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. 

That's So Not Right

My little brother manned up over the weekend and put a ring on it. It being his now-fiancee’s hand.

When I showed their adorable post-proposal photo to the heartbroken mylifeissonotironic, she noticed something a little…off.

…

I mean, Beyonce could have been a bit more specific. 

…

*Young Love* 

Sigh.

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?

Hi, I'm Interesting

One of my tragically un-LA traits is my penchant for walking. Call me crazy, but I would rather spend twenty minutes out in the open air than fifteen in a car, fighting traffic, searching fruitlessly for parking, and spending half my rent on valet.

This can make things a little awkward after a first date. 

Gentlemen generally attempt to insist upon walking me home. Sure, the stroll to my apartment is lovely, but their lonely hike back seems a tad cruel – especially after a somewhat recent occasion when one such manner-mindful lad apparently got a little lost mid-return. Oops.

Then there’s the sort of uncomfortable, I-swear-I’m-not-a-rapist-let-me-drive-you-backexchange. Cue: Louis C.K. monologue on the stupidity of women in this sort of situation. I usually accept. This one at least usually goes pretty smoothly from this point on.

Usually. Last week, things got a little…lumpy:

“Oh, here, let me go give him your valet ticket.”

“Oh, I actually just walked over.”

“Oh, well in that case, may I walk you back?”

(There were a lot of oh’s.)

“You don’t have to do that – it’s not really that close. Like, it’s close for a one-way meander, but I would feel bad making you solo-trek it back.”

(laughs) “Well, can I drive you? I mean, if you – or if you, well, if you would like?”

(I laugh(s)) “Sure, thanks. I mean, as long as you’re not going to like, rape and murder me along the way.”

Stilted laughter. Welp. 

En route, we discuss my preference for walking slash how I like to take that oxygen-infused time as an opportunity to  reply to emails/catch up on calls - scintillating convo material, I know. He drops me off. I safely enter my home. Easy, breezy, beautiful, call me a cover girl, right?

Not exactly. Two minutes later, this text téte-a-téte occurs:

 “I get it now. That was where you lived! I thought you intentionally parked 0.8 miles away so u could walk and right (sic) emails!! Ha. That being ur apt makes much more sense!”

 “Haha! You thought I was just some weirdo who parked blocks away? That’s kind of amazing.” (Probably should’ve gone with a different adjective here.)

 “I wouldn’t say weirdo. I would say oddball! Huge difference! An oddball does things differently but usually in an interesting way…”

Sooo…yes? Yes. Awesome. I would just like to note that this is the second time in a single month a potential new suitor has tagged me as interesting. I’m gonna go ahead and overthink that. 

…

Intriguing.  Interesting.

Editor’s Note: The author has chosen to skip right past the oddball bit for reasons of sanity maintenance. That’s all. 

Plummeting Standards

INT. RALPH’S GROCERY CO - NIGHT

STACIE is exiting the store with her mother, JUDY. Hands full of groceries; head full of so many other things.

                                             JUDY

               What did you think of him?! I think he liked you. 

                                            STACIE

               The checkout man? Seriously??

                                             JUDY

               He was a nice, good-looking guy!

                                             STACIE

               HE WAS BALDING AND WEARING AN ORANGE VEST, MOM. 

Someone’s getting desperate. Hint: It’s not me.

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.

Equinox Creepin'

Hot guy in my class at Equinox! Yesssss.

Hot guy takes the spot right next to me! Swoon. 

Hot guy has a very effeminate stance. Um ok, that can be altered.

Hot guy is possibly dating the male instructor of my class. Figures.

Hot gay guy is much better at all the exercises than I am. Fine. I can match that. Maybe. Ouch. Kind of. Oof. Nevermind. Ugh.

Hot gay guy walks with me to the back of the room to grab weights. Sweet. Maybe we can be BFFs.

Hot gay guy stares at the weights I grab. F. Apparently we are not going to be BFFs. STOP JUDGING ME AND MY OVERALL ATHLETIC WEAKNESS. 

This class went downhill quickly.

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. 

Men Want What Women Want What Men Want

When I told my mom I had been maintenance-texted by a boy, she squeezed my hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t look at it that way – I’d look at it like he was thinking about you!”

Thank you for feeding my delusions, Mother. That explains so much.

I can’t blame my mom for her indefatigable optimism regarding the intentions of the unfair sex. When she was walking the hallway of hormones, things were a lot more straightforward. My dad and his best friend flipped a coin to see who could ask her out. My father won. The end.  Or, more aptly, the beginning.

Many people like to blame the disintegration of chivalry on modern technology. Sure, the advent of texting and social media, and the ensuing fissure in formal communication, have thrown the game onto a whole new playing field; but, I think the real anti-courting culpability lies elsewhere: A serious lack of shotgun-wielding fathers.

If any man-child had so much as attempted to maintenance-anything my mother, Grandpa Smith would have taken to his pickup truck, Winchester in hand, prepared to supplement the fear of God with a few well-placed bullets. (Just ask my dad about the time he came to pick up my mom…on a motorcycle…with long blonde hair and short denim shorts. Let’s just say he’s lucky he has a good sense of humor – and happened to hold the state track record in the 400m.)

I would wager that, for most of us in our mid-to-upper twenties, our fathers are harboring such severe concerns over their daughters’ unceasing singledom that they wouldn’t dare scare off a potential suitor. Any suitor. Any suitor at all.

And they don’t need to; apparently, we are doing a good enough job of that on our own.  Basing this entire theory on personal experience and a solid number of conversations with individuals on both sides of the gender line, I have determined that men are now terrified of women.  In the words of one such shaky soul, “It’s just hard to figure out what you girls want.”

That’s fair. When last June’s Atlantic cover boldly declared that women can’t have it all, many of my friends and I found ourselves asking if we even really want to have it all. And what does “it all” entail, exactly, in today’s society? Then we realized we might be jumping the gun a bit. How are we supposed to boldly assert our right to rule the corporate world, with a ring on the finger and a baby on either hip, if we are still referencing the words of “Why Men Love Bitches” in daily conversation?

I am confident in my beliefs. When I know, without a doubt, that I want something, I have no problem stating that. But what about when what I want really depends on if you want it, too, but you’re not sure what I want, so you’re not entirely certain that it’s what you want? A magazine excerpt I spotted in a MoMA exhibit had a delightfully delicate turn of phrase for this dilemma: “You are your own woman in the hope of being just what someone else is looking for.” This clipping was from the 1950’s, suggesting that this is not a new predicament. I would venture to state that this is an age-old issue, exacerbated by the current lack of clear societal rules.

Women are getting married and having children later in life. They are no longer branded an old maid if they’re thirty and single, and long gone are the days of the virgin white bride. In the immortal Pretty Woman words of Kit and Vivian, “We say who, we say when, we say how much.”

By the same token, men are no longer compelled to commit.  The image of that sad, single adman drinking alone at the end of the bar, while his postwar suburbia peers sit huddled about the TV with their families, has been replaced by a group of laughing, boisterous, middle-aged tech tycoons flirting shamelessly with acquiescing blondes, twenty years their junior. Even if they do plan on settling down eventually, there’s no rush. I can almost guarantee you that there was not a single group of men discussing the potential freezing of their eggs over dinner last night.

Yay! Even playing fields! Betty Friedan would be so proud.

Unfortunately for us indecisive types, this basically means that you either figure out exactly what it is you want, and cling steadfastly to that banner, or you linger indecisively in insecure trepidation around a multitude of romantic possibilities, until one ultimately (hopefully) pans out.

Yeah, I’m probably going to go with option B, too.

April Fool's?

"Stuart kissed me today," I pronounced. Cheeks pinking slightly at the confession. Wide eyes sparkling with unabashed glee. 

I was seven. And he had. A sweet little peck on the lips, while we were lined up to head in from recess. 

My mother set down her fork, head slightly atilt. My father cleared his throat. Parentally speaking, how were they supposed to react to this news?

Step 1: Ixnay any further sleepovers at Stuart’s house.

Step 2: Enroll their precocious baby girl in some etiquette classes, where she will hopefully learn a thing or two about appropriate dinner conversation.

If they had only known this was to be the peak of my boy-meets-girl prowess, they might have relished the landmark moment a bit.

Most years, I concoct highly elaborate April Fool’s Day tomfoolery, for the sake of my own entertainment. One such year’s tear-stricken phone call to my mother, alerting her of my horrific ankle injury on an abandoned, out-of-reach trail, had my entire family scrambling to figure out how to get an emergency helicopter to my essentially unknown location. (In reality, I was on the beach in Hermosa. My phone may or may not have cut out mid-folly. Forgiveness was hard to come by for a few months.)

This year, I decided to keep it simple. A few clicks of the mouse, and my Facebook status shined as, “In a Relationship”. One of my acquaintances recently made a similar change, her post eliciting a bevy of ‘likes’ and congratulatory comments: “Who is he?!” “I’m SO happy for you!!” “Pictures! Pictures!” “I can’t wait to meet him!!” “Is he coming for Easter?!” 

I sat back and awaited the laudatory remarks. 

Zero. There were no such responses. Sure, my post received comments and likes…but not a single one of my 1,821 FB friends bought it for a second. One shimmering soul contacted me via text message to find out who I deigned to dine with on a more frequent occasion. He shall be known as my favorite person in the world from this point on. 

My sister’s comment that it was, ‘The best April Fool’s joke she’d seen yet,’ got plenty of play. Awesome. The biggest joke of the day was that I somehow managed to wrangle up a steady plus-one.

It is literally more believable that I would be dying on top of a mountain than that I’d actually have a boyfriend. 

Good to know. I wonder if Stuart’s still single… 

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.

Five Men. One Week.

You can avoid eye-contact. You can turn a cold shoulder and solidly hinged elbow. You can maintain an unwavering tone of disinterest. You can even throw an unabridged dictionary’s worth of intellect-ridden sarcasm over their heads.

But you can never escape them.

These are the LA Douchebags: The Real Men of Los Angeles* - and boy, do they have a way with words.

*Real as in reality, not ‘real men’ as in iterations of Jon Hamm

Random Man #1: I don’t believe in monogamy, but my wife doesn’t believe in polygamy.

Pretty sure she also doesn’t believe in you buying drinks for random girls at bars.

Random Man #2: Come sit over here.
Me: I’m fine right here, thanks.
Random Man #2: Your attitude problem only makes you that much more adorable.

…

Oh, I know.

Random Man #3: Where’s your new place?
Me: Beverly Hills
Random Man #3: That’s so not you! What are you doing living there?

Right. Because you’ve known me all of 3 and a half minutes. Thank you for your frank analysis. I should probably move now.

Random Man #4: You actually seem like a really cool chick. We’ll see if it’s for real.

Really?? You think so?! OMG I feel so much better about myself now. Thank you for validating my existence. I only hope I can continue to live up to your obviously discriminating taste slash superior expectations.

Random Man #5: You look like you’re a gift for me.

Oh, I get it. Because I’m wearing a bow around my neck. (I was - it’s a choker circa 1996.)

You are SO clever! Obviously, I have been waiting all night to gift myself to someone as charming and cavalier as yourself.

…

Don’t touch me.

…

…

…

I don’t feel safe anymore.

A Girl's First Booty Call

I just had my first legitimate booty call.

Obviously, this was not the first late night call I had ever received, but it was the first that I both answered and accepted.

Sure, there are other evenings that probably technically landed in the booty call column; but, on those occasions, the dude had the integrity to mask his true intentions with a quick round or three of drinks out in the real world prior to laying it on thick.

At least he brought tacos this time? Before you nod in enabling support, let me add that these were no Tacos Por Favor or Pinches…these were (brace yourself) Del Taco. Insult. Injury. Sigh.

There was a 3 minute (This number would prove to be foreshadowing in events to come) pretense of Boardwalk Empire viewing. Literally. 3 minutes. And then, you know…

But usually, “you know” with this person is actually enjoyable. Like, for me. Like, he makes sure it’s enjoyable for me. Apparently, that’s a chapter they left out of the booty call handbook? In accepting his midnight call, had I unwittingly agreed to a 3 minute sex session, guaranteed to leave only one of us satisfied?

Cuddling? Sure. Conversation? Of course. Let’s keep this on the up and up here. Let me interject at this point to add that, two months ago, I thought this person and I actually might be dating. My ensuing confusion and need for closure/or validation were the damning impetuses for this new life low.

Most of the conversation involving his recent life activities featured other girls, of course – not girls with whom he was getting down (that would just be uncouth,) but I could safely assume he at least momentarily entertained the idea.

God, he’s SO DESIRABLE. I am SO LUCKY he’s here right now.

…

Perhaps the morning sex would be better.

It started out well…and ended quickly. How lucky for him that he was now content and able to sleep.

Must. Be. Nice.

Around 8:30am, he decided it was probably time for him to hit the road. Did he save a shred of my dignity by conjuring up some tragically unbreakable breakfast-interfering plans? Nope. No plans. Just done here.

Interesting. That makes two of us.

…

My stomach feels like Del Taco.

Invisalign: Exposed

Saturday night girls’ din! Hashtag yay! Hashtag reunion! Hashtag OMG!

These things normally go smoothly, with plenty of pictorial evidence to back all claims of yummy food, lots of laughs, and everlasting BFF love.

Normally, I don’t have Invisalign.

I recently made the bold economic move to realign my previously aligned bottom teeth. (Who wears retainers in college?) (Hashtag monetary fail.) (Hashtag I’m done hashtagging. Promise.)

I’ve only had these sheer trays of straightness for about 3 weeks, but I’ve sort of adopted a dignity-rule: If I know I will be eating out with friends, I leave my Invisalign at home.

The problems start when there are multiple events slash locations stacked in a single evening.  I lose focus. I forget about this foreign plastic object adhered to my lower row of chompers.

When this happens, it’s generally okay. (I’m saying this after less than a month of treatment, btw.) I wait until a moment of intense conversation to bow my head and awkwardly pop the sucker out and slip it into a napkin, delicately sliding said napkin next to my purse for safe keeping.

Saturday night, I did this.  All night long, a crumpled napkin sat next to my clutch, carefully disguising my dental apparatus. Not one of my tablemates was any the wiser.

As dishes were cleared and credit cards lay flung atop each other in the black envelope-y thing, I decided to run to the restroom. 

Less than 5 minutes later, I returned to the table.

Something was awry.

My napkin. My napkin had disappeared.

…

F*ck.

…

Whatever peak my cool factor had almost theoretically reached during the course of the evening, plummeted immediately to dorkdom, as I hailed the closest busboy and filled him in on the…situation.

He informed our server, and soon enough, 4 members of Eveleigh’s overly gracious staff had flashlights out, checking the ground, as others searched through the napkins in the kitchen.

I am never getting invited back.

As I began to fear the worst, our server reappeared, extending my teeth-mold on a napkin, albeit, with a caveat: “Don’t put this anywhere near your mouth until it receives some intense sanitation.” (More gist. Less verbatim.)

Apparently, someone had decided to toss the contents of the napkin into the trash can.  It was on the top of the pile, they assured me, but still definitely lay within the confines of disgustingness.

I have to look really pretty the next time I go back there.

That probably shouldn’t be for awhile.

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?