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.

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.

Nice Guys Don't Finish Last - Weak Men Do

"I didn’t think there was any way you’d take that shot," said the stranger, his delivery laced with forced bravado.

I turned to face my verbal assailant. Stony stare. Left eyebrow slightly peaked. Irritation in full effect.

I know what you’re thinking - that icebreaker wasn’t that bad. And you’re right.  It wasn’t. It wasn’t rude; it wasn’t crass; it wasn’t ridiculously cheesy…it was just annoying. Do I happen to enjoy the process of taking shots? No. Did he know that? Nope. He didn’t know anything about me. 

Presumption and banality are the curse of a nervous pick-up line. This wasn’t some misogynistic a-hole; this was a nice guy pumping himself full of false confidence and attempting to run game.

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Nebraska.”

“Nebraska?! Ha. I’m sorry.”

…

Seriously?

Nice-guy negging is one of the saddest phenomenons to come out of The Game. Essentially a how-to guide for picking up chicks, The Game perpetuates the myth that the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to cut down her self-esteem.

First of all, this only works if said girl is 18 years old/or seriously damaged. Second of all, good-hearted, well-meaning dudes just don’t do it right.  They don’t fully commit. They can’t bring themselves to say something totally barbaric, so they pick a mundane topic and quibble it to death.

Kill. Me. Now.

At least when a guy’s a complete dbag, you can tell him to f*ck off and continue your evening in peace.  These awkwardly aggressive shy-guys manage to pull at your heartstrings, even while firing up every single one of your neuroses. How long are you supposed to wait before you tell them you JUST DON’T CARE? You don’t want to hurt the poor dude’s feelings.

Approaching a girl at a bar can be a nerve-whittling experience.  We get that.  And we appreciate when legitimate men make the effort.  When we say nice guys are hard to find, what we really mean is, nice guys who haven’t been beaten down by their needless insecurities. If the sweet sector of the less-fair sex would simply embrace their congenial qualities and let that affability fuel their swagger, the dating world would be a much saner place.

And just in case there is any confusion, ignorantly insulting a girl’s home state - or her BlackBerry for that matter - will not get you laid.

Ever.

It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Eats Dinner Without You

Last night, I met up with imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for a couple rounds of last minute cocktails. This Honor Bar session was to serve two purposes: 1. To continue plotting our world domination 2. To figure out why the F the young man she was supposed to be out with - Emphasis on young. Because he’s younger. Rawr. - had decided to eat dinner without her. 

This conversation got lengthy.

Boy had made activity-unspecific plans with her for the evening. As pick-up time neared, she had to push it back slightly, due to a work conflict. Shortly thereafter, she texted him that she was back in action. He replied, asking if they could meet up later. Much later.

Why? Because he was just sitting down to dinner with a friend. 

…

Oh. Right. Totally. Of course.

She let him know that A. His newly proposed time was, indeed, too late and B. There was no need for him to make it up to her another night.

He seemed surprised.  Seriously? 

…

This brought to mind a similar experience of my own.

A gentleman I had been to drinks with a few times asked if he could take me out on the upcoming Friday.  I said yes. Friday, he texted to lay out the details, explaining that his post-work commitments would probably last until 9 or 10. Oh, and he would probably be eating there.

…

Ahh. How fascinating.

Needless to say, I didn’t exactly swoon. This gentleman also seemed surprised by the lackluster reaction his comments had elicited.

How do these men-children not see the error in their all-too-casual ways?!

imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo and I began to wonder if we mistakenly set an ultra-lax tone from the beginning.  We’re both easygoing to an occasional fault and are generally more than willing to go with the flow and play things by ear…but there is a line.  And when this line is crossed, we quickly shift from gypsy-boho-whateverstotallyfinewithme to Type sarcastic A-hole. Is this shift too quick? Is there a specific trigger?

Maybe. And yes. Dinner. The trigger is dinner.  Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars? Absolutely. Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars after you just told us you pushed back our date time to eat dinner with your friend? Absolutely not. 

Why? Maybe because men have spent half their lives telling us the difference between the girls they take to dinner and the girls they take straight to the bar for tequila shots. One such man even brought this up when he and I were two courses deep: 

"If I didn’t like talking to you, I would have just asked you if you wanted to get a drink."

"Why would you take someone to drinks, if you don’t even like having a conversation with them?"

"Why do you think?"

…

Charming. Noted. Guard promptly reinstated in its upward and locked position.

… 

Back at Honor Bar: As we reached to pay our check, our server askedimawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for her phone number - his friend had wanted to stop by our table to ask her to coffee, but he didn’t get a chance.

He should probably tell his friend to make sure there’s a scone with that latte.

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.

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?

Chasing the Passion

In response to a friend’s shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his best mate’s birthday party, and was scheduled to depart on a business trip Saturday morning. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner. 

I ran through my mental checklist: 
6’2” or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so near as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic & attractive: Check, Check, & Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Has a real job: Check.

Looks like I was saying yes. 

My initial concerns:

1. He appeared to be slightly older than I am generally comfortable with dating. Perhaps he had over-indulged a touch in all that Australian fun-in-the-sun?

2. I was still worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation - and also due to his shirt, of which I was not particularly fond.

Early afternoon on Friday, he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations, and perhaps we can meet at 7p to walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine, as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead, if I would like. I’m not entirely certain what it was about, “frolicking around the West Village with friends” that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier; regardless, I choose to ignore the text.

I arrive in SoHo around 7:15. (West Village antics may have segued into vegan ice cream bars and margaritas with mylifeissonotironic. Oops.) We thankfully skip the previously planned hour and a half pre-dinner stroll due to my delayed appearance. I mean, it’s a first date. Let’s not kill all conversation topics before we even get to the restaurant. 

We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be both lively and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis…I really should do this more often.

As he handles the check, I reach to check the time on my BlackBerry. F. Dinner had spanned more than three hours. It was currently pushing midnight. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. (Yes, I had post-date plans. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.)

I assumed we would do the whole hug-goodnight-I-get-in-a-cab-in-front-of-the-restaurant thing, and I’d be with my BFF’s in less than twenty.

This is where things began to unravel. As I’m trying to politely extricate myself from the situation, Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not a stellar combination.

He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. Ok, fine. I can saunter through the park with him and hail a taxi on the other side. I message my friends, giving them an ETA of 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, Man-From-Down-Under is still ignoring every semi-cordial attempt of mine to end the date. I’m making a concerted effort to not be rude slash abrupt, but my companion has made the full transition from amusing and charming to annoying and cheesy. I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.

As our meandering path veers suddenly and suspiciously toward his flat, I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties. (Said phone calls may or may not have been precluded by SOS alerts.) Hi! Yes! I’m coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!

"Are you sure you have to go?" 

Is he serious?

"Yep! Oh! There’s a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!"

His reply?

"Oh man, you’re totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me." 

CHASE. THE. PASSION.

…

"Yeah, ok. I’m going to chase that cab."

This is why I don’t date.

Hi, 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.)

A Nice Little Sunday

There are probably three questions tumbling through your head right now:

1. “Hey Stace, how was the 30th Annual Venice Canals Holiday Boat Parade?!

2. “Omg. Stace. How much are you loving your new Blackberry?!”

3. “Dude. When was the last time you, like, officially skinned your knee? Like, 2nd grade style?”

Oh, wow! Guess what?! I can answer all three of those questions in a single story. How convenient.

The 30th Annual Venice Canals Holiday Boat Parade was spectacular.  Barry Manilow references, small children tossing Now & Laters to the onlookers (I got both Grape & Strawberry. Score.), a gay snowflake singing karaoke and frolicking in front of his Christmas tree back-up dancers… How can that be anything but a rollicking good time?

Apparently, I took that as a challenge.

As the sun set on the few remaining sparkle-fied dinghies, we attempted to venture from one side of the canals to the other.  We were halfway to our next destination, when we stumbled upon an unexpected curb.  My friend pointed it out to me. I stepped over it.  Great success.  A few feet later, we came to another curb.  I spotted it, and once again cleared the vertical pavement with inches to spare.  The ground below was a bit lower than originally anticipated, but thanks to my excellent balance (Seriously, ask Equinox.  I rock the sh*t out of balance tests.), I regained my footing and did a little quick step to join the rest of the group on the sidewalk.

What I did not spot, was yet another curb.  Another curb I came at with a quick step full of momentum.  My super-cozy loafers caught the top edge of the curb, and I went down. With entirely too much velocity for my own personal comfort.

I have a lot of experience in falling.  I am actually one of the most graceful fallers you will ever meet.  I land softly and quietly, legs crossed demurely.  I am not accustomed to full on face-planting.  Luckily, my instincts led me to catch myself with my hands, so as to protect my face.  Unluckily, one of these hands was holding a plastic cup full of red wine, which splashed against the left side of my face - and directly into my open eye.  (Thank you, old couple in the home adjacent to my personal disaster zone, for the paper towels to clean myself up.  Also, thank God for eye shadow primer.) My other hand happened to be holding my brand new Blackberry.  It now looks like this:           

My left knee managed to get in on the action as well.  I think the damage would have been greater, if it weren’t for my opaque tights and knit OTK socks.  Fun fact: I had purchased the tights the day before, as a replacement for another pair that I somehow managed to destroy in one clumsy moment or another.  Stop judging.  Gawky limbs.  Impossible to control. Anyway, here’s a photo of my knee, in all its skinned-up glory:       

I think I won this round.

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. 

Rhetoric...al

One Saturday evening, I’m on my way to meet a friend at Indochine for a quick bite. I’m somewhat dressed up, as I may be going to a birthday party later and don’t want to stop home to change. Perhaps it’s a touch early in the East Village for a mink coat, thigh-high stockings, 5 inch heels, and a seriously red lip. Guys feel the need to comment and stare as I concentrate on my BlackBerry whilst traversing the sidewalk at my elevated height of 6’4”.

One of them bids adieu to his friends and scurries to catch up and walk next to me. I hate when guys do that. Particularly because they are generally disgusting. I offer non-commital, sarcastic responses to his attempts at witty repartee, still refusing to look up from my BBM.

He takes off his furry cap and announces that I have to let him walk me where I’m going because (surprise!) it’s his birthday. I look up from my BlackBerry to ensure that he has a stellar view of my serious eye-roll at his lame offense. At this point, I realize that not only is he tall (6’3”) with a charming accent (British) but he is also apparently a good-looking dude. I qualify this statement with apparent for two reasons: 1. He sincerely believes he is. 2. I think I agree, but it is also night-time, and my blurry near-sightedness tends to skew towards the favorable. Regardless, I was suddenly interested and immediately more charming. We have a lovely walk, covering many pertinent topics, such as occupation (finance, obviously), residence (SoHo), poetry (Robert Frost), and the fact that we are both convinced that we have an enjoyable way with words. He is a bit condescending and cocky at times, but, to be fair, I do like a bit of a-hole in my dude, and he does retract all arrogant remarks once they have been countered with my look of death and sardonicism.

He makes several remarks involving the phrase, “next time”,  each time looking at me expectantly, which I choose to gloss over. I’m sorry. Be direct. Don’t make me do your work for you. He also asks what I’m doing that night. “Dinner and a birthday party. Obviously not yours.” I laugh.

He drops me off across the street from the restaurant. Yes, he thinks he’s dropping me off at a date, because, you know, I’m like really popular and super pretty and every guy is in love with me. He gives me a hug. Pause. “Well, it was lovely to meet you.” Pause. “You too, thanks for walking me to dinner.” Laugh. “Yeah. Well, I guess I will see you soon, then?” Pause. Expectant look. “Yeah, sounds good.” Laugh. Kiss on the cheek. Waltz across the street, into Indochine.

W. T. F.

I seriously have a problem. 

Shut up, cats.

I'm a Terrible Liar

Post-drinks at Churchill’s, a friend and I end up back at my place.  I ask if he wants a cocktail. His initial affirmative response quickly inverts to an, "I’ll just have water," after a viewing of my potential offerings.  (Including an entire case of white wine in my fridge - a vestige of a recent-ish charity event. I don’t really drink vino of a non-red nature, and the greatest amount of available storage space in my apartment lies inside my refrigerator. His face is judging. Cricket. Cricket.)  

I pour his requested water slowly, hoping he’ll tire of this unnecessarily lengthy endeavor and wander out into the other room. He does. Thank God for predictability! At which point I proceed to mix up a vodka coconut water for myself. (For some reason, I think this will lessen my awkwardness. One guess on whether or not that works.)

I hand him his refreshing, non-alcoholic beverage. "Thanks. What are you drinking?" 

"Coconut water." Yup. I don’t want to go the whole, "Don’t mind me; I’m just getting myself liquored up over here" route, so I lie.  I am overly open slash honest by nature, so lying never works out well for me.  Like it doesn’t here.

"Can I try it?"

Right. Yup. Of course. In my head, I’m thinking there is no way he will be able to taste the vodka in one little sip.  

…

"Did you put vodka in here?"

Welp. Guess I was wrong on that one.

At this point, I could easily employ the wide-eyes-sheepish-smile-I-got-caught-acting-like-an-idiot look - with a tiny nod attached - that I have spent years perfecting…but no. No. I shake my head no.

"Really? It kind of tastes like there’s vodka in here." Why can’t he just drop it already? Sigh. Too late to back out now. In typical Stacie form, I prematurely fumble out a line of reasoning that is going to lead nowhere normal.

"I think there was earlier." I’m attempting to insinuate that this was the glass I had my pre-bar cocktail in, but I ramble nonsensically - especially once I remember he was right there when I pulled the glasses out of the cupboard. Basically, the entirely uncomfortable conversation ends with a faltering, "I haven’t washed my dishes in awhile."

…

…

…

That is disgusting.

Just for the record, the only dishes in my sink were from that day, and all of the dishes in my cupboards are clean, thanks. 

…

Meow.