on now?

Me: My memoirs. Also known as my blog. And I freelance for —-

Dude: Ohhhh. So you’re a blogger.

…

Pigeonhole found.

…

…

…

This is why I don’t speak to short men.

It Wasn't Equinox That Made Me Do It

A good-looking workout instructor can be an amazing point of inspiration.  It can also lead to extreme embarrassment. 

One of my favorite spin instructors is one of those people who is so attractive in that in-your-face-masculine kind of way that it makes you uncomfortable.  Like, I can barely make eye contact and immediately regret the vegan chocolate chip cookie I ate yesterday uncomfortable.

Especially at 6:45 in the morning. (Or 2p on a Saturday, which sometimes may as well be 6:45am.)

After a series of events, including, but not limited to:

1. Taking ten minutes to clip in
2. Being unable to clap to the beat (I know I’m really white, but I can usually manage a simple hand clap exercise)
3. Holding my breath, looking down and swallowing really hard when he was in close proximity to my bike
4. Talking and laughing with people at the front desk, until he appeared and things suddenly weren’t funny anymore, my eyes shifted to the side and down and my feet shuffled slightly, while I sort of bit the inside of my lip
5. Pure avoidance of any form of interaction, obviously peppered with creepy over-staring

…I decided I needed to reclaim at least a single shred of my dignity.  

The following Tuesday, I came into class well-rested, made an appropriate amount of eye contact, focused on my workout, and even managed a few words of conversation. In short, I almost acted like a normal person.

Great success!

…

And then I turned around and walked into the door. Literally.

…

Needless to say, I did not look back. Just. Keep. Going. 

This morning, I received this text from a friend of mine:

"Just had the MOST embarrassing interaction with Jacob* at spin. It really pales in comparison to your walking into walls! Lol"

*names have been changed to protect my ego

I’m assuming she intended that to be vice-versa. Also, in case you are curious, this is not just a female thing.  My male friends have echoed similar statements in regard to his general physique.

Dear Jacob*, 

Please be a little less hot, for the sake of all of us.  Or at least for the sake of our pride slash dignity.

Xo Everyone

Hibernation Inspiration

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I decided to go to The Den on Sunset last night to grab a couple drinks and a bite to eat. A nice mellow, casual place for a girl-talk-catch-up-sesh.

Enter Keith. Name has been changed to protect the ego of the offender.

Keith was our waiter. Keith decided to sit down at our table with us.

Ok. First of all, I sort of have this thing about personal space, where I cherish it and do not appreciate when its existence is completely and totally disregarded.  Initially, his awkward level of immediate comfort  was fascinating enough to render it amusing.  I was even willing to crack a smile at his layman banter about the three of us dating. (What? I had just moved back to LA at the time.  I was both hard up for humor and hesitant to turn my back on any potential neighborhood-bar-friendship. Momentarily.)

5 minutes later, he was still sitting there, my cracked smile had realigned into polite, obscured annoyance and ithinkironyisSOfunny and I made unobscured eye contact of the whenishegoingtogetupandtakeourorder variety. 

The answer was not any time soon. Keith launched into a less than scintillating autobiography.  I half-listened, awestruck at his inability to discern that ithinkironyisSOfunnyand I possess individually supreme senses of narcissism and were apathetic about both his career choice (actor) and training center (Beverly Hills Playhouse).

At the end of his diatribe, he stared at me, expectantly. Oh, right.  This is where I respond with signs of interest.

"Ooh."

"What does ‘ooh’ mean?"

"It means I’ve never heard of that and know nothing about it, but I’m not judging you."

…  

Things started off well.

We finally coerced Keith into taking our order and leaving our general area for a peaceful moment. Our catch-up convo took a turn for the serious, when guess who socially-ineptly chose to slide right back into our booth.

Pregnant pause. Awkward expressions clearly broadcasting the silent version of dude-are-you-serious.

Ignored. Keith was back and ready to chat.  This time about the relationship he and I were allegedly about to begin.

Deep breath. Where the F is our food?

Oh. There it is. Being brought out to us by the chef. It had apparently been sitting there for awhile, dropping drastically in temperature. We sent Keith away to procure us some utensils.

He came back with more than silverware.

"Are you a famous actress and should I not be hitting on you right now?"

"Is that a two-part question?"

We then learned that he once told Jon Hamm he should be an actor because he was such a charming man.

…

Swoon?

Somehow, we got him to leave again and picked up our heart-to-heart chat-sesh, ignorantly believing we would finally be granted a little bestie alone time. When Keith sauntered over again, he was a man with a purpose. 

"You guys should come to our karaoke night." Turns to face me. "Actually, you and I should go to karaoke somewhere else. When I’m not working."

*crickets*

Now, I love the sh*t out of karaoke, but even my microphone mania has its limits.

"Your boyfriend would probably be upset."

I nod.

"You have a boyfriend?"

I nod. “He’s mildly protective.”

…

Attempt at humor. Awkward linger. Uncomfortable shifting.

…

…

…

Eyes down. Pay bill. Exit Quickly.

The Classic Leave Behind

I may or may not have had a sleepover with a new friend. New friend may or may not have used his roomie’s car to take me home the next morning.

2 weeks later I may or may not have received this text:

My roomie came home from his trip today and went on a date and she found this in his car. I wish I could’ve been there to see him talk his way outta that one. How about you take me out and reclaim this so I don’t feel like I was used as a piece of meat? ;) 

...

I love you, Mom.

Don't Wait - Self-Medicate

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I went to get a mani/pedi on Saturday. A relaxing afternoon activity. For some people. The salon was packed with over-pampered women, and the receptionist rushed to greet all who dared to enter with an overly gusty slash heavily accented derivative of hello. As we selected our polish colors, she seemed to loom over us, despite her diminutive height.

I lingered in debate at the shelves. Hot pink or neon pink?

The receptionist suffered from no such indecision - she assured me that hot pink was perfect for summer. No question about it. No, really. No questions. In retrospect, this innocent exchange would prove to be a solid chunk of foreshadow. Gross.

As we weaved our way toward our cozy recliners, she asked ithinkironyissofunny and I if we would like a shoulder massage along with our nail treatment. I said no, ithinkironyisSOfunnysaid yes. I laughed at ithinkironyisSOfunny's delivery. The receptionist took that as me saying yes. The second my a$$ hit the chair, Cindy was behind me, unzipping the top half of my dress, and going after my knots for a dollar a minute. I resigned myself to accept that I probably needed a massage anyway.

Enter the manicurist. She asked if I would like to trim my nails.

"You don’t want to cut, do you? No, I don’t think you do."

"Actually, I would - I like them short and round."

She made a face and put her head down to attack my cuticles. The pedicurist had trouble understanding my fast-paced, un-annunciated English, and I wasn’t faring any better on my end of the exchange. Manicurist helped to translate. Her derision was not lost in translation.

I had selected Flurry Up (Sephora by OPI) as a top-coat. Initially, I wanted the glitter only on the tips of my nails. Manicurist’s earlier face made an encore appearance as she explained this to the pedicurist. When it came time for the glitter application, I changed my mind and decided I wanted a full top-coat on my toes and just the tips on my nails. Manicurist shook her head.

"Full-coat is better. Not just tip."

Maybe she was right?

When the time came to pay, she had already run my credit card for the mani/pedi/massage, but there was no space to leave a tip. I sat drying my nails, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, as the formerly-ever-present receptionist had somehow disappeared. At the same time, I kept making awkward eye-contact with an expressionless woman staring me down from across the drying stations. Anxiety. Twitch.

Eventually, Cindy came over to say thank you and I took that as my cue to hand over the probably slightly-less-than-sufficient cash I had harbored in my clutch.

Note to self: Next time you need a little relaxation in your life, remember these 5 letters…X-A-N-A-X.

Two Guys, a Girl, & a Pita Place

Last night, I went to grab a casual bite to eat with two guys I’ve been friends with for years now.

One girl. Two guys. Lookin’ like a baller, right? Apparently not.

The scene: California Pita on Beverly Dr. 7:30pm. Outdoor table. Friend A sitting to my left, Friend B directly across from him.

We are mid-convo when a woman walks past our table. As she patters by, she bends down slightly and reaches in, placing something next to my carefully self-assembled table setting.She gives it the ol’ tap/slide, and murmurs knowing-slash-confiding-ly, “This is for you.”

I pause. Seriously? Of course.

Looking down, I expect to see the oft-received-in-my-life psychic ad, fluttering alongside my precautionary stack of napkins. (You never know what’s going to happen when that tangy yogurt sauce is around…)

What’s it going to be this time? Tarot cards? Palm Reading? The color of my aura?

…

It was none of those things.

Yup. An advertisement for a novel entitled, Too Old to be a Hooker, Too Young to be a Madam. According to the card, it is a story of ‘champagne decadence, dangerous liaisons, fame, bisexuality and betrayal in the Hollywood Hills colliding with a lusty Jewish American Princess from Beverly Hills in Laurel Canyon’. Breath.

Friend B’s token of reassurance? “You’re never too old to be a hooker.”

Duly noted.

I Prefer Princess Amidala, Thanks

The man behind the check-out counter at Whole Foods told me my braided hairstyle made me look like Padmé.

Me: I’m sorry?

Check-out Man: Padmé. She’s a character in Star Wars.

Hm. Right. Not exactly what I was expecting. Also, who the F is Padmé? Couldn’t he at least stick with a conventional Princess Leia reference? I felt the mood of the crowd of people in line behind me switch from mild annoyance to slight bemusement. A-holes.

I forced polite yet uncomfortable laughter, unsure as to how I should proceed.

Me: Ahh.

Silence. Brief ponderance of etiquette slash social norms. Briefer ponderance of movie dialogue used when portraying similar situations.

Nothing. It was time to call on a staple.

Me: Well, I shall take that as a compliment.

I thought this signaled an end.  It always signals an end.  But no.  There was more he wanted me to know.

I could see the nerdish excitement bubbling up from somewhere. Somewhere it had been lurking for years, deep-seated on a fraying couch.

No. Please. Please don’t. Please just ring up my 3 coconut waters, two packages of Tofurky and single vegan chocolate chip cookie, so I can exit this mocking semi-circle of lunchtime shoppers.

Oh, but he did.

He launched into an exultant spiel. My listening lasted approximately 5 words.

Check-out Man: She was the wife of mumbojumboblahblahexpositorydetailneedlessinformationwaytoomucheverythingpleasemakeitstopimsoembarrassedrightnow.

When his oration finally came to a halt, I gathered my groceries along with the remaining scraps of my dignity and beelined it back to the office to Google search my new apparent identity.

Padmé Amidala. Secret wife of Anakin Skywalker.

Great. I’m a glorified mistress.

At least she’s pretty?

Did I Stumble Into Some Bad Lighting?

Dudeikindofdig is coming over to my apartment after work! Must make sure I prepare accordingly before heading to the office, so as to avoid being caught unawares, sporting unkempt hair and an unflattering outfit. Cue: Clueless scene where Cher carefully preps for Christian’s arrival. (Note to self: Next time pick a different movie moment to look to for inspiration. Preferably one that doesn’t end in him being gay and her saying, “I don’t get it.”)

…

Winning ensemble:
Hair carefully spiral-curled. Sheer, black & white polka dot blouse (with a cami underneath for reasons of work appropriateness). Black, frilly skirt. 60’s cat-eye liner and red lips. (Pencil, not lipstick, for reasons of the hopefully-there-will-be-a-stellar-makeout-sesh variety.)

After work, I have 30 minutes for any touch-ups. One of these touch-ups involves removing the conservative cami to reveal a black lace bralette beneath the sheer blouse. 

Scandalous.

Dudeikindofdig comes over. I proceed to behave in a (un)characteristically shy and awkward manner. Because I’m five. We have a lovely floor picnic, as I still have not managed to purchase a kitchen table. #beverlyhillbilly

Mid-picnic, dudeikindofdig asks, “Is that what you wore to work today?”

Fair question. There are two possible answers.

Conundrum. 

Answer A:
"Yep! Well, minus a tank top - I’m not going to walk around the office like a ho."

Translation: “I knew you were coming over, so I started removing my clothing.” 

Awkward.

Answer B:
Yep!

Translation: I am the office whore.

Obviously, I went with Answer B. You know, to avoid any awkwardness.

…
…
…

I’ll be back after I go feed my cats.

I'm a Grown Man, Girl. I Can Take a No.

I received a text yesterday from a Pasadena number. Message: Hello

I racked my brain. Yes, I sometimes give my number to strangers because it’s easier than not giving them my number, but I haven’t done that in months.  I reply: Who is this?

Is this Stacey????

Annoying.  Can you please answer the question and also never spell my name like that again? Thanks. Still unsure of the sender’s identity, I decide I should play nice. Ish. Yes. I apparently don’t have your number in my phone. Who is this?

Brace yourself.

We small talked when we met u gave me the number I called two or three times u never picked up…u was fine as ever once again hope ya doing well

Oh joy of joys. He has returned. A YEAR LATER. In case you don’t remember this fine fellow, here is my previous post, extracted from ironyisalifestyle's blogspot archives:

Girl meets boy. Girl is so not into boy. Boy asks for girl’s number. Girl debates path of least resistance.

"Do you have a card?"

This way, not only does she avoid giving him her number, but she can also make it seem a little more business-y.  She doesn’t want any curious onlookers to think she’s actually into this dude.  She has a reputation to uphold.  Or would like to think she does.  Or at least would like these complete strangers to think she does.

"Not on me. Here, just take down my number and give me a call."

Phew. That was easy.

"Ok, it was nice to meet you. Have a great evening."

She turns to get into her car.  He grabs her arm.  Gently, yes, but that’s still a not-so-distant cousin of domestic abuse. She pulls her arm away and gives him a look of the please don’t ever touch me again variety.

"Call me now, so I’ll have your number."

UGH. Should have taken the basically engaged route. This is getting messy. And taking entirely too long.  Girl did not plan on spending her Saturday night talking to some random dude.  She has matzo ball soup to eat. And 30 Rock on DVR.

She calls.

"805 huh?"

Ok. Conversation is over. She is done talking.  She needs to get in her car and debate whether to spend the $4.99 AT&T charges to block a number. Not that she has that piece of information at her fingertips.

"Yup. Ok bye. I gotta run. Great meeting you."

Lies. All lies.

"Ok, girl. I’ll call you."

Pause. Head tilt. Did he just say, ok, girl?? Sigh. Yes. Yes he did.

Boy sends text message the next day, citing himself as the handsome fellow you met last night. Girl debates whether or not to clarify that they met in the late afternoon, possibly even early evening, but definitely not at night.  She decides against it and ignores the text.

Two days later, boy sends another text message: Hope u ok„, ya know u could have said not intrested and not go thru the motions of takin the number ya know, I’m a grown man girl I can take a no. Followed quickly by: I hope this doesn’t happen to you being intrested in someone and they ignore or go thru the motions.

Yes, he used commas as ellipses.  He left the ‘e’ out of interested (twice) and, seemingly purposefully, dropped the g from taking.  And I’m a grown man girl I can take a no?? I mean…wow. That would have been spectacular, were it not annoyingly semi-colon deprived.

She ignores these texts as well.  She assumes this is the last she will hear from him.

She assumes wrong.

One month later: Hey girl how yo fine a** doin’?

Needless to say, that did not garner a reply.

Girl hopes she never runs into boy again.

Workplace Etiquette

We have a new chick in our office who sits at the desk next to mine. She’s super sweet, but we aren’t exactly at homie stage yet.  And by homie stage, I mean the part of our working relationship where I’m a sardonic a-hole and she totally gets it and appreciates it and nothing’s ever awkward and weird.

…

We’re still at polite, friendly, and always work-related.

This morning, I loaned her my headphones.  She needed to watch a quick video on her computer…  That was 6 hours ago. They’re still on her desk. Not plugged in or anything – jusssst sitting there.  Awkward.

At some point, isn’t she supposed to be like, “Hey thanks, here are your headphones back!”??

I’m unsure of my next move.  Asking for them seems aggressive and I don’t want to be the individual responsible for making the new girl uncomfortable.

At one point, I actually undocked my computer, so I could listen to Schmidt’s Online Dating Profile. (The speakers won’t work when it’s docked.)

This was not intended to be a hint, but I feel like, if I were her, I would have taken that as an opportune moment to slide those suckers back to their rightful owner. 

She’s away from her desk now.  My headphones…. Just sitting there.  Staring me down with wide-eyed, abandoned-child confusion.

Part of me wants to take advantage of her absence and reclaim my property.  Another part feels like that reeks of passive-aggression.  Also… it’s her desk.  You don’t just take things off of someone else’s desk… even if it’s yours?

I guess I’ll just wait this one out.  (Thank God Pettube is equally entertaining sans volume.)

I Don't Have Gumby Eyeballs

It’s a typical Thanksgiving weekend Saturday night. Sore and tired from 6 games of volleyball and a 9 mile hike, I decide to take it fairly easy. I throw on my comfiest sweats, pull on my UGGs (I know, mylifeissonotironic - but they’re SO warm and cozy…), layer my wool coat over-top and prepare for a night of blissful laziness. I’m taking my sister’s puppy, Jack, to have a playdate with iprefermyironyinotherpeople's sister's puppy, Royce. After a successful session that is mostly filled with Jack avoiding Royce's advances from behind, I leave to return Jack to his mother at her boyfriend's house in Isla Vista. 

As I drive through Isla Vista, I am careful to make a full stop, complete with roll-back, at every red octagonal sign. The exact thought that goes through my head is that police like to troll around IV because college kids are easy targets for traffic violations.

Interesting. Go ahead and file that away for a couple mini paragraphs.

At my sister’s boyfriend’s house, she asks if I want to stay and have a glass of wine. Normally, this isn’t something I need to roll around in my head for a minute. Call me a lush, but hand me a drink first. On this particular evening, however, I am so tired and full of holiday feasts that I almost decline the offer. Almost.

One glass and a few conversations later, I am back on the road.

I notice a car following me. I notice this because I am absolutely terrified of almost everything. I had actually made my sister walk me out to my car while I checked the backseat and underneath the vehicle to make sure no one was hiding there, waiting to kill me. This car is hanging back a bit, but is definitely following my chosen path. Now, when I say chosen, it wasn’t necessarily I who chose this path. I’m more sort of following the road in front of me, as I am near-sighted and can’t figure out what street I’m on or where the freeway is. Because of this, I slow down at every intersection and speed up in between, apparently giving the illusion that I am under the influence. When I discover that I am at Fairview and need to turn left to get on the freeway, I put on my blinker… only to have the car that has been following me at a distance speed up. Fine, A-hole, I’m getting over into the turning lane anyway. Chill out. As I maneuver into the turning lane, A-hole follows me right on my tail. Really dude? Really? Why are you such a creeper. Get over it. I begin to turn. Red, white and blue appears in my rear-view mirror.

Sh*t. My stomach drops. I go from completely pissed and sort of creeped out to totally nervous and shaking.

I pull into the lot, as instructed by the sheriff car, and look out my window in horror at the discovery of a female cop walking towards me. This is not my target demographic.

Sheriff: “Do you have your driver’s license with you?” I hand it to her. “Have you ever been arrested or are you out on parole?” I shake my head no. My eyes are huge. My face is ashen. “Is there a reason you were trying to cause an accident back there?”

Ok. Wow. First of all, I was not trying to cause an accident. I was trying to switch lanes. You were being a d*ck and pulling right up on my a$$. Breathe. Then speak.

Me: “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to. I was just trying to figure out what street I was on because I couldn’t remember how to get to the freeway and I couldn’t figure out which street connected to the freeway and then I saw I was at Fairview and I remembered Fairview hits the 101.”

I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.

Sheriff: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Well I’m from here - I went to high school here, but then I was living in LA and then I was just living in New York for a couple years, but I just moved back and am moving into LA but I’m at my parent’s house here right now. I’m so sorry, I just had my sister’s puppy and was dropping it off at her place and couldn’t remember the quickest way to get back.”

Yup. Still rambling.

Sheriff: "You have a dog in there too?"

No, A-hole, I do not have a dog in here. You already shone your flashlight all over the entire interior of my car; I’m pretty sure you are well aware there is no canine drooling on my leather seats.

Me: “No, he’s not with me, I just dropped him off at my sister’s.

Sheriff: “And now where are you going?”

Me: “Home.”

Sheriff: “Home in NY? Home in LA? Home where?”

Ok, really? Honestly?? Again. Breathing. 

Me: “My parent’s home, here in Santa Barbara.”

Sheriff: “Which is where?”

Me: I give her my exact address. I would write it here, but then my stalkers would know where I live. And I would prefer they just Google that instead.

Sheriff: “How much have you had to drink?”

Presumptuous much?

Me: “One glass of wine.” She gives me an eyebrow. “I swear. I will take whatever test you want me to.” 

She shines the flashlight DIRECTLY in my eyes. Ow.

Sheriff: “Have you taken any drugs or are you on any medication?” I shake my head no, confusion flashing across my trembling features. “You’re not on any medication?” I know, I get that a lot. Can we just get on with this, sheesh. “Have you bumped your head in the past few days?” Ohhhhh now I see where she’s going with this one.

Me: “No, but I have a dilated pupil.”

Sheriff: “Yes you do. And why is that?”

Me: “It’s uh - I was born like that. It’s been like that since I was born.”

Sheriff: “Anything else I should know about your eyes?”

Me: “Um, no, well, I have an extra tear duct on this one, well, actually it’s not an extra tear duct, I always thought that’s what it was because that’s what I was told when I was little, but it’s not actually, it’s just like a little hole, well almost, well I’m not sure exactly what it is - “

Sheriff: She is now apparently seriously amused by my nervous stammering and trying very hard to keep a straight face. “Maybe just some scar tissue?” She’s just lucky I didn’t get into the story behind my crooked pinky. It’s a dominant genetic trait, in case you were curious.

Me: “Yeah.” Maybe the important thing about my eyes would have been the fact that I’m near-sighted. Oh well. No need to back-track now.

Sheriff: “Ok, follow my finger with your eyes, without moving your head.”

She is once again shining the flashlight directly into my eyes. First of all, Ms. Sheriff, my eyes are sort of naturally attracted to anything bright, sparkly or shiny, so my first instinct is to keep looking back at the light and not at your fingers. Second, I am seriously blinded by that light and can barely even see your fingers. Third, there is no way I can make my eyes go that far over without moving my head. My peripheral vision is pretty stellar, but I don’t have Gumby eyeballs.

Sheriff: “When was the last time you ate?” It is currently 10:15pm.

Me: “Um, well, I guess I had a little something at like 6 or 6:30.” 

She just nods. Sh*t. This is going to come to a less than delightful end.

Sheriff: “Ok, step on out.” I start to open the door, morosely pondering what she might have in store for me. She stops me: “No, I said sit tight.” Oh. Right. Of course. I can hear. I don’t really think you’re going to make me walk in straight lines and then put me in handcuffs and arrest me and destroy my entire life.

I sit and wait. Tears well up. I start to wonder what exactly she’s going to give me a ticket for and how much it is going to cost and just how tragically miserable I am going to be.

She starts to walk back toward me. I rub away the tears, leaving the pathetic evidence for sympathy points.

Sheriff: “Ok, here’s your license.” I take it in my shaking hand. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to fill out when you cause an accident?”

Me: “I’m so sorry.” Just keep saying sorry. Juussstt keep saying it.

Sheriff: “Ok. Now you can just turn right out of here and you’ll get to the freeway. Be careful.”

She walks away. 

AHHH I'M SAFE.

I immediately retract all previous expressions of regret.